Title: Resolution. Chapter 6: Emeralds and Diamonds (6/?)
Author name: Frances Potter
Author email: frances.potter@worlds-colliding.co.uk
Category: Slash (Harry/Draco), Humour, Romance, Angst
Keywords: Harry, Draco, 7th year, Slash
Spoilers: All books
Rating: R. Slash. Male/Male sexual relationship. Language. Adult themes.
Summary:
res·o·lu·tion, noun -- solving of doubts, problems,
questions etc. The Concise Oxford Dictionary
When you've spent six years fighting evil, all you really want is a
quiet time. But when your name is Harry Potter the chances of that
are very slim. Exams, friends, lovers, enemies, Quidditch, birthdays,
the war and Draco all conspire to make Harry's final six months very,
very complicated and the end of term a long way off. Slash
(Harry/Draco)
Chapter 6: Emerald and Diamonds. Harry wakes up.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The concept of Earth magic and seeing stones are both based loosely on ideas in "The Amtrak Wars" books by Patrick Tilley (published by Sphere).
Dedication:
To Cheryl, for her never-ending patience, eye for detail
and for being my friend. Thank you Dear Heart.
Author's note: Resolution was started before the publication of Order of the Phoenix and is based on the canon of PS/SS, CoS, PoA and GoF. While certain canon facts from OotP will be incorporated in the story (such as spells and locations), the events of Harry's 5th year in Resolution are NOT the same as those in OotP.
Amongst other things, Resolution makes the following assumptions: 1. Sirius Black is alive. 2. Voldemort's return at the end of GoF is not common knowledge to the Wizarding world and many people, including the Ministry of Magic still refuse to believe it. 3. Lucius Malfoy is still considered to be a pillar of the community and any connections he might have with the Dark Lord remain a secret. 4. Draco Malfoy was never picked as a prefect. 5. Wizards love to ski!
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Diagon Alley ... Wednesday 16th August 1995 ... The Summer after the Triwizard Tournament ... Early afternoon
"Sorry I'm late." Ron Weasley, his face a little flushed from running, came to a halt beside the table. "I couldn't get away from my brothers." Breathing deeply, he put down his bag and leaned on the chair back for support.
"It's okay. We've got plenty of time." Sapphire eyes gleaming from under a shock of jet-black hair, David Morrello leaned forward and rested his elbows on the tabletop. "So, which brothers held you up?"
This was David's fifth meeting with the boy since their first encounter in the Armando Dippet Memorial Library and he was very pleased with how pliant Ron was. He had been told the boy was strong willed, but it was easy to twist the mind when someone was desperate.
"Fred and George." Ron was still panting for breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the tight-fitting t-shirt. The garment had pulled out of his jeans on one side and he tried to tuck it back in without much success. "They were looking for new ingredients for something they wanted to make and thought I would enjoy being dragged around with them."
"Oh yes, the twins. Is this their final year just coming up?" He nodded to the chair, watching as the 16-year-old redhead dragged it out and sat down.
Ron nodded and took a swipe at his messy hair. "Yeah. They keep saying they're going to spend it messing about, but then I catch them reading up on school stuff." He finally looked at David and grinned.
"Well, you know what I think about studying." David straightened. "Talking of study, how did you get on with the new book?"
Scrabbling in his bag, Ron pulled out a thin leather-covered book. "I finished it."
"Good." David signalled to the waiter and ordered coffee for himself and milkshake for Ron. The table was set in a little alcove away from the crowded interior of The Tiny Toadstool, a favourite restaurant for out-of-town witches on a trip to the big city. "What did you think of it?"
"Well..." Ron leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and cupping his chin with his hand. "I'm still not sure. I mean, we all know that if magical people don't marry outside of the Wizarding world, we'd all die out eventually."
"What makes you say that?" David fell silent as the waiter returned with their drinks. He watched as Ron drank thirstily from his glass, almost emptying it before putting it down and wiping away a little moustache of milk with the back of his hand.
"It's obvious. There just aren't enough of us."
"That is what they want you to think." Pushing his cup aside, David leaned forward, his voice a whisper. "It's all part of the Muggle plan to obliterate us completely. Non-magical people have been attempting to get rid of us since the beginning of time. They've persecuted us openly for generations, but it didn't work. Now they are trying from the inside. They want to breed magic out of us."
"But..."
"Ron, you read what Mr Gates said in his book. Every time one of our kind marries outside of our people they dilute the magic of us all." David jabbed at the desk as if to make his point clearer. "Remember what we talked about last time?"
The boy nodded. "About our innate magic?"
"Yes. Our magic. Our power. Our inheritance. Not the Muggles, but ours. It's all around us, running through us. Part of us, Ron. And each time one of us takes a Muggle as a partner we dilute that gift. The child born from such a union is a little bit less powerful, a little more ungifted. Even if that child marries a magical person, they will carry that taint into the next generation, and the next and the next."
"But lots of Wizarding families have Muggle relatives."
"I know, even I have them in my family. But if we carry on letting Muggles into our society in a few more generations we will be as powerless as they are. No more magic, Ron, no more flying or things like this." He waved his hand and a plate of Cauldron Cakes appeared on the table between them. "Your grandchildren will all be squibs if we allow the Muggles to keep polluting us." One of the cakes floated from the plate and settled on the table just in front of Ron. The paper case slowly unwrapped itself, turning into a delicate china plate as it flattened against the wood. "There are more and more squibs being born to pure-blood families. We don't hear about them because our government doesn't want us to know, because then we would find out that they have betrayed us all." Reaching for the cake, David broke a piece of it off and offered it up to the boy. "This is just another of the ways they've sold us out, Ron. They've been selling us out for years." Ron opened his mouth.
"You can help us get our inheritance back."
********************
The Present ... Friday 6th March 1998 ... 4am ... Slytherin Dungeons
"No! DON'T touch that!"
Harry staggered back against the cold glass of the window and tried to breathe, tried to get a grip on what was happening. He'd gone to Draco's room. They had -- well, he'd think about that later. Then he'd knocked over the oil bottle and it had gone everywhere. The last thing he remembered was reaching for a huge emerald in the drawer, then blackness....
And then ... here....
He scrutinized the opulent book-lined room. Was this Hogwarts still? It didn't feel like Hogwarts, but he knew there were loads of rooms he'd never visited in his six and a half years at the school. Odd details pushed into his clouded mind as he reached out a hand for support.
Darkness spilling in through the windows ... large desk, surprisingly plain considering the other furniture ... several chairs ... empty fireplace with a crest he thought he recognised ... wooden floor with a thick carpet ... portraits....
This had to be a dream, he decided. I'm asleep and this is all a dream. But it felt so real. Normally his dreams had an element of fantasy about them, with very vivid colours and objects sharply in focus. They didn't have such clarity of thought either. Had he ever been able to question his own thoughts and let his mind wander like this in a dream? This felt like real life. He could feel cold air sneaking in through the window frame, and the hardness of the floor beneath his bare feet.
Bare feet?
Harry looked down and found that his feet were, indeed, bare. As were his legs. He was standing in a strange room wearing nothing but his boxers and an unbuttoned shirt and there was ... ugh ... oil and ... eww ... dried stuff ... on his skin. The oil was in his hair as well ... in fact it seemed to be everywhere. Of course it was everywhere -- hadn't Draco made sure of that? With a grimace, he wiped his hands on the shirt and began fastening the buttons. The ridiculousness of the situation made him snigger. This is a dream and I'm worried about my shirt being undone.
Leaving just the two lower buttons fastened, Harry unconsciously tugged down the hem of his shirt and took a deep breath. Then carefully, as if unsure where the movement might take him, he stepped forward and placed a foot on the carpet. It felt real, solid, and he took another step. The tufts of wool tickled the soles of his feet and the thought he'd already discounted edged back into his mind.
What if this was reality and he was actually "somewhere else"? If it was, how did he get here? Harry ran through recent events in his head and considered the emerald in Draco's bedside table again. He felt certain that it was important ... as though there was some connection between it and himself. What if...
Harry came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room. What was it Draco had said at Hagrid's cottage about the coin being a Portkey? He had wondered at the time if Draco had been trying to scare him, but if he had been telling the truth, what then? What if the Slytherin had a Portkey of his own -- something to let him get out of the school, and Harry had touched it by mistake? If that was the case, he could be anywhere. This could even be...
The click of a key turning in a lock made Harry jump. He stared wide-eyed at the door, petrified for a moment in horror at the thought of being discovered in some stranger's home. His eyes darted around the room, looking for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere, not even curtains, and all he could do was freeze to the spot as the candles in the wall sconces flared into life.
An instantly recognisable blond-haired figure strode purposefully into the room.
It was Lucius Malfoy and Harry knew at once that this was Malfoy Manor.
********************
"Harry?"
Draco scrambled from the bed and onto the floor where the Gryffindor lay. "Harry!" He dropped to his knees, ignoring the cold stone beneath them, and held out a hand towards the still figure, fingers stopping short of the unnaturally pale skin as a strange sense of dread filled him. Harry looked like a broken doll, thrown down by some spoilt child; bare legs twisted unnaturally, arms spread haphazardly to either side. The blue shirt was thrown open, spread out like a silken sheet beneath him and his head was tilted to one side, mouth slightly open.
He looked dead.
A wave of relief finally flowed through Draco as he realised that Harry was breathing. He reached for the boy, removing his glasses. "Come on, Potter, talk to me."
The movement let Harry's head tilt further to the right, exposing more of the dark tangled hair and with slightly trembling fingers, Draco prodded at the exposed skull, scared of finding blood, grateful when his fingers came away clean.
He let his fingers move to Harry's cheek, lingering there for a moment before running over the strangely serene face. They traced the features, pausing against the slightly parted lips to feel damp breath, teasing at an eyelid in the hope the movement might rouse him, and finally pushing dark hair from the damp forehead. Fingertips moved over the scar -- dark red against the unnaturally pale skin. Harry was clearly breathing. But....
But what? Draco traced the scar again, remembering how alive and vibrant Harry had felt when he touched him; as though the strength of his personality was a vital force that could be felt. Now it just felt like ...
It felt like Harry wasn't there anymore. That this body was just a shell.
Perplexed and with a bubble of fear building in his stomach, Draco lightly slapped Harry. "If you are mucking about, Potter, I will kill you." Nothing ... not even a flicker of response. "Come on!" He tugged at the shirt; panic mixed with the fear he was feeling, making him a little light headed and sick. Anxiety mounting, he pulled at the shirt. "What the hell are you doing with my shirt, you kleptomaniac Gryffindor?" He'd hoped the comment would make Harry laugh and open his eyes in righteous indignation, but still there was nothing.
Sitting back, Draco grabbed for Harry's shoulders, shaking him. When that didn't work he shook harder and harder, until in the end, he had pulled the unresisting body from the floor. Like a rag doll, Harry hung limply in his grasp, totally unresponsive.
"This is ridiculous." He let the body down gently onto the floor again and scrambled to his feet. The drawer to his bedside table was still open, and he pawed at the contents, cursing under his breath at not being able to find what he was looking for. Grey eyes skittered around the floor until they found the emerald his father had sent him lying innocuously several feet away from the bedside table.
He picked it up, letting out a little hiss of pain as a sharp edge on the once smooth surface dug into his palm. Sucking at the blood, he studied the fracture that now marred the stone's once flawless surface. He was sure the crack hadn't been there the last time he'd looked at the emerald and the simple act of being dropped to the floor couldn't have caused the damage. Was Harry responsible? He knew Harry had touched the stone because he'd knocked it out of the Gryffindor's hand. So why was Harry unconscious on the floor instead of being transported off to god-only-knows where?
Draco hefted the stone. He should have hidden it better ... made sure there was no way Harry could ever have found it. But how was he supposed to assume Harry might one day be in his room rummaging through that particular drawer? He turned the gem over and over as if it would give him the answers he was searching for.
"What did you do with this, father? Why did you tell me it was a Portkey if it isn't?" His voice was a whisper. "If it wasn't a Portkey, then what was it?"
As he looked back at the unconscious form on the floor all sorts of horror stories flooded into his mind; objects could be charmed to do just about anything if you knew the right magic. His father had shown him spells that would leave someone in a charmed sleep and several assassination curses that would kill without leaving a trace of what the caster had done.
He pushed a restless hand through his hair. What was the point of putting Harry into a charmed sleep? His father wanted Harry, of that much Draco was certain, so why waste time putting him to sleep when he could Portkey him out of the castle?
Shit! The castle! Could Portkeys work through the castle wards? What was it his father had said in the letter sent with the coin back in January? This Portkey is to be used when Potter is away from the school. Did that really mean Harry was safe from a Portkey spell within the confines of the castle?
But why would his father lie? Why tell him the stone was a Portkey if it was charmed for some other purpose? If he contacted Lucius now, would his father have some method of spiriting the unconscious boy away from the safety of Hogwarts? Was that what Lucius expected him to do?
Placing the stone on the bedside table, he scooted back to Harry's side. He would try to fathom his father's rationale later. For the moment Harry, and why he was unconscious, were the most important things. With surprising tenderness, Draco pushed his hand through the unruly black hair, once again smoothing it from the boy's face. Then he picked up Harry's hand; it hung limply in his own fingers, totally unresponsive even when Draco pinched the back of it very hard.
"Okay, Harry, maybe you've just fainted. If we give you a few more minutes, you'll just come round." He sat back on his haunches, a finger tapping out a nervous beat on his bare knee. "But I can't leave you on the floor can I?" He tried hard not to hear the nervousness in his own voice as he struggled to lift the dead weight from the floor. "God, Potter, have you put on weight?" Finally managing to get back to his feet, Draco stood still for a moment, cradling the unconscious boy in his arms. His lips brushed against the damp surface of Harry's temple and he whispered Harry's name against the lightning bolt scar.
"Okay..." His jaw tightened as he carried the unresisting body to the relative safety of the bed where, intoning a warming spell, he attempted to make Harry as comfortable as possible. The boy settled on his right side and Draco returned to fiddling with the messy black hair. "Come on, Harry, now bloody well WAKE UP!" The last words were screamed into the unconscious boy's face. "Please!" The final plea was dragged like a ragged breath from deep within him.
The next five minutes were the longest of his life. It felt like each second was somehow magically transformed into a minute and then each minute into an hour. Draco sat at the foot of the bed, hugging his own knees, watching the still figure. It took him a full 15 minutes to accept the fact that Harry was not playing a practical joke nor was he just asleep.
This was serious.
So serious that Draco knew he needed help.
********************
Hermione Granger was in the middle of a very pleasant dream. It was like most of her dreams -- full of nice shiny happy things that made her smile in her sleep. Her grandfather had once told her that she slept the sleep of the righteous. She had never really been sure what he meant, but nightmares were a rarity and she never had any problems sleeping.
Remembering her dreams had never been a problem either and, despite her insistence that Divination was woolly nonsense, she had kept a dream diary since the start of her seventh year. Not that any of them had ever come true, of course.
Tonight's dream was most agreeable and involved the whole school celebrating May Day. There was a huge picnic and everyone was dressed in their Sunday best, the girls in floaty dresses and the boys in equality floaty shirts -- though their trousers were rather tight, she had to admit. Students were dancing around a Maypole, making intricate patterns with their ribbons.
She was sitting on a huge throne-like chair, crowned Queen of the May, and there were showers of apple blossom falling like snow on everyone.
At her feet, Ron and Harry were playing chess. They were laughing and happy together as they had been in their first year at school when life had been simple; there was no Voldemort to fight and any dangers were only seen through the eyes of a child as Great Adventures. Ron was winning as usual and he had just taken one of Harry's knights. "You'd better watch your Queen, Harry, she'll be the next to go."
Harry grinned impishly. "Well, Ron, occasionally you have to sacrifice something very important in order to win." He moved his Queen with a nonchalant flick of his hand.
"I warned you." The white Queen was pummelled to the ground by one of Ron's Knights.
"Yes you did, Ron." Harry picked up his Bishop and moved it across the board. "Checkmate."
Ron's expression became dark as he scrutinised the board and when he finally smiled in defeat there was no humour in his face. "Well done." He picked up his King and held it out to the victor.
"No! DON'T touch that!"
********************
"Granger."
The voice came from a long way off, getting closer as she tried to swim through a room full of apple blossom. She was being chased by chess pieces and the Black King was currently trying to drag her back down into the suffocating mass of petals.
"Granger!"
Something shook her violently and Hermione's eyes flashed open as she snapped herself instantly from the nightmare into reality. They darted around the darkened room, finally settling on the one small spot of light. It was focused just above her, illuminating a face, stark white, almost skeletal. She let out a yelp of surprise and fear, dragging blankets over her as she scrambled back -- away from the face -- away from the danger.
"Shush ... don't scream ... shush." The circle of light moved and suddenly the room was filled with the glow of candles. "It's only me -- Malfoy."
Hermione stared, her expression a cross between disbelief and shock. "Malfoy?" She shook her head, clearing the sense of confusion and sleep, which still permeated through her. The shock began to condense into anger and, now fully awake, her eyes blazed. "How the hell did you get in here?"
He stepped back, finally lowering his wand. "It doesn't matter..."
"It bloody does." While the anger fermented, Hermione did a double take at the Slytherin. She had never seen Malfoy look like this. The normally pristine boy's robes were fastened incorrectly and his hair was slicked untidily to his head. He looked, she decided, like he had just been dragged out of bed. "You manage to get into Gryffindor Tower ... into my room ... in the middle of the night and you say it doesn't matter." She scrambled to her feet and quickly grabbed her dressing gown. "There are passwords and things."
"Look Granger, I don't have time for petty details. We can discuss passwords later. I need..." He hefted his wand nervously. "It's Potter."
"Harry?" Hermione stared at him, the anger instantly dissipating at the mention of her friend. "Harry?" Then she saw it. Clutched in Draco's hand was an invisibility cloak she was sure belonged to Harry. Her look became fierce. "What's wrong? What have you done to him? Where is he? Where did you get that?"
"Just calm down..."
"I am perfectly calm. Now what is going on, Malfoy? What. Did. You. Do?" Each word was enunciated clearly in a strong, determined voice as she tied the belt of her robe.
"Nothing! I've done nothing." Draco glared at her, his expression suddenly arrogant. "He collapsed."
"Collapsed? Where is he now? In the hospital?"
"No...."
"What did Madam Pomfrey say?"
"Will you just shut up and listen." He pointed his wand at her as if the gesture would silence the girl's constant questions. "Just listen to me for a minute. He's in my room. He passed out and I can't get him to wake up."
"What's he doing in your room?" Hermione asked indignantly.
Draco glared at her, a 'what the hell do you think' expression on his face.
"Oh." She could feel herself blushing and was very grateful not to have to follow up on the comment, at least for the moment. Better to find out the truth from Harry rather than Malfoy.
"I thought about getting Pomfrey or Professor Snape, but I didn't think it would go down well if the Hero of Gryffindor was found unconscious in a Slytherin room. So I thought of you." He gave a small smile that wasn't quite condescending, but not friendly either. "Look, one minute he was standing there and the next he'd passed out on the floor. Now are you going to help me with him or not?
"Of course I am. But I'm warning you -- if you're lying to me..." Brown eyes fixed Draco's face in their hard stare.
"Sure, Granger. I've traipsed all the way up this bloody tower in the middle of the night, used my cunning to find out your stupid password and then made it all the way to your room just to make you very, very angry." Draco closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the grey seemed clouded. "Fine. I'll sort this out myself." He turned to leave.
"Wait."
He stopped, but didn't turn back. "What now?"
"Is that Harry's invisibility cloak?"
"Do you know anyone else in school who has one?" He turned back. "Look, Potter's been on his own for long enough. Either come with me or not."
"Okay." Hermione's hands automatically fixed her hair into bunches as she crossed to a wardrobe and found her shoes and cloak. "Was there anyone in the common room when you came through?" He shook his head. "Well, we'd better not risk you walking through there openly, so you'd better wear the cloak again." She was already at the door. "Come on." Draco strode across the room, disappearing as he covered himself with the cloak. There was a flutter of breeze as he came to her side. "Ready?"
"Yes."
"Good." Hermione opened the door, pausing for a moment with her hand on the handle. "What on earth is that smell?"
********************
Two house-elves trailed in Lucius Malfoy's wake, their little shuffling footsteps halting as they paused beside him, clearly waiting for further instructions. He didn't speak, but simply pointed at the desk where the creatures deposited the small boxes they were carrying before scurrying from the room. Lucius watched as they hurried to the door, which closed at the wave of his hand. A slight smile played on the pale face, the look familiar from the many times it had graced the younger features of his son. The smile faded as he paused to sniff the air before turning his attention to the portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was of a regal-looking woman in her mid-50s and the little brass nameplate below the painting was engraved with the name 'Eleanor Malfoy'. Lucius stared at her for a very long time.
Harry stepped closer to the man, wanting to see his face. If this was a dream Lucius couldn't hurt him, could he? The man's features were hard, and Harry wondered if he ever smiled in a friendly way or if he always looked like this. What was he like when Draco was at home? Harry had never considered the Slytherin's home life before and had only seen Draco and his father together on a few occasions. The last time had been just before Christmas when Lucius had turned up at the school. Father and son had been eating in the Great Hall, a surprise in itself and Draco had been looking at his father with ... with adoration, his face lit in a way that Harry had never seen before. The look had gone the moment Draco had caught sight of Harry. As far as Lucius was concerned, all Harry ever saw whenever he looked at the older man was one of Voldemort's minions -- someone who wanted Harry dead.
Harry couldn't help but give a little laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This man wanted him dead, yet Harry was standing in his study, having just had sex with the minion's son. There was a certain irony even if this wasn't Real Life.
Lucius finally finished his study of the portrait and turned. For a moment he seemed to stare directly at Harry, but there was no indication on his face that he was aware of Harry as he sat down at the desk.
Harry frowned. He had known from almost the moment Lucius had entered the room that the man couldn't see him, but to finally get confirmation of that fact.... If Harry was wrong about this, and Lucius could, in fact, see him, then Lucius was currently giving an Oscar-winning performance.
He finally stepped up to the desk, stopping right in front of Lucius, and waggled a hand in front of his face. Once again there was no reaction; Lucius' attention was fixed on a sheet of parchment he had taken from a drawer. Harry was tempted to speak, or to prod the man with his finger just to check, but decided not to push his luck.
Why, he wondered, was he dreaming about Lucius Malfoy?
The answer was actually staring him in the face, but it took Harry a few more moments to focus on what was shimmering in the candlelight. In one of the boxes the house-elves had brought in, nestled in folds of soft white cloth, was a large faceted emerald. Harry gave a sharp, audible intake of breath as he moved closer to the object.
It was the gemstone that had been in Draco's room.
And -- Harry's hand automatically reached towards it, palm down, almost touching -- he could feel the energy coming from it. The gem was a Dream Stone.
That was why he'd been compelled to reach for it earlier.
That was why he was here in this room.
It wasn't a dream at all; at least, not his own. He was in the dream vision of the stone's history and it had brought him to this point in time. But this was completely different from the dream visions he'd experienced since that first one in Dumbledore's office three weeks ago. So far they'd always been linked with heightened emotions, death and fear. This one was ... it was calm ... unexceptional ... almost normal....
If, of course, being at Malfoy Manor could ever be considered 'normal'. Harry crouched, bringing himself down to the level of the stone. What did it want to tell him? Fingers reached towards it, allowing the connection already existing between it and Harry to heighten slightly. "What are you?" Harry whispered.
I am the past... A sensation tugged at the scar on his forehead, condensing into words in his mind. Watch...
Eyes narrowing, Harry straightened. Lucius was writing on the sheet of parchment, the nib scratching on the surface as he wrote. Harry tilted his head, staring in disbelief at the elegant words:
Saturday 7th February 1998
Draco.
First, you will NEVER send me a message such as your last one without the appropriate security features. You may have used your own owl and it may have been coming back to the Manor, but it could have been intercepted by anyone. In the future you are only to send me messages of a general nature. Anything of greater importance is to be discussed only in person using Fire Talk. Is that understood? I will be arranging for you to receive the appropriate spells so that you can set up a private link to me here at the Manor.
Second, you let him destroy it? Have I taught you nothing? What foolish magic did you let him perform to enable him to do that? There is a further Portkey with this note. Do not make the same mistake again. I know you are working with Potter in Potions. You are to keep your contact with him until you are in a position to use the Portkey. We do have loyal followers within Hogwarts but it is better that you do not know who they are. They are there for your safety as well, and one of their tasks is to protect you.
Congratulations on your win over Ravenclaw. I knew you would be a great captain. Now carry this through and beat Gryffindor. We will then have something else to celebrate when you come home for your birthday. Your mother sends her love.
By the time Lucius had finished his letter, Harry had moved around the desk and was now beside the chair. The letter was tossed to one side as if Lucius wanted him to read it. Wanted him to read that Draco was in secret correspondence with his father ... that they were sending messages too private for normal post ... that there was another Portkey and that the person he had slept with a few hours before had been instructed to use it on him.
That Draco was using him.
Harry thought he might black out and that his knees were going to give way. His grip on the desk edge tightened and he realised he was shaking. He had thought that since New Year he'd come to understand and trust the Slytherin in ways he'd never thought could be possible, but this.... How could he have been so wrong?
But ... but.... Hadn't Draco told him about the coin Portkey and even destroyed it? He could understand that Draco couldn't tell his father the truth of how it had been destroyed, but he'd had the second Portkey for a month and said nothing. Surely all the things Draco had told him couldn't be lies. He didn't want to believe that ... couldn't....
But this letter proved it, didn't it? Proved that Draco was lying? What other lies and falsehoods had Draco told him? Harry gasped for breath, trying to bring some clarity to his thoughts as he attempted to commit the letter to memory.
Followers at Hogwarts ... loyal followers... Loyal to whom? Lucius Malfoy? Voldemort himself?
Then, on top of the realisation of Draco's duplicity and loyal followers, came Lucius' command to 'beat Gryffindor'. Green eyes darkened. "Sorry, Lucius," Harry mumbled. "Not this year. Not ever."
The study door opened again and Harry dived behind the chair as if it would shield him. He ducked out of sight, peering round the edge as a tall figure walked from the shadows into the candlelight.
Harry gasped as he took in the dark curly hair and sapphire blue eyes. "Riddle?" he whispered. "My God, Tom Riddle."
It was the boy Harry had seen in the Chamber of Secrets, except Riddle was older now, perhaps by a dozen years. But it was still Riddle -- still the person who would one day be Voldemort. Would one day kill his parents and mark him. Harry fell to his knees behind the chair, forehead pressed against the cool leather of the backrest. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. A flicker of pain, like a distant memory, washed through his mind and touched his scar. It wasn't like the other times he had been near Voldemort, when the pain could become excruciating. It was as though he was remembering a headache suffered years ago, the distance in time taking away the sting of pain, but leaving the memory.
Then Riddle spoke with that same honeyed voice he had spoken to Harry with all those years ago, a little deeper now, but no less seductive. "Lucius."
The older man came to his feet and Harry peered around the chair. Lucius towered over the newcomer, but it was Riddle whose very essence seemed to fill the room. The blue eyes sparkled with a slight inner glow, which might have been red, but the face was not that of a killer -- not yet that of someone who was the most feared wizard in generations.
"Master." Lucius' voice sounded suitably deferential.
"Is the stone ready?" Riddle reached out and picked up the emerald.
"Yes, Master. All it needs is the personal item and then it will be completed."
"Good, because I have it here." Riddle reached into the pocket of his robes and drew out a Muggle pencil.
Harry had slowly come to his feet as he stared at the innocuous looking item. If he'd been a Muggle, living in that world, a simple pencil wouldn't have been particularly important. But here, in the Wizarding world, they were few and far between. Harry recognised it immediately -- the pencil had his name on it, embossed in gold; it had been part of his birthday present from Hermione. It was dark red and the last time he'd seen it was at Hagrid's cottage on New Years Eve.
As he desperately tried to work out how the pencil had found its way here, to Malfoy Manor, Harry heard a voice. It came from a great distance and was calling his name. He felt a sudden emptiness in his stomach, which momentarily tugged at him, and his world went black.
********************
Hermione wasn't sure what shocked her more; hearing Malfoy say that Harry was unconscious in the Slytherin's room, or actually seeing Harry tucked up in that bed.
She stood for a moment at the door, just staring at the tousled black head resting on the white pillows. It was only when Malfoy almost shut the door in her invisible face that she stepped into the room. Pulling off the invisibility cloak as she walked, Hermione approached the narrow bed and studied Harry for a moment. He was curled on his side, one hand flat on the pillow beside him face. "Has he moved since you left?"
"No." Draco moved to the opposite side of the bed.
"Well, at least you remembered to leave him on his side." She laid a hand on Harry's forehead, unsure if she was pleased that he didn't feel either cold or feverish. But there was a flush in his cheeks as though someone had put spots of blusher on his face.
"Harry." Her voice was urgent as she pulled back the sheet. "Come on, love, wake up." She shook his shoulder; the movement making him drop onto his back, one arm slung haphazardly across his body. The sight that greeted her made her gasp. From her reaction, Harry might just as well have been completely naked. Of course, she'd seen him dressed just in shorts before, even just in a towel, but this was different ... this was Harry in Malfoy's bed and she had no difficulty imagining what must have happened there earlier.
There was a smell in the air that she thought was sandalwood, but there was something else trapped in the enclosed room. Hermione noticed a small window high up in the wall, but doubted it ever opened. She could see a sheen on Harry's skin and hair that she realised was some sort of oil. It was on the sheets and, she now realised, on Malfoy as well.
And ... she wrinkled her nose ... now her hands, too.
If it had been any other two males ... or even under different circumstances ... Hermione might have found the thought of what must have happened ... well ... interesting. But this was Harry, and Harry didn't do things like this. It was like trying to imagine her own parents...
Harry and Malfoy having sex was a disturbing image -- sort of like ... like Ron with house-elves.
But Harry did look like he somehow 'belonged' in this particular bed. She shook her head, trying to lose the peculiar images spilling onto her thoughts -- like how Harry had come by the large lovebite on the top of his breastbone, and a second where neck joined shoulder.
She finally met Malfoy's troubled gaze -- it was an expression she'd never ever seen before. "What did you do to him?" The anger in her voice made Draco's eyes open wide.
"Nothing."
"Liar! Harry wouldn't be here of his own volition. He wouldn't ... wouldn't..." Her hand gesticulated wildly as though that was enough to explain everything.
"He wouldn't what?"
"Do that ... come here..."
Draco's lip curled slightly at her words. "Well, he did come ... right there, in fact."
"That is not what I meant and you know it." Hermione pulled the sheet back a little, hiding the results of the boys' nocturnal activities.
"Look, Granger, I don't know what sanctified vision you have of Saint Potter, but I did not ask him to come down here, nor did I trick him into it. He came down here all by himself."
"He wouldn't..."
Draco's hand pushed through his hair as he became more and more agitated. He desperately wanted to hold on to Harry ... comfort him ... and he was beginning to hate himself for feeling like that. She was touching Harry's hair, smoothing it back from his face and Draco realised with a pain-stabbing reality that he was actually jealous. The sensation made him angry. Angry with Harry for making him feel that way and at Granger for the assumptions she was making.
"Well he did. Potter came down here of his own free will. I did not ask him to. He was the one who ... who..." Draco voice faltered as he realised the truth. Harry had all but seduced him -- Harry initiated the kiss. Harry had gone down on him. Harry had asked him for sex. He blinked, a little shocked at the realisation. Hadn't Draco been in charge of things? Wasn't sweet, innocent virgin Harry just doing what he was told?
When Draco finally spoke again he knew there was an edge to his voice. "Just wake him up."
********************
Waking up had never been more difficult. Harry was aware that he was, indeed, waking up, but he was having a particularly difficult time dragging himself back to consciousness.
It was, he thought, like struggling through a box full of those little polystyrene bits used to pack things safely. He remembered one of Dudley's birthdays when his cousin had received something in a large cardboard box. Harry had long forgotten what the present had been, but Piers Polkiss and another of Dudley's friends tipping Harry into the box was indelibly inscribed on his memory.
They had attempted to seal Harry in and for a moment he thought they might succeed and that he would suffocate. The more he had struggled the deeper he sank into those little white bits. Somehow, he'd managed to punch a hole in the side of the box, scattering the bits all over Aunt Petunia's conservatory. The destroyed box and messed-up room had earned Harry a whole week locked in his cupboard ... but the look of horror on everyone's faces had been worth it.
But now, as he tried to claw his way back through the chaos of his dreaming state, he was beginning to think he might actually never wake up again ... and perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing considering what he'd seen and done. It didn't seem to matter what direction he chose, it was still blocked by millions of little white polystyrene bits.
Then he thought he saw something ahead.
It was difficult to see what it was at first because both the polystyrene and the creature were white. It looked like a rat ... a very big rat, and Harry's first thought was, "Now I'm dreaming of Piers ... I'll probably be squished by Dudley the Whale next."
But the creature seemed to know how to burrow out of the morass of his dream, and Harry followed.
As he drifted toward consciousness, he realised two things. The first was that he could hear voices arguing. And second, that the creature leading him back to reality was most definitely not a rat -- it was much too big to be a rat. The voices were strangely familiar, but it took him a moment to put names to them. One was a girl and he knew without question that it was Hermione. She was berating someone in her best Head Girl voice. He wanted to open his eyes to look, but his eyelids felt too heavy to even consider that as an option. Instead he just listened.
How the hell do you expect me to help if you won't tell me what happened?
Yes, definitely Hermione. For some reason, Harry had expected the responding voice to be Ron's, but while it was a boy, he knew instantly it wasn't his friend.
If I knew more, don't you think I'd tell you? A pause. And stop mauling him ... that doesn't help.
The day you are honest about everything will be the day the fires stop burning in hell and the angels sing sweet arias in your name, Draco Malfoy! And I am not 'mauling' anyone. Another pause. Although you clearly have. Harry felt a hand on his head, tilting it to one side Look at the mess you've left him in. The hand pushed through his hair. I'll have to clear all these marks up. He can't go to breakfast looking like this.
The hand jerked suddenly away as if it had been pulled back.
Isn't that up to him? A hand touched his shoulder -- a different touch ... firmer, more masculine. Almost possessive. Draco.
Of course it is, but I take it you aren't planning on walking into the Great Hall hand-in-hand.
No. The hand's grip relaxed and then slowly pulled away.
Harry just knew Hermione had folded her arms. How long do you think it would take for people to wheedle out of him what happened if he goes in looking like that? Not, of course, that anyone would think you were responsible.
Someone scoffed.
Harry is a lovely boy, but he has the devil's own job lying. Unlike someone I could mention.
I do not lie.
Of course not. I am not going to let him have to explain anything, least of all to half the school. And if we can't get him to wake up in the next ten minutes, I'm going to get Snape or someone who can help.
"I'm awake!" Harry croaked, the sudden vision of the Potion's Master finding him here ... wherever 'here' was ... was a horror beyond belief. His eyelids suddenly opened, the green eyes bright in his pale face.
The silence in the room as his words cut through the arguing voices was almost palpable and Harry thought the very air around him might suddenly explode.
"Harry?" Both voices spoke at once. Hermione's voice, questioning and worried, Draco's laced with concern and fear.
"Thank God..."
"Can you talk...?"
"What happened...?"
"I need to get you somewhere safe..."
"Just what is that supposed to mean?"
"That the dungeons are hardly the safest place at the best of times, especially for Harry."
A snort of derision. "And you call me a small-minded bigot."
"Malfoy..."
"Get over your preconceived notions of who the bad guys are, Granger, and look a bit closer to home if you want to find out who really is a danger to Harry."
"And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"If I have to spell it out to you, then you aren't as clever as you'd like people to think."
"Oh, shut up, Ferret ... not everything is about you."
With Hermione's words, it suddenly became clear to Harry. Of course ... it hadn't been a rat in his dream ... the white animal had been a ferret! It had been Draco the Ferret leading him back to reality.
"Ohhhh ... " Draco's voice was snide and oily, "the Head Girl is reduced to name calling. How immature... Am I supposed to revert to calling you 'Mudblood' now?"
"Oh, piss off ... you self righteous, sanctimonious little prick..."
"That's enough!" Harry roared. At least he had planned it to be a roar, but his throat felt as dry as hell and it came out as a little croak. What did seem to silence the two was Harry suddenly sitting up, the sheet falling to his waist. Hermione and Draco were leaning across the bed, their faces inches from each other; they turned to look at him and he placed a hand on each person, intent on pushing them apart. At first neither moved, so he took a breath and pushed harder. "Just pack it in!"
The move, at least, had the desired effect of parting the two antagonists, but the movement sent a spiral of light-headedness rushing through Harry's body. It seemed to tighten the further up his torso it moved, until by the time it reached his head, Harry was left feeling faint with dizziness.
He dropped back to the bed in what he was sure was a swoon. Whatever it was, both Hermione and Draco seemed to take it as a sign for direct action. Hermione leapt on the bed beside him, reaching out to gather him in her arms. Harry fell into the familiar comfort with a groan and made no attempt to stop her. His glasses were missing, but he could make out Draco turning to the bedside table where he rummaged in a drawer. It was then Harry saw it ... a large green emerald.
The gem rested serenely on the tabletop, as though totally oblivious to its role in the unfolding drama. Harry stared at it as reality crashed back in again and he remembered.
Everything.
Coming to Draco's room. The sex. Touching the stone. The vision.
Oh God! The vision!
Harry's eyes flew to look at the Slytherin as what he'd seen and heard in Lucius' study smashed into him with the force of a speeding train. If it was true, then....
It didn't bear thinking about. Lies ... it meant everything that had happened was a lie. Harry had asked Draco if he was serious or whether this was all a game and now it looked like his own doubts about the Slytherin might just turn out to be true. It wasn't a game Draco was playing with him, but a matter of life and death.
He was still watching Draco when the blond tried to pull him from Hermione's arms. It was only then that Harry realised he was the one holding onto her. He saw a look on Draco's face that he couldn't quite fathom, a cross between fear and a sickening realisation.
Draco finally cupped Harry's face with his hand, the pressure and touch making the Gryffindor's eyelids flutter closed with the memory. Something cold touched his lips. "Harry, come on, drink this."
Lips clamping shut, Harry looked up at the grey gaze. It was imploring ... confused.
"What are you doing?" Hermione knocked the little glass phial away and the same confused gaze turned on her.
"It's a fortifying potion. I use it all the time."
"I don't think it's a good idea for Harry to drink anything you give him."
Harry watched as Draco's expression changed to that of the hated Slytherin he'd known for years. The sneer was almost one of distain. "Hermione..." the dark-haired boy's voice was pleading.
"What, Granger, you think I'm going to kill him and that I went to all the bother of getting you here as a witness? Fine." He raised the phial to his own mouth and drank down the potion. "Drag him up all those stairs for all I care." Draco turned away and strode across the room where he stood with his back to them.
Both of them watched the blond's back for some time. Harry could see the tenseness across the shoulders through the thin folds of Draco's dressing gown. He wondered what Draco's expression was like and he ached to go to him. Yet there was a new knot of fear in his stomach, which came with his realisation of Draco's past, and how that might affect the present and future. He thought people could change, but Voldemort's fingers had a long reach ... maybe much longer than Harry had ever realised before.
He pulled himself from Hermione's grip and finally managed to sit up on his own. "I think I'm okay now."
"Fine. Shut the door on the way out." Draco glanced over his shoulder. "And take off my bloody shirt before you leave."
********************
As the door closed, Draco flicked a hand towards it, locking it with a spell. He hadn't moved from the corner where he had retreated after leaving Harry's side and the longer he remained there, the harder it was becoming to actually shift from that place.
He stared around the room ... at the mess left by the events of the previous evening. Bits of clothing, messy sheets ... the smell of sandalwood and of Harry in the air. What the hell had happened and how had it all fallen to pieces so very quickly?
Shoulders slumping, Draco tried to take a step forward. Despite the fortification potion, his whole body felt incredibly tired, as though he was holding himself erect by sheer force of will. Yet his brain was crystal clear, as awake as it had ever been and it was with this sharp focus he realised the fact that for all they had both enjoyed what had happened in the now very rumpled bed, he had lost Harry.
What it didn't tell him was why.
His legs finally gave way, and Draco dropped to the floor. He sat on the cold stone and stared, unseeing, ahead as he ran over and over the events. Each time they ended with Harry reaching out for the emerald Portkey and Draco shouting No! DON'T touch that! and the dark-haired boy unconscious on the floor.
The idea that his father had lied to him surfaced again. Draco knew how his father felt about Harry, but he wasn't privy to all of his plans. What if Lucius had used other spells on the stone ... something deadly ... and that was why Harry had passed out? Draco let out a long angry breath, unsure whom his anger was directed at. His father for giving him the stone, Harry for poking around where he shouldn't have, or himself for not hiding the emerald more carefully.
His father! Would Lucius know that Harry had touched the stone? It wouldn't surprise him to find that there were tracing charms locked on the emerald and that his father would know exactly what was going on. But how Lucius would react to being told, 'Potter touched it and nothing happened'?
If nothing else, if he talked to his father, he might be able to find out if the device was even more deadly than he had originally thought.
Maybe he should confess to Harry. Didn't Harry deserve at least that much from him?
But hadn't Granger made it quite clear what she thought about him and Harry? And hadn't Harry, after all the trust they'd shared, shied away from him when all Draco had wanted to do was help? Both had shown their true colours and treated him as though he was beneath contempt ... not worthy of their company.
Both? Draco pushed a hand into his hair. Harry had just looked scared and confused. And Granger? Hadn't she just been protecting her friend? He had gone to her for help after all.
He hated feeling like this. Hated being confused. Hated not being in control. Hated feeling so bereft by Harry's absence.
Well, he wasn't going to feel it anymore. He'd wasted too much of his valuable time on Potter already, and if he preferred his own friends then so be it. Draco looked up at the untidy bed again, his mouth set in a hard line. His hand reached out and, as he whispered a spell, the sheets whipped from the bed, hanging like ghostly figures in the centre of the room. The word "Incendio" was spat from between clenched teeth, and the sheets burst into flame. They flared brightly for a moment before littering the floor with little piles of ash. Another wave of his hand, and Draco banished those as well.
That was how easy it was to get rid of Harry Potter. Burn his very touch and taste and smell from the room.
Draco came to his feet, dusting off his hands as though wiping away the last traces of the Boy Who Lived.
"I don't need you," he whispered to the spectre that still lurked in the room. "I never have."
********************
Saturday 7th March 1998 ... 6am ... Gryffindor Tower
"I really should go to bed," Harry muttered as he stifled a yawn. His eyes were fixed on the floor because he couldn't bring himself to meet Hermione's gaze. Waking in Draco's bed to find her standing over him was difficult enough, but he knew the longer he remained here, the more chance there would be for the as-yet silent Head Girl to begin the barrage of questions she was clearly itching to bombard him with.
"I think we need to talk, Harry." Hermione appeared in front of him and Harry finally had to look at her. "You've been unconscious for an hour and we need to know why."
Harry's heart sank, but at least she hadn't said anything about the obvious liaison between himself and Draco. He watched as the girl crossed the room and began rummaging in her wardrobe. "We could do this later." He was aware of the underlying whine in his voice that he didn't like ... it was bad enough that he looked pitiful without sounding like that as well.
"Yes, like all your other 'laters'. If I let you go now, you'll weasel your way out of it until the end of time. We are going to talk, Harry. But first why don't you get cleaned up." She tossed a towel at him. "You smell like a Slytherin bordello."
Clutching the towel to his chest and face aflame, Harry disappeared into a side-door leading to the bathroom.
The Head Girl's room, like so many in Gryffindor Tower, was round. It had been divided into two half circles, one part with a bedroom and bathroom, the other a little sitting room. It wasn't big, but to Hermione, the privacy and freedom it afforded made up for the extra work and responsibility that had come with the role.
And Hermione, being Hermione, took being Head Girl very seriously. She regarded it a great honour that she, a Muggle-born, had been selected. In fact she'd considered being picked as a prefect in her fifth year as an honour and prided herself on making sure no one ... not even the Slytherins ... could accuse her of being biased.
Of course, the Slytherins still did, but Hermione knew it was sour grapes because she'd been picked for Head Girl rather than Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherin seventh year prefect. In fact, Hermione was sure they would much rather had Hufflepuff Hannah Abbott or even Ravenclaw Padma Patil instead of any Gryffindor in the post.
She was positive Draco Malfoy's loathing for her had expanded exponentially when it had been announced who would be Head Boy and Girl for their seventh year. His spitefulness towards her was almost as legendary as his battles with Harry. Granted, the name-calling and other taunts had lessened to the point he'd hardly given her the time of day during most of their sixth year, but when he had deigned to cast his grey gaze in her direction, it had always been with that same condescending stare ... the one that said without words she wasn't worthy of his attention.
It had changed again since September. Of course the fact that Gryffindor and Slytherin shared more classes now meant they had to work with each other. But there was something else as well which she couldn't quite fathom. Sometimes Malfoy seemed so much more mature than his seventeen years, especially when she looked at some of the other boys in her year.
Occasionally she would wonder about his shift in attitude towards her, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when it had happened, but worrying about him seemed to be the least of her problems ... at least until now. She did know a lot of people had returned to school different people the summer after Cedric Diggory's death. Some were just plain scared. A few just shrugged philosophically, saying they'd worry about Voldemort when they had to. Others, including Malfoy, had taken great delight in claiming Harry was responsible for Cedric's death. There had even been a little whispering campaign that Harry had actually killed the Hufflepuff in his desperate desire to win the Triwizard Tournament.
But back in those dark days when Harry seemed to be angry all the time and had turned in on himself, hardly speaking to anyone and refusing to defend himself against the allegations, she had seen a look in the Slytherin's eyes as he taunted Harry. At first she hadn't understood it, but then she and Malfoy had fought a particularly vindictive quarrel and Harry had retreated even further into his shell. She'd realised then that Malfoy was actually as frightened as the rest of them. He might crow about the Dark Lord's return, but somewhere deep down he was scared stiff of the idea. Clearly it hadn't only been Harry who was affected by Cedric's death.
Now a little older and wiser, Hermione wondered what Malfoy's home life must have been like that summer. Had his underlying fear been because his father had made him meet Voldemort? She pursed her lips. Maybe he'd been initiated as a Death Eater already ... maybe that was what had happened and why he was different when he'd come back to school.
But, surely Dumbledore would know if that had been the case and the Headmaster wouldn't have let a known Death Eater into the school no matter what his age. Would he? She began twisting a stand of hair round and round a finger. Dumbledore might, if he thought he could still save the person ... retrieve him from a path that would ultimately only lead to darker and darker places. Maybe Malfoy had already turned his back on Voldemort, and Dumbledore was sheltering him here at the school. It would explain his change in attitude at the beginning of the year and also why he'd not gone home at Christmas.
With a huff of annoyance, she quickly threw the whole 'redeemed Death Eater' idea away. Harry had seen Lucius and his son talking in the Great Hall before the holiday and according to Dennis, who had witnessed the entire father/son incident, the two had gotten on like the proverbial house on fire.
Picking up a cushion, she pounded it with her fists a couple of times before flinging it at the other armchair in annoyance. This whole train of thought was pointless. Why Malfoy had changed and whether or not he had been Marked were not supposed to be her priority at the moment. Her problem right now centred on what the Slytherin was doing with Harry. What had possessed Harry ... her sweet, innocent Harry ... to have a dalliance with Malfoy in the first place? Why, when virtually any girl in the school would die to date Harry had he picked Malfoy? The thought quickly rephrased itself ... if Harry was gay, she knew of at least three other boys whom she considered a much better catch than the Slytherin.
Except ... she sucked on the strand of hair ... as much as she hated to admit it, Malfoy was a catch in his own right and if it wasn't for all his pure-blood proselytising, the possible Dark Mark, the Slytherin connection and the self righteous, sanctimonious prickishness, she might very well have fancied him herself.
Hermione smiled darkly at the wonderful retort she'd flung at him. That one had been stored up for at least three years. Just waiting for the right opportunity. It was a pity there had been no one around but the little prick to hear it, but the expression on that sanctimonious face had been worth it. Maybe there would be other times to use it -- she'd have to think up variations on the theme.
She heard the water turn off in the bathroom and paused in her deliberations for a moment.
Possession.
Maybe that was it ... could Malfoy have possessed Harry in some way? She'd always assumed the blond had access to illegal spells and potions, so maybe Malfoy had given Harry something that had made him collapse and that was why he'd been so cagey about explaining what had happened.
Getting to her feet, she crossed to a bookcase overflowing with seven years of school books, neatly bound parchments covered with her meticulous writing and her small collection of Muggle literature -- 'light reading' as Ron put it. Maybe there was a spell she could use on Harry to see if she could detect anything.
********************
Harry had never really gotten used to wizard mirrors. Even after more than six years, he still found it just a little disturbing to hear his own reflection talking back to him. It didn't help that his reflection always seemed intent on waging a personal war with him over the way he looked.
He stared into the mirror in Hermione's bathroom and waited for the normal tirade of comments, but for once his reflection was silent. The oval mirror, with its pretty frame, was a Muggle one, and for once his reflection was just that ... his likeness, only moving when he did and, thankfully, silent.
Until Harry finally spoke, sounding like that magical reflection. "You look awful."
For once Harry knew the words were true. He looked extraordinarily pale, despite the heat from the water and his scar stood out rose red against his forehead like a fresh wound. Leaning towards the glass, he squinted as he rubbed fingertips over the dark smudges under his eyes and the marks on his neck and throat -- everything looked bruised ... as though he'd been in a fight. Except for the lovebite at his elbow, which looked ominously like the Dark Mark he'd seen on a Death Eater in his sixth year. He shivered slightly and for the first time became aware of scratches and other blotches on his skin.
Even worse, if he looked carefully he could see the marks Draco had made at the top of his right thigh ... three little marks in a row. He'd asked Draco to mark him ... I don't want it removed. I want it to stay there and for you to know it's there ... the Slytherin's own dark mark.
He quickly picked up a towel, winding it around his waist in an effort to banish the marks from his sight if not from his memory. He didn't want to look at any of them or to think of the pleasure receiving them had brought him. It was all spoilt ... ruined in the instant he'd reached for the stone and been thrown into the vision at Malfoy Manor. Even now when he'd had time to think about what had happened, he still didn't want to believe Draco had lied to him ... used him ... was a danger not only to him but to everyone who was trying to defeat Voldemort.
But everything about him was touched and tainted by the night. Even his hair.
The black wet tendrils hung around his face. It had taken four washes to get all the oil out, and Harry was sure he could still smell the sandalwood. Worse than the smell was the ghost-like sensation of Draco's fingers on his skin. It was almost as if those long fingers were still in his hair, tugging ever so gently as they had pulled Harry towards him. He could sense the spectre of Draco's lips on his own mouth and the way their bodies seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
And he hated it now as much as he had loved it hours before.
With a growing sense of anger, coupled with hurt and frustration at his own stupidity, Harry reached for a pair of nail scissors that Hermione had left beside the washbasin. He picked them up and sliced into his hair, cutting off a damp curl. It dropped into the sink, a black ragged line against the white porcelain. He stared at it for a moment before reaching for another strand as he tried to cut out the sensation of Draco along with his hair.
********************
Draco Malfoy didn't have the luxury of a private bathroom, but no one else was up at this hour on a Saturday and he spent a long time scrubbing away the final remnants of the night. Skin glowing pink from the meticulousness of his actions, he finally returned to his room to find the bed had been made. Even his spells didn't keep the house-elves out, he ruefully considered. Deliberately not returning to the bed, Draco instead picked up his leather-bound copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare and crossed to his chair before the fire.
See how easy it is? his mind ventured. See how you can just return to your normal life?
Draco flicked open the tome at a bookmarked page. He was halfway through The Tempest and had put off continuing for much too long. However, instead of the words, his eyes were drawn to the scrap of paper he'd used to mark his place.
It was the remains of a drawing Harry had made of him the previous September during their train journey from Kings Cross to Hogsmeade, and the circumstances surrounding it were as clear in his mind as the day they happened ... perhaps even clearer because of the fortifying potion.
********************
Hogwarts Express ... Monday 1st September 1997 ... Late afternoon
The seat bounced as the large boy dropped onto the upholstered cushion. The violent movement sent the pile of sweets he'd just flung onto the surface into the air. Scooping them back towards him, Vincent Crabbe licked his lips and reached for a Chocolate Frog packet. "What're you reading, Drake?"
It took a few seconds for the seat to stop undulating, by which time Draco Malfoy had secreted the leather-bound edition of the Complete Works of Shakespeare somewhere chocolate-covered fingers would not be able to find it. He cast hard grey eyes on his companion. "If you call me that again, I'm going to turn you into a bag of Fizzing Whizzbees and leave you somewhere Greg will find you."
Vincent merely shrugged, knowing full well that Draco's bark was far worse than his bite. "Frog?" He held out an open packet, the Wizard card already joining the collection in his pocket.
"No thanks." Draco pushed the sweets away from him, forming a pile between them. "Where did you get all this from?"
"First years," the large boy grinned. "Easy targets."
Draco shrugged, remembering that a year ago he, too, had terrorised youngsters into handing over sweets. It seemed childish now, especially after his summer. "I'm going for a walk."
"Want me to come with you?"
"No."
"Oh. Word is that Weasley isn't on the train."
"Really?"
"Really. The rumour is he was hurt in a flying accident. We can go and pay our annual visit on Potter and he'll be all alone."
"Granger?"
"Doing her Head Girl act."
Draco looked thoughtfully out of the window for a moment. When he turned back, his mouth was twisted in a sly smirk. "No, not just yet. We'll get him later."
The corridors of the Hogwarts Express were crowded with children. Five hours into the long journey from Kings Cross to Hogsmeade, the younger children were desperate for something to keep them occupied. If all went according to plan most of them would be so bored that they would fall asleep soon.
Draco strolled slowly down the train, pausing occasionally to chat with people. Over the six years he'd been at Hogwarts, he'd noticed a change in his fellow Slytherins -- they had ceased to be quite so separatist and aloof. The change started during his fifth year after Potter's story that the Dark Lord had somehow returned. People had become scared and even children from Slytherin families had looked for comfort in their fellow students no matter what house. Well, maybe not with the Gryffindors, but he knew Pansy Parkinson was very friendly with some of the Ravenclaw girls and for the first time she was travelling in their compartment.
He paused at the open door, just in time to hear the girl mention 'Neville Longbottom' and 'sexy' in the same sentence. Pansy smiled at him and patted the seat beside her, but Draco remained by the door. It had come as another shock to him the previous year to realise that aside from the Gryffindors most people in the school didn't give a damn about Slytherins. They might cheer for the other team during Quidditch matches, but that was as far as their animosity seemed to go. He wondered if it had always been like that or whether it was another knock-on effect of the 'Voldemort Has Returned' saga. There was no doubt in his mind that people were much less willing to be seen as taking sides in what could be a nasty, possibly violent, confrontation. In fact, he remembered a discussion with Wayne Hopkins (a Hufflepuff with what some described as 'Slytherin tendencies') in which the boy had made it quite clear that Mr and Mrs Hopkins were patiently waiting to see just how powerful the New Dark Lord was before making any rash decisions in the power stakes market.
It would help, Wayne had also said, if someone could actually prove that Potter had been telling the truth and that Voldemort had returned. There might have been escalating Death Eater activity over the past two years, but no one had actually seen the Dark Lord in that time.
There were several rumours as to Voldemort 's current location.
One of the strangest was that he was currently at a Mediterranean beach resort where he had gone after finding that his newly regenerated body didn't like the damp British winters. A cartoon had appeared in the more left wing newspaper Independent Wizard showing the Dark Lord, complete with swimming trunks, sunning himself on a lounger at St Tropez. Someone had taken great offence and threatened the cartoonist, renowned Gryffindor Don Price, who had suddenly given up on cartoons and was rumoured to be working on the checkout at a branch of Crouches' Country Store (You Can't Buy Cheaper).
The idea that Potter had lied still surfaced occasionally. Considering Draco had been the major instigator for spreading that version of events in the early months of their fifth year, it wasn't surprising that Potter had suffered from whispered accusations that he'd not only lied but also actually killed Cedric Diggory. Back then Draco had actually believed what he was saying. After all, that was what his father had told him.
How things had changed.
The latest story was that Voldemort was currently in Cornwall, building up his following again. Of course no one was actually willing to state publicly that this was true, mainly because the Ministry people sent to verify it never returned. The Minister of Magic hadn't seemed particularly concerned about the non-return of his operatives, explaining that his officers had clearly loved Cornwall so much they simply hadn't wanted to come back. He had even pointed out that a couple of them had sent him postcards saying how much they were enjoying their new lives.
Having a great time, wish you were here...
But the truth? Draco had heard his father talk about what was really happening. How the darkness was a visible wall shutting the southwest peninsula off from the rest of the country. How that line moved steadily forward as Voldemort's forces pressed onward, taking over towns and villages either by stealth and clever words or by violence. Rumour had it that the Muggle authorities had turned a blind eye to what was happening, happy to sign up to a non-aggression pact with the Dark Lord in order to save themselves from the powerful wizard. If that were true, they would be disappointed. Voldemort cared nothing for Muggles and would stamp them out when the time came, treaty or no treaty.
Draco shivered inwardly as an icy fist twisted in his gut. The same fist which had twisted just over two weeks ago when his father had found him in the garden at Malfoy Manor and said, "Draco, there is someone I'd like you to meet."
He had been taken into his father's study and made to kneel. It had been painful; his knee still hurt from his accident several weeks before, but Lucius had taught him well ... taught him how to remain still. Not daring to look up, he had watched the pair of feet cross the room, soundless on the rug. He'd kept his eyes on those feet until a long bony finger had touched under his chin, making him look up and meet the red eyes boring into him. Looking at him as though he was an object rather than a human being. Then, almost worse than the eyes, there had been the voice; hissing, cold, and calculating. "Yes, Lucius, a fine specimen. A fine specimen indeed."
Draco rubbed absently at the spot on his chin where the finger had pressed as though trying to remove an itch. Sometimes he thought he could still feel the touch. When he woke in the middle of the night, it would almost feel like he could sense the ridges of the Dark Lord's fingerprint on his skin. More than once he had gone in search of a mirror to check that there really was nothing there. Once he thought the area seemed to feel rough, like touching old scar tissue, but now it felt smooth.
Soft. Normal.
Swallowing, Draco took a deep breath that was almost a sigh as he tried to banish both the image of Voldemort's serpent-like body and the horror that he might be the only one on this entire train to have met the Dark Lord face-to-face.
Except, of course, Harry Potter.
He found his best smile and favoured Pansy with it. "Pansy, dear, I hope you haven't completely lost your sense of taste. Did I actually hear you calling Longbottom sexy?"
--~--
He had almost come to the end of the train before finding what he was looking for. Harry Potter.
The Gryffindor was alone in a compartment, unusual in itself. Normally Potter would have been surrounded by his friends who would make sure lesser mortals didn't breathe the same rarefied air as The Boy Who Lived. Draco stood for a moment just out of Harry's line-of-sight, studying the dark-haired boy. Harry was reading; his legs stretched out along one of the seats, feet crossed at the ankles. He had taken his shoes off and his toes flexed back and forth as he read.
Grey eyes flicked over the reclining boy as Harry raised a hand to his mouth and chewed at a nail, clearly engrossed in the paperback novel. Unlike Draco, he hadn't changed into his uniform yet and still wore jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt. The left sleeve had been pushed up to his elbow, showing off a summer tan that had darkened his skin several shades. Harry's head was tilted to one side resting against the back of the seat, exposing the curve of his neck and shoulder where the sweatshirt had been dragged to one side. The same tan coloured his throat, looking even darker against the grey as it disappeared beneath the neckline of the shirt.
It seemed a shame to disturb him, Draco considered, but wasn't that one of his roles in life -- to make things difficult for Potter? Hadn't that been his raison d'être for the last six years?
He sauntered to the compartment and leaned nonchalantly on the doorjamb. "Afternoon, Potter."
Harry's eyes flicked up from his book, his head remaining tilted at an interesting angle. Curls of black hair dusted over the skin, catching the glow of late afternoon sunshine. His eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of Draco and a slight flush coloured his cheeks, but otherwise he did not respond. Instead he held Draco's stare as he turned a page, and then lowered his gaze back to the book.
Draco's eyes narrowed; he wasn't used to being ignored, especially not by Potter or his little gang. "All alone?" No response. "So where are your adoring fans?" Nothing, except Harry uncrossed his ankles and crossed them again. "Is the Mudblood off flaunting her little Head Girl badge?" Green eyes glanced up again, the only reaction to the insult being a slight stiffening of Harry's jaw as he returned his attention to the book. He turned another page, clearly not having read the previous one.
A slight frown creased Draco's brow at Harry's refusal to rise to his taunts. This was not, he wanted to say, how the game was played. He insulted, Potter responded. Or rather he insulted and one of Potter's cohorts responded while Potter looked on. Draco's mouth tightened. Well, two could play at the 'silent treatment'. He stepped into the compartment and sat down opposite Harry, stretching his legs out across the small gap between the seats. From his new position he could see Harry's profile. The Gryffindor had changed in the eight weeks since they had last seen each other. His face had thinned a little, strengthening the jaw line, but there were dark smudges under his eyes as though sleep had eluded him for some time. Harry swallowed, his Adam's apple visible as it moved the neckline of his sweatshirt.
Draco waited in silence, biding his time. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were alert; he was determined to break through Harry's wall of indifference. He watched as yet another page was turned. "Good book?" The enquiry was deliberately polite. Draco watched carefully, noting with sharp interest how Harry's fingers tightened and the book was pulled closer. One eyebrow rose speculatively and his gaze sharpened. Was Potter embarrassed about what he was reading?
He suddenly moved forward and grabbed at the book. The two struggled for a moment, with the Slytherin eventually winning, but only because in the fight Draco had knocked a large manila folder from the seat, which Harry had obviously considered more important than the book. The Gryffindor grabbed for it, tumbling into the gap between the two seats. When he finally looked up, Draco had both folder and book. He quickly moved out of Harry's reach and sat back down, placing the folder as far from the grasping hands as possible.
The colour in Harry's cheeks reddened as Draco stared at the book cover. It showed a very voluptuous woman with flowing black hair and a very low-cut blouse. The Slytherin's eyebrow rose in obvious amusement as he stared at Harry. "The Flesh Endures by Cleo Cordell." Grey eyes glinted. "Why, Harry, I never expected to find you reading smutty Muggle literature."
Harry tried to snatch the book back, but all the action did was leave him on his knees in front of the Slytherin. For a moment his hand rested on Draco's knee -- he quickly pulled it away.
If Draco noticed, he didn't react to the touch; instead he flicked the book over to read aloud the blurb on the back. "Karolan, Lord Rakka, with his knowledge of alchemy, achieves a dark immortality and yearns to create a partner as unique as himself. Fate brings Garnetta into his path, and a bond of desire develops between them, until she discovers the truth about Karolan, and herself, and flees." He looked down at Harry, the smirk on his face growing, and gave a little snort. "So, let me guess, are you Karolan ... the dark lord? And does that make Granger Garnetta?"
"It's not mine."
Draco's eyes flared briefly in triumph at finally having found a chink in Harry's armour. His voice was mocking now, deliberately needling his rival. "Ah, He speaks. And here I was hoping some affliction might have caused you to lose your voice indefinitely." Slim fingers pulled back the cover of the book where a name had been careful inscribed. "So it's actually Granger's. I might have guessed she'd read this sort of thing in private. Does she know you're reading her smut?"
"Malfoy." The tone was getting harder.
"This is so typical of you, Potter," Draco hefted the novel, as if weighing it against the Works of Shakespeare now locked safely in his trunk. "If you're going to read Muggle books, at least read something worthwhile." The tone was suitably condescending and he prolonged the moment by tutting theatrically. "So, what's in the folder?" He reached for it. As he did so, the flap opened, spilling sheets of parchment onto the carriage floor.
"Be careful, you idiot!" The sudden scathing tone bit into Draco and for a moment he didn't move as Harry scrambled for the sheets before either of them could cause any more damage. Still on his knees, he straightened the parchments and reached for the folder.
"What's wrong? Scared I'm going to ruin your precious work?" Draco pulled out the remaining sheets before handing over the now empty folder. "What's so important anyway?" He cast a critical eye over the meticulous lettering on the sheets. "This is your Herbology homework?"
Harry had risen to his feet now and was holding the folder against his chest. "So what if it is?"
Draco shrugged. He had been given the same assignment -- Produce a Herbarium showing fifteen plants. For each include a dried and pressed plant specimen and details of how the plant is grown, its properties and uses. It had been an easy assignment as the grounds of Malfoy Manor contained just about every plant they had studied over the past six years and, of course, Draco had made one of the house-elves dry the plants. His collection was bound in a tasteful volume, the cover suitably inscribed with the Malfoy crest just in case Professor Sprout wondered who had produced it.
But Harry's work consisted of loose-leaf pages in a tatty folder. He'd expected more of the Gryffindor, that his work would at least be carefully arranged, but this? Why, there didn't appear to be even one plant specimen. In fact each plant had instead been carefully drawn, with some of the images subtly coloured. "You're not supposed to draw them."
"I know."
"You actually drew these yourself?"
"Why?"
"I just wondered." Draco wanted to say they were good. That he hadn't known Harry could draw.
"Please can I have them back?" Harry's hand reach out and the look on his face made it clear he thought the Slytherin might destroy his work.
"In a minute." Green eyes flashed angrily, but Harry remained still. Finally his arm dropped back to his side. "You know you're supposed to dry and press the plants?"
"Yes."
"You'll probably lose points for drawing them."
"What do you care, Malfoy?"
"I didn't say I cared."
There was a long period of silence when the two boys just watched each other. Finally Harry spoke again. "I did have proper plants, but they..." He took a breath. "They got ruined. Then I had to go home." There was a long pause as if the explanation would make sense to Draco. Instead the blond just raised a questioning eyebrow and Harry finally elaborated. "Most of the plants don't grow in Muggle gardens."
"Ah yes, of course." Draco frowned, remembering stories he'd heard about Harry's Muggle relatives. They didn't appear to be the most helpful of people and had probably prevented him from getting the plant specimens. Mind racing, he tapped the sheets of parchment on his legs. "Do you draw anything else besides plants?" Harry gave a little nod. "Okay," Draco said as he leaned back, his gaze challenging. "Draw me and you can have these back."
"What?"
"Simple trade. Draw me or I rip these up."
"I'm not wasting my time drawing you," Harry scoffed.
"Okay." Draco held up one of the sheets and made to rip it in half.
"No!" Harry's hand shot up, this time he was holding his wand. It was pointed directly at Draco's throat. "I asked nicely, Malfoy. Now give them back."
Grey eyes glinting, Draco's lip curled into a half smile. He leaned his head back against the seat rest, his fingers still holding the paper. "Shall we see who's faster, Potter? My nimble fingers or your little hex? I bet I can rip this in half before it hits me." He raised an eyebrow. "Want to wager something on it? I hear you have a fair few Galleons in your bank vault at Gringotts."
Harry's eyes darted from the sheet of parchment to Draco's face and then back again. They widened as the tiniest tear appeared on the edge of the sheet. Jaw tightening visibly, Harry suddenly pulled the wand back, the tip just grazing Draco's chin. "All right."
"Good boy. And you better make sure it's a nice drawing or I might change my mind."
"You want me to do it now?"
"If you want these back. If I take them with me, I can't promise they will get to school in one piece. Goyle was showing me his origami broomstick earlier and I know he's looking for more paper to practice on." Draco smirked, enjoying the uncomfortable shuffling of the Gryffindor's feet. This was, he decided, much better than fighting ... even better than arguing. There was something very satisfying in controlling Potter this way ... getting him to do what Draco wanted. Not only that, but it was an eye-opener to watch his adversary when there was no one around to back him up. Under normal circumstances Weasley would have attempted to hex him at least once during this discussion and Granger would have been spouting some psychobabble about how All Slytherins Are Evil. Potter-on-his-own was a completely different person from Potter-with-backup.
He wondered briefly which one was the 'real' person and knew it was the one he had with him now. This wasn't The Boy Who Lived; it was the boy he'd first seen in the robe shop when they were 11 years old. This was the Harry Potter who hadn't known about his own history, or how other people expected him to act. It was the boy who was looking for acceptance as himself rather than as some sort of living legend.
Draco's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he remembered something from his own holiday. An observation ... no ... a realisation ... about Potter. That even though Potter was always surrounded by his adoring fans he was somehow isolated because of who and what they thought he was. People didn't encroach on Harry's personal space, they unconsciously kept their distance from him, and it was them not Harry who placed Saint Potter on his pedestal.
Even the teachers seemed to keep that personal space sacrosanct. The only person who didn't was Draco Malfoy.
The memory of there recent tussle over both the book and folder, and the touch of Potter's hand on his knee came into sharp focus, washing a strange heat through him as it derailed his train of thought completely. The sound of Harry taking a deep breath made him look up with an expression close to annoyance.
"All right." Harry's fingers reached out again. "But give those back to me first."
"How do I know you won't just change your mind?"
"Because if I say I'm going to do something then I will. You know that." Harry gave a humourless smile. "Because I'm a Gryffindor."
The was an underlying self mockery in Harry's voice, almost as though he'd had enough not only of Draco, but also of life in general. Draco stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to pursue the point. Finally he held out the papers, watching as they were carefully tucked away in the folder, which was swiftly returned to the safety of one of Harry's bags.
Harry rummaged in the bag and eventually found a small art pad and some Muggle pencils. He pushed the bag to one side and sat back down in the same position Draco had first seen him, but this time he drew his knees up, using the slope of his thighs as a resting place for the pad. "Don't expect much, not with the train as bumpy as it is."
Draco fell silent, watching intently as Harry concentrated on his task. Green eyes would flick between him and the paper. Little frown lines on his temple gave an indication of how much Harry was concentrating and occasionally he would bite his lip or quietly mutter something to himself.
Finally he finished and sat back upright, a hand sweeping through black hair in a gesture which Draco now recognised as nervousness. The sheet of paper was torn from the pad and held out. "There. Get Goyle to make paper airplanes out of that."
Draco took it from Harry's outstretched hand. He had expected something horrible even though he had threatened to destroy the herbarium assignment if that was the outcome. Maybe a caricature, or some nasty version of himself. Instead, Harry had drawn a small head-and-shoulders portrait with soft pencil lines, and little smudges of shadow. The portrait didn't move of course, because it was created with Muggle pencils, but Draco was captivated by the way Harry had drawn his mouth. There was a slight upturn to it, which could have developed into either a smile or a smirk. He wanted the image to move ... wanted to see what the expression would change into ... wanted to know how Harry had expected it to turn out. The eyes surprised him as well. They were the only piece of colour in the entire portrait ... slate grey shot through with an underlying blue.
Blue? There was no blue in his eyes.
He was just about to make that comment when a shadow fell over his lap. He whipped the sheet of paper away and looked up to find Granger scrutinizing him with calculating brown eyes. Even she had changed over the summer, he decided. She'd done something with her hair and he didn't remember her robes fitting quite that well last year.
"Hello, Granger," he drawled, one of his best trademark sneers destroying the look Harry had managed to capture. "I understand congratulations are in order." He rose gracefully to his feet. "Though why Dumbledore should foist you on us as Head Girl I will never know."
"Well, at least we didn't have to worry about you ever being Head Boy. Not surprising really, as you were never even considered prefect material."
Draco's glare shot ice daggers at the girl. The fact he had not been picked as a prefect was a constant irritation to his father, who had been further enraged on hearing that a Mudblood had been made Head Girl. He picked up the paperback and waggled it in front of Hermione. "Is this the sort of thing you're reading when we all think you're busy studying? You better watch where you leave your smutty books, Granger, or you might find Potter stealing them." He glanced back over his shoulder at Harry. "He clearly enjoys a bit of girly reading."
Throwing the book down, Draco gave one last mocking smile and made one of his better dramatic exits. With his robes flowing behind him, he swept from the compartment and into the corridor. As he strode away, he could just hear Granger's voice asking, "What did Malfoy want, Harry?"
--~--
His own compartment was empty when Draco arrived back there and he all but flung himself down on the seat. After a couple of minutes he realised he had unconsciously thrown himself into the same corner Harry had been sitting and he quickly moved.
Damn Potter! Damn him for....
For what precisely?
Draco stared out of the window at the world rushing by. Damn him for just being 'Harry' and for having woven some sort of spell over him all those years ago. Damn him for tuning up in the robe shop, for being on the Hogwarts Express, for attending Hogwarts.
Damn him for being the wretched Boy Who Lived.
He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand, the edge damp where he had been holding it so tightly. The image stared up at him with its mocking half-smile.
Mocking Gryffindor smile.
Mocking him.
Harry Bloody Potter could get to him even through a drawing for fuck's sake.
He began ripping at the paper, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, scattering them onto the compartment floor like confetti. With reach rip he repeated over and over, "I. Hate. You." eyes full of unshed bitter tears. The movements were measured, precise, and with each rip and every syllable, Draco felt a tiny piece of the enormous tension he constantly carried with him drain away. The release was addictive, the destruction of the page taking the place of every fear he'd ever repressed and every tear he had refused to let fall. The process was cathartic, and when he finished, he was left staring down at the shredded remains of Harry's carefully drawn sketch.
He blinked, the sudden realisation of what he had destroyed leaving him disturbingly bereft. A hand reached for his wand and he held it over the pieces, but the words of the spell to mend the drawing were never spoken. He toyed with the wand thoughtfully. It was just as well to leave it, he decided; if anyone found the drawing, he'd never be able to explain it.
Why did he let Potter get to him like this? He hated the boy, he reminded himself. Tucking his wand away, he stared down at the carnage and kicked a few of the scraps with the toe of his shoe. A flash of colour amid the white caught his eye, and he leaned down to pick it up. His grey/blue eyes had survived the destruction and in that brief moment, Draco realised that like everyone else, he had fallen under Harry Potter's spell. That somehow the hate he'd felt for so long had morphed into something else.
The hate had become something ... different, turning into fantasies and needs of a different kind, especially after his summer and the time spent with his Quidditch coach Alex Palmer. The sexual exploits he'd experienced with the older man had allowed his fantasies of Harry to take on a different, more personal nature.
What actually disturbed him now was the realisation that one of those fantasies had slipped into his mind while Harry had been drawing him, and THAT was what made him so angry now. He didn't want to think about it or about the idea that Harry might want to draw him naked or....
Draco let out an angry growl, trying to grind the scraps on the floor into dust with the heel off his shoe.
"All right, Drake?"
Grey eyes flashed with anger as he looked up at Crabbe and Goyle. Only much later would he realise that the small grey/blue scrap of paper ... all that now remained of the drawing ... had been tucked carefully into his pocket. "No I'm bloody not. Let's go and beat the crap out of someone."
********************
The Present ... Saturday 7th March 1998 ... 6.30am ... Slytherin Dungeons
Draco stared at the fragment of paper for a long time, watching his own eyes look back at him.
His mother had once told him his eyes were like diamonds, transparent little windows into his soul. She had told him that when she looked into them, she could see who he really was ... that he should keep them clear and bright and never to let the sparkle leave them. He remembered being scared at this because he thought it meant people could see through the shields he'd erected around himself, and find out the truth. The diamonds had lost their sparkle a little as he learned not to show his feelings in that grey gaze.
Sometimes he would look in a mirror and catch his eyes staring back at him. When that happened he would often try to see what his mother had seen. But all he saw was his father's gaze ... that same cold grey stare. And, worst of all, he'd never seen his own soul.
But he had seen Harry's.
It shone out from those jade eyes as bright and clear as a mountain stream. Crystal clear emeralds that, for good or ill, showed everything the Gryffindor was thinking. Draco knew he'd looked into that gaze and seen it all ... fear, anger, love, hate, longing, need, desire ... every emotion laid bare.
But when Harry had sat on a bumpy train and looked at him, he'd drawn a picture that had seen beyond the shields and captured his soul. It stared back at him from the little scrap of paper ... the blue/grey diamonds that his mother had seen when he was a young boy and she had loved him.
He felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest, which made it difficult for him to catch his breath. The sensation threatened to overwhelm him, and Draco found himself experiencing one of those all too rare moments of pure revelation as the truth suddenly hit home.
He'd wanted Harry from the first day they had ever met. First as his friend and now as his lover.
********************
"Harry." A light rapping on the door accompanied the voice. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." The words were clipped, edged with a frustration Harry didn't know quite how to deal with. He was leaning over the washbasin staring at the hacked lumps of hair, which darkened the white surface. There were hair clippings on his shoulders and strewn around him on the floor as well, and the anguished reflection in the mirror told its own story.
"Are you decent? I'm coming in."
"No ... no I'm not." Eyes darted round the bathroom looking for some way to hide his attempts at a new career in hairdressing. "I'll be out in a minute."
"Too late."
As the door swung open, Harry didn't move. Instead he stared at Hermione's reflection in the mirror. He must, he decided, look like a pitiful wretch.
Hermione didn't say anything at first, instead she crossed to stand beside Harry. They didn't look directly at each other, but instead stared at each other in the mirror. "Harry, what are you doing?"
"Cutting my hair." He looked down at the small nail scissors still in his hand.
"Why?" Her gaze travelled to the scissors.
With a shrug he dropped them into the sink where they lay on the cushion of his hair. "I got fed up with it."
"And you thought now would be a good time to come up with a whole new style? Is 'scarecrow' in fashion this year?"
Harry gave a weak smile, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the anguish that had caused the drastic action. He was standing in Hermione's bathroom in the middle of the night dressed in only a towel attempting to cut his hair with one-inch nail scissors. "Can you do something with it?"
"Well, I have a very nice hat." A smile started to grow on Harry's face. "You know the one Mrs Weasley made me for Christmas. The mauve one with a nice pink 'H' on the front." He started to laugh and she joined in. "With the big bobble on the back. It would look very fetching on you."
They shared the joke for a moment before Harry leaned towards her, his head resting on her shoulder as they stared back into the mirror again. "Oh, Hermione, I've made a real mess of everything."
Her arm wound around his shoulder giving it a little supportive squeeze. "Yes, you certainly have. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror recently?"
"Ha, ha. Very funny."
"I'm serious." Hermione's hand gestured at the mark on Harry's throat.
"Don't." He quickly raised his own fingers to cover blemish, but that only exposed the one on his forearm, which he tried to hide with his other hand.
"It's a bit late for coyness now isn't it?" She watched as Harry let his hands drop away with a resigned sigh. "Are you ready to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"You're going to have to sooner or later. Something happened earlier, Harry. People don't just collapse for no reason..." Harry gave a little snort. "Not even Harry Potter."
"It's not that easy," he finally ventured as he pulled away from her to lean on the sink.
"Okay, I understand that and I'm not going to demand you tell me anything. But someone should know what happened to you. If you won't tell me, then please speak to Ron, or Professor Dumbledore..."
Harry looked shocked. "What? I can't tell..."
"No, no." Hermione was waving her hand. "No, I didn't mean about Malfoy and your sordid shenanigans. I meant about collapsing." Harry felt himself start to blush under her scrutiny and he had to look anywhere but at her. "Unless it's all connected."
He gave a strange, high-pitched laugh and finally looked into her brown eyes. They twinkled with amusement and he decided that if he hadn't loved her already he would probably have fallen in love with her now. "What? You think it was some sort of Slytherin foreplay? He conks me over the head and has his wicked way?" The tense atmosphere seemed to dissipate a little.
"Well, I don't remember reading that in Hogwarts: A History, but I could check the Slytherin records if you want." They stared at each other for several minutes before finally collapsing in howls of laughter. Hermione was still giggling when she finally spoke again. "Look, as much as I'd like to stand here debating Slytherin mating rituals, I think you should get dressed and we can continue this in much more comfortable surroundings."
Harry found the tension and fear slowly leave him and he let out a long heart-felt sigh. "You're right, of course."
"Well, aren't I always? It's just a shame it's taken you seven years to actually admit it."
"If you tell anyone else I said it, I will deny it categorically."
"Typical. You boys are all the same, full of hero worship in private, but never admitting it in public. Now, what are we going to do with your hair?"
They both stared into the mirror again as Hermione picked up a few strands between her fingertips as though she was touching something horrible. "There is the hat option, of course."
"It might grow back."
"I should hope so ... I'd hate for you to be like this for the rest of your life."
"No. It does that sometimes. Grows back really fast. When I was little, Aunt Petunia was always hacking at it because it was such a mess, but by the next morning it had grown back."
"Really?" Harry nodded as Hermione ruffled the black hair thoughtfully. "Must be magic."
"Don't tell her that ... she'd have a fit if she found out I'd been doing magic all my life."
"But, that doesn't solve our immediate problem does it. In about..." she looked at her watch. "Two hours, you will have to go down for breakfast. Do you want to assume it might grow back before then?"
"It doesn't seem very likely does it?"
"Well, you could try a spell on it and see what happens."
"You could try a spell ... it's more likely to work than mine. I'd end up turning it green or blond."
"Now, that would be interesting. A blond-haired Harry Potter. You could be a matched pair with Malfoy." His face fell and Hermione quickly changed tactics. "Or I could cut it for you."
********************
Thirty minutes later, the newly shorn Harry Potter stepped out from the bathroom. His fingers worried the hem of the t-shirt Hermione had collected for him. It was one he'd almost worn to death under his Quidditch robes, the once dark green colour washed to a paleness almost obscuring the silver writing across his chest ... My team lost at Quidditch... "Well, what do you think?" He'd had to shower away all the loose hair, but finally he felt clean and dry.
Hermione leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him for a moment. She'd manage to salvage something from Harry's hacking job, and now his hair was a little shorter, probably just collar length. It still looked a little messy ... what Lavender had once described as 'just out of bed' ... and Hermione thought the only way to cure that would be to cut it really short, like Ron's. She'd styled it so that it curled over his ears, and around his neck, but for the first time the fringe was pushed back from his temple. It seemed to open up the whole of his face, even if Harry kept fiddling with bits to cover his scar. Now, if she could just get him to change his glasses to lighter frames, something that didn't hide his eyes quite so much.
"Hmmm, very nice. I made quite a good job considering what I had to work with. Still nicely long enough to annoy people like Snape, and for people to imagine running their fingers through." He shot her a dirty look. "I have a list of people waiting for that dubious honour. And stop fiddling with the fringe."
Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his jogging bottoms. "I am not that desperate."
"Of course you're not. Come and sit down. Dobby's brought us some tea." She indicated the chair on the other side of the low table where a tray of tea things had been placed. "Now talk."
He crossed to the armchair and rested his hands on the back. "I've been thinking. Maybe I should talk to Malfoy first. There are things I need ... I should check things out first."
Hermione shrugged as she began to pour tea into the two cups. "Okay, if you would feel more comfortable talking to him first." The change in tactic had the desired effect. Harry seemed to relax as he slid into the chair. She played her second card. "He came to me for help."
"He came here?" Harry didn't hide his surprise at this news.
"Yes. I wonder why he did that? Slytherins don't normally venture this high up, and to come right into Gryffindor territory as well ... right into the Lion's Den." She let her words drift off, able to almost see Harry's mind mulling over the concept of Malfoy climbing all those stairs.
"I thought maybe you'd ... you know ... come looking."
She shook her head, keeping up the gentle easy conversation, the one she knew would eventually get what she wanted from Harry. "I didn't even know you weren't tucked up in your own bed. Malfoy got in here." She changed her tone slightly and put on her best school ma'am voice. "You didn't give him the passwords, I hope."
"No, of course not!" He began worrying his lower lip, trying to equate the person he was sure had been lying to him with the one who would sneak into Gryffindor Tower, risking getting caught by Filch or one of the teachers. "Was he ... worried?"
Hermione shrugged. "He was Malfoy." She spoke as though those three words would explain everything. Then, after a thoughtful hesitation, she added. "He did seem concerned."
"Oh." Harry watched as Hermione pushed a cup towards him.
"Harry, can I say something?" He shrugged and gave a little nod.
"Something happened tonight and I know you aren't ready to tell me what it is. But when you woke up you were really scared. I've known you for a very long time ... we've been through a hell of a lot together and I don't ever remember you looking as scared as that."
"It's difficult to explain."
"I know. And I know you need to sort things out, but if you go to Malfoy and he does something to you before you tell anyone what happened, we won't be able to do anything about it. We know what Malfoy is like ... what he's capable of ... what his father is involved in. I hate to say it, but you don't know whether or not he's using you."
Harry stared at her for a moment. "I know, Hermione, I know."
"Then please tell me what happened tonight, someone has to know just in case ... well, someone should know."
The pleading in his friend's voice cut into the knot of worry still held deep inside from earlier. He pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his head on his knees, as he debated for a moment just what to say to the person who was his best friend in the whole world. Probably more so than Ron, which was saying something.
Dumbledore had told him not to tell anyone of the prophecy, but he'd told Ron, who had suggested he keep it secret from Hermione. As for his new magical talents, he'd discussed that with no one besides his godfather and the Headmaster.
The truth was, he wanted to tell Hermione what had happened in Draco's room, but he couldn't explain why he thought he'd collapsed without telling her about the dream stone. So he would either have to tell her nothing or everything.
So he told her everything.
********************
To her credit, Hermione took the whole story in her stride, but by the time Harry had finished she had no fingernails left. She had never doubted that Harry was special, and what he told her just confirmed it even more. The idea that he would have some form of magic different from others fitted in with what she had found out about his father's family and now she was left wondering about Lily's background as well.
As for the prophecy, was it really possible that something that old could be tied into Harry? Her mind was already mulling over books that might help trace the document and authenticate it. Dumbledore had probably already done that, but for some reason she needed to check for herself.
That thought caused a little knot of concern deep inside ... she had complete confidence in the Headmaster, yet someone had to watch out for Harry ... someone who didn't have a separate agenda.
Her reaction to the Portkeys and Lucius' letter had been just a little different, however. She had demanded that Harry go straight to Dumbledore and when he had refused she threatened, cajoled and eventually pleaded with him to be sensible.
Harry ... being Harry ... stuck to his guns. He would, he told her; go to Dumbledore after he'd gotten a satisfactory explanation from Draco. Until then please would she keep his confidence?
And that was where they currently were. They sat in silence for some time watching the now cold pot of tea as Hermione tried to comprehend everything. An impasse that neither was prepared to give way on.
********************
He didn't sleep.
Instead, Draco spent the time between his moment of crystal clear revelation and the inevitable crashing on his door accompanied by shouts of, "Come on Draco, breakfast," studying the emerald.
It sat on his desk, glinting in the candlelight, and Draco had come to hate everything about it. Even its value as a gemstone had ceased to be of importance and all he wanted now was to understand what had happened earlier.
He'd tried all the spells and incantations he could think of, from simple revealing charms to several rather complicated hexes, to find out how the stone had been enchanted, but none had worked. Of course, there were a few things he could still try, but that would mean getting into the potions storeroom and 'liberating' certain items without Snape's knowledge.
Lips set in a thin line, he picked up the stone yet again, twisting it between his hands as though this time the information he sought would suddenly become available to him. There had been a couple of times when he had looked deep into the heart of the emerald and thought he'd seen something ... a flicker of light maybe, but it had been so ephemeral that he wondered if he'd imagined it.
His fingers tapped nervously against the cut facets of the stone. There was, he finally decided, one way to learn more and that was to talk with his father. If he phrased his questions just so maybe he could get Lucius to tell him why Harry hadn't disappeared and why the Gryffindor had collapsed.
Draco put the stone down and wrinkled his nose in annoyance at the residue that now coated his fingers. Even though he'd wiped the surface several times there were still traces of oil on it ... even magic hadn't cleaned it. He sighed. Now he would smell of sandalwood again.
"Draco, are you in there!"
The shout was followed by what sounded like a kick against the door and Draco glowered in annoyance at the interruption. He reached for his wand and quickly cast his privacy spells over the room to hide all traces of his work on the stone. Only when he had unlocked the door did he realise that the handle of his wand now had oil on it as well.
This was, he decided, getting beyond a joke. It was like Potter had hexed the wretched stuff and he was going to find it lurking on everything he touched for the rest of his life. Without thinking he tucked the wand away and wiped his hand on the side of trousers as he crossed to the door. The action stopped him dead in his tracks and he stared at the offending hand and grimaced at what he'd just done.
"Fucking hell, Harry." The mark didn't show on the dark material, but swearing didn't help either.
He opened the door with more force than necessary. "What!"
Waiting in the corridor were not only Crabbe and Goyle, but also the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team and a few hangers-on. He stared at the welcoming committee for a moment before raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Are we going to breakfast en masse today?"
"There's a notice." Goyle spoke the words as if they should explain everything, then he sniffed the air. "What's that smell? Have you been burning incense? Snape will be really pissed if you stink out the common room again."
"It's nothing. What notice?"
"They've moved the Gryffindor match." Milena pushed her way between the bulk of the two Slytherin Beaters. "It's not going to be until next term."
********************
"It's got to be Malfoy's fault." Seamus peered closely at the signature at the bottom of the sheet of parchment. "I bet he's forged it."
"Don't be silly, Madam Hooch pinned it to the board ... Neville saw her." Hermione tutted. "All this over a stupid game, which I should point out is only being postponed not cancelled completely. If you want to worry about something then it should be your NEWTs. Do you know how long we have left?" The comment was met by a chorus of catcalls from the group of Gryffindors clustered around the notice board in the Entrance Hall. Folding her arms, she glared at them all. "You'll all regret it, you know. Don't come crying to me when you fail."
"Good point, Granger, though I doubt even after seven years of study they'd pass much anyway."
The voice cut through the general hubbub and as one the Gryffindors turned in its direction.
Hermione recognised the lazy drawl and looked skyward as if in need of divine inspiration. Draco Malfoy -- the last person she wanted to see at the moment, especially not with Harry's tales still fresh in her mind. She would be eternally grateful to Harry that he had skirted around the more 'intimate' details -- it was bad enough seeing what she had seen earlier.
The rest of the Slytherins were arranged behind Malfoy like some sort of Praetorian Guard, while he stood there, hands in his trouser pockets, like the emperor she was convinced he thought himself to be. He stared at her, eyebrow rising in a question before turning his grey gaze onto Harry who was standing by the notice board next to Ron. Harry looked quickly at Malfoy, then at her. She winked at him and was pleased to see that he held his ground, green eyes glinting as he met Malfoy's gaze.
It was clear to her that something passed between them and she wondered if anyone else noticed. Harry shifted slightly, leaning back against the wall while Malfoy straightened a little, chin raised as he cast his cold stare around the assembled Gryffindors. He stepped forward, and, amid dark mutterings, the group parted as he strode up to the board and stopped in front of Ron, who made no move to get out of the Slytherin's way.
"Excuse me." Draco's voice was clipped. He had to look up a little to meet the Gryffindor captain's eyes.
Ron's lip curled slightly, and with exaggerated courtesy, he stepped aside and waved the Slytherin captain forward.
The notice was very simple:
Hogwarts Quidditch Cup -- Change of Match
Dates
The following matches have been rescheduled:
Ravenclaw v Hufflepuff
Original date: Saturday 23rd May 1998.
This match will now be played on Sunday 19th April 1998.
Gryffindor v Slytherin
Original date: Saturday 14th March 1998.
This match will now be played on Saturday 23rd May 1998.
Signed
Madam Hooch -- Director of Flying
"Happy now?"
Draco turned towards Weasley, his head tilted slightly to one side. He could see Harry standing just behind the redhead. "Happy? Me? Oh, I'm ecstatic." Grey eyes flicked to again meet the green before returning to stare down Weasley. "Did you go to Hooch and tell her you weren't ready, and pleeeassseee can we have more time?" His voice took on a whiny tone.
Blue eyes glinted dangerously and it was clear Ron was annoyed at not getting in the quip about asking for a rescheduling first. "In case you've forgotten, we don't need more time. We could play it now and destroy you and your bunch of losers. Harry," he glanced over his shoulder. "How many points are we currently ahead of the Slytherins?"
There was a moment's silence before the Gryffindor Seeker finally answered. "Two hundred and forty."
"And how many times has the current Slytherin Seeker beaten you to the Snitch?"
"None."
The surrounding Gryffindors let out whoops of delight and in return the Slytherins turned on them, both groups breaking into arguments with much arm waving and threatening fists. The two captains watched for a moment, but made no move to help Hermione try to break up the altercations.
"I checked up on your birthday, Ferret."
"Bully for you, Weasel."
"So, is daddy planning on getting you a new broom for your birthday?"
Draco glanced at Weasley and shrugged. "Possibly."
"Well, you need something to replace your broken shaft don't you."
"There's nothing wrong with my broom, Weasley. In fact I've been told it gives a really nice ride." He looked pointedly at Harry who was currently arguing with Milena, one of the Slytherin Chasers. Watching Harry's arrogant stance, the delightful profile and the gesturing hands brought pleasant warmth to the pit of his stomach. "In fact I've had no complaints at all ... unlike you."
"I've never had any complaints about my flying."
"No? I've heard tales about how you take them flying but the flight always gets cut short. Something about shaft weakness. You should get that seen to, you know. I understand it gets worse with age."
"My broom comes from a long line of very productive models." Ron glared malevolently. "Unlike yours. I bet daddy hates that he's only got one in the family, and a defective model at that."
"Not defective, I just choose to fly it differently sometimes. Have you ever tried it?" The grey eyes that turned on Ron were full of mock innocence.
"Fuck off, you pervert."
Draco shrugged and leaned closer to Ron, his voice soft so as not to be overheard. "He's got a nice arse hasn't he?"
"What?" The single word was spat out with incredulity.
"Potter," Draco nodded in the direction of the Gryffindor Seeker who was still arguing with Milena, and he realised for the first time that Harry had cut his hair. The knowledge threw Draco for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "Nice arse. I bet you're pissed you didn't get to him first. All those years of trying and you never managed to snag him for yourself."
"Harry's my friend..."
"Yeah, just like I thought. I bet you watch him in the shower..."
The two boys had turned on each other and were now almost nose-to-nose. Ron's face was red with fury and both his hands were balled into fists. "You are dead, Malfoy." A hand snapped up and Draco felt the tip of a wand press against his throat. "You are going die very, very slowly." The hissed words cut through the tense air between them.
"Well, fuck me, Weasley, I'm sooooo scared." The only sign of his own fury was the cold glint of ice in Draco's eyes. He didn't reach for his own wand or for the one digging into his throat. Instead he raised a hand towards Ron as if to push him away, and let out a little controlled breath. To those watching, it looked like Draco had pushed Ron, but his hand never made contact. Instead a surge of energy whooshed from his palm, the magic flowing from him like an invisible pressure wave. It hit Ron squarely on the chest, sending him flying backwards to land in a sprawl at Harry's feet.
A silence fell over the Entrance Hall as everyone stared at the fallen Gryffindor Captain. It was as if the scene had been captured in a Muggle photograph, the little groups frozen in mid-fight or shout. Then, just as it seemed no one would ever move again, Ron let out a roar of anger as he took aim at Draco, the curse already on his lips.
"Ron! No!"
Harry's voice cut through the still air as he leapt for his friend, knocking his arm away. The curse crashed into the leg of the huge notice board, snapping it in a spray of splinters. Draco stared, open mouthed, as the board seemed to teeter over him for a moment. He turned on his heel, trying to get out of the way, but his foot slipped beneath him.
If it hits me, it'll probably kill me. The thought echoed through Draco's mind as something crashed into him, sending him flying across the ground. As he landed on the unforgiving stone, all the air was forced from his lungs in a single grunt of pain. Stars danced momentarily before his eyes and he pushed at the weight pressing down on his chest. It gave under his hands and his eyes flashed open. Notice boards do not 'give'.
"Potter." The word came out as a hiss as he realised the weight belonged to Harry, who had clearly pushed him out of the way of the collapsing notice board and was currently sprawled over him, hips and chest pressed very nicely against Draco. He met the green eyes and thought he saw something in them ... eleven hours ago they had looked at him with desire ... nine hours ago they had been hazy with passion as he had pushed into Harry's body ... three hours ago, they had looked at him with fear...
And now? What was the green telling him? As he watched, he thought he again saw desire and need. Then they widened slightly in what appeared to be horror, the reason behind the look suddenly obvious as Harry's growing hardness pressed against him. Harry's hands fled to the ground, pushing him up from the Slytherin's body, but that only made his hips dig harder into Draco's own.
Draco grinned surreptitiously and flexed against Harry. The movement was just delicious. He was on the floor in the middle of the Entrance Hall with Harry Potter getting hard. All his fears from earlier suddenly scurried away. If Harry hated him after what had happened, then dark-haired boy would hardly get turned on like this.
"What is going on here?"
As the new voice echoed with undisguised loathing around the Hall, the glorious weight suddenly disappeared. Draco pushed himself up onto his elbows, eyes flicking from Harry, who was scrambling away on his backside, to the owner of the voice he knew so well.
Standing by the stairs leading up from the Slytherin Dungeons was his own Head of House, but what made Draco raise a surprised eyebrow were the two men accompanying the Potions Master. On one side was Professor Lupin, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and on the other Harry's godfather Sirius Black. Draco didn't deign to give the man the title of either teacher or professor. Whatever Black was teaching students, it didn't involve the Slytherin and that was yet another reason for Draco's distaste for the man.
"Potter, I might have known you'd be involved in this." Snape's sneer was directed at the Seeker.
Harry was now on top of the flattened notice board, his ankle having caught on the wood in his attempt to get away from both Draco and his own impending erection. "Professor, it's not..." Green eyes turned imploringly towards his godfather, but judging from the man's expression, it soon became clear that no help would be forthcoming from that direction. "It's not like it looks, sir."
"I'm not interested in what it looks like. All of you, get back to your common rooms."
"But sir," Seamus took a step towards the teachers. "We've a training session in an hour."
"No you haven't, Mr Finnigan." Snape folded his arms, hands disappearing inside the voluminous sleeves of his black robes. "As none of you appear to be able to control yourselves over a simple change of match notice, neither team will be allowed to practice until after the Easter break."
For once both sets of students seemed to be in agreement and the choruses of disbelief were in unison. Draco scrambled to his feet, aware that Harry was actually at his side. "Professor..." His words joined those of the other students.
"What?" "That's not fair!" "We need to practice." "It's their fault."
All the words jumbled together as the three teachers watched in silence.
"Enough." Lupin's quiet voice cut through the noise. "Severus, I have a suggestion. Mr Filch mentioned the windows of the Quidditch changing rooms need to be varnished. I am sure he would appreciate..." He quickly counted the students. "Eighteen willing helpers on a sunny day like this."
********************
"What's wrong?"
Harry looked up from his close scrutiny of his right index finger and gave Neville a sad smile. "I've got at least two splinters from that bloody notice board." He wiggled the finger. "I'll kill Sirius for coming up with the idea of me repairing the board and for suggesting I do it with Malfoy!"
Of course, Harry knew he couldn't tell anyone the real reason he was pissed with Sirius. The very last person he wanted to be with at the moment was Draco Malfoy. It had taken them the best part of the day to repair, sand down and then repaint the notice board and in all that time they'd had one conversation, which had gone along the lines of:
Later:
Draco: "You've cut your hair."
Harry: "Yes."
Much later:
Draco: "Why?"
Harry: "Why what?"
Draco: "Why did you cut it?"
Harry: "I felt like it."
Later still:
Draco: "I like it. It suits you."
Harry: "Pass me the varnish."
And that had been the sum total of their words to each other. The problem was that the fact Draco had noticed his hair had made Harry's stomach flip, and he had quickly realised that being with the Slytherin was exactly what he wanted. Yet he couldn't get out of his mind what he'd seen during the dream stone vision. He also knew he should talk to someone ... Dumbledore ... Sirius ... McGonagall ... even Snape ... yet somehow it felt almost....
Almost what?
Disloyal? How could he be disloyal to Draco if either Draco or his father were doing something that could directly endanger everyone at Hogwarts? He sucked briefly on his finger as if he could draw the splinters out that way. It was a mess ... everything abo
