Transformation: Chapter Nine

 

For the most part, things returned to normal after that night. Ron and Hermione had hardly been mollified by the barebones story he told them the next morning, but both seemed in unspoken agreement that they would accept it for the time being, seeing as Harry didn’t want to talk about it in the first place. Or think about it, come to that.

He had trusted Tonks. And he had trusted Draco. He didn’t feel betrayed by them as much as he felt betrayed by himself. He could hear Moody barking Constant vigilance! and felt ashamed. Wouldn’t he ever learn? The knowledge that Moody, too, had been fooled was little comfort.

The news had not made it in the Daily Prophet, of course, as Fudge seemed determined to strain out all relevant stories, but the Hogwarts rumor mill was running as usual. In the days after the attack, Harry heard from various sources that he had left Hogwarts to kill his aunt and uncle and finish the job he’d begun when he killed his cousin in July, that he had fought and killed a team of Aurors on the pretense they were all spies for Voldemort, and that he had been supporting an underground prostitution ring run by former professor Nymphadora Tonks. Harry could not decide which was the farthest from the truth.

And as for Draco, who miraculously was not a part of any of these rumors, he seemed to have forgotten that Harry existed. After almost six years of constant attention, whether wanted or unwanted, from him, his silent treatment was a shock.

The Slytherins flanked him everywhere, it seemed, much like Ron and Hermione did to Harry just afterwards. He never saw Draco on his own, and usually he was whispering with Pansy Parkinson or making Blaise Zabini snort with laughter. The more Harry watched for him, the more he wished he could talk to him again, but it was to no avail. If there had been anything left between them, Draco seemed to think it was gone.

Maybe it was, Harry thought sometimes, hearing his familiar derisive laughter in Potions or seeing him disappear around a corner up ahead of Harry in the hall. Maybe this was the way of it: Draco was his father’s son, and Harry was James’s. There would be no next time, because it would always be the same. Draco was who he was. Even the fact that Harry had wanted him could not change that.

There was so much between them, so many arguments, so many differences; in the end, it was simply easier to hate him. And it seemed that was exactly what Draco wanted, too.

It was barely a week after the incident with Tonks when Professor McGonagall strode into Harry’s History of Magic class, interrupting a droning Binns and a thoroughly bored class to retrieve Harry. Ron had to poke him until he woke up, but he rapidly gathered his things and followed her from the room, Binns muttering, “Yes, yes, go ahead, Parker, off you go . . . where was I? Oh yes, the historic troll wars of 1352 . . .”

“Potter,” McGonagall said coolly, when they had reached the hall, “the Headmaster would like to see you. I trust you can find your way there on your own.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “what does he want? Professor?”

“I expect you will find out soon enough,” she said, and eyed him with stern amusement. “Hold on just a moment, you’ve got a bit of drool right – yes, there you are.”

Harry flushed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Er, Professor? What’s the password?”

To Harry’s surprise, she gave him what might have been a wry smile and said, “Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, of course. Now hurry along, Potter.”

She strode off in the opposite direction. Harry went down the Charms corridor, took the stairs to the second floor – which began to move just as he was nearly there, leaving him to jump the last three – and moved towards the empty corridor with the familiar stone gargoyle. It flexed its stone wings at him, but let him inside, and Harry rode the moving staircase upwards with trepidation. He wondered if there had been another attack. He wondered if more people had died because of him.

The first thing Harry saw when he entered the office was Dumbledore, who straightened immediately and smiled at him. “Ah, Harry,” he began, but Harry was already staring in shock at the other occupants of the room. Before he knew it, his wand was clenched in his hand.

“Harry, wait,” Tonks said. “I can explain.”

“I don’t want your explanation!” Harry snarled. He turned to Dumbledore, feeling betrayed, but Dumbledore only gave him an enigmatic smile, eyes twinkling. Harry turned back to Tonks, something tightening unpleasantly in his insides. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you.”

Beside Tonks sat an older, pale woman, who was clutching a black bag on her lap. She was looking around her in trepidation, and at Harry’s outburst, she stared at him in fright.

“Calm down, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. “Tonks and her mother are here for a reason. If you refuse to listen to their explanation, perhaps you would permit me to clarify my purposes for bringing you–“

Harry still gripped his wand, feeling a surge of helpless hatred rush through him. He had come up with dozens of explanations for Tonks in the past week, in an almost desperate attempt to excuse what had happened, but here, with her before him, he only felt betrayed. “I don’t care,” he hissed. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now, Harry–“

“I said, I don’t care! I’m leaving!”

Dumbledore’s tone was serene, but there was no doubt that he meant it. “No, Harry,” he said. “You are not leaving yet. If you cannot bear to hear it from either of us, perhaps you’d like to hear it from Alastor Moody himself. Do you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone anymore,” Harry snapped, but he took the paper that Dumbledore handed to him. It was folded several times over and creased in strange places, as if it had once been a paper airplane like the memos Harry had seen on his visit to the Ministry. He glanced down at it disinterestedly, fuming inside.

. . . the accused then described an incident in which she was approached by Narcissa Malfoy, formerly Narcissa Black, wife of Lucius Malfoy, a current fugitive wanted by the Ministry for Death Eater activity. Later, according to the testimony, the accused was also approached by Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, who is now in custody of the Ministry of Magic and slated to be tried for collaborating with You-Know-Who and for several counts of murder and excessive torture. Bellatrix Lestrange threatened the accused and claimed that she would “murder [her] mother’s filthy Mudblood husband and cover [her] mother in his blood.” Upon returning home, after rejecting the offer, Nymphadora found this exact scenario in the living room of her family’s home . . .

Feeling sick, Harry skipped down several paragraphs.

. . . expressed greater desire to leave the employ of You-Know-Who, but she claims that she was repeatedly threatened . . . it is well known that those among You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters agree to a lifetime of service and no less . . .

Harry glanced up at Tonks, whose eyes were trained on him, and her mother, who looked nowhere but her lap. Unable to meet Tonks’s gaze, he looked back to the report.

. . . when she refused to kill Harry Potter, she claims she was threatened with death. Eventually, a new offer was made, in which the accused had only to deliver Harry Potter to those loyal to You-Know-Who in the guise of someone Harry trusted, and she would be granted freedom . . .

“You used me,” Harry said coldly, meeting her eyes. “You selfish bitch. You thought you’d turn me in to save yourself.”

“It wasn’t like that, Harry,” Tonks argued, giving him a pleading look, “I gave you a chance to save yourself, I made sure you had your wand before I gave you the Portkey–“

Harry stared at her without seeing her. “I said I don’t want to hear a word from you. I don’t care what you’ve got to say.” He looked furiously down at the parchment again, to avoid Dumbledore’s sorrowful gaze.

. . . arrived on the scene of the duel to, as she claimed, protect Harry from the fate she had set him. However, what she found was a capably Stunned Bellatrix Lestrange, and before she could explain herself to Harry Potter, he began to duel with her. Having no chance to respond, she dodged his spells, until he attempted the Killing Curse, though it did not succeed.

“I had made a mistake,” the accused told her captors while under Veritaserum. “I was trying to make up for it."

There were two more paragraphs, but Harry didn’t feel like reading on. He threw the parchment on Dumbledore’s desk, his anger futile. “Thought you’d make up for all the things you’d done wrong, did you?” he spat.

“I made a mistake,” Tonks said, and her voice was even, though she looked shaken. “I messed up, okay? They killed Dad and it scared me. They said they wouldn’t hurt my mum, they said I wouldn’t have to do anything really, just.” She glanced once up at her mother, then away. “Even you make mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Harry said jaggedly, “I did make a mistake, I trusted you. I should’ve known.”

Tonks looked shaken at this. Despite himself, Harry felt a pang of guilt stab through him, which only made his anger flare all the more. It would have been better if he’d been wrong about Tonks all along. It would have been better if she had only pretended to like the Aurors, to be friends with Hermione. But she had. She wasn’t some Pureblood woman who joined up to kill Muggles. She was still Tonks, through and through.

It was different, looking at her this way, like she was just some too-young Auror who had made a mistake.

“You killed Dudley,” Harry snarled, in a desperate grab for his ignorant fury. “You were the one, weren’t you? That’s why you were there?”

“They said that was it,” Tonks said weakly. “I heard how you talked about your family. How rotten they were to you. It was like doing you a favor–“

“KILLING SOMEBODY IS NOT A FAVOR,” Harry shouted, and even Dumbledore looked taken aback at his vehemence. “HE WAS ONLY SIXTEEN! Maybe he was a fat useless lump and a bully besides, but it wasn’t all his fault, he was raised that way, and I don’t know if he ever did anything good his whole life, but now he doesn’t get a chance to, because he’s dead!”

Tonks looked away. “I didn’t want to do it,” she said.

“BUT YOU DID,” Harry yelled. “You did and that’s the difference right there, isn’t it?” He added, bitterly, “Anyway, if that’s all you were supposed to do, why didn’t you get out?”

“I couldn’t,” Tonks said, such fierceness in her voice that he had to believe her. “I was supposed to kill your whole family. I didn’t know then, about the protection spell, Dumbledore just told me now. I didn’t know, Harry, or I wouldn’t have. But they said I’d messed up and then–“

“They,” Harry muttered dangerously. “Your aunts?”

“My sisters,” said Tonks’s mother. It was the first time she’d spoken and Harry looked at her again. Andromeda Black Tonks, her hair shot through with gray, her hands clenched tightly around the fabric of her bag. She spoke softly. “Narcissa and Bella. I never dreamed they would go after my daughter. I thought that perhaps we were still left out of the struggle, that perhaps they would leave us in peace.”

Harry snorted. “Voldemort? Fat chance there.”

“It seems that your Metamorphmagus abilities were too much for Voldemort to pass up,” Dumbledore interrupted. “Alastor’s report notes that they were quite persistent.”

“Well, Voldemort’s quite persistent in trying to kill me, isn’t he,” Harry snapped. “But that doesn’t mean he’s succeeded!”

“Not everyone is like you, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Now, would you like to sit down?”

“I don’t want to sit down!” Harry shot back. Dumbledore only raised an eyebrow at him as if to say, as you wish, which left Harry standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the office. Tonks, Andromeda, and Dumbledore were all looking at him patiently, awaiting his next outburst. It was nearly enough to send him into one.

“I wanted out,” Tonks said, not looking at him. Her eyes were glassy with what could only be the beginnings of tears, and that made Harry angrier than anything else: that after this, she could still want to cry about it, that she was guilty enough to do so. Part of him wanted her to try and hex him again, to praise Voldemort in front of him. It would be easier, he thought.

Tonks pushed on, “You don’t understand, I didn’t mean to get caught up in it, I just wanted–“

Sirius’s words came back to Harry, then, as he spoke about Regulus: Well, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort, he’d said grimly. It’s a lifetime of service or death.

Regulus had ended up dead. For the first time, Harry wondered whether he had deliberately chosen it over the lifetime of service.

“Is that why you were around me all the time?” Harry demanded, his voice coming out cruel. “Thought I’d save you, did you? Thought maybe I’d protect you?”

“I like you, Harry,” Tonks said tightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I told them that, and Bellatrix said if I just gave you the Portkey, that’d be enough – I thought you could fight her, you were strong enough – and you were–“

Harry just stared at her. There were a thousand threads of emotion in him, and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Look, I did change my mind,” Tonks said, more quietly, when he said nothing. “I was worried, I found you – I was going to help you, I was–“

“Help,” Harry said flatly. He felt cold. This Tonks, who seemed to him more like a girl than an adult, was impossible to hate outright, but how could he forgive her? After a moment, he said cruelly, “You’re just like Peter Pettigrew. Why are you still here?”

Tonks looked bewildered. She glanced around her at Dumbledore’s office. “I came to ask you–“

“Why,” Harry interrupted to repeat, “are you here? And not in Azkaban?”

Tonks paled at that, but Dumbledore was the one who answered. “Harry,” he said, hands folded on his desk, looking carefully at Harry through his half-moon glasses. “Do you truly believe that she belongs in Azkaban?”

“Yes!” Harry snapped. And then, “No. I – I don’t know, all right?”

“Harry,” Tonks said. He spun on her.

“How dare you? How dare you be that weak? How dare you give in to Voldemort?” he shouted. “People were counting on you! How dare you be scared? You aren’t supposed to be scared of anything! You’re Tonks – you–“ He cut off, raggedly. Something in him seemed to collapse and he was almost shocked to find that he was still on his feet.

“Everybody’s scared of something,” Tonks said. “You should know that. Harry, I didn’t give away any Order secrets, I even bargained for Moody’s life, that’s why Bellatrix escaped. I thought I could – help–“

“I guess that makes you a real saint,” Harry said sarcastically. “I’ll bet Moody was real grateful to hear that one.”

Tonks looked away. “He won’t speak to me. I had my Auror license rescinded.”

“Serves you right,” Harry muttered, but his anger was seeping out of him. He looked at Dumbledore, who was watching him curiously, and just felt tired. “Why’d you come, then?” he asked, despite himself. “If you’re looking for forgiveness, I can’t.” It wasn’t angry this time, just tired, true. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Tonks said. She gave him a sad, half-hearted grin and it hurt; he knew that smile, almost expected her to wink at him and ask about Potions. He wondered if she ever would again.

“The Ministry has been lenient, with some persuasion,” Dumbledore said, giving Tonks and her mother a faint smile. “But it is best if they go into hiding for some time, just as a precaution. That’s where you come in, Harry.”

“What? What d’you mean?” He had sudden thoughts of Tonks and her mother hiding in 12 Grimmauld Place, and the idea made him ill.

But Dumbledore stood up and smiled. “The Fidelius Charm, of course,” he clarified, as behind him a few portraits nodded their heads in approval. “They will need to go somewhere that nobody can find them. And for that, they will need a Secret Keeper.”

“I still don’t–“ Harry began, when it hit him. He glanced from Tonks to Dumbledore and back again. “But, why? Why me?”

“Who else?” Tonks said, and though her voice still carried that strange tone of rugged cheerfulness, there was something deeper there, more sorrowful. “I trust you.”

It was horribly ironic, and Harry stared at her, the way she sat there, a shaken and older Tonks, perhaps, but still Tonks. Her hair was brilliantly violet and spiked, the way he had first seen it in the hall of Number Four, Privet Drive, and though she looked drawn and tired, he could all too easily imagine her grinning that familiar grin at him, and drawling, “Wotcher, Harry . . .” She was wearing a handful of pins on her robes, and he swore he could make out the shape of a drummer on one, moving its tiny arms. He wasn’t sure if that made him want to cry or laugh.

Finally he said, not looking at her, “What do I have to do?”



&*&*



Harry didn’t tell anyone about the Fidelius Charm, but he felt, in the days after, that everyone could tell: it felt strange, walking around with something inside him that no one, not even Dumbledore, knew. It was somehow warming, and somehow terrifying, that he was carrying something so key to two people’s lives, which he could let slip at any time. But to have it, like it was locked up inside him, maybe that was a bit like forgiveness, in its own way.

He wondered if this was how Peter Pettigrew felt. He wondered if Peter Pettigrew had ever thought twice about betraying Harry’s mum and dad.

“How does it feel?” Remus asked him gently, when Harry went to his rooms for tea. He looked gray and tired, sitting there with a stack of essays on his lap, and something in Harry’s chest tightened protectively at the sight of him. “Albus thought I should know as well, in case you had any . . . questions.”

Harry sat down across from him and said, “It feels heavy,” before he could think about it. “I don’t know. It’s kind of nice.”

“That’s what Peter said,” Remus responded quietly, though he continued on before Harry could flare up, “And how do you feel?”

“Heavy,” Harry repeated. “Tired. Lots of things.”

“Not betrayed?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “yeah, I.” He didn’t want to talk about it, and glanced instead around Remus’s humble sitting room, but there was nothing to spark a different vein of conversation. He finally said, “The DA’s getting along well. Even Neville’s and Luna’s duel last week was all right.”

Remus ignored his change of subject. “How’s Draco?”

“How should I know how he is?” Harry snapped. “I could care less about him.”

“You can’t turn your feelings on and off with a switch.” Remus was looking at him with too much understanding. It annoyed Harry, who scowled. “I think you do care about him, Harry, and that worries you just as much. I don’t blame you for being upset. But perhaps you should talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him!” Harry said furiously. “He’s just as bad as Tonks, he – he went along with it–“

Remus stirred his tea, sipped, and calmly set it back on the table. “I think this has given you a lot to think about,” he said. “Not everything is as simple as it seems. Not all our enemies are hooded figures who hate Muggles, are they?”

It felt too much like a lecture, and Harry kicked at the table, something sullen settling in the pit of his stomach. “Lucius Malfoy is.”

“Not to Draco,” said Remus.

“I don’t care – I don’t want to talk about him,” Harry exclaimed, glaring at his hands when he could not bring himself to glare at Remus directly. “Can’t we talk about – about Quidditch?”

Remus gave him a thin, amused smile. “Harry, I’d love to talk about Quidditch with you any time. But I do know what it feels like to be betrayed by someone you love. And how alone you must feel.”

“I don’t love him,” Harry said desperately, “I don’t – not even close–“ He got to his feet in a hurry. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Draco, and coming in at a close second was Sirius, which Remus seemed equally inclined to bring up. “Look, I forgot, I told Ron I’d help him with Transfiguration, I’ve got to go–“

He left Remus sitting there with his lukewarm tea and his sad eyes, and Remus let him, which made Harry even angrier. He felt furious and desperate all at once, with nowhere to go, and he was even contemplating going back to Remus just so he could shout that he didn’t care one bit about Draco Malfoy, when he ran smack into Dumbledore.

“Harry,” Dumbledore exclaimed, while Harry reeled at his appearance. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Harry, and added genially, “How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” Harry said rudely, because it was true. He stared at the ground. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “Could this, perhaps, have something to do with Draco Malfoy?”

“It has nothing to do with him!” Harry snarled, hands fisting. “What is this? First Remus and now you! Did you find me on purpose? Did he tell you to come looking for me? I don’t want to talk about Malfoy! And I’m tired of all of you trying to bring it up!”

Dumbledore said mildly, “And why would that be, Harry?”

“Because you want me to save him and I won’t,” Harry said promptly, and the truth of it hit him after he spoke.

“Ah,” Dumbledore repeated. After a moment, he said, “I’m pleased to hear it.”

Caught off guard, Harry snapped, “What?”

“I’m pleased to hear you aren’t set on curing Mr. Malfoy of his personality,” Dumbledore elaborated, eyes twinkling. “For that would be almost as foolhardy as caring only about one part of someone and ignoring the rest. In a void, perhaps that could work. In the real world, it never does.”

“I didn’t forget who he was,” Harry muttered, drawn into conversation despite himself. “I just–“

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, though his eyes still seemed to be smiling. “It’s very easy to love those who are similar to ourselves, Harry,” he said. “The challenge is to reach out to those who are not. I believe Hermione Granger has been a wonderful proponent of House unity. She is not wrong to think that together, even with our differences, we are stronger than we are apart.”

“You’re telling me that trusting Malfoy, even if he’s got his dad’s best interests in mind, is going to make me stronger?” Harry said loudly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I am telling you nothing except that, at times, love can be the strongest bond of all.”

Harry was torn between snorting in derision and kicking something in fury at the idea that he and Draco could be better off in love. He scowled. “Maybe I don’t want to,” he said. “Maybe I don’t care, maybe I want to stop caring about everybody, it hasn’t done me any good–“

Dumbledore looked quietly appalled; a shocked expression came into his blue eyes. "Not feel? But Harry, how else can we reach out to the world? How would we manage, day to day, to be satisfied with our existence?"

Harry crossed his arms. "But it's not worth it," he said angrily. "My mum, my dad, all of them, they all died because they loved me. It doesn't do them any good to know I loved them, especially my parents! I didn't even know them yet! And Cedric, he died for me, and I hardly knew him. And – and Sirius – there was never time, and–"

After a moment of staring at the rapidly blurring stone floor, Harry realized that he had tears in his eyes. It shocked him, and he wiped them away furiously. "It's not worth it," he said again.

"Yes, but Harry–"

"Listen, I don't want more people to die! I don't want them to go to their deaths because they love me; that makes it twice as bad because I can't do anything about it! There are loads of people just waiting to die for me, and I know they would, and I can't stop it, I can't do anything, and I should because if I did it right, really right, then nobody else would have to die. Just Voldemort. And maybe me."

Dumbledore spoke softly. "And do you want to die unloved, Harry?"

"No, but–"

"And these friends of yours, this family of sorts, all of these people who care about you, if they must die, do you want them to die without ever knowing you cared for them?"

"I–"

"You don't really want to become what you say you want to become," Dumbledore said, his eyes sparkling gently. "You don't want to become cold, unemotional, unfeeling. How do you think Tom Riddle became your current nemesis? It wasn't because he won power. It was because he lost his heart."

"But loving anybody isn't going to bring my parents or Cedric or Sirius back," Harry challenged. "And it's not going to help me when I confront Voldemort."

"Your parents' time was over," said Dumbledore, "and they lived their lives. They loved. They died. It is a sad thing when people die, especially at the hands of others, but we do all we can to make their lives – and ours – worthwhile. Nobody has forever, Harry. Maybe you’ll kill Voldemort. Perhaps he will kill you. You could die. You can't know that; all you can do is make sure you have lived."

Harry glared at the floor. “I don’t see what love has to do with that,” he insisted stubbornly.

“You’ll remember the room of which I spoke, in the Department of Mysteries, the one that is locked at all times. I told you last June that what is studied within that room is what makes you so powerful an opponent against Voldemort. Love.”

Harry persisted with a frown, “But it’s not a weapon! It doesn’t help me any. And loving somebody doesn’t change a thing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dumbledore said, sounding serene. “We do have the power to change each other, Harry. In loving someone else, we become more than we are. It can destroy you or it can change you and strengthen you in ways you never dreamed.”

“But I never set out to change him,” Harry said softly before he could help it, realizing as he spoke that it was true.

Dumbledore smiled at him. “I wasn’t talking about young Mr. Malfoy,” he clarified, eyes twinkling. “And now I’m afraid I’m rather delayed for a late night tea with Minerva. I should hate to keep her waiting.”

“I,” Harry said, flustered, “all right.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, and there was a thread of pride in his voice that Harry had not heard before. Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder, a sudden warm weight, and then he was gone.



&*&*



The last week in February, the cold spell broke, and with it, Harry’s resolve. He was leaving the Room of Requirement after a particularly long DA meeting, after everyone else had gone, when he opened the door and came face to face with Draco. Draco’s eyes immediately went wide with shock at the sight of Harry.

And Harry, who had not been that close to him in weeks, had to push down the urge to seize his robes and drag him closer.

“Excuse me, I was just going,” Draco said tightly, unable to ignore him in such close proximity. His voice was as cold as it had ever been and, before Harry could even begin to answer, Draco turned away from him.

Harry said, desperately, “Wait.”

Draco stopped. He didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want this,” Harry pushed on, feeling as if his heart were pounding in the back of his throat. “I can’t stand this, you won’t even look at me, and I want–“

Draco spun and locked eyes with him. “Yes,” he said, coolly, as if he were speaking to a first year who’d dared to bother him, “what is it you want?”

Harry said, without tearing his eyes away, “I want you to cast the Cruciatus Curse on me like you really mean it, or I am not going to let you walk away like this.” He pushed closer to Draco, their faces inches apart. “Come on, Malfoy. I’ve always wanted to know. Do you hate me, or are you all talk?”

He rather liked the look of shock on Draco’s face.

“You’ve really done it now, Potter,” Draco hissed, something like terror in the edges of his voice. “You’ve lost it. You belong in St. Mungo’s. You’re crazy.”

“Are you going to do it?”

Draco sneered. It was a cover, Harry realized, the way it sometimes was; he sneered when he was lost for words, or embarrassed, or afraid. “As if you’d let me draw my wand in front of you,” he snapped. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hex you, Potter? Don’t trust me anymore, do you?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “I’d let you do it. That is, unless you’re scared.”

“I told you, Potter, your threat of calling me scared is hardly incentive for me to do anything,” Draco said scornfully. After he said it, he paled, perhaps realizing that he’d alluded to a time when they were on speaking terms, and added, “Besides, I’d rather not tarnish my record with the Ministry, if you don’t mind. As the last remaining Malfoy, I feel I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

For a cold moment, Harry realized that in all that had happened, he’d forgotten about Draco’s mother. Challenge momentarily forgotten, he asked, “Your mother?”

“Under house arrest until her trial,” Draco said, his eyes flashing cold and unfamiliar. “I heard the Metamorphmagus is going to testify.”

Something twisted in his stomach, whether the secret he kept or some silent recognition; he thought, briefly, painfully, This is Draco. After a moment, Harry said, “Do you think she’ll get off?”

“Of course not,” Draco snapped. “Fudge has been salivating for more Malfoy blood for months. And we haven’t the money to bribe him.”

Harry said, without thinking, “I do.”

Draco stared at him. Finally, in a voice tight with disdain, he said, “I don’t take charity, Potter. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“I guess not,” Harry said and smiled faintly. “What are you going to do, then? If your mum’s gone?”

But the moment seemed to have passed, and Draco turned away from him sharply. “If you’ve forgotten, Potter, I want nothing to do with you,” he snarled. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Get out of my sight or I’ll report you for harassing a Prefect.”

“You don’t really hate me,” Harry said steadily, undeterred. “If you hated me, you’d curse me, and that would be the end of it.”

“It’s not that simple!” Draco shouted, pinking up in fury. Despite himself, Harry took a step backwards, back into the room, and Draco stalked forward after him. “You think everything’s easy, Potter? Looking for easy answers? Because I hate you, I do–“

“Then prove it,” Harry challenged. “Or what’s the matter, Malfoy, Daddy told you to lay low for awhile? Play nice?”

“I HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO MY FATHER SINCE JUNE,” Draco yelled, “AND I’M NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO TALK TO MY MOTHER NOW, ALL RIGHT? NOW I HAVEN’T GOT ANYONE, POTTER, I’M ALONE, ARE YOU HAPPY?”

Harry went cold, and it took him a blank moment before he could even manage to say, quietly, “You aren’t alone.”

“No? Who’ve I got, then, you?” Draco looked openly contemptuous. “Oh, please. You’d drop me the instant I said a word against the Weasel.”

“Then don’t,” Harry suggested levelly. Draco stared at him.

“Excuse me if I don’t leap at the chance to get cozy with your happy little family,” Draco finally sneered. “I’d rather be a Hufflepuff than make nice with Ron Weasley.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you do know his name,” he said. “See? Not so hard.”

“You don’t get it,” Draco snarled, “you stupid Gryffindor, you think everybody’s just like you–“

“No, I don’t.” Harry looked at him evenly. “Malfoy, I don’t. I’m not daft, I know who you are. I know who your father is. I know what you’ve done. I know you hate Hermione and Ron, and I know you’d rather die than work for Dumbledore. So don’t call me stupid.”

Draco looked about to speak, but Harry went on, “And I know you saved my life more than once, which I guess means I owe you, and I don’t take that lightly. I know you like Lupin – you can deny it, but you respect him, don’t you? Even if he is a werewolf. And I know you kissed me. So no, Draco, it’s not simple, and it’s not easy. But I’m here.”

“You put my father in Azkaban,” Draco said shakily. “And probably my mother.”

Harry was unwavering. “You know why I did it. I’d do it again. So where does that leave you?”

“I can’t help how I feel about my father,” Draco snapped, turning away from Harry to look doggedly at the wall. He barreled on, so quietly that Harry wondered for a moment if he was hearing things, “But I can’t help how I feel about you, either.”

“I’d kill him,” Harry said flatly. “If I had to, Draco, I’d kill him, and anybody else who stands between me and Voldemort. And he’d kill me if he could. You know he would.”

Draco just looked at him.

“I mean it,” Harry pushed. “You included, I’d kill you if I had to do it. I want you to know.”

“But you didn’t,” Draco said, almost curiously. “In Little Whinging, when you thought the Metamorphmagus was me. You couldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to. I didn’t want to. But I would.” He looked at Draco, standing several steps from him, as if they were too painful to make. He said, tightly, “So what is it, Malfoy, me or your father?”

“You want me to choose?” Draco demanded heatedly. “Potter, it’s not that simple.”

“No,” Harry said. “It isn’t. But some things have to be.”

Draco stared at him. Then he stalked across the room, picked up a whirling Sneakoscope from where it stood on the table, and hurled it at the cracked Foe Glass that stood beside it. In the silence that followed the crash, he muttered so furiously that at first, Harry couldn’t comprehend the meaning in what he’d said, “It’s been you, Potter, are you blind?”

“I,” Harry said, stunned, when he’d recovered. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Draco snarled. “Now get out.”

Harry had to smile at the furious note in Draco’s voice, which he had no intention of heeding. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said stubbornly. “Since when?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I want to know,” Harry insisted, stepping closer to him, though he was careful to avoid the broken glass. “Draco.”

“We were practicing the Patronus spell,” Draco said, so coldly that Harry almost thought he was angry. “You told me to think of a happy memory, so I thought of my father.”

“And?”

Draco met his eyes with such sudden force that Harry could not look away. “And it was from years ago, on some stupid Potions exam, when he was proud of me,” he hissed. “I knew he’d never be, not now, and then you told me it was nice. You said it was good. That’s all. Lord, Potter, are you satisfied now?”

Harry snorted despite himself. “So, what, I’m now your father figure?”

“Potter, that’s sick.” Draco gave him a disparaging look. “You’re clearly disturbed. Leave me out of your nauseating fantasies.”

“Shut up,” Harry said tolerantly. “I have another question.”

He could see Draco steeling himself for it, could see it in the way he clenched his jaw. “Well, ask me already, Potter, I haven’t got all night,” he snapped.

“Why did you have your wand on the pitch that day?”

Draco looked startled, and Harry realized that he’d probably expected something else. Nevertheless, Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “Because I was planning on hexing you,” he spat. “Why else?”

Harry grinned; he couldn’t help it. This was Draco. He knew that now. This was Draco, who tried to hex him, who cheated at Quidditch, who hated Muggles and would never like Ron, whose gaze was turning anxious at the way Harry was looking at him, standing there in the midst of broken glass with his hands half-curled into fists. He was incorrigible and spider-thin and petty and vain, and Harry couldn’t understand it, but he wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anybody in his life.

“Okay,” he said, softly, and reached out to grab Draco’s wrist. He tugged him gently towards him. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Draco demanded, twisting in Harry’s grasp. “Get off me, Potter–“

Harry ignored him and pulled him closer. “I don’t think so,” he said, fingers curling around the thin bones in Draco’s wrist. He felt almost fragile. Harry said, half-smiling, “I thought you chose me, Malfoy.”

“To not die,” Draco sniffed, looking annoyed, “not to kiss, Potter. I’ll have you know that never in my life have I planned to kiss my father.”

“Good,” Harry said dryly. “I’m relieved.” And then he fisted his free hand in the front of Draco’s robes, pulled him forward hard, and put his mouth on Draco’s.

He had missed this, and he hadn’t even known he had missed it, he hadn’t understood how much; Draco was warm against him, and his mouth opened without hesitation, kissing slick and desperate, and Harry slid his hand from Draco’s wrist up to his shoulder and pulled him in harder, until their bodies were aligned, hips sharp against flesh, Draco’s hand going around Harry and curling there, settling almost easily in the small of his back. Draco made a small demanding noise in the back of his throat when Harry buried his face in his neck and licked along the curve of it. Draco tasted salty-sweet like sweat and some kind of flowery soap, and Harry could feel him shifting against his thigh, could feel them wordlessly moving to fit better.

Harry pulled back, Draco’s breath hot on his cheek, enough to stumble blindly forwards and pitch them both onto the couch, Draco beneath him. He was bony and sharp and hissed a little when Harry’s thigh slid easily and unexpectedly into the space between his, and Harry yanked off his glasses, dropping them to the table.

“Potter,” Draco said, shakily, and then Harry slid his hands under Draco’s shoulders and up to tangle in his hair and kissed him again before he could say anything more.

It was easier this time, more familiar, even. He had forgotten how smooth Draco’s skin was under his fingertips, and the way his breath hitched when Harry touched him. He’d forgotten the way it felt, Draco’s hand skimming hard up his back, hips jerking under him.

When Harry tore his mouth away, he reached up a hand and brushed Draco’s hair off his forehead, almost hesitantly. He touched Draco’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, slid down to brush Draco’s mouth with the knuckle of his index finger. Wordlessly, Draco looked up at him and waited.

Harry said, low, with an intake of breath, “This is you, isn’t it?”

Under him, Draco winced, the memory of Tonks fresh in both of their minds. Then he leaned up into Harry, slid a hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him down until they were nearly close enough to kiss. He whispered, almost harshly, “It’s always been me, Potter.”

Harry was kissing him again before he even knew what he was doing; it was desperate, lewd, their mouths sliding hotly and Draco’s tongue in his mouth, him grinding down against him, breathing hard at the shock of it. He pressed a wet kiss to Draco’s jaw and slid down, shoved aside his robes and the shirt beneath to get at the sharp rise of his collarbone, the hollow just above.

“I missed you,” Harry muttered, harsh, into his shoulder, and when he bit down on the muscle there, Draco hissed out, “Harry,” and it was nearly enough to make Harry come right there, moving against him.

“I want,” Draco breathed, “I want you to–”

“Wait,” Harry said, and shrugged off his robes, kicked his trainers off the end of the couch. “Here – sit up–“ He helped Draco struggle out of his robes and then was tugged at the buttons on his shirt, until Draco pushed at him and said, “Potter,” exasperatedly, and undid them in a hurry. Harry pulled his own shirt off in one fluid motion over his head, and had barely dropped it before Draco pulled him down again, his skin warm under Harry, both of them warm, touching, moving against one another.

Harry slid his palm down and rubbed Draco through his trousers, and Draco arched up and seized Harry’s earlobe in his teeth, and hissed raggedly, right into his ear, “Oh god, fuck me,” and Harry groaned, cock swelling at the sound of it.

“I want to,” Harry said breathily, “I want – we can’t, we don’t have anything–“

Which was, of course, when he glanced sideways and saw a small, brightly colored pot perched on the end of the table, and he picked it up with a half-groan, half-laugh.

The Room of Requirement. Of course.

When he saw it, Draco snickered, momentarily distracted. “What else does this room do?” he said, sitting up on his elbows and glancing around him with interest. “Will it bring me mixed drinks? What if I wanted a line of dancing girls? An elephant?”

“Try it out some other time,” Harry said, and tightened his hand around Draco’s hip, fingers brushing under his waistband, catching Draco’s attention rather hurriedly. “I’d rather – not deal with an elephant right now–”

“If I must,” Draco sighed with exaggerated disappointment, but when Harry leaned in to kiss him again, he said against his mouth, “All right – no elephants–”

“Good,” Harry whispered, and sat up to lean over him, palm against his cheek. “Are you still – do you want to?”

Draco flushed, but he said, “I, yeah–“ and reached down to undo the button on his trousers. Harry moved off him enough that he could lift his hips and wriggle out of them. Without Harry’s glasses, from this distance, Draco was difficult to make out in detail; he looked pale and small, lying there, one knee bent and the other leg lying straight, his cock swollen and red against his white skin. Harry had a flash of fear that he would hurt him and couldn’t see the look on his face.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Draco said irritably, after a moment, and Harry reddened and started to undo his own trousers. His cock was painfully hard and he moaned under his breath when his wrist brushed against it as he pushed down the waistband of his pants.

Harry slid back above him and Draco made a mewling noise when they touched; their mouths met, and Harry swallowed the sounds, felt electric with the near-forgotten pleasure of Draco’s skin against his pulsing cock, moaned when Draco bit down hard on his lip.

He was achingly hard, the very idea of fucking Draco cemented in the back of his mind, and when Draco tentatively slid his right leg up and propped it on the back of the couch, thighs spread under Harry, heat flared tight in his stomach. “You sure,” he whispered hard in Draco’s ear, and Draco hissed, “Yes – Potter–“ and Harry kissed him, wet, desperate, Draco kissing him back hungrily.

The lid was screwed on too tightly and he flushed while trying to open it, and then the lube was cold on his fingers, sticky and strange. He glanced down at Draco, whose eyes looked dark from this angle, and the way the pale muscles in his thighs were tight and smooth. Oh god, Harry thought, this is, oh god, and he instinctively leaned in and pressed a dry kiss to the place just under Draco’s knee, before kneeling there and reaching out, almost scared, with slick-wet fingers.

Draco’s breath hissed out when Harry worked one finger inside him, and Harry had trouble breathing himself when Draco clenched around him, slick and hot. Draco’s prick was glistening with precome as he fisted it lazily, and his breath sounded shaky and uneven as Harry slid his finger in and out of him, one, then two.

“Potter,” he panted, voice reedy, and Harry pushed deeper, the sound of Draco’s voice going straight to his own cock. He slid a third in and twisted, tight, just as Draco’s brow furrowed and he breathed, “stop, wait,” and then, “oh, keep – like that,” and Harry wanted to fuck him, needed to, wanted to arch over him and push inside him.

The lube was slippery on his fingers and Harry couldn’t help the soft noise in the back of his throat as he smeared it over his cock; then he was scared, for a moment, leaning over Draco and not knowing what to do. His right hand slid down to press against Draco’s thigh, and he said jaggedly, “Draco,” harsh, and then again, as if as an afterthought, and pushed forward.

It was slippery and difficult, and for an instant he was caught up in the way Draco’s expression tightened, as if in pain, so much so that he nearly pulled away. Draco shifted his hips, then, and Harry moved inside him so slowly he thought he might die; it was graceless and perfect and he felt everything loudly, his heart beating, the clock ticking, Draco’s breathing harsh against the air. “Potter,” Draco said again, then, and there was something so tight and private about the way he hissed it that Harry’s breath caught, and he slid deeper inside him, Draco’s hand flying down to curl again around his cock. He made breathy, sibilant moans when Harry slid into him, and Harry tried to memorize them in the haze of it, tried to catch it all, preserve it.

Draco came first, head thrown back; he made some small, desperate noise and spurted warm over his own fingers, come wet and sticky against Harry’s stomach. Harry kept moving, a few swift thrusts, and he thought the lights might have flickered, though it could have been his imagination, before he closed his eyes and the shock of his orgasm knifed through him.

They were silent afterwards, their breathing loud, everything sticky and awkward; Harry slid out of him and buried his head in the heated, sweat-slick place between Draco’s shoulder and neck. “I,” Harry said, muffled against his skin, and he wanted to say something, but he thought Draco knew, must know.

Draco’s hand came up to settled restlessly in Harry’s hair, and he slid his leg down shakily, foot rubbing against Harry’s calf. “Potter,” he said, as if he couldn’t keep it in any longer, “look, just because I said that about my father, I still love him, I’d still–“

“Draco,” Harry groaned, “are you seriously thinking about your father now?”

“I want you to know,” Draco said petulantly.

“I do know,” Harry said. He lifted his head and looked at Draco, who looked back at him, both of them suddenly solemn. He wanted to touch him on the mouth, gently, or to kiss him hard enough to bruise, but he looked at him for a long, silent moment, and thought maybe that was enough. “I know that. I know.”

Later, after they cleaned up the mess and Draco irritably cleared away the broken glass into the corner of the room, Harry leaned up on one elbow and gazed down at Draco, who was beginning to look slightly drowsy. “Your hip is too bony,” Harry started to say, because it was digging into his thigh, only what really came out was, “I have to tell you something,” and he blinked.

Draco blinked, too, in a way that meant he was listening. There was something open about his gaze, or quiet, which could be why Harry said recklessly,

“Do you know what happened in the Department of Mysteries last June?”

“Look, Potter,” Draco snapped, flaring up just as Harry expected, “first you don’t want to talk about my father, and now you want to rub it in, will you make up your mind–“

“I’m not talking about your dad,” Harry said. He knew he was frowning, but he couldn’t help it. “I meant, do you know why we were there? In the Ministry?”

“No,” Draco said, looking irritable at having to admit it.

“There’s a prophecy there,” Harry explained, not quite looking at him. “It’s about me and Voldemort. It says that, um, I’m the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. And that neither of us can live while the other survives.”

Draco stared at him, waiting.

“It means,” Harry continued doggedly, “that I’m the only one with the power to defeat him. Either he kills me or I kill him. There’s no other way.”

Draco was silent for a long moment. Then he said, sounding more curious than malicious, “Did Granger cry when she heard?”

“I didn’t tell Hermione and Ron,” Harry said. He was proud of how steady he’d managed to keep his voice. “I’ve only told you.“

Draco looked over at him without speaking, then reached out and ran a finger down Harry’s scar. After what seemed like minutes, he leaned forward, kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth, and said, “Potter,” as if it meant something monumental.

Harry looked at him, at Draco, lying there under the fluorescence of the lights. Something tightened inside him, unfamiliar and strange, at the way Draco’s eyes fluttered closed, the near-content expression on his pointed face. He was warm and bony against Harry, and he carried so many complications that anyone sane could have told Harry just why he was being a complete idiot, and Harry wanted nothing more, in that particular moment, than this. He didn’t know if this was love, this strange ache in the pit of his stomach, the way he bled relief at the very notion that they weren’t fighting anymore. He felt different, though. No, not different, just. More himself, maybe. He wasn’t sure if that was it, but it sounded all right.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, fingers gently tracing along the line of Draco’s jaw. He thought of a time, not so long ago, when it was inconceivable to be grateful to Draco Malfoy for anything. “Thank you.”

Draco’s eyes opened, reluctantly, and he gave Harry a soft look before saying, “I’ve no idea what you’re blathering about, Potter, but I’d rather you – oh, fuck. It’s late, I hadn’t noticed–“

Harry sighed; the clock did, in fact, read half past ten, which was far later than he’d realized. “I suppose we should go,” he said.

“You suppose?” Draco extricated himself from Harry with startling alacrity, elbowing Harry several times in the process, and leapt to his feet. “We have to go now, I’ve got to do Potions, I haven’t even started on my Transfiguration notes, and Pansy’ll kill me if I don’t return her book by the morning–“

“It’s like you’re channeling Hermione,” Harry muttered, and gave him a warning glare before Draco could even open his mouth. “All right, then, we’ll go.” He followed Draco from the room, straightening his robes.

At the door, Draco turned, and Harry caught at his arm before he could move away. They kissed there, half in the dim hallway, Harry’s foot holding the door open. Draco slid his fingers through Harry’s hair and sighed against his mouth. Harry’s throat tightened in sudden tenderness.

“Goodnight,” Harry said, after, almost hesitantly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Goodnight,” he said, his expression entirely smug. “You are aware that, naturally, I’ll have to take points for being out after curfew? As a Prefect, I take my responsibilities very seriously. There will be no special treatment for you, Harry Potter.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said, grinning. Draco smiled before he slipped away.



&*&*



Harry told Ron and Hermione the whole story the next afternoon. It was an unusually warm day for February, and they had pulled on jumpers and went to sit by the lake with their homework. Both listened solemnly to him, though when he got to the part about the prophecy, Hermione clapped her hand to her mouth, and Ron said, “No way!” eyes going wide and worried.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione began, but he shook his head.

“Let me finish.”

He told them about the nightclub on his birthday, and the way Tonks had approached him; Hermione half-smiled when he alluded vaguely to how Tonks had distracted him in her rooms, and Ron looked slightly gleeful. He told them about Draco, too, and while Ron’s mouth tightened, he said nothing.

Harry explained that he had talked with Tonks and been forced to face her reasons for betrayal, without mentioning the Fidelius Charm in any specifics. Both looked grim at the mention of Tonks, though Hermione made a small sound of sympathy when Harry told them about how Ted Tonks had been murdered, and she nodded at several points in his story, as if she understood.

When Harry finished, there was silence. And then Hermione looked over at him, eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly, putting a comforting hand on his knee and squeezing, “are you all right?”

He felt weightless at the same time he felt as if a great burden were resting on his shoulders; something buoyant was brimming inside him and burned as it did. He had the leaden pain of grief dulling a place in his chest, and something prickling, something close to hope. He had no home, no family to speak of. But he had his friends. Someday, somewhere, he might have to die and, so doing, might fail a whole world.

But the sun was out. Hermione had her hand on his knee and Ron was sprawled out beside him, tossing dead grass into the lake. It was only Friday afternoon. And across the lawn, he could see Draco, threatening a first year, no doubt. As he watched, Draco glanced up and saw him.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

He knew how he felt now. Alive.

 

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