My Valentine
Friday, December 25th, 1992
Harry’s mood certainly seemed to increase after Draco’s talk (and snowball fight) with him, but it was also probably thanks to the Weasley twins, who’d started a habit of marching Harry through the corridors and shouting, “Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through…”
Draco had found this very funny, and at the sight of Weaslette looking quite unhappy whenever a twin asked Harry who he was planning to attack next, a tiny voice in his head got angry that she was pureblood and it couldn’t be her.
He honestly didn’t understand the involuntary hate he was starting to hold towards Ginny Weasley, but it was starting to get in the way with his friendship with her brothers, as when Weasley declared at breakfast he’d be staying for the holidays along with the rest of his siblings, Draco had slammed his pumpkin juice to the table, cracking the bottom of the class.
“Relax, Malfoy,” Weasley had said, “You see me every day anyway.”
It made hardly any sense, so Draco was quite grateful for the relief of Christmas morning to forget about that roaring monster in his stomach.
That is, until Hermione Granger had to interrupt his peaceful sleep by bursting into the dorms and ripping back the curtains, blinding he and Weasley like they were a pair of vampires.
“Wake up!”
“Hermione - you’re not supposed to be in here -” Weasley groaned.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione, throwing two of the presents at each of them. “Now wait to open those, I’m going to get Harry.” she strode to the doors then, called back, “Get dressed,” before exiting.
Draco met Weasley’s eyes and they gave each other identical eyerolls then, chuckling, hopped out of bed. Draco dressed in a proper Yule tunic, white with gold trimming and a belt of holly, and headed down with Weasley, who was wearing that sweater his mother always knitted for her children with the initials on it.
They only had to wait a few minutes before Hermione returned with a groggy Harry, also dressed in a Weasley sweater, and then they could all sit before the fire, all the Weasley children joining them, to open presents, Draco feeling only slightly terrible he hadn’t gotten anyone anything, because the reason made sense; he didn’t celebrate Christmas.
Weasley had gotten him a book called Puddlemere United; A History (“I remembered you liked them.”), Hermione a new broom polishing kit (“For your new broom!”), and Harry gifted him a leather pouch fit with many small pockets to hold phials (“You’re the Potioneer, you tell me what it’s for.”)
Draco almost felt sad as he watched the Weasley’s and Hermione open gifts from their parents, but then Harry nudged him and said, “The Dursley’s only sent me a toothpick,” and he gave him a weak smile, feeling a little cheered up.
All in all it was a magnificent Christmas, with a delicious breakfast served in a Great Hall decorated with yuletide cheer everywhere. Dumbledore led them in carols which was quite embarrassing at first, but after a couple and some laughter from his friends Draco came to enjoy that too.
And if Draco kept glancing at Harry and staring a little longer than necessary at those sparkling green eyes… Well, that fluttery feeling in his stomach was simply the trust he held that he was a good friend and not the Heir.
Right?
-*-*-*-
Friday, January 15th
“If I complete all this work before I’m a sixth year,” said Harry as he and the Gryffindors headed back from Potions to lunch. “I’ll be impressed.”
They had been set a rather impressive amount of homework from Snape, Draco had to admit, but it would be a breeze for him. Weasley was actually getting some of his best grades in Potions so far this year, as it required barely any wandwork, and his wand was a disaster.
“Hermione, how many rat tails do you add to -”
Weasley broke off, because a hoarse voice could be heard yelling from somewhere up the stairs above them.
“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered, and they glanced at each other just once before running up the stairs and paused at the turn of a corridor to listen and not be seen.
“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” Weasley asked, and Draco shivered to think so, all the Muggle-borns he knew flitting through his mind.
“- even more work for me!” came Filch’s voice, which sounded hysterical. “like I haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore -” With that he stomped off and they distantly heard a door slamming.
Four heads popped out around the corner; it was the spot Mrs. Norris had been attacked, which now was flooded with water flowing out from Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and the sound of her wails with it.
“Now what’s up with her?” Weasley groaned, and Draco turned and frowned at him, not really knowing why.
“Let’s go and see,” said Harry.
They wrenched their robes up over their ankles so as not to get soaked, and entered the OUT OF ORDER bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle cried, miserable and depressing, filling their ears immediately.
“What’s up, Myrtle?” said Harry awkwardly as they crept towards her usual stall.
“Who’s that?” Myrtle sobbed. “Come to throw something else at me?”
Draco pushed the door inward and smiled at her, “Now why would we do that?”
Myrtle slowly rose up from the toilet, frowning down at them as Draco’s friends stepped into view behind him. “Oh, it’s you all. Don’t ask me,” she moaned, rising up even further and hugging herself, floating lazily over their heads. “Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…”
“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at you,” said Harry, like an idiot. “I mean, it’d just go right -” Draco elbowed him harshly in the ribcage and smiled up at Myrtle.
“Ignore him,” he said, “I for one think it’s really awful to throw things at people, Myrtle. Awful and mean.” Myrtle, who had turned to face away from them, stopped, and slowly turned back around. She had the same curious look in her eyes as she eyes Draco that she had when they met her months ago.
“You’re strange…” She said slowly, moving down towards him, “Different… Why don’t you make fun of me?”
Draco shifted uncomfortably and shrugged, “Well… There’s nothing wrong with a bit of crying. It’s quite sad, actually. What’s to make fun of there?” he straightened up, folding his arms, “Actually, if someone’s making fun of someone else for crying, they aren’t a very good bully. Need some better material, I think.”
Myrtle, who was now level with Draco, though her body still floated suspended in the air, smiled. Draco had never seen her so happy. Granted, they’d only met twice.
“You really think so?”
“Of course! Everyone cries after all -”
He didn’t finish as he was startled by her suddenly laughing and giggling, rising up into the air to do a sort of spin before landing on the top of a stall, sitting primly, and smiling down at them.
“If you really must know, a little while ago I was just sitting in the U bend, thinking about death, and that fell right through the top of my head,” Myrtle stretched out a finger to point under a sink, “It’s over there, it got washed out…”
The group turned. A small, thin black book lay in the water under the sink. Harry strode across the room and reached down but Weasley waded over and held him back.
“What?” Harry asked, looking confused. Draco was too.
“Are you crazy?” said Weasley, “It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Harry laughed. “Come off it, how could it be dangerous?”
“I think Ron’s right…” Hermione muttered.
“You’d be surprised,” said Weasley frowned down at the book, looking quite skeptical. “Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated Dad’s told me about - there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one handed. And -”
“All right, I’ve got the point,” Harry looked almost longingly into the water at the book. “Well, we won't find out unless we look at it,” he said, and, ignoring Hermione’s cries, he snatched it up off the floor, opening it.
“T. M. Riddle,” Harry read out, showing them the inside of the book where the name was in smudged ink. “It’s a diary.”
“Hang on,” said Weasley, squinting at it thoughtfully, “I know I’ve read that name before… But where?”
Harry started to flip through the pages, but frowned deeply.
“He never wrote in it,” he said, showing them blank pages.
“Really?” Hermione asked incredulously and they all huddled around the book, confused as he.
“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” asked Weasley curiously.
“It’s fifty years old,” said Harry, “and T. M. Riddle must’ve been a Muggle-born; he bought it from a store on Vauxhall Road. That’s in England.”
“So why does someone have it now? At school?” Draco asked, but nobody seemed to know the answer.
“Well, it’s not much use to you,” Weasley shrugged, but Harry didn’t seem to think so, as he pocketed it.
As they left the bathroom, Draco remembered what his father had said at parties that made him remember the Chamber of Secrets in the first place, and his heart dropped; he’d said the Chamber of Secrets had been opened when Grandpa Abraxas was in school… fifty years ago. Almost certainly, the Heir of Slytherin had owned this book then, and taken it to school now.
But then who was T. M. Riddle?
-*-*-*-
Monday, February 14th
While Draco was left feeling a resurgence in his uncomfortable thoughts about what his father was up to, the rest of the school had fallen into a sort of relaxation, with the castle entering February and the snow beginning to thaw, and not a single attack since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, the students felt much more happy than they had in quite a while.
Some still, persistently, held grudges against Harry, but Harry seemed far too preoccupied with that damn book to notice.
“What are you expecting?” Draco asked him during Potions one morning as he flipped backwards and forwards through the book for the hundredth time. “Words to magically appear before your eyes?”
“Something like that,” Harry mumbled, and Draco rolled his eyes fondly.
However, this cheerful mood was ruined in the form of a holiday, of all things; Valentine’s Day.
Draco yawned, having just had another late night Quidditch practice, into the Great Hall to find someone had supposedly set off a love bomb inside it. Garishly pink flowers dotted the walls, and heart shaped confetti was falling from the enchanted ceiling like the snow at the Christmas feast. Unlike that snow, however, the confetti got in everyone’s food, hair, and eyes, and wasn’t all that pleasing.
“What in Merlin’s bloody pants is all of this?” Draco asked no one in particular as he sat down at Gryffindor table.
Weasley scowled, and pointed at the teacher’s table.
Draco turned and instantly softened as he spotted Lockhart, standing, and wearing lurid pink robes that matched the decorations, complete with a red rose tucked behind his ear in his golden hair. Though he beamed his award winning smile, every other teacher looked like they’d rather be anywhere else to varying degrees. Save Dumbledore, who looked quite amused with the display.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart called out to them all. “And may I thank the forty six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all - and it doesn’t end here!” With a clap of his hands, the students whipped around in their seats to see a dozen, muscular dwarfs march out, absurdly dressed in golden wings and carrying harps.
“My friendly, card carrying cupids!” Lockhart explained. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”
Showing the want to be literally anywhere else, Flitwick buried his head in his hands and Snape looked more likely to murder someone then all of the looks he’d given Lockhart up until this point in the year combined.
Draco turned away, chuckling at the idea of sending someone a valentine, when, as Weasley turned to snap at Hermione for something related to her crush on Lockhart, he spotted Weaslette slurping up her cereal.
She looked to be in a more cheery mood lately, as the rest of the school was, but seeing her in particular happy made that dragon in his stomach wake and growl angrily. Surely she’d be thinking of sending a card to Harry.
At the same time the first year sitting behind her tapped her on the shoulder and said something that made both of them burst out into laughter.
“I’d probably die of embarrassment!” He heard Weaslette cry, and a twisted smile spread across his lips as something made him believe she was talking about sending a valentine to Harry.
Die of embarrassment, huh? He turned in his seat to look at Harry, who similarly had a disgusted look upon his face and the smirk grew.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to send a valentine afterall…
-*-*-*-
That was a terrible idea, absolutely terrible.
Draco had paced the Gryffindor Common Room, crafting up lyrics for the worse half of the morning, thinking of what Harry’s eyes always reminded him of, and his jet black hair. Thinking about how he was so famed, famous Harry Potter, the stunning hero who conquered the Dark Lord, and only after he’d handed the heart shaped parchment to the dwarf manning the table outside of the Great Hall, did he realize how bad it sounded.
Merlin, he made it sound like he liked Harry. Would it even be obvious that Weaslette had sent it?
He had to get there before Harry could think otherwise.
“Stop! Please!” Problem was Lockhart must’ve instructed the dwarves to stop at nothing to deliver the valentine’s, ‘can’t backtrack on the ways of the heart’ and all that, because now Draco was trying to push past people moving to get to class while still attempting to shout at the dwarf to halt.
“It’s a prank!” he yelled, attempting to take the moral high ground now, and at least it would be a half-truth. “It’s a prank and now I feel bad so could you please not -”
“Oi, you! ‘Arry Potter!”
Too late.
Draco skidded to a halt and looked around at the students who had all halted in their tracks at the sound of a dwarf calling someone’s name. At the promise of someone else to laugh at, and Harry Potter, the Heir of Slytherin, at that.
Draco was caught in the tide, and it seemed his only answer would be -
He spotted Weaslette, on the other side of the circle around Harry, stopping to watch as well, and smirked. Maybe he’d be able to save himself yet.
“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ‘Arry Potter in person,” the dwarf said, adding a twang on his harp as if to threaten Harry, who looked like a mouse caught by a cat, skittering around for exits.
“Not here,” he hissed, as the dwarf lunged forward to grab his bag.
“Stay still!”
“Let me go!”
There was the sound of a rip and the bag split in two, all his supplies spilling onto the floor, which only made more people stop to crowd around as Harry had to scramble to pick it all up. Draco, seeing the opportunity, took a deep breath and smoothed back his slicked back hair.
“What’s going on here?” he swaggered forward and drawled. Harry looked up to see him, widened his eyes, turning a little pink and began to pick up the pace in stuffing things in his back.
“What’s all this commotion?” It was Prefect Weasley, and this made Harry lose it, turning to run for it but being tackle by the dwarf, who seized him around the knees, bringing him to the floor, then pinned him to it by sitting on his ankles.
“Right,” he said, and Draoc braced himself. At least he’d had the sense to send it anonymously… “Here is your singing valentine.”
Here it comes, and oh, it was horrible.
“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
The crowd burst out laughing and Draco let out a, “Har, har,” very unconvincingly. It was even worse hearing it. ‘I wish he was mine?’ He sounded head over heels! But he wasn’t, obviously, and that fluttering in his stomach could vanish with an evanesco, please and thank you.
“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,” Prefect Weasley shouted to them all and, as Draco tried to move along with the flow of the crowd, because he didn’t have any lessons today, he spotted Weaslette and seized his opportunity.
Cupping one hand to his mouth he called, “I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!”
She looked into his eyes, back at Harry on the floor, who was stuffing that damn diary in his bag (did he sleep with it?) and turned red, burying her face in her hands.
Draco smirked triumphantly, the roaring dragon relaxing a bit in his stomach, but the fluttering didn’t stop, and, with one glance back at Hary, he knew he needed to get out of here.
He ran for the nearest bathroom, closed the door, locked it with his wand, and leaned against the sink.
Okay, so the song sounded romantic, but none of that pointed to the fluttering feeling meaning anything… right? It had gotten stronger and stronger as he thought about Harry’s features, and Draco didn’t even really remember writing down the ‘wish he were mine’ line, but he clearly had…
Was he going crazy?
No, he felt alright and sensible otherwise.
He thought of that dragon, and how he really didn’t know, all year, why he wanted to get back at Weaslette so much, much less why he felt so triumphant in doing so at last. But he did think Harry’s eyes, and his dark hair, and his heroic bravery, were all things he liked very much about him…
Merlin… did Draco fancy Harry?
No.
Surely not.
The fluttering wormed its way into his heart, which gave a sharp badump and he thought of when this all started at the end of last year, when he was hugging Harry.
He thought of how so many times a small part of him had wanted to lunge forwards and hug him again this year.
Merlin’s bloody pants, Draco had a crush. A big, fat, wallop of a crush, on Harry freakin’ Potter.
-*-*-*-
“Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.”
Draco wanted nothing more than to slam his head against the table of the library. They were on the wrong track. Hagrid was who was blamed, not the culprit, and if Draco could still theorize correctly even though Harry was being very distracting with how avid and sparkling his eyes looked, then he was pretty sure he knew who the real culprit that his father was working with was.
“Harry, could I have a look at that diary?” He held out his hand, eyeing the think book with interest, “I’d like to talk to ‘T. M. Riddle’ too.”
“Tom,” said Harry, and Draco noticed, strangely, his hand seemed to grip the book tighter, “It’s Tom.”
“Okay…” said Draco slowly, stretching out his hand farther, “Can I have a talk with Tom, please?”
Harry glanced down, then up, and sighed heavily. “Okay.”
Draco took the book, picked up his quill, then spotted the time on his watch and sighed, standing and tucking it into his satchel instead.
“What’re you doing?” demanded Harry, standing and looking alarmed. Draco himself was alarmed. Why was he so possessive over this book?
“Quidditch practice,” he explained, “I can’t write in it now.”
“Right…” Harry slowly lowered himself down, eyes still on the book. “I suppose you can keep it. Try to figure out any more you can about Hagrid at school.”
Draco didn’t intend to do that at all, but he promised he would anyway. Farbeit for him, seeing as how he did fancy Harry, to let him down.
-*-*-*-
Saturday, February 20th
Now that Draco was very aware of his very large crush on Harry, a lot of things became… more noticeable. Such as the fluttering in his stomach, which was getting on his nerves, certain mannerisms of Harry’s that only made him fall head over heels even more, and, of course, Quidditch.
The Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw match had been postponed through all of January by Dumbledore, thinking it was insensitive what with the Chamber of Secrets being open, but now that the attacks had halted for quite a while now, the match had at last been allowed to happen the Saturday after the disaster that was Valentine’s Day.
Which left Draco in the stands, watching Harry flit across the field, idly leaning his chin into his palm. He was just so… so… Well, subconscious Draco writing a love song to him said it best; ‘divine.’ His barrel rolls were undoubtedly better than anyone else on the pitch, and there was always a spirit to him when he flew that Draco so rarely saw any other time… Who wouldn’t be utterly and hopelessly infatuated with him?
He looked up the stands and saw Weaslette had abandoned her flag supporting Harry, and huffed.
Serves her right.
Slytherin won, of course, Harry catching the snitch in a usual spectacular dive of his, and Draco clapped hard while wondering when he’d be able to give him a celebratory winning kiss, as a witch ran across the pitch to throw herself at one of the Slytherin Beater’s.
Then he blushed a bright red and stomped his way back to the Common Room.
-*-*-*-
He hadn’t written in the diary yet, wrapped up in studies, Quidditch practice, and ridiculous infatuation so, plopping down in a corner he opened up the blank book and dipped his quill in his inkwell, recalling what Harry had said he’d done.
Hello. My name is Draco Malfoy.
The ink seeped into the pages out of sight, as Harry had said it would and, after a moment, new words appeared in its place.
Hello, Draco Malfoy. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?
Harry lent it to me. I have some questions.
Ask away.
Draco paused, frowning. He didn’t know exactly how to word this, not wanting to reveal too much to Riddle and scare him, but also wanting to find answers. Taking a deep breath, he wrote;
My grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, went to school with you fifty years ago. He said the Chamber of Secrets was opened that year and that Rubeus Hagrid was framed. Have you ever thought that maybe you caught the wrong guy?
After a long pause, words appeared, and Riddle answered him.
Harry might have told you, but I was worried about the school being shut down at the time. I might have acted rashly, and I thank you for informing me of this possible mistake. I did know Abraxas, he was a friend.
Draco seized the opportunity to play his trump card.
Do you know Lucius Malfoy? He’s my father.
No. I am a manifestation of my sixteen year old memories. I'm not aware of anything that happened after the year the Chamber of Secrets was opened.
With a long drawn out sigh, Draco leaned back in his seat, turning to frown out the window at the grounds which were slowly being overtaken by spring. He really thought he had him here, but how could Riddle be working with his father if he didn’t even know who he was? Of course, he could still be lying, but Draco had no way of proving that.
He heard a small yelp and it broke him out of his reverie, as he turned back around to see Weaslette had just walked in with a group of kids flooding in from the game and was staring at the diary with wide eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Draco snapped at her, picking it up and stuffing it in his satchel. “Boys can’t write in diaries too?” with that he turned and jogged up to his dorms. Riddle was going to get him nowhere. Besides, he had a Charms essay to finish.
-*-*-*-
Sunday, April 11th
The Easter Holidays came and went, his parents informing him in a not so kind letter that they saw no reason for him to return to the Manor for a couple of days, which left him in the dark still without a way of talking to Dobby and asking about Tom Riddle. If anything else, he could take his mind off both that and his affection with Harry when McGonagall handed out charts for picking their subjects for third year at breakfast.
Harry quickly headed over to sit with them while choosing, probably because he wanted to make sure he matched with Weasley, while Hermione picked her chart up and squinted at it, mouth screwed up in a frown.
“It could affect our whole future,” she said.
“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry, scowling.
“And I just want to take Alchemy,” said Draco, sighing longingly at Prefect Weasley’s own chart which had all the seventh year subjects on it.
“We can’t,” said Weasley gloomily. “We keep all our old subjects, or I’d’ve ditched Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“But that’s very important!” Hermione exclaimed.
“Not the way Lockhart teaches it. I haven’t learned anything from him except not to set pixies loose.” Draco had to admit, with a frown up at the dashing man at the table, that he was right. Besides, with Harry beside him, more and more he started to not be taken by Lockhart. Sometimes he even sat numbly watching him act out in class and imagining Harry doing the heroic deeds instead.
Draco frowned down at the chart, thinking he probably should actually choose a subject. He knew he wanted to take Care of Magical Creatures, everyone should, he’d been waiting for that one for a while, so circled it with a smile, and he always loved the idea of finally understanding the runes in the old tomes in the Manor or decorating the wallpaper, that his mother sometimes explained could be cast to heat or cool the house, so Ancient Runes was an obvious choice as well.
His parents had been quite adamant on him taking Arithmancy in their letter about the Easter holidays, so he reluctantly circled that, and was about to say that was all good, when his eyes lingered on one subject in particular.
Divination.
His parents were quite split on this topic in the letter, and his whole life for that matter, as his mother saw merits in it, but his father thought it was a bunch of rubbish. This was due in part to how they often butted heads in that class when they took it together, if Ezra Crabbe’s stories were to be believed, but Draco had always been caught in the middle as a result.
He hadn’t thought of his run-in with the centaur Firenze in the Forbidden Forest last year very often, but now the memory was at the forefront of his brain, as he thought of how much he’d wanted to understand what he’d told him about the stars predicting the paths of the future, and the worries that had sprouted up among the eleven year olds about Harry’s future.
If he took Divination, he might find some answers.
(Also, he side eyed Harry’s list and saw him circle it and, at the thought of having one more class with Harry to add on to Care and Potions, his fluttering monster did a little jig in his stomach as he happily checked off the subject.)
-*-*-*-
Friday, May 7th
Once again, Draco felt as soon as Wood turned seventeen he was ready to sue him for child abuse, because this was just ridiculous. He’d ordered the team, in an avid, wide eyed obsession to start a streak of Cup wins for Gryffindor, to practice every night after dinner, meaning Draco had to somehow manage to complete his homework during classes, which was only possible in Potions, because he was Snape’s favorite, and History of Magic. Everywhere else he was threatening detention, which of course would only make matters a million times worse.
At best, Wood’s efforts were amounting to the team being quite cheery the night before the upcoming match at the prospect of starting a streak, just as Wood had hoped, but at worst…
At worst Draco entered his dormitory the evening before the match to find it an utter wreck. Or at least, Draco’s items, at the end of the room, were a wreck. His trunk had been upturned, his cloaks ripped, his covers turned inside out on his bed and the drawer in his bedside table pulled out, its contents thrown across the bare mattress. Many of his books had been ripped and pages lay in crumples at his feet as he cautiously stepped over to the mess, feeling a pit in his stomach grow and grow.
He had a feeling, a terrible feeling, growing there. It wasn’t a fluttering feeling, not even a jealous feeling. It wasn’t anything to do with infatuation or crushes. No, it was an instinct, that whoever had done all of this was looking for one item in particular.
“Someone was looking for something,” Weasley said behind him as the other Gryffindor boys poured in, and he had to agree.
“The diary…” He turned to look Weasley in the eyes, his blood running cold. “It’s gone.”