An Incomplete Quartet
While the newspaper’s release had briefly brought everyone together, Draco couldn’t remain acting like he could be perfect friends with the Gryffindor trio for long, and so the three were left alone at the back of the room in Potions and Care again, watching longingly as Draco tired away at his school work all on his own.
“I just don’t understand it,” Harry wondered aloud, taking the page from Hermione she had just ripped out of her book with the list of the latest ingredients Snape had written on the board. “Christmas was so nice… He gave me a puppy, Hermione.” Harry shook his head, trailing off into his thoughts, no doubt, and leaving his two other remaining close friends to glance at each other worriedly, and shift apart from each other in their seats, for their hands had just been stretching towards each other. Harry didn’t deserve to sit here and watch Hermione and Ron hold hands like everything was fine, he deserved friends.
“He’ll come around,” Ron nodded optimistically, beginning to cut his roots for the day’s potion. “Gotta keep in mind what he’s going through, what with his father and all. He could just need space for a moment.”
“I heard Anthony Goldstein broke up with him on Valentine’s Day.” The group turned to see Pansy had swiveled around on her chair, expression twisted into a frown that lay almost unnaturally on her face, as the Gryffindor’s would have thought she would be pleased with something like this. “I mean, I hate the guy, but I love him, you know? And that sounds awful…”
Harry nodded, turning his head back to his potion and sighing. He presumed it wouldn’t do him any good to worry about why Draco was ghosting him so incessantly, when he admittedly had way too much sitting on his mind as it is.
He had a Quidditch match next Saturday, which he hadn’t had the heart to inform Angelina he hadn’t trained outside of practice for at all, O.W.L’s still lingered over all his fellow Fifth Years like a death sentence, more so with the end of a happy Valentine’s Day, and he still was trying to work out planning his upcoming week of non-stop Patronus H.O.O.D lessons. The big thing, however, which especially didn’t leave him alone in Potions class, Snape’s eye ever wavering to his and scowl present, was Occlumency lessons and the increasingly confusing visions he was getting both there and in bed. Ranging not just from the door at the end of the dark hall now, but meetings inside big, rich and royal-like chambers, sitting in an all too pale body with an all too high voice and growling about ‘failed attempts.’
“He’s getting closer,” Harry had said the night before, rubbing his fingers against his forehead and the ever stinging scar resting on it. “I can feel it. Whatever’s beyond that door…” He looked up, locking eyes with his closest friends. “I think it’s the thing Draco wrote about in his letter, at the beginning of the year? I think his dad must have been assigned to get that weapon Sirius told us about, and it’s behind that door.”
“That’s a given, Harry, yes,” Hermione had nodded, raising a hand to her chin in thought. “The question is where…”
“‘Where?’ Wouldn’t it be ‘what?’” Ron questioned, glancing between them in confusion. “As in, ‘what’s the weapon?’” Hermione had shook her head, however, brows creased with intense thought, “No, Ron, it’s ‘where.’ Where is the weapon? Where is this door Harry keeps seeing? Once we know that, then we can figure out the ‘what.’”
And, following this potions lesson and the Occlumency lesson at the end of the day, Harry returned to the Common Room after a brief flash of the door, finally having pieced it all together.
“The Ministry of Magic. It’s in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione, and it’s the door Sturgis Podmore tried to get into. Bode died because he failed to get into it.” He only wished Draco could have been by his side to cheer with them when the truth was finally learned.
-*-*-*-
Despite not training or focusing much in practice, Gryffindor managed to scrape a quick win against Hufflepuff on February 24th, though Harry couldn’t take hardly any of the credit the team and crowd tried to give him, as the Snitch had been slow, in his opinion, and Cedric, once again, seemed out of it in his seeking.
It was so strange to him that he had pushed through the crowd of H.O.O.D members running to congratulate him and straight towards the Hufflepuff team emerging from the changing rooms, only to suddenly stop himself short when his eyes caught a familiar head of blonde hair crawling out from under the stands, and ducking his way to a clean escape. Not that Harry would ever let him go that easily.
“Draco!” The boy froze, back straight as a board as the Gryffindor jogged towards him, beaming despite the weeks of ignoring him because he was here, wasn’t he? It didn’t matter anymore that he hadn’t been there by his side like he should, he’d come to his Quidditch match and -
“I was just sizing up the competition,” Draco turned around sharply before Harry could reach him, hands tucked in his pockets casually. “You er - You did good.” He gave a stiff nod, “But I gotta go now… to study…”
He attempted to turn again but Harry ran forward, predictably, catching him by the wrist and exclaiming, “Draco wait!” He forced a smile when the gray eyes met his because, truthfully, he hadn’t expected them to. “I… we used to study all the time together, you know.” Slightly, just slightly, the passive face gave movement when Draco’s eyes widened a fraction. “Long nights spent in the library searching for spells. Charms for you -” “Transfiguration for you.” Draco nodded, eyes lowering to his shoes so Harry couldn’t see the glisten to them that he now felt. “Granger and Bilius cuddling in the corner…” Harry barked a laugh, saying, “I made you promise not to tell them they had fallen asleep holding hands.”
“You did…” A hot tear ran down his cheek, to his horror, though he knew precisely why; Harry wanted desperately to have those memories back with him, and deep down, Draco supposed he did too but--There were more important things. He, and his parents' lives were at stake here, and he needed to shut himself off, because if Harry, with his weird Voldemort-dreaming thing, caught wind of this plan, or Voldemort saw he was still close with him…
He shut his eyes tight to rid himself of more tears, and saw only his parents' cold, still faces, forever sleeping on the cold floor of his cellar cell.
“It’s for Ancient Runes,” Draco turned on his heel and began walking away at a fast pace so Harry wouldn’t have a chance to even glimpse at the shining tear clinging to his cheek. “You wouldn’t understand it. I have to go.”
And Harry was left alone again, much like outside the doors after that Care lesson the previous month, and countless times in between. Any time he attempted to have more than a word with Draco, it seemed. Numbly, he felt Hermione’s hand on his and Ron’s on his shoulder, and turned to each of them in turn, feeling as if he was holding something back, like a great cry of anguish, stuck in his throat.
“He… He didn’t say hello.” He looked back out at the grounds, where Draco’s form had now become so tiny he couldn’t possibly see him raising a hand to wipe off the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Or even goodbye.”
-*-*-*-
Harry, in all the stress Occlumency and O.W.L’s were creating for him, combined with the loss of a good friend, seemingly, had been seriously considering postponing Patronus lessons a day or two again, and could pinpoint the exact thing that had convinced him not to; Cho Chang.
She had approached him at breakfast the following Thursday, beaming about how Hermione had hinted something to her about Patronuses, Harry had no choice but to claim they were getting to it in the evenings lesson, and see her face light up the world, allowing him to raising his head so she could give him a peck on the lips before practically skipping back to Marietta.
So that’s how he found himself that evening in the Room of Requirement, observing quietly from his stance at the head of the chamber as the kids piled in in their usual twos and threes, grinning and wide eyed with excitement to finally begin Patronuses. He could even see Seamus getting pulled in by Dean, looking a little hesitant, but unable to not be as excited as the people around him with the amount of positive energy in the room, clearly.
Once everyone had settled in, not even bothering to sit on one of the many cushions as they clearly were all too eager to jump right into it all, Harry took in a deep breath, and stepped forward, “You all know what we’re here for today, but I think it’s important that I first make it clear what a Patronus is. Our former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Remus Lupin, who first taught me the spell in my Third Year, called it a guardian, not just something that acts like an anti-Dementor. It is the manifestation of your happiest memories and deepest desires, and, when cast with enough skill, power, and joy, takes the form of an animal who you're closely tied to based on your memories and desires. I don’t expect you to all get it today, as it took me a very long time to master it, so that’s why we’ll be practicing all through this and next week, and maybe more, as I want to make sure you get a chance to use it against a Dementor-boggart. I think it’ll prove an especially useful spell for us to learn as it seems those Dementor’s at Hogsmeade won’t be leaving anytime soon.
“Now, to cast it, you have to be thinking of the happiest memory of all your life, even if you have to make it up, if it’s happy to you, it will work,” He caught Neville’s eye here for only a moment, remembering St. Mungo’s, before raising his wand. “Once you have a memory, the movement is a circle, like this,” He demonstrated, then reset, “And finally, the incantation. Say it clearly, and for me it helps that the more strongly you say it, the more strong your Patronus would be. Expecto Patronum.”
“Expecto Patronum.” His fellow students chorused and Harry beamed, “Very good. Now watch me,” He closed his eyes, remembering riding a broom for the first time, hugging Draco tight, laughing with Hermione and Ron, his parents, smiling down at his eleven year old self…
“Expecto Patronum!” Many people oohed and awed, and he opened his eyes, grinning when he saw the familiar stag galloping around the chamber, before coming back to him and disappearing in a wisp of smoke at the tip of his wand. He looked around at the room, and the stunned or excited people in it, before raising his hands. “Well go on then, get on with it!”
A couple people laughed and everyone dispersed around the room, whipping out their wands and beginning their attempts as Harry paced around the room, between silvery smoke and vapor, grinning at how quickly some of them were catching on.
“I think I see scales!” “I can only see smoke…” “It isn’t a competition for who can get it first, remember,” Harry said, coming to stand between Hermione and Ron, who both had sweat beading on their foreheads but at the sight of him, smiled. “Just take your time with it. The Patronus will come when you are ready,” He smiled at Hermione too, “Lupin taught me that.” She softened, eyes somewhat saddened and so he stepped closer to her, raising her wand back up and instructing in her ear.
“A Patronus… Is books, and the smell of fresh parchment that comes with them, which you read at a fire when surrounded by Ron, Draco, and I. It’s an aced test, a mastered spell, or a perfected potion. Hagrid’s hugs and Viktor struggling to pronounce your name. It’s holding hands with Ron when you think no one is looking, and the kiss he gave you on the platform, and when you returned it before Quidditch.”
Hermione beamed, and the smoke formed itself into an Otter, splashing around into the vapor around it like it was swimming, and causing her to giggle and run a hand over its silvery form. Harry grinned, then turned to Ron, who was still struggling, gnawing on his bottom lip in concentration.
“Ron,” He set a hand on his shoulder, smirking, “Remember meeting us for the first time on the train? Blocking goals on the Quidditch pitch, and Draco singing Weasley Is Our King in your ear. Remember hugging Ginny after all of Second Year, and her watery smile after all she had been through. Remember your family, and your brothers, and that glint Hermione gets in her eye when she forms a plan, or discovers something new, or whatever it is that makes you go so red when you see her. Remember it, hold it tight, and look, there it is.”
And there it was, a jack russell terrier, bounding and barking after Hermione otter, causing her to yelp and round on Ron, shouting in a way that threw Harry right back to Third Year, and Ron yelling back in the same way. He backed away from an argument all too reminiscent of one of cats and rats, and instead turned and smiled when he saw Luna standing calmly with a hare in her hair, smiling at him with her wide eyes. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it, Harry?”
Not everyone got it in a day, of course, but they came back the next night, and the next, and Harry was willing to give insight to anyone who needed help, and remind them of the memories he knew they had, buried deep inside themselves. One thing was constant, however; Draco did not show up for a single lesson.
Cho made a swan to match her stunning beauty, but Draco wasn’t there to see it.
Seamus was laughing with Dean as a fox ran circles around his head in two days, but Draco would never know he had even created silver vapor, much less a corporeal Patronus.
Fred and George were socking their matching magpies onto their friends and others around them within a few lessons so much so that an agreement was made to simply stay away from them in the future so as not to get pecked, but Draco wasn’t even there to be worried about it.
Ernie Macmillan had a boar knocking Zacharias Smith off his feet the next week, but Draco couldn’t laugh along with the rest of the H.O.O.D.
Anthony Goldstein laughing with his fellow Ravenclaws when he conjured a blue jay and had it immediately begin dueling with George’s magpie, but Draco wasn’t there to decide whether or not he cared if his ex had mastered the spell.
And Harry realized, at the beginning of the fourteenth lesson, after everyone who had been able to produce a corporeal Patronus had done so in front of a boggart taking the frightening form of a Dementor, that Draco would never even get to see his own stag galloping around them all and trampling a Dementor as well, and with that realization, his Patronus sputtered out, but no one could notice among the several other animals and waves of silver smoke.
Draco would have noticed, he thought with a sharp sting in his chest as he fell back against the wall, hand desperately gripping the stone to steady himself, thoughts running wild below that singular voice of all Draco had missed, between lessons, nightly conspiracy sessions of the Department of Mysteries, and even Ron’s birthday. He’d missed them all, and yet, Harry still couldn’t feel any anger, only grief, as that voice practically yelled like a bell echoing through his mind: Draco notices everything about you.
“Harry, are you alright? You look a little red.”
“And dazed.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
No, he wasn’t, but clearly Draco wasn’t either, so what did it even matter?
-*-*-*-
"Did you hear? The Minister's coming to Hogwarts to meet with Dumbledore!"
It didn't work.
Suppressing a yelp by pressing his other fist into his mouth and biting hard, Draco punched his fist into the tiles of the bathroom wall beside him, once, twice, five times before dropping both fists and lowering his head, breaths turning shaky and ragged as he tried to fight back his raging thoughts with positive input, or at least force them to stop with Occlumency.
It was only, what, the end of February? Mid-March? The days were blurring together with all these sleepless nights he knew, and time therefore had become measured by the weather and anxiety among students over O.W.L's, to him, and quite frankly he could care less about the time, he just needed to know Dumbledore's death was still plausible; still within reach of fingers starved for sleep and food, to be greeted by red eyes so unnatural one could never refer to the owner as human.
Fudge couldn't prove to be a big problem - he knew that, somewhat sensibly, but that didn't stop the fear or the breathing or the stinging behind his eyes or–
He dived into the stall across from him and wretched, thin bile falling into the toilet because he hadn't eaten any food to make up for his vomiting recently. What was the last thing he had forced down? A glass of pumpkin juice at breakfast, that was it, drank only to mask his face when Vincent had broken the news to his fellow Slytherins about Fudge's arrival. Draco had had to remind himself excessively, in the coming classes, that Fudge was too much of a bumbling idiot to create a problem, but still that voice had persisted up until now, and his grades had suffered another day because of it, even in Potions. Great, he had only barely been avoiding Snape calling him in to chat as it is.
It seemed the sea of problems he was facing was never ending; he hadn't even so much as mustered up the courage to whisper the words Avada Kedavra but knew the time would need to come soon, or Dumbledore would slip through his fingers and his parents' lives with him. His own too, he reminded himself, when he’d forced out all other dark thoughts and thought he could step into a bright world. He was surely going to die as well, and dying, death and all that, it was scary… He’d nearly died once before, during the Third Task, and could've been dead in the graveyard, and that had made him realize how young he was. How much he still had left to live for.
Mark his words, he wasn’t going to die now, the question was what was more important; his life or Dumbledore’s? And in turn, would a fight against Voldomort be possible, would the Order, both Order’s, survive without him? Was it worth the gamble?
He noticed his breathing had heightened at the same time he felt the liquid swelling in his eyes, and stumbled out of the stall, collapsing against the sink across from it and looking up in horror at the sight of his own face, pale and gaunt, tears running down his cheeks.
Somehow the sight of that didn’t make the tears stop, however; they just kept coming, now with a shrill sob added to it as he ducked his head and gripping the sink harder, whole body shaking with the ferocity of tears long built up. What had become of him in this time? He’d pushed aside all his friends, used an unforgivable curse that would surely land him in Azkaban, and read several dark books purchased from a trip to Knockturn Alley which could just serve as padding to his sentence in court. Highly illegal stuff, and he was only fifteen.
His watery eyes landed on his left arm, the sleeve having rolled up from vomiting and sobbing, and the edge of a black skull peeking out.
He was fifteen, true, but he was also a Death Eater.
“Who’s there?”
He choked on a sob, gripping the sink harder and spinning his head around in surprise, scanning the on-the-surface empty bathroom for any sign of the source of the voice, while running it through his head on repeat to pinpoint where he had heard the shrill, ditzy voice before. The bathroom remained empty, however, there was no change to the room but a cold chill settling onto his shoulders. Then, again,
“You kind of look like that friend of Harry’s… Malfoy, wasn’t it?”
And there was the main, like lightning, hitting the forefront of his mind that he knew who this was all too well. It was Moaning Myrtle (of course, why hadn’t he noticed he was in the bathroom she haunted), now peering out of a stall at the far end of the bathroom, only her bangs and glass covered eyes visible but still undeniably her, and explaining why he hadn’t seen any feet; she was a ghost, she didn’t need solid ground to stand on. Along with the ghost thing, that would perfectly explain the sudden chill he had just gotten.
“Draco, yes, that’s me.” He made the oh so terrible decision of sniffing, which in an instant had her propelling her whole body up and out of her hiding place, now floating parallel to the ceiling with a wide open jaw down at him, clearly unable to ask questions first and jump to conclusions later as sniffing could honestly mean a rather large number of things other than, “Are you crying?”
“No!” He stumbled back, hoping if he stepped far enough into the dark away from her she wouldn’t catch the tears clinging to his cheeks but making the rather unfortunate misstep backwards that led him to slipping on water and landing flat on his arse on the mucky bathroom floor, groaning while Myrtle yelped and immediately swept down to now be right above him, inches from his face while shouting, “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, FINE!” Stupidly waving a hand through solid ghostly air he slid back against the wall, unable to push her away from him as she remained just a foot away, crossing her legs and floating an inch or two above the watery tiles while raising an inquisitive eyebrow. He was weighing his opinions of whether he liked her when she was crying or a little too close for comfort like now. Not that he liked her much at all really.
“I’ve never seen a boy cry before…”
“Huh?”
“I’ve never seen a boy cry before! Boy’s don’t cry, it’s why I don’t like them very much. Except Harry… But you,” He pressed as much against the wall as he could, sneering when she leaned closer towards him, so close now his whole body was feeling a cold shiver. Then in a second she leaned back again, shrugging, “You’re not so bad.” A pause, then, “Why were you crying?”
“I was not -”
“I think we’re past that.” She folded her arms, raising her chin and proclaiming, “I was a Ravenclaw you know!” Though Draco couldn’t fathom at the moment what Ravenclaw intelligence and creativity the Hat saw in her.
But Myrtle was nothing if not pushy. “Why were you crying?” She repeated and he groaned, picking himself up and tearing a rag off the wall, rubbing the soap bar all over it before running it under water and scrubbing with the hope it would rid some of the muck caking its surface. He raised his head to look at her in the mirror as he scrubbed, saying, “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh of course!” There was the pouting as she tossed her head and crossed her arms. “It’s none of Moaning Myrtle’s business, no, no, why would anyone want to confide in that balling brat?” And, to confirm her words, she relinquished a great sob, pressing the heels of her hands in her eyes as she said, or rather screamed, “She’s just a sobbing fat and pimply girl and -”
“Wait a minute,” Pushing himself away from the sink and instead making the move to step closer to her for once, Draco raised his hands before letting them sit in the air awkwardly upon realizing he still couldn’t touch a ghost, he settled for a concerned expression while requesting, “Lower your hands.” She obliged, sniffing while shiny, translucent tears continued to run races down her cheeks. “Did people really say that to you?”
“Of course they did!” She threw her hands up in the air now, floating upwards with them in her ranting while wiping the tears from her cheeks. Good, that was progress, right? “Olive Hornby wasn’t the only one you know, oh no… There was Lucia and Dorothea, Edric and Adair, that arrogant little suck-up Tom Riddle, and of course, your stupid ancestor or whatever Abraxes Malfoy.” Draco bit his lip and chose to firmly ignore that last part.
“Myrtle, are you listening to me?” She froze in her rising, lowering her head in a nod and he continued, “Those bullies are liars, only projecting their insecurities and absence of happiness in their lives onto you because they knew you would let them get to you in this way. Trust me, I’ve seen it, I’ve been it. Don’t give me that look, I’m not as nice as you seem to think… The point is, you can’t let them get to you, or they win. Do you want them to win? Of course not! Winning means you just confirm all the terrible names they call you, and you are more than those names? Everyone is…”
Slowly, Myrtle lowered herself back down to his level - well, not quite, but so their heads were level while her feet still raised the rest of her body higher in the air at a slant. Still, they were looking each other in the eyes now, both gray and glossy with tears, maybe for vastly different reasons, but did it really matter?
“No one’s ever talked to me like that before.”
“Like a human being?”
“...Yes.”
Maybe his nightly talks with The Shadow had changed something in him. Still, he would think of that man in the burlap sack, who called himself an adult but still seemed just as young and scared. Sometimes he’d wonder who he really was, but only briefly, and mostly he’d only think about what he’d say to The Shadow if he was sharing a Common Room with him here. But he wasn’t, he was far far away from Hogwarts, but maybe this girl here, this distraught and traumatized ghost, could be someone to confide to too.
“Why were you crying?” And, as if some other spirit had possessed him, Draco let himself sink down to the floor again, Myrtle crossing her legs and floating above him too, opened his mouth, and let the block in his throat fall. The one that had always been in him whenever he thought to confide in a friend, or even a teacher. To look Snape, a family friend in the eye, and confess. Now it fell back to the depths of his stomach as he spoke freely as if back in that cellar with a fellow prisoner.
“It’s hard to explain but… I have to do something and… it isn’t working.” She cocked her head, leaning closer a bit and he swallowed, forcing himself to continue more, but finding, with the more he said, the easier it became. “It’s not easy, like a homework assignment or even one of those Triwizard Tasks it’s… It could get me in big trouble.”
“What’ll happen if you don’t do it?” Her voice was that of a typical teenage girl yearning for drama, but he, for some reason, didn’t get annoyed with it as he did with maybe Lavender and Parvati’s gossip; she just seemed like a long alone girl desperate for human contact. How was he supposed to not pity that? “I can’t tell you but… Something bad. Something really, really bad.”
Myrtle swallowed, cast her eyes around the bathroom a bit, then lowered down to the floor as if she was really sitting on it, raising a hand and setting it on his shoulder, sending a wave of sharp icy cold through his arm as a result, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His eyes were stinging again, and his breath was getting even more shaky, and he was so ready to shift away from her, instinctively, because that’s what he was supposed to do, he was a Malfoy. But then, a whisper, so quiet he’d only hear it from a ghost, of course, who could project their voice right into your ear: “It’s okay to cry.”
He looks at her, and the smile isn’t the mischievous, sickening thing usually given when she’s happy to see someone suffering like she has no, she was smiling as if he was a friend she was comforting in a bathroom in the 1940s, after a particularly brutal bullying. Suddenly, he felt maybe she really didn’t hate Abraxas Malfoy that much, because there was familiarity in that gaze, but then he was crying again, letting himself cry for once, and all thoughts washed away along with his salty tears.
He bent over, palms flat against the tiles, heaved and sobbed, and all the while Myrtle didn’t move, hand still squeezing his shoulder, sending a wave of ice through his body everytime that, if he was being honest, helped. Slow down the tears, at least, and in a few minutes, they were gone. Washed away with the pools of water on the dirty floor, and he raised his head, meeting gray eyes once more, no less similar to his still.
It was here he laughed, because really, of all people, Myrtle Warren? A muggleborn killed by the supposed heir of, and in the name of, Salazar Slytherin, was now the girl he was turning to in his darkest moment?
“What is it?” She raised an eyebrow and he shook his head, leaning back on his hands to grin at her. “It’s strange, isn’t it? A muggleborn and a pureblood.” She smirked now too, shrugging her shoulders. “During my time, but I’m starting to think not so much during yours.” He nodded, thinking of Hermione, Tess, Colin and Dennis, all the muggleborns he knew, and their pureblood friends. “Yeah… Yeah I’m seeing that too.”
The bell rang somewhere in the castle, echoing magically even in this abandoned bathroom, and he stood, dusting himself off and decided to slip out of his robes so he was only in his white shirt, pants, and tie, so no one would question his wet robes. It was time to go back to class.
He had just touched the door handle when Myrtle called out, “I don’t think you’re as bad as you think.” He turned, surprised, and watched as she shrugged her shoulders, slowly drifting back inside the stall. “Give yourself some credit too, I dunno…” She sniffed, ever crying despite it all, as she was Moaning Myrtle after all, then faded into the stall door, out of sight.
-*-*-*-
Harry didn’t want to be doing this, he really didn’t, but when worst came to even worse, desperate measures had to be called for and sometimes those measures happened to be invading his (now seemingly) former friends privacy by grabbing his wand off his nightstand in the dead of night, whispering lumos, and tapping it on the folded parchment in his hand.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The password wasn't helping his conscience one bit.
He scanned the map for a few moments before finding the familiar name, ‘Draco Malfoy’ with ink feet to match, walking fast along a hall. Harry adjusted to get a better look at his surroundings here but a second later his footprints stepped into a room labeled, ‘Girl’s Lavatory’. He froze from surprise, dropping his wand, where it rolled out under his bedspread and filled the Common Room with light. Still he remained staring at the two words floating above the square room Draco paced around inside until he heard a long groan and then,
“Harry?”
Hurriedly he threw the covers off of him, looking at Ron sitting up in bed across from him, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What’re you doin’?” He asked, words slurring with exhaustion as he dropped his hands in his lap then blinked at the map, and furrowed his brow. “Why do you have the map -”
“It’s nothing,” Harry leaned over to pick his wand up off the ground and folded up his map, whispering, “Mischief managed,” then tucking himself back under the covers, placing his map and wand on his bed stand. “Go back to sleep.”
“You weren’t looking for--”
“Sleep, Ron!” He screwed his eyes shut with finality after this yell and heard movement as Ron no doubt obeyed his command, allowing himself to slip into sleep, mind aching and most likely wide open to Voldomort, not that he cared that much anymore…
-*-*-*-
Cornelius Fudge, flanked by his assistant, Percy Weasley, arrived by train at Hogwarts Station on March 10th, and it being a weekend, everyone was there to bear witness to him and the young man beside him climbing the steps to the castle. As they crossed through the Entrance Hall, they found a somewhat circle of students around them, gawking and whispering, much like they had only days ago when Umbridge had released the final blow on Professor Trelawney and sacked her in a public embarrassment no one could forget or not shiver at, regardless of feelings towards her.
Fudge and Weasley ignored them, instead silently continuing their trek upwards through the school before finally arriving at the doors to Dumbledore’s office. Here, Fudge froze, sighing and adjusting his robes, and wondered aloud, “Weasley, how many times have I met with Dumbledore in this office since your employment?” For a minute, Percy ran the numbers, then responded, “Nine times, sir. Five times leading up to and during the Triwizard Tournament, thrice during the past summer, and you’ve already been here once for my… Father.”
Fudge looked over at his loyal assistant, meeting his eyes and confirming, “So this would be the tenth?” Percy nodded. “Yes, sir.” Fudge sighed before taking in a deep breath, shaking his head and declaring, “Double digits!” Then pulling the doors open and walking forward towards the already primly waiting Albus Dumbledore, who smiled in greeting beneath his beard and mustache.
“Hello Cornelius, how are we this evening?” Fudge grabbed the back of one of the chairs placed before the headmaster’s desk tight and shook his head. “Skip the pleasantries,” He pointed at the bottle of apparently poisoned mead sitting just beside Dumbledore’s hands. “What’s that?”
Dumbledore sighed as he shifted his eyes to the bottle, picking it up and turning it over in his hands while saying, “This is a most peculiar drink, Cornelius. Please, sit,” He gestured to the seat Fudge was gripping hard enough to break the wood and the man obliged, leading Dumbledore to lean back in his seat, still turning the bottle over in his hands, and begin his tale. “It is not just the drink in question no, but the woman who gave it to me. We all know Madam Rosmerta, any witch or wizard with taste should, and she and I happen to be as friendly as I am with any of my staff. But when she gave me this bottle of mead just last month, I recognized in her immediately symptoms of an Imperius Curse. Naturally, I gave the bottle to Severus Snape, hoping he would be able to discern to me that my worries were misplaced and it was quite a safe Valentine’s Day gift. But I couldn’t be that lucky. It is heavily poisoned, Cornelius, so heavily I suspect one sip would kill me in less than a minute, and Severus has told me the poison in particular is that of a Draught of Living Death potion, in case that information may help in light of an investigation.”
“Investigation?” Fudge questioned, eyes widened and Dumbledore furrowed his brow, confused. “Yes. I expect it is only customary as the Headmaster of a school has just had an attempt made against his life after all. This meeting is only procedure, right Cornelius? Auror’s are on their way at this very moment?” His voice sounded so sure of himself, but Fudge still looked stunned, and for a fleeting moment, Dumbledore questioned his theory, but easily dismissed it because he’d never been wrong in regards to this man before.
“I’m the only one who knows about this. Weasley and I. I never intended to conduct a full investigation.” Dumbledore blinked, clearly very confused and convinced that he had to be lying to him, but Fudge was an open book. If he was lying, anyone would know. Instead, he raised a silver eyebrow, realization glinting in his eyes as he asked, “This doesn’t happen to be related to a certain student's recent newspaper release, does it?”
Immediately, Fudge paled, but straightened, swallowing and saying with a strength in his voice Dumbledore never would have expected, “I’ve kept this a secret for far too long, Dumbledore. I’ve taken out the Dementors for you and placed them here at your school again. I met with Giants and was nearly killed by a Death Eater before my men managed to apprehend him instead. You’ve requested me to keep him as leverage, and yet still I am forbidden to announce to the public He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned. The things I have had to do -” Dumbledore’s eyes widened in an instant at those words and Fudge shut his mouth quickly, swallowing down further spoiling of his plans and instead saying, “Apologies, Dumbledore, but I had to do something.”
Knowing it couldn’t be a threat, Dumbledore dismissed whatever the Minister might be ‘planning’ and instead shifted the conversation back to the reason he was even here. “Well, whether an investigation is to be conducted or not, I would preferably like to know who has poisoned me.”
“A Death Eater,” Fudge immediately stated. “I just told you one was trying to recruit Giants and nearly killed me. He’s making moves, he has to be.” Dumbledore nodded, raising a hand to stroke his beard and saying, “Yes, yes, but I doubt Voldemort would make a move so loosely. He’s not one to use poison, Minister, not at all. But, I know of someone who would greatly wish to get me removed from my position.”
Fudge frowned, dodging eye contact with Dumbledore as he mumbled, “Dolores Umbridge may be a psychopath, though that would be news to me. What I know for a fact, however, is that she is no murderer.” He shifted his eyes back to Dumbledore, only to see the Headmaster looked very unconvinced. “Believe me -”
“I’m trying,” Dumbledore leaned forwards, steepling his fingers before him on his desk. “But I’ve been led to believe that she has taken the extremes of abusing my students,” Percy stiffened beside Fudge and the Minister sent him a quick glance and wave of his hand as if to remind him to remain composed. “Which leads me to ask why you have kept her working here.” Immediately Fudge’s head snapped back around, brows furrowed.
“Excuse me?”
“Not to mention,” The Headmaster continued, not sparing him a moment's glance and instead picking up the bottle he had set down again, turning it over in his hands once more. “You were in the Three Broomsticks on Valentine’s Day, weren’t you? To meet for the writing of the newspaper.” Fudge swallowed, now fearing that Dumbledore was spying on him and people could recognize him in Hogsmeade and had seen him drinking with the students and Rita Skeeter.
“What… Are you saying?”
Still, Dumbledore ignored him. “These facts, alone, aren’t quite so bad; mere coincidences, if you will, but when linked with your history and clear increasing anger towards me, matched with how Dolores Umbridge seems to be viewed within the Ministry, well…” Finally, he met Fudge’s eyes, which had widened to saucers with horror, not willing to believe his words. “A high possibility could be you were working together.”
Immediately, Fudge launched himself from his chair, Percy gripped the back in shock, and the Minister slammed his hands on the Headmaster’s desk sneering as he yelled, “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you - Do you understand - the things I’ve done - No other Minister would have believed you! I’m ruining my public image here and you are accusing me of murder.”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility, and if this gets out… It wouldn’t look good for you, Cornelius.”
“How can my image possibly get even worse?” Fudge waved his hands in the air in exasperation, letting out a short, nervous laugh. “After all you’ve done to it. I made a choice last June, and it was a risk, a great risk, but I took it because of the evidence you were supplying. But this… This is just another crackpot theory, Dumbledore! And now it’s against me!” He pinched his nose again, then tore off his bowler hat, spinning it in his hands as he always did when nervous. “I will not allow you to control my actions, my mind, anymore.”
Dumbledore frowned deeply, and spoke, quietly, and solemnly, eleven cold words. “Then I suppose we have reached a parting of the ways.”
It was the same thing he had said last June in a Hospital Wing packed with scared adults and injured children, and it had struck something in Fudge then, but now, after months of talks and negotiations, tea that had brought understanding but also anger between the two men, now it stung worse than any curse. He curled his lips in a sneer, leveling him with a gaze as cold as ice, and something the Cornelius Fudge of a year ago could never have mustered.
“I guess we have.”
With that, Fudge turned on his heel and departed from Dumbledore’s office with Percy right behind him, keeping his head low while his boss kept his high. The doors closed with a bang that made Fawkes flinch and flap his wings, and Dumbledore’s grip on the bottle tighten. Cornelius had indeed parted from Dumbledore’s way, leaving him to hang his head and shake it, wondering whether any of the hard work the two men had accomplished since that day in the Hospital Wing had been worth it at all.