Chapter 6
Pomfrey didn’t look too excited to be woken so early, but the sight of Malfoy seemed to spur her into stunned action.
Apparently, Malfoy’s ability to move and be seen wasn’t reliant on the lake itself, but rather his body, because he was perfectly visible, even while standing in the infirmary.
Harry had brought in Malfoy’s clothes, which Madam Pomfrey wrinkled her nose at and whisked into a laundry bin, shoes and all.
“Alright, back up, back up!”
She even hit Zabini in the shoulder, glaring when he didn’t move away fast enough, and soon enough everyone was standing at the foot of the bed looking at Malfoy’s not-corpse, covered in mud with plants growing from his clothes, roots binding his fingertips together and his hair stained somewhat green.
She confirmed the same thing Harry had- a heart beat. But no breathing, no reflexes- nothing.
“You are in big trouble, young man,” she lectured firmly, shaking a finger at Malfoy’s ghost.
She brought over several potions and tried to get his body to swallow them; prying his mouth open and dumping the potion inside. When she couldn’t get him to swallow the potion, even plugging his nose to try to suffocate a swallow response out of him (despite him not breathing to begin with), she vanished the liquid and brought out a very muggle-looking contraption. It reminded Harry of muggle hospital machines, with the metal bars hanging bags of liquid into needles.
Evidently, it worked similarly as well, because after swiftly cleaning him up with a few strong scourgify’s, ridding him of most of the mud and plants, she brought out what Harry recognized as an IV and carefully slid the pointed needle under the skin on the back of his hand.
Malfoy winced and looked away, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“You’ll update me, won’t you?” Pansy Parkinson suddenly spoke, directed at Zabini, before turning and walking away without another word.
“She never was good with seeing me hurt,” Malfoy spoke quietly, watching her leave.
“Hurt? Mate, you’re basically dead.”
Malfoy scowled at Zabini, but Harry wasn’t paying attention. Not really. Not when there was a thin white tube being shoved down Malfoy’s throat, attached to a bag with an orange-ish colored liquid that Harry recognized as a nutrition potion.
“It’s lucky you came up when you did, mister Malfoy,” Pomfrey spoke, adjusting the two bags hanging from the metal rack- one going to the IV, the other to his throat. “You were just days from starving to death and really dying. Really, what were you thinking? It’s a miracle you survived this long at all! If your body wasn’t protected by your magic and some sort of metabolic hibernation, I suspect you wouldn’t have lasted a week, let alone the months you did!”
“Well can you… wake me up?” Malfoy asked urgently. “Can you fix me?”
Madam Pomfrey glared at him. “I’m sure you know better than to ask foolish questions by now, mister Malfoy. I don’t even know what’s wrong; except for your body seems to have placed itself into some sort of magic coma. As for the ghost business, and Harry’s pain whenever your skin makes contact, you may as well ask Peeves!”
Malfoy looked dejected but not upset or disappointed. Clearly, he’d expected this.
“I see. Thank you, Pomfrey.”
She shot him a glare that was not at all unkind before bustling away to speak quietly to McGonagall away from the other students.
“Harry,” Hermione spoke softly, “I’m going to head back to the tower. Ron too. You should-”
“Later,” Harry cut her off before she could finish. “I’ll catch up.”
Hermione looked worried but nodded, brushing her hand along his shoulder as she passed by him. Ron, similarly, clapped him on the back, helpfully saying, “Don’t… You know. Yeah?” before joining his girlfriend, leaving only Ghost Malfoy, Zabini and Harry with Not-Quite-Corpse Malfoy, Pomfrey and McGonagall.
“Draco,” Zabini spoke, sounding hesitant as he glanced at Harry. “You didn’t-”
McGonagall came back, Pomfrey at her side, and Zabini immediately stopped talking. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. “Mister Potter, we’d like to see the effect Malfoy has on you, if you will. Mister Zabini, a chair, if you will?”
Zabini knew exactly what to do, pulling up a chair to the side of Malfoy’s bed and motioning for Harry to sit. McGonagall nodded at him and he grimaced, tentatively sitting next to Malfoy. Even without the green tint of the water shrouding him, he still looked ill.
Ghost Malfoy watched with crossed arms, looking like a scrutinizing mother at the foot of his own bed.
“If you will, Mister Potter,” McGonagall spoke, sounding somewhat impatient. Harry sighed and, after several moments, brought his hand forward, resting it on the exposed back of Malfoy’s hand.
Almost immediately, pain seared through him, specifically through his chest this time, and then with the contact he had with Malfoy’s flesh- searing, iron-hot, so hot it felt like his skin might melt and fuse with Malfoy’s own- and then his vision went black.
This time, however, he wasn’t reliving a memory- well, not his own memory, at least. This time, he was watching his own back retreat towards the castle from the dock of the lake, and somehow, he knew he was experiencing life from Malfoy’s perspective- which didn’t make sense.
Yet, Malfoy turned back to the water and Harry was dragged with him, feeling like his eyes and consciousness were just stapled onto Malfoy’s own head, along for the ride.
Malfoy sat there in silence, Harry watching Malfoy’s face shift every few minutes. Either a grimace, or a frown, or simply his lips pursing into a tight line. That went on for an indescribable amount of time- allotments of time never felt solid, instead rather lucid, in memories- before a permanent frown made its way onto Malfoy’s face and his eyes glossed over.
Harry really, really hoped that he’d be pulled from the memory; that he wouldn’t be forced to watch this; what he knew was inevitably coming.
A rough sob and Malfoy’s bare feet kicked aggressively at the water, sending it in a harsh spray several feet in front of him. Malfoy grimaced, then sobbed again, pushing himself to his feet. His chest heaved his great breaths as he cast a tempus charm. 10:58.
Six minutes before Harry had felt the pain in his head.
Malfoy stood there, on the edge of the dock, openly crying while staring at the dark surface of the water below him. His foot edged forward before yanking away, eyes wide. Terrified. Petrified.
But the sobbing suddenly stopped.
His breathing slowed. His eyes stopped shedding tears, and he looked utterly calm.
Harry knew only a few seconds of peace, of hope, before Malfoy lifted one bare foot off the splintered wooden dock, took one step forward, and let himself fall.
The water and air rushed around him in a wave of bubbles that reminded Harry of an atomic bomb, plume-ing up around him and then closing above his head in a large wave.
Malfoy’s eyes were closed as he started to sink, the water getting darker around him. Lower and lower- and then Malfoy’s chest began to heave, though his mouth and nose remained stubbornly still for several moments.
Panic had begun to settle in Malfoy; Harry could see it.
Could see his eyes shooting open. The sudden lurch of hands; of feet; hands clawing at the water above him as if he could climb out, feet kicking too widely and rapidly to carry him anywhere- and then the first breath.
He watched Malfoy’s lips part, releasing a large bubble before water was sucked in. He started to cough, roughly forcing water in and out of his lungs, hands giving up on their attempt to climb and moving to his throat.
His eyes were wide; panicked, fingernails digging into his throat as his chest went concave and inflated; filled with thick, murky water instead of the oxygen his body craved.
His white blond hair, which had floated so ethereally before, now looked more like it was trying to trap him, whipping around his face and clinging to his features as it floated around.
It didn’t take much longer for Malfoy’s movements to become weak; for his limbs to slow, for the attempt at breathing to seize entirely, for his eyes to slide shut, his body slowly, slowly, peacefully, sink to the bottom of the lake, his body landing softly amongst the dark soil with a soft plume of sediment blooming around his body.
Harry was ripped from the scene aggressively, considering the peaceful unconsciousness Malfoy had just been in the memory. Someone was shaking his shoulders, and he shoved them away in an immediate panic, only to suddenly feel horrible when he realized it was McGonagall.
“I’m sorry, sorry, I’m fine,” he immediately said, though he felt as though he were suffocating, bringing his hands up to his throat tenderly as he glanced at Malfoy’s body; at the scratches along his pale neck. “It was different this time,” Harry spoke, ignoring the looks of concern from everyone in the room. “I was watching Malfoy. Not myself. I watched him drown.”
“Mister Potter, I insist you lay down this instant,” Pomfrey spoke, looking nervous as she glanced between him and Malfoy’s ghost, though Harry didn’t really understand why.
“I’m fine-”
“You just choked and gasped and writhed in pain for nearly ten minutes, mister Potter. Get in the bed.”
Harry grimaced, wondering if he screamed like he sometimes did, but got into the bed next to Malfoy’s nonetheless, not willing to go against Madam Pomfrey’s direct orders, feeling somewhat uncomfortable when faced with McGonagall and Pomfrey’s pale faces, Malfoy’s concerned expression and Zabini’s look of uncaring nonchalance.
“Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy, I’m afraid we’ve entered a rather… Precarious situation.” McGonagall clasped her hands together, fingers long and interlocked. “It appears that Mister Malfoy is not the horcrux, Harry. It seems…” She glanced nervously at Pomfrey, then Malfoy again. “It appears as though you’ve been made a horcrux. Again.”
Harry stared at her for a long time. Malfoy seemed equally horrified, and just as stunned into silence.
“What?” Malfoy finally croaked out, tilting his head. “Excuse me? I- I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly, because what you’re implying is that I turned Potter into my horcrux. Horcrux being an extremely dark, illegal magic that I never cast, nor had the intention of casting.”
“You heard correctly, Malfoy,” McGonagall spoke grimly. “Considering our only experience in horcruxes is destroying them, we are currently in quite the situation. It appears that during your panic, you may have split your soul into three pieces- one being your body, the other this ghost form, and the third latching onto the nearest living lifeform- Harry, who was walking by at the time just before your death. Horcruxes tend to gravitate towards items- or in this case, a person- of strong personal connection. You boys may not have been friends during school, but you’ve been through hell in your ties to each other. Life debts, physical and mental harm- the types of things that a horcrux hungers for. Connection; emotion; feeling.”
Harry stared at Malfoy, not certain in what he was feeling. Rage? Anger? Bitterness? Hopelessness?
He’d been a pawn once already. He’d done this; he’d born the weight of being the reason another existed, the reason other’s died. Could he even bear to do it again?
“And we don’t know how to reverse it,” Harry heard himself saying, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears.
“Well, there are a few hypothesis’, but they’re just that. We’ll have to do research.”
“How do you even know?” Harry asked, looking over at McGonagall for the first time. “Why do you think I’m his horcrux?”
She frowned at him. “Potter, when you touched his hand, Malfoy’s ghost filled with color, and his body’s functions immediately raised closer to normal. His body temperature raised closer to a living range, his heart became stronger- it even appeared as if he was trying to breathe. There is no other circumstance where that may be the reaction between two people, no matter the circumstance. Malfoy becomes more alive when you’re near- when you’re touching- because you’re harboring a part of his soul that he needs to live.”
“But Voldemort-”
“Voldemort was no longer human, Mister Potter. To compare him to Mister Malfoy in this situation won’t do any good, because it’s different circumstances. One reached out in panic, needing help- the other was the result of unbidden anger; of attempted murder.”
“But Voldemort was alive and he split his soul into seven pieces! Malfoy did three and is suddenly dead?”
“He’s not dead, Potter,” McGonagall spoke, her voice gaining that clipped quality it got when she was frustrated. “But his literal soul, his ghost, was projected out of his body as well. The results would be similar had he only split his soul in half- however, that would be easier to solve.”
“How?” Harry asked, looking over at Malfoy, who was staring at his own body in shock, as if just as unbelieving at Harry about the whole situation.
“We’d simply have to dissolve his ghost. The soul would no longer have an object to attach itself to and, since the object wasn’t destroyed, just temporarily disbanded, it should theoretically find itself ‘home’ again. It’s like a flower being hardened in wax. If you melt the wax carefully, you can simply remove the flower. If you simply try to destroy the candle, you risk destroying it.” She gave him a look, as if he were simply being difficult, when she said, “you, however, cannot be melted. Not without being considerably destroyed, and ruining a fraction of Malfoy’s soul in the process.”
Harry couldn’t even bring himself to ask any more questions. He was furious, and sort of fed up. Why was it always him?
“What if the other two go? What happens to Potter?”
McGonagall glanced at Malfoy warily. “We do not know, mister Malfoy. The biggest hypothesis is the part of your soul would lie dormant within Harry. You, however, would be stuck in a limbo of nothing until mister Potter died and finally released your soul to the afterlife, so I certainly hope you’re not planning anything rash. We all know where these rash decisions got you in the past.”
Malfoy winced, but McGonagall didn’t look sorry. Zabini still looked indifferent, dark eyes flickering between everyone in the infirmary with a cold and calculated gaze.
“I believe we should all get some rest. Mister Malfoy, you should be-”
“I’ve been attending classes and I will resume to do so,” Malfoy assured her, looking put out.
“Good. And you’ll reside in the eighth year dorms and follow normal school rules, you understand? That includes curfew.”
Malfoy looked decidedly sullen. “Yes, headmistress.”
“Obviously, tonight is an exemption, though I expect you both in your dorms as soon as possible.”
“Err, there isn’t a bed for Malfoy in the boys dorms,” Harry spoke up awkwardly, not really knowing what else to contribute.
She looked at him down her nose for a few moments before nodding. “In the instance that he needs one, I’ll instruct the elves to add another bed. Anything else?”
Zabini, Malfoy and Harry all shook their heads no.
“See to it that you all end up in bed before midnight, gentlemen.”
“I don’t sleep,” Malfoy spoke but McGonagall only shot him a quick glare.
“Then simply be, mister Malfoy.”
And then she left. For once, Zabini looked slightly awkward. “I’m… You two probably have some things to take care of. Goodnight.”
He left, but contrary to what Zabini had thought, neither of them seemed to have anything to say or ‘take care of’.
It took several minutes before Malfoy spoke. “Will you fix my hair?”
Harry let out a surprised snort of laughter, if only out of sheer bewilderment. “I… I guess. Yeah. Do you reckon a stronger cleaning charm will work?”
“Just not too strong. I would like to keep my hair, mind.”
Harry rolled his eyes, waving his hand in the vague direction of Malfoy with a slight frown. It lightened, but not entirely, so he used a somewhat stronger one that he did two more times before it looked pretty much back to normal. Without thinking, he took a step closer, leaning over Malfoy’s (sleeping? Comatose? Almost-Dead?) form, looking for any remaining green, until what exactly he was doing caught up with him and he snatched his face away, feeling somewhat flushed in the face.
“Err, sorry. I was just-”
Malfoy shook his head, dismissing him but also looking somewhat disconcerted. “It’s weird to watch yourself, you know?”
Harry looked back at Malfoy’s body. All sunken and sick looking, tubes sticking out his skin and mouth. It reminded him too much of the last few years of the war; of how sickly Malfoy had looked. How afraid he’d been.
“Potter?”
“Wh- Huh?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, presumably at Harry’s undignified response, but quickly replaced the act of annoyance with one of worry, gnawing at his bottom lip. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t mean… The horcrux thing. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Harry really did know, he wasn’t just trying to console the blond. He was still furious, of course, but not at Malfoy. He hadn’t meant to once again strip Harry of being only himself and in his own body, alone, for the first time since he was a year old.
Okay, maybe he was a little pissed off. For Malfoy not trying to get help, for drowning himself when Harry was within arms reach, and for accidentally forcing a piece of his soul into Harry’s body.
“If you’re lucky, Voldemort will pop back up and actually kill me,” Harry muttered bitterly. “Then you’ll be free.”
Malfoy looked horrified at the prospect. “Don’t say that.”
Harry shrugged. “It would be the easiest solution.”
“Don’t,” Malfoy urged, reaching his hands up as if to grab Harry’s robes before realizing he couldn’t, collapsing back in on himself. “Don’t say things like that.”
Rage bubbled under his skin. Who the fuck was Malfoy to say shit like that? He’s the one who got them into this situation! He didn’t get to be all demanding and pitiful looking now!
“It’s not like I’m going to-” Harry cut himself off, fingers twitching as he realized what he’d almost said.
Malfoy’s expression shuttered, looking murderous. “Not going to what, Potter? Pitch yourself from the tower? Drown yourself in the lake? Go gallavant and sacrifice yourself for the better fucking good?”
“I’m not going to be a fucking coward, like you are!”
Malfoy’s expression twisted, lips forming an ugly snarl as his fingers curled into a fist at his side- and then, as if forgetting what he was, swung.
Harry didn’t move, which was his first mistake, because Malfoy’s opaque fist collided with his nose instead of going through his body. Malfoy seemed too in it to really realize why that was crazy and swung again, knuckles colliding with the sides of Harry’s teeth through his cheek, and Harry’s mouth sprayed crimson blood across the curtain of the bed next to them.
Harry shoved his hands forward, even further surprised when they settled on Malfoy’s damp jumper and successfully pushed him away, sending him stumbling back several steps.
Malfoy snarled, raising his fists again, and this time apparently catching sight of them- translucent and covered in Harry’s blood- because his defensive position faltered, eyes widening as he stretched out his hands, in front of his face.
Harry took a step forward, pressing his palm against Malfoy’s chest, feeling the cold, heavy weight of Malfoy’s soaked jumper against his skin.
“What…” Malfoy croaked out, eyes wide.
Harry was just as confused as Malfoy reached out, pressing his bloodied knuckles to Harry’s sternum, eyes widening as his fingers spread to splay across the middle of Harry’s check, the top of his middle finger touching the spot through his shirt where the amulet horcrux had burned a scar into his skin.
“Oh,” Malfoy whispered, reaching out with his other hand, settling slightly below his other hand. “Potter, I can touch you. I can feel you.”
Harry swallowed, watching Malfoy’s bewildered expression.
“I can never touch anything,” Malfoy spoke in a choked voice, fingers curling so his fingernails dug into Harry’s skin. It stung, and his hands were so, so bloody cold.
Malfoy’s hand shifted lower, pressing over Harry’s heart, pale lashes fluttering shut as he exhaled heavily. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard a heartbeat.”
Harry swallowed thickly. “You… You don’t have one?”
He moved his own hand, then; pressing it over where Malfoy’s heart would be, and feeling nothing. Just more soggy jumper and an aching nothingness within Malfoy’s body.
“No heartbeat unless I will one. But it’s not real. That goes for all bodily functions.”
On que, Harry felt a thrumming underneath the palm of his hand, a rush of blooming warmth of skin through the jumper, the soft thumping of a heartbeat.
“Then why don’t you?”
“What’s the point? I hardly feel it myself. It just reminds me of what I lost.”
Harry swallowed. His jaw and nose ached, and when he looked up into Malfoy’s face, he was frowning.
A hand shifted from Harry’s chest, lifting, and then a thumb was on his upper lip, wiping gently. It took the scent of metallic blood for him to realize his nose had been bleeding, and that Malfoy was wiping it away.
The second the blood left Harry’s skin, it turned dark and somewhat translucent against Malfoy’s thumb.
“Why is this possible?” Malfoy asked quietly, his hands never leaving Harry’s body- one still spread over his heart, the other needlessly wiping blood from under Harry’s nose.
“I don’t know. I never exactly got into a fistfight with Voldemort’s ghost.”
Malfoy grimaced. “Did he have one?”
“Not that I know of. He didn’t want to be dead.”
Malfoy’s expression shuttered and, in a split moment, he stumbled forward. The cold hands against his mouth and chest disappeared, and his hand was half-way through Malfoy’s chest again.
Harry quickly withdrew. Malfoy looked an awful lot like he was going to cry, looking down at his hands, no longer covered in Harry’s blood.
“Seems it’s over,” Harry said, stupidly, because obviously.
Despite that, Malfoy reached forward, trying to press his hand over Harry’s heart again, frowning when his hand drifted through the material of Harry’s shirt and then disappeared.
His hands dropped back to his sides, shoulders slouching. “You should get back to your dorms. It’s bound to be past curfew.”
“Malfoy-”
“Go away, Potter.”
And Harry went, still feeling the cold of Malfoy's hands against his skin the entire way.