FIC: The Pure and Simple Truth, part 4
Author: ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lettered
Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, andtalekayler wrote Nunquam Securus
Previous
30 July, 2004
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said, when he found Malfoy sitting at work in his desk in SO.
Malfoy turned around slowly. “Hello, Potter,” he said. “What can I do for you?” His tone was perfectly polite, and very, very cold.
Harry had seen Malfoy at work a couple of times since he’d fought with Hermione. Mostly Malfoy had just looked the other way. Harry hadn’t said anything to him; Hermione was still pretty upset, and he figured Malfoy was, too. It was clear they needed some time.
Now, though, it had been a week, and Hermione was moping about, and she kept arguing with Ron even more because of it, and Ron said she was being a bint, and he loved her so goddamn much, why did she act this way, so Harry thought maybe by now, it might be all right to talk to Malfoy.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to come to the pub,” said Harry. “Since you didn’t come yesterday.”
Malfoy smirked. “Plan on throwing mud at my face, Potter? Need to practice your slashing hexes?”
“No,” said Harry. “Mostly I thought we could just get a pint.”
The smirk changed into a sneer. “Maybe I’ll bring some Dementors along. I could invite some Death Eaters. Perhaps a werewolf for good measure? I’m sure I still have some Peruvian Darkness Powder. Maybe you can bring a Hufflepuff or two, and I’ll have them murdered for afters.”
“Again,” said Harry, “mostly I was just planning on the pint. Usually after that, I just go home and have dinner, maybe watch telly or listen to the wireless. If you want to entertain yourself afterwards, that’s your affair.”
Malfoy stood up. His cheeks were pink, which always made his eyes look bright. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been saying,” Harry said, “I want to have a pint with you. If you don’t want to have one with me, you can say no.”
Pressing a hand to his temple, Malfoy turned away. “Why?”
“Because we usually do on Thursdays,” Harry said, “but you weren’t there yesterday.”
Malfoy turned back with the sneer set in place again, and it was full of such vitriol that Harry suddenly remembered why Malfoy had been not at all attractive at Hogwarts. “Want to know why?”
“I know why,” Harry said. “It’s because you had a fight with Hermione.”
“And do you want to know why that happened? It’s because I’m a bigot, Potter. I’m a Death Eater, aren’t I? I’m petty and mean-spirited. Self-absorbed, cruel. I’m heinous, Potter. I’m beneath contempt.”
Harry pushed his glasses up. “Well, if you’d told us that from the beginning, instead of pretending to be all that other stuff, you’d have saved us a lot of time.”
“Why are you . . .” Malfoy grit his teeth in frustration. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Harry put his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t fight with me. You fought with Hermione. She feels awful, by the way.”
“Hermione,” Malfoy began, and stopped. He shook his head.
“Also, I think everyone is right on a level with contempt, every once in a while. That is, everyone is worthy of it at some point.” Harry took his hands out of his pockets. “I don’t think you’re heinous, Malfoy.”
“Why don’t you hate me?” Malfoy looked a little forlorn.
“I don’t think you’re any of those other things you said either,” Harry said. “I’d say specifically, but I don’t remember them all.”
Malfoy held his eyes for a moment, and then looked away. “She’s never going to forgive me.”
“Sure she will,” Harry said. “Once she forgives herself.”
“That can't be true.”
Harry thought about it. “No, you're right.” Malfoy hung his head, and Harry said, “She already forgave you. The second you walked away. Actually before that; I don’t think she really thinks there’s anything to forgive you for. But she feels really, really guilty and I can’t seem to convince her that you both just got excited and angry, and now that it’s over, it’s going to be okay.” Harry looked at Malfoy for a bit. “It’s going to be okay,” he added for good measure.
“I never would have said it,” Malfoy blurted out.
“Said what?”
“I wasn’t intending to.” Malfoy’s eyes were beseeching. “I don’t think that way any more. I don’t use that word. I don’t even think that word.”
Harry thought about asking what word Malfoy meant, but he thought it probably would’ve been disingenuous, because he was fairly certain he did know. “So,” he said instead. “Do you want to go to the pub?”
“Oh, God,” said Malfoy. He sounded a little choked.
“At least let’s go somewhere . . .” Harry looked around. “Not here.” He walked out of Malfoy’s cubicle, and Malfoy followed behind him.
People were starting to go home for the evening, but Harry had headed over early so he could be sure he would catch Malfoy, and there were still quite a few hit wizards and witches about. Harry stopped when he realized Malfoy had stopped a little ways back, in one of the lesser populated corridors. There was hardly anyone around.
“Is she coming?” Malfoy said. “To the pub. Hermione.”
“Oh.” Harry tugged his fringe. “No. I mean, I think she’s still pretty bent out of shape.”
“Good. Not about her being bent out of shape. I mean . . . I mean, I don’t think I could face her.”
“She doesn’t want to face you. She feels really badly, Malfoy.”
“She feels badly.” Malfoy sagged against the wall. “God. I was a bastard.”
“I think you’re both making it out to be way worse than it really is.”
“We have a history, and it . . .” Trailing off, Malfoy looked over at him. He looked sort of haggard, shadows of violet under his eyes.
“You and I have a history, too,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s gaze drifted down, somewhere near Harry’s mouth. Maybe he was focused on his chin. It could have been his neck. “Yes,” Malfoy said, his voice low.
“Okay,” said Harry. “So I’m telling you, it’s not that bad.”
Malfoy looked away.
Studying him a little while, Harry tried to think of ways to make it better. That’s what Hermione did for him, when he was truly out of sorts. “Want to invite Pansy?”
“Pansy.” Closing his eyes, Malfoy thunked the back of his skull against the wall. “I could do with never seeing that cow again.”
“You don’t think . . .” Harry frowned. “You said it wasn’t her fault.”
“Of course, it’s her fault. Pansy’s a―a―I can’t even think of a word that I dislike enough that I’m still willing to say, is what she is.”
“So . . . you think Hermione had a point?”
Malfoy grimaced. “Of course, she had a point. Haven’t you seen her with Ron?”
Harry thought about that. “Pansy’s that way with everyone.”
“Ron does it back.”
That was true. Pansy and Ron could get really carried away with each other, but actually Hermione and Malfoy could really get carried away as well. Harry hadn’t thought there was much difference between Hermione and Malfoy talking politics and Pansy and Ron talking about music, food, and not caring about things that other people cared about. Except that Hermione and Malfoy were really serious, and Pansy and Ron usually weren't serious at all.
“Didn’t you say yourself that wasn’t Pansy's fault?” Harry said. “Seems like that’s between Hermione and Ron.”
“It’s not that.” Malfoy’s mouth was an unhappy little line. He looked down at the floor. “When Ron does it, he’s just being―he’s just being Ron. Humouring her. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Harry was surprised. “You think Pansy means something by it?”
“No. Yes. What I mean is, Ron and Hermione, they’ve―they’ve got their problems. To Pansy, they’re like a gaping wound, and she’s going to go and pour salt on it. Ron is oblivious to it. He thinks she’s just harmless, but she’s not. She sees something bleeding, and she’s going to poke it with sticks just to see what it does. Just because she can.”
Harry thought back to Pansy saying that Malfoy had been a beast. She’d been saying that ever since Hermione and Ron started fighting. “You’ve been telling her not to.” He thought about how short Malfoy had been, when he had had Pansy’s scarf. “Have you had a fight?”
“Sometimes it seems like we’re always fighting. Ever since the war ended. She just doesn’t listen. She’s destructive.” Malfoy looked wretched. “She’s unkind.”
“Pansy’s all right,” Harry said.
Malfoy shook his head. “She’s never going to―she’s never going to think about anybody but herself. She’s never going to want to. I’ve tried to make her do the right thing, and I―”
“Well, now you’re just saying the things Hermione said.” Harry felt impatient, for some reason. He was thinking about the things Malfoy had said, about how he loved Pansy, about how he’d been through things with Pansy.
Harry loved Ron and Hermione, and he’d been through things with them that no one else was ever going to understand. No one outside the three of them would ever know what it had been like, during the war. No one else would ever understand what they were to each other―so when Malfoy had said that Hermione didn’t understand, Harry had thought Malfoy was right, in a way. He didn’t remember what Malfoy had said, exactly, but he’d thought he’d understood it.
He’d liked it.
“Pansy doesn’t only care for herself,” Harry said. “She cares for you. You said so.”
Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. “Maybe it’s not enough.”
“Sure, it’s enough,” Harry said. “She loves you.”
“That’s not going to make her a good person.” Malfoy shook his head. “Greg’s the same way. I just can’t get them to―”
“Look―” Harry cut himself off. Someone passed by in the corridor with a sheaf of files, and Harry stepped closer to Malfoy. When the person was gone, he said, “Just come to the bloody pub with me. I don’t want to do this in the corridor.”
Malfoy’s eyes slid up Harry’s face, but he didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll get my things.”
*
It wasn’t until they were seated at a booth with drinks in front of them that Harry said, “Did Hermione tell you about Snape?”
Malfoy raised a tired brow. “If you’re going to tell me he was a spy, then you’re a bit behind the press.”
“I mean, did she tell you about why he did it?” Only Hermione and Ron knew the full story behind the memories Snape had given Harry.
Frowning down at his pint, Malfoy said, “Because he was trying to do the right thing.”
“He did it because he was in love with my mum.”
Malfoy scowled at him in startled surprise.
“He was,” said Harry. “With his memories, at the end, he was trying to tell me what I had to do―but he was also trying to tell me why he had done what he did. I don’t think it was an accident.” He took a sip of lager.
“But . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “But Snape didn’t . . . I know they went to Hogwarts together, but he was in Slytherin. He hated your dad. How would he have even . . . Their paths must have hardly ever crossed.”
“They did, though.” Harry drank more lager. “They were friends as children. When they got older, Snape started getting interested in . . . being like pure-bloods, and my mum, she . . . well, she was just my mum. My dad was a right git to him. Snape, I mean. Then Snape called my mum a Mudblood.”
Malfoy flinched, but “Oh,” was all he said.
“Yeah.” Harry took another gulp of his pint. “I like to think that eventually my dad wasn’t such an arse. That Mum forgave him for being a bully, and he tried to make it up to people―but honestly, I don’t know. But they got married, and she and Snape didn’t, you see, so . . .”
“Snape resented her.”
“I suppose.” Harry shrugged. “But when Voldemort wanted to have me killed, that’s when Snape realized he didn’t . . . he knew it wasn’t what Mum would want. He tried to protect me―but it wasn’t me, really. It was Mum. It was always my mum.”
Malfoy chewed his cheek some more. “I thought he changed his mind.”
“I think he did,” Harry said. “But mostly because he loved her. He didn’t care about anything else.”
“He did too.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet.
“I didn’t mean―I mean, he didn’t care for me. Or saving the world. Those sorts of things. He cared about a small number of things―my mum. You. Your mum, maybe. But that was all.”
Malfoy shook his head. “That wasn’t all.” When Harry looked at him questioningly, he explained, “He sacrificed you, in the end. Or, he thought he did.”
Harry frowned. “Well, yeah.”
“What I mean is . . . do you think your mum would have wanted you to be sacrificed?” Malfoy leaned forward. “You say he decided to side with Dumbledore because he knew your mum wouldn’t want you to be killed. But what did he do in the end? What was Dumbledore trying to do all along?”
Pig for the slaughter.
That was what Snape had said.
Harry shook his head. “I had to die. I had . . .” They’d still never told anyone about the Horcruxes. “It’s complicated, but it had to happen, or Voldemort never could have been defeated. I had to die, so that others could live.”
“You’re . . .” Malfoy’s eyes flicked up to the lightning scar, almost imperceptibly, and then he was meeting Harry’s gaze again. He licked his lips. “Snape believed that too,” was all he said.
“My mum would have believed it,” Harry said.
“You think your mum would have sacrificed you to save the world?”
Harry just shrugged.
“My mum never would,” Malfoy said. “And if what you’re saying about Snape is true, he would have believed that your mum never would. So what he did in the end . . . it wasn’t about your mum at all.”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Harry drank more of his beer. “I’m just saying, it’s enough to care about someone. Love is enough.”
“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice croaked. He licked his lips again. “Can―”
“So, you are here.”
Harry looked up at the sound of Ron’s voice.
“Budge over,” said Ron.
“Ron.” Surprised, Harry made room for him in the booth, and Ron sat down. “What are you―”
“Hermione thought you’d be here,” Ron said.
“How did she―”
“She said she thought you’d go tell Malfoy she was sorry.”
Harry glanced at Malfoy. “Hermione didn’t tell me to.”
“You did though, didn’t you? Mind if I snag your pint; Malfoy always does it to everyone else.” Ron took a gulp. “She just thought it was the sort of thing you’d do. Hey, Malfoy.”
“The sort of thing I’d do?” said Harry.
“You never like a lot of dodging; that’s what she says.” Ron turned to Malfoy. “Look, Malfoy, Hermione feels terrible. Whatever it is she said to you, it can’t have been as bad as all that.”
“What she said to me.” Malfoy looked pale.
Curious, Ron turned back to Harry. “Is he going to hold a grudge?”
“No,” said Harry.
“Good.” Ron swiped another gulp of lager, looking back at Malfoy. “Hermione’d break her heart, and then I’d go do something stupid, like kill you, and then Hermione’d never forgive me. God, she’s being a right―right―I don’t even know what.”
“That’s what Malfoy said about Pansy.”
“Parkinson.” Ron snorted. “Can you believe she’s in such a fuss about Parkinson? If it were me in a strop, I’d believe it. I’m the ignorant hothead, right? But no, she has to go be unreasonable. Bloody women.”
“You’re not,” Malfoy said, and then had to begin again. “You’re not angry with me?”
“You?” Ron scowled at him. “Why bother being angry at you? I’m not in love with you.”
“That’s a relief, Ron,” Harry said. “Malfoy was really worried about you being in love with him.”
Malfoy swallowed. He looked sort of like he couldn’t believe that this was actually happening.
Putting his elbows on the table, Ron frowned dejectedly.
“Ron,” Harry said, “are you all right?”
“Yes. No. I want to drink. I want to drink around people who are sane. Are you sane?” Ron looked at Malfoy.
Malfoy still looked unsettled. “I can be a prat.”
Snorting, Ron turned back to Harry. “Fancy that. He’s sane. How ‘bout,” Ron turned back to Malfoy, “she mope at home about you and me, and we mope here about her. Make sense to you?”
“No,” said Malfoy.
“Me neither,” said Ron. “Where’s Parkinson?”
“Remember,” Harry said, “she’s being a right Malfoy-doesn’t-know-what.”
“Great.” Ron slumped. “You fight with her, too?”
Malfoy frowned. “Yes.”
“I’m not fighting with anyone,” said Harry. “Ron, want to have a go?”
Ron snorted again. “I would wipe the floor with you.”
“In your dreams.”
Ron just stared dejectedly at the table again.
“Well,” Malfoy said, after a little silence. “This is maudlin.”
“Downright mawkish,” Harry agreed, swiping back his pint.
Malfoy brightened a little. “Melancholy even.”
Harry smiled crookedly. “Morbid.”
“Pathetic,” said Malfoy.
“Bathetic,” said Harry. “Characterized by bathos.”
Malfoy looked at him, startled.
Harry just smirked.
“I’m tired of pathos, and bathos,” Ron said. “And ethos, actually. Can we just get back to mild, brown, and stout?”
“Intoxicants,” said Harry.
“Potables,” said Malfoy.
“Aqua vitae,” said Harry.
“No one speaks English any more,” Ron said sadly.
Malfoy’s eyelids went heavy. “That’s Latin,” he drawled.
Harry laughed. “Good job, Malfoy.”
“I just want to get wasted,” said Ron. “Is that so wrong?”
“Inebriated,” said Malfoy, in that low, lazy voice.
“Bacchanalian.” Harry put his elbow on the table, and grinned.
Malfoy’s eyes were getting darker.
“What’s even wrong with you?” Ron wanted to know.
Turning his grin on Ron, Harry said, “Lately, I’ve been reading a thesaurus.”
“I’ll go get Weasley’s drink,” Malfoy said, quite suddenly. He slid out of the booth, not looking at Harry.
“Make it a round,” Ron called, as Malfoy walked toward the bar. “Firewhiskey, yeah? I sure hope he sorts this out with Hermione,” he said, turning back to Harry. “She’s a mess.”
“They’ll sort it out,” Harry said. “Hermione’s got a lot going on.”
Ron put his head in his hands again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with us. I love her so bloody much, you know?”
“I know,” said Harry.
Ron looked up. “And I would never―with Parkinson; I wouldn’t―”
“I know,” said Harry.
“Hermione’s right about you.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not a dodger.” Ron drank the rest of Harry’s pint. “You always get right to the heart of the matter.”
Harry looked over in the direction of the bar. “Sometimes it takes a while.”
* * *
3 August, 2004
“Hullo, Potter,” Malfoy said.
“Malfoy!” Harry broke his quill, and almost spilled over his pot of ink.
They’d got drunk with Ron four nights before. It wasn’t a Thursday. It wasn’t even evening.
“I was just . . .” Harry looked at his broken quill and the large blot of ink dripping from it to spread over his report.
“Working.” Taking out his wand, Malfoy tapped the parchment. The ink sucked up into a blobby, floating ball, which Malfoy directed into the pot. Then he tapped the quill. “Reparo. I wanted to know if you were interested in grabbing a bite to eat.”
“Now?” Harry looked around. It was definitely the middle of the day.
Malfoy put away his wand. “Yes, now.”
“Sure,” said Harry. “Okay. Yes. Let me . . .” He looked down at the papers on his desk and then realized he had no idea what he had been doing with them. “I’ll just get my robes,” he said, standing up.
“Good,” said Malfoy. “I’ve arranged to meet Luna at the pub.”
Harry stopped, hand half way to his robes. “Luna?”
“Luna.” Malfoy smirked. “You’ll remember her from such escapades as Dumbledore’s Army, raids on the Department of Mysteries, liberation from dungeons, et cetera.”
“I know who Luna is,” said Harry.
“Good,” said Malfoy. “Lunch might have proved awkward, otherwise.”
“I just didn’t know . . .” Harry remembered Greg talking about Luna at the pub, but he hadn't really made the connection that Greg knew Luna through Malfoy.
Malfoy’s smirk fell away, but he didn’t seem upset. When he spoke, his voice was rather gentle. “I should have specified. You may remember Luna from helping her to escape the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.”
“Oh,” said Harry, helplessly. “That Luna.”
“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy smiled his dry little smile. “That Luna.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and got his coat.
*
When they got to the pub, Luna wasn’t there yet. Harry had thought perhaps they might go elsewhere, seeing as how it wasn’t Thursday and it wasn’t evening and they weren’t getting drinks, but Malfoy had just looked at him and said, “Spinach and artichoke dip, Potter.”
“I know,” Harry had said, “but there’s always the Leaky, or Nazma.”
“There isn’t the Leaky.” Malfoy had put his nose in the air rather haughtily. “There isn’t Nazma. There is only spinach and artichoke dip.”
“You’re rather high-handed.”
“I can’t help it.” Malfoy sniffed. “It’s the way I was raised.”
Harry didn’t really know what to say about that, so he didn’t say anything, and here they were at the pub, and Malfoy was beaming at his spinach and artichoke dip, and a fried onion.
“You got two starters,” Harry pointed out.
“I like starters. Is it wrong to like starters?”
“No.”
“I’ll order some Brussels sprouts. Will that make you happy?”
“I hate Brussels sprouts,” Harry said.
“They’ll be cooked in butter. Sautéed in a pan. You have no taste, Potter.”
“I’m here with you.”
“Stuffed mushrooms, then.”
“What kind of pub has stuffed mushrooms, anyway?”
“This kind of pub,” said Malfoy. “My favourite kind of pub. Pubs with spinach and artichoke dip. I’m seeing Hermione tomorrow.”
“You can get mushrooms if you want,” said Harry. “Did you talk to her at all?”
“Will you eat mushrooms if I get mushrooms? I can’t eat all this myself.”
“That’s why you don’t only order starters, Malfoy.”
“We talked a little,” Malfoy said. “You were right. She said she was sorry.”
“You didn’t believe me?”
Malfoy looked down at the menu card in his hands. “I just couldn’t believe that she would be the one apologizing to me.”
They were sitting near a window, and the sun was slanting in. Harry hardly ever saw Malfoy look this way―lit by sunlight, because usually they ate at the pub in the evenings, and the Ministry was underground. He looked sharper, more angular in the light.
“You didn’t say whether you would have the mushrooms,” Malfoy said.
“Just get what you like,” Harry said. “You’re pickier than me.”
“I’m not picky,” said Malfoy.
“You eat Brussels sprouts.”
“That doesn’t make me picky,” said Malfoy. “Luna likes tiny cabbage-like things.”
“Hermione and Ron are still having problems,” Harry said.
“Yes, well.” Malfoy put the menu down. “Pansy is still being a bint. Luna also likes mushrooms.”
“Really, only the button kind. It’s not Pansy’s fault.”
“Maybe. She certainly wasn’t making things easy on them, though, and she was doing it deliberately.”
“Hermione spends a lot of time working,” Harry said. “Ron says he hardly ever sees her.”
“Ron’s got to understand what she’s trying to do.”
“Ron understands,” said Harry. “He also wants to spend time with his girlfriend, though.”
“Well,” Malfoy said, “it doesn’t help that when Ron can’t spend time with Hermione, he spends it with Pansy.”
Harry began, “Ron isn’t―”
“I know that. Potter, even she knows that. It doesn’t change the way Hermione feels.”
“I guess it can be hard being friends with someone of the opposite sex,” Harry said. “I mean, if you’re straight. Or friends of the same sex if you’re not, I suppose. Or . . .” Trailing off, he frowned.
“Stop at, ‘it’s hard being friends,’” said Malfoy. He poked at the spinach and artichoke dip. “Did you have . . . a good time with Pansy and Blaise?”
“What? Oh, yeah,” said Harry. “Blaise is pretty interesting.”
“Yes,” said Malfoy. “He is that.”
“Charming,” Harry said.
“That, too.”
“You don’t like him?”
“What? Of course I like Blaise. Everyone likes Blaise.”
“You’re fairly good friends, right?”
Malfoy brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I―we’ve always been friendly. I’ve always liked him. I’m very fond of Blaise.”
“But you were better friends with Crabbe and Goyle.”
Jaw hardening, Malfoy looked away.
“Hey,” Harry said. “I wasn’t . . .”
Malfoy jabbed the spinach with the spoon. “Weren’t what?”
Watching him, Harry wondered if his mother had ever told him not to play with his food. His mother was Narcissa; of course she had. Harry wondered what Malfoy had been like when he was little. He’d probably thrown food a lot and had tantrums, and Lucius probably sent him off to his room, and Malfoy probably cried and cried, until late at night when he got to come down and have a sorbet after all, and his mother patted him on the head, and it all sounded very familiar, except that there wasn’t another little boy in that house living under the stairs.
Harry didn’t think Narcissa would have allowed it, actually.
“I think Greg’s all right,” Harry said.
“Blaise was never interested in the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said, after a moment. “His family wasn’t, and I may have never been, if it weren’t for my family too, so I never thought much of it. Even when things became . . . quite difficult, it never really struck me that he didn’t get involved. Some people didn’t. The smart ones didn’t, and the frightened ones, and the ones who were confused.” He stirred the spoon in the spinach dip. It wasn’t really the sort of dip that needed stirring. “I may have been frightened and confused, but I was hardly smart.”
Harry wanted to reassure him somehow, which was stupid. Malfoy had been stupid.
They had been young, then.
“But when the war was over, Blaise still didn’t care. He doesn’t care now, about reform, or proving that we pure-bloods can adapt, or working to understand Muggles. He doesn’t care about any of it. I think―I think he must care for something, or else . . . . We all care for something. But honestly, I think that he cares for very little, and I just . . . I find it hard to understand.”
Harry tilted his head, thinking about Pansy, and the way Malfoy had said, she cares for me.
“Maybe Blaise just has a funny way of showing it,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s chair scraped against the floor, and Harry thought for an alarmed moment that he’d done something wrong, when he saw that Luna had arrived, and Malfoy was standing for her, and helping her out of her coat.
“Thank you, Draco,” said Luna.
Malfoy put it on the back of her chair and pulled it out for her. As she sat down, he hovered for a moment, as if waiting for other things he could do.
“Hello Harry,” Luna said, as Malfoy sat down.
“Hullo,” said Harry.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” said Luna.
“It was the start of summer,” Harry said.
“I’ve ordered spinach,” said Malfoy, moving the bowl and crisps closer to her, “and artichokes.”
“I quite like spinach,” said Luna.
Malfoy beamed at her. “And how are the, er, Snorkacks?”
“Little luck as ever,” said Luna, spooning spinach onto her plate. “It’s good of you to ask.”
“See anything else good lately?” said Harry.
“A Horny-tailed Gruntykins,” said Luna. “That was in Mexico.”
“You were in Mexico?” Harry asked.
“Yes. I was hoping to see a Chupacabra, but the rain has lately chased them into hiding.” Luna scooped more spinach onto her plate.
Malfoy started scooping too. Maybe he was just scooping because Luna was doing it, or maybe he realized that he was starting to look a little like a guard dog, with the way he might as well have been sitting at her feet, so attentively was he watching her. “What happened to Jorge?”
“Oh, he’s still in Mexico,” said Luna.
Malfoy took some crisps as well. “You won’t see him any more?”
Luna looked at him strangely. “Not unless I’m in Mexico. It would be very hard to see him from England.” She thought about that. “Without sufficient practice.”
“Who’s Jorge?” Harry asked, feeling utterly lost.
“A friend.” Luna munched on some crisps. “I was very surprised to hear that you and Draco have become friends. I think it’s nice. Did you order the Brussels sprouts, Draco?”
“Potter wouldn’t let me,” Malfoy said, breaking one of his crisps and pushing spinach around with it. “He detests Brussels sprouts.”
“That’s okay, Harry,” said Luna. “We all have our quirks. Can we get the mushrooms? They only use criminis, here.”
“You’ve been here before?” Harry asked, surprised.
Now it was him Luna was looking at strangely. “Draco and I come here all the time.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think of to say.
“We really like the spinach dip,” Malfoy said, smirking.
“Apparently.” Harry grabbed some crisps, and Malfoy let go of the spoon, so he could scoop up some of the dip. Since it was so amazing, and everything. “I just didn’t know you two were that good of friends.”
“I suppose you can get spinach with people you dislike,” said Luna. “But I wouldn’t want to.”
Harry dipped a crisp and munched it. The spinach actually was rather good, now that he tried it. He dipped another crisp. “How did it happen?” They looked at him, and he said, “You becoming friends, I mean.”
“I stayed a little while in Draco’s basement.” Luna looked a little confused. “Don’t you remember?”
“Um,” said Harry. “Right. Here’s the part I’m not clear on.” He glanced at Malfoy, who was moving back the spinach bowl so Luna could reach it, just in case she wanted more. “It just doesn’t seem like you become friends with someone just because you’re locked in their dungeon, was all I meant.”
Luna looked at him curiously. “Have you ever been locked in a dungeon?”
“Um.” Harry had to think about it. “Not really.”
“I don’t really recommend it.” Luna ate her spinach dip with a fork. “But I did make plenty of friends.”
“I should imagine you’ve never had prisoners locked in your cellar, either.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He was dipping a crisp.
“Guessed I missed out on that one,” said Harry.
“You didn’t.” Malfoy chewed his crisp, and swallowed. “It’s awful. They’re not your prisoners, but it’s your cellar, and it drips, and you’re too much of a coward to help them.”
“Draco helped me,” said Luna.
“Did you want something to drink?” said Malfoy.
Luna glanced over at him. “I’ll have your water.”
Moving his water closer so that she could reach it, Malfoy asked, “Do you want lemonade?”
“I think they’ve stopped making summer lemonade,” said Luna. “I really only like summer flavoured lemonade.”
“I’ll order the mushrooms,” Malfoy said, and stood up.
“I don’t think he likes to think about it,” said Luna, when Malfoy walked over to the bar.
“About locking you in a dungeon?”
Luna was slender and pale, in a way that almost seemed frail, with her bony wrists and rather fluffy yellow hair. Harry thought of the way Malfoy had drawn out her chair, of the way that he had arranged the things on the table so that she could reach everything, and the way that Luna didn’t seem to notice.
It wasn’t that Malfoy thought she couldn’t do things for herself, Harry realized. It was that he wanted to do things for her.
“I think he wanted to rescue me.” Luna was starting in on the fried onions now. “Like a prince in a story.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No,” said Luna. “In stories they don’t generally say. But he brought us food sometimes, and when I asked, he brought me other things.”
“What things?”
“Spools of thread, beans, bottle caps, corks. You know.”
“Actually,” said Harry, “I don’t.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that you don’t make jewellry.”
“Er, Malfoy doesn’t either.” Then the thought struck Harry, and his eyes goggled a bit. “Does he?”
“No. But I made him a bracelet.”
“You made Malfoy a bracelet,” said Harry.
Luna calmly cut apart her onion. “I would make you one, if I thought you would wear it.”
“Er,” Harry said again, “did Malfoy wear his?”
“For a little while.” Luna took a bite of onion. “It was a friendship bracelet.”
Harry glanced up. He couldn’t see Malfoy over at the bar, because it was around the corner.
For some reason, Harry wanted to make sure he was actually there―as if he actually might not exist, like some of Luna’s other creatures.
Harry turned back to Luna. “You said you thought he wanted to help you escape,” he said. “Why didn’t he?”
Luna ate some more onion. “I think it has to do with Chupacabras. Or even Snorkacks, if you still don’t believe in them. I assume you don’t. What happens is that someone sees a Chupacabra for the first time, and she says, “I saw something strange.” The next person sees a Chupacabra, and she says, “I saw something strange that was small and bear-shaped, with spikes on its back.” A third person sees a Chupacabra and says, “I saw something small and bear-shaped, with spikes on its back, and all my goats are dead.” And the fourth person says, “I saw a Chupacabra.
“And then there are numerous reports, and we’ve all heard of Chupacabras, but most of us don’t believe that they exist. But people keep seeing them, and when they see them, they know. And eventually, there’s enough evidence that even if we haven’t seen one, we know that they exist. Like giraffes. Have you seen a giraffe, Harry?”
“Er,” said Harry. “Once, I think. It was at a zoo.”
“It might have been a fake. But you believed it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Er, because it was a giraffe.”
“Did you believe in unicorns, before you knew about the wizarding world?”
“I suppose I didn’t.” Harry had no idea where this was going. Because it was Luna, it probably wasn’t going anywhere that would really make any sense. But because it was Luna, it was interesting, and whenever he thought of Malfoy pulling out her chair and hovering near her, and the way he looked at her―it made Harry wish that he was that considerate, too.
“Sometimes Muggles capture unicorns. They keep them in cages. If you had seen a real unicorn at a Muggle fair, would you think that it was a fake?”
“I don’t know.” Harry pushed spinach around his plate with a crisp. “Probably.”
“So it all comes down to what it takes, to make you believe in something. Are you the sort of person who has to see it to believe it? Are you the sort of person who will believe anything that people tell you? Or perhaps you believe in something because someone you know and trust says it’s true.
“And while we’re speaking of belief, there’s more than one kind. Intellectually, you might believe something, but what if deep down―where it really matters―you can’t convince yourself? Or, conversely, you believe in something, but people you love and trust have told you that it isn’t true. You can’t prove it, having never experienced it for yourself, so no matter what you feel in your heart of hearts, you cannot convince your mind to believe it. Can you pass the spinach?
“Sure,” said Harry, and passed the spinach.
Luna scraped the rest out of the bowl and put it on her plate. “That’s the difference between Draco and I,” said Luna.
“What’s the difference?” Malfoy asked. He’d just come up with a plate of mushrooms. Harry made room for it on the table while Luna went on eating spinach, and Malfoy sat down.
“You operate on the principle that seeing is believing,” said Luna, and took a mushroom.
Malfoy looked a little hurt. “I never said there wasn’t a possibility that you would see a Chupacabra.”
“I didn’t mean to be unkind,” said Luna, and Malfoy instantly went soft all over. “I was just talking to Harry about my threshold of belief theory.”
“Oh, this is interesting; you’ll like it.” Malfoy turned toward Harry, smiling.
Malfoy hadn’t smiled at him very much, the way he used to, before Harry had been an utter prat to him in May, but now Malfoy looked sincerely glad, as though pleased to share something with Harry. Harry just looked back, startled.
Malfoy’s smile fell away. He turned back to Luna.
“Threshold of belief?” said Harry.
“Yes.” Luna took another mushroom. “Basically, it’s about what you need in order to convince yourself of something. How many things need to happen. How many trials you need to face, and how critical they are.”
Harry frowned, thinking. “Critical?”
“Yes. Most trials aren’t critical. Even if all your goats are dying, you think there's got to be another explanation. But if your goats are dying, and you've spelled against coyotes and hunters and disease, that's more critical, because there are less possible explanations. But if you're faced with a Chupacabra―you see it with your own eyes, that’s the most critical trial. You have to make a decision right then, about whether you believe it exists. If you don’t, there’ll be some immediate consequences. But those trials are most rare. Hardly anyone ever sees a Chupacabra.”
At last, Harry understood. “You mean . . . like, if you were asking someone about what they saw, that's not a critical trial. Because it's not there in front of them, or they can't tell what's going to happen if they deny it. So they just kept saying they didn’t know over and over. Like they can't decide, because they don't have to.”
“I think so,” said Luna. “Can I have more onion?”
Malfoy passed her the plate of fried onion.
Luna actually ate quite a lot. Harry had never realized it before. “Or maybe they really just don’t know,” he said.
“I think it’s a great way to talk about something like Snorkacks,” said Malfoy. He was looking at Luna proudly. “People might be dismissive, but they’re not going to dismiss a giraffe. It really makes you think about how subjective reality actually is, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Harry said, so Malfoy wouldn’t stop smiling again.
Malfoy turned to him. “So it’s quite epistemological―the limits on human knowledge, and such. We can’t really know what’s out there, or what’s true.”
Harry tried to think of something else to say, when all he could really think of was how his face had felt, bloated by the stinging hex when the Snatchers got him, and the look on Malfoy’s face at Malfoy Manor.
“I think,” said Harry. “I think a lot of times people know what’s really going on. I mean, they know the truth. They just don’t know what to do with it.”
“How can we be certain, though?” Malfoy said. “Doesn’t our perception of reality limit our understanding of it? Hermione has been telling me about this Muggle theory.” He waved his hands, as though to paint his words. Malfoy did that when he got excited. “There’s a cave with shadows, and people think the shadows are real things, because they’ve never seen the light. Having never seen actual objects, they can’t conceive of them; they can only deal in the impressions those objects create.”
Harry frowned. He wasn’t really all that great at theoretical discussion, but Malfoy was looking at him as though he thought Harry perfectly capable of having opinions on abstract thoughts.
In fact, he was looking at him as though he was really interested in Harry’s opinions on abstract thoughts.
“I don’t think it matters,” Harry said abruptly.
Malfoy’s brow furrowed.
“I mean,” said Harry, “maybe it matters in a philosophical way. But if you can’t know what’s real or true, then all you’ve got is your impressions, and your perceptions. All you can do is try your best to see things as clearly as possible. You have to do the best with what you’ve got.”
When Harry had started talking, the corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned a little bit, and now it was turned a lot, and now he was smiling. It was an absent, thoughtful smile; he couldn’t know he was doing it, and it was so open and so horribly honest that suddenly Harry was uncomfortable in his own skin.
“Are we getting afters?” said Luna.
“Of course.” Malfoy grinned at her. “We can get that mousse you like.”
“I love afters,” said Luna.
“Potter was very judgemental of my liking starters,” Malfoy said.
“I like starters too,” said Luna, and put another mushroom in her mouth.
“I just prefer the in-between,” said Harry. “Is that so wrong?”
“No,” said Luna. “I think that a meal is like a friendship. You begin with little bites and tastes. Some are spicy and some are a little sweet. You’re really just grazing, here and there. And then there’s the in-between. It’s what fills you up―really getting to know who a person is, deep down. Learning to understand whether they’re worth all the pain and time and heartache, and learning whether they like mushrooms. Once you get to the dessert part, you know they’ll always be there for you, and you'll always be there for them. That’s the sweetest.”
“Meals end,” said Harry. He was trying again not to think of Hermione and Ron.
“Oh, well I don’t think it’s a perfect metaphor,” said Luna. “I think that a friendship dessert can go on and on. They’re not without their crunchy parts.”
“When you put it that way,” said Harry, “I prefer dessert.”
“When you put it that way,” said Malfoy, “I prefer the in-between.”
“Mostly I just like food,” said Luna, and so they ordered mousse.
* * *
Next
lettered Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, and
talekayler wrote Nunquam SecurusPrevious
30 July, 2004
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said, when he found Malfoy sitting at work in his desk in SO.
Malfoy turned around slowly. “Hello, Potter,” he said. “What can I do for you?” His tone was perfectly polite, and very, very cold.
Harry had seen Malfoy at work a couple of times since he’d fought with Hermione. Mostly Malfoy had just looked the other way. Harry hadn’t said anything to him; Hermione was still pretty upset, and he figured Malfoy was, too. It was clear they needed some time.
Now, though, it had been a week, and Hermione was moping about, and she kept arguing with Ron even more because of it, and Ron said she was being a bint, and he loved her so goddamn much, why did she act this way, so Harry thought maybe by now, it might be all right to talk to Malfoy.
“I wanted to know if you wanted to come to the pub,” said Harry. “Since you didn’t come yesterday.”
Malfoy smirked. “Plan on throwing mud at my face, Potter? Need to practice your slashing hexes?”
“No,” said Harry. “Mostly I thought we could just get a pint.”
The smirk changed into a sneer. “Maybe I’ll bring some Dementors along. I could invite some Death Eaters. Perhaps a werewolf for good measure? I’m sure I still have some Peruvian Darkness Powder. Maybe you can bring a Hufflepuff or two, and I’ll have them murdered for afters.”
“Again,” said Harry, “mostly I was just planning on the pint. Usually after that, I just go home and have dinner, maybe watch telly or listen to the wireless. If you want to entertain yourself afterwards, that’s your affair.”
Malfoy stood up. His cheeks were pink, which always made his eyes look bright. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been saying,” Harry said, “I want to have a pint with you. If you don’t want to have one with me, you can say no.”
Pressing a hand to his temple, Malfoy turned away. “Why?”
“Because we usually do on Thursdays,” Harry said, “but you weren’t there yesterday.”
Malfoy turned back with the sneer set in place again, and it was full of such vitriol that Harry suddenly remembered why Malfoy had been not at all attractive at Hogwarts. “Want to know why?”
“I know why,” Harry said. “It’s because you had a fight with Hermione.”
“And do you want to know why that happened? It’s because I’m a bigot, Potter. I’m a Death Eater, aren’t I? I’m petty and mean-spirited. Self-absorbed, cruel. I’m heinous, Potter. I’m beneath contempt.”
Harry pushed his glasses up. “Well, if you’d told us that from the beginning, instead of pretending to be all that other stuff, you’d have saved us a lot of time.”
“Why are you . . .” Malfoy grit his teeth in frustration. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Harry put his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t fight with me. You fought with Hermione. She feels awful, by the way.”
“Hermione,” Malfoy began, and stopped. He shook his head.
“Also, I think everyone is right on a level with contempt, every once in a while. That is, everyone is worthy of it at some point.” Harry took his hands out of his pockets. “I don’t think you’re heinous, Malfoy.”
“Why don’t you hate me?” Malfoy looked a little forlorn.
“I don’t think you’re any of those other things you said either,” Harry said. “I’d say specifically, but I don’t remember them all.”
Malfoy held his eyes for a moment, and then looked away. “She’s never going to forgive me.”
“Sure she will,” Harry said. “Once she forgives herself.”
“That can't be true.”
Harry thought about it. “No, you're right.” Malfoy hung his head, and Harry said, “She already forgave you. The second you walked away. Actually before that; I don’t think she really thinks there’s anything to forgive you for. But she feels really, really guilty and I can’t seem to convince her that you both just got excited and angry, and now that it’s over, it’s going to be okay.” Harry looked at Malfoy for a bit. “It’s going to be okay,” he added for good measure.
“I never would have said it,” Malfoy blurted out.
“Said what?”
“I wasn’t intending to.” Malfoy’s eyes were beseeching. “I don’t think that way any more. I don’t use that word. I don’t even think that word.”
Harry thought about asking what word Malfoy meant, but he thought it probably would’ve been disingenuous, because he was fairly certain he did know. “So,” he said instead. “Do you want to go to the pub?”
“Oh, God,” said Malfoy. He sounded a little choked.
“At least let’s go somewhere . . .” Harry looked around. “Not here.” He walked out of Malfoy’s cubicle, and Malfoy followed behind him.
People were starting to go home for the evening, but Harry had headed over early so he could be sure he would catch Malfoy, and there were still quite a few hit wizards and witches about. Harry stopped when he realized Malfoy had stopped a little ways back, in one of the lesser populated corridors. There was hardly anyone around.
“Is she coming?” Malfoy said. “To the pub. Hermione.”
“Oh.” Harry tugged his fringe. “No. I mean, I think she’s still pretty bent out of shape.”
“Good. Not about her being bent out of shape. I mean . . . I mean, I don’t think I could face her.”
“She doesn’t want to face you. She feels really badly, Malfoy.”
“She feels badly.” Malfoy sagged against the wall. “God. I was a bastard.”
“I think you’re both making it out to be way worse than it really is.”
“We have a history, and it . . .” Trailing off, Malfoy looked over at him. He looked sort of haggard, shadows of violet under his eyes.
“You and I have a history, too,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s gaze drifted down, somewhere near Harry’s mouth. Maybe he was focused on his chin. It could have been his neck. “Yes,” Malfoy said, his voice low.
“Okay,” said Harry. “So I’m telling you, it’s not that bad.”
Malfoy looked away.
Studying him a little while, Harry tried to think of ways to make it better. That’s what Hermione did for him, when he was truly out of sorts. “Want to invite Pansy?”
“Pansy.” Closing his eyes, Malfoy thunked the back of his skull against the wall. “I could do with never seeing that cow again.”
“You don’t think . . .” Harry frowned. “You said it wasn’t her fault.”
“Of course, it’s her fault. Pansy’s a―a―I can’t even think of a word that I dislike enough that I’m still willing to say, is what she is.”
“So . . . you think Hermione had a point?”
Malfoy grimaced. “Of course, she had a point. Haven’t you seen her with Ron?”
Harry thought about that. “Pansy’s that way with everyone.”
“Ron does it back.”
That was true. Pansy and Ron could get really carried away with each other, but actually Hermione and Malfoy could really get carried away as well. Harry hadn’t thought there was much difference between Hermione and Malfoy talking politics and Pansy and Ron talking about music, food, and not caring about things that other people cared about. Except that Hermione and Malfoy were really serious, and Pansy and Ron usually weren't serious at all.
“Didn’t you say yourself that wasn’t Pansy's fault?” Harry said. “Seems like that’s between Hermione and Ron.”
“It’s not that.” Malfoy’s mouth was an unhappy little line. He looked down at the floor. “When Ron does it, he’s just being―he’s just being Ron. Humouring her. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Harry was surprised. “You think Pansy means something by it?”
“No. Yes. What I mean is, Ron and Hermione, they’ve―they’ve got their problems. To Pansy, they’re like a gaping wound, and she’s going to go and pour salt on it. Ron is oblivious to it. He thinks she’s just harmless, but she’s not. She sees something bleeding, and she’s going to poke it with sticks just to see what it does. Just because she can.”
Harry thought back to Pansy saying that Malfoy had been a beast. She’d been saying that ever since Hermione and Ron started fighting. “You’ve been telling her not to.” He thought about how short Malfoy had been, when he had had Pansy’s scarf. “Have you had a fight?”
“Sometimes it seems like we’re always fighting. Ever since the war ended. She just doesn’t listen. She’s destructive.” Malfoy looked wretched. “She’s unkind.”
“Pansy’s all right,” Harry said.
Malfoy shook his head. “She’s never going to―she’s never going to think about anybody but herself. She’s never going to want to. I’ve tried to make her do the right thing, and I―”
“Well, now you’re just saying the things Hermione said.” Harry felt impatient, for some reason. He was thinking about the things Malfoy had said, about how he loved Pansy, about how he’d been through things with Pansy.
Harry loved Ron and Hermione, and he’d been through things with them that no one else was ever going to understand. No one outside the three of them would ever know what it had been like, during the war. No one else would ever understand what they were to each other―so when Malfoy had said that Hermione didn’t understand, Harry had thought Malfoy was right, in a way. He didn’t remember what Malfoy had said, exactly, but he’d thought he’d understood it.
He’d liked it.
“Pansy doesn’t only care for herself,” Harry said. “She cares for you. You said so.”
Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. “Maybe it’s not enough.”
“Sure, it’s enough,” Harry said. “She loves you.”
“That’s not going to make her a good person.” Malfoy shook his head. “Greg’s the same way. I just can’t get them to―”
“Look―” Harry cut himself off. Someone passed by in the corridor with a sheaf of files, and Harry stepped closer to Malfoy. When the person was gone, he said, “Just come to the bloody pub with me. I don’t want to do this in the corridor.”
Malfoy’s eyes slid up Harry’s face, but he didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll get my things.”
*
It wasn’t until they were seated at a booth with drinks in front of them that Harry said, “Did Hermione tell you about Snape?”
Malfoy raised a tired brow. “If you’re going to tell me he was a spy, then you’re a bit behind the press.”
“I mean, did she tell you about why he did it?” Only Hermione and Ron knew the full story behind the memories Snape had given Harry.
Frowning down at his pint, Malfoy said, “Because he was trying to do the right thing.”
“He did it because he was in love with my mum.”
Malfoy scowled at him in startled surprise.
“He was,” said Harry. “With his memories, at the end, he was trying to tell me what I had to do―but he was also trying to tell me why he had done what he did. I don’t think it was an accident.” He took a sip of lager.
“But . . .” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “But Snape didn’t . . . I know they went to Hogwarts together, but he was in Slytherin. He hated your dad. How would he have even . . . Their paths must have hardly ever crossed.”
“They did, though.” Harry drank more lager. “They were friends as children. When they got older, Snape started getting interested in . . . being like pure-bloods, and my mum, she . . . well, she was just my mum. My dad was a right git to him. Snape, I mean. Then Snape called my mum a Mudblood.”
Malfoy flinched, but “Oh,” was all he said.
“Yeah.” Harry took another gulp of his pint. “I like to think that eventually my dad wasn’t such an arse. That Mum forgave him for being a bully, and he tried to make it up to people―but honestly, I don’t know. But they got married, and she and Snape didn’t, you see, so . . .”
“Snape resented her.”
“I suppose.” Harry shrugged. “But when Voldemort wanted to have me killed, that’s when Snape realized he didn’t . . . he knew it wasn’t what Mum would want. He tried to protect me―but it wasn’t me, really. It was Mum. It was always my mum.”
Malfoy chewed his cheek some more. “I thought he changed his mind.”
“I think he did,” Harry said. “But mostly because he loved her. He didn’t care about anything else.”
“He did too.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet.
“I didn’t mean―I mean, he didn’t care for me. Or saving the world. Those sorts of things. He cared about a small number of things―my mum. You. Your mum, maybe. But that was all.”
Malfoy shook his head. “That wasn’t all.” When Harry looked at him questioningly, he explained, “He sacrificed you, in the end. Or, he thought he did.”
Harry frowned. “Well, yeah.”
“What I mean is . . . do you think your mum would have wanted you to be sacrificed?” Malfoy leaned forward. “You say he decided to side with Dumbledore because he knew your mum wouldn’t want you to be killed. But what did he do in the end? What was Dumbledore trying to do all along?”
Pig for the slaughter.
That was what Snape had said.
Harry shook his head. “I had to die. I had . . .” They’d still never told anyone about the Horcruxes. “It’s complicated, but it had to happen, or Voldemort never could have been defeated. I had to die, so that others could live.”
“You’re . . .” Malfoy’s eyes flicked up to the lightning scar, almost imperceptibly, and then he was meeting Harry’s gaze again. He licked his lips. “Snape believed that too,” was all he said.
“My mum would have believed it,” Harry said.
“You think your mum would have sacrificed you to save the world?”
Harry just shrugged.
“My mum never would,” Malfoy said. “And if what you’re saying about Snape is true, he would have believed that your mum never would. So what he did in the end . . . it wasn’t about your mum at all.”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Harry drank more of his beer. “I’m just saying, it’s enough to care about someone. Love is enough.”
“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice croaked. He licked his lips again. “Can―”
“So, you are here.”
Harry looked up at the sound of Ron’s voice.
“Budge over,” said Ron.
“Ron.” Surprised, Harry made room for him in the booth, and Ron sat down. “What are you―”
“Hermione thought you’d be here,” Ron said.
“How did she―”
“She said she thought you’d go tell Malfoy she was sorry.”
Harry glanced at Malfoy. “Hermione didn’t tell me to.”
“You did though, didn’t you? Mind if I snag your pint; Malfoy always does it to everyone else.” Ron took a gulp. “She just thought it was the sort of thing you’d do. Hey, Malfoy.”
“The sort of thing I’d do?” said Harry.
“You never like a lot of dodging; that’s what she says.” Ron turned to Malfoy. “Look, Malfoy, Hermione feels terrible. Whatever it is she said to you, it can’t have been as bad as all that.”
“What she said to me.” Malfoy looked pale.
Curious, Ron turned back to Harry. “Is he going to hold a grudge?”
“No,” said Harry.
“Good.” Ron swiped another gulp of lager, looking back at Malfoy. “Hermione’d break her heart, and then I’d go do something stupid, like kill you, and then Hermione’d never forgive me. God, she’s being a right―right―I don’t even know what.”
“That’s what Malfoy said about Pansy.”
“Parkinson.” Ron snorted. “Can you believe she’s in such a fuss about Parkinson? If it were me in a strop, I’d believe it. I’m the ignorant hothead, right? But no, she has to go be unreasonable. Bloody women.”
“You’re not,” Malfoy said, and then had to begin again. “You’re not angry with me?”
“You?” Ron scowled at him. “Why bother being angry at you? I’m not in love with you.”
“That’s a relief, Ron,” Harry said. “Malfoy was really worried about you being in love with him.”
Malfoy swallowed. He looked sort of like he couldn’t believe that this was actually happening.
Putting his elbows on the table, Ron frowned dejectedly.
“Ron,” Harry said, “are you all right?”
“Yes. No. I want to drink. I want to drink around people who are sane. Are you sane?” Ron looked at Malfoy.
Malfoy still looked unsettled. “I can be a prat.”
Snorting, Ron turned back to Harry. “Fancy that. He’s sane. How ‘bout,” Ron turned back to Malfoy, “she mope at home about you and me, and we mope here about her. Make sense to you?”
“No,” said Malfoy.
“Me neither,” said Ron. “Where’s Parkinson?”
“Remember,” Harry said, “she’s being a right Malfoy-doesn’t-know-what.”
“Great.” Ron slumped. “You fight with her, too?”
Malfoy frowned. “Yes.”
“I’m not fighting with anyone,” said Harry. “Ron, want to have a go?”
Ron snorted again. “I would wipe the floor with you.”
“In your dreams.”
Ron just stared dejectedly at the table again.
“Well,” Malfoy said, after a little silence. “This is maudlin.”
“Downright mawkish,” Harry agreed, swiping back his pint.
Malfoy brightened a little. “Melancholy even.”
Harry smiled crookedly. “Morbid.”
“Pathetic,” said Malfoy.
“Bathetic,” said Harry. “Characterized by bathos.”
Malfoy looked at him, startled.
Harry just smirked.
“I’m tired of pathos, and bathos,” Ron said. “And ethos, actually. Can we just get back to mild, brown, and stout?”
“Intoxicants,” said Harry.
“Potables,” said Malfoy.
“Aqua vitae,” said Harry.
“No one speaks English any more,” Ron said sadly.
Malfoy’s eyelids went heavy. “That’s Latin,” he drawled.
Harry laughed. “Good job, Malfoy.”
“I just want to get wasted,” said Ron. “Is that so wrong?”
“Inebriated,” said Malfoy, in that low, lazy voice.
“Bacchanalian.” Harry put his elbow on the table, and grinned.
Malfoy’s eyes were getting darker.
“What’s even wrong with you?” Ron wanted to know.
Turning his grin on Ron, Harry said, “Lately, I’ve been reading a thesaurus.”
“I’ll go get Weasley’s drink,” Malfoy said, quite suddenly. He slid out of the booth, not looking at Harry.
“Make it a round,” Ron called, as Malfoy walked toward the bar. “Firewhiskey, yeah? I sure hope he sorts this out with Hermione,” he said, turning back to Harry. “She’s a mess.”
“They’ll sort it out,” Harry said. “Hermione’s got a lot going on.”
Ron put his head in his hands again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with us. I love her so bloody much, you know?”
“I know,” said Harry.
Ron looked up. “And I would never―with Parkinson; I wouldn’t―”
“I know,” said Harry.
“Hermione’s right about you.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not a dodger.” Ron drank the rest of Harry’s pint. “You always get right to the heart of the matter.”
Harry looked over in the direction of the bar. “Sometimes it takes a while.”
* * *
3 August, 2004
“Hullo, Potter,” Malfoy said.
“Malfoy!” Harry broke his quill, and almost spilled over his pot of ink.
They’d got drunk with Ron four nights before. It wasn’t a Thursday. It wasn’t even evening.
“I was just . . .” Harry looked at his broken quill and the large blot of ink dripping from it to spread over his report.
“Working.” Taking out his wand, Malfoy tapped the parchment. The ink sucked up into a blobby, floating ball, which Malfoy directed into the pot. Then he tapped the quill. “Reparo. I wanted to know if you were interested in grabbing a bite to eat.”
“Now?” Harry looked around. It was definitely the middle of the day.
Malfoy put away his wand. “Yes, now.”
“Sure,” said Harry. “Okay. Yes. Let me . . .” He looked down at the papers on his desk and then realized he had no idea what he had been doing with them. “I’ll just get my robes,” he said, standing up.
“Good,” said Malfoy. “I’ve arranged to meet Luna at the pub.”
Harry stopped, hand half way to his robes. “Luna?”
“Luna.” Malfoy smirked. “You’ll remember her from such escapades as Dumbledore’s Army, raids on the Department of Mysteries, liberation from dungeons, et cetera.”
“I know who Luna is,” said Harry.
“Good,” said Malfoy. “Lunch might have proved awkward, otherwise.”
“I just didn’t know . . .” Harry remembered Greg talking about Luna at the pub, but he hadn't really made the connection that Greg knew Luna through Malfoy.
Malfoy’s smirk fell away, but he didn’t seem upset. When he spoke, his voice was rather gentle. “I should have specified. You may remember Luna from helping her to escape the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.”
“Oh,” said Harry, helplessly. “That Luna.”
“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy smiled his dry little smile. “That Luna.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and got his coat.
*
When they got to the pub, Luna wasn’t there yet. Harry had thought perhaps they might go elsewhere, seeing as how it wasn’t Thursday and it wasn’t evening and they weren’t getting drinks, but Malfoy had just looked at him and said, “Spinach and artichoke dip, Potter.”
“I know,” Harry had said, “but there’s always the Leaky, or Nazma.”
“There isn’t the Leaky.” Malfoy had put his nose in the air rather haughtily. “There isn’t Nazma. There is only spinach and artichoke dip.”
“You’re rather high-handed.”
“I can’t help it.” Malfoy sniffed. “It’s the way I was raised.”
Harry didn’t really know what to say about that, so he didn’t say anything, and here they were at the pub, and Malfoy was beaming at his spinach and artichoke dip, and a fried onion.
“You got two starters,” Harry pointed out.
“I like starters. Is it wrong to like starters?”
“No.”
“I’ll order some Brussels sprouts. Will that make you happy?”
“I hate Brussels sprouts,” Harry said.
“They’ll be cooked in butter. Sautéed in a pan. You have no taste, Potter.”
“I’m here with you.”
“Stuffed mushrooms, then.”
“What kind of pub has stuffed mushrooms, anyway?”
“This kind of pub,” said Malfoy. “My favourite kind of pub. Pubs with spinach and artichoke dip. I’m seeing Hermione tomorrow.”
“You can get mushrooms if you want,” said Harry. “Did you talk to her at all?”
“Will you eat mushrooms if I get mushrooms? I can’t eat all this myself.”
“That’s why you don’t only order starters, Malfoy.”
“We talked a little,” Malfoy said. “You were right. She said she was sorry.”
“You didn’t believe me?”
Malfoy looked down at the menu card in his hands. “I just couldn’t believe that she would be the one apologizing to me.”
They were sitting near a window, and the sun was slanting in. Harry hardly ever saw Malfoy look this way―lit by sunlight, because usually they ate at the pub in the evenings, and the Ministry was underground. He looked sharper, more angular in the light.
“You didn’t say whether you would have the mushrooms,” Malfoy said.
“Just get what you like,” Harry said. “You’re pickier than me.”
“I’m not picky,” said Malfoy.
“You eat Brussels sprouts.”
“That doesn’t make me picky,” said Malfoy. “Luna likes tiny cabbage-like things.”
“Hermione and Ron are still having problems,” Harry said.
“Yes, well.” Malfoy put the menu down. “Pansy is still being a bint. Luna also likes mushrooms.”
“Really, only the button kind. It’s not Pansy’s fault.”
“Maybe. She certainly wasn’t making things easy on them, though, and she was doing it deliberately.”
“Hermione spends a lot of time working,” Harry said. “Ron says he hardly ever sees her.”
“Ron’s got to understand what she’s trying to do.”
“Ron understands,” said Harry. “He also wants to spend time with his girlfriend, though.”
“Well,” Malfoy said, “it doesn’t help that when Ron can’t spend time with Hermione, he spends it with Pansy.”
Harry began, “Ron isn’t―”
“I know that. Potter, even she knows that. It doesn’t change the way Hermione feels.”
“I guess it can be hard being friends with someone of the opposite sex,” Harry said. “I mean, if you’re straight. Or friends of the same sex if you’re not, I suppose. Or . . .” Trailing off, he frowned.
“Stop at, ‘it’s hard being friends,’” said Malfoy. He poked at the spinach and artichoke dip. “Did you have . . . a good time with Pansy and Blaise?”
“What? Oh, yeah,” said Harry. “Blaise is pretty interesting.”
“Yes,” said Malfoy. “He is that.”
“Charming,” Harry said.
“That, too.”
“You don’t like him?”
“What? Of course I like Blaise. Everyone likes Blaise.”
“You’re fairly good friends, right?”
Malfoy brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I―we’ve always been friendly. I’ve always liked him. I’m very fond of Blaise.”
“But you were better friends with Crabbe and Goyle.”
Jaw hardening, Malfoy looked away.
“Hey,” Harry said. “I wasn’t . . .”
Malfoy jabbed the spinach with the spoon. “Weren’t what?”
Watching him, Harry wondered if his mother had ever told him not to play with his food. His mother was Narcissa; of course she had. Harry wondered what Malfoy had been like when he was little. He’d probably thrown food a lot and had tantrums, and Lucius probably sent him off to his room, and Malfoy probably cried and cried, until late at night when he got to come down and have a sorbet after all, and his mother patted him on the head, and it all sounded very familiar, except that there wasn’t another little boy in that house living under the stairs.
Harry didn’t think Narcissa would have allowed it, actually.
“I think Greg’s all right,” Harry said.
“Blaise was never interested in the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said, after a moment. “His family wasn’t, and I may have never been, if it weren’t for my family too, so I never thought much of it. Even when things became . . . quite difficult, it never really struck me that he didn’t get involved. Some people didn’t. The smart ones didn’t, and the frightened ones, and the ones who were confused.” He stirred the spoon in the spinach dip. It wasn’t really the sort of dip that needed stirring. “I may have been frightened and confused, but I was hardly smart.”
Harry wanted to reassure him somehow, which was stupid. Malfoy had been stupid.
They had been young, then.
“But when the war was over, Blaise still didn’t care. He doesn’t care now, about reform, or proving that we pure-bloods can adapt, or working to understand Muggles. He doesn’t care about any of it. I think―I think he must care for something, or else . . . . We all care for something. But honestly, I think that he cares for very little, and I just . . . I find it hard to understand.”
Harry tilted his head, thinking about Pansy, and the way Malfoy had said, she cares for me.
“Maybe Blaise just has a funny way of showing it,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s chair scraped against the floor, and Harry thought for an alarmed moment that he’d done something wrong, when he saw that Luna had arrived, and Malfoy was standing for her, and helping her out of her coat.
“Thank you, Draco,” said Luna.
Malfoy put it on the back of her chair and pulled it out for her. As she sat down, he hovered for a moment, as if waiting for other things he could do.
“Hello Harry,” Luna said, as Malfoy sat down.
“Hullo,” said Harry.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” said Luna.
“It was the start of summer,” Harry said.
“I’ve ordered spinach,” said Malfoy, moving the bowl and crisps closer to her, “and artichokes.”
“I quite like spinach,” said Luna.
Malfoy beamed at her. “And how are the, er, Snorkacks?”
“Little luck as ever,” said Luna, spooning spinach onto her plate. “It’s good of you to ask.”
“See anything else good lately?” said Harry.
“A Horny-tailed Gruntykins,” said Luna. “That was in Mexico.”
“You were in Mexico?” Harry asked.
“Yes. I was hoping to see a Chupacabra, but the rain has lately chased them into hiding.” Luna scooped more spinach onto her plate.
Malfoy started scooping too. Maybe he was just scooping because Luna was doing it, or maybe he realized that he was starting to look a little like a guard dog, with the way he might as well have been sitting at her feet, so attentively was he watching her. “What happened to Jorge?”
“Oh, he’s still in Mexico,” said Luna.
Malfoy took some crisps as well. “You won’t see him any more?”
Luna looked at him strangely. “Not unless I’m in Mexico. It would be very hard to see him from England.” She thought about that. “Without sufficient practice.”
“Who’s Jorge?” Harry asked, feeling utterly lost.
“A friend.” Luna munched on some crisps. “I was very surprised to hear that you and Draco have become friends. I think it’s nice. Did you order the Brussels sprouts, Draco?”
“Potter wouldn’t let me,” Malfoy said, breaking one of his crisps and pushing spinach around with it. “He detests Brussels sprouts.”
“That’s okay, Harry,” said Luna. “We all have our quirks. Can we get the mushrooms? They only use criminis, here.”
“You’ve been here before?” Harry asked, surprised.
Now it was him Luna was looking at strangely. “Draco and I come here all the time.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think of to say.
“We really like the spinach dip,” Malfoy said, smirking.
“Apparently.” Harry grabbed some crisps, and Malfoy let go of the spoon, so he could scoop up some of the dip. Since it was so amazing, and everything. “I just didn’t know you two were that good of friends.”
“I suppose you can get spinach with people you dislike,” said Luna. “But I wouldn’t want to.”
Harry dipped a crisp and munched it. The spinach actually was rather good, now that he tried it. He dipped another crisp. “How did it happen?” They looked at him, and he said, “You becoming friends, I mean.”
“I stayed a little while in Draco’s basement.” Luna looked a little confused. “Don’t you remember?”
“Um,” said Harry. “Right. Here’s the part I’m not clear on.” He glanced at Malfoy, who was moving back the spinach bowl so Luna could reach it, just in case she wanted more. “It just doesn’t seem like you become friends with someone just because you’re locked in their dungeon, was all I meant.”
Luna looked at him curiously. “Have you ever been locked in a dungeon?”
“Um.” Harry had to think about it. “Not really.”
“I don’t really recommend it.” Luna ate her spinach dip with a fork. “But I did make plenty of friends.”
“I should imagine you’ve never had prisoners locked in your cellar, either.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He was dipping a crisp.
“Guessed I missed out on that one,” said Harry.
“You didn’t.” Malfoy chewed his crisp, and swallowed. “It’s awful. They’re not your prisoners, but it’s your cellar, and it drips, and you’re too much of a coward to help them.”
“Draco helped me,” said Luna.
“Did you want something to drink?” said Malfoy.
Luna glanced over at him. “I’ll have your water.”
Moving his water closer so that she could reach it, Malfoy asked, “Do you want lemonade?”
“I think they’ve stopped making summer lemonade,” said Luna. “I really only like summer flavoured lemonade.”
“I’ll order the mushrooms,” Malfoy said, and stood up.
“I don’t think he likes to think about it,” said Luna, when Malfoy walked over to the bar.
“About locking you in a dungeon?”
Luna was slender and pale, in a way that almost seemed frail, with her bony wrists and rather fluffy yellow hair. Harry thought of the way Malfoy had drawn out her chair, of the way that he had arranged the things on the table so that she could reach everything, and the way that Luna didn’t seem to notice.
It wasn’t that Malfoy thought she couldn’t do things for herself, Harry realized. It was that he wanted to do things for her.
“I think he wanted to rescue me.” Luna was starting in on the fried onions now. “Like a prince in a story.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No,” said Luna. “In stories they don’t generally say. But he brought us food sometimes, and when I asked, he brought me other things.”
“What things?”
“Spools of thread, beans, bottle caps, corks. You know.”
“Actually,” said Harry, “I don’t.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that you don’t make jewellry.”
“Er, Malfoy doesn’t either.” Then the thought struck Harry, and his eyes goggled a bit. “Does he?”
“No. But I made him a bracelet.”
“You made Malfoy a bracelet,” said Harry.
Luna calmly cut apart her onion. “I would make you one, if I thought you would wear it.”
“Er,” Harry said again, “did Malfoy wear his?”
“For a little while.” Luna took a bite of onion. “It was a friendship bracelet.”
Harry glanced up. He couldn’t see Malfoy over at the bar, because it was around the corner.
For some reason, Harry wanted to make sure he was actually there―as if he actually might not exist, like some of Luna’s other creatures.
Harry turned back to Luna. “You said you thought he wanted to help you escape,” he said. “Why didn’t he?”
Luna ate some more onion. “I think it has to do with Chupacabras. Or even Snorkacks, if you still don’t believe in them. I assume you don’t. What happens is that someone sees a Chupacabra for the first time, and she says, “I saw something strange.” The next person sees a Chupacabra, and she says, “I saw something strange that was small and bear-shaped, with spikes on its back.” A third person sees a Chupacabra and says, “I saw something small and bear-shaped, with spikes on its back, and all my goats are dead.” And the fourth person says, “I saw a Chupacabra.
“And then there are numerous reports, and we’ve all heard of Chupacabras, but most of us don’t believe that they exist. But people keep seeing them, and when they see them, they know. And eventually, there’s enough evidence that even if we haven’t seen one, we know that they exist. Like giraffes. Have you seen a giraffe, Harry?”
“Er,” said Harry. “Once, I think. It was at a zoo.”
“It might have been a fake. But you believed it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Er, because it was a giraffe.”
“Did you believe in unicorns, before you knew about the wizarding world?”
“I suppose I didn’t.” Harry had no idea where this was going. Because it was Luna, it probably wasn’t going anywhere that would really make any sense. But because it was Luna, it was interesting, and whenever he thought of Malfoy pulling out her chair and hovering near her, and the way he looked at her―it made Harry wish that he was that considerate, too.
“Sometimes Muggles capture unicorns. They keep them in cages. If you had seen a real unicorn at a Muggle fair, would you think that it was a fake?”
“I don’t know.” Harry pushed spinach around his plate with a crisp. “Probably.”
“So it all comes down to what it takes, to make you believe in something. Are you the sort of person who has to see it to believe it? Are you the sort of person who will believe anything that people tell you? Or perhaps you believe in something because someone you know and trust says it’s true.
“And while we’re speaking of belief, there’s more than one kind. Intellectually, you might believe something, but what if deep down―where it really matters―you can’t convince yourself? Or, conversely, you believe in something, but people you love and trust have told you that it isn’t true. You can’t prove it, having never experienced it for yourself, so no matter what you feel in your heart of hearts, you cannot convince your mind to believe it. Can you pass the spinach?
“Sure,” said Harry, and passed the spinach.
Luna scraped the rest out of the bowl and put it on her plate. “That’s the difference between Draco and I,” said Luna.
“What’s the difference?” Malfoy asked. He’d just come up with a plate of mushrooms. Harry made room for it on the table while Luna went on eating spinach, and Malfoy sat down.
“You operate on the principle that seeing is believing,” said Luna, and took a mushroom.
Malfoy looked a little hurt. “I never said there wasn’t a possibility that you would see a Chupacabra.”
“I didn’t mean to be unkind,” said Luna, and Malfoy instantly went soft all over. “I was just talking to Harry about my threshold of belief theory.”
“Oh, this is interesting; you’ll like it.” Malfoy turned toward Harry, smiling.
Malfoy hadn’t smiled at him very much, the way he used to, before Harry had been an utter prat to him in May, but now Malfoy looked sincerely glad, as though pleased to share something with Harry. Harry just looked back, startled.
Malfoy’s smile fell away. He turned back to Luna.
“Threshold of belief?” said Harry.
“Yes.” Luna took another mushroom. “Basically, it’s about what you need in order to convince yourself of something. How many things need to happen. How many trials you need to face, and how critical they are.”
Harry frowned, thinking. “Critical?”
“Yes. Most trials aren’t critical. Even if all your goats are dying, you think there's got to be another explanation. But if your goats are dying, and you've spelled against coyotes and hunters and disease, that's more critical, because there are less possible explanations. But if you're faced with a Chupacabra―you see it with your own eyes, that’s the most critical trial. You have to make a decision right then, about whether you believe it exists. If you don’t, there’ll be some immediate consequences. But those trials are most rare. Hardly anyone ever sees a Chupacabra.”
At last, Harry understood. “You mean . . . like, if you were asking someone about what they saw, that's not a critical trial. Because it's not there in front of them, or they can't tell what's going to happen if they deny it. So they just kept saying they didn’t know over and over. Like they can't decide, because they don't have to.”
“I think so,” said Luna. “Can I have more onion?”
Malfoy passed her the plate of fried onion.
Luna actually ate quite a lot. Harry had never realized it before. “Or maybe they really just don’t know,” he said.
“I think it’s a great way to talk about something like Snorkacks,” said Malfoy. He was looking at Luna proudly. “People might be dismissive, but they’re not going to dismiss a giraffe. It really makes you think about how subjective reality actually is, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Harry said, so Malfoy wouldn’t stop smiling again.
Malfoy turned to him. “So it’s quite epistemological―the limits on human knowledge, and such. We can’t really know what’s out there, or what’s true.”
Harry tried to think of something else to say, when all he could really think of was how his face had felt, bloated by the stinging hex when the Snatchers got him, and the look on Malfoy’s face at Malfoy Manor.
“I think,” said Harry. “I think a lot of times people know what’s really going on. I mean, they know the truth. They just don’t know what to do with it.”
“How can we be certain, though?” Malfoy said. “Doesn’t our perception of reality limit our understanding of it? Hermione has been telling me about this Muggle theory.” He waved his hands, as though to paint his words. Malfoy did that when he got excited. “There’s a cave with shadows, and people think the shadows are real things, because they’ve never seen the light. Having never seen actual objects, they can’t conceive of them; they can only deal in the impressions those objects create.”
Harry frowned. He wasn’t really all that great at theoretical discussion, but Malfoy was looking at him as though he thought Harry perfectly capable of having opinions on abstract thoughts.
In fact, he was looking at him as though he was really interested in Harry’s opinions on abstract thoughts.
“I don’t think it matters,” Harry said abruptly.
Malfoy’s brow furrowed.
“I mean,” said Harry, “maybe it matters in a philosophical way. But if you can’t know what’s real or true, then all you’ve got is your impressions, and your perceptions. All you can do is try your best to see things as clearly as possible. You have to do the best with what you’ve got.”
When Harry had started talking, the corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned a little bit, and now it was turned a lot, and now he was smiling. It was an absent, thoughtful smile; he couldn’t know he was doing it, and it was so open and so horribly honest that suddenly Harry was uncomfortable in his own skin.
“Are we getting afters?” said Luna.
“Of course.” Malfoy grinned at her. “We can get that mousse you like.”
“I love afters,” said Luna.
“Potter was very judgemental of my liking starters,” Malfoy said.
“I like starters too,” said Luna, and put another mushroom in her mouth.
“I just prefer the in-between,” said Harry. “Is that so wrong?”
“No,” said Luna. “I think that a meal is like a friendship. You begin with little bites and tastes. Some are spicy and some are a little sweet. You’re really just grazing, here and there. And then there’s the in-between. It’s what fills you up―really getting to know who a person is, deep down. Learning to understand whether they’re worth all the pain and time and heartache, and learning whether they like mushrooms. Once you get to the dessert part, you know they’ll always be there for you, and you'll always be there for them. That’s the sweetest.”
“Meals end,” said Harry. He was trying again not to think of Hermione and Ron.
“Oh, well I don’t think it’s a perfect metaphor,” said Luna. “I think that a friendship dessert can go on and on. They’re not without their crunchy parts.”
“When you put it that way,” said Harry, “I prefer dessert.”
“When you put it that way,” said Malfoy, “I prefer the in-between.”
“Mostly I just like food,” said Luna, and so they ordered mousse.
* * *
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