Chapter 6
Three hours later—three hours of being shuffled from place to place, of Professor Sprout nearly fainting at the sight of her ruined greenhouse and then actually having to be revived on realizing people had been in the middle of the destruction, of Madame Pomfrey tutting and Severus snapping and finally grabbing his wand despite his pain and summoning supplies from his own stores, coating his hands with a thick goop of congealed murtlap essence that smells about as pleasant as Goyle’s dirty laundry, of being told to shut up as Severus stops them from explaining to anyone what happened and then having a conversation with Dumbledore that happens entirely in them staring at each other for a good five minutes, before finally, finally being shuffled all the way to the other side of the castle, and up into Dumbledore’s office, where several cushy armchairs in a rainbow of colors and dimensions are summoned and they are all settled in with mugs of hot chocolate. Professor McGonagall stands behind the loveseat Weasley and Longbottom squash together in, her arms crossed—if she were to change to her animagus form, as a cat Draco is certain her tail would be twitching. Sprout is fully sunk into her green armchair, which is pushed up so close to Granger’s she had her hand resting on top of Grangers on the arm rest. Dumbledore’s chair is in front of his desk and beside Severus’s, which is beside Draco’s; Potter’s is as far back towards the door as it can be without actually leaving the circle. Lupin has a chair, on Dumbledore’s other side, but like McGonagall’s it is empty, and he is pacing restlessly along between the instruments that have not been banished from the office.
“Well,” Dumbledore says, looking at them over his steam-fogged half-moon glasses. “Severus has given me the condensed version of events, but I should very much like to know how this all unfolded.”
He looks to Potter, but Potter’s looking down at his hand, picking at some unseen loose thread on the cushion of his seat. Granger and Weasley exchange a series of none-too-subtle looks—their silent communication definitely lacking in comparison to the two legilimens in the room—and eventually, Weasley clears his throat.
“Well, I mean, you see, Headmaster, sir,” Weasley begins, already beginning to go red. “Scabbers—that’s my pet rat—or, well, I thought he was, except apparently, he’s, um, Peter Pettigrew, and I—”
“Excuse me?” McGonagall says behind him, making Weasley jump.
“Please, do sit down, Minnie,” Dumbledore says, his voice exactly the sort of soothing that makes her glare again. “Go on, Mr Weasley. Scabbers… I believe your brothers had pet rats before you. Perhaps… the same creature?”
“Yeah—I mean, yes. Sir.” Weasley ducks his head, patting down his hair, which produces a cloud of grey dust. He doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s been… sick a lot, this year, and I thought, well, maybe I just wasn’t… He went missing, a few days back, and, um. I asked Neville and Harry and Hermione to help me look for him, ‘cause Dean had said he’d seen him up by the one-eyed witch, and—”
Lupin cuts him off with a sound of distress. “That was it!” he exclaims. “The witch—the bloody witch, I—” He pauses. “Pardon me. Headmaster, the passage I told you about—it was under the witch. We never used that one, too risky, came out right in the middle of Honeydukes’ kitchen, back in the day. We should—” And again, he stops. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
A passage, under that statue? That leads to—oh, Christ; why’d he’d have to learn about it like this? He could be—well, he’s rich already, but he could’ve started an empire, bringing sweets into the school—a pity for another time. “I will have it looked into,” Dumbledore says. “Go on.”
“Well, I found him, Scabbers, I mean, by the library, except he started to run, so I chased him, and we, well—” Weasley flushes even darker. “It was still before curfew, so we followed him out and into the greenhouses.”
Sprout makes a vague sound of distress, but the way the steam of her cocoa is curling suggests maybe Dumbledore added a bit of calming potion, and with all the excitement of the evening, it’s reduced her to a grunting blob.
“And I, we almost had him, except, then the Grim showed up,” Weasley babbles, “Except it, it wasn’t the Grim, really, cause it was just Sirius Black, only he was, you know, an animagus.”
McGonagall finally goes to take her seat. Sprout mutters something along the lines of, Sirius Black? In my greenhouses? and Granger pats her hand.
“So he starts saying something about Peter Pettigrew, and tries to get Malfoy’s wand, and about then Snape and—Professor Snape and Professor Lupin show up, and tie up Black, but, see, Professor Lupin, he… you…”
He trails off, glancing over at Lupin, who is toying with—something. Several metal bands, suspended and rotating around themselves with impossible geometry.
“I knew,” Lupin says. “That Sirius was… that Peter was an animagus. And… I confess, I wanted to believe, so bad, and then the spell worked…”
“And Scabbers turned into that Pettigrew guy,” Weasley finishes.
There’s a long stretch of silence, and then McGonagall says: “We are talking about Peter Pettigrew here, yes? Who was blown up? Who was destroyed so thoroughly they couldn’t find any more than a finger?”
“Yes,” Lupin says.
More silence.
And then Weasley says: “Scabbers was missing a finger, too. Or, um, a toe. Always has.”
McGonagall, still as her face might be, produces a choking sob. “He… was alive,” she says. “All this time, he was… and we didn’t…” she pauses. “And Black?”
“They’d switched,” Lupin says. “Secret keepers. And… it makes sense. No one would’ve ever guessed it was Peter. I—wouldn’t have. I… can only imagine what happened.”
“Allow me to extrapolate,” Dumbledore says, drawing them all back to him. “On the night of the thirty-first October, thirteen years ago, young Sirius Black arrives at Godric’s Hollow, having come directly from Longbottom Manor—” Longbottom starts. “—on realizing the main events of the evening were, indeed, a diversion, as we had expected, but that the expected attack had already happened, simply on the wrong target. He finds Hagrid digging through the wreckage, carrying a young Harry, who has somehow survived the attack. Fearing that his friend Peter has suffered a similar fate to James and Lily, Sirius loans Hagrid his flying motorbike, and asks that Hagrid take Harry to safety.
“He apparates to Peter’s hiding place, a flat in muggle London, drawing the attention of the Ministry, though they are too preoccupied to attend immediately. Perhaps he finds the hiding place empty, perhaps he confronts Peter and Peter attempts to flee—somehow they end up out on the street, dueling, when the aurors arrive, having received alerts for magic in a muggle area. Peter, fearing his capture, activates some of the defenses he and Sirius have installed in the area for the very purpose of cover for an escape, and, for good measure, shouts that Sirius has betrayed the Potters, and gotten them murdered.
“Whatever the trap, it either goes terribly wrong, or he has modified it, or uses it as cover for some other violence, as the explosion kills the muggles out on the street, creating a truly gruesome scene of carnage. Peter himself loses a finger, or perhaps maims himself, and by the time the aurors have the situation under control, Sirius, who was able to protect himself from harm, is left standing in the middle of it all, and the trauma of the evening has pushed him into a psychological break. The Aurors have him arrested, and report that he repeats, over and over, that he is the one to have killed them.
“In the chaos of the following days, as the papers call for the harshest justice against the captured Death Eaters and the Ministry fails to control information leaks about the incident, the aurors attempt to interrogate Sirius, worsening his mental state, and eventually—far too late—a Mind Healer is brought to assess the damage. She determines that Sirius is unfit to stand trial. Seeing as he has already confessed, and by appearances already killed a dozen muggles in front of the aurors, and by the evidence that I myself provided, having believed him to be James' and Lily's secret keeper, the Wizengamot assigns him the maximum sentence they are able to for someone unfit to stand trial, and have Black imprisoned in the unit typically used to isolate prisoners with infectious diseases, and assign a Mind Healer to the prison, which is enough for them to declare it a medical facility. Meanwhile, the rest of us mourn lost friends, and attempt to move on, and take comfort knowing the ones responsible for that evening are, for the moment, out of the picture.”
They all sit in silence for a moment. Draco can’t help but be relieved that Severus is here—if only because in Dumbeldore’s whole speech, he has been speaking in terms of ‘us’ and ‘we’. A few years ago—Draco had just turned eleven—Father had sat down and given Draco the precise story of his involvement in the war, as the Ministry and public understands it. The truth of the matter, Draco knows, knows, is much different, but Father will not even entertain Draco suggesting such a thing, and Mother will not hear of Draco questioning Father’s word, regardless of truth. Still, for all their silence, Draco knows enough—has overheard enough, and put together through the bits and pieces that have been let slip, to know for certain that he has no place in Dumbledore’s ‘us’.
“Jesus,” Lupin says at last, and he, too, finally sinks into his seat. “To think… We all saw what we wanted to…”
“We had no reason to suspect otherwise,” Dumbledore says plainly. “Do not doubt yourself, Remus. Regret that Sirius has had to face this, yes, and support him—he will need much support, if he is to overcome this. But do not let yourself fall into the trap of despair over what we did not and could not see.”
Lupin’s head falls. There is no way he’s going to listen to Dumbledore’s advice. He’s far too Gryffindor for that.
In her chair, Sprout grunts. “Intrigue, mysteries, war history—I would like to know what happened to my greenhouse now, please.”
When no one answers immediately, Severus does. “Pettigrew got Lupin’s wand,” he says. “And decided on another explosive vanishing act. It was an intentional misbalancing to a transfiguration—of air, most likely.”
McGonagall sighs. “Yes,” she says. “He figured out how to make his work go wrong quite early on. Never as talented as James, of course, but he worked hard enough and—” She glances to Lupin, grimacing. “And you were all so good at finding ways to misuse what you were taught. Where is he now?” She pauses. “Both of them?”
“Sirius is going after Peter,” Lupin says.
“On his own?” McGonagall asks. “Without a wand?”
“I,” Weasley pipes up, reddening again. “I gave him mine. I mean, it was Charlie’s, too, and my Uncle… I mean…”
“I have every intention of following him,” Lupin says, voice as firm as has been, even as Weasley braces for a lecture from McGonagall about giving his want to a fugitive with murderous intent. “I’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk by morning, Albus—”
“No,” Dumbledore says. “I’m afraid I cannot accept that, Remus.”
Lupin curls back. “You just told me he needed support—and if Peter was the one—”
“What he needs at the moment,” Dumbledore says, “is a head start.”
“And I—”
Dumbledore holds up a hand, which is enough to silence Lupin. “Please, my friend, patience,” he says, and his gaze shifts. Landing, alarmingly, on Draco.
It takes him a moment to remember not to look Dumbledore in the eyes. He doesn’t feel legilimency, but, then, this is Dumbledore. According to Mother, he might very well be on the same level as Severus. Not a secret safe, if he wants to know. And what he wants to know…
“Forgive me for being blunt, Mr Malfoy,” he says mildly. “But I have not heard any word of how you fit into this.”
“Harry asked him to keep an eye out for Scabbers,” Granger says, before he can speak. “And then when we went chasing after—Pettigrew. I’m not sure why he came.”
Draco shifts. At this point, he’s thoroughly questioning that himself. “I was bored,” he says, refusing to mumble. “Nothing else to do. Thought it’d be a laugh. I certainly didn’t expect we’d run into a mass murderer—or any of this.”
And for some reason, it’s Weasley who speaks next: “He almost caught Scabbers, too. In the greenhouse. Did some, I don’t know, a charm or something, to block his path.”
“Earth-shaping,” Longbottom says quietly.
“Earth—what?”
“Earth-shaping,” Granger says impatiently. “Transfiguration—honestly, Ronald.”
“Earth-shaping?” McGonagall echoes faintly, eyeing Draco. “Is that true, Mr Malfoy?”
Well… yes, in a way, though he hadn’t quite done anything so… advanced. The theory, and the effect, was the same. And it was rather impressive, even if it’ll probably take a week for him to be able to cast anything remotely that powerful again. “I was sick of running,” he says. They can believe what they will.
McGonagall throws up her hands. “Perhaps I should be the one submitting my resignation, Albus,” she says. “As clearly my students only learn what is necessary to get themselves nearly killed.”
“Nearly killed?” Potter echoes, the first words he’s spoken since the greenhouse.
“You,” McGonagall goes on, ignoring them to turn her finger on Severus, “are a terrible example—”
“It was on the exam,” Granger says self-importantly. “A more instinct-driven form of transfiguration, most famously practiced by a coven based on the highlands, which directs all the input towards the movement of the materials, absorbing the magic for maintenance of the created structure, and as it does not complete the full cycle, it continues to pull beyond—”
Never mind—this is too much to stand listening to. “It was just partial transfiguration,” Draco cuts in. “No spell equations needed. Perhaps less impressive than Pettigrew’s, if that’s really what he did, but, as I said…”
“You were done with running.” Dumbledore takes a sip of his hot cocoa, then sets the mug aside, casually, as though he is not just letting go of it mid-air and somehow wandlessly supporting it—is he trying to show Draco up?—and strokes his beard. “Would it be fair to say that you simply found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
It would be fair to say that Potter pulled him into one of the most ridiculous nights of his life, but, well. He glances at Severus, and his goop-covered hands, and closed-off expression, and with the story Dumbledore’s put together, can’t help but think that maybe he’s on the edge of something that Father will be very curious to know how he ended up a part of. Something that might put him dangerously close to being part of that ‘us’ he most definitely does not fit into, an ‘us’ that Severus has yet to protest. And maybe… he’s being offered an out. “I suppose.”
“Draco,” Dumbledore says, firmly, “you must not tell your father the truth of what happened here tonight.”
What? “Are you insane?” Draco asks. Everyone in the room stiffens, but Draco hardly cares. No one, no one here is stupid enough to think he’s part of Dumbledore’s ‘us’. “You think I’m not going to tell my father—”
“The papers, of course, will be reporting on the appearance and subsequent escape of Sirius Black, who came back not to kill Harry, as was expected, but to try and deal with some of his old schoolday acquaintances."
Severus lets out a grunt to indicate his irritation.
“…you’re not going to tell them about Pettigrew,” Potter says.
“What?” Weasley creaks. “But he—Scabbers—”
“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Peter is and has been dead for thirteen years,” Dumbledore says. “It is not that I do not believe you, my boy, but that if four students and two professors were to make claims after having faced a dark wizard, the public would say…” He looks back to Draco. “…that we have all gone quite insane.”
“That we have been cursed, you mean,” Granger says. She’s looking at Draco sideways, now, too, and what she says next leaves no question as to why. “That he put us under the Imperius Curse. I’ve read that was a favorite of You-Know-Who’s followers.”
And a favorite of those looking for an excuse to get out of a life sentence in Azkaban, and a favorite for Lucius to train Draco to work around and throw off. Draco wouldn’t be further from the ‘us’ in this room if he were to cast the Dark Mark right now. If he knew how.
“It was,” Dumbledore agrees. “In any case, until Peter can be tracked down… it is unlikely that Sirius’s name will be cleared.”
“Even if I testify for him?”
Potter is still staring at his hands, so he does not see the way Dumbledore peers at him. That same pitying look all the Professor except Severus reserve for him, only, something else, too. Something a bit… sharper. Maybe it’s just the keenness of his eyes.
“It could be possible,” he says. “But to be frank, my boy, you have not done anything to endear yourself to the Minister, and he has friends…” He glances Draco’s way again. “…who might be very interested in maintaining the status quo, so to speak. Who might be very interested to learn that the true servant of the Dark Lord, who might have a better understanding of what exactly happened that night, has once again escaped. Who might see a chance to discredit you, Harry, and myself, and care less for the truth of the matter. Though he might receive that information from another source, even so.”
He hasn’t stopped staring at Draco, whose mouth suddenly feels awfully dry, his thoughts awfully fuzzy. This is—way beyond him. Dumbledore’s being fairly explicit, in terms of laying out the stakes, but Draco can’t quite picture the image the pieces of the puzzle will make when he fits them together. He looks to Severus, instead, hoping for some guidance, and finds black eyes staring back. A blank face—truly blank, meaning he’s trying, because he knows Draco knows him well enough to read him—and no response, even when Draco raises his own eyebrows, pushing for it.
No legilimency, either. Who knows if that’s good or bad.
But then, without giving him anything, Severus turns away. “Lucius won’t hear of this from me, Headmaster,” he says flatly. “If Black manages to evade the aurors long enough to find Pettigrew, then perhaps they will do us all a favor and blow each other up. And we will never have to deal with either of them again.”
“Severus,” McGonagall chides.
“Black might not be a murderer yet,” Severus says, “But he was certainly willing to try, when he was in school. If, as you say, he has been suffering poorly treated mental instability all this time, in addition to having the dementors feed on his soul—assuming he had one to begin with—then he is long past the point of being able to function in society. Think of it as a mercy killing, if it comforts you.”
Lupin actually snarls at him. “Once again you fail to demonstrate even the most basic functions of empathy—”
“You’ve tried to convince me that you have not forgotten that he tried to make you a murderer,” Severus replies. “The way I see it, he tried again tonight, and if not for Mr Potter, he would have succeeded. I see no regret in you over that.”
“You would not have regretted it either, had I done it,” Lupin says, just as coldly.
“Professors,” Dumbledore says, in a practiced voice—these two have definitely argued in front of him before. “Please. Severus, though I appreciate your assurances, I believe your contract would cover this without the excuses.” He pointedly ignores how Severus mutters about excuses, looking to Draco. “Mr Malfoy?”
God damn it. This is all twisted up. “I won’t need to tell my Father anything,” he says. “If you think he needs me for information, you’re as senile as they say.”
“That and then some, I’m sure,” Dumbledore says, but he nods. “And if he asks you?”
“I’m not going to lie to him.” He couldn’t. Father would see through it in a heartbeat, and Father has very clear opinions about Draco lying to him.
“But you won’t go out of your way to tell him, either.”
Draco bites his cheek, to keep what he’s feeling from his face. If only Severus would look at him, give him some sign… “I do not make a habit of disturbing Father with trivial information,” he says.
Dumbledore can see straight through his attempts to avoid committing, but, damn it, he needs time to think. You don’t just agree to something with a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore, not if you’re not certain of it. Draco doesn’t need Mother or Father or Severus to tell him that.
“So we simply need to ensure that he does not ask you about it,” Dumbledore says. “Unfortunately, enough people have already seen you tonight to deny your involvement altogether.”
“Not to be drastic,” Lupin says, “but memory modification is an option.”
It most definitely is not! They—Severus would not allow that. Surely.
“Narcissa would see right through that,” Severus says—not the defense Draco had expected, precisely, but—
Dumbledore hums. “Yes, I suspect she is the greater threat. Forgive the presumption, Mr Malfoy, but if I understand your situation correctly, you spend more time around her. Which means more opportunities for the subject to arise, when you return home this summer.”
“I am not lying to my mother,” Draco says, affronted.
“Of course not,” Dummbledore agrees. “Which makes the situation all the more precarious.”
More silence. Sprout seems to have dozed off in her chair. McGonagall is staring at Dumbledore, and Draco doesn’t know her nearly well enough to get a read from that look. Granger and Weasley are exchanging looks, Longbottom looks like he’s trying to become one with the armchair… and Potter’s staring at him. And—
What the hell does Potter want from him? He’s the one who brought him into this whole mess—
“It is just as well, then,” Severus says, slowly turning back to look at Draco, “That Mr Malfoy will be pursuing a summer internship at the Alchemists’ Academy in Berlin this summer.”
Granger lets out a gasp. Draco blinks. “I—what?”
“Professor McGonagall will be happy to recommend him to the program, of course,” Severus goes on, “in light of his demonstrated knack for attempting Transfiguration far above what Hogwarts is equipped to supervise. I am sure his application will find its way to the right hands. And as I have recently amassed a large quantity of research notes that will require peer review from the top experts in abstract transfiguration to be published without earning a black mark from both creature rights activists and bestiaphobic purists alike, I would be willing to act as his chaperone.”
Where on earth—Germany? The Alchemists’ Academy? In Berlin—the most prestigious research facility in Europe—
“Hm…” Dumbledore strokes his beard. “I do hold some sway, among the board… Mr Malfoy? Would that be acceptable?”
Draco gapes at him. “You’re… buying my silence?”
“We are removing you from the position of needing to decide whether or not it is worth it to conceal your experience from your parents,” Severus corrects.
A summer with Severus, rather than his parents? It’s almost shameful how difficult it is to shout out an automatic yes. He’s had years of having to live with the fact that Mother cannot stand Severus being present in the manor at the same time she is; of begging the house elves to slip notes under Father’s utensils at dinner, knowing it will have no real effect, especially when school was in session; of, on Severus’s rare visits, being limited to the time remaining after he has already visited Father, when he has already been drained of the majority of his limited patience for social matters.
And to add the Academy on top of that—and perhaps to worm his way into whatever it is that Severus is researching... They’re trying to make this an offer he can’t refuse. And he doesn’t know why, but that means it is vital to them that this information does not reach Father. And Father, then, would surely find it interesting.
It’s ‘us’ versus his family. Only, Severus is apparently a part of this ‘us’.
And once he’s had time to think, there’s nothing stopping him from sending a carefully worded letter or two.
“I would not be opposed to attending the Academy,” Draco allows. “And if that means there is no time for that topic of conversation, then I will not make time for that conversation.”
“Excellent,” says Dumbledore, and he leans back. “Then I shall contact my colleagues at the Academy.And Minerva ”
“Summer is a long way away,” says Lupin. “Sirius may very well have caught up to Peter by then.”
“Or might have been brought in by the aurors,” Severus challenges.
“Either of those may happen this very night,” Dumbledore says. “But if they both now possess wands, and no one mentions that they are animagi…” He glances Draco’s way. “Then I don’t see why their evasion would not be improved. This is a hunt I do not predict will end so easily.”
So that’s part of this bargain too, is it?
“All the more reason why I should go now!”
“Remus,” says Dumbledore, “you will be followed by aurors, if you leave the castle now. Wait until summer, until Sirius has been sighted on a false trail. Finish the year, without giving any hint that anything is amiss, and the aurors will find watching Severus and Draco in Germany more likely than following you.”
Severus’s lip curls, but he gives no other sign that he opposes being tailed by aurors. And Draco has nothing to fear from them—and if it does become an issue, Father can resolve it.
Lupin breathes out, loudly and steadily, through his nose. “We must at least let him know that we are not—”
He’s cut off by a knocking on the door. Dumbledor waves his hand towards it, a smooth motion that concludes with him retaking his mug, and the door opens; on the other side stands Professor Flitwick, accompanied by two red-robed Aurors and, strangely, Barty Crouch, the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
“Come in, please,” Dumbledore says. “Mr Malfoy, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, Mr Potter, Miss Granger… I imagine your housemates are worried about you. We will let you know if we need your story once more over the coming weeks, but for now, please return to your dormitories. And do take your cocoa along with you.”
It’s as clear a dismissal as there ever was. Draco still has questions, he’s sure, but right now he’s feeling like he could sleep a week. He glances to Severus again, who gives him a short nod in return; and follows at the back of the group, out of the office.
Draco lingers, of course, just long enough to hear one of the aurors begin— “The dementors have reported that they lost the—”
And then the door closes, and Draco makes his way down the stairs.
Potter, Weasley, Longbottom, and Granger don’t seem to be following directions, considering they’re heading off together, despite all belonging to different houses. The same direction that will take Draco to Slytherin, meaning he will have to follow them—and doesn’t this feel like deja vu? The thought of returning to Slytherin—of Pansy fawning, or, worse, saying nothing, and Blaise sitting there with all his confusing, twisting judgment—
And obviously, he can’t follow them, not this time, and he doesn’t even want to, but—
"Potter!" Draco calls, hating himself for it, hating the way the four of them pause all together, and Weasley whispers something as Potter turns around. Objectively speaking, at this precise moment in time, Potter looks the worst Draco's seen him, even worse than when he'd fainted off his broom and nearly had his soul sucked out by dementors, and the words come quick to his tongue—but he forces them down. "Why'd you do it?" he asks instead, stepping closer. Not too close. "Why'd you invite me to come along?"
The confusion fades, briefly, from Potter's face, but returns again just as fast. He, too, steps forward, away from his friends; he, too, halts with a space left between them.
"Well?" Draco asks.
"You're actually delusional."
"I—what? What did you—"
"Delusional," Potter repeats. "Suffering from delusions. I didn't ask you to come along, Malfoy."
"Well, not in as many words," Draco says, trying not to bristle too obviously. "But—"
"Not in any words," Potter says. "I asked you to keep an eye out for Scabbers, and you—”
“Then why did you ask me to do that?” Draco demands. He gestures to the others. “None of them would have!”
There’s no disagreement. Potter stiffens, like he’s holding himself back from looking at them. Like he’s afraid to turn his back on Draco, or afraid of what he might see.
"Earlier this year there were some comparisons made between you and me," Potter finally says, and for the moment, the firmness of his gaze seems to cover for the softness of his voice. "And I've been thrown a lot of bones, since."
"You thought you'd throw me a bone?"
"I watched you a bit, at least in classes, and when you came after Hermione or Ron or Neville. Or me. And… They were right, in a way." He ignores Weasley's protest behind him, and, well, no need to ask who made the comparison, which makes this all the more insulting. Potter seems to have that in hand himself, though: "You're not any better at people than I am," he says bluntly. "Except for you, it's important that you think you are. It matters. And if it matters that people like you, then maybe there's a chance you have a chance of someday becoming not an arsehole."
"You're mental," is all Draco can say.
"Probably," Potter replies, unconcerned.
"You brought me along on a suicide mission, because you thought there might be a chance that I could become 'not an arsehole' if I, what, wanted you to like me?"
"I asked you to help us find Ron's missing pet," Potter says deliberately. "If you took that as an invitation, that's on you. And I can't guess why you decided to come, even if you thought it was. But why I asked you… If not because you just happened to be there? I don't know. To see if there's any chance you might ever be halfway decent?" He crosses his arms over his chest. Unlike the rest of them, he didn't bring the cocoa. "I don't know what it was like in your manor, or wherever, but in the real world, you have to learn to work with people you don't actually like. I was curious to see whether you could manage that, though to tell the truth, I more expected you to curse our filthy blood than actually do any good."
It—the middle part, at least—reminds Draco so much of something Blaise might say, Draco’s stomach turns. And maybe it’s that connection that makes him ask: “And what did you see?”
Potter tilts his head, and after an uncomfortably long period of that vacuous stare, shrugs. “You’d have to ask Trelawny,” he says. “I didn’t see anything tonight that particularly changed my opinion of you. You won’t be anyone’s friend if you don’t work at it.”
Draco swallows heavily. He’s not sure why, exactly, he’s bothering to ask this. It’s not like he wants Potter to like him, like there’s any chance in hell that they might be, Merlin, friends, but…
Oh. Is that… is that what this is all about? Friends. He hasn’t got any, not really, and… Potter’s throwing him bones.
He’s so bloody tired.
He glances at Longbottom, and at Weasley, and Granger, and they’re… definitely not who this question is for. So he takes a step forward, and lowers his voice. “And would you consider,” he says slowly. “Helping me work at it? If we are so similar?”
Potter tilts his head again, narrowing his eyes—tilts it the other way, too, and looks Draco up and down, like he’s seeing him for the first time.
And then he shakes his head.
“Hermione would murder me,” he says, just as quietly. “Or you, if Ron doesn’t get to it first. If I don’t. You’re a prick, and a bigoted fucking blood purist, and your dad probably wants me dead, which are all pretty major things for you to get over. And being around me isn't going to help you solve any of that," he adds darkly. "And, you have friends, Malfoy. But I don’t think they’d appreciate it if you just abandoned them without even trying.”
He waits a moment, then turns and walks away. It occurs to Draco he was meant to reply, but seeing as Potter’s now directly rejected his overtures of friendship twice, at this point anything less than an insult would look desperate. And Draco’s not desperate. He’s not. A Malfoy is never desperate.
Weasley and Longbottom fall in step with Potter, but Granger, Draco realizes, is standing there staring at him, her face thoroughly unimpressed. “You know, Malfoy,” she says. “If you ever learn how to treat people with respect, we have an unfinished conversation. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop enlisting other people to be awful in your place. You want to pick a fight with me or Harry? Have the decency to do it to our faces.”
He’s too tired to waste the energy to spit ‘mudblood’ at her. And they are right outside the Headmaster’s office. “Piss off, Granger.”
“Up yours, Malfoy.”
She turns and marches off, head held high, and, after a moment, Draco follows after them.
Maybe Pansy is waiting for him, teary-eyed and frantic, fearing the worst. Maybe the whole house is flush with rumors, Severus having been too occupied to storm in and order them all to sleep. Or maybe Blaise is still awake, and no one else, and waiting to tell Draco exactly how stupid it was, to go chasing after Potter like that. And if not…
He’d very much like some sleep.