MEMORY VIAL 3: IN FEVERISH DENIAL (YEAR 2)
The sky was a dreary gray outside the enormous windows, and the storm's heavy winds buffeted the impenetrable stone walls of the manor like invisible waves on the open sea.
It was about time for Draco to wake up. Any moment now, his mother, Narcissa, would come in with a glass of water and the same affectionate kiss she always planted on the side of his forehead.
But he felt too heavy and burdened with his thoughts to move out from the imprint of his bed.
He had woken up from the happiest dream—the same dream he had entertained two times already over the summer.
In the dream, Harry Potter was in the Dungeons at Hogwarts with him, the green trim of his new Slytherin robe accenting the jade glints behind his round spectacles.
They were sprawled together on opposite ends of Draco's bed, Harry's legs flung carelessly over Draco's while they perused through letters and the Daily Prophet. The hangings were drawn around the four-poster bed, save for a gap Malfoy had left for some of the lantern light to get in.
They were supposed to be studying, but neither of them felt motivated enough to do so. On three occasions, Harry launched forward to paw a textbook out of Malfoy's hands whenever he put in the effort to read the assigned chapters for their History of Magic class. So they talked instead, while the silhouettes of the other Slytherin boys flickered through the semi-transparent hangings.
Harry laughed at all his jokes, and Draco smiled every time Harry finished a punchline for him. Harry talked about how he wished they could play on the House Quidditch team together, and Draco fumed about how Pansy wouldn't stop trying to hold hands with him whenever they hung out together in the courtyard.
Harry observed that she was pretty, and that Draco ought to give her a chance, or at least not be so harsh towards her.
While Draco mulled over the idea, Harry sat up and crawled over to recline on the bed next to him.
"She is pretty, isn't she…"
Harry smiled by way of agreement. He settled into the mound of pillows so that their shoulders pressed together.
Draco scrunched his forehead almost angrily. "But it would be weird."
"Why?"
"I don't know… It would just feel weird, you know? Like asking a sister to be your girlfriend…"
Harry readjusted himself until his fingers happened to brush into the cup of Draco's hand.
Draco panicked momentarily. Harry was staring at him with intense, catlike eyes he couldn't look away from. Harry wasn't holding his hand—he seemed oblivious to how he had arranged himself—but he may as well have been.
"Then maybe I might ask her," Harry said, taking on a tone that was meant to goad Draco to do something.
"No," he said petulantly. "I don't want you to."
"Why?"
His voice went hoarse. "Because… because… because I said so, that's why." That ought to be reason enough, Draco figured. He closed his hand around Harry's fingers reflexively, then felt a warm heat burning in his chest.
"Just tell her you like someone else," Harry said, seeming to catch on to something that Draco was apparently missing.
"But I don't like someone else."
"I think you do…"
Draco lightened his grip when Harry sat up to take his robe off and fluff the pillow that was supporting him.
"There really isn't anyone. I don't care about girls."
"You're my best friend, Draco. I think I know you better than you know yourself, and I say you do like someone."
"I wish you really were my best friend," Draco mumbled in a brief spell of dream lucidity. That was when he woke to the swelling song of the morning's storm, heralded by the pounding of harsh wind.
He remained in bed, wondering if the real Harry was affectionate like that to his close friends. More than likely, the dream signified the unconscious parts of his own mind talking to itself—if his father's psychomancer friend, Mr. Animus Thorne, was correct about the theories of mindwork that he specialized in. But he supposed he would one day discover what Harry's character was really like, since he still intended to make friends with him.
When Narcissa Malfoy entered the room, she was surprised to find he was still in bed.
"Wake up, darling," she said in a clear voice that exuded a certain warmth she did not share with just anyone. "Are you feeling alright?" She stroked his pale forehead with the back of her hand.
Draco frowned and flung the bed sheets aside. "I'm fine."
"You're getting a fever, sweetheart. Stay in bed while I summon Krebble to collect your breakfast."
Draco did as he was told. Narcissa tucked him back into bed and placed a kiss on his clammy cheek. When she left the room, his mind raced back into the dream, and he allowed himself to live through it all over again, but as a fully self-aware daydream this time.
I really do wish you were my friend, he thought longingly. What'll it take?
"Respect," he imagined Harry saying.
But you failed to respect me, Draco thought, missing the point. Not to mention you have to learn your lesson for humiliating me.
"And kindness," he imagined Harry adding.
But you don't deserve kindness from me yet. Still, I would give you all of that and more if you'd just admit that you were wrong…
Over the past few weeks, Draco had been trying to think of a way to steal Harry's attention during their second year somehow. Belatedly, he realized the answer had been hidden in plain sight, within the dream itself.
"I wish we could play Quidditch together," dream-Harry had said. "Then we could spend a lot more time together…"
By the time Krebble, one of the manor's three sibling house-elves, reached his chamber with a tray laden with food and herbal tea, Draco was already dressed and walking towards the exit.
"M-master!" the little house-elf cried, scuttling after him with the tray balanced in his knobbly fingers. "The mistress demands you stay in bed!"
"Leave the food next to my bed," Draco demanded. "I need to see my father at once."
Krebble shrank back into Draco's bedchamber, wondering if he should tell the mistress about her son's disobedience, but it seemed unnecessary if he was seeking out his father, Lucius Malfoy. Krebble perched the tray on the young master's nightstand, then scuttled back to attend to the rest of his groundskeeping duties.
It had taken Draco half the summer to figure out a way to impress Harry, when the answer should have been obvious. A bottomless trove of galleons was at his disposal, as well as a proud father who expressed his love by giving him whatever he wanted.
There wasn't anything in the whole world outside of Draco's reach—except for one thing of course. And that same thing was exactly what he intended to purchase for himself during the coming year, regardless of what he cost.
Lucius Malfoy was reading the Daily Prophet in his usual wingback chair adjacent to the marble mantlepiece. Beside him stood Dobby, trembling in his tattered servant's garb with a flight of tasting wines held high above his head.
It was too early for his father to drink, so Draco figured Lucius was selecting a wine for company that evening.
The house-elf's knobby knees shook fearfully. Draco frowned, choosing to ignore the bat-eared servant as he crossed the well-appointed room. His quivering and crying were always so distracting that it seemed counterproductive for his father to always be abusing him the way he did. Lucius, on the other hand, insisted that any complications originating from the house-elf's punishments was either the fault of Draco or Narcissa humanizing the vile servant, or it was the house-elf's fault for acting too dramatic, which was a crime to be resolved with further punishment.
Draco perched himself on the settee in front of his father. Clearing his throat, he draped a hand over the armrest and offered his usual formal greeting.
"Oh, good morning, Draco," Mr. Malfoy said in his usual lax tone. "Was doing a bit of catching up on yesterday's events…"
"Are we having guests for dinner, Father?" He glanced at the tray Dobby was holding.
"We are… It's a last-minute thing, but I want to reserve our finest wine for it." Folding the paper into his lap, he shooed Dobby away to set the tray on a nearby table. "Your mother says you are not well."
"Bit of a fever…"
"Then you should lie down. Or do you need something?"
"I'm feeling fine, but I will do as Mother asked in just a moment." He never disobeyed Narcissa, but he couldn't wait to come to his father right away regardless of how he was feeling. "I wanted to say good morning to you and ask if you would be willing to help me, er… tackle a new hobby."
Intrigued, Mr. Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps I would be. You have my attention…"
Draco dug his nails into the armrest. He had been working out the logistics of his plan during his short trip through the corridors, but had forgotten that his father could refuse such a spontaneous request.
Clearing his throat a second time, he said, "Well… it's about my upcoming year at school."
"Do tell."
"You see… Harry Potter… he—"
"I won't hear another word from you about that boy," Lucius said sharply. He regarded his son down the long length of his nose. "Honestly, with the way you've carried on about him since you got home, I considered having you examined by Mr. Thorne."
Draco went pale. "But, you see— I never meant—"
"You've been complaining about him obsessively, when I already told you he isn't worth your time. An alliance with him would stand for nothing. Forget him, Draco, and focus your energy onto something productive instead. Your mother and I are disappointed in your performance at Hogwarts so far, but I'm inclined to be merciful in my judgement since the school is overrun by inept filth."
"But that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Draco said boldly. He relaxed at his father's sudden change in posture.
"What do you mean?" Mr. Malfoy asked, wondering how inept filth and Harry Potter were finally forming a connection in his son's mind.
"Harry Potter is the Seeker for Gryffindor's Quidditch team, right?" Draco worked his jaw anxiously, remembering the dark-haired boy dangling from his broom in the middle of his first match against Slytherin. "He got lucky. He got special treatment from Professor Dumbledore after breaking Madam Hooch's rules."
"We've been over this already," Lucius said with a warning tone.
"What I mean to say is, he isn't even all that good. Everyone celebrates him as if he isn't winning by pure dumb luck— So I thought about it, and I realized you were right about my performance not being what it could be…"
"You already have my interest, son, now quit beating around the bush. Get to the point."
"I was thinking I could try out for the House Quidditch team. As Seeker—" And then he realized he needed to invent a reason for why he wanted to become a Seeker specifically, "—since all the other players are likely to be third-years and older, it would make sense to put me in, since I will be lighter on a broom, and, as you know, I love to race… But you could help me secure my place on the team."
The air seemed to deflate from Draco's lungs. He couldn't get the question out, because the fever-induced fantasy of him facing off against Harry on the Quidditch field was already becoming too real for him. There was a shudder in his breath. He could be well on his way toward making a fool of himself—but if this forced Harry to fear and think about him more, he would need to see it through.
"What is your request, Draco," Lucius said boredly, sensing that his son was mumbling in circles at this point. "If I can help you, I certainly will, but you need to spit it out."
"Would you buy me the latest model of racing broom? It's important for a Seeker to be the fastest—and someone gave Potter a Nimbus Two Thousand last year, and that's the only reason why he's any good. He'd be nothing if he had to go against someone as well-equipped as he is."
The corner of Mr. Malfoy's lips twitched slightly up at the idea of his son championing for the Slytherin team on the sleekest broom. He would be likely to make Hogwarts history.
"Consider it done," he said magnanimously, without needing more than a few seconds to reflect.
Draco's head reeled. Flying shoulder to shoulder with Harry Potter in the air was practically a reality at this point…
"We will buy the newest model when we get the rest of your school supplies at Diagon Alley. And if the captain of your team agrees to make room for you, rest assured I will gift the same broom to every one of your teammates."
Draco did his best to contain his amazement.
"Just make sure you finish the essays that were assigned to you over the summer, and make the tutor I hired for you boast to me about your academic talent. I have no doubt you will leave a lasting impression on that school this year… But I am warning you, do not make this extracurricular activity of yours all about bludgeoning that boy, or I will have Animus Thorne inside your mind faster than you can think. Do not act like you dislike Potter anymore, either," he enunciated carefully, "and do not let him take up any more space inside that valuable head of yours. Stop wanting to be friends with him, because I already forbade it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father," Draco muttered eagerly, although he felt discouraged at being forbidden from pursuing any kind of relationship with Harry.
But what his father didn't know could not upset him.
Draco sprang from the settee and almost wished he could hug him, but Lucius was not the affectionate type. He settled for a feverish smile instead, then said, "I won't disappoint you. I'll make you and Mother proud."
"I'm sure you will. Now go lie down and close the door on your way out. Take Dobby with you too, will you? Have him clean your room and collect whatever medicines you might need. Also, mind how you talk about Mr. Potter in front of that vermin from now on; I caught him blathering on about how Mr. Potter is a savior of this-and-that and all that bric-a-brac… Don't want him getting the other slaves worked up over nothing."
"Sorry, Father. It's been hard to not talk about what he did last year, but I will exercise keen judgement. Potter is not a savior by any means," he said for his father's benefit. "I said it before, he is only ever extremely lucky."
"Yes, yes—you don't have to convince me." Lucius waved him off. "Feel better, son. I'm sure your mother will check in on you when she gets home."
Draco exited the drawing room, a skittish Dobby following in his wake. Only when he was climbing the marble stairs toward his room did he allow himself the freedom to put on an happy smile.
"Potter," he said to himself in a hushed tone.
Dobby's ears perked up.
"You are something, no matter what my father says. It's as if you can do no wrong, you continue to win at everything, and it grates on me." He panted from exhaustion as he continued up the stairs. "But I will have you. If not as a friend, then I will outstrip you on our brooms and in everything else and finally show you what I'm worth: twenty of Granger and a hundred of Weasley."
Dobby shivered at that, not understanding what the young master meant by some of the things that he was saying. Since the young master was more tolerant and far less violent than his father, he decided to risk punishment and asked in a high-pitched voice, "Young master… what do you mean?"
Draco paused at the top landing of the sweeping staircase. He had forgotten about the revolting servant his father had sent after him.
"I mean, Dobby, that Potter needs to understand his place. And—" he sneered at the gaping, bulbous eyes of the squat house-elf, "—I also mean that I still want to be his friend. You remember everything I confided in you about—about him rejecting me?"
"I do, sir," Dobby uttered in a thin and feeble voice. The young master didn't have anyone else to talk to except him when it came to Harry Potter.
"I don't want him to make the same mistake again." Draco turned around and continued along the corridor. "My father wants to believe he is nothing, but he's mistaken. A friendship with Potter would make all the difference in the world to me. We would be unstoppable at school together."
"He does sound amazing, sir…"
Draco continued toward his bedroom, oblivious to the fact that he was speaking the way his father had explicitly warned him against. "It's not as if he's a god, Dobby; he needs a lot of guidance to get onto the right path. But he is something I want to have."
"How so, sir?"
"I don't know." Draco scowled, brain feeling jumbled. "I just decided that he'd be mine one day."
"What do you mean by yours, sir?" Dobby's eyes boggled as he considered one possibility. "Do you mean to make Harry Potter your slave, sir?"
Draco pushed the door to his room open. "No, nothing like that. Haven't you been listening?"
"I'm trying, sir." Dobby scratched his head uncertainly, feeling much more relaxed in the young master's company. "But I'm afraid I don't understand… You speak as if you want to hurt him sometimes, but then also as if you want to enslave him, or collect him like an artifact, or—"
"If friends were merchandise, he'd be the best that one could have, do you understand?"
Dobby faltered, since it still sounded like the boy wanted to acquire him as something that was less than human.
"Father said he wanted you busy," Draco said, putting an end to the conversation. "Take special care with the wardrobe and under my bed."
"Consider it done, sir!"
"And clean Oberon's cage."
His owl screeched from an enclosure on top of a golden stand. Oberon was black with a white face and snowy dapples shaped like spades along his feathers.
"Done, sir! Consider it done! And your bookcase shall be sorted, too, sir!"
"And share nothing I said to you with anyone, especially my father… I'm not supposed to talk to you, and if I get in trouble, I'll nail your ears to the mantlepiece."
Dobby's shoulders drooped at that. He wasn't too concerned with the threat, since he would never betray the confidences of any of his slavers.
Taking a moment to regard the sickly boy, he couldn't help noticing how pale and unnaturally frazzled he looked, even for someone with a fever.
Draco went to his desk, wiping sweat off his forehead. He sorted through the summer homework, putting rest aside for now, since he was determined to improve his grades no matter what it took. When Dobby recovered the breakfast tray that Krebble had left behind and set it next to him, Draco smiled weakly, but knew better than to offer the house-elf his gratitude.
Three hours later, he had done little else than create a sketch of a roiling Quidditch field with seven players on each team. His drawing skills weren't very good, but he had taken pains to elaborate on the smallest details.
One player represented himself, and another was Harry who was closing in on him at an angle. Both were reaching towards the Snitch, their fingers close to touching, but not quite…
Oberon landed on the pile of textbooks next to him, while he stared in horror at what he had drawn.
Crumpling the parchment, he walked to the fireplace and threw it into the grate. It landed just outside the fire, catching Dobby's notice from the corner of his eye.
Unable to sit down, Draco paced the room. He stared out of the windows at the dreary sky, blustering rain, and intermittent bolts of lightning. He fed Oberon some food from his tray and watched as Dobby finished dusting the lamp at the far corner of the room.
Draco whirled to his desk again, having decided he would write Pansy and tell her he had been thinking about their relationship.
Pulling out a fresh roll of parchment, he opened the ink bottle and poised his hand over the blank sheet.
Dear Pansy, he wrote, I hope you're doing alright.
The words stopped coming. His head felt jammed, and he couldn't think of a way to loosen up his thoughts.
Rising from his seat, Draco browsed through the handful of poetry books on his bookshelf in search of something he could plagiarize. He was well-versed in elevated literature thanks to his mother insisting he be cultured, but still the words were coming short.
Frustrated, he collapsed back into the chair.
After a long stretch of agonizing writer's block, he wondered if it would help to write as if he was addressing Harry Potter instead, if he swapped out certain words such as "friendship" for "girlfriend."
Plucking up his quill—his heart beating a little too quickly—he found himself all at once able to write eloquently:
I can't get you out of my mind. I'd like to spend more time with you, if you'd be willing to forgive me. Every time I think about us being boyfriend and girlfriend, I can't help but smile, and it sort of hurts. It's as if I have the weirdest crush on you.
I'm sorry for being so mean. If I could stop, I think I would. But it gets you to look at me in a certain way, and I sort of like that. You remember the first time we met? Your eyes were like will-o'-the-wisps sent to lure me to an unknown fate—sorry if that sounds corny, but I read it somewhere in a book…
I just want to be friends, but the way I always find myself thinking about you seems a bit excessive for mere friendship.
Or, at least, my father seems to think so.
I wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew what to say—to figure out what in bloody hell is going on in your mind. But if it turns out that you like me too, things could end badly for us both.
He scratched that last statement out and rubbed at his eyes.
Sit with me on the train to Hogwarts, will you? Alone? I'd love to talk. Except I probably won't talk. But if you could talk—tell me whatever I need to hear—I'd really be grateful. Just keep all of this a secret. Don't tell anyone what I've written since we haven't decided anything for now.
Sincerely…
He signed the letter, folded it, and then slipped it into an envelope before sealing it and scrawling Pansy Parkinson's address across the front. His breath was coming fast, and he felt dizzy as if he was spinning into a waking nightmare.
Draco dug his knuckles into his head. Before he could talk himself out of it, he placed the letter in Oberon's beak, then opened a window. The storm had largely died down, so he let the owl out into the dwindling rain.
His whole body felt like it was overheating. Very soon, Pansy would likely be his girlfriend, and he might be compelled to snog her after they made it official. She wasn't bad-looking, and was very cute by objective standards, so he should like her, but he just didn't.
"Give her a chance," dream-Harry had said.
"It feels like a mistake, though," he uttered sourly, before hunching down upon his chair.
Dobby blinked worriedly at the young master. He seemed to be growing sicker by the hour, and so he rushed to make up the bed and begged him to lie down.
Unable to think for himself anymore, Draco collapsed into the bed and only woke again when his mother returned that night to check on him. "Mum," he said weakly from within a nest of silk and linen. "Mummy, my head… it hurts…"
"It's alright, dear," Narcissa said in her most soothing voice. "I'm here. I'll be with you the rest of the night."
Draco felt her caress his cheek.
"Just close your eyes… You drank all the tea—Good. Dream happy dreams, darling. You have nothing to worry about."
