A/N: This is a long chapter. Hopefully it makes up for the last one, yeah? No one asked any questions, so I suppose this will be a rather short note.. mm, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, but there are definitely points that I like. I think pieces of it definitely add to Harry and Draco's dynamic. I'unno, but hopefully there will be pieces of it you like, too—if not the whole thing! (:
And as always, please, please review!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Battles is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 14
X
It's like one thousand paper cuts,
soaked in vinegar.
Like the battles with yourself,
that leave you insecure.
It's all just a numbing charade
Until the day you finally wake up,
and you're not afraid.
/ / Battles by The Spill Canvas.
X
"How are you doing, Harry?"
"Fine," he said quietly, although his body language betrayed him. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his arms settling around his abdomen, hands gripping either of his sides. He fingered his robes, playing with the thick material and barely met Mr. Muller's eyes. Thankfully, what ever ointment Draco had used earlier that morning had mended his head within an hour, leaving no one but them to be any wiser about Harry's early morning break down.
"I see," Mr. Muller said lightly, reaching over to touch the quill hovering above the Headmistress' desk. It started scribbling furiously, recording his thoughts, and Harry grimaced. "How are classes going?"
Harry shrugged.
"I have a lot of writing," he said simply.
Mr. Muller nodded and gave Harry an almost condescending sort of smile.
"I'm sure you do—" he said, surveying Harry for a moment before adding, "—and how are you adjusting to your magic?"
Harry stared at the floor.
"It's hard," he confessed. "I feel useless."
He was vaguely aware of the quill scribbling furiously again and Mr. Muller gave him a curt nod.
"Only natural," he assured. "Change is hard, Harry, but you will adjust. What ever you struggle with—it will make you stronger, if you let it."
The corner of Harry's mouth twitched but he said nothing, his thoughts elsewhere. There was a wisdom in Mr. Muller's words, a slight twinkle in his dark eyes that reminded Harry of a time too far gone. He thought of Dumbledore—the expression on his face as he fell from the Astronomy tower, his wisdom dying in his eyes and—Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes slipping shut and reopening as he tried pushing such images from his mind.
If Mr. Muller noticed the change in him, he was kind enough not to announce it, instead saying, "Have you had any of the symptoms I mentioned? Depression, mood swings, stomach cramps, head aches?"
Harry wanted to lie—more than anything, he wanted to lie, as if denying it would make it less true, make him better—healthier—more sane. But he remembered Mr. Muller's many reminders that hiding things would only hurt his cause and that he could only help if Harry allowed him to, so instead, Harry begrudgingly nodded. He was compelled to tell the truth, if only because he yearned to get better, even if that meant accepting Mr. Muller's help.
"Yeah."
Mr. Muller smiled gently.
"And when something like that occurs, what do you do?"
Despite his previous thoughts, Harry highly doubted admitting that he went into the bathroom and frequently hurt himself would help his cause any more than lying would—so he contradicted himself and lied, hoping it sounded smoother out-loud than in his head.
"I try to focus on my breathing."
Mr. Muller smiled again, nodding, "Brilliant. Have you been keeping a journal, as we discussed?"
Harry shook his head.
"No," he said, honestly this time. He looked back down at the floor. "My hands are cramping from the essays themselves—I.. I don't really want to write more, on top of that."
Really, he had just forgotten.
"I suppose that's understandable; perhaps a quill such as mine would help?" he suggested.
Harry shrugged.
"Maybe."
Really, the idea of a journal made his stomach flip. He thought of second year and the journal that wrote back—he thought of the Basilisk, then of Ginny, then of Mrs. Weasley and her dead eyes. He grimaced again and visibly shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. Even as he stared ahead, his eyes meeting Mr. Muller, the memory plagued him. Mr. Muller's quill started scribbling something again and Harry's eyes flicked to it for but a moment before moving to the floor.
"How are you and that Malfoy boy getting along?" Mr. Muller asked, effortlessly switching topics.
Harry thought for a moment, unsure of how to interpret the morning's events. Draco had helped him—willingly. It didn't matter that Harry had had to barter for his freedom and bribe Draco not to turn him into Madame Pomfrey—the rest had been done by Draco on his own accord. He had treated Harry's wounds in near-silence, with his own personal supply of medicine because he had wanted to. Why, Harry had no idea—what would compel him to suddenly help someone he thoroughly despised? Harry had felt closer to Draco that morning than he had to anyone else in a very long time, a feeling that only added to his confusion. Had Draco, perhaps, felt the same bond? Finally, Harry's face flushed a bit and a breath of a smile crossed his lips as he said, "He's.. manageable."
There was a flash of white teeth in Harry's peripheral as Mr. Muller grinned.
"I see. Are you two getting to know one another, then?"
Once again, Harry shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure if Draco temporarily rescuing him from himself and holding his hand until he fell into a light, restless sleep really counted as getting to know one another.
"Kind of, I guess. I'unno, really—we only started getting along better this morning."
Mr. Muller gave Harry another broad smile, clearly pleased with how open Harry was being.
"Perhaps you should make that effort—as we discussed Thursday, the forgiveness of others can lead to the forgiveness of oneself." He paused, his dark eyes sliding across the length of Harry's face. Harry felt himself tense a bit under the scrutiny, hesitantly meeting Mr. Muller's eyes with his own. "It does appear that you're doing a bit better, Harry—and while it's important to see how far you've already come, it's equally important—nay, perhaps more so—to see how much further you need to go. I daresay a reward is in order, however, so I challenge you to do this; get to know the Malfoy boy. If, by Monday, you can say that you've honestly tried, and your test results show improvement, I may consider lifting your constant supervision."
Harry's stomach did a nervous sort of flip. The idea of being able to walk the halls unsupervised made Harry much happier than, perhaps, it should; he longed for a bit of alone time and the sense of independence that came along with it. Slowly, he processed everything Mr. Muller had said and hesitantly asked, "Test results?"
Mr. Muller nodded.
"Just some simple diagnostics—nothing to fret over, I assure you. I'll explain more Monday, once I'm certain of the spells I need to preform." Harry swallowed, hard, but nodded. Mr. Muller continued, adding, "Oh—and before I forget—I've more potions for you. I have more of your current prescription, as well as a mood-enhancer I thought you'd benefit from.. It should help combat some of the symptoms brought on by the first potion—the depression and mood swings. I've already discussed it with Minerva and Madame Pomfrey; they've agreed that it could be beneficial, but of course, it's entirely up to you."
There was something hard in Harry's stomach, then. A burning, acidic sort of sensation, as if his gut were trying to answer for him. His mind argued against the feeling. Such a potion was logical and if both Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey agreed, surely Harry was in no position to argue? Maybe it would take away his urge to self-harm, although an equally large part hoped not. He was flip-flopping from one emotion to the next. He wanted to get better and yet he didn't, still convinced that it was what he deserved and nothing more.
Despite his inner turmoil, Harry found himself nodding.
"Sure."
Mr. Muller gave him another broad smile and the burning in his stomach intensified. He felt like he was going to be sick, as if his body were trying to tell him something that his mind just couldn't interpret.
He tried to swallow down the sensation as Mr. Muller withdrew a palm-sized satchel from the pocket of his robes. Harry assumed it had an expanding enchantment on it because Mr. Muller withdrew several vials, setting them along the edge of Professor McGonagall's desk. He recognized the light-blue vials as his original serum. Beside those were three iridescent vials, their contents changing color in the light. First they appeared to be a dark, pearly sort of forest green, and then a deep turquoise with touches of purple. Mr. Muller handed one of them to Harry and Harry spun the vial between his fingers, watching its contents catch the light in a swirl of color.
"It's called the felixiserum," said Mr. Muller. A slight pause and then, "Go ahead—toss it back. I've given you two others. In addition to the other serum, you're to take one vial per day. It's relatively fast acting and we should be able to get a read on whether or not it's helping you by Monday."
Harry nodded again, licking his lips as he uncorked the vial and drank its contents in two long swallows. It tasted a bit like mint, cool and clean, with a touch of clove. He handed the empty vial back to Mr. Muller.
"How does it taste?" Mr. Muller inquired, smiling as he stuffed the empty vial back into his satchel. He looked to Harry and explained, "The taste is different for every person—it works a bit like potionatus aeterna desiderio—the potion of eternal longing. Simply put, its taste foreshadows something that makes you happy."
Harry wrinkled his nose and said, "It tasted like mint, I guess. Maybe clove? I'unno why, though."
He couldn't think of anything that tasted like mint and clove that brought him happiness—the first thing that came to mind was toothpaste, at least as far as the mint was concerned, but the thought was silly, really, and he pushed it aside as Mr. Muller shrugged.
"Ah, well, you will tell me if you figure it out, won't you? Mind you, it might not be associated with another taste—it could be a smell or something even more vague. There's actually debate whether or not there even is a connection. Still, I'd be absolutely thrilled to hear about it either way. The felixiserum has always been something of an interest to me, as well as its sister potions." Mr. Muller offered Harry another broad smile and shifted a bit in his seat, conjuring another satchel and whisking the potions into it with a wave of his wand. He handed it to Harry and mused, "Perhaps if you make its connection, you'll no longer need the potion?"
The corner of Harry's mouth twitched and he forced himself to smile despite the thought that revealed itself—had he ever really been happy?
"Maybe."
X
Mr. Muller had escorted Harry to his dormitory, dropping him off outside of its portrait. The rest of their session had gone by rather slowly and when Harry returned, he practically tossed the satchel of potions onto his bed. Draco was sitting in front of the fire, curled on one corner of the couch with his knees propped up and a book in hand.
Harry tried pushing away his irritation, Mr. Muller's offer ringing in his ears. He had spent most of the walk to his dormitory in thought, trying to be tactical and figure out how best to approach Draco. He doubted he was much for simple Q and A and if Harry were simply honest, he thought Draco would try bartering with him like before. He tried to think of what he and Ron had done to bond, but such activities as saving the school from a troll or playing a life-size game of chess seemed out of the question. There were other activities, of course, such as exploding snap, homework, or regular Wizard's chess, but Harry was unsure if Draco would be interested. Still, it was worth a try and at least then he could say he had given it a go.
"I'm bored," he announced, practically collapsing on the couch beside Draco.
Draco looked at him over the edge of his book, shifting a bit to ensure that they were not touching one another, and sneered, "It's a pleasure, bored, but please, do go away."
Harry rolled his eyes and shifted a bit himself, closer to Draco, if only to spite him.
Draco's eyes narrowed at the movement and he shifted to compensate, which in turn only drew Harry closer.
"Don't you have an essay or something to be doing?" Draco bit out. Harry nodded and Draco gave him an expectant look, his eyebrows lifting when Harry made no movement to stir. He was nearly scowling when he suggested, "Then—do it?"
Harry shook his head and instead said, "What are you reading?"
Draco stared, blinking once, twice, and then looking back down at the book. Something had come over Harry. He could see it as clearly as he could see his emptiness and his anger and that vague shadow of a Gryffindor that passed through every now and then again—but what ever this change was, Draco sensed would be much more annoying.
"Malfoy," Harry said loudly, practically in a sing-song voice. He suddenly felt a bit drunk, giddy and happy for no apparent reason. The potion must have started taking effect and Harry had a tinkering idea that right then might not be the best time to approach Draco. The idea was easily ignored and he asked, in the same voice as before, "What are you reading?"
"Nothing—because someone won't keep their bloody mouth shut," Draco snapped, giving Harry a pointed look.
Harry suppressed a smile.
"Great! You're free, then. Exploding snap?"
"You're about to find out the definition of that game, Potter, lest you leave me to my reading."
"Wizard's Chess?" he tried, pushing off of the couch and moving to his trunk to fetch it before Draco had even answered. He was suddenly very antsy, awake, and was overwhelmed with the need to occupy his mind. "I think I have Ron's old set in here, somewhere..."
"I'm fine without such germs, thank you kindly."
Harry brightened despite the insult, looking back over at the couch.
"That's not a no."
"No. This is," Draco retorted, making a rude hand gesture over the couch's back.
"Mature," laughed Harry.
Draco glanced at him again, his eyes surveying.
"Says the resident five-year-old. Seriously, Potter—what is that man giving you? An age reversal potion?"
Harry scowled, leaning back against the post of his bed frame.
"I was just trying to be friendly—and I told you last night.. it's Harry."
Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up.
"Doubtful," Draco drawled, pointedly ignoring the latter part of Harry's remark. "Why the sudden attempt at camaraderie—Potter?"
Harry gave what he hoped was a careless sort of shrug and said, "I told you."
Draco shook his head.
"You're a horrible liar. Spill."
Harry sighed, hesitant, but compelled to answer—he thought of the potions Madame Pomfrey had given him the day he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and the loose tongue that came with them. The potion Mr. Muller had given him was similar, apparently, as Harry's mouth opened on its own accord and said, "Mr. Muller told me to; he said if we could get along better and I showed improvement, I could go on without a constant escort."
Both of Draco's eyebrows raised at that news.
"So what was this morning—was that improvement?"
Draco's eyes were challenging and Harry looked past him and into the fire.
"Never mind," he muttered, his mood darkening a bit at the memory. He suddenly felt rather silly for approaching Draco to begin with—no mater what, he thought, Draco was going to be difficult. He realized that then and tried not to let the thought ruin his good mood. He should probably be doing what Draco had originally suggested, anyway—homework.
Draco wasn't about to let it go that easily, however, and repeated, "Was that what Mr. Muller considers improvement?" He paused, tilting his head slightly to the side in vague curiosity, and then answered the question himself. "He doesn't know you're getting worse."
Harry shifted, folding his arms in front of his chest, and glared at Draco, though perhaps because of the potion (or what had happened that morning), it wasn't as strong a look as usual.
"I'm not getting worse," Harry said loudly.
Draco pursed his lips together and made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat.
"I'm not," Harry insisted, as if repeating it would make it true.
Draco gave him an amused look and drawled, "If you say so, Potter."
"If you're so certain I'm getting worse," Harry started, pushing off from the bed post and stepping closer to the couch, "then why didn't you call Madame Pomfrey?"
Silence answered him as Draco looked back down at his book, deliberately ignoring Harry and the memories he called forth. Draco had been weak that morning—he had allowed himself to connect with another person—with Harry Potter, of all people—and he wasn't particularly eager to relive his moment of weakness. He was both disgusted and disappointed with himself, intrigued by Harry even then.
Harry studied his profile, catching bottom lip between his teeth and worrying on the tender flesh. He didn't know the cause of Draco's silence, though he supposed the answer should be obvious—Harry had begged him not to. That's why he hadn't called Madame Pomfrey—well, partially, anyway. Why Draco had listened to him, had given into his pleading—Harry swallowed, remembering how gentle his touch was and how soft his hands were. He flushed, the tips of his ears stinging under the blush, and looked down at the floor.
Quietly, Harry said, "Nevermind that. Just... look at it this way—if we can fake our way through this, you'll be rid of me sometimes. You benefit too, yeah?"
Draco pursed his lips together but at least appeared to be thinking about it. He exhaled sharply, dramatically through his teeth, and moved from the couch, book clutched tightly in hand. He strode across the room to his trunk, kneeling down in front of it without a word until he had fetched his own chess set. Harry suppressed a smile.
"Fine, but we're using my set, not the Weasel's," said Draco, straightening. "I won't have my skin crawling and festering about with his germs."
"Don't call him that," Harry snapped, his good mood wavering a bit at the nickname.
"What would you have me call him, then?" Draco asked, clearly patronizing, his eyes barely flicking to where Harry was standing.
"Ron—or even Weasley. That is his name, you know."
"Weasley. Weasel. Close enough," he shrugged, moving across the room and settling down in front of the fire with the chess board.
"Fine," Harry said, dropping to the floor in front of him. "Ferret."
Draco glared at him but went to setting the board with a single wave of his wand. It was a rather ornate board, considerably more impressive than Ron's, its pieces well polished and delicately carved, glinting in the firelight. Tiny roses bordered the board itself and Harry surveyed the pieces in slight awe—it looked to be hand carved and very expensive and Harry tried not to appear too impressed. The first game went by quickly, too quickly, with Harry managing to capture only one of Draco's pieces before his king was almost cornered. It was clear that, like Ron, Draco thought three moves ahead—only he was considerably more calculating and vicious about his attacks, his pieces more brutal than Ron's had ever been as they dragged his pawns, rooks, and even bishops off to the sidelines.
"This is boring," Draco observed, knocking Harry's queen to the side and announcing, "Mate." He paused, his eyes moving to Harry. He deliberately stifled a yawn, fanning his face with a single hand and practically sneered, "Are you even trying, Potter? Please tell me you aren't—no one, not even you, can be this bad at Wizarding Chess."
With a scowl, Harry corrected, "It's Harry, Malfoy. And bugger off."
Draco's expression changed, subtly at first and then more apparent, his eyes lighting with an idea. "What do you say we add a twist, then? Every piece you knock off is a question answered—you know, in the name of camaraderie."
Harry swallowed—his suggestion was perfect, really, considering what Mr. Muller wanted Harry to do. Still, he was hesitant, very aware that this was Draco and quite possibly some sort of trick. He wouldn't be suggesting it if there wasn't something he wanted to gain.
"What sort of question?"
"Any sort."
"Any sort?" Harry repeated, emphasizing the first word.
Draco nodded.
He thought for a moment.
"How will I know if you're being honest?"
Draco gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug, his mouth twisting into a smirk.
"Come now, Harry, what question of yours, exactly, could be so fantastically enlightening that I'd need to lie to answer?"
The way he said his given name—it was taunting, patronizing, but different, and Harry suppressed a slight smile, half-ass glaring instead. "Oh, come off it, Malfoy. You know very well what I'll want to know."
"I do," he agreed, smirking again. "But who says you'll even have a chance to ask?"
"I captured.. one of your pawns," Harry argued feebily.
Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up and he gave Harry a cool smile, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, withdrew his wand to vanish the game, saying, "Brilliant point—how could I forget? Just forget it, then, it's rubbish, anyway."
Harry swallowed and said, abruptly, making a snap-decision, "Fine. We'll do it. But you've got to be honest, yeah?"
"Same goes to you," he countered, holding Harry's eyes steadfast with his own. Instead of vanishing it, he set the board with a wave of his wand, his eyes flicking away for but a moment before returning to Harry's. "You have my word—I'll be as honest as can be."
Harry chortled.
"As what can be? You? Because that's what I'm worried about."
Ignoring him, Draco said, "I'll even let you have first turn."
"What a gentleman," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.
Harry had just finished his third turn when he saw it—his pawn was directly in the path of Draco's bishop and he frowned, his eyes flicking up to meet Draco's. Draco was smirking, the expression almost predatory, and Harry sighed. Until that point he had actually been doing rather well—he had already blocked one of Draco's attempts to capture a pawn by cornering his piece with a rook.
"Ah," Draco said, one of his pawns knocking Harry's over the head and dragging it off the side of the board with little effort. He looked up at Harry. "Here goes—I'll even give you an easy one—what are your nightmares about? And in detail."
That was an easy one?
Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.
He shook his head.
"That wasn't part of the agreement, Malfoy. We never agreed that our answers couldn't be one worded."
Draco gave him an amused look.
"Backing out so soon? Shame. I would have thought that Gryffindor bravery stronger than that."
Harry's eyes darkened and he glared at Draco, arguing, "I'm not backing out of anything.. you just can't add rules to this when ever it suits you."
"Says who?" asked Draco, smirking.
"I do."
Draco's smirk widened.
"That sounds an awfully lot like a rule, Potter."
Harry's glare intensified and he sighed, "You're bloody impossible."
Draco waved his hand dismissively and said, "Stop deflecting the question; answer or you forfeit."
Harry thought for a moment before replying, "Fine. I forfeit."
Draco almost looked pleased.
"Fine. You'll be doing my Muggle Studies homework, then."
Harry made a face, demanding, "What? Says who?"
"I do," replied Draco simply.
Harry shook his head and gave Draco an incredulous look.
"We never agreed to that, either, Malfoy—stop trying to make things up. That's not very sportsman-like."
"Neither is forfeiting within the first turn. Really, Potter—you defeat V-Voldemort and 'save' the entire Wizarding World, but you can't even—"
"Fine," Harry huffed, interrupting. "Fine—I'll answer the bloody question, if only to get you to shut up."
Again, Draco looked pleased, and Harry wanted very much to wipe the look from his face.
"That's better."
"You heard my condition," Harry warned.
Draco simply smirked.
"They're usually about the final battle," he said finally, staring very hard at the edge of the chess-board. There was the slightest scuff mark along each corner, its only sign of regular use, and he was trying very hard not to see anything other than what he was looking at. "I don't get why you're so bloody curious, really—shouldn't be that surprising—"
"You're deflecting—"
"Just give me a minute, yeah?" Harry snapped, bringing his eyes up to Draco's with a light flush. "I'm working on it."
"You're as slow as a Hufflepuff—"
"—and you're as annoying as a bouncing little ferret, so belt it, yeah?"
Draco glowered but remained quiet.
"Thank you. Bloody hell. As I was trying to say—my nightmares are usually about the final battle." He paused, unsure of why he was being honest but, again, compelled to be so regardless. He suddenly felt very exposed, vulnerable, and his voice grew softer as he spoke, his eyes returning to the chess board. "They almost always take place where it happened—that damned sunflower field.. he makes me hear their screams." His voice cracked pathetically and yet he pressed on. "Over and over and over, and I can feel every bit of pain with it—it's like the unforgivable but worse, a thousand times worse, and I'm absolutely powerless to stop it." He glanced at Draco, not quite meeting his eyes. "Happy?"
"Hardly. You're hardly very original, Potter—here I was, hoping for some grand tale of—"
"War isn't grand, Malfoy," Harry interrupted in a flash of irritation. He had opened up to Draco—Merlin knew why—and there Draco was, trying to pour salt into an open wound. He really didn't know what else he expected. "It's dark and it's devastating and it hurts and even if you win, you lose. You lose pieces of yourself and people you loved..." Harry paused, thinking of Draco's parents, and added, "I would have thought you would know that by now."
Draco stiffened a bit and cleared his throat.
"Yes. Well. Moving on."
Harry nearly smiled and glanced back down at the chess board.
"Right."
Minutes passed until finally, one of Harry's pawns captured one of Draco's. He was unable to suppress the look of triumph from blanketing his face, barely watching as his piece beat its opponent into a pile of near-rubble, perhaps more viciously than even Draco's had.
"Show me whether or not you have the Dark Mark."
Draco's face remained expressionless and, voice even, he replied, "That's not a question, Potter. That's a command."
"Fine," Harry sighed, humoring him, "Do you have the Dark Mark? And you have to show me."
"Still a command."
"You added stipulations—" Harry pointed out, "—are we really going to go through this song and dance again, Malfoy?"
There was a long moment during which Draco simply stared at Harry, his gray eyes surveying him, taking him in, and Harry felt himself tense under the scrutiny. Finally, Draco said, almost conversationally—as if they were talking about the weather—"M'spose not."
He shifted to roll up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing smooth, pale skin.
"Really, I'm surprised you didn't notice the other night," he continued. Harry barely heard him, his eyes catching on the familiar mark, its ink a startling contrast—his eyes traced its design before flicking toward the fire, darkening despite the glowing embers reflected.
"That's enough," he said stiffly. Suddenly he felt even more exposed than before. What did he think he was doing? What did Mr. Muller think he was doing? The man had admitted to testifying at Lucius' trial—he knew Draco's father was a Death Eater. Did he really think the apple fell so far from the tree? Harry knew he shouldn't be surprised. He had been there last year, on the Astronomy tower—he had seen Draco with other Death Eaters, heard of his plan and its slight success firsthand. A part of him had always known what Draco was but it hadn't seemed real until then.
"What's with the sour face, Potter? You did ask, and speaking of things that shouldn't be surprising—"
Harry's eyes swept back to Draco and he almost demanded, "Why'd you get it?"
"That's another question," Draco pointed out. He was unbelievably calm, considering the conversation, and Harry thought it rather unnerving. He felt torn between continuing the game and telling Draco where, precisely, he could shove his questions and his attitude—with a flash, Harry remembered his conversation with Mr. Muller about forgiveness and innocence. Harry pursed his lips together and huffed, motioning back to the board.
"Fine. Your turn."
Moments passed before Draco's rook trampled another of Harry's pawns.
"What do your voices say?" he asked, his eyes meeting Harry's.
Harry hesitated.
"How do you know I hear voices?"
Draco cocked his head slightly to the side, his expression slightly incredulous.
"You're schizophrenic, Potter."
Harry looked away, his face flushing, and argued, "..I could just have delusions."
Draco gave him a bored look, his eyes drilling into the side of Harry's face. Harry's flush darkened and he shifted uncomfortably where he sat. His voice was soft, broken. "Fine. Okay. I hear voices."
"I didn't ask for an admission. I asked for details."
Harry's good mood was slipping away more and more by the moment.
"Why are you so bloody curious about what goes on in my mind, yeah?"
"Careful, Potter, your head is swelling," Draco drawled.
"Would you just shut up?" Harry snapped.
"You're the one that has to fight me every question. You should know by now that you're not going to win."
Harry glared.
"Just.. shove it. Merlin's beard."
"Merlin's beard?" Draco laughed, shaking his head. "Who says that?"
His laugh was lighter than usual, smooth, and while it was still at Harry's expense, Harry thought there was something different about it. Harry gave him a slight, lop-sided grin and muttered, "I do! Now.. bloody hell. What was the question again? Wait—don't answer that."
His smile vanished and he looked back down at the chess board. If he wanted Draco's honesty on his next question, he supposed he needed to be honest on this one. Besides, it wasn't as if Draco didn't already know.
"Mostly what I told you earlier.. that I'm pathetic—I'm a coward," Harry replied quietly.
"And you believe it?"
"Don't you?" he countered, eyes flicking up.
Draco's expression was unreadable. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, and Harry had to strain to hear his reply.
"At the risk of inflating your already bulbous head, no. I don't. Not the coward part, anyway. You defeated Voldemort—you sacrificed everything for people you didn't even know. How does that make you a coward, Harry?"
Harry stared. Draco had just given him an unbelievable amount of information to wade through and in so few words—Draco was a Death Eater, or rather, he had the mark. Harry doubted Professor McGonagall would let a known Death Eater be his roommate, and yet, the latter was undeniable. It was a fact—he had seen it himself. But there Draco was, practically praising him for defeating Voldemort and (in more words) commending Harry for being brave. He swallowed, barely managing, "I.. err—what? Did you just call me Harry, Malfoy?"
"I'm not repeating myself," Draco sniffed, shifting where he sat. He uncrossed his legs and chose to lounge against the coffee table instead, his shoulders pressed against the wood and his legs pointed toward the fire. "And don't get used to it."
"Too late," Harry said, unable to stop his face from erupting into a grin.
"Bloody Gryffindor," Draco sneered. "Salazar help me, if you start crying again—"
"Relax, Malfoy," Harry interrupted, still grinning. "I'm not some lovesick, swooning fangirl."
"I'm so relieved," he said delicately.
Harry snorted.
"I can tell."
Draco said nothing and they continued to play in silence until Draco captured another of Harry's pieces. He regarded Harry with a slightly curious expression and asked, "Do you remember trying to throw yourself from that window?"
It felt as if Draco were going backwards with his questions—this seemed so less personal than the last, less intrusive, and Harry wondered if he were trying to guide them back to familiar territory.
"No," he replied, the answer coming more quickly than the others had. "I don't."
Draco simply nodded and looked back down at the board. He didn't press Harry for more information and Harry let a moment or two pass before he made his move, confusion knotting in his stomach. He narrowly avoided another one of Draco's pieces, somehow—perhaps by blind luck—managing to capture another of his pawn's in the process. He chose his words carefully this time, certain that this was the question he wanted to ask. Really, he already knew the answer. He had known it all along—he remembered that night clearly, the night in which Dumbledore died. He had been so focused on what Draco had been sent to do, on what had happened, that he had forgotten about the conversation itself. Draco, like everyone else, had a heart. It beat hard in his chest, rushing blood into his veins and love into the ties that bound most closely—family. And yet, Harry felt compelled to ask. He needed to know—he needed to hear it from Draco himself, voluntarily, if only to prove that his ears hadn't betrayed him that night because of the thick blanket of Dumbledore's enchantment.
"Why did you worship Voldemort?"
Draco stiffened.
"I had two choices," he said quietly, choosing his words carefully. His eyes deliberately met Harry's, hard and challenging. "I chose a life of servitude over a messy death—is that what you wanted to hear—that I chose the coward's way out?"
Harry surveyed him for a moment and Draco continued, almost smirking, "What—did you expect me to say that I was under the imperious curse or some such rubbish?"
"I don't know what I expected," Harry lied.
Draco scoffed and lightly chided, "Honesty, Potter."
Harry absently rubbed his arm, cringing as his fingers pressed the fabric of his robes against the deep gash Draco had caused. Draco's eyes moved to his arm and lingered there—he appeared to be in thought, and desperate to avoid that conversation, Harry confessed, "I—I was there—on the Astronomy tower.. when you were supposed to—to kill Dumbledore. He had cursed me—I was immobile, unable to do anything, but.. I could see—hear—everything."
Draco's eyes were on his again in an instant, his gaze unreadable.
Harry pressed on.
"You said—well, you said that Voldemort threatened your family?"
It was meant to be a statement, not a question, and Harry could see the muscle working in Draco's jaw, the movement intensified by the shadows the fire cast against his skin. A long, tense moment passed and Harry almost wondered if Draco was going to curse him—but then the thought passed and Draco looked away.
"It's your turn," he said quietly.
Harry wanted to press him for a better answer but instead of saying what he really wanted to, he shook his head and said, just as quietly, "No—it's yours. I asked last."
Draco swiftly moved one of his bishops—right into the path of Harry's rook. He seemed to realize his mistake as soon as the piece slid across the board, his eyes lingering on it as Harry made his own move. Naturally, he captured Draco's bishop—he felt a bit guilty, though, and quietly offered, "We can just play now."
Draco shook his head but his eyes didn't lift from the board.
"Ask your question," he said flatly.
Harry hesitated.
"Are you sure?"
Draco said nothing and, perhaps more hesitantly, Harry asked, "What happened to your mother?"
Finally, Draco's eyes met his. His gaze was hard, dark, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.
"That's none of you concern."
Harry caught his lip between his teeth again before saying, "I—I'm sorry. You said any question, Malfoy—and you promised to be honest—I just.." He shook his head, backtracking. "Nevermind that. I'm sorry—that was insensitive."
"You wouldn't understand," Draco replied stiffly, moving from the floor in a single, languid movement. He looked down at the chess board and waved his wand at it, vanishing it back in his chest. "This game's over."
Harry hurried to his feet. There was a change in Draco—he seemed tense, stiff, and his anger was apparent in his body language. He was guarded again and Harry felt his heart reach out to him—he was genuinely apologetic and felt quite stupid for asking the question in the first place. Considering Draco's reaction to his last question—he should have known better.
"Malfoy—don't be like that, it was just a question—"
"Don't be like what, Potter?" Draco demanded, his voice hard. "You have no bloody right to tell me what to feel—you, of all people—you're so fucking self-righteous, aren't you? You—"
"I'm what?" Harry demanded, his eyes flashing. His regret passed, the potion's effects apparently fading as anger quickly washed over him, eager to meet Draco's. "You—you fucking arsehole! You've made fun of me for years because of my parents, and all I do is ask you a bloody question—a single bloody question—and you accuse me of being self-righteous?"
Draco laughed but, unlike before, the sound was cold and cruel. Harry pressed his lips together and glared.
"You think you have it so bad," sneered Draco. "Poor little Potter—an orphan from the age of one—well guess what, Potter? There are worse things than being an orphan. At least you didn't know your mum! She died when you were one and you're lucky. You're fucking lucky because you can't miss her."
"I can't miss her?" Harry practically yelled, his hands turning to fists at his sides. "She was my mum! Of course I fucking miss her! Who are you to tell me what I can and can't feel? You always have to be so much fucking better than everyone else!"
"Look who's talking," Draco sneered, his voice dangerously low. He edged closer to Harry, his eyes hard. "You're such a bloody hypocrite, Potter."
"I'm a hypocrite?" That was rich! Harry''s entire body tensed at Draco's close proximity and he said two words between clenched teeth: "Fuck. You."
Harry could almost feel the anger radiating off of Draco and, all at once, the reality of their argument came crashing down upon him. They were arguing because Draco missed his mother—suddenly his anger felt rather absurd and vanished almost as quickly as it had came. His gaze softened and before he could properly take stock in his actions—before Draco could even reply—Harry stepped forward and closed the distance between them by wrapping Draco in a tight hug.