FIC: The Way Down - 7/9
Title: The Way Down
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 9K, 70K overall
Warnings: later, there is sex, but not much violence.
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: -Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kjp_013 for the quick beta.
-Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 7
Harry never did remember that time very well.
It was nothing like the time he had killed Dolores Umbridge, because then, of course, he hadn’t stopped himself.
Harry hadn’t meant to kill her. No one had actually been able to prove it, and he was the Boy Who Lived, so they hadn’t brought up any charges.
That was after Harry quit the Aurors and broke up with Ginny. He had been so . . . angry; he had been devastated. Umbridge had been in the midst of her sixth appeal. It had been five years since Voldemort had been defeated, but the trials had lasted forever.
The thing about Umbridge was she had been working for the Ministry, and for all the horrible things that she had done, she kept trying to claim she had just been doing what she had been told. Umbridge “believed in the system,” she told the Prophet, and, “would see justice done.” Hermione called it a circus. Waste of Ministry resources. Ron said Umbridge was just trying to skirt her sentence. Harry just wanted it over.
The last four appeals, they had called Harry Potter to testify. Harry didn’t know why. He had had all kinds of experience with her at Hogwarts, but they were charging her for the crimes she had committed while she’d been at the Ministry in his sixth and seventh year. Besides stealing the locket back from her, he hadn’t had much to do with her then. He was sure she’d remained as awful as she’d always been, but there should’ve been other people at the Ministry to give better testimonies. Yet the Wizengamot kept calling him, and he had to keep testifying, and the scars on his hand always remained.
When Harry had appeared to give his testimony that last time, he’d just seen Ginny again. She’d told him she was worried about him, and that she was going out with Dean Thomas. She’d thought he’d left her to be happy, she said, and from what she could tell about the life he was living, she didn’t think he was happy.
Harry had walked into the courtroom, and his eyes had been hot. His skin had felt pale. Everything was cold, and he didn’t have a field to go to. All he could think was that ten years ago, his parents should have been putting him on the Hogwarts Express. Seventeen years from now, he should be putting his own kids on that train.
Now he was never going to.
Everything was ruined with Ginny. He was never going to marry her. They weren’t going to have a family. He wasn’t going to have a family, and it would probably be best if he didn’t have any friends either. He wasn’t going to be an Auror as he had dreamed; he was never going to have dreams again. He was only going to have nightmares.
Voldemort had taken so much more from him than the lives of the previous generation, than the lives of his classmates, than his own childhood. He had taken Harry’s future too, and the worst part was, Harry couldn’t fight him now. Somehow everyone else was able to move on, living their lives, being happy—all except Harry. And Dolores Umbridge.
The Wizengamot shook when Harry talked. The Ministry rocked. He was having trouble keeping the monster on the inside, and Harry didn’t know how to stop it.
Five years house arrest while waiting on appeals could make anyone a little crazy, and Umbridge was already that. Umbridge, however, seemed to lack the terror the others were feeling in response to the monster clawing its way all the way outside of Harry. Instead she was appalled.
“He’s drunk!” she screeched, and screeched again. She demanded his testimony be stricken from the record.
Harry wanted to make her afraid. That was all he wanted. He stood up on the stand and looked at her.
Umbridge fell down dead.
St. Mungo’s declared she had died from a heart attack. No one knew of a magical means to silently and spontaneously cause a heart attack, and there was no way to tell whether it was magically induced or not. But everyone knew anyway. They had been there. They had seen it. And Umbridge now was dead.
This time was different from then, because then Harry had been around people. He had killed her and destroyed things, and then he had set about destroying himself. This time, he had at least learned some measure of control, and could take himself away before he hurt anyone.
Harry went to Chimera Downs, but of course, he could never stay there. All he had to do was look at the field.
Harry went to water, because he knew how to talk to mermaids now. He thought that they might talk to him. He went down so far, down to where the water was numbingly cold, to where the songs they sang were songs of ice. He closed his eyes, and there was a field . . .
Harry went to the Carpathians in Romania, high on the tops of mountains where no men were. He could feel the sky above him, and it was very very blue. The snow crunched beneath him just like glass. And in his mind there was a field, and the grass was very green. A breeze came wafting by . . .
Harry went to the coldest place he had ever been. Everywhere was snow; the ground was snow; the water was snow; the sky was snow. Harry closed his eyes, and inside him there was a field. It was summer twilight, and low the crickets sang. Grass swayed in the breeze; there was no road.
Draco Malfoy kept coming down.
Harry Apparated.
*
Malfoy was at home, sitting at his Formica table, contemplating a glass of pumpkin juice.
There were wards around Malfoy’s flat, but the Apparition cut through them like butter. Malfoy knocked over his glass of juice.
“What the hell are you—”
“I need your help,” Harry said.
Malfoy was livid. “Why are you in my flat?”
“Please.”
Malfoy looked him over, and his voice changed. “Where have you been?”
“I tried to go to Chimera Downs. Malfoy.” Harry’s breath was coming short.
“Goodness, Harry.”
“I can’t,” Harry said, and put his hands on his chest, as though he could tear it out or make it stop. “I can’t.”
Malfoy made a little clicking sound. “Of course you can’t. Come here.”
Then Malfoy had his arms around him, and Harry was sinking to the floor. Malfoy felt very warm, and alive. Harry could feel blood thrumming in Malfoy’s veins; he could feel his heartbeat. Harry would not have thought it would do any good. He had wanted to destroy people before, just because they felt more alive than he did.
Perhaps, had it happened years ago, Harry would have wanted to destroy Malfoy too. But even if Harry wanted to, he didn’t, and Malfoy’s arms felt so strong and real. He closed his eyes, and thought of Draco Malfoy coming down the rise.
Malfoy with his shirt open at the throat, Malfoy with his long legs. Malfoy with his bright hair. One time it was wet, curled under his ears. Malfoy with the sky lit gold behind him, Malfoy with the crickets singing. The green grass swaying and Draco Malfoy, coming down.
The monster circled, once, twice in his chest, as though finding a place around which to coil, and stayed inside him.
Meanwhile Malfoy pet Harry’s hair, saying nonsense things.
“I always knew you were a crazy person,” he murmured. “Shh. Go ahead and have a crackup. See if I care. Shh.”
“Oh, God,” said Harry.
Malfoy kept petting his hair. “You’re just a crazy person. It’s okay. Whatever your crazy problems are, you’re still just a crazy person, and I’m going to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Malfoy said, and then was rubbing Harry’s back—small circles, soothing and smooth, the way you did for children. The way Malfoy did for children; the way you did for children if you were not Harry Potter. “Don’t be so utterly stupid. Shh.”
Harry shushed. He stayed silent as Malfoy kept rubbing his back, occasionally murmuring nonsense things, low in Harry’s ear.
*
Malfoy gently pushed Harry away. “Now we’re going to sit on chairs, just like human beings.”
Like a human being, Harry thought, and sat down in the chair. He felt like his scar hurt, and put his hand to his forehead.
Malfoy was clanging around the kitchen, boiling things, taking down cups, Summoning a tin from a cupboard with his wand. He made the hot chocolate without turning around to look at Harry. When it was done, Malfoy brought the mugs to the Formica table, and set one down in front of Harry. Then Malfoy sat down too, and wrapped his hands around his mug. “Okay, I’m ready. Talk.”
Harry drank his hot chocolate.
“It’s very bad form to reject someone, have a crackup on his floor, and then not tell him why.”
“I have a monster in my chest,” Harry said.
Malfoy put his chocolate down very carefully. “What kind of monster?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have a monster in your chest and don’t know what kind?” Malfoy clicked his tongue, as though in reprimand. “That isn’t very friendly to your monster, is it?”
Harry grimaced. “It isn’t friendly to me.”
Malfoy nodded and sipped his chocolate, just as if this was a normal conversation. Just as if people always had monsters in their chests. “Have you had it looked at?”
“What?”
“Have you had it looked at,” Malfoy repeated for him. “If there’s a monster—”
“Er. It’s not a physical monster. I don’t think.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, and somehow his tone was very gentle. “I understand that, Harry. I meant, have you thought about getting help?”
Harry looked down at his chocolate. “I thought maybe Voldemort left it in me.”
“How could he do that?” Malfoy’s brow furrowed.
So Harry told him about Horcruxes, about how he’d walked into the forest. He told Malfoy about how Voldemort had cast the killing curse, and the dream of King’s Cross. He told Malfoy about the thing under the chair.
“I left it there,” Harry said, and felt tightness close in on his chest. “I just left it.”
“That doesn’t sound like a monster, Harry.”
Malfoy’s voice worked on Harry. Normally when people sounded gentle and understanding, it didn’t work. Harry didn’t think he deserved understanding or gentleness. Coming from Malfoy, it felt different, because Malfoy wasn’t nice. Malfoy was never gentle except when something needed it. If Malfoy was doing it, it must be alright.
Harry looked at Malfoy, the little line about his mouth, the way his eyes looked tired. Harry looked at Malfoy, and it was better than thinking of the field. Inside, Harry felt calm.
“No,” Harry finally agreed, and looked back down into his chocolate. “I guess it couldn’t be. I felt the monster before then, anyway.”
“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning.”
So Harry told him about sixth year, Dean Thomas, and Ginny. He told Malfoy about after the war, how things had gradually gotten worse with Ginny. He talked about how angry he became, working with the Aurors. The monster had started coming then, too. He told Malfoy about tracking dark wizards in the Aurors, fighting Summoned beasts, making the dragon walk away.
“I thought that was a rumor,” Malfoy said.
“It wasn’t.”
“But the three foreign dignitaries,” Malfoy began.
“Them too.”
“Listen, splinching is something you do when—”
“I know what it is,” Harry said. “I Apparated them.”
“You mean you side-along—”
“No. I made them disappear.”
“So it’s a transitive verb now. I guess I always wondered how those notes you sent from your hermitage arrived at my flat.”
“Different spell. But similar.”
Malfoy nodded. “Okay. You quit the Aurors. And you left Ginny Weasley. It was in the Daily Prophet. How about . . . ?”
“The rest of it was true, too. I couldn’t . . . I wanted . . .”
“I’m going to get you more chocolate,” Malfoy said, even though Harry hadn’t touched his. Malfoy stood up, and spelled the chocolate out of the cup, then poured new chocolate in. It was steaming hot.
He brought it back to the table, standing behind Harry. Looming, Harry thought, then Malfoy’s hand tentatively settled on his shoulder and Harry closed his eyes. His chest felt tight again, and he didn’t understand how Malfoy could be his calm thing, the one place in his whole life Harry could go to and feel at peace, and also be the thing that made the monster howl inside him.
“You’ve always been dismal at talking,” Malfoy drawled, and pressed in on Harry’s shoulder.
Harry closed his eyes and focused on that hand. “I tried not to care. About anything, or anyone. The things I thought about the people I loved, they were . . . And the way I was with Ginny. I wanted . . . I wanted to own her.”
Malfoy took his hand away. “So does Pansy Parkinson. She’s quite soppy over her, you know. I think she would even leave Greg.” He came around to the other side of the table and sat down again. “So,” he said. “It happens when you feel violence. Hate. Desire. Jealousy. Possession.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Am I missing any?”
“Love.”
Malfoy very quickly hid an expression that looked suspiciously like pity. “Love,” he added on his fingers, business-like. “Anger.”
“Guilt.”
Malfoy turned his cup on the table, as though he wanted to see it from a new angle. “Guilt,” he told the cup. “That’s a ridiculous emotion.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never felt guilty.”
“Of course I’ve felt guilty.” Malfoy looked annoyed. “It’s still ridiculous. Alright, then. What are you guilty for?”
Harry shrugged. “Pick something.”
For a while, Malfoy was meditative, contemplating the cup, as though it might tell him something. “Fine. And no doubt you’re guilty about your monster too, which makes your monster get riled up, which makes you more guilty. Am I right?”
Harry nodded.
“Fabulous,” Malfoy said, but the sarcasm did not appear to be directed at Harry. Maybe it was at the cup, Harry thought. “That’s a nasty little cycle.”
“I suppose.”
“That’s okay.” Malfoy reached over and patted Harry’s hand, just as though reassuring a crazy person. “I knew you were crazy.” The patting was really more like he was reassuring a crazy person who was drooling and couldn’t chew his own food, rather than a crazy person who might fly off the handle and kill people. Malfoy was always superior like that. Harry found it extremely comforting.
“Thanks.”
“Love, hate, jealousy, anger, guilt—pretty much any strong emotional reaction.” Malfoy cocked his head. “Now we come to it. Which one was it this last time?”
“It doesn’t happen with all strong emotional reactions.”
Malfoy raised his brows. “Enlighten us.”
“It doesn’t happen when I feel peace.”
“Peace.” Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “Peace is a strong emotion?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Malfoy looked at the cup again. “What’s it like?”
Harry frowned. “You’ve . . .”
Malfoy was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say as though I have. You’ve met me, haven’t you? I’m rather tetchy.”
Harry stared at him. Malfoy had fine lines permanently on his brow, as though they had been etched there by a pin. His cheekbones were very high and his chin was quite pointy. It was strange to think that other people might not see the same thing as Harry saw, that they wouldn’t notice that little place by his mouth, that they wouldn’t notice the lines beside his eyes, that they would not adore the curve of Malfoy’s jaw.
“I went to Chimera Downs to make the monster go away,” said Harry.
“I thought as much.”
“It was secret and it was quiet. There was no one there to hurt, so that if I did lose control . . .”
“You would only hurt yourself,” Malfoy said, and Harry nodded. “You see how I begin to see how your tiny mind works.” Malfoy reached out to pat Harry’s hand again, but found Harry’s hand in a fist, and instead rested it there, on top.
“That was peace,” Harry said. “I tried to use it. Every time I felt the monster, I thought of Chimera Downs.”
“Even when you were at Chimera Downs?”
“There’s a particular field. The one that faces west. You can see it from the house.”
“With the slope.” Malfoy let go of his hand. “And the sycamore.”
“That field in particular. At first I would look at it, and make the monster go away. And then I started trying to close my eyes and see it.”
“So you could leave. One day.”
“It didn’t always work,” Harry said. “I mean, eventually it did, but sometimes I still . . .”
“When I first got there, you . . . were a little fractious, once or twice.”
“And then after I kissed you.”
Malfoy seemed to perk up. “It happened then?”
Swallowing, Harry nodded, and looked down.
“Why?”
Harry scowled back up at him. “Because I marked you,” he said, thinking it was obvious enough.
“Oh.” Malfoy bit his lip. “But I liked that. Didn’t I tell you?”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” Malfoy sounded interested. “Does it make the monster—er—claw? Is it doing it now?”
Harry had to close his eyes, and lock his hands in fists. “You said you were going to help me. Not provoke me.”
“Okay, alright, understood, acknowledged.” Malfoy seemed extremely pleased, sitting there quite cheerfully, waving his hand around in a dismissive flourish. “Question withdrawn.”
“Yes. It’s clawing.”
“That’s too bad.” Malfoy smiled in satisfaction.
“This is serious.”
“Of course it’s serious,” Malfoy assured him happily. “Poor baby,” he added, and stroked Harry’s hand.
“Why are you so happy?”
“I’m not happy,” Malfoy said, and patted his hand again. “I can see you’re very stressed. Well, I’m a little happy.”
“Well then. Thanks.”
Malfoy ruffled. “I can’t help it if your chest monster likes me.”
“It doesn’t like anyone. I don’t like anyone. I mean, I . . .” Harry clenched his fists until the knuckles were white. His eyes were very hot. He stood up.
Malfoy stood up too.
“I can’t do this,” Harry said. “I can’t do this; I—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Malfoy wasn’t happy now. He’d gone rather ghastly, actually. His face looked like a mask.
“I don’t—”
Malfoy came around the table, and then pushed down hard on Harry’s shoulders. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down and shut up. And then I’m going to tell you exactly what we’re going to do.”
Harry sat down and shut up.
“Good,” Malfoy told him. “That was very good.” Malfoy’s hands rested on his shoulders, for a moment more. Then Malfoy stopped touching him, came around the table, and sat down again.
“What are we going to do?” Harry asked.
Malfoy flapped a whimsical hand. “I don’t know.”
“You said—”
“Sounded good, didn’t it?”
Harry rolled his eyes, and put his head in his hands. “This is hopeless.”
“Come on. You’re not hopeless.” There was a little pause. “Well, maybe you’re a little hopeless. Harry . . .” Malfoy hesitated, and it made Harry look up. Malfoy wasn’t looking back at him. “Why did you come here? I mean . . .” He frowned. “To hear you tell it, you’ve been battling this for ages. Why me? Why right now?”
“I’m tired. I’m just really tired.”
“Of keeping it under control?”
“Yes. No. I’m tired of never getting to have what I want.”
Malfoy’s brows went up, and he still wasn’t looking at Harry. “You have more than most people, you know. Friends. Enough money to be independent. A nice flat. Family, even if it isn’t—”
“Alright, I’m lucky. I don’t care. I’m still tired of not getting to have—I should get to have—God, will you listen to me? I sound like . . .”
“I’m listening.” Malfoy was practically on the edge of his seat, listening. Now he was looking directly at him, almost breathless. “Trust me, I’m listening.”
“I want to have—I should have—I want you,” Harry snarled, pushing away from the table again.
There was a long silence, in which Malfoy looked at his cup. “And you see no reason why I might be happy about that, Potter?”
“I—what?”
“I’ve told you I fancy you, that I wanted—” Malfoy’s face twisted, and he leapt up from his seat as well. “Are you even thinking of anyone but yourself?”
“I,” Harry said, and swallowed. He wanted so much, so many things he should not do, his chest ached with them. The monster clawed for them. Harry closed his eyes again.
“Sweet Merlin. You can’t.” Malfoy came to him and shook him hard. “Listen to me, Harry. I’m a human being. You said you cared about my feelings. This isn’t easy for me, either.”
Harry’s breath was coming shallow. He felt sweat break out on his brow, cold and clammy.
“Maybe I don’t have a monster,” Malfoy said, “but I have other things. Doubts, and—I thought you might . . . Do you think because I’m not as powerful as you, the things I want matter less?” Malfoy pushed him into the wall.
“They don’t matter less.” Harry swallowed. “I just don’t know how to—I don’t know how to—”
“Think of your field.” Malfoy jabbed a finger at his chest. “Think of it right now, and don’t stop.”
“I don’t have a field anymore.”
“You said—”
“All I have is you.” Harry’s eyes were very hot as he looked at Malfoy, and he didn’t blink at all.
“Oh.” Malfoy looked surprised. “Well, that’s even better then. Listen to me, and do exactly what I say.”
Harry swallowed again.
“Can you do that?”
Harry didn’t know. He nodded jerkily.
“Good,” Malfoy said again. “Kiss me.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists. “I don’t . . .”
“I said, kiss me,” Malfoy said, and kissed him.
His lips were soft on the outside of Harry’s own, pressing gently, with a question. Harry closed his eyes, and there was no field. There had never been a road, but there was Draco Malfoy.
The light was always gold behind him, and yet the sky so full of stars.
Malfoy came down and down and down, and he was coming just for Harry.
Harry kissed Malfoy back, opened his mouth just enough so that Malfoy breathed into his mouth when he made a gasping sound. Harry kissed him and held everything else in check, everything he was, eyes closed, focusing on that one thing: Draco Malfoy coming down.
His mouth closed on Malfoy’s lower lip, and Malfoy pulled his mouth away, leaning his forehead in until his brow rested on Harry’s. Malfoy’s hands had come up and were holding Harry’s face. They gripped tight.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Malfoy breathed. His voice was a command, but he was begging. “Please, don’t say you’re sorry. I couldn’t bear it.”
Harry realized for the very first time just how much he might have hurt him, and just how much Malfoy had hidden from him. Harry realized how much he simply hadn’t seen, because he’d been afraid, and hadn’t once considered that Malfoy was, too. “I’m not sorry.”
Abruptly, Malfoy pulled back, frowning. “And don’t run away, either. I’ll kill you dead if you run away.”
“Okay. I won’t run away.” Then he kissed him again.
Malfoy pressed his narrow hips against him, tilted his head and made soft, wanting little noises. His hand gripped Harry’s hair hard, and pulled him down.
“Let’s not have these.” Malfoy started pulling off his glasses.
“Wait,” said Harry, grabbing his wrist. “We have to stop.”
“Potter.” Malfoy sounded extremely irritated.
“No, I’m not leaving. And I’m not sorry. But I . . . I want to do things to you,” he said, not knowing how to say just what he meant, “and some of them—”
“Excellent.” Malfoy beamed. “I want to do things to you, too.”
“Some of them definitely aren’t right. And some of them I can’t tell if—”
“I’ll tell you. I have an excellent grasp of right and wrong.”
Harry just looked at him incredulously.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What we do by ourselves is—it’s ours. You don’t seriously mean you care whether Hermione Weasley thinks it’s—”
“I’m not talking about Hermione right now.”
“Yes, but I mean, the general public, or whoever. When it comes down to what you do to me when we’re alone—I mean, completely alone—only what we think really matters.”
Malfoy was still looking breathless and excited, like Malfoy on a sugar high. Or like Malfoy used to in school whenever he thought Harry was going to get punished. That was a little creepy. And a little exciting too, actually, when Harry thought about it, and he had to—“Okay,” Harry said. “That makes some sort of sense, I guess.”
Malfoy sighed noisily. “Fine, then. What is it you want?”
“What?”
“Pay attention. We just agreed we can do what we want. Anything we want.” Malfoy’s tone was one of reprimand, but there was a little smile playing with the corners of his lips. “Then the question is—what do you want?”
“I don’t know. I could really hurt you.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Malfoy ran his hands down Harry’s chest. “You’re very big and strong.”
“No.” Harry took Malfoy’s hands off of him. “I’m not talking about games, Malfoy. Not everything I mean is the kind of thing that . . . people like.”
Malfoy’s eyes met his. “I told you I would tell you.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want, Potter?”
“Not to screw this up.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy leaned in, his breath ghosting across Harry’s neck. Malfoy whispered in his ear, “I can help with that.” He kissed the spot under Harry’s ear, then kissed a line down his neck until Harry grabbed him, and was kissing him again.
Malfoy was very warm. His body felt so alive under Harry’s hands, pressing Harry against the wall, lean and insistent and strong. Harry could feel his heartbeat. He wanted to taste his skin. He wanted—
Harry pulled away. “I know what I want.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy licked his lips.
“I want to go very slow.”
“Slow. I can go slow.”
Harry had never heard Malfoy talk like that, thick and lazy with utter contentment like that. He had to get away, because Malfoy was pretty much turning into mindless melted butter in his hands. Soon he could do anything he wanted with him, and this was supposed to be Malfoy, who could be so bright and sharp just like a blade, Malfoy excited and eager and so completely giving against him, because Malfoy did want him; Malfoy needed him; Malfoy would let him—
“Slower than this, even,” said Harry.
Malfoy wasn’t so completely out of it as he seemed, because his hand shot down and gripped Harry’s wrist. “And now here’s what I want.”
“Malfoy—” Harry tugged.
Malfoy tightened his grip. “You don’t get to run away. We can go as slow as you like. We don’t even have to do anything . . . at all intimate.” Malfoy’s cheeks tinged pink, and Harry wondered that Malfoy could be kissing him like that—talking like that—one moment, and embarrassed about the word ‘intimate’ the next. “But you don’t get to run away from your monster again. Ever.”
“I . . .” Harry looked at Malfoy’s pale, pointed face, and realized that he was in love with it. “Yes. Alright.”
“Splendid.” Malfoy dropped his wrist, and pushed away.
He didn’t sound as though he thought it was very splendid. He really liked the kissing, Harry thought. Malfoy liked it so much that Harry—very much needed to stop doing it.
“So then,” Malfoy said.
“Yeah.”
“We should . . .” Malfoy appeared to become distracted by Harry’s lips, and stopped talking.
Harry didn’t know what to do. Ordinarily, now would be a really good time to leave, but Harry had promised. Malfoy might see that as running away, and Malfoy . . . must have thought Harry didn’t want him back, Harry realized for the first time. He may have even thought Harry was going to reject his friendship, because Malfoy had been that afraid, and that nervous—and yes, a little tetchy, and—
—and when Harry thought of Malfoy, and the things he must have been feeling, there was no room for the monster to rise.
“We need to figure out how to make it so you don’t go psychotic if you get angry. Or jealous, or guilty or . . . maybe I’ll write a list.”
“Now?”
Malfoy’s eyes drifted down to Harry’s lips again. He looked away. “Now would probably be better.”
“Okay,” said Harry.
Malfoy nodded and went to the living room, Harry following. Opening a desk that look antique but small like a child’s, Malfoy started rummaging around. Sitting down on the couch, Malfoy arranged the things so that they were all easily accessible, the ink pot floating in front of him, the parchment smoothed down on a slate in his lap. Then with a quill in one hand, he beckoned with his other. “Over here, Harry.”
Before just then, Harry would have imagined that Malfoy being seductive would be a bit of a joke. Even if he was attractive in his own way, it wasn’t something he tried to be, and Malfoy seemed too . . . well, prickly to ever have a go at being sexy.
Of course all of that was completely wrong, because suddenly Malfoy was apparently made of sex. The problem was, Malfoy hadn’t even really been trying. He wasn’t trying to come on to him. Even if earlier Malfoy had wanted to, he wasn’t now. He was writing a list. The nib of his quill was resting on his bottom lip and he was looking at the parchment thoughtfully.
Harry went over to the couch.
“Sit.” Apparently Malfoy could sound like honey, also. He moved the quill away from his mouth, and scribbled something on the parchment.
Harry sat.
“Now, you’re going to—” Malfoy began, and Harry leaned over and took the quill away. He put it on the table, then the parchment and ink as well. Then he took off his glasses, folding them, and put them on the table too. When he had done that, he was still leaning over Malfoy. Harry looked at him—his blurry face—and put an arm around him.
“Oh, good.” Malfoy shimmied so that he was facing Harry more directly. “I really just wanted to make out.” Then Malfoy kissed him.
Harry let him, then pulled his mouth away and his body closer. He put his head on Malfoy’s shoulder; he breathed in Malfoy’s scent. He held on and on and on.
At first Malfoy was stiff under him, the cessation of the kissing either confusing or disappointing, perhaps both. Then Malfoy’s hand tentatively found his hair, and began to move in it.
Harry relaxed against him, and held him tighter.
“Oh,” said Malfoy, in a soft huff of realization. His hand went on in Harry’s hair. “Who would have thought? Harry Potter likes to be cuddled.”
Harry held tighter still.
Malfoy murmured warm and pleased, “You could’ve said you liked to be stroked just like a house pet.”
Harry could feel Malfoy’s mouth curve against his forehead. Harry breathed him in again, and out, in again, and out.
“I tried to tell them you were crazy. No one would listen. I said you’d have a crackup, too. Did they listen? No.”
These were Malfoy’s versions of sweet nothings, Harry realized. They were strangely soothing.
*
Harry awoke to Malfoy shaking his shoulder. “What are you doing in my flat?” Malfoy demanded.
“Er,” Harry said groggily. “I fell asleep.”
“Of course you did. Don’t you know that people—human people—sleep in beds?” Malfoy gave Harry his glasses, and Harry put them on. Malfoy looked perturbed. “Of course you don’t. Harry, human people sleep in beds.”
“I know that, Malfoy. I took you to yours.”
“Oh.” Malfoy was flustered. “I—did you take off my clothes, too?” Now Malfoy looked pleased.
“Why does my head hurt so much?”
“Hot chocolate.” Malfoy straightened up.
Harry rubbed his head. “Maybe I should . . .”
“No.” Malfoy’s hand dropped down on Harry’s shoulder, and held on tight. “You’re going to stay here and have a balanced breakfast.”
“You never eat breakfast.”
“Shows how little you know. Hot chocolate is perfectly balanced.”
In the kitchen, Malfoy took out curry, leek salad, and a chicken leg, saying very intrepidly, “I think we can make breakfast with these things.”
The breakfast was alright, though: toast, jam, eggs, and pumpkin juice that Harry found in Malfoy's cupbaords. “Suit yourself,” Malfoy told Harry. “If yourself is boring.” Malfoy apparently did have breakfast; it just was normally curry.
“How can you eat curry with hot chocolate?” Harry wanted to know.
“How can you eat with that face?” Malfoy wanted to know.
“First I open my mouth, then I put things in, then I chew.”
“How don’t you get sick? I get ill just looking at it.”
Harry frowned. “So says the man who wanted to snog me last night.”
“That’s fine. Snogging’s done with eyes closed.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. “I actually don’t understand your sense of humour.”
Malfoy beamed. “I know. It’s funnier that way.”
Done with breakfast, Harry pushed his plate aside and put his head in his arms on the table.
“You have appalling manners,” Malfoy informed him from somewhere above.
Harry’s head was still pounding. He couldn’t really remember what he’d been doing before he’d showed up at Malfoy’s, or for how long he’d been doing it. Mostly he remembered ice. He hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid that for some reason he couldn’t remember now.
One hand was loose and open on the table. Harry felt a tentative touch on his palm. Malfoy’s fingers were very light—unsure, Harry thought, which was strange. Malfoy always acted so sure of everything, even when he so very obviously wasn’t. The light finger in his palm traced the lines there, and then lifted.
Harry caught it back, and held Malfoy’s hand until he could look up. Malfoy was looking at him with a soft little smile, one that touched his eyes and just the corners of his mouth.
“First, let’s state the facts.” Malfoy carefully extricated his hand. “One. You have a monster in your chest.”
Harry sighed.
“Two. What this really means is you have a very terrible temper and you don’t know how to control it.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Three. You think it’s more complicated than that, but it really isn’t.”
Harry took a deep breath. “If it was just a temper, I couldn’t hurt people.”
“Who have you hurt?”
Harry looked at his hands. “Dolores Umbridge.”
“She’s dead.” Malfoy’s voice was very patient.
“Yes. I killed her.”
Shocked silence issued from the general direction of Malfoy. “But it was . . . how did you . . .?”
Harry had never spoken of it before. Doing so now, he was highly aware of the feeling coiled tight in his chest, aching on the inside. “I thought it. In my head. I could feel it in—in every part of me. The Killing Curse. Right here.” He pressed his fist to his forehead. “I wanted her to die.” He looked up at Malfoy, who was staring at him in open-mouthed in disbelief.
“You can’t,” Malfoy began, and stopped.
“I can. You saw. At Chimera Downs. I made the ground shake. That whole area of earth. I could have brought it down with a thought.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I wanted to.” Harry looked back at his hands.
The silence stretched for so long that Harry began to think about what he had said, basically admitting being a murderer and that he had wanted to hurt him. He could feel the claws now. He wouldn’t blame Malfoy for leaving right now, except that it was his own flat.
Instead, Malfoy floated the dishes over to the sink, spelling them to magically wash themselves. He turned back to Harry. “I want to take you somewhere. Will you come with me?”
Malfoy didn’t sound like honey this time. He sounded abrupt and rather distant, but Harry followed him anyway. Malfoy went through the living room and then out of his flat.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a field trip.” Malfoy took him to the lift. “We’re doing research.”
“Where?” Harry asked, when Malfoy took him outside.
“You’ll see,” Malfoy said, and put out his hand.
Harry took it, and they Apparated. When they arrived at their destination, they were in Wiltshire.
*
“What a lovely morning it is,” Malfoy said, as they walked through the grass.
Harry looked around. The grass was green and wet, and Malfoy started walking. In front of them were the gates to a large mansion. “Why are we here?”
“This is where I used to live,”
“I think I knew that, Malfoy. What are we doing here?”
“I’ll tell you a secret. It’s not actually to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.”
The gates became a mouth. “Who’s there?” the gates asked.
“It’s Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy said. “We want to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.”
“What . . .?”
“What did you think, Harry?” Malfoy’s smile was not quite pleasant. “That Malfoy Manor went to a rich Slytherin Pureblood family? Do you know how many of those there are left?”
“May I help you?” The voice of the gates this time was a woman’s.
“Yes, Mrs. Finch- Fletchley?” Malfoy said. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. We would just like to pop in briefly.” He paused. “I’ve brought Harry Potter.”
“Harry Potter?” The voice sounded fluttery.
Harry glared at Malfoy. “Yes,” he told the voice. Malfoy nudged him. Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s me.”
“How wonderful! Please, do come in!” The mouth opened, becoming a gate again to let them through.
“Is that Justin’s mum?” Harry asked, as they walked down the path to the mansion.
“No.” Malfoy didn’t look at him, not saying anything more as they came up to the house. A house-elf ushered them inside. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley met them, and then Harry realized she was Justin’s wife. It was strange to think that someone in his year at Hogwarts was married and living in a mansion, but then Harry reminded himself that many of his friends from Hogwarts were married, even if they didn’t have mansions. His very best friends were married. Most people had got on with their lives since Hogwarts.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley was delighted to see them. Harry was in the awkward position of knowing next to nothing about her, and Malfoy wasn’t much help. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, however, seemed enamored enough of the great Harry Potter that she asked at least a dozen questions pertaining to Harry, without listening to any of the answers and simultaneously—and rather unsubtly—revealing a great deal about herself.
After the trials, the Manor had apparently gone on auction, but no one had wanted it. It had languished on the market for years (enough time in which her husband might make his fortune, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley hinted) before the Finch-Fletchley’s had snatched it up at quite a bargain. Thirty thousand Galleons did not sound like a bargain at all to Harry (because of course Mrs. Finch-Fletchley revealed the price), but Harry saw Malfoy wince.
After they had been moved in a year, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on to tell them that (as though Malfoy didn’t know) Draco Malfoy came to visit them. He offered to remove some of the “rather more irksome” (so Mrs. Finch-Fletchley characterized them) enchantments on the Manor which had devalued the real estate. For that, Mr. Finch Fletchley was able to put a good word in, which allowed Malfoy to get a job as a clerk in the Ministry. And wasn’t that just nice all around?
Harry did think it was rather nice that Malfoy had helped Justin, and Justin had helped Malfoy. He never would have guessed that the two of them would give each other the time of day, Justin being Muggleborn, and Malfoy being—well, Malfoy.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, on the other hand, was less than nice, in Harry’s opinion, since the reason she had told the story was obviously to imply Malfoy had her husband to thank for his circumstances in life. Having read the papers, she would be aware that Harry and Malfoy were friends. Harry had learned many people would go to a great deal of effort in order to convince you that you owed them something when you were the hero of the wizarding world.
Harry had never been fond of those kinds of machinations, but Malfoy only sat there politely sipping tea, looking rather more pale and drawn than usual.
Justin, Harry gradually deduced, was out at work. He must have a lucrative career, even if Malfoy Manor had gone for only thirty-thousand Galleons.
“He does,” Mrs. Finch- Fletchley assured Harry, seeming very surprised. “Don’t you know?”
Harry didn’t know.
“Of course,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on, “we’ve shortened it to Finch in the name.”
“Harry doesn’t know anything about fashion,” Malfoy said helpfully, his voice very cool.
“But surely you’ve heard of Abbot-Corner and Finch?”
“No,” said Harry, who was going to kill Malfoy. Malfoy obviously knew whatever Justin did. No doubt he would have come here if he had thought Justin would be here. Actually, the idea that Malfoy was here anyway was still—really confusing.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, having ascertained Harry was not at all impressed, seemed very much less inclined toward conversation after that.
“Harry came to see something.” Harry noticed Malfoy didn’t say, I came to show Harry something, removing himself from the equation entirely. “I wonder if we might take a look upstairs?”
“Oh! That’s all quite different than it used to be. It’s been completely redone.”
Something ticked in Malfoy’s face, but his voice was bland when he said, “That’s alright. It’s more to do with a room itself than what’s in it now.”
“There aren’t still any of those . . . enchantments, are there?”
There was no expression in Malfoy’s face. “No. It’s—” For just one moment, Malfoy looked strained, searching for a word. “It’s to do with a memory.”
“I see,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said, although she very obviously didn’t. She looked to Harry, but Harry didn’t actually see either. But Mrs. Finch-Fletchley kept looking at Harry when she said, “Oh, I suppose so. What harm could it do? I’m sure it’s very important.” She nodded to Harry, because he was Harry. When he didn’t acknowledge her apparent favor, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shifted her skirts. “Shall I—”
Malfoy stood up quickly, turning just a little, so that Harry could only see his sharp profile. “I know my way around,” he said, then tilted his head. “Unless you’ve changed the staircase too.” Harry couldn’t read his expression.
“Very well,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said. “I do hope we can help you.” She looked meaningfully at Harry in a last attempt to earn his gratitude.
“Thanks,” said Harry, and followed Malfoy up the stairs.
*
Once they upstairs, Harry attempted to question Malfoy again.
Malfoy, however, walked down the hall with very measured steps, stopping at a closed door. “It was this one,” he told the door. Then he took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and went inside.
The room was very ordinary, if more richly appointed than some others Harry had seen. There was a bed with a canopy, a pine wardrobe, purple drapes, a thick carpet, a chair in the corner. There were not any personal things in the room—a guest room, Harry supposed, though it seemed rather large. There was a window that faced west, full and large.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, turning to face him, “what . . .?”
“This is the room the Dark Lord stayed in.”
Harry blinked and looked around.
“It was different then.” Malfoy’s tone was light and crisp. “It used to be the master bedroom, you see, where my parents—” Malfoy stopped as though he had come down a road where there appeared to be a block, and then started again. “He cleared them out and used it while he was here.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
Malfoy went on as though he had not heard. “The bed was bigger then. There were more mirrors. More . . . pictures, and Mother’s vanity. Father had ornamental swords, from Japan you see; they hung crossed . . .” Malfoy looked around.
“Draco,” Harry said, and tried to touch him.
Malfoy slunk away. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned and faced Harry then. “The point is, the Dark Lord had a bedroom.”
Harry tried to get some hint from Malfoy’s face. “Er. What kind of point is that?”
Malfoy shook his head. He walked over to the window, looking out of it for a long moment before he turned back. “I never knew how the Dark Lord came back to life. Father . . .” Malfoy frowned down at his shoes. “I know it—about the Portkey, and what happened to Diggory, but I don’t know—I didn’t know . . . . I never knew how he came back. I didn’t know what he was.”
“The Horcruxes.”
Malfoy nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I get that now. You know more about it than I.” Malfoy looked out the window again. “You confronted him more than anyone.” He turned back. “But the Dark Lord lived in my house. I was here for a whole summer, and the Christmas holidays . . . I know things too.”
“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “What do you know?”
Malfoy looked around the room again. “I know that he lived here. He had to . . . Voldemort slept, just like the rest of us. He had to eat, even. I bet he even had to take shits.” Malfoy smiled mirthlessly. “He was a human being. What remained of one.”
Harry frowned. “He split up his soul, Malfoy.”
“Okay.” Malfoy’s eyes moved to him, but looked as though they could not see him. “But that was still . . . he was all split up into pieces, but he had a soul. Once. Who knows why he did the things he did? Maybe he was born wicked. Maybe he had a horrible childhood. Maybe he truly did believe the things he . . .” Malfoy drifted off. His attention seemed to drift as well, captured again by the window.
Harry took a step closer. “He did have a terrible childhood.”
Malfoy sniffed. “He told you over tea and biscuits, did he?”
“Dumbledore showed me. When we had to look for Horcruxes, I had to find out more about Volde—he was named Tom Riddle.” Harry told Malfoy about the Pensieve, about some of the scenes he had scene. Once Harry had mentioned the scene with Merope, Malfoy started laughing. No sound was coming out. Harry frowned. “What’s funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” Malfoy swallowed. His arms were crossed, more as though holding himself in than anyone else out. His chest had never seemed quite so thin before. “It’s just the Dark Lord being a half-blood, that’s all. It’s very funny.”
Harry took another step closer. “I forgot you didn’t know.”
Malfoy looked away again. “Should have known Dumbledore would have told you more than I ever could.”
Harry stood very close by then.
When Malfoy turned back, he was quite pale. He must have been cold, standing by window. “It doesn’t change anything. The Dark Lord—Riddle. Whether he was wicked or had a temper, I don’t know, he—even he—was just a man. It didn’t start out that he didn’t have a soul, or . . . What made him different was that he was more powerful.”
“I’m almost as powerful as he was.”
Malfoy shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. He looked down, frowning. “Yes, Harry. Thank you. That’s very informative. But what I mean is—consider for a moment, that you have no greater capacity to love than I do.”
“Malfoy—”
“Consider that you have no more capacity for evil than me. Consider, just for an instant—I know it’s hard—that we are equals, and what separates us is the choices we’ve made, and not . . . not the fact that you’re just better.”
“I don’t think I’m—”
“It might not even be true,” Malfoy said, turning around. “Maybe the Dark Lord could never have loved anyone at all. Maybe he didn’t have it in him. Those years that he lived here—they were like a nightmare. They almost didn’t seem real. He was so horrible, he had to be a dream.”
“Malfoy,” Harry said again, and put his hand on the sharp jut of Malfoy’s shoulder.
Malfoy shrugged away. “That was all. I just wanted to show you that—that he was real after all.”
“Can you show me your room?” Harry asked, before he knew he was going to ask it.
Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened. “What for?”
Harry didn’t really know what for, but thought it probably had something to do with the way Malfoy looked so sharp in all directions, as though if you touched him, he might break. “I just wanted to see.”
“It’s not my room anymore.”
“We can just look at it.” There were probably no more happy memories in that room than there were in this one, he guessed, but maybe it would be different. Maybe Malfoy would remember better times. Maybe the Finch-Fletchleys had changed it so much that Malfoy would not remember anything at all, and he would see that a room was just a room.
“Fine,” Malfoy said, and went to the door.
They walked down the hall and rounded a corner, and Malfoy opened another door.
The room was obviously a nursery. There was a cradle with a mobile overhead, and a changing table. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had not looked pregnant, but they were apparently trying. The colors were yellow and soft blue, and Malfoy looked ghastly, the way you looked when ghosts were walking through you.
“That was my room, Potter,” Malfoy said, and shut the door. “Had enough?”
They took their leave of Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who fluttered around some more and graciously informed Harry that he could visit, “any time, and bring whomever he wanted,” which seemed very obviously a slight toward Malfoy. Harry wondered why anyone would want to live in Voldemort’s old headquarters. He went out to the lawn with Malfoy.
Once clear of the gates, he took Malfoy’s hand before Malfoy could say anything, and they Disapparated.
*
Back at Malfoy’s flat, Malfoy quickly wrested free of Harry. Apparently, he very much needed to straighten his desk, because that was what he started doing, without looking at Harry. “I’m tired now,” Malfoy said. “You had better go home.”
“But,” Harry began, yet he couldn’t think of what to say.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on this,” Malfoy said. “I haven’t been sleeping well. It would be very nice if I could stop worrying about your problems now and rest.”
“Malfoy,” Harry said, and came toward him again.
Malfoy slammed the desk shut. When he turned around, his expression was narrow and ugly. “Even if I have spent five days unable to sleep, worried about you, even if I have thought of nothing but you for months now, even if we have spent all morning trying to establish the fact that you aren’t the center of the universe—you still aren’t the center of the universe.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“Draco,” Harry said, and came up, and kissed him.
Malfoy pushed him. “How can I get it through your thick head that I don’t want you right now?”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help!”
Harry’s voice was hoarse. “I’ll do anything.”
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “Just go away.”
“Okay,” Harry said. He was opening the door when Malfoy put a hand on it, and shut it while Harry was still on the inside.
“Did you know that you were gone for five days?”
“Gone?”
“Yes, gone. I didn’t know where you were.” Malfoy looked away. “Granger was very worried.”
“Granger.”
“Yes.”
Harry sighed, scrubbing his cheeks with his hands. “I guess I’ll—”
“Stay.”
“What?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Malfoy. “I want you to stay. I’ve just got to have some time to . . . Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to help you.”
I want to help you too, Harry wanted to say, but he thought that for some reason Malfoy would not like it. “Okay.”
Malfoy slumped against the door. “You can’t go away like that. You have to let me help you. Otherwise I’m not any good. Nothing’s any good.”
“I’ll stay,” promised Harry, and stayed.
*
Go to: Chapter 8
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 9K, 70K overall
Warnings: later, there is sex, but not much violence.
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: -Thanks to
kjp_013 for the quick beta. -Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 7
Harry never did remember that time very well.
It was nothing like the time he had killed Dolores Umbridge, because then, of course, he hadn’t stopped himself.
Harry hadn’t meant to kill her. No one had actually been able to prove it, and he was the Boy Who Lived, so they hadn’t brought up any charges.
That was after Harry quit the Aurors and broke up with Ginny. He had been so . . . angry; he had been devastated. Umbridge had been in the midst of her sixth appeal. It had been five years since Voldemort had been defeated, but the trials had lasted forever.
The thing about Umbridge was she had been working for the Ministry, and for all the horrible things that she had done, she kept trying to claim she had just been doing what she had been told. Umbridge “believed in the system,” she told the Prophet, and, “would see justice done.” Hermione called it a circus. Waste of Ministry resources. Ron said Umbridge was just trying to skirt her sentence. Harry just wanted it over.
The last four appeals, they had called Harry Potter to testify. Harry didn’t know why. He had had all kinds of experience with her at Hogwarts, but they were charging her for the crimes she had committed while she’d been at the Ministry in his sixth and seventh year. Besides stealing the locket back from her, he hadn’t had much to do with her then. He was sure she’d remained as awful as she’d always been, but there should’ve been other people at the Ministry to give better testimonies. Yet the Wizengamot kept calling him, and he had to keep testifying, and the scars on his hand always remained.
When Harry had appeared to give his testimony that last time, he’d just seen Ginny again. She’d told him she was worried about him, and that she was going out with Dean Thomas. She’d thought he’d left her to be happy, she said, and from what she could tell about the life he was living, she didn’t think he was happy.
Harry had walked into the courtroom, and his eyes had been hot. His skin had felt pale. Everything was cold, and he didn’t have a field to go to. All he could think was that ten years ago, his parents should have been putting him on the Hogwarts Express. Seventeen years from now, he should be putting his own kids on that train.
Now he was never going to.
Everything was ruined with Ginny. He was never going to marry her. They weren’t going to have a family. He wasn’t going to have a family, and it would probably be best if he didn’t have any friends either. He wasn’t going to be an Auror as he had dreamed; he was never going to have dreams again. He was only going to have nightmares.
Voldemort had taken so much more from him than the lives of the previous generation, than the lives of his classmates, than his own childhood. He had taken Harry’s future too, and the worst part was, Harry couldn’t fight him now. Somehow everyone else was able to move on, living their lives, being happy—all except Harry. And Dolores Umbridge.
The Wizengamot shook when Harry talked. The Ministry rocked. He was having trouble keeping the monster on the inside, and Harry didn’t know how to stop it.
Five years house arrest while waiting on appeals could make anyone a little crazy, and Umbridge was already that. Umbridge, however, seemed to lack the terror the others were feeling in response to the monster clawing its way all the way outside of Harry. Instead she was appalled.
“He’s drunk!” she screeched, and screeched again. She demanded his testimony be stricken from the record.
Harry wanted to make her afraid. That was all he wanted. He stood up on the stand and looked at her.
Umbridge fell down dead.
St. Mungo’s declared she had died from a heart attack. No one knew of a magical means to silently and spontaneously cause a heart attack, and there was no way to tell whether it was magically induced or not. But everyone knew anyway. They had been there. They had seen it. And Umbridge now was dead.
This time was different from then, because then Harry had been around people. He had killed her and destroyed things, and then he had set about destroying himself. This time, he had at least learned some measure of control, and could take himself away before he hurt anyone.
Harry went to Chimera Downs, but of course, he could never stay there. All he had to do was look at the field.
Harry went to water, because he knew how to talk to mermaids now. He thought that they might talk to him. He went down so far, down to where the water was numbingly cold, to where the songs they sang were songs of ice. He closed his eyes, and there was a field . . .
Harry went to the Carpathians in Romania, high on the tops of mountains where no men were. He could feel the sky above him, and it was very very blue. The snow crunched beneath him just like glass. And in his mind there was a field, and the grass was very green. A breeze came wafting by . . .
Harry went to the coldest place he had ever been. Everywhere was snow; the ground was snow; the water was snow; the sky was snow. Harry closed his eyes, and inside him there was a field. It was summer twilight, and low the crickets sang. Grass swayed in the breeze; there was no road.
Draco Malfoy kept coming down.
Harry Apparated.
*
Malfoy was at home, sitting at his Formica table, contemplating a glass of pumpkin juice.
There were wards around Malfoy’s flat, but the Apparition cut through them like butter. Malfoy knocked over his glass of juice.
“What the hell are you—”
“I need your help,” Harry said.
Malfoy was livid. “Why are you in my flat?”
“Please.”
Malfoy looked him over, and his voice changed. “Where have you been?”
“I tried to go to Chimera Downs. Malfoy.” Harry’s breath was coming short.
“Goodness, Harry.”
“I can’t,” Harry said, and put his hands on his chest, as though he could tear it out or make it stop. “I can’t.”
Malfoy made a little clicking sound. “Of course you can’t. Come here.”
Then Malfoy had his arms around him, and Harry was sinking to the floor. Malfoy felt very warm, and alive. Harry could feel blood thrumming in Malfoy’s veins; he could feel his heartbeat. Harry would not have thought it would do any good. He had wanted to destroy people before, just because they felt more alive than he did.
Perhaps, had it happened years ago, Harry would have wanted to destroy Malfoy too. But even if Harry wanted to, he didn’t, and Malfoy’s arms felt so strong and real. He closed his eyes, and thought of Draco Malfoy coming down the rise.
Malfoy with his shirt open at the throat, Malfoy with his long legs. Malfoy with his bright hair. One time it was wet, curled under his ears. Malfoy with the sky lit gold behind him, Malfoy with the crickets singing. The green grass swaying and Draco Malfoy, coming down.
The monster circled, once, twice in his chest, as though finding a place around which to coil, and stayed inside him.
Meanwhile Malfoy pet Harry’s hair, saying nonsense things.
“I always knew you were a crazy person,” he murmured. “Shh. Go ahead and have a crackup. See if I care. Shh.”
“Oh, God,” said Harry.
Malfoy kept petting his hair. “You’re just a crazy person. It’s okay. Whatever your crazy problems are, you’re still just a crazy person, and I’m going to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Malfoy said, and then was rubbing Harry’s back—small circles, soothing and smooth, the way you did for children. The way Malfoy did for children; the way you did for children if you were not Harry Potter. “Don’t be so utterly stupid. Shh.”
Harry shushed. He stayed silent as Malfoy kept rubbing his back, occasionally murmuring nonsense things, low in Harry’s ear.
*
Malfoy gently pushed Harry away. “Now we’re going to sit on chairs, just like human beings.”
Like a human being, Harry thought, and sat down in the chair. He felt like his scar hurt, and put his hand to his forehead.
Malfoy was clanging around the kitchen, boiling things, taking down cups, Summoning a tin from a cupboard with his wand. He made the hot chocolate without turning around to look at Harry. When it was done, Malfoy brought the mugs to the Formica table, and set one down in front of Harry. Then Malfoy sat down too, and wrapped his hands around his mug. “Okay, I’m ready. Talk.”
Harry drank his hot chocolate.
“It’s very bad form to reject someone, have a crackup on his floor, and then not tell him why.”
“I have a monster in my chest,” Harry said.
Malfoy put his chocolate down very carefully. “What kind of monster?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have a monster in your chest and don’t know what kind?” Malfoy clicked his tongue, as though in reprimand. “That isn’t very friendly to your monster, is it?”
Harry grimaced. “It isn’t friendly to me.”
Malfoy nodded and sipped his chocolate, just as if this was a normal conversation. Just as if people always had monsters in their chests. “Have you had it looked at?”
“What?”
“Have you had it looked at,” Malfoy repeated for him. “If there’s a monster—”
“Er. It’s not a physical monster. I don’t think.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, and somehow his tone was very gentle. “I understand that, Harry. I meant, have you thought about getting help?”
Harry looked down at his chocolate. “I thought maybe Voldemort left it in me.”
“How could he do that?” Malfoy’s brow furrowed.
So Harry told him about Horcruxes, about how he’d walked into the forest. He told Malfoy about how Voldemort had cast the killing curse, and the dream of King’s Cross. He told Malfoy about the thing under the chair.
“I left it there,” Harry said, and felt tightness close in on his chest. “I just left it.”
“That doesn’t sound like a monster, Harry.”
Malfoy’s voice worked on Harry. Normally when people sounded gentle and understanding, it didn’t work. Harry didn’t think he deserved understanding or gentleness. Coming from Malfoy, it felt different, because Malfoy wasn’t nice. Malfoy was never gentle except when something needed it. If Malfoy was doing it, it must be alright.
Harry looked at Malfoy, the little line about his mouth, the way his eyes looked tired. Harry looked at Malfoy, and it was better than thinking of the field. Inside, Harry felt calm.
“No,” Harry finally agreed, and looked back down into his chocolate. “I guess it couldn’t be. I felt the monster before then, anyway.”
“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning.”
So Harry told him about sixth year, Dean Thomas, and Ginny. He told Malfoy about after the war, how things had gradually gotten worse with Ginny. He talked about how angry he became, working with the Aurors. The monster had started coming then, too. He told Malfoy about tracking dark wizards in the Aurors, fighting Summoned beasts, making the dragon walk away.
“I thought that was a rumor,” Malfoy said.
“It wasn’t.”
“But the three foreign dignitaries,” Malfoy began.
“Them too.”
“Listen, splinching is something you do when—”
“I know what it is,” Harry said. “I Apparated them.”
“You mean you side-along—”
“No. I made them disappear.”
“So it’s a transitive verb now. I guess I always wondered how those notes you sent from your hermitage arrived at my flat.”
“Different spell. But similar.”
Malfoy nodded. “Okay. You quit the Aurors. And you left Ginny Weasley. It was in the Daily Prophet. How about . . . ?”
“The rest of it was true, too. I couldn’t . . . I wanted . . .”
“I’m going to get you more chocolate,” Malfoy said, even though Harry hadn’t touched his. Malfoy stood up, and spelled the chocolate out of the cup, then poured new chocolate in. It was steaming hot.
He brought it back to the table, standing behind Harry. Looming, Harry thought, then Malfoy’s hand tentatively settled on his shoulder and Harry closed his eyes. His chest felt tight again, and he didn’t understand how Malfoy could be his calm thing, the one place in his whole life Harry could go to and feel at peace, and also be the thing that made the monster howl inside him.
“You’ve always been dismal at talking,” Malfoy drawled, and pressed in on Harry’s shoulder.
Harry closed his eyes and focused on that hand. “I tried not to care. About anything, or anyone. The things I thought about the people I loved, they were . . . And the way I was with Ginny. I wanted . . . I wanted to own her.”
Malfoy took his hand away. “So does Pansy Parkinson. She’s quite soppy over her, you know. I think she would even leave Greg.” He came around to the other side of the table and sat down again. “So,” he said. “It happens when you feel violence. Hate. Desire. Jealousy. Possession.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Am I missing any?”
“Love.”
Malfoy very quickly hid an expression that looked suspiciously like pity. “Love,” he added on his fingers, business-like. “Anger.”
“Guilt.”
Malfoy turned his cup on the table, as though he wanted to see it from a new angle. “Guilt,” he told the cup. “That’s a ridiculous emotion.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never felt guilty.”
“Of course I’ve felt guilty.” Malfoy looked annoyed. “It’s still ridiculous. Alright, then. What are you guilty for?”
Harry shrugged. “Pick something.”
For a while, Malfoy was meditative, contemplating the cup, as though it might tell him something. “Fine. And no doubt you’re guilty about your monster too, which makes your monster get riled up, which makes you more guilty. Am I right?”
Harry nodded.
“Fabulous,” Malfoy said, but the sarcasm did not appear to be directed at Harry. Maybe it was at the cup, Harry thought. “That’s a nasty little cycle.”
“I suppose.”
“That’s okay.” Malfoy reached over and patted Harry’s hand, just as though reassuring a crazy person. “I knew you were crazy.” The patting was really more like he was reassuring a crazy person who was drooling and couldn’t chew his own food, rather than a crazy person who might fly off the handle and kill people. Malfoy was always superior like that. Harry found it extremely comforting.
“Thanks.”
“Love, hate, jealousy, anger, guilt—pretty much any strong emotional reaction.” Malfoy cocked his head. “Now we come to it. Which one was it this last time?”
“It doesn’t happen with all strong emotional reactions.”
Malfoy raised his brows. “Enlighten us.”
“It doesn’t happen when I feel peace.”
“Peace.” Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “Peace is a strong emotion?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Malfoy looked at the cup again. “What’s it like?”
Harry frowned. “You’ve . . .”
Malfoy was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say as though I have. You’ve met me, haven’t you? I’m rather tetchy.”
Harry stared at him. Malfoy had fine lines permanently on his brow, as though they had been etched there by a pin. His cheekbones were very high and his chin was quite pointy. It was strange to think that other people might not see the same thing as Harry saw, that they wouldn’t notice that little place by his mouth, that they wouldn’t notice the lines beside his eyes, that they would not adore the curve of Malfoy’s jaw.
“I went to Chimera Downs to make the monster go away,” said Harry.
“I thought as much.”
“It was secret and it was quiet. There was no one there to hurt, so that if I did lose control . . .”
“You would only hurt yourself,” Malfoy said, and Harry nodded. “You see how I begin to see how your tiny mind works.” Malfoy reached out to pat Harry’s hand again, but found Harry’s hand in a fist, and instead rested it there, on top.
“That was peace,” Harry said. “I tried to use it. Every time I felt the monster, I thought of Chimera Downs.”
“Even when you were at Chimera Downs?”
“There’s a particular field. The one that faces west. You can see it from the house.”
“With the slope.” Malfoy let go of his hand. “And the sycamore.”
“That field in particular. At first I would look at it, and make the monster go away. And then I started trying to close my eyes and see it.”
“So you could leave. One day.”
“It didn’t always work,” Harry said. “I mean, eventually it did, but sometimes I still . . .”
“When I first got there, you . . . were a little fractious, once or twice.”
“And then after I kissed you.”
Malfoy seemed to perk up. “It happened then?”
Swallowing, Harry nodded, and looked down.
“Why?”
Harry scowled back up at him. “Because I marked you,” he said, thinking it was obvious enough.
“Oh.” Malfoy bit his lip. “But I liked that. Didn’t I tell you?”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” Malfoy sounded interested. “Does it make the monster—er—claw? Is it doing it now?”
Harry had to close his eyes, and lock his hands in fists. “You said you were going to help me. Not provoke me.”
“Okay, alright, understood, acknowledged.” Malfoy seemed extremely pleased, sitting there quite cheerfully, waving his hand around in a dismissive flourish. “Question withdrawn.”
“Yes. It’s clawing.”
“That’s too bad.” Malfoy smiled in satisfaction.
“This is serious.”
“Of course it’s serious,” Malfoy assured him happily. “Poor baby,” he added, and stroked Harry’s hand.
“Why are you so happy?”
“I’m not happy,” Malfoy said, and patted his hand again. “I can see you’re very stressed. Well, I’m a little happy.”
“Well then. Thanks.”
Malfoy ruffled. “I can’t help it if your chest monster likes me.”
“It doesn’t like anyone. I don’t like anyone. I mean, I . . .” Harry clenched his fists until the knuckles were white. His eyes were very hot. He stood up.
Malfoy stood up too.
“I can’t do this,” Harry said. “I can’t do this; I—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Malfoy wasn’t happy now. He’d gone rather ghastly, actually. His face looked like a mask.
“I don’t—”
Malfoy came around the table, and then pushed down hard on Harry’s shoulders. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down and shut up. And then I’m going to tell you exactly what we’re going to do.”
Harry sat down and shut up.
“Good,” Malfoy told him. “That was very good.” Malfoy’s hands rested on his shoulders, for a moment more. Then Malfoy stopped touching him, came around the table, and sat down again.
“What are we going to do?” Harry asked.
Malfoy flapped a whimsical hand. “I don’t know.”
“You said—”
“Sounded good, didn’t it?”
Harry rolled his eyes, and put his head in his hands. “This is hopeless.”
“Come on. You’re not hopeless.” There was a little pause. “Well, maybe you’re a little hopeless. Harry . . .” Malfoy hesitated, and it made Harry look up. Malfoy wasn’t looking back at him. “Why did you come here? I mean . . .” He frowned. “To hear you tell it, you’ve been battling this for ages. Why me? Why right now?”
“I’m tired. I’m just really tired.”
“Of keeping it under control?”
“Yes. No. I’m tired of never getting to have what I want.”
Malfoy’s brows went up, and he still wasn’t looking at Harry. “You have more than most people, you know. Friends. Enough money to be independent. A nice flat. Family, even if it isn’t—”
“Alright, I’m lucky. I don’t care. I’m still tired of not getting to have—I should get to have—God, will you listen to me? I sound like . . .”
“I’m listening.” Malfoy was practically on the edge of his seat, listening. Now he was looking directly at him, almost breathless. “Trust me, I’m listening.”
“I want to have—I should have—I want you,” Harry snarled, pushing away from the table again.
There was a long silence, in which Malfoy looked at his cup. “And you see no reason why I might be happy about that, Potter?”
“I—what?”
“I’ve told you I fancy you, that I wanted—” Malfoy’s face twisted, and he leapt up from his seat as well. “Are you even thinking of anyone but yourself?”
“I,” Harry said, and swallowed. He wanted so much, so many things he should not do, his chest ached with them. The monster clawed for them. Harry closed his eyes again.
“Sweet Merlin. You can’t.” Malfoy came to him and shook him hard. “Listen to me, Harry. I’m a human being. You said you cared about my feelings. This isn’t easy for me, either.”
Harry’s breath was coming shallow. He felt sweat break out on his brow, cold and clammy.
“Maybe I don’t have a monster,” Malfoy said, “but I have other things. Doubts, and—I thought you might . . . Do you think because I’m not as powerful as you, the things I want matter less?” Malfoy pushed him into the wall.
“They don’t matter less.” Harry swallowed. “I just don’t know how to—I don’t know how to—”
“Think of your field.” Malfoy jabbed a finger at his chest. “Think of it right now, and don’t stop.”
“I don’t have a field anymore.”
“You said—”
“All I have is you.” Harry’s eyes were very hot as he looked at Malfoy, and he didn’t blink at all.
“Oh.” Malfoy looked surprised. “Well, that’s even better then. Listen to me, and do exactly what I say.”
Harry swallowed again.
“Can you do that?”
Harry didn’t know. He nodded jerkily.
“Good,” Malfoy said again. “Kiss me.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists. “I don’t . . .”
“I said, kiss me,” Malfoy said, and kissed him.
His lips were soft on the outside of Harry’s own, pressing gently, with a question. Harry closed his eyes, and there was no field. There had never been a road, but there was Draco Malfoy.
The light was always gold behind him, and yet the sky so full of stars.
Malfoy came down and down and down, and he was coming just for Harry.
Harry kissed Malfoy back, opened his mouth just enough so that Malfoy breathed into his mouth when he made a gasping sound. Harry kissed him and held everything else in check, everything he was, eyes closed, focusing on that one thing: Draco Malfoy coming down.
His mouth closed on Malfoy’s lower lip, and Malfoy pulled his mouth away, leaning his forehead in until his brow rested on Harry’s. Malfoy’s hands had come up and were holding Harry’s face. They gripped tight.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Malfoy breathed. His voice was a command, but he was begging. “Please, don’t say you’re sorry. I couldn’t bear it.”
Harry realized for the very first time just how much he might have hurt him, and just how much Malfoy had hidden from him. Harry realized how much he simply hadn’t seen, because he’d been afraid, and hadn’t once considered that Malfoy was, too. “I’m not sorry.”
Abruptly, Malfoy pulled back, frowning. “And don’t run away, either. I’ll kill you dead if you run away.”
“Okay. I won’t run away.” Then he kissed him again.
Malfoy pressed his narrow hips against him, tilted his head and made soft, wanting little noises. His hand gripped Harry’s hair hard, and pulled him down.
“Let’s not have these.” Malfoy started pulling off his glasses.
“Wait,” said Harry, grabbing his wrist. “We have to stop.”
“Potter.” Malfoy sounded extremely irritated.
“No, I’m not leaving. And I’m not sorry. But I . . . I want to do things to you,” he said, not knowing how to say just what he meant, “and some of them—”
“Excellent.” Malfoy beamed. “I want to do things to you, too.”
“Some of them definitely aren’t right. And some of them I can’t tell if—”
“I’ll tell you. I have an excellent grasp of right and wrong.”
Harry just looked at him incredulously.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What we do by ourselves is—it’s ours. You don’t seriously mean you care whether Hermione Weasley thinks it’s—”
“I’m not talking about Hermione right now.”
“Yes, but I mean, the general public, or whoever. When it comes down to what you do to me when we’re alone—I mean, completely alone—only what we think really matters.”
Malfoy was still looking breathless and excited, like Malfoy on a sugar high. Or like Malfoy used to in school whenever he thought Harry was going to get punished. That was a little creepy. And a little exciting too, actually, when Harry thought about it, and he had to—“Okay,” Harry said. “That makes some sort of sense, I guess.”
Malfoy sighed noisily. “Fine, then. What is it you want?”
“What?”
“Pay attention. We just agreed we can do what we want. Anything we want.” Malfoy’s tone was one of reprimand, but there was a little smile playing with the corners of his lips. “Then the question is—what do you want?”
“I don’t know. I could really hurt you.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Malfoy ran his hands down Harry’s chest. “You’re very big and strong.”
“No.” Harry took Malfoy’s hands off of him. “I’m not talking about games, Malfoy. Not everything I mean is the kind of thing that . . . people like.”
Malfoy’s eyes met his. “I told you I would tell you.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want, Potter?”
“Not to screw this up.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy leaned in, his breath ghosting across Harry’s neck. Malfoy whispered in his ear, “I can help with that.” He kissed the spot under Harry’s ear, then kissed a line down his neck until Harry grabbed him, and was kissing him again.
Malfoy was very warm. His body felt so alive under Harry’s hands, pressing Harry against the wall, lean and insistent and strong. Harry could feel his heartbeat. He wanted to taste his skin. He wanted—
Harry pulled away. “I know what I want.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy licked his lips.
“I want to go very slow.”
“Slow. I can go slow.”
Harry had never heard Malfoy talk like that, thick and lazy with utter contentment like that. He had to get away, because Malfoy was pretty much turning into mindless melted butter in his hands. Soon he could do anything he wanted with him, and this was supposed to be Malfoy, who could be so bright and sharp just like a blade, Malfoy excited and eager and so completely giving against him, because Malfoy did want him; Malfoy needed him; Malfoy would let him—
“Slower than this, even,” said Harry.
Malfoy wasn’t so completely out of it as he seemed, because his hand shot down and gripped Harry’s wrist. “And now here’s what I want.”
“Malfoy—” Harry tugged.
Malfoy tightened his grip. “You don’t get to run away. We can go as slow as you like. We don’t even have to do anything . . . at all intimate.” Malfoy’s cheeks tinged pink, and Harry wondered that Malfoy could be kissing him like that—talking like that—one moment, and embarrassed about the word ‘intimate’ the next. “But you don’t get to run away from your monster again. Ever.”
“I . . .” Harry looked at Malfoy’s pale, pointed face, and realized that he was in love with it. “Yes. Alright.”
“Splendid.” Malfoy dropped his wrist, and pushed away.
He didn’t sound as though he thought it was very splendid. He really liked the kissing, Harry thought. Malfoy liked it so much that Harry—very much needed to stop doing it.
“So then,” Malfoy said.
“Yeah.”
“We should . . .” Malfoy appeared to become distracted by Harry’s lips, and stopped talking.
Harry didn’t know what to do. Ordinarily, now would be a really good time to leave, but Harry had promised. Malfoy might see that as running away, and Malfoy . . . must have thought Harry didn’t want him back, Harry realized for the first time. He may have even thought Harry was going to reject his friendship, because Malfoy had been that afraid, and that nervous—and yes, a little tetchy, and—
—and when Harry thought of Malfoy, and the things he must have been feeling, there was no room for the monster to rise.
“We need to figure out how to make it so you don’t go psychotic if you get angry. Or jealous, or guilty or . . . maybe I’ll write a list.”
“Now?”
Malfoy’s eyes drifted down to Harry’s lips again. He looked away. “Now would probably be better.”
“Okay,” said Harry.
Malfoy nodded and went to the living room, Harry following. Opening a desk that look antique but small like a child’s, Malfoy started rummaging around. Sitting down on the couch, Malfoy arranged the things so that they were all easily accessible, the ink pot floating in front of him, the parchment smoothed down on a slate in his lap. Then with a quill in one hand, he beckoned with his other. “Over here, Harry.”
Before just then, Harry would have imagined that Malfoy being seductive would be a bit of a joke. Even if he was attractive in his own way, it wasn’t something he tried to be, and Malfoy seemed too . . . well, prickly to ever have a go at being sexy.
Of course all of that was completely wrong, because suddenly Malfoy was apparently made of sex. The problem was, Malfoy hadn’t even really been trying. He wasn’t trying to come on to him. Even if earlier Malfoy had wanted to, he wasn’t now. He was writing a list. The nib of his quill was resting on his bottom lip and he was looking at the parchment thoughtfully.
Harry went over to the couch.
“Sit.” Apparently Malfoy could sound like honey, also. He moved the quill away from his mouth, and scribbled something on the parchment.
Harry sat.
“Now, you’re going to—” Malfoy began, and Harry leaned over and took the quill away. He put it on the table, then the parchment and ink as well. Then he took off his glasses, folding them, and put them on the table too. When he had done that, he was still leaning over Malfoy. Harry looked at him—his blurry face—and put an arm around him.
“Oh, good.” Malfoy shimmied so that he was facing Harry more directly. “I really just wanted to make out.” Then Malfoy kissed him.
Harry let him, then pulled his mouth away and his body closer. He put his head on Malfoy’s shoulder; he breathed in Malfoy’s scent. He held on and on and on.
At first Malfoy was stiff under him, the cessation of the kissing either confusing or disappointing, perhaps both. Then Malfoy’s hand tentatively found his hair, and began to move in it.
Harry relaxed against him, and held him tighter.
“Oh,” said Malfoy, in a soft huff of realization. His hand went on in Harry’s hair. “Who would have thought? Harry Potter likes to be cuddled.”
Harry held tighter still.
Malfoy murmured warm and pleased, “You could’ve said you liked to be stroked just like a house pet.”
Harry could feel Malfoy’s mouth curve against his forehead. Harry breathed him in again, and out, in again, and out.
“I tried to tell them you were crazy. No one would listen. I said you’d have a crackup, too. Did they listen? No.”
These were Malfoy’s versions of sweet nothings, Harry realized. They were strangely soothing.
*
Harry awoke to Malfoy shaking his shoulder. “What are you doing in my flat?” Malfoy demanded.
“Er,” Harry said groggily. “I fell asleep.”
“Of course you did. Don’t you know that people—human people—sleep in beds?” Malfoy gave Harry his glasses, and Harry put them on. Malfoy looked perturbed. “Of course you don’t. Harry, human people sleep in beds.”
“I know that, Malfoy. I took you to yours.”
“Oh.” Malfoy was flustered. “I—did you take off my clothes, too?” Now Malfoy looked pleased.
“Why does my head hurt so much?”
“Hot chocolate.” Malfoy straightened up.
Harry rubbed his head. “Maybe I should . . .”
“No.” Malfoy’s hand dropped down on Harry’s shoulder, and held on tight. “You’re going to stay here and have a balanced breakfast.”
“You never eat breakfast.”
“Shows how little you know. Hot chocolate is perfectly balanced.”
In the kitchen, Malfoy took out curry, leek salad, and a chicken leg, saying very intrepidly, “I think we can make breakfast with these things.”
The breakfast was alright, though: toast, jam, eggs, and pumpkin juice that Harry found in Malfoy's cupbaords. “Suit yourself,” Malfoy told Harry. “If yourself is boring.” Malfoy apparently did have breakfast; it just was normally curry.
“How can you eat curry with hot chocolate?” Harry wanted to know.
“How can you eat with that face?” Malfoy wanted to know.
“First I open my mouth, then I put things in, then I chew.”
“How don’t you get sick? I get ill just looking at it.”
Harry frowned. “So says the man who wanted to snog me last night.”
“That’s fine. Snogging’s done with eyes closed.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. “I actually don’t understand your sense of humour.”
Malfoy beamed. “I know. It’s funnier that way.”
Done with breakfast, Harry pushed his plate aside and put his head in his arms on the table.
“You have appalling manners,” Malfoy informed him from somewhere above.
Harry’s head was still pounding. He couldn’t really remember what he’d been doing before he’d showed up at Malfoy’s, or for how long he’d been doing it. Mostly he remembered ice. He hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid that for some reason he couldn’t remember now.
One hand was loose and open on the table. Harry felt a tentative touch on his palm. Malfoy’s fingers were very light—unsure, Harry thought, which was strange. Malfoy always acted so sure of everything, even when he so very obviously wasn’t. The light finger in his palm traced the lines there, and then lifted.
Harry caught it back, and held Malfoy’s hand until he could look up. Malfoy was looking at him with a soft little smile, one that touched his eyes and just the corners of his mouth.
“First, let’s state the facts.” Malfoy carefully extricated his hand. “One. You have a monster in your chest.”
Harry sighed.
“Two. What this really means is you have a very terrible temper and you don’t know how to control it.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Three. You think it’s more complicated than that, but it really isn’t.”
Harry took a deep breath. “If it was just a temper, I couldn’t hurt people.”
“Who have you hurt?”
Harry looked at his hands. “Dolores Umbridge.”
“She’s dead.” Malfoy’s voice was very patient.
“Yes. I killed her.”
Shocked silence issued from the general direction of Malfoy. “But it was . . . how did you . . .?”
Harry had never spoken of it before. Doing so now, he was highly aware of the feeling coiled tight in his chest, aching on the inside. “I thought it. In my head. I could feel it in—in every part of me. The Killing Curse. Right here.” He pressed his fist to his forehead. “I wanted her to die.” He looked up at Malfoy, who was staring at him in open-mouthed in disbelief.
“You can’t,” Malfoy began, and stopped.
“I can. You saw. At Chimera Downs. I made the ground shake. That whole area of earth. I could have brought it down with a thought.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I wanted to.” Harry looked back at his hands.
The silence stretched for so long that Harry began to think about what he had said, basically admitting being a murderer and that he had wanted to hurt him. He could feel the claws now. He wouldn’t blame Malfoy for leaving right now, except that it was his own flat.
Instead, Malfoy floated the dishes over to the sink, spelling them to magically wash themselves. He turned back to Harry. “I want to take you somewhere. Will you come with me?”
Malfoy didn’t sound like honey this time. He sounded abrupt and rather distant, but Harry followed him anyway. Malfoy went through the living room and then out of his flat.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a field trip.” Malfoy took him to the lift. “We’re doing research.”
“Where?” Harry asked, when Malfoy took him outside.
“You’ll see,” Malfoy said, and put out his hand.
Harry took it, and they Apparated. When they arrived at their destination, they were in Wiltshire.
*
“What a lovely morning it is,” Malfoy said, as they walked through the grass.
Harry looked around. The grass was green and wet, and Malfoy started walking. In front of them were the gates to a large mansion. “Why are we here?”
“This is where I used to live,”
“I think I knew that, Malfoy. What are we doing here?”
“I’ll tell you a secret. It’s not actually to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.”
The gates became a mouth. “Who’s there?” the gates asked.
“It’s Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy said. “We want to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.”
“What . . .?”
“What did you think, Harry?” Malfoy’s smile was not quite pleasant. “That Malfoy Manor went to a rich Slytherin Pureblood family? Do you know how many of those there are left?”
“May I help you?” The voice of the gates this time was a woman’s.
“Yes, Mrs. Finch- Fletchley?” Malfoy said. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. We would just like to pop in briefly.” He paused. “I’ve brought Harry Potter.”
“Harry Potter?” The voice sounded fluttery.
Harry glared at Malfoy. “Yes,” he told the voice. Malfoy nudged him. Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s me.”
“How wonderful! Please, do come in!” The mouth opened, becoming a gate again to let them through.
“Is that Justin’s mum?” Harry asked, as they walked down the path to the mansion.
“No.” Malfoy didn’t look at him, not saying anything more as they came up to the house. A house-elf ushered them inside. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley met them, and then Harry realized she was Justin’s wife. It was strange to think that someone in his year at Hogwarts was married and living in a mansion, but then Harry reminded himself that many of his friends from Hogwarts were married, even if they didn’t have mansions. His very best friends were married. Most people had got on with their lives since Hogwarts.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley was delighted to see them. Harry was in the awkward position of knowing next to nothing about her, and Malfoy wasn’t much help. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, however, seemed enamored enough of the great Harry Potter that she asked at least a dozen questions pertaining to Harry, without listening to any of the answers and simultaneously—and rather unsubtly—revealing a great deal about herself.
After the trials, the Manor had apparently gone on auction, but no one had wanted it. It had languished on the market for years (enough time in which her husband might make his fortune, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley hinted) before the Finch-Fletchley’s had snatched it up at quite a bargain. Thirty thousand Galleons did not sound like a bargain at all to Harry (because of course Mrs. Finch-Fletchley revealed the price), but Harry saw Malfoy wince.
After they had been moved in a year, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on to tell them that (as though Malfoy didn’t know) Draco Malfoy came to visit them. He offered to remove some of the “rather more irksome” (so Mrs. Finch-Fletchley characterized them) enchantments on the Manor which had devalued the real estate. For that, Mr. Finch Fletchley was able to put a good word in, which allowed Malfoy to get a job as a clerk in the Ministry. And wasn’t that just nice all around?
Harry did think it was rather nice that Malfoy had helped Justin, and Justin had helped Malfoy. He never would have guessed that the two of them would give each other the time of day, Justin being Muggleborn, and Malfoy being—well, Malfoy.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, on the other hand, was less than nice, in Harry’s opinion, since the reason she had told the story was obviously to imply Malfoy had her husband to thank for his circumstances in life. Having read the papers, she would be aware that Harry and Malfoy were friends. Harry had learned many people would go to a great deal of effort in order to convince you that you owed them something when you were the hero of the wizarding world.
Harry had never been fond of those kinds of machinations, but Malfoy only sat there politely sipping tea, looking rather more pale and drawn than usual.
Justin, Harry gradually deduced, was out at work. He must have a lucrative career, even if Malfoy Manor had gone for only thirty-thousand Galleons.
“He does,” Mrs. Finch- Fletchley assured Harry, seeming very surprised. “Don’t you know?”
Harry didn’t know.
“Of course,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on, “we’ve shortened it to Finch in the name.”
“Harry doesn’t know anything about fashion,” Malfoy said helpfully, his voice very cool.
“But surely you’ve heard of Abbot-Corner and Finch?”
“No,” said Harry, who was going to kill Malfoy. Malfoy obviously knew whatever Justin did. No doubt he would have come here if he had thought Justin would be here. Actually, the idea that Malfoy was here anyway was still—really confusing.
Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, having ascertained Harry was not at all impressed, seemed very much less inclined toward conversation after that.
“Harry came to see something.” Harry noticed Malfoy didn’t say, I came to show Harry something, removing himself from the equation entirely. “I wonder if we might take a look upstairs?”
“Oh! That’s all quite different than it used to be. It’s been completely redone.”
Something ticked in Malfoy’s face, but his voice was bland when he said, “That’s alright. It’s more to do with a room itself than what’s in it now.”
“There aren’t still any of those . . . enchantments, are there?”
There was no expression in Malfoy’s face. “No. It’s—” For just one moment, Malfoy looked strained, searching for a word. “It’s to do with a memory.”
“I see,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said, although she very obviously didn’t. She looked to Harry, but Harry didn’t actually see either. But Mrs. Finch-Fletchley kept looking at Harry when she said, “Oh, I suppose so. What harm could it do? I’m sure it’s very important.” She nodded to Harry, because he was Harry. When he didn’t acknowledge her apparent favor, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shifted her skirts. “Shall I—”
Malfoy stood up quickly, turning just a little, so that Harry could only see his sharp profile. “I know my way around,” he said, then tilted his head. “Unless you’ve changed the staircase too.” Harry couldn’t read his expression.
“Very well,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said. “I do hope we can help you.” She looked meaningfully at Harry in a last attempt to earn his gratitude.
“Thanks,” said Harry, and followed Malfoy up the stairs.
*
Once they upstairs, Harry attempted to question Malfoy again.
Malfoy, however, walked down the hall with very measured steps, stopping at a closed door. “It was this one,” he told the door. Then he took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and went inside.
The room was very ordinary, if more richly appointed than some others Harry had seen. There was a bed with a canopy, a pine wardrobe, purple drapes, a thick carpet, a chair in the corner. There were not any personal things in the room—a guest room, Harry supposed, though it seemed rather large. There was a window that faced west, full and large.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, turning to face him, “what . . .?”
“This is the room the Dark Lord stayed in.”
Harry blinked and looked around.
“It was different then.” Malfoy’s tone was light and crisp. “It used to be the master bedroom, you see, where my parents—” Malfoy stopped as though he had come down a road where there appeared to be a block, and then started again. “He cleared them out and used it while he was here.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
Malfoy went on as though he had not heard. “The bed was bigger then. There were more mirrors. More . . . pictures, and Mother’s vanity. Father had ornamental swords, from Japan you see; they hung crossed . . .” Malfoy looked around.
“Draco,” Harry said, and tried to touch him.
Malfoy slunk away. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned and faced Harry then. “The point is, the Dark Lord had a bedroom.”
Harry tried to get some hint from Malfoy’s face. “Er. What kind of point is that?”
Malfoy shook his head. He walked over to the window, looking out of it for a long moment before he turned back. “I never knew how the Dark Lord came back to life. Father . . .” Malfoy frowned down at his shoes. “I know it—about the Portkey, and what happened to Diggory, but I don’t know—I didn’t know . . . . I never knew how he came back. I didn’t know what he was.”
“The Horcruxes.”
Malfoy nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I get that now. You know more about it than I.” Malfoy looked out the window again. “You confronted him more than anyone.” He turned back. “But the Dark Lord lived in my house. I was here for a whole summer, and the Christmas holidays . . . I know things too.”
“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “What do you know?”
Malfoy looked around the room again. “I know that he lived here. He had to . . . Voldemort slept, just like the rest of us. He had to eat, even. I bet he even had to take shits.” Malfoy smiled mirthlessly. “He was a human being. What remained of one.”
Harry frowned. “He split up his soul, Malfoy.”
“Okay.” Malfoy’s eyes moved to him, but looked as though they could not see him. “But that was still . . . he was all split up into pieces, but he had a soul. Once. Who knows why he did the things he did? Maybe he was born wicked. Maybe he had a horrible childhood. Maybe he truly did believe the things he . . .” Malfoy drifted off. His attention seemed to drift as well, captured again by the window.
Harry took a step closer. “He did have a terrible childhood.”
Malfoy sniffed. “He told you over tea and biscuits, did he?”
“Dumbledore showed me. When we had to look for Horcruxes, I had to find out more about Volde—he was named Tom Riddle.” Harry told Malfoy about the Pensieve, about some of the scenes he had scene. Once Harry had mentioned the scene with Merope, Malfoy started laughing. No sound was coming out. Harry frowned. “What’s funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” Malfoy swallowed. His arms were crossed, more as though holding himself in than anyone else out. His chest had never seemed quite so thin before. “It’s just the Dark Lord being a half-blood, that’s all. It’s very funny.”
Harry took another step closer. “I forgot you didn’t know.”
Malfoy looked away again. “Should have known Dumbledore would have told you more than I ever could.”
Harry stood very close by then.
When Malfoy turned back, he was quite pale. He must have been cold, standing by window. “It doesn’t change anything. The Dark Lord—Riddle. Whether he was wicked or had a temper, I don’t know, he—even he—was just a man. It didn’t start out that he didn’t have a soul, or . . . What made him different was that he was more powerful.”
“I’m almost as powerful as he was.”
Malfoy shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. He looked down, frowning. “Yes, Harry. Thank you. That’s very informative. But what I mean is—consider for a moment, that you have no greater capacity to love than I do.”
“Malfoy—”
“Consider that you have no more capacity for evil than me. Consider, just for an instant—I know it’s hard—that we are equals, and what separates us is the choices we’ve made, and not . . . not the fact that you’re just better.”
“I don’t think I’m—”
“It might not even be true,” Malfoy said, turning around. “Maybe the Dark Lord could never have loved anyone at all. Maybe he didn’t have it in him. Those years that he lived here—they were like a nightmare. They almost didn’t seem real. He was so horrible, he had to be a dream.”
“Malfoy,” Harry said again, and put his hand on the sharp jut of Malfoy’s shoulder.
Malfoy shrugged away. “That was all. I just wanted to show you that—that he was real after all.”
“Can you show me your room?” Harry asked, before he knew he was going to ask it.
Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened. “What for?”
Harry didn’t really know what for, but thought it probably had something to do with the way Malfoy looked so sharp in all directions, as though if you touched him, he might break. “I just wanted to see.”
“It’s not my room anymore.”
“We can just look at it.” There were probably no more happy memories in that room than there were in this one, he guessed, but maybe it would be different. Maybe Malfoy would remember better times. Maybe the Finch-Fletchleys had changed it so much that Malfoy would not remember anything at all, and he would see that a room was just a room.
“Fine,” Malfoy said, and went to the door.
They walked down the hall and rounded a corner, and Malfoy opened another door.
The room was obviously a nursery. There was a cradle with a mobile overhead, and a changing table. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had not looked pregnant, but they were apparently trying. The colors were yellow and soft blue, and Malfoy looked ghastly, the way you looked when ghosts were walking through you.
“That was my room, Potter,” Malfoy said, and shut the door. “Had enough?”
They took their leave of Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who fluttered around some more and graciously informed Harry that he could visit, “any time, and bring whomever he wanted,” which seemed very obviously a slight toward Malfoy. Harry wondered why anyone would want to live in Voldemort’s old headquarters. He went out to the lawn with Malfoy.
Once clear of the gates, he took Malfoy’s hand before Malfoy could say anything, and they Disapparated.
*
Back at Malfoy’s flat, Malfoy quickly wrested free of Harry. Apparently, he very much needed to straighten his desk, because that was what he started doing, without looking at Harry. “I’m tired now,” Malfoy said. “You had better go home.”
“But,” Harry began, yet he couldn’t think of what to say.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on this,” Malfoy said. “I haven’t been sleeping well. It would be very nice if I could stop worrying about your problems now and rest.”
“Malfoy,” Harry said, and came toward him again.
Malfoy slammed the desk shut. When he turned around, his expression was narrow and ugly. “Even if I have spent five days unable to sleep, worried about you, even if I have thought of nothing but you for months now, even if we have spent all morning trying to establish the fact that you aren’t the center of the universe—you still aren’t the center of the universe.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“Draco,” Harry said, and came up, and kissed him.
Malfoy pushed him. “How can I get it through your thick head that I don’t want you right now?”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help!”
Harry’s voice was hoarse. “I’ll do anything.”
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “Just go away.”
“Okay,” Harry said. He was opening the door when Malfoy put a hand on it, and shut it while Harry was still on the inside.
“Did you know that you were gone for five days?”
“Gone?”
“Yes, gone. I didn’t know where you were.” Malfoy looked away. “Granger was very worried.”
“Granger.”
“Yes.”
Harry sighed, scrubbing his cheeks with his hands. “I guess I’ll—”
“Stay.”
“What?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Malfoy. “I want you to stay. I’ve just got to have some time to . . . Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to help you.”
I want to help you too, Harry wanted to say, but he thought that for some reason Malfoy would not like it. “Okay.”
Malfoy slumped against the door. “You can’t go away like that. You have to let me help you. Otherwise I’m not any good. Nothing’s any good.”
“I’ll stay,” promised Harry, and stayed.
*
Go to: Chapter 8
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(Anonymous) 2011-10-25 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)-devoted fan
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