HP fic: The Translation Job for hd_inspired (H/D, 2/2)
Title: The Translation Job
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Summary: What if Harry used a different curse on Malfoy, back in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? The Prince’s book was full of spells, and this time, Harry simply picked another spell. Again, he had no idea what it would do.
Comments and concrit are love!
Practical Exercises
Reaching the Slytherin dungeons at night after another lonely watch in front of the Room, Draco realised that he had missed the other boys going into their common room. In the hope that he was too early, he settled to wait for them. When neither Vince or Greg, nor Blaise or Theo turned up in the next hour, it became clear that they must have passed the entrance before Draco. This meant that Draco was condemned to wait some more or, probably, spend the night in the corridor.
Damn! Draco couldn’t believe his bad luck. He needed someone’s help to get inside; just like the wall on the seventh floor the entrance to the dungeons couldn’t understand his hissing. But none of his friends had bothered waiting or coming back for him, not even Pansy. He had got used to the rising tempers of Vince and Greg, to their refusal to stand guard for him - not that he needed them there right now. But he needed them here in front of the Slytherin rooms. The feeling of helplessness welled up in Draco like a Hippogriff’s attack - it hurt. “I’m fucked,” he whispered to himself.
Draco slid down the wall, sat on the cold stone floor and resigned himself to a night outside. If his shoulders shook ever so slightly, who was there to notice?
“Malfoy, wake up!”
Draco felt a hand shaking him roughly and opened his tired eyes, squinting at the person who crouched beside him: Potter.
“Let go of me!”
Potter snatched his hand away as if burned. Draco felt the lingering warmth on his shoulder and realised only then how cold the rest of his body felt. Why on earth did it have to be Potter, and what was he doing in their part of the castle?
“What do you want from me?”
“Why are you sitting in the corridor?”
“How did you find me?”
“Can’t you just-“
“Just-“
“-answer my question!” they both finished in unison and sat looking at each other expectantly.
Potter took charge again. “You first! Why aren’t you inside?”
Draco fought with himself. The words I missed my friends raced to the tip of his tongue, but they were closely followed by And they didn’t bother to look for me. It sounded too pathetic to bear. The lame excuse I like it here wouldn’t do either. He shrugged.
But Potter didn’t need his explanation. “Of course ... you can’t get inside on your own. And the others ...” His voice trailed of and the rest of his conclusion was mercifully left unsaid.
He studied Draco, and, from the look on Potter’s face, Draco could easily deduce how miserable a sight he must be. Pathetic enough for Potter the good-doer not to rise to the occasion of riling Draco. Draco felt anger well up inside his chest. Potter, always willing to be merciful. Draco hated him, hated Potter for being generous and honourable and having friends that stuck by him, and himself for being a coward, cowering in front of the one person who could destroy his family forever, a useless boy not able to repair a magical device and stupid enough to get himself hexed. Hexed by Potter. And Draco’s hate for Potter grew beyond measure - Potter, who in spite of being a pathetic, merciful excuse of a hero, had also used an unknown hex on Draco with disastrous results. He was the reason why Draco had ended on the floor in front of his own dormitories, freezing cold and unable to get inside on his own. He was the reason why Draco couldn’t fulfil his assignment. He would be the reason for any damage to Draco’s family.
“You,” snarled Draco, leaping to his feet, “you did all this. I hate you!” And he directed a punch right at Potter’s face.
Potter, the stupid plebe, obviously solved all his problems with fists and brawls because he blocked Draco’s fist with the ease of someone who was in control. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s useless.”
Potter was right, Draco knew. He threw another punch at Potter nevertheless. He was beyond caring.
Potter blocked him again, did some unexpected twirl and locked Draco in a tight grip. Draco struggled to escape and threw more badly aimed punches at Potter, determined to fight him tooth and nail. But Potter simply tightened his grip and Draco felt Potter’s lips at his ear, Potter’s hot breath whispering to him.
“Don’t fight. You can’t win.”
And then Potter started laughing. He laughed so hard that Draco felt his whole body shaking, but he didn’t ease his grip, never, until Draco went limp in his arms not only with the bone-shuttering realisation that Potter was right and that he, Draco, couldn’t, but that also his parents would ... They would ... suffer from his ... incapability.
“I can’t win.”
“You can’t.”
And Draco was fighting again, but not to hit, only to get away, because his eyes were burning from the lack of sleep. Or so he had to assume, because anything else would prove Potter to be even more right and more in control, while Draco was the one who struggled to remain on his feet in the middle of a downpour of events.
He then realised that Potter had started whispering again.
“... let you go, will you listen?”
Draco nodded frantically. Anything. Anything to get away from Potter and his damn attentiveness.
Potter slowly released his arms and Draco forced himself not to bolt. He didn’t trust his voice not to quaver, so his simply stepped away from Potter and tried to flatten his ruffled hair.
“You know,” Potter started carefully, “I could let you in. You only have to give me-“
“The password. As if.” Draco’s indignation overran his need for dignity.
“I wouldn’t tell. I swear it.”
“Why?”
Potter shrugged. “Don’t know. Must be stupid.”
“No, I mean, why were you here in the first place? Why did you look for me?”
“I knew you were here, and I wondered why you stayed such a long time outside your dormitories. I thought, that maybe-” Potter hesitated “-maybe you needed help.”
Draco was lost. He couldn’t even find the words to mock such reasoning.
“Do you trust me?” Potter eyed him openly.
Draco shrugged. Potter was reliable, in a very peculiar sort of way. He would always do what he thought was right, no matter the consequences. Draco had seen Potter plunge headfirst into the biggest mess without a second thought when there was someone to be saved. Potter didn’t plan; he acted on mere instinct most of the time. Granger - she was a completely different matter. But Granger wasn’t offering. This was Potter whose offer Draco had to consider. If Potter believed that Draco trusted him, maybe Draco could use Potter’s trust to his own advantage. And besides, right now, Draco wanted to stop feeling cold and miserable more than anything else in the world. To feel the relief of sleep for at least a few hours before his thoughts would resume their ceaseless wandering.
“Yes, I trust you.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “The password is ‘Phineas Nigelus’.”
Potter nodded, slowly, then turned and repeated the word, addressing the black stone wall. The shimmering stones shifted, leaving an archway for Draco to pass through.
With his sanctuary so close, Draco felt exhaustion take over. He quickly turned towards Potter.
“Thank you.”
Potter nodded again. “You’re welcome. Try to get some sleep - you look like death warmed over.” Then he walked away.
***
Waking up the next morning, Draco felt rested for the first time in weeks. He took his time in the bathroom, grooming, and finished with smiling to himself in the mirror. The common room was deserted, everybody already up in the Great Hall for breakfast. Suddenly, Draco found himself surrounded by Theo, Blaise, Greg and Vince. Not sure why, he felt a flash of wariness. Blaise had grown more impudent lately, demanding what he certainly felt was his rightful position as number one in their year, with Draco being occupied and unable to express himself.
“How did you manage to get back into our dungeons?” Blaise’s voice sounded casual, but he didn’t smile and kept his eyes fixed on Draco.
Oh shit! He hadn’t thought of that! Of course, they must have wondered how he made it through the entrance. He could have told them a thousand lies, but his tongue was still useless, providing Blaise with another opportunity to try to bring him low. Shit, shit, shit!
“Get him!” That was Theo’s voice. Theo, who always kept to himself. Theo, whom Draco had always thought to be cleverer than the rest of them.
Draco felt his arms pinned behind his back. It was useless to fight Greg’s grip and so he forced himself to stand still. What little happiness he had felt minutes ago had left him completely.
Theo and Blaise had their wands drawn.
“We know you can’t manage the password, Draco,” Blaise said. His eyes were hard. “We also know how you did it, because there’s really only one person who you can talk to these days.”
With a sideward glance, he stepped away from Draco.
“Traitor.” Vince hit Draco in the stomach. Just once - he was still a member of their House, after all - but it was enough to drive the air from his lungs and have him double over in Greg’s clutch.
“What,” came a sharp voice from the girl’s dormitories, “is the meaning of this?” Pansy. She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, her brows drawn together. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Do you know how he passed the entrance? When we went to bed, he wasn’t in our dormitory and we were the last to leave the common room. But this morning, there he was, in his own bed, sleeping peacefully.”
“So?”
“He must have told Potter the password.”
“Must he have?” Her voice was cold and calculating. “And if I helped him inside? Did that thought ever occur to your flea-sized brains?”
Theo took a step towards Pansy, eyeing her closely. “So, did you help him inside, Pansy? Have you taken up the habit of sleepwalking recently?”
“Stop your theatrics, Nott. Unlike you, I’m loyal to my friends. So when I came into the common room long after midnight, because I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake my room-mates, and I saw that Draco’s token wasn’t there, I opened the door and found him waiting in front of the portrait.”
“Draco’s token?”
Pansy’s face contorted into a haughty sneer. “Yes, Nott. His token. We decided that he should use a token to indicate when he’s inside, so that if the token was missing, I would know.”
“As if you were talking to each other. He shunned you just like the rest of us.”
“We do. We made up days ago. You’re just too slow to notice.”
Pansy, queen of the ball, actually smiled. If Theo knew what was good for him, Draco thought, he would tread carefully from here on. No one insulted Pansy about her social status.
Theo pursed his lips and back-paddled to safer territory. “And that token would be?”
“One of his white peacock quills. They’re hard to miss.”
“Pillock quills, I see. Do you still have it, Pansy?”
Pansy didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Of course not, pillock. I handed it back to Draco this morning, while you four were busy plotting your little ruse.”
“So you can’t prove that your tale’s actually true.” That was Blaise taking charge again.
“I don’t need to. I don’t even have to defend him. This is Draco we’re talking about. He’s been loyal to Slytherin even before he was Sorted. He would’ve told you where to stuff your lies, if he hadn’t been hexed. So you just shut up. And Greg, he was your friend from first year on, even someone with a head as thick as yours should remember that. Release Draco this instant.”
Pansy’s unfaltering determination did the trick. Greg, his ears red, stepped away from Draco, while she quickly walked to his side. She didn’t speak again until the four boys had left the common room.
Draco wanted to thank her, but all she would be able to hear was another hiss. He stared into her eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Unsure what to make of her intervention, he lifted his hand.
Pansy took it without hesitation. “It’s okay, Draco. You have your reasons for ... for what you did. Even though you’ll never tell me, I trust you to be loyal. And we really should have thought about that quill before.” She smiled at him, neither in triumph nor in seduction, but with an air of gentle conspiracy. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, pointing to his ruffled looks. “I’m not going to let you ruin your reputation by looking like something the cat dragged in.”
And in spite of still being at his wits end, Draco heard himself laugh as she pulled him towards the bathrooms.
***
Meeting Potter at the Slytherin table was awkward, especially with Blaise keeping a close look on them for any signs of them getting along. Thankfully, Potter wasn’t a morning person and didn’t notice half of the glares Blaise sent towards him. On the other hand, maybe Potter was too used to Slytherin glares. And Blaise refrained from questioning Potter. Maybe Draco still had the upper hand in the dungeons.
Of course Potter, being the goodie-two-shoes he was, couldn’t stop himself from questioning Draco after class. It was probably a compulsive streak.
“How are you?” Potter sounded almost hesitant, as if not sure whether he truly wanted to know Draco’s answer to such a personal question.
“What do you care? Haven’t had enough of sticking your nose into my life already?”
“I just thought about what your house-mates would do when they found out. Zabini kept throwing strange looks at us this morning.”
Damn Potter and his saviour’s complex! “What do you think they would do? Kill me? Because that’s all Slytherins are capable of?”
“No.” Potter’s voice was calm. He looked tired, looked like he didn’t seem to get much sleep lately. “I simply saw your wrists. You didn’t have those bruises on you yesterday.”
Draco swore. “Listen, Potter. I’m not your next innocent lamb to save, do you understand me? I can take care of myself.”
Potter shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
But being Potter, he couldn’t let the issue go. He didn’t address it openly, oh no. He kept throwing sideward glances at Draco, worried looks he must have learned from that ever-breeding mother of all Weasels. It was after their final Potions lesson in the afternoon, when everybody had left the classroom and Potter still watched him like Draco was something that threatened to either break down or explode any minute, that Draco cracked.
“What is it, Potter?”
Potter gave him a wide-eyed look that said I don’t know what you mean. It failed to work its charm on Draco.
“You kept me under a close watch all day. Trying to count my freckles? Surely you’ve noticed by now that I have none. Go and count the Weasel’s!”
Potter had the nerve to laugh. “You’re such a drama queen, Malfoy. What exactly are you trying to prove? You’re at your wits end, anyone can see that. All I want is to offer help.”
The ignorance of Potter’s statement almost drove Draco up the wall. “Offer your help? With what, exactly?! We’re on different sides in this game, if you haven’t noticed.”
“We are.” Potter grew severe. “But my offer still stands.”
“Not from you!” Draco spat the words, furious with himself for allowing this kind of conversation, and even more furious with Potter for tempting him with the idea of sanctuary, of a way to escape. Potter, who implied that all Draco had to do was to re-think his options. But there were no options. Potter couldn’t help Draco; he didn’t have the power to stop the inevitable from happening, should Draco fail. Draco would- but no, he couldn’t, he mustn’t fail. And Potter, in whose world every evil found its deadly fate, in whose world you stood up to fight instead of kneeling down and kissing the hem of a madman’s robes - Potter stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Draco and waiting for an answer he would never get.
Draco hated Potter even more, for all he was and stood for. And for the fact that, being all he was, he couldn’t offer safety. There was no way to beat Potter in a fist-fight, and drawing his wand was a bad idea, too. But Draco had to attack anyhow, and irrational was the rule of the hour, so he leaped forward, letting his body carry all the weight of the punch.
It didn’t help him, because Potter stepped aside, and within seconds he was behind Draco, who stumbled and staggered until the nearest wall broke his path. Too riled up, Draco didn’t even feel pain from the impact and wheeled around to face his opponent. Potter laughed again and dug his fist into Draco’s robes, yanking hard enough to disturb Draco’s unsteady whirl even more. While Draco fought to remain on his feet, Potter drove him against the wall.
“You,” Potter said, “are mad, like a rabid dog.”
Draco snarled and struggled, but he had never been good enough at physical fights. Now he clearly remembered the incident on the Quidditch field in their fifth year, when Potter had punched him squarely in the face. Like then, Potter’s face loomed huge above Draco, close enough for Draco to see the tiny pearls of sweat above Potter’s upper lip. Any moment now, Potter would strike again, make Draco hurt. And Draco found that strangely, he wanted Potter to beat him up. It would be the good old black-and-white kind of pain, the one that hurt your body from the outside. Not the one that resulted from sleepless nights and stomach cramps, from veiled letter’s from mother and scary meetings with his aunt. Draco found himself welcoming the kind of pain Potter would bring. And he brought his face just a tiny fraction nearer towards Potter, lest Potter would refuse him in the last moment.
***
Harry had stood, watching Malfoy closely for a change of mind. He looked so desperate, so much on the edge, that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to get called a liar to his face. In the middle of them staring at each other and the air singing with tension, Malfoy had attacked him with a punch thrown so badly that Harry couldn’t help laughing. Malfoy fought on, even when Harry had pinned him against the nearest wall. Even when it was evident that he had no chance. It would have been a relief to beat some sense into the ignorant sod. But all of a sudden, Malfoy lifted his chin, almost like an invitation.
Their lips brushed.
And then, Malfoy buried his teeth into Harry’s lower lip. It hurt.
Pulling back was no option, and so Harry moved forward, driving the frame of his glasses right into Malfoy’s face. Malfoy opened his mouth, freeing Harry’s lip.
Harry wouldn’t exactly call it a kiss.
It was violent and harsh, with their teeth clacking together and Malfoy almost gnawing his way into Harry’s mouth. It was desperate and frantic, full of anger and spittle, with Malfoy snarling and cursing and deepening the motion all at the same time. It was everything kissing Ginny wasn’t. There was no tenderness, no playful nipping, no hand-holding and no embrace. Instead, they fought and hissed like angry cats, and Harry felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He had goose-bumps on his arms and found himself answering back; his arms came up in an effort to still Malfoy, to calm him down, to soothe him.
Malfoy broke off. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare go soft on me!”
He attacked again, and this time, Harry responded full force. This was what Malfoy needed, what both of them needed. Enough with carefully beating around the bush, enough with composure and civility. Harry rode on the wave of tension, high, and pushed Malfoy some more against the wall, hard enough to bruise. It wasn’t as if Malfoy wasn’t used to being pushed around. It wasn’t as if Malfoy didn’t want it.
Malfoy flinched, then swore and bucked his hips, and Harry abandoned his mouth and bit down on his neck, certain to leave more bruises on Malfoy’s pale skin. Malfoy exposed his throat, like captured prey begging for mercy. And wasn’t that exactly what he had been reduced to?
Harry shoved the thought aside; he didn’t want to pity Malfoy, not now. Not with Malfoy writhing before him, left and right along the wall, his head undulating like a snake’s. It was a bewitching sight, and Harry complied with the seduction.
Their mouths clashed together once more; Malfoy moaned into Harry’s mouth and then, Harry felt Malfoy’s hand sneak down towards his crotch.
“No, you don’t!” He snatched the hand away and pinned it against the wall over Malfoy’s head in a firm grip. His other hand found Malfoy’s second hand and he secured it, too, uniting both of Malfoy’s hands in one of his own. His free hand roamed Malfoy’s body, rubbing his nipples under his shirt and feeling the ripple of Malfoy’s skin under his fingertips. Harry gripped him hard above the hip, while Malfoy muttered a stream of obscenities into his ear.
“Don’t go soft on me, Potter,” Malfoy said again, as if he feared that Harry would stop any time.
Harry had no intention of stopping. He ground Malfoy even harder into the wall, rutting against him.
Malfoy moaned at the impact and clung back, his hips jerking in a desperate dance against Harry’s. “M- m- going to-“ Malfoy panted, and then he bucked once more, his hands slipping free from Harry’s grip and-
Harry slammed Malfoy back into the wall and felt his own orgasm wash over him.
The first sensation that came back was the taste of blood in Harry’s mouth. Spent and panting, he stepped away from Malfoy. He took his time to watch Malfoy come to his senses.
Malfoy’s shirt was rumpled and pulled out of his pants, his tie was askew and his lips wore the colour of bruised red. He looked utterly dishevelled. A corner of his lip twitched upwards and his eyes shone brightly.
“Feeling all powerful and good now, Potter?”
Harry felt laughter bubbling up inside of him and let it free. “Pot and kettle, Malfoy. Don’t you think so?” And he left Malfoy leaning against the wall, while he walked away with a grin on his face and a dearly missed lightness in his step.
Mind the Gaps
Nothing had been solved. Potter’s offer still stood between them, even though their strange encounter had released some of the tension in Draco’s bones. Who would have thought that that was all it took to gain a night of sleep, undisturbed by nightmares? Draco had to admit that getting off with somebody else had so much more potential than a lonely wank in the showers. The last days had seen no repetition of their mutual activity, and Draco was inclined to assume that the encounter had been a one-timer.
Not that he minded. He still stood firm in his belief that they were on different sides. Neither of them could afford going soft on the other. If Draco allowed himself to care for one person on the other side, he would have a conflict far larger to solve than he wanted to handle. Best to keep things as they were.
If only Potter would have acted accordingly.
He still kept glancing at Draco, and he appeared every now and then between classes, trying to lure Draco into a conversation. It might have been better than staring at the blank wall in the seventh floor’s corridor, but Draco didn’t want to take the risk.
Potter, on the other hand, felt no such restrictions.
“You want to go upstairs, don’t you?”
Going upstairs had become their word for Draco sneaking away to linger around on the seventh floor, wishing that the wall would finally show him the much needed door.
“I still want to know why you need to go there so badly.”
Aside from It can become a nice and quiet little bathroom, if you get my meaning, there was nothing Draco could say to Potter, so he stayed silent.
“There’s no way to convince you to come over to our side, is there?”
“No.” Draco didn’t know why he even bothered talking. Potter, stupid, stubborn Potter, who kissed just as stubbornly as he did everything else in life, would pester him all day long and never get it. “Why don’t you stop it, Potter?”
“Because I can’t see how you’re going to make it on their side. You aren’t tough enough.”
Draco was too tired to snarl. June had come; he was running out of time. What else could he do?
“I might not be tough enough, but I have no other choice.”
“It’s about Voldemort, isn’t it?”
Draco flinched, and then shrugged. Did Potter really believe that he would answer questions so blunt?
“I could- If you would- I don’t know-“
“What?” snapped Draco. Potter’s stuttering was getting on his nerves.
“I could- you know ... help you.”
“Bloody unlikely. How so?”
“If you tell me- if you tell me what it’s all about- I could-“
“Would you open the door for me?” Draco interrupted the stumble of Potter’s words. “Would you do that for me?”
Potter didn’t answer immediately. “I could.”
“Only if I tell you ... what it’s all about, though?”
Potter nodded. “I could do that ... If you still don’t want to go to Dumbledore.”
Draco shook his head. “He mustn’t know. You have to promise me that.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“He could use Legilimency on me to find out more. I can’t have that.”
Dumbledore, indeed, could not hear about Draco’s assignment. And Potter mustn’t know, either. So what in the name of Trelawney’s old tea-leaves was Draco going to tell Potter in a minute?
“Okay. So, tell me.”
“Let’s go up there, first. Then I tell you, and you can open the Room for me.”
They walked in silence. For the first time, the way wasn’t nearly long enough.
Potter couldn’t contain his impatience. “What are you doing inside that Room? What does it become for you?”
Draco could almost hear his father’s voice inside his head. Careful now, Draco. Careful.
“I call it the Room of Hidden Things.”
Don’t tell more than you need to. Let him come to his own conclusions.
“You’re hiding something, of course.”
Draco nodded. He could do this. He could tell Potter what he needed to know, make him believe. He would think about the consequences later.
“I need to repair something for- for the protection of my family.”
“Your family?”
“He has my parents. Don’t you see? There is no other way. He will kill my mother if I don’t succeed.”
Potter shuddered and Draco thought of the stories he had heard, about Potter’s mother dying for him. Draco’s mother would not have to die for Draco.
“This is only for your family’s sake? You won’t use whatever you do against our side?”
“Only for my family’s sake,” Draco whispered. There it was: the veiled lie. This was the worst. Best repeat it, wrapped up in truth, to carve it deeper. “To protect my mother. To keep her safe.”
Potter looked at him, his eyes burning green with good intentions. Brave, upright, good-doing Harry Potter. Draco cursed the spell that had thrown them together, that had made them- whatever they were, standing here together rather like two allies than enemies. With one ready to betray the other. Traitor - Vince’s words echoed back at Draco. He was a traitor, first betraying the trust of his house, and now betraying the trust of Potter.
“I don’t trust you,” Potter said into Draco’s thoughts. “But you’re not the enemy, either. You’ve got to keep your mother safe. It’s for her. But promise me you’ll use it only for that, for her safety.”
Draco nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t sure if he could utter another single word.
Potter turned away from him and faced the wall. “This is insane,” he murmured, more to himself than to Draco, who felt the urge to nod and scream, Yes, Potter, you dumbass, it is! Of course, Draco did no such thing and Potter started to pace the wall with “We need the Room of Hidden Things for Draco Malfoy. Please show us the Room of Hidden Things you become for Draco Malfoy.”
When the door appeared in the wall, Draco could have wept with relief.
Potter stepped aside to let Draco through and looked at him expectantly.
“I owe you, Potter.”
“You do what you need to, Malfoy.”
Draco took a deep breath, stepped through the door and pulled it shut, leaving Potter standing outside.
***
The end of their arrangement came two days later in Charms. When Draco opened his mouth to answer one of Flitwick’s questions, the tiny Professor immediately shook his head and declared Draco’s answer lacking certain details. It was only Potter’s sharp intake of breath that made him hesitate.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Potter?”
“Malfoy!” Potter exclaimed. “Professor, you understood what he said. The hex has worn off.”
Flitwick clapped his hands. “Yes, indeed! I didn’t realise. Well, this is certainly good news. We do not need any special seating arrangements for the two of you any longer, I believe.”
The translation job was done. They were free to go their separate ways again. Draco could go back to the Room of Hidden Things after class without asking Potter for help, and Potter could go and do- well whatever Potter did these days when he wasn’t trailing Draco.
Draco should have felt elated. But he only felt tired and slightly heavy-hearted. He would also have to deal with Blaise and the others for their treatment of his person. But this was secondary to repairing the Cabinet. Once the job was done and he had the Dark Lord’s appraisal, dealing with insubordinate class-mates would be a walk in the park.
When the bell rang, Draco immediately started to pack his bag. Beside him, Potter remained uncharacteristically still.
“What’s up with you?” asked Draco.
“Harry, come on! We can grab a bite and then go outside to catch a bit of sun,” boomed the Weasel’s voice across the classroom.
“Yeah, Potter, go on. Your little friend is calling!”
“Shut up, Malfoy!” Potter snapped. “I’m coming, Ron!” he called over his shoulder. “Wait for me outside, all right?”
The Weasel reluctantly retreated, and Draco smirked at the look on his face. He turned towards Potter. “So, what do you want, now that your job’s done?”
Potter shrugged. “I really don’t know.” He rolled his shoulders as if preparing himself to throw a Quaffle. Then he thrust his hand towards Draco. “Here. Good luck.”
Draco blinked at him. “You’re ... wishing me good luck?”
“Obviously. You git.”
Draco took Potter’s hand and shook it, just once. “Thanks. Idiot.”
They parted.
The castle walls didn’t give so much as a rumble.
‘Epilogue’ Doesn’t Mean ‘The End’
Harry’s eyes were smarting. The last days had been a blur. Malfoy had repaired the Vanishing Cabinet - Harry knew now why Malfoy had needed to get into the Room so desperately. Dumbledore - it still hurt to even think his name - had ignored Harry’s warning and had swept him away towards that cave instead. Meanwhile, Malfoy had led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts in spite of what he had promised to Harry. And then, on the Tower, Malfoy had tried and not been able to kill Harry’s beloved mentor. But Snape - he hadn’t so much as hesitated.
The lump in Harry’s throat was too large to swallow and made breakfast almost impossible, but the hate that burned in his stomach kept him going. Harry glanced around, at the worried faces at the Gryffindor table and around the Great Hall.
Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy between them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten Malfoy’s voice on that Tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have killed Dumbledore. He despised Malfoy still for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now and what was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?
He didn’t know. And his days of talking with Malfoy were over. Next time they met, they would be on different sides of the war, like Malfoy had predicted. Maybe they would raise their wands against each other, like on that day in Myrtle’s bathroom. All Harry knew was that Malfoy still owed him. Strangely enough, Malfoy’s betrayal didn’t sting. And besides - like Dumbledore had once said whilst they’d been talking about Wormtail - one day it might even play to Harry’s advantage.
The End
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Summary: What if Harry used a different curse on Malfoy, back in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? The Prince’s book was full of spells, and this time, Harry simply picked another spell. Again, he had no idea what it would do.
Comments and concrit are love!
Practical Exercises
Reaching the Slytherin dungeons at night after another lonely watch in front of the Room, Draco realised that he had missed the other boys going into their common room. In the hope that he was too early, he settled to wait for them. When neither Vince or Greg, nor Blaise or Theo turned up in the next hour, it became clear that they must have passed the entrance before Draco. This meant that Draco was condemned to wait some more or, probably, spend the night in the corridor.
Damn! Draco couldn’t believe his bad luck. He needed someone’s help to get inside; just like the wall on the seventh floor the entrance to the dungeons couldn’t understand his hissing. But none of his friends had bothered waiting or coming back for him, not even Pansy. He had got used to the rising tempers of Vince and Greg, to their refusal to stand guard for him - not that he needed them there right now. But he needed them here in front of the Slytherin rooms. The feeling of helplessness welled up in Draco like a Hippogriff’s attack - it hurt. “I’m fucked,” he whispered to himself.
Draco slid down the wall, sat on the cold stone floor and resigned himself to a night outside. If his shoulders shook ever so slightly, who was there to notice?
“Malfoy, wake up!”
Draco felt a hand shaking him roughly and opened his tired eyes, squinting at the person who crouched beside him: Potter.
“Let go of me!”
Potter snatched his hand away as if burned. Draco felt the lingering warmth on his shoulder and realised only then how cold the rest of his body felt. Why on earth did it have to be Potter, and what was he doing in their part of the castle?
“What do you want from me?”
“Why are you sitting in the corridor?”
“How did you find me?”
“Can’t you just-“
“Just-“
“-answer my question!” they both finished in unison and sat looking at each other expectantly.
Potter took charge again. “You first! Why aren’t you inside?”
Draco fought with himself. The words I missed my friends raced to the tip of his tongue, but they were closely followed by And they didn’t bother to look for me. It sounded too pathetic to bear. The lame excuse I like it here wouldn’t do either. He shrugged.
But Potter didn’t need his explanation. “Of course ... you can’t get inside on your own. And the others ...” His voice trailed of and the rest of his conclusion was mercifully left unsaid.
He studied Draco, and, from the look on Potter’s face, Draco could easily deduce how miserable a sight he must be. Pathetic enough for Potter the good-doer not to rise to the occasion of riling Draco. Draco felt anger well up inside his chest. Potter, always willing to be merciful. Draco hated him, hated Potter for being generous and honourable and having friends that stuck by him, and himself for being a coward, cowering in front of the one person who could destroy his family forever, a useless boy not able to repair a magical device and stupid enough to get himself hexed. Hexed by Potter. And Draco’s hate for Potter grew beyond measure - Potter, who in spite of being a pathetic, merciful excuse of a hero, had also used an unknown hex on Draco with disastrous results. He was the reason why Draco had ended on the floor in front of his own dormitories, freezing cold and unable to get inside on his own. He was the reason why Draco couldn’t fulfil his assignment. He would be the reason for any damage to Draco’s family.
“You,” snarled Draco, leaping to his feet, “you did all this. I hate you!” And he directed a punch right at Potter’s face.
Potter, the stupid plebe, obviously solved all his problems with fists and brawls because he blocked Draco’s fist with the ease of someone who was in control. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s useless.”
Potter was right, Draco knew. He threw another punch at Potter nevertheless. He was beyond caring.
Potter blocked him again, did some unexpected twirl and locked Draco in a tight grip. Draco struggled to escape and threw more badly aimed punches at Potter, determined to fight him tooth and nail. But Potter simply tightened his grip and Draco felt Potter’s lips at his ear, Potter’s hot breath whispering to him.
“Don’t fight. You can’t win.”
And then Potter started laughing. He laughed so hard that Draco felt his whole body shaking, but he didn’t ease his grip, never, until Draco went limp in his arms not only with the bone-shuttering realisation that Potter was right and that he, Draco, couldn’t, but that also his parents would ... They would ... suffer from his ... incapability.
“I can’t win.”
“You can’t.”
And Draco was fighting again, but not to hit, only to get away, because his eyes were burning from the lack of sleep. Or so he had to assume, because anything else would prove Potter to be even more right and more in control, while Draco was the one who struggled to remain on his feet in the middle of a downpour of events.
He then realised that Potter had started whispering again.
“... let you go, will you listen?”
Draco nodded frantically. Anything. Anything to get away from Potter and his damn attentiveness.
Potter slowly released his arms and Draco forced himself not to bolt. He didn’t trust his voice not to quaver, so his simply stepped away from Potter and tried to flatten his ruffled hair.
“You know,” Potter started carefully, “I could let you in. You only have to give me-“
“The password. As if.” Draco’s indignation overran his need for dignity.
“I wouldn’t tell. I swear it.”
“Why?”
Potter shrugged. “Don’t know. Must be stupid.”
“No, I mean, why were you here in the first place? Why did you look for me?”
“I knew you were here, and I wondered why you stayed such a long time outside your dormitories. I thought, that maybe-” Potter hesitated “-maybe you needed help.”
Draco was lost. He couldn’t even find the words to mock such reasoning.
“Do you trust me?” Potter eyed him openly.
Draco shrugged. Potter was reliable, in a very peculiar sort of way. He would always do what he thought was right, no matter the consequences. Draco had seen Potter plunge headfirst into the biggest mess without a second thought when there was someone to be saved. Potter didn’t plan; he acted on mere instinct most of the time. Granger - she was a completely different matter. But Granger wasn’t offering. This was Potter whose offer Draco had to consider. If Potter believed that Draco trusted him, maybe Draco could use Potter’s trust to his own advantage. And besides, right now, Draco wanted to stop feeling cold and miserable more than anything else in the world. To feel the relief of sleep for at least a few hours before his thoughts would resume their ceaseless wandering.
“Yes, I trust you.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “The password is ‘Phineas Nigelus’.”
Potter nodded, slowly, then turned and repeated the word, addressing the black stone wall. The shimmering stones shifted, leaving an archway for Draco to pass through.
With his sanctuary so close, Draco felt exhaustion take over. He quickly turned towards Potter.
“Thank you.”
Potter nodded again. “You’re welcome. Try to get some sleep - you look like death warmed over.” Then he walked away.
***
Waking up the next morning, Draco felt rested for the first time in weeks. He took his time in the bathroom, grooming, and finished with smiling to himself in the mirror. The common room was deserted, everybody already up in the Great Hall for breakfast. Suddenly, Draco found himself surrounded by Theo, Blaise, Greg and Vince. Not sure why, he felt a flash of wariness. Blaise had grown more impudent lately, demanding what he certainly felt was his rightful position as number one in their year, with Draco being occupied and unable to express himself.
“How did you manage to get back into our dungeons?” Blaise’s voice sounded casual, but he didn’t smile and kept his eyes fixed on Draco.
Oh shit! He hadn’t thought of that! Of course, they must have wondered how he made it through the entrance. He could have told them a thousand lies, but his tongue was still useless, providing Blaise with another opportunity to try to bring him low. Shit, shit, shit!
“Get him!” That was Theo’s voice. Theo, who always kept to himself. Theo, whom Draco had always thought to be cleverer than the rest of them.
Draco felt his arms pinned behind his back. It was useless to fight Greg’s grip and so he forced himself to stand still. What little happiness he had felt minutes ago had left him completely.
Theo and Blaise had their wands drawn.
“We know you can’t manage the password, Draco,” Blaise said. His eyes were hard. “We also know how you did it, because there’s really only one person who you can talk to these days.”
With a sideward glance, he stepped away from Draco.
“Traitor.” Vince hit Draco in the stomach. Just once - he was still a member of their House, after all - but it was enough to drive the air from his lungs and have him double over in Greg’s clutch.
“What,” came a sharp voice from the girl’s dormitories, “is the meaning of this?” Pansy. She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, her brows drawn together. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Do you know how he passed the entrance? When we went to bed, he wasn’t in our dormitory and we were the last to leave the common room. But this morning, there he was, in his own bed, sleeping peacefully.”
“So?”
“He must have told Potter the password.”
“Must he have?” Her voice was cold and calculating. “And if I helped him inside? Did that thought ever occur to your flea-sized brains?”
Theo took a step towards Pansy, eyeing her closely. “So, did you help him inside, Pansy? Have you taken up the habit of sleepwalking recently?”
“Stop your theatrics, Nott. Unlike you, I’m loyal to my friends. So when I came into the common room long after midnight, because I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake my room-mates, and I saw that Draco’s token wasn’t there, I opened the door and found him waiting in front of the portrait.”
“Draco’s token?”
Pansy’s face contorted into a haughty sneer. “Yes, Nott. His token. We decided that he should use a token to indicate when he’s inside, so that if the token was missing, I would know.”
“As if you were talking to each other. He shunned you just like the rest of us.”
“We do. We made up days ago. You’re just too slow to notice.”
Pansy, queen of the ball, actually smiled. If Theo knew what was good for him, Draco thought, he would tread carefully from here on. No one insulted Pansy about her social status.
Theo pursed his lips and back-paddled to safer territory. “And that token would be?”
“One of his white peacock quills. They’re hard to miss.”
“Pillock quills, I see. Do you still have it, Pansy?”
Pansy didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Of course not, pillock. I handed it back to Draco this morning, while you four were busy plotting your little ruse.”
“So you can’t prove that your tale’s actually true.” That was Blaise taking charge again.
“I don’t need to. I don’t even have to defend him. This is Draco we’re talking about. He’s been loyal to Slytherin even before he was Sorted. He would’ve told you where to stuff your lies, if he hadn’t been hexed. So you just shut up. And Greg, he was your friend from first year on, even someone with a head as thick as yours should remember that. Release Draco this instant.”
Pansy’s unfaltering determination did the trick. Greg, his ears red, stepped away from Draco, while she quickly walked to his side. She didn’t speak again until the four boys had left the common room.
Draco wanted to thank her, but all she would be able to hear was another hiss. He stared into her eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Unsure what to make of her intervention, he lifted his hand.
Pansy took it without hesitation. “It’s okay, Draco. You have your reasons for ... for what you did. Even though you’ll never tell me, I trust you to be loyal. And we really should have thought about that quill before.” She smiled at him, neither in triumph nor in seduction, but with an air of gentle conspiracy. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, pointing to his ruffled looks. “I’m not going to let you ruin your reputation by looking like something the cat dragged in.”
And in spite of still being at his wits end, Draco heard himself laugh as she pulled him towards the bathrooms.
***
Meeting Potter at the Slytherin table was awkward, especially with Blaise keeping a close look on them for any signs of them getting along. Thankfully, Potter wasn’t a morning person and didn’t notice half of the glares Blaise sent towards him. On the other hand, maybe Potter was too used to Slytherin glares. And Blaise refrained from questioning Potter. Maybe Draco still had the upper hand in the dungeons.
Of course Potter, being the goodie-two-shoes he was, couldn’t stop himself from questioning Draco after class. It was probably a compulsive streak.
“How are you?” Potter sounded almost hesitant, as if not sure whether he truly wanted to know Draco’s answer to such a personal question.
“What do you care? Haven’t had enough of sticking your nose into my life already?”
“I just thought about what your house-mates would do when they found out. Zabini kept throwing strange looks at us this morning.”
Damn Potter and his saviour’s complex! “What do you think they would do? Kill me? Because that’s all Slytherins are capable of?”
“No.” Potter’s voice was calm. He looked tired, looked like he didn’t seem to get much sleep lately. “I simply saw your wrists. You didn’t have those bruises on you yesterday.”
Draco swore. “Listen, Potter. I’m not your next innocent lamb to save, do you understand me? I can take care of myself.”
Potter shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
But being Potter, he couldn’t let the issue go. He didn’t address it openly, oh no. He kept throwing sideward glances at Draco, worried looks he must have learned from that ever-breeding mother of all Weasels. It was after their final Potions lesson in the afternoon, when everybody had left the classroom and Potter still watched him like Draco was something that threatened to either break down or explode any minute, that Draco cracked.
“What is it, Potter?”
Potter gave him a wide-eyed look that said I don’t know what you mean. It failed to work its charm on Draco.
“You kept me under a close watch all day. Trying to count my freckles? Surely you’ve noticed by now that I have none. Go and count the Weasel’s!”
Potter had the nerve to laugh. “You’re such a drama queen, Malfoy. What exactly are you trying to prove? You’re at your wits end, anyone can see that. All I want is to offer help.”
The ignorance of Potter’s statement almost drove Draco up the wall. “Offer your help? With what, exactly?! We’re on different sides in this game, if you haven’t noticed.”
“We are.” Potter grew severe. “But my offer still stands.”
“Not from you!” Draco spat the words, furious with himself for allowing this kind of conversation, and even more furious with Potter for tempting him with the idea of sanctuary, of a way to escape. Potter, who implied that all Draco had to do was to re-think his options. But there were no options. Potter couldn’t help Draco; he didn’t have the power to stop the inevitable from happening, should Draco fail. Draco would- but no, he couldn’t, he mustn’t fail. And Potter, in whose world every evil found its deadly fate, in whose world you stood up to fight instead of kneeling down and kissing the hem of a madman’s robes - Potter stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Draco and waiting for an answer he would never get.
Draco hated Potter even more, for all he was and stood for. And for the fact that, being all he was, he couldn’t offer safety. There was no way to beat Potter in a fist-fight, and drawing his wand was a bad idea, too. But Draco had to attack anyhow, and irrational was the rule of the hour, so he leaped forward, letting his body carry all the weight of the punch.
It didn’t help him, because Potter stepped aside, and within seconds he was behind Draco, who stumbled and staggered until the nearest wall broke his path. Too riled up, Draco didn’t even feel pain from the impact and wheeled around to face his opponent. Potter laughed again and dug his fist into Draco’s robes, yanking hard enough to disturb Draco’s unsteady whirl even more. While Draco fought to remain on his feet, Potter drove him against the wall.
“You,” Potter said, “are mad, like a rabid dog.”
Draco snarled and struggled, but he had never been good enough at physical fights. Now he clearly remembered the incident on the Quidditch field in their fifth year, when Potter had punched him squarely in the face. Like then, Potter’s face loomed huge above Draco, close enough for Draco to see the tiny pearls of sweat above Potter’s upper lip. Any moment now, Potter would strike again, make Draco hurt. And Draco found that strangely, he wanted Potter to beat him up. It would be the good old black-and-white kind of pain, the one that hurt your body from the outside. Not the one that resulted from sleepless nights and stomach cramps, from veiled letter’s from mother and scary meetings with his aunt. Draco found himself welcoming the kind of pain Potter would bring. And he brought his face just a tiny fraction nearer towards Potter, lest Potter would refuse him in the last moment.
***
Harry had stood, watching Malfoy closely for a change of mind. He looked so desperate, so much on the edge, that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to get called a liar to his face. In the middle of them staring at each other and the air singing with tension, Malfoy had attacked him with a punch thrown so badly that Harry couldn’t help laughing. Malfoy fought on, even when Harry had pinned him against the nearest wall. Even when it was evident that he had no chance. It would have been a relief to beat some sense into the ignorant sod. But all of a sudden, Malfoy lifted his chin, almost like an invitation.
Their lips brushed.
And then, Malfoy buried his teeth into Harry’s lower lip. It hurt.
Pulling back was no option, and so Harry moved forward, driving the frame of his glasses right into Malfoy’s face. Malfoy opened his mouth, freeing Harry’s lip.
Harry wouldn’t exactly call it a kiss.
It was violent and harsh, with their teeth clacking together and Malfoy almost gnawing his way into Harry’s mouth. It was desperate and frantic, full of anger and spittle, with Malfoy snarling and cursing and deepening the motion all at the same time. It was everything kissing Ginny wasn’t. There was no tenderness, no playful nipping, no hand-holding and no embrace. Instead, they fought and hissed like angry cats, and Harry felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He had goose-bumps on his arms and found himself answering back; his arms came up in an effort to still Malfoy, to calm him down, to soothe him.
Malfoy broke off. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare go soft on me!”
He attacked again, and this time, Harry responded full force. This was what Malfoy needed, what both of them needed. Enough with carefully beating around the bush, enough with composure and civility. Harry rode on the wave of tension, high, and pushed Malfoy some more against the wall, hard enough to bruise. It wasn’t as if Malfoy wasn’t used to being pushed around. It wasn’t as if Malfoy didn’t want it.
Malfoy flinched, then swore and bucked his hips, and Harry abandoned his mouth and bit down on his neck, certain to leave more bruises on Malfoy’s pale skin. Malfoy exposed his throat, like captured prey begging for mercy. And wasn’t that exactly what he had been reduced to?
Harry shoved the thought aside; he didn’t want to pity Malfoy, not now. Not with Malfoy writhing before him, left and right along the wall, his head undulating like a snake’s. It was a bewitching sight, and Harry complied with the seduction.
Their mouths clashed together once more; Malfoy moaned into Harry’s mouth and then, Harry felt Malfoy’s hand sneak down towards his crotch.
“No, you don’t!” He snatched the hand away and pinned it against the wall over Malfoy’s head in a firm grip. His other hand found Malfoy’s second hand and he secured it, too, uniting both of Malfoy’s hands in one of his own. His free hand roamed Malfoy’s body, rubbing his nipples under his shirt and feeling the ripple of Malfoy’s skin under his fingertips. Harry gripped him hard above the hip, while Malfoy muttered a stream of obscenities into his ear.
“Don’t go soft on me, Potter,” Malfoy said again, as if he feared that Harry would stop any time.
Harry had no intention of stopping. He ground Malfoy even harder into the wall, rutting against him.
Malfoy moaned at the impact and clung back, his hips jerking in a desperate dance against Harry’s. “M- m- going to-“ Malfoy panted, and then he bucked once more, his hands slipping free from Harry’s grip and-
Harry slammed Malfoy back into the wall and felt his own orgasm wash over him.
The first sensation that came back was the taste of blood in Harry’s mouth. Spent and panting, he stepped away from Malfoy. He took his time to watch Malfoy come to his senses.
Malfoy’s shirt was rumpled and pulled out of his pants, his tie was askew and his lips wore the colour of bruised red. He looked utterly dishevelled. A corner of his lip twitched upwards and his eyes shone brightly.
“Feeling all powerful and good now, Potter?”
Harry felt laughter bubbling up inside of him and let it free. “Pot and kettle, Malfoy. Don’t you think so?” And he left Malfoy leaning against the wall, while he walked away with a grin on his face and a dearly missed lightness in his step.
Mind the Gaps
Nothing had been solved. Potter’s offer still stood between them, even though their strange encounter had released some of the tension in Draco’s bones. Who would have thought that that was all it took to gain a night of sleep, undisturbed by nightmares? Draco had to admit that getting off with somebody else had so much more potential than a lonely wank in the showers. The last days had seen no repetition of their mutual activity, and Draco was inclined to assume that the encounter had been a one-timer.
Not that he minded. He still stood firm in his belief that they were on different sides. Neither of them could afford going soft on the other. If Draco allowed himself to care for one person on the other side, he would have a conflict far larger to solve than he wanted to handle. Best to keep things as they were.
If only Potter would have acted accordingly.
He still kept glancing at Draco, and he appeared every now and then between classes, trying to lure Draco into a conversation. It might have been better than staring at the blank wall in the seventh floor’s corridor, but Draco didn’t want to take the risk.
Potter, on the other hand, felt no such restrictions.
“You want to go upstairs, don’t you?”
Going upstairs had become their word for Draco sneaking away to linger around on the seventh floor, wishing that the wall would finally show him the much needed door.
“I still want to know why you need to go there so badly.”
Aside from It can become a nice and quiet little bathroom, if you get my meaning, there was nothing Draco could say to Potter, so he stayed silent.
“There’s no way to convince you to come over to our side, is there?”
“No.” Draco didn’t know why he even bothered talking. Potter, stupid, stubborn Potter, who kissed just as stubbornly as he did everything else in life, would pester him all day long and never get it. “Why don’t you stop it, Potter?”
“Because I can’t see how you’re going to make it on their side. You aren’t tough enough.”
Draco was too tired to snarl. June had come; he was running out of time. What else could he do?
“I might not be tough enough, but I have no other choice.”
“It’s about Voldemort, isn’t it?”
Draco flinched, and then shrugged. Did Potter really believe that he would answer questions so blunt?
“I could- If you would- I don’t know-“
“What?” snapped Draco. Potter’s stuttering was getting on his nerves.
“I could- you know ... help you.”
“Bloody unlikely. How so?”
“If you tell me- if you tell me what it’s all about- I could-“
“Would you open the door for me?” Draco interrupted the stumble of Potter’s words. “Would you do that for me?”
Potter didn’t answer immediately. “I could.”
“Only if I tell you ... what it’s all about, though?”
Potter nodded. “I could do that ... If you still don’t want to go to Dumbledore.”
Draco shook his head. “He mustn’t know. You have to promise me that.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“He could use Legilimency on me to find out more. I can’t have that.”
Dumbledore, indeed, could not hear about Draco’s assignment. And Potter mustn’t know, either. So what in the name of Trelawney’s old tea-leaves was Draco going to tell Potter in a minute?
“Okay. So, tell me.”
“Let’s go up there, first. Then I tell you, and you can open the Room for me.”
They walked in silence. For the first time, the way wasn’t nearly long enough.
Potter couldn’t contain his impatience. “What are you doing inside that Room? What does it become for you?”
Draco could almost hear his father’s voice inside his head. Careful now, Draco. Careful.
“I call it the Room of Hidden Things.”
Don’t tell more than you need to. Let him come to his own conclusions.
“You’re hiding something, of course.”
Draco nodded. He could do this. He could tell Potter what he needed to know, make him believe. He would think about the consequences later.
“I need to repair something for- for the protection of my family.”
“Your family?”
“He has my parents. Don’t you see? There is no other way. He will kill my mother if I don’t succeed.”
Potter shuddered and Draco thought of the stories he had heard, about Potter’s mother dying for him. Draco’s mother would not have to die for Draco.
“This is only for your family’s sake? You won’t use whatever you do against our side?”
“Only for my family’s sake,” Draco whispered. There it was: the veiled lie. This was the worst. Best repeat it, wrapped up in truth, to carve it deeper. “To protect my mother. To keep her safe.”
Potter looked at him, his eyes burning green with good intentions. Brave, upright, good-doing Harry Potter. Draco cursed the spell that had thrown them together, that had made them- whatever they were, standing here together rather like two allies than enemies. With one ready to betray the other. Traitor - Vince’s words echoed back at Draco. He was a traitor, first betraying the trust of his house, and now betraying the trust of Potter.
“I don’t trust you,” Potter said into Draco’s thoughts. “But you’re not the enemy, either. You’ve got to keep your mother safe. It’s for her. But promise me you’ll use it only for that, for her safety.”
Draco nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t sure if he could utter another single word.
Potter turned away from him and faced the wall. “This is insane,” he murmured, more to himself than to Draco, who felt the urge to nod and scream, Yes, Potter, you dumbass, it is! Of course, Draco did no such thing and Potter started to pace the wall with “We need the Room of Hidden Things for Draco Malfoy. Please show us the Room of Hidden Things you become for Draco Malfoy.”
When the door appeared in the wall, Draco could have wept with relief.
Potter stepped aside to let Draco through and looked at him expectantly.
“I owe you, Potter.”
“You do what you need to, Malfoy.”
Draco took a deep breath, stepped through the door and pulled it shut, leaving Potter standing outside.
***
The end of their arrangement came two days later in Charms. When Draco opened his mouth to answer one of Flitwick’s questions, the tiny Professor immediately shook his head and declared Draco’s answer lacking certain details. It was only Potter’s sharp intake of breath that made him hesitate.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Potter?”
“Malfoy!” Potter exclaimed. “Professor, you understood what he said. The hex has worn off.”
Flitwick clapped his hands. “Yes, indeed! I didn’t realise. Well, this is certainly good news. We do not need any special seating arrangements for the two of you any longer, I believe.”
The translation job was done. They were free to go their separate ways again. Draco could go back to the Room of Hidden Things after class without asking Potter for help, and Potter could go and do- well whatever Potter did these days when he wasn’t trailing Draco.
Draco should have felt elated. But he only felt tired and slightly heavy-hearted. He would also have to deal with Blaise and the others for their treatment of his person. But this was secondary to repairing the Cabinet. Once the job was done and he had the Dark Lord’s appraisal, dealing with insubordinate class-mates would be a walk in the park.
When the bell rang, Draco immediately started to pack his bag. Beside him, Potter remained uncharacteristically still.
“What’s up with you?” asked Draco.
“Harry, come on! We can grab a bite and then go outside to catch a bit of sun,” boomed the Weasel’s voice across the classroom.
“Yeah, Potter, go on. Your little friend is calling!”
“Shut up, Malfoy!” Potter snapped. “I’m coming, Ron!” he called over his shoulder. “Wait for me outside, all right?”
The Weasel reluctantly retreated, and Draco smirked at the look on his face. He turned towards Potter. “So, what do you want, now that your job’s done?”
Potter shrugged. “I really don’t know.” He rolled his shoulders as if preparing himself to throw a Quaffle. Then he thrust his hand towards Draco. “Here. Good luck.”
Draco blinked at him. “You’re ... wishing me good luck?”
“Obviously. You git.”
Draco took Potter’s hand and shook it, just once. “Thanks. Idiot.”
They parted.
The castle walls didn’t give so much as a rumble.
‘Epilogue’ Doesn’t Mean ‘The End’
Harry’s eyes were smarting. The last days had been a blur. Malfoy had repaired the Vanishing Cabinet - Harry knew now why Malfoy had needed to get into the Room so desperately. Dumbledore - it still hurt to even think his name - had ignored Harry’s warning and had swept him away towards that cave instead. Meanwhile, Malfoy had led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts in spite of what he had promised to Harry. And then, on the Tower, Malfoy had tried and not been able to kill Harry’s beloved mentor. But Snape - he hadn’t so much as hesitated.
The lump in Harry’s throat was too large to swallow and made breakfast almost impossible, but the hate that burned in his stomach kept him going. Harry glanced around, at the worried faces at the Gryffindor table and around the Great Hall.
Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy between them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten Malfoy’s voice on that Tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have killed Dumbledore. He despised Malfoy still for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now and what was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?
He didn’t know. And his days of talking with Malfoy were over. Next time they met, they would be on different sides of the war, like Malfoy had predicted. Maybe they would raise their wands against each other, like on that day in Myrtle’s bathroom. All Harry knew was that Malfoy still owed him. Strangely enough, Malfoy’s betrayal didn’t sting. And besides - like Dumbledore had once said whilst they’d been talking about Wormtail - one day it might even play to Harry’s advantage.
The End