the story that ate my brain
Title: "Written"
Author: ZS
Rating: PG-13, gen
Words: ~5,550
Disclaimer: Harry Potter & its characters do not belong to me; no copyright infringement is intended.
Note #1: Thanks to kaalee and luzmaria8, for their support and encouragement. <3.
Note #2: Edited about a bazillion times... Now with Added Geographical Plausibility!
Summary: Draco, Year Six
Draco found it on the ground just after Divination class: a grubby, print-smeared envelope. Draco wouldn't have given it a second look had it not been for the name on the envelope, one that never failed to grab his attention:
Mr. Harry Potter.
He pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it.
Dear Harry, it began. Sorry to state the obvious, but if you're reading this, I'm dead. Ow, Remus, quit kicking me-look what you made me write-
Straightening up from a crouch and glancing around, Draco pocketed the letter and walked on to his next class.
After five years, Potter was still the perfect distraction. Instead of listening to Snape discuss herbal infusions-Draco already knew all he wanted to know on the subject-he sat in class and read Potter's entire letter. That entire time, he didn't think once about his father, or the letter that had arrived at Malfoy Manor during the summer with the official seal from the Ministry of Magic, addressed to Whom It May Concern.
Fucking bastards.
The Dementors had left Azkaban, but that hadn't stopped the paperwork, hadn't stopped Ministry orders of execution, only the means. Poison hemlock, oral ingestion. Death would occur within minutes. Draco knew; he had looked it up. Some were calling it ironic. Draco just felt sick.
***
Draco sent Potter a note by owl a few days later after the novelty of watching Potter stay behind after classes to search for his letter had worn off. He watched Potter open it at lunch-it was far more entertaining than trying to keep Goyle from shoveling food onto his plate for him, because he was never hungry anymore, and the mere thought of drinking anything made him want to throw up-and gave Potter a little jaunty wave when Potter glared at him over his pumpkin soup.
"Give me my letter," Potter said, predictably, that night beside the statue of the humpbacked witch. "It doesn't mean anything to you."
"Oh, but it means something to you, doesn't it. I've seen you searching classrooms after hours for it. Discreetly asking your friends if they've seen it."
Draco smiled, only just noticing Potter reaching for his wand.
"Accio-"
Draco batted away the spell with one of his own.
"Nice try," he said. "Too bad it'll do you no good. Did you really think I'd bring it with me tonight?"
"Did you read it?"
"Why would I read your mangy letter?"
"That's not an answer."
Draco snorted. "So? I don't owe you one."
"I know you read my letter. Like you could resist."
"I, unlike you, Potter, have a modicum of self-control."
"Maybe. Not for this. I bet you were physically incapable of not reading it." Potter bit his lip. "What does it say?"
Draco looked up sharply. It took a moment to sink in, the depth of the hold he suddenly had over Potter. He had Potter's undivided attention now. He wondered if Potter knew just how much he'd given away.
Of course, Draco had noticed the dismal condition of the envelope-it had been covered in fingerprints. But the parchment inside had still been crisply folded, and unmarred by a second set of hands.
Draco smiled slowly.
"Throw Saturday's match."
"What?"
"You heard me. Throw the match. Do whatever you have to. I'll consider your request."
Potter opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it.
***
"Visibility was terrible-no wonder she caught the Snitch before you."
"Better luck next time, eh, Harry?"
"Don't blame yourself, Harry. We'll get them next time."
Draco waited outside the change rooms, hands in his pockets, eavesdropping on the excuses that Potter's teammates were creating for him. He was listening so intently that he didn't hear Granger's indignant footsteps until she was nearly on top of him.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Granger said. Her mouth was pinched so tightly that her lips were white around the edges.
"I've come to congratulate Chang on her brilliant match. It's not every day someone beats the great Harry Potter."
"Like you'd know," Granger said smugly.
Draco launched himself away from the wall, anger spiking. He'd taken one step before remembering why he was here, and how much that stupid Mudblood didn't know about her precious Harry Potter.
He settled himself back against the wall, taking his time to get comfortable again, and let an unsettling smile creep across his face. Granger's frown faltered, and she scurried away.
Draco waited a few moments more before he realized that Potter was probably sulking over the loss in solitude. He walked into the change rooms to find Potter slouched on a bench, his hair still damp from the shower.
"Good game," Draco said, and Potter shot him a scowl.
"Are you happy now? Give me my letter."
"I can't believe you're assuming this is over already. I'm just getting started."
Potter threw his uniform into his locker and slammed the door. It was a pitiful sight: Potter getting riled up over something as insignificant as a letter.
"Payback, is it? For what?"
"Let's start with you hexing me on the train last year, shall we, and go on from there?"
"I didn't hex you on the train last year, Malfoy."
"Now you're splitting hairs. It was because of you. And you helped them shove me and Crabbe and Goyle onto the luggage racks."
"Someone could have stepped in your... slime. And slipped." Potter suddenly covered his mouth and coughed. Heat rushed to Draco's face.
"Fine. Laugh. I'll owl you the ashes of your precious letter at breakfast tomorrow."
"You know what? I'm starting to think that you don't have my letter at all. I bet you just heard that I was looking for a letter and you decided to take advantage of the situation."
"I know it's from that convict, Sirius Black."
Potter stopped cold. "You could have heard that from anyone."
"And yet, you're still here, talking to me. It's your decision, Potter, and your own actions that will determine the consequences. What'll it be?"
Potter's hands closed into fists, and he stood there and waited.
***
Draco chose his tasks carefully. He knew that there were some things Potter would refuse to do outright and rather suffer the loss of his letter. He couldn't, for example, tell Potter to harm any of his friends. "Ruin Granger's potion," was too risky, even though the mere idea of it piqued Draco's curiosity. It seemed as though Potter didn't have as much of a dilemma with self-humiliation; that, Potter stomached with a mere glare. "Don't do your homework," was easily achieved, and the disappointed look that McGonagall gave Potter in Transfiguration was even more glorious than the one that Snape skewered him with in Potions.
When an editorial appeared in the Daily Prophet a few days later which speculated freely about the personal lives of the Malfoy family members and suggested that Draco must have been neglected or abused, Draco decided he'd push Potter a little further. That night, when Potter appeared, fresh from having started a minor stampede in Care of Magical Creatures, Draco said, "Wank off in bed. No silencing charms. I want to hear all the juicy conversations at the Gryffindor table tomorrow morning."
"Anyone in particular you want me to think of?" was Potter's snarled reply, accompanied by a rising blush, but the next day, the Gryffindor table was buzzing with whispered speculations. Draco watched Potter's hunched shoulders with a sense of vicious satisfaction.
Later that day, when Draco went to the library to borrow a text for Divination, he spotted Potter without his pathetic sidekicks-something that seemed to be happening more often-and cornered him.
Potter looked like he was wishing a hole would open up underneath him. He shut his Divination homework and sighed.
"What do you want now, Malfoy?"
"You haven't told your friends about this, have you. Why not?"
"Would you rather I give Ron a reason to curse you?"
"Do you tell yourself that they would understand why you're doing these things? Or are you hoping they'll keep thinking you're the noble savior of the world for as long as possible?"
Potter stood up abruptly, clutching his homework to his chest. "I'm leaving."
Draco watched him go, knowing he'd be back.
***
It took two weeks for Potter to have had enough. Draco knew the moment that Potter started banging on the Slytherin dormitory portrait that things were about to change.
"I'm finished with this," Potter said by way of greeting, storming through the Common Room and shouldering past a stunned Vincent and Greg. They raised their wands but Draco shook his head and they shrugged and ambled off, leaving the Common Room empty but for the two of them.
Draco calmly rolled up his Divination homework and gave Potter his best unperturbed expression.
"Finished with what?"
"Don't play stupid, Malfoy. I'm finished playing your stupid game. Tell me what you want, and give me my letter."
"You haven't figured it out? I don't want anything but this. Exactly this. You. Suffering. Miserable. Hating every moment of your pathetic existence. And you're doing a brilliant job so far; keep up the good work."
Potter seethed and stalked closer. He spotted the Daily Prophet on the table with the photograph of Draco's father on the front page and said, "How's your Dad, anyway?" Draco bristled, but kept his mouth shut. "Still enjoying his prison term, I bet. Two, three days till his execution? Maybe we'll throw him a little going away party in your honor."
Draco drew his wand and leapt to his feet. He sent the desk crashing into the corner with a spell so there was nothing between them: no protection, no place to hide.
"I wish your little friends could see you," he said. "The great Harry Potter, resorting to malicious attacks over a stupid letter. I'd hate to see how you'd manage in a real fight."
Potter laughed, and it was only then that Draco noticed that he, too, was holding his wand. "You've got it absolutely right, Malfoy. All those little annoyances you've caused me and my friends over the years? They have all the earth-shattering significance of a paper cut. Badges? Playing Dementor dress-up? Ratting me out to Umbridge? Paper. Cut. Keeping my letter hostage? A little more impressive. I imagine you stayed awake all night thinking up all these ridiculous arrangements.
"But I don't have time to play your little game anymore. This is going to sound crazy, but I wish to God I did. I would love for this petty annoyance to rank up there with things I really need to devote my time and effort to. And it was a great diversion while it lasted; I have to thank you for that. But I can't do it anymore. Give me my letter, Malfoy. Please."
"Fine," Draco said. "I'm tired of you, anyway. Accio Potter's letter."
The letter flew from his bedside table into his hand, and Potter tracked it through the air, watching with a mixture of wariness and hunger.
"Now hand it over."
"You were right, you know. I did read it. And if you ask me, you're better off ignorant. It's full of lies. But you knew that already, didn't you; that's why you never read it."
"Why I never read it is absolutely none of your business."
Potter took two steps forward; Draco tilted his head and crinkled the parchment.
"Don't. Malfoy..."
"I'll save you the trouble of throwing it away."
"Malfoy-"
"Incendio."
***
Draco carried Potter's look of horror with him for days. He'd been prepared for retaliation-fists, hexes, curses-but Potter had just stood there with wide eyes, doing nothing to hide his shock, before taking a deep breath, clenching his fists, and leaving. The memory gave Draco a lingering sense of resolute smugness. He didn't feel so terrible, then, when the time came for him to pack an overnight bag and leave Hogwarts for the Ministry of Magic.
***
Hogwarts faded into the mist as the train departed. Draco turned away and did not look; he wished that he'd brought at least a book with him to distract his thoughts. Instead, there was just the empty compartment and the constant rattle of the train tracks.
Draco shook his head to clear it.
Even when the news of his father's imprisonment had first been announced, Draco had believed that his father would have been released-either by his own hand or other machinations. But as the summer had worn on, and as his Aunt Bellatrix's sanity had eroded daily like the limestone pillars in the gardens, he began to realize that there would be no reprieve for his father unless he did something.
Draco had started writing letters. He'd started with the Ministry, penning three letters to Cornelius Fudge the first week. When a month had passed, he had written over twenty. He'd pleaded and bargained and reasoned and threatened, all of which accomplished nothing but having his owls screened and his Floo calls disconnected or ignored.
He'd tried the Prophet next, writing to their editorial section till his quill was down to a nub. But the letters never made it past the editor's desk.
Draco had run out of options.
***
From Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Draco took the Knight Bus to the Ministry of Magic. His mother was already there, dressed in dark robes. It was just the two of them, standing alone in a small, unfurnished room that looked into an even smaller chamber surrounded by a curtain. Draco couldn't understand why there weren't any chairs. His fingers itched for his wand, which he had checked upon his arrival. Draco had expected more people, both well-wishers and those who would have preferred his father's head on a pike. He half-expected Dumbledore and Harry Potter to appear, just to make sure the execution orders were rendered to their fullest extent.
At the sound of a sniffle, Draco turned to look at his mother. She was dabbing her nose again, concealing the crimson smears on her handkerchief with her palm. During the summer, Draco would often find his mother hovering over the owl post with bloodshot eyes and a white handkerchief pressed to her nose. Stress had changed her, adding lines around her mouth and darkness around her eyes. Draco didn't feel well, either. He'd skipped breakfast and had refused food from the snack trolley. Now he was feeling lightheaded and nauseated.
When the curtain was drawn, and the doors to the inner room opened, Draco almost didn't recognize his father. Led in by two Aurors and flanked by a Ministry official, his father sat down on the cot in the middle of the room and was bound there with a spell. There were dark shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes were unfocused. His hair had been washed and he'd been given new robes; Draco wanted to laugh at the irony. Instead, a choking noise escaped his parched throat, and Draco clamped down on the sound.
Don't go, he wanted to say. He wanted to break through the barrier and set his father free. And it wasn't because his father was innocent of the crimes he'd been accused of-Draco wasn't that naive-but because, simply, Draco needed his father.
He glanced up at his mother. Her face was white. Draco felt her fumble for his hand, and then pull away, as if only suddenly remembering proper social etiquette.
The Ministry official handed Draco's father the goblet of poison hemlock, and he held it steadily. He drained the goblet in four swallows and lay back down. He didn't look at them at all; Draco couldn't look away. Draco's throat was raw, and he didn't know why. He watched his father's chest move up and down, and he counted the slow breaths. He watched as the pauses between the inhalations became longer and longer until there was nothing but pause.
***
Draco didn't stay. As soon as his mother was safely in a carriage and headed back to Malfoy Manor, Draco was on the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade. Stomach churning, he barely made it to the bathroom inside the The Three Broomsticks before he was on his knees and vomiting. All that he had managed to hide spilled to the surface, and Draco trembled and gagged and retched. Tears burned his eyes and he swore at himself, cursed himself for falling apart.
Ten minutes later, Draco emerged with his hair slicked back in place and very steady hands.
***
The owl found him just as he was leaving the Three Broomsticks. His mouth dropped open as he recognized the bird; it was one of his father's and it dropped a package into his spread hands.
Draco stared at the package in his hands for a long time. He barely registered the changing weather: the dappled clouds coalescing into an unbroken grey sky.
He reached for the attached note and smoothed it between his fingers.
Draco,
I do wish you hadn't left so quickly. Here are some of your father's things which I'm certain he would have wanted you to have.
Mother
***
The downpour started as Draco arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Waiting for the driver to prepare the carriage that Dumbledore had arranged, Draco pulled his hood over his head and let the rain lash his face. The box was carefully tucked under his cloak. He'd opened the box to find it enchanted to carry far more than its exterior belied. He'd limited himself to one item, and when he reached in, he'd discovered his father's pocket watch. It still worked, and it ticked away in Draco's palm.
Draco opened his hand, wincing, to find the edge of his father's pocket watch cutting into his palm. He hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it that tightly. A rivulet of blood seeped into the creases of his hand and the deeply etched branches of his lifeline stood out in sharp relief.
A shake of a harness and a clop of hooves didn't startle him, but the sudden appearance of a black skeleton of a horse pushing its cold muzzle into his hands did.
"Hello," he said, stunned, as the driver tugged the thestral back into place.
***
The Slytherin dormitory had been too public, and it was raining too hard to venture outside. A deserted room was Draco's choice, then, for sorting through his father's effects. He sat down on one of the chairs and put the box on the table. For a long time, he sat there just listening to the pocket watch ticking from where he'd stuffed it inside his cloak.
"Malfoy. I heard you were back..."
Potter's presence barely registered; Draco pushed a hand through his hair. He hadn't slept at all since he'd returned. His mind wouldn't stop. He kept thinking about the shine of poison on his father's lips and the way his chest had just stopped moving.
When Draco didn't address him directly, Potter sidled to the corner of the room and quietly watched him, tracking his movements as he sorted through the box. Finally, Potter inhaled deeply.
"I'm-"
"You're not," Draco cut in. "Spare me."
He found two books, a black writing quill and a ring. Now he shook out an old cloak. One of his father's long, blond hairs still clung to the heavy fabric. He picked up a silver cloak clasp and remembered seeing it on his father on numerous occasions. It was the last item in the box. Emotions suddenly pushed on his chest, making it hard to breathe. A wave of disappointment and despair flayed him and he couldn't deny any longer what he'd been hoping to find. What he wouldn't have given to have found something from his father, something only for him. Something that would have said all the things he needed to hear, but his father had never told him.
It wasn't fair that Potter had a letter.
Had had a letter.
His vision blurred and he swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat.
"Malfoy-"
"Go away, Potter."
"M-"
"Go away."
Draco didn't hear any footsteps. Thinking Potter had decided to stay, Draco mustered a glare and looked out upon an empty room.
He swiped at his eyes, relieved.
***
In the Great Hall that morning, Draco arrived to find a plate messily laden with food at his place at the table.
"What the hell is this?" he snapped, only to have Greg give him a clueless face.
"Food," he said.
"And what makes you think I'm going to eat that?"
"Food is food," Vincent said from his left side, reaching for another dinner roll while still chewing the one he'd just crammed into his mouth.
Draco stared hard at both of them before sitting down in a huff and stuffing his own mouth with a piece of roast duck. He didn't realize he was starving until his stomach grumbled for more, and before he knew it, he was helping himself to seconds. When he scanned the room for someone to glare at, his gaze ended up on Potter's empty seat.
He overheard bits of the table conversation as he ate. Since he'd been gone, rumors that the Dark Lord was amassing forces had started. Around the castle, students had spotted strange witches and wizards roaming Hogwarts' grounds but nobody could say for certain why they were here. And Draco wasn't the only one who'd noticed Potter's empty seat; apparently, Potter had missed more than just dinner, but breakfast, classes, and Quidditch too. The speculation ranged from Potter having a girlfriend to Potter having been kidnapped and leaving the rest of them to face imminent doom.
The only class that Potter still seemed to attend with any sort of regularity was Divination. In the afternoon, Draco watched him stare intently into his tea leaves, brow furrowed, while Weasley dozed off beside him. Draco wondered if he ever saw glimpses of his future at the bottom of the cup; all Draco ever saw at the bottom of his were twisted, wilted leaves.
In the evening, Draco had a meeting with Snape. As his Head of House, Snape explained, all the while looking like he'd rather be plunging his hand into a jar full of flesh-eating scarabs than having this conversation, he was responsible for making sure Draco was adjusting well to his new situation. It took a full minute of Draco staring at Snape with a vaguely confused expression before Snape waved Draco to the door and his escape.
Draco dragged his feet as he walked through the corridors. He wasn't at all eager to return to the Slytherin dormitories and face another sleepless night. Hearing Potter's voice snapped Draco out of his fugue. He froze and listened before following the sound to a closed door.
He jumped and nearly screamed when a jet of purple sparks exploded under the door, shearing a wooden panel off entirely.
Draco wasn't normally the type of person to go rushing to anyone's aid, let alone Harry Potter's. But his curiosity had been piqued, and Draco pressed himself up against the side of the wall and peeked through the crack in the door.
Potter was being attacked, but it became immediately apparent that this was a lesson, not a true assault. There were two witches and two wizards, and despite the intention of instruction, it looked like they were all trying to kill him.
Draco heartily approved.
Potter staggered into the wall and managed to shield his face just as a vase shattered, singing as it flew apart. He twisted to the side, dodging a blue-tinged curse that scorched the wall, and threw himself behind a desk.
Draco grinned. He hoped that hurt.
Draco found himself rooting for Potter to lose. Each time Potter winced in pain, it represented a fraction of the frustration and anger Draco was harboring towards the world. Each time Potter's knees hit the floor, Draco thought viciously, it's what you deserve. He felt vindicated: some things still made sense.
It was only later, when Draco was wrapped up in his blankets in bed, that he realized he hadn't thought about his father at all.
***
He found Potter there the next night, too. Through the poorly patched hole in the door, Draco watched Potter levitate a wine glass full of liquid for an hour while the witches and wizards took turns trying to break his concentration. They conjured crawling spiders that scrabbled up the sleeves of Potter's robes, flames that licked his trouser cuffs and left the gag-inducing stench of burning flesh in the air, and freezing water that drenched him from head to toe.
Potter flinched, sweat gleaming on his face and neck; the glass dipped and wavered. Liquid splashed onto the floor.
"Again," one witch said, and Potter refilled the glass.
***
On the third night, Draco crouched by the open doorway to see them sparring again. Potter was losing. He was already on the floor, breathing hard, dazed and hurting.
"Get up, Potter," the wizard said, blasting Potter again with his wand. Potter twitched and wheezed. "Get up and fight."
The witch pointed her wand at Potter and cast a spell that made him yowl in pain. "He won't be this lenient on you. He'll strike again and again. Get up!"
Potter's arms spasmed. His fingers turned white as he scrabbled against the floorboards and his back twisted and arched. He coughed, and blood spattered his mouth and the floor.
Draco's own fingernails dug into the door frame. His heart was pounding and he didn't understand why.
Get up, he thought wildly, and he didn't understand that, either. Get up. He watched Potter's hand twitch, watched it go lax, watched Potter's wand slowly roll off his fingertips and onto the floor.
Draco couldn't breathe. He ducked back around the corner and huddled, forcing air into his lungs, trying to figure out why he felt so rattled. He could hear the voices through the closed door, offering Potter some water or a moment to recover. Draco pushed himself up and ran down the hallway, suddenly unable to force the image of his father's very still body from his mind.
***
"Malfoy?"
Draco threw down the box that had held his father's things. He'd ripped the box apart in frustration, looking for something he couldn't name, didn't have words for.
"Done getting your arse kicked already?"
The words were out before he could stop them. He looked up, but Potter didn't seem all that surprised.
"You've seen the new wizards and witches around the castle, then?"
"One or two."
"They're all here because of me."
"Need remedial lessons in all of your subjects, now?"
"In a manner of speaking. It doesn't leave me much time for my regular lessons."
"Are you sure you ought to be telling me all this? Aren't you afraid of who I'll tell?"
Potter snorted. "Who would you tell? Your father's dead." Potter looked almost surprised, as if the pleasure he'd derived from saying those words hadn't been as sweet as he'd been expecting.
Draco looked hard at Potter.
"You know it wasn't my father your helpful little house elf talked to about Sirius Black. And it wasn't my father who killed Black, either. You'd better learn to direct your hate more accurately."
"Or what?"
"Or you'll be blindsided by the ones whom you've underestimated or dismissed."
"That's a pretty pathetic threat, seeing as I've dismissed you years ago."
"And yet, here you are. Again. You can't stay away."
Potter spun on his heel and began walking away.
"You need me!" Draco yelled.
Potter stopped. "And just what does your deluded mind think I need you for?"
"Because I remind you of what it's like to be normal!"
"Normal doesn't exist anymore!" Potter shouted. "It isn't normal for you to be burying your father when you're sixteen years old!"
Draco swallowed hard. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples like hoofbeats.
"You came all the way down here to tell me that? Well, thank you, Potter, I had no idea."
Potter turned away, shaking his head. Draco sprang to his feet, spinning Potter around. "Lost your nerve, Potter? Go ahead. Say what you came here to say."
"Fine. 'I'm proud of you.'"
Draco's mouth opened; no words came out.
"That's what the letter would say. The one you... the one you've been looking for."
Potter's voice was soft. His eyes weren't unkind. And that was it. That was the absolute last fucking straw.
The next thing Draco knew, he had Potter by the front of the neck, shoved up against the wall. A roar was echoing in his ears and all he could see was red. Potter's neck felt incredibly breakable and Draco felt just enraged enough to be tempted.
"What the fuck gives you the right to tell me anything about my father?" he screamed.
Potter shoved him back with both hands and Draco stumbled and hit the floor.
"Because after you burned my letter, the only way I can keep myself from hexing your head off your body is by telling myself that that's what Sirius wrote!"
"You're wrong."
"What?"
Draco pushed himself off the floor and stood warily. "I said, you're wrong. Your stupid letter didn't say anything like that."
Potter blinked, his chest heaving with unspent anger. He shook his head. "You're lying."
"I'm not lying. Oh, what's that? Don't like the truth? Prefer to live in your imaginary world where everyone who ever gave a damn about you died before they had a chance to fuck it up? You should be happy you didn't get to know any of them. They would only have disappointed you in the long run. I did you a favor by burning that letter. But if you really want to know, I'll tell you."
Potter's mouth snapped shut. Then, like he didn't trust his own voice, Potter nodded once, tension showing in his neck and shoulders. "You'll tell me all of it?" he said. "No additions or deletions?"
"To the best of my recollection." Potter had to learn the truth some time, and it would hurt.
Draco hurt.
"What do you want me to do in exchange?"
"Go and fetch me a glass of juice from the kitchens. I want cranberry."
"But-"
"I want a pitcher. Be sure it's cold."
Potter gave him a long look, but left. Draco took out his father's black quill and started writing.
'I'm sorry,' Black had written. 'I wish I could have been there for you in the way that you needed me to be.'
Black had apologized a fair number of times. Draco didn't understand why; so many of the things he hadn't had any control over.
A bit later, Black had written: 'Don't be afraid of dying, Harry. But by the same token, don't be afraid to live, either. The second one lasts a hell of a lot longer.'
Draco didn't remember everything. But there was the part at the end that he recalled with perfect clarity:
'I've never been one for doing things the right way or having good timing. And I've always been terrible with words. But I hope that my actions have spoken louder than the words I can't seem to find.'
"Here," he said, when Potter returned, pitcher in hand. Before the entire word had even left Draco's mouth, Potter had snatched the parchment from his hands. Draco was fascinated; Potter read the letter right then and there, as if he was a starving man and this was a scrap of food. He watched Potter's face as he read.
When Potter reached the end, he stood there holding the letter with unsteady hands and just breathed, his eyes round and reflective.
"Thank you," he said, exhaling. He folded the parchment carefully and put it inside his cloak. "There's one more thing, actually, that I came down here to tell you. Goodbye."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Potter grinned. "What it usually means. Parting of company. You have heard the term, haven't you?"
Draco gave him a blank stare, warding off images he'd rather not remember.
Potter shrugged. "I'm leaving Hogwarts tonight. I... don't know when I'm coming back." The unspoken if hung in the air.
Draco felt a pinprick of what felt a lot like guilt in his side, and he rubbed his stomach. "What are you still standing around for, then? Shouldn't you be in bed by now? Out with you. Go on."
Potter allowed himself to be ushered out the door.
"Goodnight." Goodbye, Draco should have said, but could not. "Oh, Potter?"
"What?" Potter looked up. Draco had never noticed how green his eyes were.
"There's a postscript to your letter."
Potter blinked, suddenly alert and focused. "What? There's a postscript? What does it say?"
"Come back. Come back and I'll tell you," Draco said, and closed the door.
The End.
Author: ZS
Rating: PG-13, gen
Words: ~5,550
Disclaimer: Harry Potter & its characters do not belong to me; no copyright infringement is intended.
Note #1: Thanks to kaalee and luzmaria8, for their support and encouragement. <3.
Note #2: Edited about a bazillion times... Now with Added Geographical Plausibility!
Summary: Draco, Year Six
Draco found it on the ground just after Divination class: a grubby, print-smeared envelope. Draco wouldn't have given it a second look had it not been for the name on the envelope, one that never failed to grab his attention:
Mr. Harry Potter.
He pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it.
Dear Harry, it began. Sorry to state the obvious, but if you're reading this, I'm dead. Ow, Remus, quit kicking me-look what you made me write-
Straightening up from a crouch and glancing around, Draco pocketed the letter and walked on to his next class.
After five years, Potter was still the perfect distraction. Instead of listening to Snape discuss herbal infusions-Draco already knew all he wanted to know on the subject-he sat in class and read Potter's entire letter. That entire time, he didn't think once about his father, or the letter that had arrived at Malfoy Manor during the summer with the official seal from the Ministry of Magic, addressed to Whom It May Concern.
Fucking bastards.
The Dementors had left Azkaban, but that hadn't stopped the paperwork, hadn't stopped Ministry orders of execution, only the means. Poison hemlock, oral ingestion. Death would occur within minutes. Draco knew; he had looked it up. Some were calling it ironic. Draco just felt sick.
***
Draco sent Potter a note by owl a few days later after the novelty of watching Potter stay behind after classes to search for his letter had worn off. He watched Potter open it at lunch-it was far more entertaining than trying to keep Goyle from shoveling food onto his plate for him, because he was never hungry anymore, and the mere thought of drinking anything made him want to throw up-and gave Potter a little jaunty wave when Potter glared at him over his pumpkin soup.
"Give me my letter," Potter said, predictably, that night beside the statue of the humpbacked witch. "It doesn't mean anything to you."
"Oh, but it means something to you, doesn't it. I've seen you searching classrooms after hours for it. Discreetly asking your friends if they've seen it."
Draco smiled, only just noticing Potter reaching for his wand.
"Accio-"
Draco batted away the spell with one of his own.
"Nice try," he said. "Too bad it'll do you no good. Did you really think I'd bring it with me tonight?"
"Did you read it?"
"Why would I read your mangy letter?"
"That's not an answer."
Draco snorted. "So? I don't owe you one."
"I know you read my letter. Like you could resist."
"I, unlike you, Potter, have a modicum of self-control."
"Maybe. Not for this. I bet you were physically incapable of not reading it." Potter bit his lip. "What does it say?"
Draco looked up sharply. It took a moment to sink in, the depth of the hold he suddenly had over Potter. He had Potter's undivided attention now. He wondered if Potter knew just how much he'd given away.
Of course, Draco had noticed the dismal condition of the envelope-it had been covered in fingerprints. But the parchment inside had still been crisply folded, and unmarred by a second set of hands.
Draco smiled slowly.
"Throw Saturday's match."
"What?"
"You heard me. Throw the match. Do whatever you have to. I'll consider your request."
Potter opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it.
***
"Visibility was terrible-no wonder she caught the Snitch before you."
"Better luck next time, eh, Harry?"
"Don't blame yourself, Harry. We'll get them next time."
Draco waited outside the change rooms, hands in his pockets, eavesdropping on the excuses that Potter's teammates were creating for him. He was listening so intently that he didn't hear Granger's indignant footsteps until she was nearly on top of him.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Granger said. Her mouth was pinched so tightly that her lips were white around the edges.
"I've come to congratulate Chang on her brilliant match. It's not every day someone beats the great Harry Potter."
"Like you'd know," Granger said smugly.
Draco launched himself away from the wall, anger spiking. He'd taken one step before remembering why he was here, and how much that stupid Mudblood didn't know about her precious Harry Potter.
He settled himself back against the wall, taking his time to get comfortable again, and let an unsettling smile creep across his face. Granger's frown faltered, and she scurried away.
Draco waited a few moments more before he realized that Potter was probably sulking over the loss in solitude. He walked into the change rooms to find Potter slouched on a bench, his hair still damp from the shower.
"Good game," Draco said, and Potter shot him a scowl.
"Are you happy now? Give me my letter."
"I can't believe you're assuming this is over already. I'm just getting started."
Potter threw his uniform into his locker and slammed the door. It was a pitiful sight: Potter getting riled up over something as insignificant as a letter.
"Payback, is it? For what?"
"Let's start with you hexing me on the train last year, shall we, and go on from there?"
"I didn't hex you on the train last year, Malfoy."
"Now you're splitting hairs. It was because of you. And you helped them shove me and Crabbe and Goyle onto the luggage racks."
"Someone could have stepped in your... slime. And slipped." Potter suddenly covered his mouth and coughed. Heat rushed to Draco's face.
"Fine. Laugh. I'll owl you the ashes of your precious letter at breakfast tomorrow."
"You know what? I'm starting to think that you don't have my letter at all. I bet you just heard that I was looking for a letter and you decided to take advantage of the situation."
"I know it's from that convict, Sirius Black."
Potter stopped cold. "You could have heard that from anyone."
"And yet, you're still here, talking to me. It's your decision, Potter, and your own actions that will determine the consequences. What'll it be?"
Potter's hands closed into fists, and he stood there and waited.
***
Draco chose his tasks carefully. He knew that there were some things Potter would refuse to do outright and rather suffer the loss of his letter. He couldn't, for example, tell Potter to harm any of his friends. "Ruin Granger's potion," was too risky, even though the mere idea of it piqued Draco's curiosity. It seemed as though Potter didn't have as much of a dilemma with self-humiliation; that, Potter stomached with a mere glare. "Don't do your homework," was easily achieved, and the disappointed look that McGonagall gave Potter in Transfiguration was even more glorious than the one that Snape skewered him with in Potions.
When an editorial appeared in the Daily Prophet a few days later which speculated freely about the personal lives of the Malfoy family members and suggested that Draco must have been neglected or abused, Draco decided he'd push Potter a little further. That night, when Potter appeared, fresh from having started a minor stampede in Care of Magical Creatures, Draco said, "Wank off in bed. No silencing charms. I want to hear all the juicy conversations at the Gryffindor table tomorrow morning."
"Anyone in particular you want me to think of?" was Potter's snarled reply, accompanied by a rising blush, but the next day, the Gryffindor table was buzzing with whispered speculations. Draco watched Potter's hunched shoulders with a sense of vicious satisfaction.
Later that day, when Draco went to the library to borrow a text for Divination, he spotted Potter without his pathetic sidekicks-something that seemed to be happening more often-and cornered him.
Potter looked like he was wishing a hole would open up underneath him. He shut his Divination homework and sighed.
"What do you want now, Malfoy?"
"You haven't told your friends about this, have you. Why not?"
"Would you rather I give Ron a reason to curse you?"
"Do you tell yourself that they would understand why you're doing these things? Or are you hoping they'll keep thinking you're the noble savior of the world for as long as possible?"
Potter stood up abruptly, clutching his homework to his chest. "I'm leaving."
Draco watched him go, knowing he'd be back.
***
It took two weeks for Potter to have had enough. Draco knew the moment that Potter started banging on the Slytherin dormitory portrait that things were about to change.
"I'm finished with this," Potter said by way of greeting, storming through the Common Room and shouldering past a stunned Vincent and Greg. They raised their wands but Draco shook his head and they shrugged and ambled off, leaving the Common Room empty but for the two of them.
Draco calmly rolled up his Divination homework and gave Potter his best unperturbed expression.
"Finished with what?"
"Don't play stupid, Malfoy. I'm finished playing your stupid game. Tell me what you want, and give me my letter."
"You haven't figured it out? I don't want anything but this. Exactly this. You. Suffering. Miserable. Hating every moment of your pathetic existence. And you're doing a brilliant job so far; keep up the good work."
Potter seethed and stalked closer. He spotted the Daily Prophet on the table with the photograph of Draco's father on the front page and said, "How's your Dad, anyway?" Draco bristled, but kept his mouth shut. "Still enjoying his prison term, I bet. Two, three days till his execution? Maybe we'll throw him a little going away party in your honor."
Draco drew his wand and leapt to his feet. He sent the desk crashing into the corner with a spell so there was nothing between them: no protection, no place to hide.
"I wish your little friends could see you," he said. "The great Harry Potter, resorting to malicious attacks over a stupid letter. I'd hate to see how you'd manage in a real fight."
Potter laughed, and it was only then that Draco noticed that he, too, was holding his wand. "You've got it absolutely right, Malfoy. All those little annoyances you've caused me and my friends over the years? They have all the earth-shattering significance of a paper cut. Badges? Playing Dementor dress-up? Ratting me out to Umbridge? Paper. Cut. Keeping my letter hostage? A little more impressive. I imagine you stayed awake all night thinking up all these ridiculous arrangements.
"But I don't have time to play your little game anymore. This is going to sound crazy, but I wish to God I did. I would love for this petty annoyance to rank up there with things I really need to devote my time and effort to. And it was a great diversion while it lasted; I have to thank you for that. But I can't do it anymore. Give me my letter, Malfoy. Please."
"Fine," Draco said. "I'm tired of you, anyway. Accio Potter's letter."
The letter flew from his bedside table into his hand, and Potter tracked it through the air, watching with a mixture of wariness and hunger.
"Now hand it over."
"You were right, you know. I did read it. And if you ask me, you're better off ignorant. It's full of lies. But you knew that already, didn't you; that's why you never read it."
"Why I never read it is absolutely none of your business."
Potter took two steps forward; Draco tilted his head and crinkled the parchment.
"Don't. Malfoy..."
"I'll save you the trouble of throwing it away."
"Malfoy-"
"Incendio."
***
Draco carried Potter's look of horror with him for days. He'd been prepared for retaliation-fists, hexes, curses-but Potter had just stood there with wide eyes, doing nothing to hide his shock, before taking a deep breath, clenching his fists, and leaving. The memory gave Draco a lingering sense of resolute smugness. He didn't feel so terrible, then, when the time came for him to pack an overnight bag and leave Hogwarts for the Ministry of Magic.
***
Hogwarts faded into the mist as the train departed. Draco turned away and did not look; he wished that he'd brought at least a book with him to distract his thoughts. Instead, there was just the empty compartment and the constant rattle of the train tracks.
Draco shook his head to clear it.
Even when the news of his father's imprisonment had first been announced, Draco had believed that his father would have been released-either by his own hand or other machinations. But as the summer had worn on, and as his Aunt Bellatrix's sanity had eroded daily like the limestone pillars in the gardens, he began to realize that there would be no reprieve for his father unless he did something.
Draco had started writing letters. He'd started with the Ministry, penning three letters to Cornelius Fudge the first week. When a month had passed, he had written over twenty. He'd pleaded and bargained and reasoned and threatened, all of which accomplished nothing but having his owls screened and his Floo calls disconnected or ignored.
He'd tried the Prophet next, writing to their editorial section till his quill was down to a nub. But the letters never made it past the editor's desk.
Draco had run out of options.
***
From Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Draco took the Knight Bus to the Ministry of Magic. His mother was already there, dressed in dark robes. It was just the two of them, standing alone in a small, unfurnished room that looked into an even smaller chamber surrounded by a curtain. Draco couldn't understand why there weren't any chairs. His fingers itched for his wand, which he had checked upon his arrival. Draco had expected more people, both well-wishers and those who would have preferred his father's head on a pike. He half-expected Dumbledore and Harry Potter to appear, just to make sure the execution orders were rendered to their fullest extent.
At the sound of a sniffle, Draco turned to look at his mother. She was dabbing her nose again, concealing the crimson smears on her handkerchief with her palm. During the summer, Draco would often find his mother hovering over the owl post with bloodshot eyes and a white handkerchief pressed to her nose. Stress had changed her, adding lines around her mouth and darkness around her eyes. Draco didn't feel well, either. He'd skipped breakfast and had refused food from the snack trolley. Now he was feeling lightheaded and nauseated.
When the curtain was drawn, and the doors to the inner room opened, Draco almost didn't recognize his father. Led in by two Aurors and flanked by a Ministry official, his father sat down on the cot in the middle of the room and was bound there with a spell. There were dark shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes were unfocused. His hair had been washed and he'd been given new robes; Draco wanted to laugh at the irony. Instead, a choking noise escaped his parched throat, and Draco clamped down on the sound.
Don't go, he wanted to say. He wanted to break through the barrier and set his father free. And it wasn't because his father was innocent of the crimes he'd been accused of-Draco wasn't that naive-but because, simply, Draco needed his father.
He glanced up at his mother. Her face was white. Draco felt her fumble for his hand, and then pull away, as if only suddenly remembering proper social etiquette.
The Ministry official handed Draco's father the goblet of poison hemlock, and he held it steadily. He drained the goblet in four swallows and lay back down. He didn't look at them at all; Draco couldn't look away. Draco's throat was raw, and he didn't know why. He watched his father's chest move up and down, and he counted the slow breaths. He watched as the pauses between the inhalations became longer and longer until there was nothing but pause.
***
Draco didn't stay. As soon as his mother was safely in a carriage and headed back to Malfoy Manor, Draco was on the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade. Stomach churning, he barely made it to the bathroom inside the The Three Broomsticks before he was on his knees and vomiting. All that he had managed to hide spilled to the surface, and Draco trembled and gagged and retched. Tears burned his eyes and he swore at himself, cursed himself for falling apart.
Ten minutes later, Draco emerged with his hair slicked back in place and very steady hands.
***
The owl found him just as he was leaving the Three Broomsticks. His mouth dropped open as he recognized the bird; it was one of his father's and it dropped a package into his spread hands.
Draco stared at the package in his hands for a long time. He barely registered the changing weather: the dappled clouds coalescing into an unbroken grey sky.
He reached for the attached note and smoothed it between his fingers.
Draco,
I do wish you hadn't left so quickly. Here are some of your father's things which I'm certain he would have wanted you to have.
Mother
***
The downpour started as Draco arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Waiting for the driver to prepare the carriage that Dumbledore had arranged, Draco pulled his hood over his head and let the rain lash his face. The box was carefully tucked under his cloak. He'd opened the box to find it enchanted to carry far more than its exterior belied. He'd limited himself to one item, and when he reached in, he'd discovered his father's pocket watch. It still worked, and it ticked away in Draco's palm.
Draco opened his hand, wincing, to find the edge of his father's pocket watch cutting into his palm. He hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it that tightly. A rivulet of blood seeped into the creases of his hand and the deeply etched branches of his lifeline stood out in sharp relief.
A shake of a harness and a clop of hooves didn't startle him, but the sudden appearance of a black skeleton of a horse pushing its cold muzzle into his hands did.
"Hello," he said, stunned, as the driver tugged the thestral back into place.
***
The Slytherin dormitory had been too public, and it was raining too hard to venture outside. A deserted room was Draco's choice, then, for sorting through his father's effects. He sat down on one of the chairs and put the box on the table. For a long time, he sat there just listening to the pocket watch ticking from where he'd stuffed it inside his cloak.
"Malfoy. I heard you were back..."
Potter's presence barely registered; Draco pushed a hand through his hair. He hadn't slept at all since he'd returned. His mind wouldn't stop. He kept thinking about the shine of poison on his father's lips and the way his chest had just stopped moving.
When Draco didn't address him directly, Potter sidled to the corner of the room and quietly watched him, tracking his movements as he sorted through the box. Finally, Potter inhaled deeply.
"I'm-"
"You're not," Draco cut in. "Spare me."
He found two books, a black writing quill and a ring. Now he shook out an old cloak. One of his father's long, blond hairs still clung to the heavy fabric. He picked up a silver cloak clasp and remembered seeing it on his father on numerous occasions. It was the last item in the box. Emotions suddenly pushed on his chest, making it hard to breathe. A wave of disappointment and despair flayed him and he couldn't deny any longer what he'd been hoping to find. What he wouldn't have given to have found something from his father, something only for him. Something that would have said all the things he needed to hear, but his father had never told him.
It wasn't fair that Potter had a letter.
Had had a letter.
His vision blurred and he swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat.
"Malfoy-"
"Go away, Potter."
"M-"
"Go away."
Draco didn't hear any footsteps. Thinking Potter had decided to stay, Draco mustered a glare and looked out upon an empty room.
He swiped at his eyes, relieved.
***
In the Great Hall that morning, Draco arrived to find a plate messily laden with food at his place at the table.
"What the hell is this?" he snapped, only to have Greg give him a clueless face.
"Food," he said.
"And what makes you think I'm going to eat that?"
"Food is food," Vincent said from his left side, reaching for another dinner roll while still chewing the one he'd just crammed into his mouth.
Draco stared hard at both of them before sitting down in a huff and stuffing his own mouth with a piece of roast duck. He didn't realize he was starving until his stomach grumbled for more, and before he knew it, he was helping himself to seconds. When he scanned the room for someone to glare at, his gaze ended up on Potter's empty seat.
He overheard bits of the table conversation as he ate. Since he'd been gone, rumors that the Dark Lord was amassing forces had started. Around the castle, students had spotted strange witches and wizards roaming Hogwarts' grounds but nobody could say for certain why they were here. And Draco wasn't the only one who'd noticed Potter's empty seat; apparently, Potter had missed more than just dinner, but breakfast, classes, and Quidditch too. The speculation ranged from Potter having a girlfriend to Potter having been kidnapped and leaving the rest of them to face imminent doom.
The only class that Potter still seemed to attend with any sort of regularity was Divination. In the afternoon, Draco watched him stare intently into his tea leaves, brow furrowed, while Weasley dozed off beside him. Draco wondered if he ever saw glimpses of his future at the bottom of the cup; all Draco ever saw at the bottom of his were twisted, wilted leaves.
In the evening, Draco had a meeting with Snape. As his Head of House, Snape explained, all the while looking like he'd rather be plunging his hand into a jar full of flesh-eating scarabs than having this conversation, he was responsible for making sure Draco was adjusting well to his new situation. It took a full minute of Draco staring at Snape with a vaguely confused expression before Snape waved Draco to the door and his escape.
Draco dragged his feet as he walked through the corridors. He wasn't at all eager to return to the Slytherin dormitories and face another sleepless night. Hearing Potter's voice snapped Draco out of his fugue. He froze and listened before following the sound to a closed door.
He jumped and nearly screamed when a jet of purple sparks exploded under the door, shearing a wooden panel off entirely.
Draco wasn't normally the type of person to go rushing to anyone's aid, let alone Harry Potter's. But his curiosity had been piqued, and Draco pressed himself up against the side of the wall and peeked through the crack in the door.
Potter was being attacked, but it became immediately apparent that this was a lesson, not a true assault. There were two witches and two wizards, and despite the intention of instruction, it looked like they were all trying to kill him.
Draco heartily approved.
Potter staggered into the wall and managed to shield his face just as a vase shattered, singing as it flew apart. He twisted to the side, dodging a blue-tinged curse that scorched the wall, and threw himself behind a desk.
Draco grinned. He hoped that hurt.
Draco found himself rooting for Potter to lose. Each time Potter winced in pain, it represented a fraction of the frustration and anger Draco was harboring towards the world. Each time Potter's knees hit the floor, Draco thought viciously, it's what you deserve. He felt vindicated: some things still made sense.
It was only later, when Draco was wrapped up in his blankets in bed, that he realized he hadn't thought about his father at all.
***
He found Potter there the next night, too. Through the poorly patched hole in the door, Draco watched Potter levitate a wine glass full of liquid for an hour while the witches and wizards took turns trying to break his concentration. They conjured crawling spiders that scrabbled up the sleeves of Potter's robes, flames that licked his trouser cuffs and left the gag-inducing stench of burning flesh in the air, and freezing water that drenched him from head to toe.
Potter flinched, sweat gleaming on his face and neck; the glass dipped and wavered. Liquid splashed onto the floor.
"Again," one witch said, and Potter refilled the glass.
***
On the third night, Draco crouched by the open doorway to see them sparring again. Potter was losing. He was already on the floor, breathing hard, dazed and hurting.
"Get up, Potter," the wizard said, blasting Potter again with his wand. Potter twitched and wheezed. "Get up and fight."
The witch pointed her wand at Potter and cast a spell that made him yowl in pain. "He won't be this lenient on you. He'll strike again and again. Get up!"
Potter's arms spasmed. His fingers turned white as he scrabbled against the floorboards and his back twisted and arched. He coughed, and blood spattered his mouth and the floor.
Draco's own fingernails dug into the door frame. His heart was pounding and he didn't understand why.
Get up, he thought wildly, and he didn't understand that, either. Get up. He watched Potter's hand twitch, watched it go lax, watched Potter's wand slowly roll off his fingertips and onto the floor.
Draco couldn't breathe. He ducked back around the corner and huddled, forcing air into his lungs, trying to figure out why he felt so rattled. He could hear the voices through the closed door, offering Potter some water or a moment to recover. Draco pushed himself up and ran down the hallway, suddenly unable to force the image of his father's very still body from his mind.
***
"Malfoy?"
Draco threw down the box that had held his father's things. He'd ripped the box apart in frustration, looking for something he couldn't name, didn't have words for.
"Done getting your arse kicked already?"
The words were out before he could stop them. He looked up, but Potter didn't seem all that surprised.
"You've seen the new wizards and witches around the castle, then?"
"One or two."
"They're all here because of me."
"Need remedial lessons in all of your subjects, now?"
"In a manner of speaking. It doesn't leave me much time for my regular lessons."
"Are you sure you ought to be telling me all this? Aren't you afraid of who I'll tell?"
Potter snorted. "Who would you tell? Your father's dead." Potter looked almost surprised, as if the pleasure he'd derived from saying those words hadn't been as sweet as he'd been expecting.
Draco looked hard at Potter.
"You know it wasn't my father your helpful little house elf talked to about Sirius Black. And it wasn't my father who killed Black, either. You'd better learn to direct your hate more accurately."
"Or what?"
"Or you'll be blindsided by the ones whom you've underestimated or dismissed."
"That's a pretty pathetic threat, seeing as I've dismissed you years ago."
"And yet, here you are. Again. You can't stay away."
Potter spun on his heel and began walking away.
"You need me!" Draco yelled.
Potter stopped. "And just what does your deluded mind think I need you for?"
"Because I remind you of what it's like to be normal!"
"Normal doesn't exist anymore!" Potter shouted. "It isn't normal for you to be burying your father when you're sixteen years old!"
Draco swallowed hard. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples like hoofbeats.
"You came all the way down here to tell me that? Well, thank you, Potter, I had no idea."
Potter turned away, shaking his head. Draco sprang to his feet, spinning Potter around. "Lost your nerve, Potter? Go ahead. Say what you came here to say."
"Fine. 'I'm proud of you.'"
Draco's mouth opened; no words came out.
"That's what the letter would say. The one you... the one you've been looking for."
Potter's voice was soft. His eyes weren't unkind. And that was it. That was the absolute last fucking straw.
The next thing Draco knew, he had Potter by the front of the neck, shoved up against the wall. A roar was echoing in his ears and all he could see was red. Potter's neck felt incredibly breakable and Draco felt just enraged enough to be tempted.
"What the fuck gives you the right to tell me anything about my father?" he screamed.
Potter shoved him back with both hands and Draco stumbled and hit the floor.
"Because after you burned my letter, the only way I can keep myself from hexing your head off your body is by telling myself that that's what Sirius wrote!"
"You're wrong."
"What?"
Draco pushed himself off the floor and stood warily. "I said, you're wrong. Your stupid letter didn't say anything like that."
Potter blinked, his chest heaving with unspent anger. He shook his head. "You're lying."
"I'm not lying. Oh, what's that? Don't like the truth? Prefer to live in your imaginary world where everyone who ever gave a damn about you died before they had a chance to fuck it up? You should be happy you didn't get to know any of them. They would only have disappointed you in the long run. I did you a favor by burning that letter. But if you really want to know, I'll tell you."
Potter's mouth snapped shut. Then, like he didn't trust his own voice, Potter nodded once, tension showing in his neck and shoulders. "You'll tell me all of it?" he said. "No additions or deletions?"
"To the best of my recollection." Potter had to learn the truth some time, and it would hurt.
Draco hurt.
"What do you want me to do in exchange?"
"Go and fetch me a glass of juice from the kitchens. I want cranberry."
"But-"
"I want a pitcher. Be sure it's cold."
Potter gave him a long look, but left. Draco took out his father's black quill and started writing.
'I'm sorry,' Black had written. 'I wish I could have been there for you in the way that you needed me to be.'
Black had apologized a fair number of times. Draco didn't understand why; so many of the things he hadn't had any control over.
A bit later, Black had written: 'Don't be afraid of dying, Harry. But by the same token, don't be afraid to live, either. The second one lasts a hell of a lot longer.'
Draco didn't remember everything. But there was the part at the end that he recalled with perfect clarity:
'I've never been one for doing things the right way or having good timing. And I've always been terrible with words. But I hope that my actions have spoken louder than the words I can't seem to find.'
"Here," he said, when Potter returned, pitcher in hand. Before the entire word had even left Draco's mouth, Potter had snatched the parchment from his hands. Draco was fascinated; Potter read the letter right then and there, as if he was a starving man and this was a scrap of food. He watched Potter's face as he read.
When Potter reached the end, he stood there holding the letter with unsteady hands and just breathed, his eyes round and reflective.
"Thank you," he said, exhaling. He folded the parchment carefully and put it inside his cloak. "There's one more thing, actually, that I came down here to tell you. Goodbye."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Potter grinned. "What it usually means. Parting of company. You have heard the term, haven't you?"
Draco gave him a blank stare, warding off images he'd rather not remember.
Potter shrugged. "I'm leaving Hogwarts tonight. I... don't know when I'm coming back." The unspoken if hung in the air.
Draco felt a pinprick of what felt a lot like guilt in his side, and he rubbed his stomach. "What are you still standing around for, then? Shouldn't you be in bed by now? Out with you. Go on."
Potter allowed himself to be ushered out the door.
"Goodnight." Goodbye, Draco should have said, but could not. "Oh, Potter?"
"What?" Potter looked up. Draco had never noticed how green his eyes were.
"There's a postscript to your letter."
Potter blinked, suddenly alert and focused. "What? There's a postscript? What does it say?"
"Come back. Come back and I'll tell you," Draco said, and closed the door.
The End.