Chapter Four (I Am Ragged, Worn, Exhausted)
Give me a few days of peace in your arms— I need it terribly.
I am ragged, worn, exhausted. After that I can face the world.
-Henry Miller
Harry
“This is absolutely an under staffed endeavor,” Hermione complained as the trio made their way into the great hall for the first of many apparition lessons. Ron and Harry just nodded along, too eager to start learning to care too much for her antics, though it did seem like it’d be more conducive to have more than one ministry instructor.
The room was packed to the brim but Harry was still surprised that there weren’t more people in attendance. Apparating seemed like a skill anyone should be eager to learn but maybe Harry just knew that one day he’d probably be in a situation where it would save his arse.
The three took their respective places behind the gold hoops that lined the hall when suddenly a booming voice fell over them.
“Destination!” it said. “Determination! Deliberation!”
Ron stared in awe, Hermione scoffed.
“I am your ministry appointed apparition instructor Wilkie Twycross and those three pillars are what you aught not to forget. Now, draw your wands and follow my instructions very carefully.”
A half hour passed and Harry found himself on the floor for the second time. He was pretty certain that Ron was going to explode the way his face matched his hair after a particularly taxing failed attempt that sent him flying backwards through the air into Neville. The crash elicited a hefty laughing fit from Hermione and the surrounding crowd that was quickly quelled when Lavender Brown came running to her “Won-Won’s” aid.
By the end of the morning the closest to apparating any of them had gotten was Susan Bones who ended up splinching herself and had to be sent to the hospital wing.
“What a rotten go,” Ron sulked into his seat during potions later that day.
Harry just laughed. “Oh, cheer up. You should be grateful I wasn’t successful, I probably wouldn’t have been able to hold down my breakfast.”
“It’s really that bad, then?”
Harry mulled it over in his head.
“I just don’t think I’m meant to travel magically, it always goes awry.”
Ron laughed, going on to remind Harry of his floo powder mistake in second year.
“Malfoy’s not here,” Harry mumbled as his own laughter stopped. His usual spot next to Blaise Zabini was empty.
“You think he’s up to something?” Ron asked nasally as he plugged his nose while crushing a particularly pungent bubotuber to extract its pus.
“I always think that.”
“Well— blegh this stuff sucks!— You should tail him or something.”
It was Harry’s turn to turn up his nose.
“I’m not going to stalk him, Ron.”
“That’s quite literally what you’ve been doing though.”
Harry couldn’t think of a comeback to that and so he relieved Ron of his duty and tried to focus his mind on the atrocious smelling pus he was now stirring into the cauldron.
…
It wasn’t his proudest moment, but Ron was right. If Harry wanted answers he was going to have to keep spying. He tried not to feel like a massive creep as he lurked through the halls under his invisibility cloak, trying to catch wind of any suspicious activity. With Dumbledore only talking to him when he had another cryptic memory to divulge and Malfoy’s sudden absence from class he couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. He wouldn’t repeat the un-helpfulness he felt last year. He wouldn’t rush in without all the facts. No, he was going to be prepared this time.
On the third consecutive night of trying to find some hint of wrongdoing, Harry finally spotted him. He was just about to give up and head back up to the common room when he saw a rush of pale blond sprint into the sixth-floor boy’s bathroom. Harry approached slowly, just making out the cast of a silencing spell in the hallway.
Any doubts Harry had were quickly cast to the back of his mind when he realized there could be no logical explanation for Malfoy sneaking out to a random bathroom after curfew. Unless he was meeting up with a girl.
The thought was plausible if it was anyone other than him, but Harry couldn’t assume it was some innocent snogging. When he finally built up the courage to try and barge in he noticed a jagged slit in the door that allowed him view inside.
He could’ve sworn he felt his heart stop as his eyes narrowed through the slit in the door that he realized must have been residual damage from the last firework prank the twins had set off.
He was only silent for a moment before he began to plead, breathless. He wished he had just stayed out of it.
“Malfoy, stop,” Harry whispered from his place just outside the bathroom. “God, please, just stop.”
It was too quiet for the boy to hear, but that wasn’t the point of Harry’s worry anyway. He was standing mortified and unable to understand as blood trickled down Malfoy’s left arm, pooling on the floor. His prayer was more to himself as he willed his body to move, as he tried to override the horrible thoughts in his mind that Malfoy deserved to feel a little of the pain he inflicted on others.
Harry wanted to vomit even as he told himself he didn’t really think that. But, then what had he been doing following him, wand at the ready, arsenal of untested half-blood prince spells loaded in his memory?
Movement drew his attention back to the scene as Malfoy stumbled back against a sink, wand now pointed at the already mangled arm, blood flowing so aggressively he swore the boy could fill a river with it.
Harry was close enough now that he was inside the silencing spell’s confines. He expected to hear screams to match the pain, but the screams he heard seemed to be at it instead.
“I hate you!” he cried, wand now squelching as it entered the wound, spilling more crimson to the ground. He screamed with more anger than Harry had expected of him, scaring him as memories of his own anger came to mind, memories of his screams as Sirius fell through the veil.
Malfoy’s wand lit up, it’s brightness not from a Lumos charm, but rather from extreme heat. It was like a fire poker forgotten in the flames, now hot enough to burn.
Harry’s sense of urgency spiked as he wrestled with the door, angry at himself for hesitating. He had finally gotten himself to act, but it wouldn’t budge. He must have cast some type of locking or blocking charm. Harry used every counter spell he knew but nothing was working.
“Malfoy!” he resorted to yelling. “You’re losing too much blood, stop. Let me in, damn it, no matter how much I hate you I won’t watch you die!”
It was as if Malfoy’s hearing had turned off, his ears stopped working. He didn’t even shift his eyes in indication of recognizing Harry’s voice. His berating of the door was violent now, resorting to force when magic failed him. He could feel the bruises forming on his body as he slammed against the hinges.
“Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot,” Harry almost stopped as Malfoy began singing. It was soft and laced with tear soaked breaths, almost inaudible. His voice cracked over every note change as he fought the tears for control.
“Ma chandelle est morte,” Draco cringed as he traced his arm, flesh parting under fire.
Finally Harry felt a small creak, heard a slight crack— evidence that he needed to keep fighting.
Malfoy stumbled again but did not fall. “Je n'ai plus de feu.”
The eery calm of the lullaby set panic into the chosen one’s bones, all thoughts consumed by what he would do if when he finally broke through the door it was too late.
“Ouvre-moi ta porte,” a sigh, a wand removed. “Pour l'amour de Dieu.”
The world slowed immensely in the next few moments as Malfoy swapped his wand to the other hand, confusion lacing his own features as if he was surprised he hadn’t stopped there, as if he had meant this to be a controlled destruction.
Harry finally broke through the door and he thought it was over. He was naive and hopeful and he thought that Malfoy had come to his senses, but it happened so quickly that he barely had time to act.
Gray eyes met green and Harry almost missed it as Malfoy drew the wand towards his own chest, flat against his blood soaked button up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before closing his eyes, bracing himself for whatever was coming.
Harry’s heart dropped as he heard the spell begin to escape Malfoy’s lips. It sent alarm bells ringing in his mind.
“Sectumsemp—”
“EXPELLIARMUS!” Harry spit, so fast that his wand almost followed suit of Malfoy’s and flew out of his hand.
A look of surprise and sudden attention found its place on Malfoy’s face as he came out of his obsessed stupor, pushed back by the sheer force of the spell. Harry picked up the wand from where it rolled on the ground, placing it in his pocket along with his own.
The wandless boy made no evidence of moving. He just stood there, a look of inscrutable confusion on his face.
Suddenly he remembered his arm, bringing it into his chest to try and stop the bleeding. His other hand slipped from his hold on the sink and he sank fully to the ground.
Harry was with him in a flash, asking if he was okay as he reached out for his shoulder.
On contact Malfoy seemed to get a second wind, flinching away in such a harsh response that Harry followed suit, jumping a full three feet back at the sheer fear furrowed on the boy’s face.
“Malfoy, it’s me, Harry. I’m going to help you, okay? Is that okay?”
Finally they locked eyes again, but Harry didn’t like what he saw there. They should’ve been laced with pain, with sadness and regret and thankfulness. But they weren’t. Harry remembered the conversation between Narcissa and Malfoy, remembered how he hadn’t really believed Malfoy would try anything, how his mother hadn’t even thought him brave enough.
Harry knew that in every logical sense this couldn’t be bravery, but what he saw in those eyes challenged him. Gray ponds filled with a conviction that screamed this is what I am and contained a whirlpool of relief mixed with anger.
Anger. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was sat on the ground performing basic charms on the kid he’d been having fights with since first year and was being sent angry glares about it. He had saved his life, yet here they were, pent up as always.
Malfoy hadn’t said a word so Harry deemed it time to provoke him. His basic spells had only been able to stop the bleeding for now, not heal anything, and Malfoy was starting to look like he needed serious medical attention.
“You could’ve died.”
It was laced with disbelief, with a shock that he wasn’t sure would ever subside.
“Don’t be stupid, Potter.”
Harry’s jaw almost dropped at the confrontational ability of the terribly injured twat.
“I had it under control.”
“You call that control?! You almost used a spell on yourself that you don’t know the effects of! How did you even know it anyway?”
Malfoy clenched his stomach, leaning forward in a huff as if trying to push down the pain. He really didn’t look too good and Harry shouldn’t have been humoring him but how in the world did he know the half-bloods prince’s spell? His gut churned as he remembered that he himself had been prepared to use it if things got out of hand.
“Not important,” he exhaled, a bit of his bite lost as he became out of breath, his body clearly catching up to the pain and blood loss.
“We need to get you to the hospital wing.”
“Absolutely not,” he tried to pull himself up with the help of the sink but it was no use. Harry felt the panic flood his being again. “I’ll heal myself in the common room.”
“No, absolutely not,” Harry turned the words back on him. “You need help!”
“I can’t go there! She’ll see it!”
Harry looked down to where he held his arm cradled against himself.
“The mark?” Harry tried, surprised when it came out as a whisper.
Malfoy nodded solemnly before adding on, “And… if they think I’m mental they’ll send me back to the manor.”
Harry paused, again remembering the conversation that day in the forest. Malfoy was scared to go home, and Harry could understand the feeling. Though, he wasn’t sure his situation entailed the same abuse, and the thought of what was bad enough to terrify a Malfoy sent chills down his spine.
“Fine!” he practically yelled in his anger that he was giving the stupid pitiful git what he wanted. “But I’m taking you somewhere else to heal. No protests, Malfoy. This place will give us what we need.”
Malfoy had no fighting response, seeing that Harry wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“I’m going to help you up, okay?” he offered, careful not to surprise him with anymore unwanted contact.
He received a nod in response and then they were on their feet, Malfoy’s tall figure slumped with an arm around Harry’s shoulders, barely seeming to hold onto consciousness.
They were halfway to the room of requirement when Harry finally offered up some conversation, bothered by the heavy feeling weighing on his chest and the shallow breathing of the boy on his shoulder.
“I have something to confess,” Harry started, waiting for some acknowledgement from the other.
Malfoy shifted his gaze, regaining focus as he quirked an eyebrow in that playful way he always used to do. Harry was almost relieved to see it until he spoke.
“Potter, I’m flattered, but I don’t go for Gryffindor’s.”
Annoyance flushed in Harry’s cheeks as Malfoy gave a weak smirk.
“You prat! I’m serious.”
Malfoy exhaled an okay, apparently too tired to speak anymore. Good, Harry thought he could go without any more interruptions.
“I know you apparated to the Forbidden Forest the day you returned,” Harry tread carefully. They were making their way up the final set of stairs before their destination. He was just glad they hadn’t run into Filch or the ghosts.
He continued despite the incredulous look on Malfoy’s face.
“I was going for a walk to clear my head, and well,” he was suddenly embarrassed at his impropriety, at having to confess to eavesdropping on something so private. “I heard you and your mother. I thought you were up to something so I listened in. I know something more is going on and I’m not letting you put anyone in danger.”
If Malfoy had the strength to be any angrier he would have cast a very nasty series of jinxes on the spying boy.
“Always the savior, aren’t you?” he scoffed. It came out raspy and strained.
Harry had to finish before he lost his nerve, pushing past the jab that was clearly meant to cover up Malfoys discomfort at being exposed.
“I did it again, the other night. I followed you and Snape to his office, on purpose that time.”
Malfoy looked as if he wanted to shout obscenities and Harry wondered if telling him the truth had been the right thing.
“Well, fuck.”
Harry was so unused to hearing him use muggle curses, it was jarring every time. He wanted to ask about it, about his clear devolution from the pure-blood manners he usually upheld, but it wasn’t the time nor place.
“We’re going to patch you up, and then you’re talking. Got it?”
Malfoy swayed dangerously as they made the last few steps, Harry having to grab his waist to provide more support. A wave of worry rushed through him at the sudden weight he was having to support, evident of Malfoy growing weaker.
“Is this a rescuing or a kidnapping?” he snapped as he squinted his eyes shut, taking deep breaths through the pain.
Harry didn’t have time to respond, rushing into the room as they finally reached it. It wasn’t what he had expected, not some hospital room with cots or an intricate setup. Instead it was rather cozy, a large rug stacked with pillows and bean bags next to a lit fireplace. There were shelves lined with books and potions ingredients and more that he did not have time to distinguish.
He rushed Malfoy to the fire, helping him down gently onto the carpet, back up against a pillow. A little ways away he found a muggle med kit, and with a few glances around in disbelief he realized that that really was all it had given them. No magic salves or immediate remedies.
“It’s fine,” Malfoy cringed, trying to catch his breath as he coughed. Harry ignored the jab of pain he felt in his scar. “Even this strange room knows that I don’t deserve the easy way out.”
Harry did not speak on his depressing tone, but he could not hide his frown. He began first with scourgify and a cleansing charm and then it was time to go in with the muggle disinfectants. He hesitated, staring at the battle field that was Malfoy’s left forearm. His stomach churned at the dark mark, or course he wanted nothing to do with healing it, but what made him feel physically ill was the damage that Malfoy had inflicted on it. Some of the cuts were superficial and uncertain, like claw marks from nails digging into skin, but as he fell deeper into his mind it was clear that he had worked up the courage to cut deeper, so deep Harry was scared he might see bone. What was worse was the areas the cuts mingled with burn. It looked as if he had tried to trace the morsmordre symbol but it was too haphazard, resulting in a half glossed over tattoo.
“I know I’m disgusting,” Malfoy mumbled, head turned away from Harry. “But please don’t look at me like that. Please don’t look at me.”
There were no words forming a response in Harry’s throat, he couldn’t figure out why he felt guilty. Malfoy was disgusting, so why did seeing him so broken up about it make Harry’s skin light on fire?
He gathered his resolve and took Malfoy’s arm in his hand. His thumb set dangerously close to the mark, and he had the strangest need to caress it, to smooth away the terrible hold it had on the broken Slytherin beside him. Instead, he applied the disinfectant, spreading over cut and burn alike with the respective ointments and salves. He didn’t tell Malfoy when he started the stitches, still uncertain what to say. He gasped at the first stitch but with time grew quiet again. Harry hoped that he wasn’t telling himself the pain was what he deserved. He didn’t want to be made an accomplice to his self-punishment.
Finally he was done, relaxing as the fire crackled and he finished wrapping bandage around the very emblem of his enemy.
When he looked back over, Malfoy was asleep. It seemed like the talking would have to wait. Harry almost made to move him to a more comfortable position, but he thought better of it. He had learned that Malfoy disliked touch and he was certain that it had something to do with the damage that had clearly been inflicted on him.
Harry thought about trying to close his eyes but he knew it was an impossible feat. It had been a long day of conspiracy and barely restrained hysteria, and it all hit him the second he was forced to stare at the backs of his eyelids. Malfoy had been hurting himself and if Harry hadn't been there… he didn’t even want to think about it. He couldn’t wrap his head around it all. How could Malfoy do that to himself when he already had so much pain? Harry knew without a reasonable doubt that the boy was being tortured by something. Unless, could he have inflicted those other scars himself too? Who else would have the ability to so badly mangle a child? Voldemort? But surely—
A shuffle drew his attention back to the present and he found its source in the boy laying across from him. He watched with growing confusion as tear after tear fell down Malfoy’s sleeping face. It was scrunched up in pain but when Harry called out he realized that he wasn’t awake. Harry couldn’t bare it, watching Malfoy suffer silently in his sleep. It was one of the most disheartening things he’d seen, simply because of the vulnerability of it. When Harry had nightmares he screamed, thrashed, and woke up in a harsh sheen of sweat and confusion, but this was different and he just wanted it to stop.
He turned away, pushing down any lingering pity and trying harder to go to sleep, but he just couldn’t let his guard down even if he didn’t think Malfoy would do anything. Voldemort still wanted him dead. Before he knew it the sun was rising and there was no hope of shutting off his brain again. He resolved himself to going over the homework he had to complete in his head, realizing unhappily that he was supposed to have spent the night putting the finishing touches on his Potions essay. Maybe Malfoy could get him an excuse with Snape?
The thought made him laugh as he ran a hand across his face, ridding it of sleep.
“Something funny, Potter?” Malfoy suddenly spoke. Harry thought he looked a bit better after sleeping for so long but there was some strange unease there as he took in his surroundings, almost as if he were making sure it was safe.
Harry watched as the boy picked at his bandages, an unreadable expression on his face.
“No,” Harry sighed, suddenly heavy with seriousness. “You tried to kill yourself. That’s not okay.”
Of course Harry knew how dark thoughts could get, but he’d never imagined inflicting pain on his own being. It was a hard subject to breach, even for someone who had faced more tragedy in a few years of life than most did in a lifetime, and the uncomfortable look on Malfoy’s face did not make it any easier.
“I didn’t—”
He tried to argue but his eyes fell back again to his bandaged arm. Harry watched as he slowly clenched and un-clenched his fingers in disbelief.
“I didn’t mean to. I thought I knew what I was doing. It’s not like I haven’t been—”
He stopped himself again, and Harry thought he knew what he was going to say. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence either, clearly a topic neither of the boys felt comfortable breaching at the moment.
“You need help.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, trying to find a comfortable position to rest his arm in.
“Gee, Potter, you’re not looking too perfect yourself.”
“Stop that,” Harry crossed his arms at the defensive tone. “Stop deflecting. This isn’t something you can just brush off.”
“Why do you even care? You hate me, right? You’ve been listening so you must. Shouldn’t you be running off to Dumbledore now? I’ll leave you to it.”
He made to leave and Harry threw a pillow at him. He startled but didn’t shy away, Harry immensely relieved. He was trying to be cautious but he forgot how skittish the boy had become.
“No. You owe me answers. Then I’ll decide what I need to do.”
Malfoy’s face twitched in annoyance but he sat back down. Harry took note of how he nestled closer to the fire despite the comfortable heat of the room.
“I don’t owe you anything,” he snarled, but Harry couldn’t feel any real malice in it. Maybe he was just trying to keep up old fronts after knowing Harry had heard him speak about him in such a high light.
“You owe me your life.”
“You—” Malfoy stumbled, clearly fighting with his ego. “I really didn’t mean to take it so far. I never should’ve... I- yeah, I guess I do owe you for stopping my madness... Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Malfoy scoffed at Harry’s immediate response. “Now, what are you to Voldemort? A Death Eater? You have the mark.”
The mood of the room immediately dropped, as did Malfoy’s face.
“I thought you said you’d listened?”
“I did, it’s just a lot to piece together.”
“As clever as always,” he sighed, glancing away from Harry as he continued. “I took the mark because I had to, it’s as simple as that. And you must’ve seen my… my unpleasantness when Professor Snape tended to my wounds. That’s what Voldemort has me for. That and to carry out his will, which I suppose you know now too.”
Harry was still confused, wanting immediately to jump to Dumbledore but finding something told him to start from the beginning, to address the scars he couldn’t yet place.
“Is this the first time you’ve hurt yourself?”
“Yes,” Malfoy responded in reproach.
“Then…”
It took Malfoy hardly any time at all to realize what he was getting at. He looked uncomfortable, pulling his collar closer to his neck.
“All those scars are from something else. It started the summer after he returned.”
Harry pushed back thoughts of Cedric and spirits, focusing on what exactly that meant.
“Wait, you’ve accumulated that many scars in just a year and a half? Is Voldemort himself doing this to you?”
He couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice, nor the surprise as he realized what that actually meant. Sure, he had seen the monster a few times and was continuously fighting against him, but Malfoy must be haunted by him every waking day.
Malfoy just squirmed, clearly alarmed by the conversation.
“I don’t understand why this is important,” he finally offered up.
“Because you’re being tortured! That’s—”
“Notimportant. That’s what it is. I’m used to it anyway. It keeps them alive and him satiated, and I like to think it gets some of his energy out. He always seems to give out less violent orders in the meetings after he’s had time with me.”
“Time with you? Malfoy, you make it sound like some mundane thing! It’s torture, of a child. It’s clearly messed you up!”
“No! It’s made me right!” they were both standing now, too engaged in the argument to sit any longer. “I know it’s wrong now. Believe me, I get why you’ve been such an annoying hero all these years. That’s why you have to stop me. You have to help stop me. I don’t know how else to get out of this. I don’t know what to do.”
There was nothing more to say for a moment, just silence. Two war to torn boys stood divided by five years of history and there wasn’t anything in the world that could save them from the present. No matter how the story was spun they were both undeniably pawns and irrevocably fucked up. War machines with war ideals, brainwashed into thinking that what was right mattered more than what was good.
“Mmph, shit,” Malfoy groaned, clutching at his stomach as he was wont to do. “Damn it, not right now.”
Harry was drawn back into the moment, watching as pain seemed to writhe under Malfoy’s skin, crawling through his veins.
“What’s happening?” he exclaimed, alarmed, as Malfoy fell to one knee.
“Just— just piss off.”
Harry could tell that whatever was happening was escalating quickly.
“Stop staring, Potter!” Malfoy managed to sneer after a few moments of silence.
“You literally just collapsed from pain! What am I supposed to do, just turn my back?”
He would’t do that. This wasn’t tears in the night. This was a tangible pain.
“I’ll be—” he stifled a cough. “I’ll be fine. Seriously, bugger off!”
His anger was a pitiful display and not nearly mean enough for Harry to head it.
“Come here, you need to sit down. Maybe you lost too much blood.”
“That’t not it—” Malfoy started but stopped short as Harry’s hand met his forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
There was a pause as Harry made to remove his hand. He watched as Malfoy leaned forward into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he chased peace. When Harry made to remove it again he found a pale and icy grip around his wrist holding him steady.
“Wait,” Malfoy almost cried.
Harry couldn’t move, frozen as he watched whatever the hell was happening between Malfoy and his touch. It was peaceful for a moment if not entirely confusing.
“Did you cast something?” Malfoy finally offered up, removing Harry’s hand just enough to meet his eyes. All Harry could do in response was shake his head against the notion.
Malfoy cringed again but let go of Harry’s arm.
“I didn’t mean to be so brash, I— eugh, shit,” he coughed now, blood soaking into the inside elbow of his robe. “I must be losing it but I thought your touch stopped the pain in my head.”
Malfoy was descending further and further and all Harry could do was watch except he had just been told that that wasn't true. Even if he didn’t understand it or want to humor it, he couldn’t not try.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Every—” he couldn’t finish the thought, groans of pain escaping him.
Harry made a split second decision and he hoped Malfoy wouldn't murder him for it. He dropped to the ground across from his confusing classmate. Malfoy gasped lightly when he felt the press of a palm again against his forehead, five fingers resting against scalding skin. He sighed into it and Harry took it as confirmation. He suddenly recognized the fading of a dull ache in his scar that he hadn’t even picked up on.
“Is the pain all gone?” Harry whispered. He didn’t know why that kept happening but the situation felt too fragile to talk at a normal level.
Malfoy released a long breath before responding, “Not all, it’s isolated. Like a soft wave is washing over my skull and shoulders but my stomach still feels as if a cult of Cornish Pixies are trying to slice their way out.”
Harry’s gut churned as his next idea surfaced and he almost pushed it away but then would he really be himself if he didn’t execute every avenue?
His other hand hesitated forward. He didn't know how he’d gotten here, couldn’t believe his strength at being able to set pretenses aside and help a hurting boy despite their situation. He told himself that he could forget all this tomorrow but that today it was his duty to aid the ailing.
“Potter! Get off you absolute git!”
His hand was on the small of Malfoy’s back and as he wriggled under the touch Harry felt just as uncomfortable.
“Is it not helping?” he managed through an angry glare. He wasn’t enjoying this either, despite the way his heart beat seemed to be accelerating. “I’ll gladly get up and leave you here, it’d serve you right after all these years.”
There was a hesitation, a dodging of eyes.
“No, it’s… it’s helping. Stay… if you must,” he conceded.
Ten minutes passed and Harry’s arms were starting to cramp up with the odd angles they were at so as to keep as minimal contact as possible.When he heard the breath of the boy in front of him finally regain its slow melodic rhythm he decided he’d held on long enough.
Malfoy’s eyes opened slowly, reticently, as if he’d just awoken from a deep trance as Harry stretched out his arms above his head. He looked almost drugged and Harry despised the small flip his stomach did at the thought that his touch was able to make the unpleasant boy look so soft.
Harry nearly jumped when Malfoy spoke.
“Well that was bloody well mortifying, let’s never do that again,” his face scrunched up in disgust as he stood shakily. “Better yet, you stop stalking me entirely, because I could rather go without being followed around by a nosy troublemaker all the time.”
“I’m sure you would prefer that with all your sneaking around,” Harry scoffed, a bit of whiplash from the abrupt mood change. “If you don’t tell me what you’re up to I’ll have no choice but to figure it out for myself.”
“I don’t know how to go about this you absolute duffer!” Malfoy tried to yell though his scratchy voice couldn’t quite reach the desired effect. “I’m walking a very thin line between two worlds that I don’t quite fit right in. What would you have me do? Go risking everything so you can play the hero again? This year not exciting enough for you? Need to risk another life to make you feel special? This isn’t the Triwizard tournament, Potter.”
Harry felt his blood start to boil. Of course reasoning with Malfoy would be just as infuriating as ever.
“You don’t get to talk about Cedric! You don’t get to talk! Shut your stupid mouth!”
Some small flicker of emotion passed over Malfoy’s face in the dim light.
“For once in my life I’m not trying to rile you up, but you of all people should know how easily life is lost. I can’t be throwing around information like a spy. That gets people killed.”
Harry stood on solid ground but he felt as if he were sinking.
“People have already died. Your life isn’t more important than theirs.”
Malfoy flinched back, almost in recollection. Harry had lost his grip on the severity of his words.
“I’m not worried about my life.”
“You should be,” Harry snarled, hands balled into fists that barely contained sparks of loose magic. “You should be worried because if I find out you’ve stepped out of line or you get somebody killed I swear to God I will end that self-righteous life of yours myself.”
Malfoy exhaled a sigh that carried an odd weight to it, his eyes wide. It was impossible to tell what the heaviness entailed, but some part of it seemed relieved, content. The other seemed terrified.
“Promise?” he joked, but the way his voice quivered killed the attempt at sorry humor. Harry’s vision was still plagued with red and he could not respond.
Malfoy backed away awkwardly before making for the door, uncertain in himself and his surroundings.
“I’m not the villain you think me to be, Potter, but if having something to chase is what keeps you going then by all means, make my life a living hell. Just, try not to blow a fuse while you’re at it, I can barely make you out for all that steam rolling out of your ears.”
With that final jab he was gone, door falling shut on the trembling figure of Harry Potter who still couldn’t fathom words. By the time he calmed down he was sure he’d missed breakfast and would be late to charms, but that didn’t matter.
He cursed himself, kicking a pillow out of his way in an angry storm. He’d let Malfoy go without getting any real information from him and somehow had let him manipulate his senses like he always did. If he was going to figure this out he’d need to keep a level head, and that was almost always impossible when it came to the antics of Malfoy.
He wandered idly to class after that, mind reeling from the events of the night but focused on the promise he’d left unanswered. Harry wasn’t a killer, not really, but there were instances were it was undeniable that he had destroyed, and so maybe if he had had the means to talk he would have answered Malfoy’s eery question of promise sincerely.
Remember, he told himself as he rounded the corner to Flitwick’s class. None of this is your fault, but all of it rests on you.