A/N: I apologize that this chapter is so short and that it doesn't offer the explanation I promised.
This chapter was surprisingly, unfortunately so, difficult for me to write. Because of everyone's lack of feedback, I've been forced to check my daily views for reinforcement, but doing so actually seems to be having the opposite effect.
First, let me say that I'm writing these chapters one at a time. I have a general plot worked out, but I'm rubbish at writing things in advance and sticking to it. I need instant gratification. Not one of my best traits, nor one that I'm particularly fond or proud of, but it is what it is; to continue writing something, I need instant gratification. I need feedback, be it encouragement or critique. I need to know I'm not talking to myself and that I do, in fact, have an audience.
That said, I am my own worst critic. Nine chances out of ten, I hate everything I've written with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
I've managed to convince myself that although people are reading my story they hate it. That's why very few are leaving reviews. They hate it and are masochistic bastards. Twisted logic, I know, but my logic nonetheless—and I guess this brings me to the second thing I wanted to say. With that logic, why should I continue this story? I do have a life. I work, I have friends—why pine away at the computer writing when it seems to me to be so pointless?
I'm not trying to be a whine-ass, although I'm sure I'm coming across as such. I don't think my request is so outlandish. If you like this story enough to read every chapter, follow or favorite it, please review, especially if you want me to continue.
I need that boost of motivation and inspiration. I guess that's what this long, rambling author's note comes down to: if you want me to continue this story, please review. Let me know I'm not talking to myself and you're not a masochistic bastard but actually enjoy something about this story, be it the characters, plot, or just one bloody line.
So again.
If you want me to continue this story, review.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Take One Breath is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 8
X
Take one breath and then take another.
Repeat these simple steps
until you feel like you're doing better.
Take one breath,
just let the calm of it consume you..
Everybody knows that it's never fair,
this is the only one thing we can do.
/ / Take One Breath by The Spill Canvas
X
As soon as the Headmistress' statue slid back into its place with a loud groan, Draco turned on Harry, his eyes liquid fire.
"Let's get a few things straight, Potter," he sneered, inching closer to Harry again. Harry didn't quite meet his eyes, instead eying the ugly color of purple his jaw had turned. "I am not, and will never be, your watch dog."
Harry gave him a bored look. His anger was obvious, radiating off of him in waves, and there was a small piece of Harry that felt alive at the sight. But over all, he was too tired, too drained, and too empty for Draco's threats to have any real affect.
He offered Draco a shrug, barely meeting his eyes, and said, "You'd be more like a watch-ferret, anyway."
Draco narrowed his eyes. The worst part wasn't the fact that he had been embarrassed beyond repair that day, but rather the punishment he had received from his father. The elder Malfoy had been disappointed and upset that Draco had let a mudblood-lover gain the upper hand, teacher or not, and had spent the following weekend drilling defense tactics into his head. He had been forced to remain in the dungeon for most of the weekend, with the exception of when his mother insisted he be at the table for dinner, and had a very distinct memory of the cold floor and the thick draft.
"Don't think you won't pay for your little stunt today, Potter—I promise I'll—"
Draco was interrupted as a dark haired man rounded the corridor's corner.
"Ah, Mr. Potter! Just the boy I wanted to see."
Harry looked past Draco and to Mr. Muller, forcing a small, strained smile.
"'Ello," he greeted quietly.
While he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of listening to Draco ramble about how his life would officially be a living hell, because clearly it wasn't already, Harry was even less fond of speaking to the man in front of him. Oblivious, Mr. Muller neared, standing to the side between Harry and Draco.
"I apologize for being a bit early," he said, "but it's what my schedule as allowed."
Harry offered him an absent shrug, tensing a bit under Mr. Muller's unblinking stare. Thankfully, he turned to Draco.
"And who's this young man?"
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"This young man," Draco quoted, sneering a bit, "is none of your concern."
The corner of Mr. Muller's mouth pulled into a slight, condescending smile.
"You're Malfoy's boy, then," he said, answering his own question. His eyes ran up and down the length of Draco, taking him in, unblinking and hard when they returned to his face. Draco remained expressionless, a trait Harry might have envied if he were in his right mind. "I'd recognize those traits anywhere. I evaluated your father at his Ministry hearing."
It was only then that a bit of emotion worked its way onto Draco's face. His anger was apparent again and Harry thought he tensed—but he could have very well imagined the action. He had heard rumors, of course, but Mr. Muller had just confirmed it. The Ministry had evaluated the mental health of each Death Eater before sentencing. The few activists that caused such evaluations and rallied for fair trials were really quite sadistic; they wanted the Ministry to confirm that each criminal was in his or her right mind—they wanted to ensure their prisoners were sane so that they could properly punish them with the insanity of Azkaban.
"You must be so proud," Draco muttered, his voice hard. He held Mr. Muller's gaze with a challenging, unblinking one of his own. Harry's eyes darted from one person to the other—there was a battle of wills, an unseen struggle for control. He was more than slightly surprised when it was Draco that adverted his gaze, his eyes sweeping across and to Harry. He edged a little bit closer, despite Mr. Muller's presence, and Harry could feel his body heat again.
Harry shifted a bit.
"This conversation isn't over, Potter," Draco said quietly, his voice low, challenging.
Harry had expected nothing less, especially now that Draco would be a permanent plague to his existence.
With that, and a final glare thrown in for good measure, Draco stepped back and made to leave, his robes billowing around him with such a slight, simple movement. He offered Harry a final sneer, more of a smirk, and called out, "See you at home, Potter."
Harry's eyes lingered on the end of the corridor as Draco disappeared. He thought of how Draco didn't know where their quarters were and imagined him wandering the castle aimlessly—he felt nothing at the mental image and knew that it was unlikely to happen anyway. He couldn't see Draco wandering aimlessly. If there was one thing Harry had learned over the years, when Draco did something, it was deliberate.
Mr. Muller stepped in front of Harry, breaking his gaze and drawing his attention forward.
"Home?" he questioned lightly, his condescending smile gone. "I thought you were rooming with another Gryffindor."
Mr. Muller may not have known Draco personally, but he had known his father—and there was certainly no way that that boy had managed to make it into Gryffindor.
"The Headmistress changed it," Harry replied simply, unsure of what else to say. Professor McGonagall had agreed to keep their little incident between the three of them—four, really, if he included Ron—but Harry doubted Mr. Muller was that oblivious. There had been a very telling bruise across Draco's jaw, as well as a few scratch marks, and Harry sported a few battle wounds of his own.
"I see," said Mr. Muller. He had a sort of knowing glint in his eyes and Harry was quick to advert his gaze. "And why would she do that?"
Harry swallowed. He had never been particularly good at thinking on his feet—not in this way, anyway. Throw him into a dark dungeon with a man-eating monster and he could probably hold his own, if only because of luck—but sit him down and give him twenty questions and he would no doubt trip and fall, catching on his words before they even left his mouth.
He licked his lips, staring at the floor.
"Learning experience?"
It was supposed to be an answer, not a question, but it appeared to placate Mr. Muller nonetheless, for he offered Harry a sickly sweet smile.
"Good," Mr. Muller said with a bit of a nod. Harry glanced up. "I think it's a brilliant idea; you have trouble coping, Mr. Potter, and with that inability, you have trouble moving on. It's about time you realize that the war has come to an end, and with it, narrow-minded assumptions. Rebuilding our world will take an abundance of healing, forgiveness, and most certainly, second chances. I suggest manning that bridge before the river below it devours you. This Malfoy fellow is at Hogwarts for a reason—innocence—and I do hope you can remember that."
Harry glowered.
Encountering Voldemort seven times and finally defeating him should surely be enough to show that he realized the war ended—Hell, he was part of the reason it had ended. Who was this man to challenge that, to imply that Harry was set in his ways and living in a bloodied past? Who was he to lecture on forgiveness and second chances when Harry had encountered more evil in his life than that man in his nightmares?
"Sometimes," Mr. Muller continued, "self-forgiveness starts with the forgiveness of others."
Harry's mouth puckered into a scowl and the words came of their own accord.
"And how are you supposed to forgive others when you can't forgive yourself?"
Mr. Muller smiled again, flashing white teeth, and Harry cringed.
"I do believe this is a conversation best continued in private."
He waved a hand in the direction of Professor McGonagall's statue and muttered the password (refuge) before motioning for Harry to enter.
X
Shortly after their session started, Harry embraced the dull throbbing in his stomach. He curled himself around it and lived in its hollow, the emptiness blanketing him with its familiarity, and nearly an hour later, he was being lead to his quarters. Professor McGonagall allowed the walk to be completed in silence and when they came to his portrait hole, Draco was leaning casually against the nearby wall.
Harry brushed by him without a word and said, "Avalon."
The portrait, a knight with heavy, rusted armor, offered him a slow salute and sprung open. Professor McGonagall called out to him and said something he didn't quite care to hear—so he didn't—and then Draco was stepping in after him, the portrait hole swinging shut and leaving them to their own devices.
Harry felt himself tense as it shut and he turned, fully-expecting Draco to confront him again.
He felt little relief as the other brushed past him, deliberately jamming his shoulder into Harry's, and into the bathroom.
Draco shut the door, hard, and Harry stared at it for a long moment before settling down into his bed. Finally, he thought, burying his face in his pillow, his glasses sticking against his skin. He could feel the throbbing increase—he could feel it press against his lungs and muffle his heart. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, and tried not to think of the day that had passed.
Finally, finally, it was coming to an end and, confrontation or not—Draco or not—Harry was determined to enjoy his solitude, no matter how brief it was.