Chapter Sixteen of 'Inter Vivos'- Truth

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Chapter Sixteen—Truth

Harry had run from the classroom with his lungs burning. He ran until he was outside Gryffindor Tower again and panting so heavily that he almost couldn’t give the Fat Lady the password that would let him inside. She examined him with wide eyes, and fluttered about uncertainly for a moment.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” she demanded.

“Honeybells,” Harry said.

“Dear, are you sure you don’t want me to call Professor McGonagall?” the Fat Lady asked, even as the portrait swung open. “She has the most wonderful remedies for an upset stomach and upset mind—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just clear my mind,” Harry muttered as he ducked past into the common room, even though he knew she wouldn’t get the joke. A few of the older students in the common room were still awake and studying, and they frowned at him as he walked towards his bedroom. Harry couldn’t care less.

He did come up the stairs and open the door into the room softly. He didn’t want to wake Ron up, or, for God’s sake, Seamus.

But there were four soft, clear snores resounding throughout the room, and Harry crept into his bed and pulled the curtains shut without altering their sound. Then he dropped his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. They were burning, just like his lungs, just like his scar.

And now I’ve really lost him. Months of pretending that we weren’t friends couldn’t cause me to lose him, but this did.

Harry wanted to curl up around what felt like a wound in his belly and wallow in self-pity. He had to get some sleep, or he would be no good tomorrow, and he had training sessions with both Sirius and the Army to attend—and probably another dance around Dumbledore, who took it into his head every other week to inquire how Snape and Harry were getting on with Occlumency.

So many things to do. Sometimes Harry thought he would welcome the final battle with Voldemort happening tomorrow, just to put an end to the endless procession of juggling worries and duties and trying to ensure that he kept up his part of the war.

It’s hard work being a hero, he thought drowsily, rubbing at his forehead. The burning in his scar seemed worse than normal this time. I wonder why Snape snipes all the time about my being one. He’s welcome to it if he wants it.

He thought he might mention that to the greasy git if he saw him tomorrow, right after he screamed at him for telling Draco about the Dursleys.

And then he was gone into sleep—only to wake two hours later from a nightmare about Draco being dismembered by his father, and lie awake staring out the window until dawn.

*

Draco ran directly for his bedroom. He was too upset to go to sleep, he knew that, so instead he decided to take a step that would fix the problem.

And it was a problem.

He’d meant to act like a Gryffindor and thus force Harry to confront the abuse straightforwardly. It was simple, wasn’t it? Harry liked the truth. If he had someone else tell him the truth about the abuse from their perspective—and Draco knew that Harry wasn’t really capable of thinking about it otherwise—then he would change his mind and believe them.

But it had all gone horribly wrong, and Harry had misunderstood Draco’s anger, and he’d said that he hated Draco, and—

Draco couldn’t stand to have Harry angry at him like that. He could be angry with Harry, the way he’d been after he lost the match and Harry patronized him, but he couldn’t stand this.

So he sat down to write a letter to the one person he thought would be able to advise him about Harry.

Dear Mother,

Something’s gone horribly wrong. I found out a secret that concerns a friend. I was less than diplomatic in telling my friend I knew about the secret, but I really don’t think they’ll make the right decision without help. Instead, though, they got angry at me and stormed off. What can I do? How can I help? I can’t just talk about it again, because I made such a mess the first time. I wanted to ask you because I value your diplomatic skills and your advice.

Love,
Draco.

That was the draft he eventually produced, after fussing over the letter for an hour. Draco was proud of how discreet and delicate he sounded (though his mother would probably scold him for using the singular “they.”) And if his father read it over her shoulder, Draco could always pretend that he was concerned he knew someone struggling to become a Death Eater who might decide against the Dark Lord.

He went to the Owlery and sent it flying with his own owl, Heliodorus; no need to hide this, when it was an official communication with his parents. Heliodorus eyed him sleepily as he accepted the letter and hooted softly when Draco stroked his feathers and then his beak.

“This is urgent,” Draco said, staring into the owl’s eyes. “Narcissa Malfoy, you understand? Take it directly to my mother, and don’t let my father see it if possible.”

Heliodorus ruffled out his feathers and hooted in indignation; he was one of the few creatures in the world loyal to Draco alone, and obviously resented the implication that Lucius could take the letter from him in any way. Knowing his father’s power, though, Draco didn’t want Heliodorus to feel guilty if he failed.

In moments, Heliodorus had sprung from his perch and was winging easily south towards Wiltshire. Draco watched him for as long as he could see him, and then went to bed, feeling content.

The next few days wouldn’t be easy, what with enduring Harry’s anger and his own frustration, but he would get through them in the end.

*

Severus needed only a glance at Draco the next morning to know that his plan to inform Draco of Potter’s abuse had not succeeded.

Draco sat at his place with his shoulders hunched, digging into his food like it was the remains of a slaughtered enemy. If someone else addressed him, he grunted and hunched further. Severus wondered for a moment what he thought he was doing, then concealed a sigh behind his mug of tea. It was unlikely that anyone would connect Draco’s disgruntlement to Potter, not when he and Harry had been so successful at building up the pretense of a renewed rivalry this year. He could always pretend to have awakened in a foul mood.

And Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, tense and alert, with a feverish expression on his face. He answered when his little friends asked him questions, but with an obviously abstracted air. And he kept his eyes pointedly away from the Slytherin table, though on most mornings he managed a glare to aid Draco’s acting.

Whatever happened between them, it did not work out as I hoped. Severus set his mug down and directed his own attention to his food, that an attentive observer could not work out he cared about this pair of misbegotten students who did not understand their own interests. I must contrive to help Potter, but all my best ideas have foundered on Dumbledore’s fear, Draco’s inadequacy, or Potter’s stubbornness. And yet, the necessity remains the same.

“What’s causing you to frown so this morning, Severus?’

Even paying attention to his own food would not deter Minerva—she was too used to sullen students whom she had to chide into answering in class—so Severus made shift to reply. “What always causes me to frown?” he drawled, and paused to bite his way through a bit of toast. “The incompetence of students in my Potions classes.” He hesitated, and then decided that he might as well try asking Minerva’s advice, under a suitable disguise, of course. God knew that nothing else had worked, and he could ask in such a way so as not to make her suspicious and worsen the situation. “One student in particular is causing trouble because of external circumstances, and not his lack of fitness for the subject. But though I have attempted to reason him through his difficulty, he will not listen to me.”

“What kind of external circumstances?” Minerva had set her mug down with a very definite clink, but Severus was unafraid. Minerva was ferocious in defending her students; Severus could be just as ferocious at defending his own privacy.

“His family.”

Minerva nodded. “And you have tried reason? What else have you tried?”

Despite the situation, Severus felt smug that he was in the position to give her an offended look. “I hardly think threats of removing points and giving detentions would be appropriate in this situation.”

“No, Severus, that’s not what I meant.” Minerva sounded exasperated with him, but before Severus could bristle, she leaned forwards and caught his eye. “No matter how much of an alien notion it may be to you, some students need more than reason. They need to know that a teacher is emotionally involved in their situation and seeing them as people, not simply as obstacles to others’ learning. Have you made it clear that you care, Severus, and why?”

Severus stared at her for only a moment. Then he snorted and turned back to his toast. “A teacher should not care about one student more than the others,” he said. “And the kind of ‘caring’ that you appear to believe necessary would confirm exactly that, in the student’s small and prejudiced mind.”

Inwardly, he was shaken.

The moment Minerva spoke her words, they added to and changed the complex pattern of concerns, thoughts, memories, and plans he had conceived regarding Harry. He knew what he could do. It might not bond the boy to him immediately, but it would show him that Severus himself had a vulnerability, and that was a start, after Severus had so unexpectedly discovered his vulnerability.

He could tell the boy about Lily, and Severus’s friendship with her.

“There need be no talk of the teacher favoring one student over the others,” Minerva said, her voice going stiff and more of her Scottish accent coming through. “Any more than I favor a student with extra Transfiguration tutoring. Some need more help, that is all. But even if you don’t really care about this student, Severus, I advise you to act as if you do. That’s what those of us not blessed with real emotions have to do.”

Her words were perhaps meant to be inaudible, but Severus heard them well enough. He sat still for long moments, until the temptation to explode at her had passed.

And meanwhile, he thought again and again, doubtfully, wonderingly, about whether he could allow himself to pursue the course her words had suggested.

I cannot. Betray myself in that fashion? It would win me no reward and do little good, as much as Potter hates me now. He would delight in having that weapon to hold over my head, and no doubt he would quiz Black about it first, and Black would tell him a pack of lies that would drive him further away than ever. I would have exposed my past to no purpose.

You are lying by omission, said the sharp self-critical voice he had developed when spying for Dumbledore, so that he might view his actions the way an outsider would view them and protect himself better. Every time you make the boy believe that only an antagonistic relationship subsisted between you and his parents. Every time he believes that you had nothing to do with Lily and Potter’s destruction. Every time.

He is not yet ready for such knowledge, Severus replied to himself, and then stood up and swept out of the Great Hall with dignity. He was aware of the boy’s eyes following him, and that they burned with hatred and not the confidence he would have liked to have seen in them.

Nothing I do can repair this.

If only for Lily and yourself, and not for him, you must repair the situation. You must, said the relentless voice. And now you have a way and would ignore it if you could. I did not believe I would see the day arise when you could easily be called coward.

Severus strode to the dungeons, and wished he could believe he was going to a Potions class and not running away from himself.

*

The last thing Harry had expected when he stepped into his bedroom that afternoon was for Hermione to be there with Ron. Well, maybe that was the second-to-last thing he expected, because the last was her using a spell of some kind to seal the door behind him and then for her to stand staring at him with her hands on her hips.

“I know something is wrong,” Hermione said. “And you’re not going anywhere until you talk to us and tell us what it is.”

Harry hunched his shoulders. He was still tired. It had been three days since Draco betrayed him, and he hadn’t got much sleep since then. And now his best friends were trying to corner him, when he’d relied on them understanding that he didn’t want to talk. Anger boiled up in him, and he tried several times to swallow it, but it didn’t want to be swallowed.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. You want to know what’s wrong? Snape tore me into my memories when he was teaching me Occlumency, and then he told Draco what he saw, and Draco betrayed me and tried to force me to tell him. And now you’re doing the same thing. I told Draco I hated him and ran away from him. Do you want me to do the same thing to you?”

He was yelling by the time he came to the end of that. He didn’t care. It felt good to talk, for once, without worrying if anyone was going to overhear him. He fixed his eyes on Ron and Hermione and waited, panting, for them to explode back.

But even though Hermione’s face got red and Ron looked as if he’d like to hit Harry for yelling at Hermione, they didn’t yell. Instead, Hermione said softly, “I thought it was something like that. It’s been hard, isn’t it? You have to pretend not to be Malfoy’s friend, but you’d like to associate with him openly. I can only imagine what it would be like if Ron and I had to pretend to ignore you.”

“Don’t compare us to that slimy—” Ron started indignantly, but Hermione hit him in the ribs with her elbow and he shut up.

Harry laughed bitterly. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can talk around it and they’ll sympathize with me and it’ll be all right. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell us.” Hermione fixed him with an earnest gaze. “I remember the night you came back from your detention with a massive headache. That was the night Professor Snape tore into your memories, wasn’t it?”

Harry swallowed. Thinking about that night made him want to find Snape and rip him apart, but he’d avoided that so far, and he thought he should go on avoiding it. “Yeah.”

“What kind of memories were they, mate?” Ron spoke seriously, his eyes darting from Harry to the door and back, as if he was afraid Seamus would come in despite the locking spell and overhear them talking. “Could you tell Dumbledore he took them?”

They’re asking. But Harry laughed again. “That’s the last thing I want to do,” he said, and tried to distract them. “Dumbledore still thinks we’re having the Occlumency lessons. He still thinks we’re getting along. And he’s been ignoring me all year, anyway. I think he’s afraid that Voldemort will possess me and read his mind through my eyes or something.”

“What were the memories, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was old and sad.

Harry folded his arms. He felt as if maybe they would go away if he could just stick his elbows into his sides hard enough. He was dreaming some nightmare, and if he could cause himself enough pain, then he would wake up.

It hasn’t worked so far, or I would have woken up after my fight with Draco. But it might this time.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he whispered.

“Why not?” Ron had come a step closer now and was staring at him in concern. “If Snape did something to you—”

“No.” Harry closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. But it didn’t want to be controlled. It was speeding up, and his heart was speeding up, and his head felt as if it would float away like a balloon any minute. He was full of light and air and panic. “It’s nothing like this. It was memories of the summer. It was—I didn’t want to worry you. I never wanted to worry you.” He thought that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but the lightness and the whirling emotions descended on him, and his body jerked and shuddered in response.

“Harry.” Hermione crept towards him, her eyes enormous. Her arms quivered and then pulled back. Harry thought she wanted to hug him but didn’t dare. “It makes it worse if we don’t know. What if you die and we could have helped you if only we’d known? Please, please tell us.” She was starting to cry now, and Ron put a hand on her shoulder and reached towards Harry with his free hand.

“Please, mate,” he said, and tried to smile. “Think of all the awful things we’re imagining. It’s probably not as bad as all that, is it?”

Harry rubbed his hands along his arms, shivering. He remembered feeling like this when he’d been a baby and had a fever and the Dursleys wouldn’t take him to hospital, but never since. “It’s worse,” he whispered.

“Then tell us.” Now Hermione was crying and stomping her foot at the same time. Harry tried to laugh, but it came out like a squeaky whinny and he stopped.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He’d thought that if he just kept it at a distance, then the memories wouldn’t overwhelm him. It would just be something that happened in the summer and couldn’t happen again. The Dursleys wouldn’t be quite that awful again, as long as he told as his friends, including Sirius, to be sure and not send owls over the summer.

But they knew now, or Draco and Snape knew and Ron and Hermione were on the verge of figuring it out, and Harry didn’t think he could hide it any longer. He was too tired.

“They starved me,” he said. “All summer. I got about three meals a week.”

“Oh, Harry!”

Hermione seemed to Apparate the distance between him and Ron; anyway, she was hugging him in the next moment and Harry couldn’t remember seeing her move. He wrapped his arms around her, too, and buried his face in her neck. Ron came charging up to him, then hesitated and gingerly hugged him and Hermione both.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he whispered. Harry thought Hermione might have said it, but she was too busy crying. “My God, mate, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I told you that part of it,” Harry said. Wasn’t it supposed to feel better, once you told the truth? Instead, he felt worse than before, like his bones were made of rusty iron and every one of them was breaking, and there were pieces of glass caught in his throat. “Because I didn’t want you to worry. And anyway, as long as everyone didn’t know about it, they couldn’t care anyway. It would be like it never happened. You couldn’t go and change the past, or take revenge on the Dursleys. I thought it would go away.”

“It’ll never go away,” Hermione said, wiping her tears off with an impatient hand. Harry thought she was embarrassed that she’d cried at all, since it was such a girly thing to do. “Not unless you talk about it, and struggle to get over it, and learn to eat properly again—oh, Harry, it’s going to take so much work.”

Harry struggled irritably at that, but he was pinned to the wall with her holding onto him, and Ron was still holding him, too, and he frowned stubbornly at Harry when he realized what was happening and let his weight sag forwards. Harry gave up with a sigh. “See,” he said, wishing he could clean his glasses, “that’s another reason I didn’t tell you. Do you think I have the kind of time to do that work, when there’s Voldemort to fight? I have to do that first, before anything else, but you and Snape and Draco all seem to think that I should think about the Dursleys first. You’re not making any sense.”

“You can think about them both.” Hermione was the one clinging like a Dementor now, because Ron had stepped back from her and come in so he could hug Harry from the side. “But you can’t go back to them. And you’re for more than just fighting Voldemort.” She gasped suddenly, the kind of gasp Harry was used to hearing when she got a sudden insight into her Arithmancy homework. “Harry, you’ve been thinking that that’s the only thing you’re good for, haven’t you? I read once that abused children often think of themselves like that, because they believe that they could have prevented the abuse if they were just a little faster or a little stronger or a little smarter.”

Harry stiffened. He really couldn’t talk to them any further, because Dumbledore had made him promise not to say anything about the prophecy.

But maybe he didn’t have to, he realized. Hermione was staring at him with wide-open, appalled eyes—and pity, which Harry hated—but there was no indication that she thought his training cycle due to a prophecy. If he let her think that he was just upset and determined to fight Voldemort because he’d been abused, then that was fine.

“Yeah,” he said, with a shaky smile. “That’s some of it.”

Hermione hugged him again, hard enough that Harry grunted a little. He was skinnier than he’d been, but he didn’t know if she understood that. “You’re more than a weapon.” She said it with an absolute conviction that, Harry thought cynically, would be nice to have. “We’ll work on this, Harry. I’ll look up things in the books so that you don’t have to talk to Madam Pomfrey if you don’t want to. And there are potions and spells that can bind Snape and Malfoy to secrecy.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, Harry. We don’t have to go to them. We can do it on our own.” He looked happier than Harry had seen him all year, probably because they hadn’t had an adventure to follow or a mystery to solve until this point.

Harry relaxed. At least his best friends knew he didn’t trust adults and wouldn’t try to involve him with them. Books and Hermione were easier to deal with than Madam Pomfrey’s leading questions or Snape’s stupid assertions.

Or Draco’s betrayal, he thought, but shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about that.

“All right,” he said, when he saw that Hermione was looking at him with quivering, eager anticipation, the way that Dudley’s pet rabbit used to when Harry was the only one who fed it. “Let’s get started.”

*

Heliodorus brought his mother’s letter to Draco at dinner. Draco snatched at it greedily, wondering what had taken her so long to answer. They only had a week more of the term, and then they would go home for Christmas holidays. Draco couldn’t use Narcissa’s advice if she waited too long to give it.

And then, of course, Pansy insisted on clinging to his arm, and Blaise came and sat by him with the mysterious smile that meant he wanted Draco to ask him questions about their Arithmancy homework, and Vince and Greg asked Draco to explain chess to them again (they hadn’t yet given up hope that they might understand it someday, since they thought understanding chess was the first step to being sophisticated). Draco dealt with all of them in the way he thought his father would deal with their fathers, or mother, in Blaise’s case. So many distractions, so much chatter and inconsequential worries, when he had important business to think about.

Finally, by yawning a lot and looking longingly in the direction of the bedroom, he convinced them that he was tired and managed to disappear into his own bed with the curtains shut around him. Then he propped himself up against his pillows and began to read the letter with the utmost attention.

My dear son:

It is clear what you mean and what you have been struggling against, though at last you have learned to write in such a manner as to be discreet and so as not to convey your intention aloud. I am impressed.

If you have truly given advice to your friend—your close and dear friend—that did not work, you must try again. But this time, do not approach it as if you were giving advice. Your uncle Rodolphus Lestrange did that with Lucius and managed to permanently offend him. Instead, approach in a spirit of humility. The humility may be mock if it must, but conciliating your friend and making him listen is the most important thing.

“But what will happen if he won’t even listen to me, humility or not?” Draco muttered, and hurried to the next part of the letter.

Speak calmly and thoughtfully. Remember that this is done more for your friend’s sake than your own. Above all, you must avoid giving offense. Your hurt feelings are not the most important thing here. Hold your tongue when he objects, when he shouts and screams and rants. Apologize first. Then tell him in clear terms what worried you, and why you wanted to give the advice in the first place. Many people will listen to any explanation as long as you proffer a bit of agreement first and make it seem as if you agree that your mistake was indeed a mistake.

“But that’s—” Draco began, and then stopped and bit his lip. It was partially because Blaise had come into the bedroom and was fussing around with his pyjamas, but Draco was also thinking about his mother’s words in that paragraph. Your hurt feelings are not the most important thing here.

Does it matter if it’s hard? It matters that you get Harry listening to you again, that you win his friendship again.

Whatever he did, Draco knew he couldn’t let things go on like this. Just being without Harry made him feel sick and shaky. He had to have their friendship again, and even if apologizing was hard, it would be easier than this.

His mother had only one more paragraph in her letter.

Retain control of your rational mind, if your friend cannot. Remember what you want, and keep your eyes focused on it, and do whatever you must to regain it. Do not lose control of your temper or your tongue. Retreat at once if you think it is happening, and come back when you can control yourself.

Draco took a deep breath. Professor Snape had given him lessons in self-control so he could fool his father. Draco didn’t want to fool Harry, exactly, but he knew that he had to make him listen, and maybe those lessons could help with this, too.

And besides, if he didn’t follow his mother’s advice he knew he would feel like a fool and a child.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Narcissa, and then folded the letter up and put it under his pillow. It didn’t help with everything—for example, it didn’t tell him anything about his confused feelings for Harry—but right now, he wanted Harry’s friendship back more than he wanted to know what those feelings were. He would work on that, and leave the rest for later.

*

You’re being stupid.

Harry gnawed his lip and paced back and forth. The cold wind blowing along the top of the Astronomy Tower plastered his robes to him and made him shiver. Absently, he cast a Warming Charm, thinking that he’d always been cold since he came back to school.

That would be because you lost weight and you’re thinner now.

Harry scowled and spun on his heel, tempted to stomp down the stairs and leave. It seemed that he’d gone from being able to ignore his abuse by the Dursleys to always thinking about it, which made no sense even when he and Hermione spent part of each day in the library reading up on abuse and recovering from it.

Stupid git Snape. If he hadn’t learned about it, then Ron and Hermione and Draco wouldn’t have learned about it, and everything could have gone on happening the way it was meant to.

But he wasn’t unhappy all the time when he was talking about abuse with Hermione. In fact, she was almost soothing to talk to. She tended to put everything into generalities and abstractions and theories, and Harry was interested in putting what had happened as far from him as possible whilst he still dealt with it.

Ron was soothing, too, because he didn’t talk. He and Harry went flying, or he tried—patiently, and futilely—to teach Harry chess, or they argued about whether most of the spells taught to them in class would really be useful in later life. Harry could be normal with him, and except for some concerned glances now and then, Ron treated the whole abuse conversation as if it hadn’t happened. Harry liked being around Ron best right now.

Hermione had pressed him to tell Sirius about the abuse, but Harry had pointed out that he thought Sirius would go off and kill the Dursleys, and that wouldn’t be helpful. Hermione had reluctantly agreed to wait.

She hadn’t been able to persuade him to go to Dumbledore, either, but she seemed to understand why. And even she hadn’t suggested approaching Draco or Snape.

Which meant that it made zero sense why Harry had answered Draco’s letter, which asked Harry to meet with him so he could explain, although Harry had insisted that he choose the place and he’d chosen the top of the Astronomy Tower.

But he had, and now he was pacing up here, near midnight, just the time they’d been meeting in the classroom when they still met as friends, and he had to wonder if he was out of his head for agreeing instead of Draco’s being out of his head for writing to him.

“I wondered if you would come.”

Harry stiffened. From the sound of his voice, Draco stood between him and the stairs. Harry had become good at judging the directions of sounds in his lessons.

But he had agreed to this, for whatever stupid reason, and he was committed. Harry had promised himself he was going to be cold and calm and hold onto his temper for as long as he could. It probably wouldn’t be long, he thought as he turned around, because it wouldn’t be long until Draco said something moronic.

”I came,” he said evenly. “Because I couldn’t believe you would write to me after what you said last time, and I thought you must have something particular to say. So talk.”

Draco stood there looking at him instead of answering for long moments. He had his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was fighting down the temptation to lash out at Harry. Harry understood that temptation all too well. He almost wished Draco would give in to it, because then at least the meeting would be short.

Draco closed his eyes at last. Harry braced himself.

“I wanted to apologize,” Draco said, unbelievably.

Harry stared at him, gaping until he realized how stupid he would look. “Why?” he asked. “I thought you thought you didn’t do anything wrong.” His words made Draco flinch, but that was good. Harry wanted to hurt Draco as badly as he’d been hurt. Maybe Draco would really understand, then, what he’d done, and leave Harry alone.

“I did,” Draco said, almost inaudibly. Harry knew he would have failed to hear it if not for his practiced listening. “But then I started thinking about it. I didn’t let you know, gently, that I knew. I just wanted to kill them. The people who hurt you. I was so angry. And then I went in there, and I acted like you were the one I was angry at, even though you weren’t.” He opened his eyes and leaned forwards anxiously. “Please, Harry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shaken you like that, or cast the spell that stripped you. It was wrong.”

Harry folded his arms. He was trembling, and he knew it. He forced himself to be still. “I’m glad you realize that,” he said. “But you could have apologized for being angry in the first place.”

A line appeared between Draco’s brows, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another the way he did when McGonagall caught him out with a question in Transfiguration and he hadn’t done the homework. “I did apologize for being angry at you.”

“No,” Harry said. “For being angry with the Dursleys. What business is it of yours what they did to me?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Draco said. There was a trembling behind his words, Harry thought, as if he was speaking them whilst edging out on a rope over an abyss. “Because I don’t want people to hurt you. I learned about it the wrong way. I told you about it the wrong way. But I won’t apologize for being angry when I heard.” He looked directly at Harry. “I’m always going to want to hurt people who hurt you.”

Harry looked quickly away, because otherwise he was sure he would say something stupid, or show something stupid on his face. That sensation he’d had years ago, when Draco told him that he’d got wounded by Buckbeak because he was trying to get Harry’s attention, came back to him. No one had ever said something like that to him before, just like no one had ever competed for Harry’s friendship before he came to Hogwarts. He knew Ron and Hermione would protect him as hard as they could, but Ron had never said anything like this, and Hermione would probably encourage him to follow the rules, rather than just hurt people who had hurt him.

“Snape had no right to tell you,” he muttered.

“I can agree with that.” Draco’s voice was gentle, and from the shuffling sound of his feet, Harry thought he’d come closer. “But he did. And I can’t change that, anymore than I can change what happened to you.” He took a deep breath. “So, please, Harry. Can we talk about forgiveness? Can we talk about why you didn’t tell me about this before? Why you didn’t tell anyone? Because that’s something I want to understand.”

Harry hesitated, paralyzed by the war inside him.

*

I think he’s yielding.

Draco watched Harry closely, and scolded himself when he had that thought, because he was probably seeing what he wanted to see. But no, Harry’s jaw wasn’t as set as it had been before, and his mouth trembled now and then. Those were signals Snape had trained Draco to see, and which he’d started watching for on Lucius’s face.

Draco would be glad if Harry was yielding, because doing this alone, following his mother’s advice, had been terrifying.

He had trained all summer to keep himself from being honest, to keep from showing his father what he truly felt for him. And he liked that. He liked the security of acting, of being a spy. Yes, it was dangerous if anyone ever found out, but whilst he was behind the mask, he had power. No one ever knew exactly what he was thinking. Anyone who looked at him started with a disadvantage. Draco thought he would have done the same thing once he returned to school even if there had been someone in Slytherin he could have trusted. He was independent and acting like it.

So exhilarating.

So hard to drop that acting and speak honestly to Harry and control his defensive reactions to Harry’s words.

But when Harry had argued that he shouldn’t be angry with the Dursleys, Draco had learned the advantage of honesty. He could say that yes, he had a right to be angry, and as long as he explained it well enough, concentrating on the words instead of the satisfaction he would have if he could explode at Harry, then Harry would have to listen to him.

So there were some good parts to it. And now he had the right to demand that Harry be honest with him, too, because Draco had been honest with him.

Harry swallowed several times, and then started talking with his head turned away. Draco reckoned he had to be satisfied with that, for now, though he really wished he could see Harry’s face as he talked. He always wished that.

“I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it wouldn’t do any good. It would make you worry. It would give you another burden to carry when you’re already spying on your father and lying to your friends and trying not to become a Death Eater.” Harry took a shaky breath, although Draco doubted anyone else would have heard how shaky it was unless they’d been attending to Harry as closely as he had. “I heard the conversation you and Snape had last year, when you thought I was asleep in the hospital bed. I know that you’re making sacrifices for the war. I was trying not to make it harder for you, to make you make more sacrifices.”

Draco caught his breath. “Harry,” he said, speaking without thinking, knowing instinctively that the words he was about to speak would be right, “that doesn’t mean you don’t get support. Snape and I had each other’s support. Who did you think would help you, if we couldn’t?”

“Ron,” Harry said, his voice muffled. “Hermione. Sirius. But even then—Draco, I know I have to carry this alone. I know that I’m the most important person in the war. I know it because of something Dumbledore told me.”

“Well, tell me,” Draco said.

“He told me not to tell you.”

“Harry,” Draco said, “this is the original secret that’s poisoning you and twisting you up inside and making you think you’re different from anyone else. But you’re not. You’re the most important person in the war, you said. But lots of us think you’re pretty damn important for other reasons. And that’s why we wish we’d known about the starvation. I want to help you carry this secret, too. I promise you can trust me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. It’s not even a sacrifice to me. It’s not something I’m giving up against my will. If there was a chance that my father or the Dark Lord would read my mind or torture me and get the secret from me, I’d run away and let them disown me or kill me before I’d betray you.”

He relaxed slightly, panting, after those words left him. He knew they weren’t exactly the kinds of words a friend would speak, they were more, but, on the other hand, for once the confusing feelings that raged through his chest had given him strength and clarity. The strength and clarity were there in the words.

Harry tensed, coiling until Draco yearned to reach out and rub his shoulders. But he knew that the next decision had to be Harry’s. Harry waited, and waited, and waited, and still Draco controlled himself, and thought of the lessons that Snape had given him, and his mother’s letter crinkled up in his pocket from being read so many times, and waited, too. At least it gave him something in common with Harry.

*

I have to choose. And it’s so hard to choose. It’s so hard to know that he won’t betray me again, or I won’t betray him. What would happen if I told him about the prophecy and then Voldemort read it out of his mind and he didn’t even know? The books said that Legilimency can happen and you don’t know it, sometimes.

But against all those good arguments was a helpless, irresistible push of emotion. Loneliness; Harry was so tired of being alone. Resentment; why should he be the one left alone to carry the burden of the prophecy, when Dumbledore wouldn’t talk to him and help him bear it?

And, above all, the relentless need to trust Draco. It was the same reason he’d never believed seriously that Draco betrayed him by giving him the Portkey that took him to Voldemort last year; it would have hurt too much to believe that, so his mind simply jumped over the “logic” and rejoiced when Lucius explained what had really happened.

He had to trust now, for the same reason. Harry didn’t know why Draco had become so important to him, or when it had happened, but he thought maybe it was because this friendship had been such a trial and a struggle, not like the easy, comfortable friendship he’d fallen into right away with Ron and Hermione.

“All right,” he said, opening his eyes. “This is it.”

Draco at once came closer, and Harry smiled when he saw his face. There was a sharp wanting in Draco’s eyes, as if Harry’s words were the secret to making the Philosopher’s Stone. It was nice to be wanted like that, Harry thought. Ron and Hermione had each other, but Draco acted as if he only had Harry, even though that wasn’t true.

It’s selfish to feel that way.

But it was the way he felt, anyway.

“Dumbledore told me,” Harry said, after he cast several anti-eavesdropping charms that Sirius had taught him, “that I’m the object of a prophecy. Only a child born in July to parents who fought Voldemort three times can defeat him. And he believed it was me, so he went after me and marked me.” He pushed his fringe back so that Draco could see his scar, and Draco stared at it exactly as if he had never seen it before. “And now I’m the one who has to fight and defeat him. Me, and no one else.” He took a deep, shivery breath, and waited a moment. But he didn’t feel as if the words were catching in his throat like shards of glass, the way he’d felt when he talked to Ron and Hermione about the abuse. He relaxed a little. “So I want to fight him this year, and that’s why I’ve been training this hard.” He hesitated, then added, “And—and I thought that if I didn’t tell you about this, or about the starvation, then you would be happier, because I’m almost sure to die when I fight him, and if you didn’t know as much about me, it would hurt you less when I died.”

Well, he thought a stunned moment later, when he heard the echoes of the words dying in the air. I didn’t know I thought that.

His next word was “Oof,” because Draco had thrown his arms around him and was holding him so tight Harry almost suffocated. He stepped back a little and looked into Draco’s face, wondering if he would be angry again.

But Draco was holding Harry with a look of ecstasy and peace on his face. Harry smiled and hugged him back, letting his head rest on Draco’s shoulder for just a minute. No one was up here to see them, so he didn’t have to care about how girlish it was.

Of course he likes knowing a secret that no one else knows.

“I’ll never betray you,” Draco said at last, his words soft as starlight. “I would always miss you. I would always be hurt if you died. And so, we’ll make sure it won’t happen. I’ll train you in Occlumency and Legilimency, if Snape won’t. We’ll make sure you’re safe, and I’m safe, no matter what happens.”

“Dumbledore won’t like us meeting that often,” Harry said, because it was the only thing he could think of to say.

“Fuck Dumbledore,” said Draco cheerfully. “He was the one who told you to keep this secret to yourself, too. But we’re disobeying him in that. There are other spells we can use to keep the meetings secret and others I don’t know but know would be useful. I’ll ask Snape to teach them to me.”

“It might be dangerous,” Harry whispered. “It might be dangerous in ways we’re not even thinking about.” He was happy at the moment, but the mere thought of losing that happiness made him feel like he wanted to vomit.

“I know that,” Draco said. “But we’ll think as hard as we can, and—” He tightened his hold on Harry again and ducked his head, as if there were no way he could look into Harry’s face when he spoke the next words. “I think it would be more dangerous if we went on not meeting and possibly lost this.”

Harry squeezed him almost hard enough to lift him off his feet, then.

He understood next to nothing of what he was feeling, except for one thing: with Draco by his side, he was happy.

Chapter 17.

Comments

[iluxia.livejournal.com]

>:DDDDDDDDDDD Oh, hell, posting that story was ten different universes of fun. After having cried so much, it was amusing beyond hell to see others cry over it. (And there be my sadist side baring its ugly horns.) *cackledom*

Good luck with your writing, too~. From what you've been hinting at, it seems that a tough couple of chapters awaits us -- and if it's tough for us to read, then I'm sure it's tough for you to write as well. Hang in there, you're doing just great!

[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

Having other people react to it is half the fun!

And thank you. The main thing that concerns me about the chapters is their length; I don't want to cut down too much and miss important nuances, but on the other hand I don't want to stuff the story with incident.