iv
Malfoy washes his hands a lot. Harry adds that little fact to a list that has emerged over the past weeks in his mind. He washes his hands before eating, after eating, before any classes, after every class, before beginning an experiment in potion class, and after the experiment in potion class. He does so every time he walks past a bathroom, or as soon as water is available. In all honesty, he thinks Malfoy has truly gone mental. How could his skin even endure the constant aggression? The answer is quite obvious —thanks to Potter's stalking ability once again. But when his hands are not covered by gloves, he sees red stains all over his palm. Uncanny, innit? How Harry misses the pale snow painting his fingers? How Harry seeks Malfoy's hands on every occasion arising? The way worry spreads through his throat when the red expands? And he hates it. He hates it so much! The red, the itching, the water flowing, the rubbing, the worrying, everything; he hates it.
He acts as if he doesn't notice. He doesn't want to; not since the muffin incident —and why did the git run away anyway? He always ate strawberry muffins for breakfast! Yet he can't seem to help much. He can't help but keep his little list updating when their paths collide. He can't help but add new information to note through his mind. Hermione and Ron keep telling him off, that he should stop paying as much attention, that all seems dangerously close to stalking, that he's repeating their sixth year all over again, that if he needs something to occupy his mind; anything is better than whatever is going on with Malfoy, that the war is over, that he doesn't need to do any of this. Harry tells them all is fine, that he is merely keeping tabs in case the git tries something again, that he doesn't trust him, and that he's gathering information to bring him down. The thing is; noting how Malfoy likes sweet foods better, that he eats chocolate sent by his mom every morning, and that he has grown taller by two inches since last year, doesn't help much with defeating dark wizards.
He notes the way his eyes lose spark under Occlumensy, that he doesn't play quidditch anymore —despite having a new broom, how he meets Myrtle every Wednesday and Thursday before dinner, and the way he uses charms to conceal his eyebags. He sees how Malfoy's eyes go from storms to moons around those he cares for. He watches his face light up, a fond smile dancing around his ears, sad eyes forming wrinkles —true ones, eyebrows easing his tight skin, as Malfoy reads his morning letter. Harry guesses they must be from his mother. He records Malfoy's attitude in each class. He contemplates the boy during Potion class, he remarks that the Slytherin had never shined so great. Or perhaps he never noticed such details. Hiding these discoveries under justifications of guilt becomes a bit harder as days pass.
When brewing, Draco moves as water itself. His body flows through a confidence Harry could only ever wish for. His fingers dance around Mandragora's leaves, his arms fly as he stirs the potion clockwise, his hair floats when he walks down to grab more ingredients, and it just feels like Harry has been cursed because he can't move. He stares at Malfoy, mesmerized by how soft he could look, when immersed in his own bubble, unaware of others. He gazes at his hair, white, overgrown, soft, between snow and thunder, between quilts and cushions. He gawks at his eyes, grey, between moons and mountains, storms and snowy waters, wintery skies and autumn rains, calm, quiet, and full of the world. He loses himself in all and everything Draco becomes to him.
Hermione grounds him back to reality, elbow in the ribs. Harry hisses in surprise more than pain. She rolls her eyes, eyeing the teacher —to not get caught talking in class!
"Harry, back to earth, will you? Your potion does not seem happy to have been put on hold."
"Er, sorry 'Mione." His fingers scratch his neck, uncomfortable with the idea of having been caught staring at Malfoy. He sighs a bit, tries to drown thoughts of blond hair and snowy eyes in work. He can only stare at the letters for so long before they begin dancing around his sight, giggling at him and melting into blurry forms. He furrows his eyebrows, and tries to make sense of any sentence he reads. Yet blurry letters become snowflakes and moons. Another sight thrown in the classroom, and Harry slaps his book against his desk. "Say, 'Mione. Any way you know what I'm supposed to add now?"
She raises an eyebrow at him, without stopping her own clockwise motions.
"Stir it. For at least fifteen minutes, Harry." She stays silent for a bit, staring silently at him. She searches for anything to say, yet no thought is able to escape from her mouth. "After class, meet me in the common room. We're talking about whatever this is, you can't escape that conversation to happen. I will find you if you dare to run away."
Fingers scratch his neck absently, and he answers with a faint smile. "Yes, ma'am."
Silence grows between the two of them. Such is fertilizer to thoughts, thus they grow once again. They form gentle flowers, petals of snowdrops. When his eyes open again, he needs multiple seconds to realize he's been staring at Malfoy —again, mind you. He thinks he's become insane. Completely, utterly insane. This is much too distant from gathering information on your nemesis —former nemesis at most— for Harry to use that as an excuse anymore. He doesn't understand why his sight is drawn to his dazzling smile, to his reddening ears, to his wintery eyes, to his nacre skin. He abhors it. He disregards it as a curiosity of some kind. Simple, basic curiosity for what his long-lost nemesis has been up to.
Yet, when his cauldron explodes in his face, he is forced to admit the truth. Nemesis might not be the best-suited name for this particular situation.
Thus, when Hermione grabs his arm, he doesn't say much. Nor when she pushes him into Gryffindor's common room. Lucky for her, unlucky for him, Potion is their last class on Friday. Perhaps Draco went to see Myrtle already? Sometimes he goes there on Friday, after potions, still— He didn't seem eager much to leave the classroom this day, yet—
"You know, you're acting quite weird. I mean, you've always been an utter disaster in potions, no offense. But, really? What am I supposed to add? What's going on with you?"
Arms crossed, eyebrows high, oh there is no way Harry could flee this conversation.
"You are the one that told me to do something to my potion!" He rolls his eyes, picking up the habit of how much he watched Draco doing it.
Seeing Hermione's face going red, Ron quickly takes his clue. "To stir it, mate! Stir it! As 'Mione said, no offense, but even I got that much down."
"Just— Talk to us, Harry. You've been quite weird these past weeks, what is going on?" She sighs, hands on her waist.
Truthfully, Harry has no idea either. What's going on? Oh, how he would like to know! He doesn't. But, that's nothing new either, is it? War or not, he seems to never know anything going on within himself. He has not a single idea what is wrong! Something is! Obviously! He has kept on staring at goddamn Malfoy for weeks now. And so much! So much floods his head, his heart, and his hands in seconds. He yearns to erase the dancing shadows he imagines of scars, he loses himself in eyes he always despised, he swims through raw feelings and yet, he drowns in them. He doesn't know what to do about it! The mess is just too abundant to detangle anymore. Full of scratched names, guilt, hatred, fear, horror. Full of dancing snowflakes, late moons, mountains, understanding. And something doesn't feel right, either! Danger lurks around them, he knows that much. He can feel it! Something's wrong!
His jaw opens, closes, and opens again. No words seem enough to share his tormented sea of everything. "Nothing much, really."
"Yeah, last time you said nothing much, we all know how that ended up." Ron hisses, clearing his throat.
Harry responds immediately; he doesn't want his friends to think of anything as deadly as usual! "Oh, no it's not— I mean, it's not dangerous, or anything. Not physically, at least."
Hermione has the reputation of being her century's best witch. Sometimes, others only thought of her as book-smart. Yet, she understands far more than letters. She tends to unwritten sentences as well. Ones that stand in the air, that dance around one's ears, yet can not be heard. This is one thing Harry has always been thankful for. He doesn't need to explain. She nods quietly. She sees his fingers scratching his neck, tapping furiously against his jaw. Then, her voice becomes gentler. Harry feels as if a blanket suddenly wraps around his shoulders.
Yet, her words send shivers down his spine. "Is it about the muffin?"
He swallows. There is no way out of this either, is there? "You definitely spend far too much time with Ron, 'Mione."
Yet, she sighs. Then, pushes him further down in the empty —thanks Merlin for that, common room. "You should be grateful for the time I spent with Ron. Otherwise, we would have had this conversation weeks ago. Stop dancing around this."
While staring intensely into this one stain on the wall, he says, "It's just, I think the muffin isn't er— very much bakey right now?"
Harry is blushing and Ron wishes to drown himself, perhaps the giant squid sleeping in the lake would help him! Because Ron knows, he knows and it's simply too much. For Harry has skin similar to forests, the Earth, and its trees. His skin breathes honey filled with chocolates, sunkissed beaches, summer nights, and fluffy pancakes. Ron has always been a bit jealous of it, his own tone only compares sugar and wintery grounds. Then, for Harry to blush... For pink to color his cheeks and ears burgundy; only one single painter comes to his mind.
"Harry, mate, my dear —very dear— friend. Please, for the love and honor of Merlin, do not tell me you're talking of bloody Malfoy!"
Yet, it is as if bloody Malfoy stands before them and paints Harry's skin once again. He explodes in red, and his hands come to hide explosive burgundy tainted with red. Thankfully, Hermione sighs. She falls on the couch before Gryffindor's fireplace. Ron imitates her, and Harry can only sit on the ground in front of them. Hermione's fingers come to pinch her nose, she is absolutely done and tired and exhausted of her friends' idiotic situations. Is one year without much happening too much to ask? She only wishes to study in libraries, read, write essays, listen in class, and answer a few questions at times, too much is this?
"What do you mean by 'isn't very much bakey'?" Her voice dances arduously around.
Harry breathes silently for a while, olive regains his cheeks, ears, and neck. "Fine? I think there's something wrong with him?"
"Mate, everyone bloody knows something is wrong with the git." Ron smiles, he wants to laugh but thinks better of it once he locks eyes with Hermione at his side.
She smiles in a much gentler way. Her hands take Harry's between, and fingers dance on his knuckles. "We all know he was quite close to his father, Harry. It's normal for him to not be alright, he needs to not be for a while. It's sweet that you worry about him—"
"I do not!" He screams, and notes to never bother Ron about his squeaky screams ever again.
"But, it will be fine in time. It's grief, you can't do much to help him. Remember you with Sirius? That was... Horrid." Her voice quietens a little. Harry doesn't answer. She gently caresses the back of his hand. He honestly cannot remember much of that time, yet every time those events are mentioned, he shuts up. Because he sees Ron's face tensing up, Hermione's smile melting off, and wonders what did he do to afford friends like them. "But! If you wish to be here for him, be the second egg."
"Er—an egg?" He laughs, taken aback.
Ron does as well, but quietens with a single glance. A small smile lingers on his face, anyway. "Yeah, not following there, love."
"You—! Well, what I mean is; just be by his side, if you truly want to help. If your muffin isn't bakey, and you can't change the floor or the sugar in it, then change the recipe and add comfort. Be the second egg for the one already there. Perhaps that would help. Now, I am not sure Draco would be truly happy with you being at his side while he's grieving his father. But, it isn't like you will listen to me, am I right?" She sighs, massaging her temples.
"Hey!" Harry laughs. "I listen to you all the time! I finished my transfiguration essay early this time." He smiles, and a piece of paper flies to Hermione's face.
She beams, even though she takes note to review the paper in a few hours. "That's good!"
"Wait a second!" Ron shouts. "Draco? Since when do you call him that?"
Silence lingers for a few seconds on Hermione's lips, and Ron thinks his world has fallen down. Ruins and fire, betrayal and forgiveness. He knows the answer already, he isn't stupid. They've talked about that, for months and years. But— Well, ever since Fred. He thought! He thought she gave up on all that bullshit. Yet, as soon as the words escape her mouth, he thinks fire burns his skin. He wishes for the floor to swallow him, to take him far away, somewhere he feels safe in, somewhere the memory of those lost last for all eternity. Somewhere which cannot forget others for their wrongdoings.
Her voice softens, and she tries to smile. Yet, her fingers lose themselves through her hair. "Oh, well, I suppose we are friends now."
Ron scoffs. "Oh wow."
Harry yelps, hands dancing before him. "What? And! You didn't tell me?"
Hermione laughs for a bit. "Am I supposed to report everything Draco does to you, Harry?"
"Why are you friends with that twat?" Ron's voice falters. It sounds way less assured than he would have wished. "What are you thinking?"
She notices how Ron's hand trembles. Her fingers dance around his knuckles, until their hand finds each other. Her smile softens, and she tries to convey peace through it. It does not work as well as she would have wished.
She answers in such a calm manner, Harry thinks she is trying to soothe a child out of his tantrum. "It's a bit— I don't really know, to be honest. I guess it's pretty nice to talk about homework to someone who actually does and understands them, Ron."
"But he's an— he's a maggot! A selfish, pureblood-supremacist, bigoted, tosser, a complete arsehole!" He yells.
Hermione doesn't answer. She cannot. It isn't as if Ron was wrong in any way. As much as Draco changed, his past actions still hold consequences for which he needs to atone. She knows that. At so, only silence answers to him and Ron sighs out of pure despair. He doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand why Hermione of all people would ever want to hang around sodding Malfoy. He only behaved worst around her, spitting insults was the bare minimum. He understands Harry, however. After Sirius, he knew Harry needed something to hold onto. He knew that. And Malfoy always turned out to be a perfect distraction for Harry. This remains why Harry's stalking —especially in their sixth year— was nothing to be surprised by. He did not mind anyway. They both had a weird way of keeping each other angry, and at some times, angry is better than anything else. But for Hermione to forgive the maggot!
Harry's voice cut through Ron's firey thoughts. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Hermione sighs. "Are you both done?" A good night's sleep sounds much too perfect at that moment.
Harry passes his hand through his hair, fingers busy detangling knots here and there. "I think there's something wrong with him."
"You don't say?" Ron giggles.
Harry rolls his eyes —perhaps he really should tone down the staring. "No, like... You guys know anyone by Avery?" He asks, faint images of yesterday night traveling before his eyes.
"Isn't he a Slytherin guy?" Ron mumbles, arms crossed on his chest.
Hermione nods. "Yes, that's true. I heard of him."
"Well..." Harry sighs, unsure of his story all of a sudden. He exhales a few whiles, brows furrowing to recollect his steps. At one point, he shakes his head lightly, simply stating, "I think he was following Malfoy the other night."
"Oh, kinky." Ron laughs.
Hermione scooches a bit closer to Harry, eyebrows raised. "What are you saying—?"
"I saw them on the Marauder's Map." He quickly explains, blurry dots before his eyes, lightened by dim moonlight.
Hermione sighs again, fingers running through her hair. "You mean, you searched for Draco's name in the middle of the night?"
"What is wrong with you people? You bloody Malfoy enthusiasts." Ron grunts, outraged to even speak of such a trollop twit. Yet, much too used to such events to even remember feeling surprised.
"I couldn't sleep!" Harry defends himself. "I did not search for his name on purpose, 'Mione! I just kind of— I don't know! Happened to see him."
She sighs, burying her head in her hands. "Where?"
"In the kitchens." He spurts.
"Should I assume you went there under your father's cloak?"
Ron guffaws, as Harry scrunched his nose. "Oh no, please, mate. Swear to me you did not." He has to hold both arms around his stomach to not explode right here and there, as Harry blushes burgundy and his hands pitifully try to hide his painted cheeks.
"I did not!" He shrieks. "I went without my cloak."
Hermione sighs. "That's even worse."
Ron laughs. "That's so much worse!"
She ruffles through her hair yet again. Fully intending to blame Harry when detangling them needs hours afterward. "What happened then? You three fought at night in the kitchens?"
Harry yells. "No, who do you take me for?"
Ron laughs once more, eyes beginning to tear from the sight of his —very much— red mate, hiding under a cloak to fight his crush —or whatever this is, at night. "Oh, I don't know, a bloody stalker, obsessive much and filled with anger issues, perhaps?"
"There were no fight!" He hollers, irritation growing under his skin. "I went there, all right. But they were already gone." He remembers the very much confused, thank you, elves' faces as he asked for Avery and Malfoy. "The thing is, the elves swore Malfoy came all alone. But the map doesn't lie. Avery was there, I saw him!"
Ron nods. "That's bizarre, I grant you that."
Hermione questions, uncertainty lingering through her words. "You saw Avery's name on the Marauder's map?"
"Yes! Avery Colbert I."
"That's... Not possible." She answers slowly.
Both boys turn to her, curiosity filling their stares. She sighs, not knowing much more herself.
But, she tells anyway. "Last time I heard, he was in Azkaban. He is a Death Eater, he can't roam around Hogwarts at night."
"Well, Malfoy's a Death Eater and he does roam around Hogwarts at night, is he not?" Ron whinges.
"Ronald," Hermione warns.
Yet, he laughs. His breaths become angrier as she glares at him. Until he snaps, that is. "No! Why are you suddenly friends with them? They tortured you 'Mione! They insulted you, they dragged my family in the mud, they killed Harry's parents, they killed Professor Lupin, they killed Dumbledore, they killed everyone! They freaking killed Fred! Do not fucking expect me to act friendly with those bloody murderers." He stands up abruptly, burned by the suppressed fire setting free.
"Where are you going?" She questions, words wobbly from Ron's shouting.
"Oh, I don't know! Where justice fucking gives a shit, I suppose!" He yells as he disappears from the common room.
Then, only Hermione and Harry remain. Both stay silent for a bit, until Hermione sits beside Harry. Ron wasn't all that wrong in any way. She thinks that's the worst part of it. War truly is horrid, for even over, it divides and continues to burn through others. What he is feeling is completely valid; the anger, the resentment, the hatred, the rage, it all makes very much sense. His brother is dead, by Merlin. Grief remains a horrid ally of war, she supposes.
"Harry, I'm sorry." She says after a few minutes.
"What?" His head stands back up a bit, and he smiles softly at her, eyes hiding behind falsely raised cheeks. "No, it's fine, Hermione. He's right."
She shakes her head, eyes lost upon the scars on her arm. "He is not, Harry. Justice has been served. Each had a trial. Draco had a trial as well. He was judged for what he did, his father was, his mother was. It's complicated for Ron to accept, it's quite normal, after all. I want you to know that, even though I did not forgive him yet, I'll get there. And Ron will too, at some point. Thus, it's fine, if you forgive him. If you're friends with him, or like him even. It's fine Harry. You deserve to be happy, you deserve to let go of anger and resentment as you wish. And he deserves that as well. We were kids, Harry, for God's sake. Kids."
Harry whispers, as if he would rather not hear his own words at all. "We were, also. Kids. But we chose the good side. He did not. Can he be excused really because of how young we all were?"
"But it's much more complicated than that, innit?" She smiles faintly. "We all had personal reasons to fight. I am a Muggleborn, my family is Muggle, then did I even have a choice but to fight alongside you? You, well, did not have much of a choice either, I'm afraid. Ronald did not; his family chose their side long ago. Neville as well. For the Slytherin kids, I think the war was a bit more complicated than only good and evil. I do not think it was much about sides for them. Draco was eleven when he first called me a Mudblood. Do you truly think a child of eleven can think for himself enough to fully comprehend the words he is taught? And why would either of the Slytherin kids ever choose our side? They don't know any Muggles, they don't know anything about them, aside from what their parents taught them. They could have researched it, sure, but why would they? Why would they betray their family, their pride and honor, and love, for people they have been taught to hate since they were born? It does not make much sense, does it?"
"I suppose." He smiles quietly.
"And did Draco truly ever have a choice as well?" She wonders. "Voldemort lived at his house, he was what— fifteen? Sixteen? Was he supposed to abandon his family, knowing they would be killed, in horrid ways, for Muggles he was taught to hate? I am not saying he's a good person, but I don't think it's right, for us, to judge how he behaved through the war slowly based on what we know of him. The judges made a decision. I think it was the right one. Ron knows too, he simply needs time to say it out loud."
He nods, feeling much more at peace than a few hours ago. "Then, it's fine? To be the second egg?"
"It certainly is, Harry." She giggles in quiet peace.
Silence grows back on them, he plays mindlessly with strands of Hermione's hair. Knowing full well she would scold him later for messing her curls —again, mind you.
"Do you believe me?" He asks in a whisper.
"About the Avery situation?" She says. Harry doesn't respond, thus she smiles fairly. "Well, I stopped questioning myself about whether what you see is real or not long ago. Yes, I do. But, it's a bit disconcerting still."
He finally asks, because his skin burns with worry he cannot extinguish. "Do you think he's in danger?"
"Perhaps." She answers only. "He shares Ancient Runes with me. Don't worry too much, I'll keep my eyes on him."
"Of course, he does." He giggles. "But I suppose Zabini and Parkinson are there for him, so that's fine, right? He eats more when he sits beside them. He usually eats that strawberry muffin for dessert at every meal, but that stopped. I don't really know why yet."
"Oh, Harry, that's brilliant!" She interrupts all of a sudden.
"The muffin?" Harry asks, memories of strawberries lingering in his mind.
"Parkinson!" She specifies. "If there is one person to know of the Avery thingy, it's definitely her! Let's go see her tomorrow, she'll probably come to pick him up after Ancient Runes! Tomorrow at nine, alright? Do not be late."
"Late? Come on, I've never been," Harry smiles, a thankful hand squeezing Hermione's shoulders.
From the other side of the wall, Ron rolls his eyes. He is quite glad Hermione had to sit through Harry's Dramble this time. He thinks of apologizing to them in the morning, but waking up at nine o'clock on a Saturday seems to be too high of a sacrifice for bloody Malfoy. Yet, hearing his friend's voice full of curiosity —and any other thing he can not possibly name— makes him sigh. It has been truly long since Harry has been anything but angry. And if Malfoy could prove to any use to his mate, he would have to accept that, regardless. But, by Godric, he does not know whether he has enough patience for such a trial.