Transformation: Chapter Five

 

Madam Pomfrey was in a near-frantic state when Harry and Hermione peeked their heads in the door, and she motioned them quickly into the room. “He’s in the bed by the window,” she said briskly, arms full of several glass bottles and a roll of bandages. “Don’t be long, now, it’s getting late,” and she bustled off to tend to a still-unconscious seventh year with a bad burn mark on her face.

Ron was awake when they crept around the curtain of his bed, and his face lit up when he saw them. “Harry,” he exclaimed. “We were afraid – you might have been caught in the attack–“

“I came back early,” Harry said quietly, not daring to look at Hermione. Now was not the time to explain to Ron why, exactly, he had returned to the castle so early. “How’s your leg?”

“Mostly mended,” Ron shrugged. “I’m supposed to stay overnight so she can keep an eye on me. I’m probably the best off, considering who’s here; did you see Kevin Entwhistle? Whole body covered in burns. I’ll bet he was hurt the worst.” There was a pause, until Ron realized what he said, and amended soberly, “I mean, except for Seamus and Dennis and Snape.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, hating the grave look on Ron’s face. He sat down in the chair beside Ron, while Hermione perched at the foot of the bed. Hermione had not had time to tell him very much as they rushed to the hospital wing. And Malfoy had not waited to hear more; he had bolted as soon as Hermione spoke, face chalky.

Ron glanced up as Madam Pomfrey dropped something across the room, which clattered loudly on the floor. Then he said, “It’s hard to say when it started – Hermione and I were in Dervish & Banges when we heard the screaming. We were looking for you, so we thought immediately you were in the middle of the attack.”

Harry felt a flash of guilt for his absence.

“We ran up the street towards the Three Broomsticks,” Ron continued, “but by that time, people were fighting in the street by the post office and Honeydukes. There were huge crowds of smoke and sparks everywhere – we couldn’t see anyone, people were just running by. I remember Hannah Abbott ran past me and grabbed onto my arm, looking like she’d just seen You-Know-Who himself. She didn’t, though,” he assured Harry, after Harry gave him a shocked look, “he wasn’t there, I don’t think. Just a lot of Death Eaters – Tonks was there dueling with one of them – I saw McGonagall firing spells, she had a group of third-years huddled behind her–“

Hermione said, very quietly, “Tell him about Snape.”

“Right,” Ron said, “I know Snape was rotten – oh, Hermione, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he’s my favorite teacher – but, Harry, he was brilliant. He saved loads of people, probably. He was just standing there in the middle of the street, hexing Death Eaters left and right. I know he saved Neville’s life, at least. Somebody, I couldn’t see who, hit him with some awful spell, nobody heard what it was – it was mad, everybody was screaming and running, we couldn’t see a thing – and Snape was shouting and then he was on the ground.”

“I thought he was just unconscious,” Hermione said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I tried to get closer, but that’s when Ron was hit with an Impediment Jinx and got knocked into the steps of Honeydukes, and by the time I’d made sure he was all right, everything was over.”

Harry said hesitantly, “Seamus and Dennis?”

“Seamus was one of the first ones to die,” Ron told him. He sounded a bit strangled. “I didn’t see it, but he and Ginny and Dean had just been in Honeydukes, they were eating Fizzing Whizbees – Seamus floated up higher than the rest of them, and the next thing they knew, he was – he was–“

Hermione put a hand on Ron’s knee and he quieted, unable to finish. “Dennis had been in the Three Broomsticks,” she continued for Ron. “He was running down the street to get away from them and they shattered the post office window. He was just – full of glass–“ She cut off, too, looking distressed. “I’m the one who found him, I’m the one who had to tell Colin that he didn’t have a pulse–“

Harry felt something tight in his throat and he swallowed several times. “I should have been there,” he finally managed to say.

“Oh, Harry, don’t say that,” Hermione said gently. “You’re lucky that you weren’t. They were probably there for you.”

“But I could have done something!” Harry protested, hands clenching desperately in his lap. “I could’ve – I could’ve saved them–“

“No, you couldn’t’ve,” Ron said. He sounded annoyed. “Harry, you can’t save everybody. And we’re just as good at defense as you are. Well, nearly, anyway. You couldn’t’ve done anything more than we did, or Snape did, or McGonagall–“

“I wasn’t saying that,” Harry said sharply. “Look, I just meant, it’s my fight, isn’t it? And I wasn’t there.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,” Ron snapped.

Hermione looked distressed. “You’re probably tired, Ron,” she appealed, “and Harry, it’s been a long day–“

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said, getting up suddenly, trying not to see the looks on their faces. “I’ll – I’ll see you tomorrow, Ron – I hope your leg’s okay–“ Before either could respond, he dashed out of there, barely missing Madam Pomfrey as she staggered from her office laden with salve. Up the stairs . . . second left . . . up again . . .

He was breathing hard, just trying not to think. Desperately, he stalked back and forth before the wall where the Room of Requirement sometimes was, thinking urgently, I need a place where they won’t come looking, I’ve just got to be by myself – Yes, there was the door, and he seized it, hurtling inside.

He had to kill Voldemort. Now he knew: that was the only way. He couldn’t just stay here at Hogwarts, sitting docile in Transfiguration or Potions, while each day brought those near him closer to death. More would die, and it would be his fault. Already, the list was growing longer: first Cedric, then Sirius, then Dudley, now Seamus and Dennis and Snape. Snape, who hated Harry, whom Harry hated. He had died a hero, for Harry’s sake, two things which he would have abhorred.

More people would die. The only way was to end it now.

But if you die, his mind suggested insidiously, then who will save them? Voldemort will be unstoppable.

Besides, suggested another, more doubting thought, you couldn’t even cast Cruciatus on Bellatrix. How do you suppose you’ll take down the Dark Lord?

“I have to go,” Harry hissed resolutely, pushing down his rising doubts. “I can’t stay here.”

He heard a sound behind him and whirled, ready to confront Voldemort himself. Instead, Malfoy stood there, arms folded. Looking decidedly unimpressed, he said, “Where are you running to now, Potter?”

Harry was too shocked to answer. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I suspect,” Malfoy said. “Why can’t you stay here? Are you being expelled?”

“Why would I be expelled?” Harry snapped, starting to pace. “It’s none of your business where I’m going, Malfoy. Sod off. I’m the one who showed you this place, anyway. Find your own room.”

“You don’t seem to have it reserved,” Malfoy smirked. “So I think I’ll stay. Your hospitality is just that convincing.”

“Go away,” Harry hissed, turning sharply towards the window. Outside, snow was beginning to fall, and he could hear the wind whipping around the towers. It was a bleak scene, sullen and defiant, and it fit Harry’s mood exactly.

From behind him, Malfoy said, “You’re thick if you think this is your fault, Potter.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Harry shouted, spinning to face him. “What are you doing here anyway, gloating?”

Malfoy gaped at him. “Excuse me?” he snarled. “Professor Snape was my friend. He was the only worthwhile teacher in this sorry excuse for a school, and Slytherin is going to miss him more than the rest of the school combined, so you can stop skulking around like your mum just died and shut your mouth, Potter!”

Taken aback, Harry was silent for a moment. “My friends died too,” he said eventually, but there was something halfhearted about it, and he kicked at the edge of the wooden chair in front of him.

"Snape was like a father to me," Malfoy said, bitterly, and then, without looking up, added, "Now you've managed to take away both of them, haven't you?"

Harry kicked at chair again. "Look,” he muttered, sullen. “I didn't want him to die, all right? Well, and you've got your mum, that's better than I've got."

"Some consolation," Malfoy said angrily. "What are you moping about, anyhow?"

For a moment, Harry just stared at him.

"THREE PEOPLE JUST DIED, MALFOY," he shouted, kicking so hard at the chair that it rocked sideways and looked close to collapse. "And, as you just reminded me, it's clearly my fault! You think you've got it bad? Your father was in Azkaban and Snape is gone now, too? My parents are dead! And the man who was like my father is dead now, too! How do you think that feels, Malfoy? Oh, you can blame it on me, can't you? It's my fault, not yours? Thanks to me, Sirius died, and Cedric, and Dudley, and Seamus, and–"

"Lord, listen to yourself," Malfoy drawled, sounding precariously close to boredom. "Stop being ridiculous.”

Harry found himself taken utterly by surprise. He stared again at Malfoy, unable to find the words that had just been pouring out of him. “Look,” he began loudly.

“No, you look,” Malfoy hissed. "This is what the great hero comes down to? Is this what you do when people die? No wonder Diggory died, if your best solution to problems is sulking in an empty room. You're pathetic."

"I am not sulking," Harry bit out, clenching his fists. Of course he would bring up Cedric. Why not? Harry had got him killed, too. Why not talk about Sirius? Or Dudley? Why not mention Harry's parents, while they were at it? Oh, yes, Draco Malfoy would surely think that was funny: no Voldemort necessary, just knowing Harry Potter puts you in the path of imminent death. He turned sharply, back to the window, and glowered. "You don't know anything about me, Malfoy, so why don't you leave well enough alone and go away? I have enough–"

Malfoy's lip curled. "Oh, yes, that's right. I forgot." His voice rose in mockery. "I have enough to do. I'm Harry Potter, I'm so special, the Dark Lord wants to kill me, so everything’s my fault." He paused. "Get over yourself, Potter. You’re the one who has no clue what’s going on."

"You're the one who needs to get over himself!"

“I’m not the one who thinks everything revolves around me!” Malfoy shouted. “You keep reciting all these names like you’re personally responsible when there’s nothing you could have done! You’re not responsible for every single person in the world, Potter, and if you’re big-headed enough to think so–“

“It’s called common decency!” Harry seethed. “Not that you would know anything about that.”

“I don’t have time for common decency.” He crossed his arms, glaring at Harry challengingly. “That’s the difference between you and me, Potter. You think you’re responsible for the world. I think I’m above it.”

Harry stared at him. “That’s disgusting.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the Boy Who Lived, if you haven’t noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

"It means that I haven't got time to feel responsible for every snotty little child, every stupid imbecile who got himself killed! You hear me, Potter? I refuse to feel responsible! And you, you think you have to take it all on! That's not how you save a world."

Harry glowered. "Yeah, I suppose you know loads about doing that."

"Well, you’re doing a splendid job of it," Malfoy shot back. "What do you think, you could defeat the Dark Lord by having a crying fit over everybody he'd killed?"

"I thought," Harry hissed, teeth clenched together until his jaw ached, "that this war was about common decency. Even for people you don't know. Even for Muggle-born. Even for Muggles. Taking people at their best."

Malfoy snorted. "You are such a Gryffindor."

Harry instinctively folded his arms, hugging his elbows; he felt the shiver run through him, thinking always of Sirius. Cedric's body, sprawled in the graveyard; Sirius, arching back, forever. Every morning in the mirror, his mother's eyes. "Maybe you've forgotten why there's a war to begin with," he said tersely. "Me."

"Maybe you've forgotten that not everything is about you," Malfoy retorted. "The sun does come up without you."

"Fuck you, Malfoy!"

"What’s the matter, Potter, is the voice of reason too much for you? There's a war because of the Dark Lord, you self-centered prat, so do something about it, if you care so much! Or you can sit up here and snivel about Colin Creepy’s brother and not do a thing! I’m tired of your self-pity, Potter, go owl someone who cares.”

Harry clenched his fists. “You think I should go, then?”

For a moment, Malfoy looked bewildered. “What are you blathering about? Go where?”

“Wales,” Harry said impatiently. “To kill Voldemort.”

To Harry’s annoyance, Malfoy immediately burst out laughing. Eventually, he choked out, “You’re going to kill the Dark Lord? With what, Potter, a Bat-Bogey Hex?”

“It’s not like I haven’t faced him before,” Harry snarled. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment. Then he said, utterly serious, “If you’re going to Wales, I’m coming with you.”

“You’re – what?”

“My father’s there,” Malfoy snapped, looking annoyed. “I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to talk to him–“

“Talk to him about what?” Harry yelled. “Going to tell him that you’re poor as the Weasleys or that you’re practicing Defense with Harry Potter? You are not coming to Wales with me just so your dad can kill me, and then you can tell him all about what you’re learning in Charms!”

“Wales is a country, Potter,” Malfoy said dryly, after a moment. “You’re talking about it as if it’s as big as the Great Hall.”

Harry spat, “Your father is Voldemort’s henchman! They’ll be in the same place!”

“That’s interesting,” Malfoy said. “Because you could call Crabbe and Goyle my henchmen, except they’re in the Slytherin common room, and I’m up here. If the Great Hall is Wales, I’d say that would put them in, oh, China. Maybe Japan.”

“Look, Malfoy, you can’t come!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Potter. You aren’t seriously running off to Wales.”

Harry stared at him for a second. Then he sat down with a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I do. You aren’t going. Even you wouldn’t be that stupid. Unless you’d like to prove me wrong? Lower your intelligence another few notches?”

“I guess not.”

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow knowingly. "See? I do know you, Potter."

"Do not," Harry retorted, but it was halfhearted, and he sank lower in the chair; the remnants of his anger were ebbing and it left him exhausted. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"What, that you kissed Chang? That you started your silly little DA right under Umbridge's nose? That you were once a short little boy in a robe shop? The whole world knows about you. I know about you."

A sudden thought of the prophecy flashed in Harry's mind, and he frowned. Kill or be killed. Survive or die trying. No, Malfoy, he thought heavily, there's still a whole world you don't know. That you'll never know.

"I wasn't that short," he said instead.

"You were."

"So were you." Harry smiled faintly, thinking of a towheaded boy standing loftily on a stool. "You still are, actually."

"I am not."

"You're a whole head shorter than Ron!"

Malfoy's lip lifted. "And why, pray tell, would I want to look like a Weasley?"

Ordinarily, Harry would be too incensed to care what had been said except for Ron's name, because when it came from Malfoy, it was never good. Still, the look of outrage on Malfoy's face made him burst into low laughter.

Harry said, after a moment, “Draco. Thanks.”

“That’s what I do, save heroes from suicide,” he drawled. And then, quieter, “You called me Draco.”

Harry looked at him, at the shadows around his face and the way he was looking back at Harry, half-apprehensive, half-shocked, his lips slightly parted. “Yeah,” Harry said.

“Oh.” Malfoy paused, then narrowed his eyes at him. “Does this mean I’m supposed to call you Harry?” He said Harry’s name as if it were a dripping piece of sewage.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Harry assured him, and then saw the smirk unfurling on Malfoy’s face and amended, “Within reason, that is. If I say it’s okay.”

“And here I was just thinking of all the possibilities,” Malfoy said impishly. “You’re ruining all my fun, Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He was still smiling.

"I should go," Malfoy said, after a moment, watching the half-grin still hover on the edges of Harry's mouth. "As long as you aren't going to hang yourself tragically from the ceiling, or jump out the window, or something else befitting your melodramatics."

“I am not melodramatic,” Harry muttered.

“If you say so,” Malfoy smirked. He turned around, once, at the door. “See you, Potter.”

Harry sat there long after he had gone, though he was no longer furious with himself, nor was he entertaining notions of going to Wales. How would he even get there? Instead, he was thinking about Malfoy. Draco. Who had fought him every step of the way. Who had stared at him, eyes flashing, and yelled right back at him. Who had looked so stricken at the news of Snape’s death that Harry had thought, for a moment, he was going to faint.

Draco. Draco Malfoy.

It was a long time before he went back to Gryffindor Tower.



&*&*



Gryffindor was still in a state of mourning when Harry and Hermione helped Ron through the portrait hole the following evening; his broken leg had mended fully, but he still looked pale and tired, and he collapsed thankfully in the nearest chair. Hermione settled nervously on one of the arms, and Harry sat down on the couch. Across the room, a few second-years began whispering, but no one else was in the common room. Harry wasn't surprised.

“How are you feeling, Ron?” Hermione asked, as she had taken to doing every few minutes. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” Ron said, though he looked rather pleased that she was worried about him. “Where is everyone?”

“Not very many people have been around,” Hermione explained, looking sadly at the empty common room. “Ginny and Dean are somewhere, Dean’s still – really upset – I know all the third years are sad about Dennis, they keep bursting into tears all over the place.” She looked both anxious for their sakes and annoyed. “Poor Ginny, both Dean and Colin need her, and she’s hardly had a moment to herself.”

“How is Colin?” Harry asked.

Hermione winced. "Bad, I think," she said, her voice quiet. "He's only really spoken to Ginny, but she says he's still upset, goes through these whole periods of denial where he talks about Dennis as if he's right upstairs." She put her hand on Harry's arm and added, grimly, "He still talks about you, though, and how you're going to save us. When he's clear that Dennis died, he keeps babbling to Ginny about how you're our only hope."

"Gee, that's not a lot of pressure, or anything," Harry said after a moment. The only hope of the Wizarding World. He was, wasn't he?

"Oh, Harry–" Hermione, not knowing how to continue, gave him a hopeless look. “Well, listen, he might want to talk to you when you get a chance, he said Dennis thought a lot of you, too.”

“All right,” Harry said reluctantly, looking away from her. He hadn’t known Dennis very well. All he knew about Dennis was that he was Colin’s younger brother and once had fallen into the lake. In fact, Harry had never paid him much attention.

But Seamus: he remembered the first time he'd met him, at the welcome feast, chattering along with Dean Thomas as if they'd known each other for years. Harry had thought they had, actually, before coming to the realization that Seamus just talked a lot and Dean was inclined to listen.

It had been Seamus who had doubted him, the past year, and avoided him, but it had also been Seamus who had illegally bought Firewhiskey for the Gryffindor party after Harry's Quidditch victory in November, and Seamus who had pin-ups of half-naked girls all over his corner of the room, and Seamus who had a laugh so distinctive that, even in the midst of studying in a crowded common room, Harry usually looked up and cracked a grin . . .

“I reckon You-Know-Who will want another spy inside Hogwarts right away,” Ron was saying. “He thought Snape was his spy, remember?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, Ron,” Hermione said, looking impressed. “You’re right.”

“Yeah, well, I had a lot of time in the hospital wing to think,” Ron reddened. “Anyway, we ought to keep our eyes out for anybody who might be the spy. Do you think it could be Malfoy?”

“It’s not Malfoy,” Harry said before he could think twice about it.

Ron stared at him in shock. Hermione gave him a knowing but unhappy look.

“Voldemort’s not that stupid,” Harry added quickly, “he should know that everybody would suspect Lucius Malfoy’s son. Who’s going to trust Malfoy with any information? He’d be blabbing it all over the next day. Voldemort’ll want somebody in the Order.”

“I suppose,” Ron said reluctantly. “Hey, speaking of the Order, have you heard from Tonks, Harry? She wasn’t hurt?”

“I owled her last night,” Harry shrugged. “No response yet. I’ll bet the Aurors are all busy after what happened. Just let Fudge try and cover this one up.”

They all fell into silence, staring at the fire. Then, suddenly, Hermione exclaimed, “Oh, Harry! What are you going to do about your Occlumency? You know how important it is, you’ve got to keep on with it.”

“I think I can sort of do it now,” Harry admitted. “But Dumbledore might give me lessons, I’ll have to ask.”

“Hey,” Ron said, “that’s right. Who’ll be the new Potions professor?”

Harry frowned. The idea of that dreaded classroom without Snape’s lurking presence was a strange one. He couldn’t imagine Potions without Snape. He would never again hear Snape say, “Five points from Gryffindor, Potter.” Snape would never sneer at his potion and say disgustedly, “No marks.” In fact, Lisa might never have cause to stamp on his foot again.

The thought made him strangely gloomy.

“Potions without Snape,” Hermione said thoughtfully. She, too, looked somehow sad. “Can you imagine?”

“In any other case, I’d be thrilled,” Harry muttered. “Now, I don’t know.”

He thought of the spit-second images he’d glimpsed from Snape’s mind during that one Occlumency lesson: a sullen, yellow-faced boy cowering in the corner; a morose teenager, killing flies; a boy being mocked as he tried in vain to mount his broom. He pictured Snape hanging upside down and his dad and Sirius circling him eagerly. He wondered how Snape had felt, knowing he died for James Potter’s son. He wondered if Snape had ever been happy.

Harry hoped, fleetingly, that he had been.

“I’m going up to bed,” Ron announced through the haze of his thoughts, and Harry shook himself out of it to find that Hermione was also preparing to leave. He frowned down at Harry. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to smile. “You?”

“Yeah,” Ron said gamely, and he grinned, although he still looked slightly shaken. “’Night, Hermione.”

They said their goodnights and Harry and Ron made for the sixth year boys’ dormitory, where Neville was already asleep. There was no sign of Dean, however, and Seamus’s bed gaped like an empty hole in the room, a solemn reminder. Last night, Harry and Neville had stripped his portion of the room of his magazine fold-outs; it seemed inappropriate to leave them hanging, as if he’d come back and snicker over them any minute. It also seemed inappropriate to send them home to his family with the rest of his things, so they were currently tucked inside Dean’s trunk.

“I reckon it’ll be awhile before I get used to the four of us,” Ron said quietly, changing into his pyjamas. “It’s just not the same without him, is it?”

“No singing in the mornings,” Harry said.

Ron grinned in the semi-darkness. “Remember that time he streaked out of the shower starkers and jumped on all our beds?”

“Do I,” Harry muttered, but he smiled in spite of himself. “Waking up to that.”

“And he used to wear his mum’s cross for luck on every exam,” Ron remembered. “And that time he told Neville he wanted to be a Healer at St. Mungo’s, and Neville just glowed, only Seamus never knew why?”

“He came to every Quidditch match,” Harry said. “Even though he didn’t play.” He sighed, then paused. “Goodnight, Ron.”

“’Night,” came Ron’s voice, out of the darkness. There was nothing but breathing for a moment, and then Ron said, “Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you go and die on me, all right?”

“You either,” Harry said quietly. He knew, without saying anything, that they were both thinking of Dean, unable to bear sleeping next to his best friend’s empty bed. After a moment, he said again, “’Night, Ron.”

“’Night, Harry,” Ron said. A few minutes passed, and Harry could hear him breathing the heavy, even breathing of sleep. He felt a flood of protectiveness for his best friend, lying there in the dark. Then he, too, fell into dreams.



&*&*



The new Potions professor was a warm Indian woman named Aparna Kothari, and she was Snape’s opposite in nearly every way. She spoke calmly and warmly, and they spent their first class with her making the Draught of Peace, which they had already done in fifth year. She told them, smiling faintly, that she considered it a singularly important potion that was worth repeating.

And, after all, there were only six students in the classroom.

“Not one Slytherin in the class,” Hermione marveled, and the sound of her speaking freely to Harry as they worked startled him. He thought, with a twinge of guilt, that Snape would have swooped down on her immediately for talking out of turn. It almost felt irreverent, using his classroom when he wasn’t there.

“Better this way,” Anthony Goldstein said cheerfully, uncapping a small bottle that held powdered moonstone. “I remember I flummoxed up this potion last year. Started smoking so badly I thought it would go up in flames.”

“I got no marks,” Harry replied, stirring his own potion counter-clockwise. “Snape decided it was useless and Vanished it.”

“That’s awful,” said Hannah Abbott, the only Hufflepuff in the class, from across the aisle. “This is strange, isn’t it? I’m almost enjoying myself.”

Harry found that, to his shock, he agreed.

“Are they allowed to do this?” Lisa wondered, as she carefully added two drops of syrup of hellebore to her cauldron and leaned over to watch it simmer. “Just boycott Potions like this?”

“Well, I hardly see what they have to protest about,” said Padma, who sat next to Hannah. “What else was the Headmaster supposed to do, cancel Potions for good? He had to appoint someone else.”

“Keep an eye on your potion, Hannah,” Professor Kothari said mildly as she walked past Hannah’s desk. “You shouldn’t let it simmer too long. And Harry, be sure to lower your flames more, or the whole potion will be ineffective.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry and Hannah both said at the same time. All six of them exchanged glances, and Harry knew they were all thinking the same thing. No one could imagine Snape circling the classroom and giving helpful reminders. He was more likely to taunt, take points, and generally insult them for their incompetent attempts at potion making.

By the end of class, as Harry poured his Draught of Peace into a flagon and carried it up to her desk, he felt certain that he had pulled off an A, and might have even managed an E. The smoke issuing from his cauldron had been strangely orange-tinted in color, but she smiled at him when he set down his flagon, and Hermione said encouragingly behind him, “That was a really good lesson.” Hers, of course, had been perfect, as had Anthony’s beside hers. Hannah was still struggling desperately with her potion, which seemed more like gray sludge than any sort of draught.

“I’m sure the Slytherins will have to come to class next time,” Hermione said to him as they walked out of the classroom. “This can’t go on, surely.”

Harry nodded, though he felt decidedly disconcerted. It was not natural to have enjoyed a Potions lesson. It had been pleasant. He had made it through the entire lesson without being yelled at, insulted, threatened, or having his potion evaporated, which was unheard of when Snape had been in charge of class.

Still, he felt a twinge of guilt again at having enjoyed himself in Snape’s absence. Because Snape wasn’t just gone on a spying mission. He was never coming back.

Which was why Hermione insisted to him again at dinner that someone must intervene. Yet the next Potions class, and the next, only the six of them appeared. Professor Kothari seemed hardly to notice, and taught them as cheerfully as if she had had a classroom full of hundreds.

“Er, Professor,” Harry said, lingering after the third class, “sorry about the Slytherins, they’re just upset about Sn – about Professor Snape, you know.”

“Yes,” Professor Kothari said sadly, “it was a true tragedy. As a colleague of mine, I respected Severus Snape very much. His notes on the Wolfsbane Potion are quite brilliant. I am still trying to decipher them in order to help Professor Lupin.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, feeling a chill for a moment. He had forgotten about that.

She folded her hands and looked seriously at him. “Harry,” she said, “the Headmaster suggested to me that you might have some influence. Could you have a word with some of them, do you think?”

“Me?” Harry exclaimed. “Talk to the Slytherins?”

“Albus seemed under the impression that you were friends with one of them,” Professor Kothari said serenely. “What was his name again? Oh, yes. Draco Malfoy. What do you think?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not – well – I suppose I could try. But I can’t promise anything, I mean–“

“Of course not, Harry,” she smiled. “I quite understand. Thank you.”

Harry was meeting Draco that evening in the Room of Requirement, though he waited until the end of their lesson before even broaching the topic. “You, er, haven’t been in Potions lately,” he muttered, just as Draco tucked away his wand.

Draco sneered. “What’s the matter, Potter, needing some Potions help?”

“No,” Harry challenged back, “but Professor Kothari’s a good teacher and I think you should come. What are you planning on doing, never attending Potions again?”

“It’s a Slytherin concern,” Draco snapped, turning away from him. “Not yours.”

“Look,” Harry pressed onward, “what else could Dumbledore do? Hogwarts needs a Potions professor. After the attack, we didn’t have one. He had to hire another. So why won’t you come?”

Draco wouldn’t look at him. “It’s for Professor Snape,” he muttered.

“He’s dead,” Harry shouted. “He’s not going to know!”

“Don’t you dare–“

“I’m not insulting him!” Harry threw back before Draco could finish. “I’m telling the truth! He’s gone and you know it, and not going to Potions isn’t going to do anybody any good. All it’s going to do is insure you fail your NEWTs, is that what you want?”

“Listen,” Draco said forcefully, “you don’t understand what Snape meant to our house. He was the only one who cared about Slytherin. He helped us, Potter. He was on our side. Now who do we have? This second-rate school is run by Muggle-lovers who favor Gryffindor and you know it–“

“Dumbledore doesn’t favor us,” Harry retorted, “you just think that, that’s not true!”

“Snape was the only one who looked out for us,” Draco barreled on, “and he was the best professor here. Don’t we have the right to mourn for him? Don’t we?”

“You can mourn and still go to Potions,” Harry said dryly.

Draco scowled. “You don’t understand–“

“Oh? You think I don’t know what it’s like to go on living after somebody you care about dies?” Harry demanded. “Besides, half the school was friends with Seamus and Dennis. They’re still going down to dinner, aren’t they?”

“Potter,” Draco said icily, “I will come to Potions class when I am ready to come. Until then, you can shut your mouth about it.”

“Fine,” Harry shot back. “The class is better when there aren’t any Slytherins, anyway.”

But the next class, Professor Kothari had just finished explaining the directions for the Preserving Potion they were making and had directed them towards the store cupboard for ingredients, when the door opened with a loud click. Harry was in the middle of carefully peeling his shrivelfig for himself and Lisa when Draco walked in.

He was silent and did not look at Professor Kothari, nor acknowledge that he was late; behind him came Blaise Zabini, then Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and two other Slytherin girls whose names Harry thought might be Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. They all followed him wordlessly, and when Draco stopped beside Harry’s desk on his way to his seat, they all stopped behind him.

“Potter,” he said, coolly. His gray eyes were fixed on Harry, who had stopped peeling to watch them.

Harry was unwavering. “Draco,” he acknowledged, as loud as he dared.

Draco might have inclined his head slightly, though Harry could not be sure. After Draco took his seat, the rest of the Slytherins dispersed to theirs. Silently, each of them began getting ingredients and inspecting the instructions that Professor Kothari had left on the board.

“Was that good enough behavior for you?” Harry grinned at Lisa, who rolled her eyes at him. He was tempted to shift and look over his shoulder at Draco, but he didn’t dare. Still, he could feel the other boy’s eyes on him as he worked and laughed with Lisa. That was enough.



&*&*



Something about Draco changed after the attack on Hogsmeade; he was quieter and rarely spoke in class, even to make his usual derisive or blatantly sycophantic remarks. When he passed Harry and his friends in the hallway, he didn’t say a word, and in his Defense practice with Harry, he barely talked and never referred to their conversation about Potions. The difference showed, however, in his increased determination, and his spells improved rapidly. In some absurd, unexplainable way, Harry was proud of him.

As for Hermione, it was not until two weeks after the attack that she said, tentatively, as they were studying for Transfiguration in the common room, “Harry, you and Malfoy–“

“Look, it’s none of your business,” Harry said belligerently, as if to stem off her scolding before it could begin. “If you’re just going to lecture me about how he’s dangerous, I don’t want to hear it.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “I was only going to say,” she murmured, “that I think it’s really good of you to work with him, Harry. That’s all. That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, rather startled, “yeah, I’m helping him with Defense. And sometimes he helps me with Potions.”

Giving him a searching look, Hermione said carefully, “I could have helped you with Potions, Harry.”

“I know.” He paused and then, the closest he had come to telling her the truth, he muttered, “I wanted him to help me.”

“I know,” Hermione echoed him, watching him calmly over the top of her book. “I just think that maybe someone else should know, too.”

Harry gave her a surprised look. “You want me to tell Dumbledore?” He remembered the strange comment that Professor Kothari had made to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore knew; he seemed to know everything that went on in Hogwarts.

“No,” Hermione said patiently, “though that wouldn’t hurt. I meant Ron.”

They both glanced across the room to where Ron was sitting with Jack and going over notes they had taken on the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match. He was grinning and saying something derisive about Zacharias Smith, which Harry could not hear entirely but knew was not pleasant. He swallowed.

“I’m going to tell him. I just – after everything that happened at Hogsmeade – and what with Draco’s father loose–“

Hermione gave him a piercing look as he said Draco’s first name, but she said nothing of that, only frowned. “Harry, there is never going to be a time when Ron doesn’t hate Malfoy. He’s not going to be happy about it. They’ve never liked each other. But if you truly think that Malfoy is worth your friendship, I believe you, Harry. Eventually, Ron will, too.”

“We’re not friends,” Harry protested, only to be met with her skeptical look. “We’re just. We have an agreement.”

“Which started with your lending him those coins,” Hermione said softly.

Harry looked uncomfortable. “I suppose. And the way he looked, after Moody was questioning him – you saw it, too, you said you did–“

“I said it wasn’t right, not that Malfoy was a good person.” Hermione leaned forward, and Harry met her eyes. She asked, her gaze serious, “I don’t need to remind you how much you hated him, Harry. What changed?”

Harry began to say, he did, but he realized that wasn’t right. Had Draco changed? He thought, maybe I changed, but that didn’t seem right, either. It was strange, when he thought about it, the way they had come together. Of course, a few Stunning spells did not a relationship make, and he’d stormed away from their meeting just the other week, furious with Draco for laughing over Cedric. They hadn’t made up until three days later, when Draco had sent him a rather whiny owl at breakfast.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “Maybe we both did.”

“You do think he’s changed, then? You think he’s different than his father? That he’s not a Death Eater?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said again. “I don’t know if he’s going to be a Death Eater or not. I don’t know if he’d hesitate to kill me if he had the chance. But I do know that he isn’t Lucius Malfoy. He’s his own person, Hermione.”

She was looking at him, wide-eyed. “Harry–“

“Oh, I know, he’s dangerous,” Harry snapped. “Well, so am I. So we’re both taking chances. Isn’t that how it should be?”

Hermione gave him another searching look, and then she reached across the table and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I trust you. And I do think it’s good that you’re helping him, Harry, I do. In these times, we need any allies that we can get.”

“He’s not an ally, Hermione,” Harry said scornfully. “I’m not going about recruiting for the Order.”

“You know what I mean,” she sighed. “’We must unite inside her or we’ll crumble from within,’ remember? That’s all I meant.”

Both of them went back to reading their Transfiguration, but Harry only got through one page on cosmetic alteration before he couldn’t stand it. Glancing up, he saw Hermione’s head bent studiously over her book, eyes darting from side to side as she read. He said, softly, “Hermione.”

“Something else?”

“I think,” he said, and felt his throat close up unexpectedly. He hadn’t realized he was this nervous. “Um, I’m, I think I’m. Gay.”

Harry swallowed fast. He had never told that to anybody. Besides this odd attraction to Malfoy, he’d barely dared admit it to himself.

Hermione said gravely, “With Malfoy?”

“No,” Harry yelped. “Not with – with anybody. I just think so. Maybe. I mean, I still get feelings for girls, sometimes, so I don’t know for sure, but I, I think so.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand again. “I’m glad you told me, Harry,” Hermione smiled. “I’d always wondered, but it seemed rude to say anything. Have you told anyone else?”

He got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Like Malfoy?”

Hermione looked amused. “I meant someone like Professor Lupin. But if you have told Malfoy–“

“I haven’t,” Harry said quickly. “I haven’t told anybody.”

“Harry?” She looked slightly worried about his reaction to what she was about to say but, nonetheless, plunged onwards. “Do you have – feelings – for – for Malfoy?”

Harry knew it was impossible to deny it; he was flushing too much to blame it on the fire. “I have, um, thoughts,” he said vaguely.

Hermione looked pink, too, and wouldn’t look at Harry when she spoke. “What kind of thoughts?”

“What kind do you think?” Harry said, exasperated. “What kind of thoughts do you have about Anthony? I mean, it’s just a, a thing, I don’t really – it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried about Malfoy,” Hermione informed him. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“He doesn’t even know, Hermione! And besides, we’ve been hurting each other for years. It’s nothing new.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to be careful.” She looked at him solemnly for a long moment before standing up and stacking her books in a pile. “I’ve got to go to the library before curfew. But, Harry, if you don’t tell Ron at least part of this, soon, I’m going to tell him. Because he deserves to know. But I also think that he deserves to hear it from you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, slowly, as she moved towards the portrait hole. “Yeah, thanks, Hermione.” After she had gone, he sat there, staring at the pages of his Transfiguration book but not comprehending a word.

We’re been hurting each other for years.

It was true, wasn’t it? That was what they were about; that’s what they were best at. He knew how best to provoke Draco, what exactly to say if he wanted to incense him. He knew how to crush him with a few words about his father, and he knew what annoyed him most. And Draco, Draco knew just what to say to make Harry forget everything else and want to pummel him, even if he had better things to be thinking about, bigger concerns. Yes, he knew how to hurt Draco. Strangely enough, it was one of the things he knew best.

But did he know how not to hurt him? Did he care enough? Was that what this was?

Harry wondered.

It’s nothing new, he had said. But this, this tense peace between them, this strange mixture of animosity and awkward acquaintance: this was new.

Maybe Hermione was right. Because Harry had the feeling, as he sat there in the middle of a noisy common room and thought about the boy he had once hated so simply, that whatever this was, it had the potential to hurt him more than any jibe about his mother ever had.



&*&*



Harry threw himself into a chair, frustrated, as the door to the Room of Requirement clicked shut. They had been practicing Shield Charms all afternoon, though it was difficult, as Draco was irritable and moody, to put it lightly, and snapped at Harry any time his Protego was not strong enough to block whatever curse Harry had sent at it.

Finally, Draco had thrown his wand down, glared at Harry, and announced that he was going to the toilet. Harry had been grateful: had it gone any longer, he might have been tempted to really hex him.

Sighing, Harry kicked at a fallen cushion on the ground. Just when Draco was beginning to become tolerable, too.

For some reason, as his eyes wandered the room restlessly, his gaze alit on a small roll of parchment left on the table. From what he could see of it, it was covered in a curling, neat script. Without thinking, he picked it up.

My darling Draco,

I’m pleased to hear of your progress in Potions. Though she may not be Severus Snape, I have heard positive things about Aparna Kothari from several sources and feel certain that you are in capable hands. I have no doubt that you are at the top of your class, Draco. Your father would be so proud of you.

Lately I’ve been so busy I’ve scarcely had time to owl you, as I don’t doubt you have noticed. I must apologize. The renovations on the east wing of the house are unexpectedly taxing! I am now leaning towards the cream silk curtains, although your father did so appreciate a well-placed blue . . .

Harry frowned, skipping several paragraphs, which told him more than he had ever wanted to know about interior decorating.

. . . been years since I’ve seen Benjamin Wilkes, why, since before you were born. Yes, that’s right, and he was so young then! I saw him at our celebration of your birth. Of course, his brother had just died, and him only a child, but he was so polite to me. I always said that he was a well-mannered boy.

In any case, he’s simply a lovely young man, and we had an exceedingly pleasant evening together. He even surprised me with that painting of your great grand-aunt Wilhelmina that I so loved; I had thought the Ministry had taken it away forever, but he charmingly explained that he had spotted it in a colleague’s office and remembered seeing it in our home so many years ago. How thoughtful he is, and what a memory he must have!

I find it curious that such a charming man has not yet married. He has a darling little villa in southern France and invited me to holiday there with him, which I graciously accepted. I do so miss southern France, especially in the summertime. I have such fond memories there.

You are, of course, welcome to stay at the Manor if you’d like the comforts of home. And Isabella Nott tells me that Hogwarts is a perfectly lovely place to stay, if you so choose; I hear that her boy Theodore has stayed the past two years. Perhaps we could rendezvous in Paris at the end of the holidays so that you could meet Benjamin, as he seems fond of you already –

"Reading my mail, I see, Potter," Draco said icily behind him. Harry whirled around.

"I was just," he began, and stopped. "Sorry. I'd thought–"

"That everything in this ridiculously inferior castle belongs to you, clearly!”

Harry colored. "I do not think that," he snapped defensively. "You just wouldn't tell me what was wrong, and–"

"And your plebian solution is to raid my mail?" He was sounding more and more enraged. "Keep your filthy hands off my things, Potter!"

"Look," Harry said, "I'm sorry I read your mum's letter. I shouldn't have. Will you calm down now? What is your problem today?"

"I'm just tired of people going through my belongings!" Draco shouted, tearing the letter from Harry's hands and causing it to rip halfway down the middle in the process. "You see what you've done? You're ruining everything, you and your fucking friends at the Ministry, can't keep your greedy hands to yourselves!" His face was red. "Need another chandelier for your office? Check Malfoy Manor, there might be one or two left! Some gold candlesticks? Another painting or two? Surely those aren't possible Dark artifacts!"

"I," Harry said.

"Everybody just can't wait to have a piece of the fun," Draco hissed, "they've been waiting centuries to see the Malfoy family taken down, don't you get it? I bet the whole Ministry is laughing about it, bet they couldn't wait to raid the Manor; I'm sure old Fudge gets a good chuckle out of locking up all our wealth and saying he's preserving it, doesn't he? Well, I– "

"I'm not trying to take anything from you," Harry said, patiently, as if he were coaxing a spitting cat or a child in the middle of a tantrum. "I didn't know. I'm sorry all your stuff's been taken–"

Draco glared at him. "Oh, I'll bet you knew," he accused, "I bet you had a good laugh about it with Weasley, didn't you, Potter? Ha ha, Malfoy's getting what he deserves at last, that right? Ha ha, poor Malfoy can't buy a couple quills, he's got to patch up his robes, next thing you know, he'll be living in a hole in the ground, too . . ."

"I never thought that," Harry said fiercely, "and I never told Ron about the quills, so you can stop having a fit about it. And Ron doesn't live in a hole. He has a very nice house."

Crumpling the ruined letter in his fist, Draco tossed it angrily at the wall. "Whatever, Potter. Now you know the truth. About my mother too, and how she’s abandoning me for the stupid holidays."

Harry tried, "Well, it sounds as if she's getting along all right, maybe she can get some of your things back–"

"I’m sure you think she's a whore," Draco snapped, without provocation, "some kind of desperate trophy wife, I'm sure you're just having a laughing fit over it."

"I'm not," Harry said. After a moment, as if to prove his solemn interest in the matter, he said, "How old is Benjamin Wilkes, anyway?"

Draco snorted. "Twenty three."

"Twenty three?" Harry's pretense of interest dissolved into indignant horror. "But your mum is, what, fifty?"

"Forty two," Draco said. "Look, Potter, it's not unheard of, all right?"

"Twenty years is a long time," Harry muttered.

"Well, I'm sorry we can't all live up to perfect James and Lily Potter," Draco shot back. "Besides, she's only using him for his money. It’s good to show the Ministry that she’s moving on from my father, so she won’t be associated with his arrest. But,” and his eyes were sharp with fury, “she hasn’t forgotten him. My father is still alive. If she forgets, I’ll – I’ll kill her.”

Harry tried not to think about Lucius Malfoy or the pent up fury in Draco’s voice, and said instead, “You were talking about Wilkes’s money?”

“Wilkes was the older brother, he inherited it all. When he died, it would have gone to his heir, but he was only a year old at the time. So it went to Benjamin for safekeeping. If Wilkes’s – the dead one – if his heir dies, it’s Benjamin’s for good."

"Who’s the heir?"

"His son, Quincy Theodore," Draco said, "and yes, that's his full first name. He's a seventh year in Slytherin. Whiny tosser. Nobody likes him."

Harry said, "I've never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised," Draco muttered, "you don't even know all the Hufflepuffs in our year, do you?"

"Do you?" Harry retorted.

"Why would I have time to pay attention to Hufflepuffs? They're all useless, and most of them have spots."

Harry shrugged. "So why does it matter if I don't know who they are?"

"I'm supposed to be self absorbed," Draco said, as if it were painfully obvious. "But you're Harry Potter. You're supposed to smile at everybody and kiss babies. And Hufflepuffs."

"Well, I'm not Fudge," Harry retorted. "And I don't plan to kiss any Hufflepuffs any time soon."

"Oh?" Draco said archly, in a way that made Harry’s pulse quicken. "And who do you plan on kissing, Potter? Chang? She's practically a boy, you know. No chest to speak of, only thinks about Quidditch. Although she does cry an awful lot. Perhaps she feels she has to show she's a girl somehow."

"I - Cho and I aren't - no," Harry mumbled out.

"Not Chang, then," Draco mused. "Well, who've you got your eye on, then, Potter? The Metamorphmagus, is it?"

"I'm not - no!" Harry said. He wondered, for a moment, how Draco could have known, before recalling the unfortunate scene of his birthday. Yet dancing with Tonks was merely a fuzzy blur of her hands and a grinding rhythm; what he remembered the clearest was the tilt of Draco's chin, the way his gray eyes had fixed on Harry, searing and challenging. His shirt had been something white and clinging, and somehow, Harry remembered the fine shadows of his collarbones and the line of his throat against the pulsing lights.

Harry swallowed. All this talk of kissing was making him uncomfortable.

"My sources tell me differently," Draco said, snickering, unaware of Harry's discomfort. "What was it, now? Oh, yes. 'Boy Who Lived: Living It Up?'"

Coloring swiftly, Harry retorted, "That's unfair. Nothing would have happened if you weren't such a git."

"At least you dance better than you did at the Yule Ball," Draco snorted. "I'm surprised the Patil girl survived."

There was something charged in the air, some tautness to the conversation, that he was afraid to snap. But then, especially when it came to Draco Malfoy, he'd never been known to step down. "You were watching," he challenged.

And Draco, with one eyebrow raised, said coolly and unreadably, "I was."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that. Somehow, in trying, in a move unexpected by the both of them, he muttered, "Look, come for the holidays."

Draco said, sharply, "What?"

Even Harry had no idea what he'd said until a moment later, when he, too, was inclined to snap, "What?" Why had he said that? But instead he repeated, lamely, "You should come for the hols. To stay with Lupin. There's plenty of room, and if your mum's going to France, you don't want to have to stay here. Well, maybe you do, I don't know, maybe you've always dreamed of sharing pudding with Dumbledore on Christmas morning–"

"Enough, Potter," Draco said, looking disgusted at the very thought of feasting with Dumbledore. "You want me to stay with you and a werewolf? For Christmas? Have you gone mad?"

"What other alternatives do you have?" Harry demanded, at the same instant that he realized Draco might have a whole House of alternatives, that he could stay with Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise . . .

But Draco tilted his head, appeared to be thinking about it for several moments, and then said, "All right. But this doesn't mean anything."

"Such as?"

"Such as, I like and approve of werewolves."

Harry folded his arms. "Fine. But it does mean that you have to stop calling him 'the werewolf' and refer to him from now on as Professor Lupin."

Draco looked distasteful. "Very well. I still don't like Professor Lupin. Or you."

"Fine," Harry said, but he smiled.

 

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