Chapter Text
The shrill pitch of Pansy’s whinging is going to kill Draco.
Not directly, of course. It’s not strident enough for that, but it’s up there; a vicious and squeaky note, painful enough to give the Fat Lady a run for her galleons. Her voice echoes throughout their shared corner of the room, rebounding in the hollows of his skull with a vengeance.
Draco wouldn’t ever tell Pansy so — he values his life, thanks — but it’s truly atrocious. For the thirteenth time in the past hour, he considers gouging his ears out. He could pass from blood loss then, but in Draco’s experience, bleeding out in any capacity is excruciating. He’d rather avoid it, if he can.
Hell, he thinks. This is a special kind of hell.
Professor Flitwick hovers at the front of the classroom, droning on about spells Draco has known for years. It’s repetition, all of it, deemed necessary because of last year’s extenuating circumstances and the unsurprising lack of students who completed their N.E.W.T.s. Draco understands this, being one of them; but the lessons are exceedingly boring. Honestly.
At the very least, he supposes he’d rather study bloody expelliarmus than listen to Pansy any longer. She’s rubbish at pleasantries and even worse at charms. Draco has to listen to her, so he really is the victim here.
Help me, he pleads to no god in particular. Save me from this wretched room.
He’s run through a mental list of ways to end his life in this very classroom, each of them more dramatic than the last. He could have one of his friends curse him, sure, but Draco doesn’t want to get them sent to Azkaban — could he convince the Wizengamot that it was at his behest from beyond the grave? By that same token, if he dies in Hogwarts, will he be cursed to wander the halls for eternity with Nearly Headless Nick?
Oh, Merlin above. Draco shudders as he considers it. Perhaps there exists a fate worse than death.
It’s this thought process that has led him to the conclusion that the easiest way to expire is to listen to Pansy mewl. She’s an awful complainer, muttering and hissing in tandem as her spells fall flat. Draco loves her, but he wishes she’d sit in silence. Charms aren’t even that difficult, and Flitwick is — to Draco’s chagrin — a rather good teacher.
At his side, Pansy swishes her wand in frustration. She brings the wood down in a wild arc, stopping just before it smashes into the desk. The aborted movement is violent enough that Draco adds “death by errant wood chips” to his compendium of Efficient Ways to Die.
“Brilliant, Pans,” he says, inspecting her unchanged teacup. It’s supposed to be invisible, but then they wouldn’t be studying it if everyone had already completed the charm. “Really top notch.”
“Darling,” Pansy purrs the pet name in a cloying tone, so sickeningly sweet and unromantic. Her wand tip taps the porcelain with a gentle clink. “Keep being a tosser and you’ll be lucky to wake up tomorrow.”
“Right,” Draco snorts, because he no longer fears death. “Homicide won’t bring up your marks, love.”
Opposite her, Blaise releases an undignified snicker. Pansy’s wand meets the seam of her textbook, bouncing onto the tabletop with a clatter. She exhales through her nose. “Sod off.”
Gladly, Draco thinks, lips twitching as he refocuses on his own teacup. It trembles on its saucer, a solid color, still unmarked by his own charms. He could’ve done the spell six times over but for his mind’s relentless wandering. Besides, harassing Pansy is higher on his list of priorities.
It isn’t class itself Draco finds hard to endure. Honestly, he rather enjoys learning; the theoretical and practical application of his lessons have always been satisfying. When he was in school — er, well, before a complete mess had been made of it — studying at length and surpassing his peers had been among his favorite pastimes. He doesn’t mind polishing his skills for the inevitable moment where he must disappear off the face of the earth, forever hiding from his surname’s fallen legacy.
It’s something he’s considered in the long-term. Draco would like to know all he can, because the Malfoy name certainly will not open any doors for him in this life, if ever.
So no, class isn’t the problem. Pansy and Blaise aren’t either, obnoxious and self-serving as they may be. They’re his saving graces, if anything. His only hindrance is his presence in the school itself.
Draco wouldn’t be here if he had a choice. Hogwarts is a skeleton, made of quarried stone and glass and bone. The very foundation seems to ache with loss, tarnishing every lingering shard of Draco’s fond memories. He didn’t think it would bother him so much, coming back; but walking through these halls, where he’s partially responsible for the bloodshed and burned paintings, for the fallen bodies and flying curses — well. It does a number on one’s psyche. Draco can’t seem to readjust, and he doesn’t think he will, ever.
The castle was his home for a time. It was a safe place to grow and be until it wasn’t. He supposes he has no one but himself to thank for that — nobody but himself and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-But-Is-Definitely-Dead, So-Why-Does-It-Matter?
A home. Draco doesn’t feel like he has one, anymore.
Not the Manor, nor Hogwarts; each place is stained, charred beyond recognition even in his earliest memories. Pacing the corridors hasn’t gotten easier. It hasn’t dulled the well-deserved sting whenever students watch him with suspicion. And it could never erase the image of death tattooed on the inside of Draco’s eyelids, a matching brand to the skin of his forearm.
He blinks and he’s there, stone crumbling beneath his hands, curses soaring overhead. Potter’s there too, disarming Voldemort for good —
He tries to pretend it doesn’t haunt him. He tries.
Draco shakes his head to clear it. He really should talk to his mother about seeing a mind healer or even a Muggle therapist, no matter how it hurts his pride. He can’t continue as he has for months; screaming into his pillow in the dark, gargling Dreamless Sleep like water. It’s unhealthy.
Draco blinks once, and then twice. He summons a wave of astronomical mental fortitude to remember where he is. Draco glances up, away from the abstract curves of his untouched teacup. The shadowy form of Flitwick wavers at the front of the class.
Light filters through the dusty windows, painting golden strips across the floor. Students mingle throughout the room, waving their wands and chattering. The rustle of parchment accompanies the hypnotic chanting of a spell, and Flitwick becomes less of a phantom and more of a person. He stands on his funny little stool, his mouth open mid-lecture.
Draco’s eyes stray, sifting through groups of people until he spots a familiar tuft of dark hair.
Potter himself sits with the Weasel and Granger, staring at his textbook. He’s hunched over, his brows scrunched like he’s troubled, or perhaps confused. A faint frown pulls his mouth downward.
Draco studies the slope of Potter’s chin, the curve of his glasses on his cheekbone. A flurry of emotions — ugly and strong and festering — bloom in his gut like an unholy garden. He knows them well; it’s always been this way, after all, the horrible twisting sensation nothing more than an old friend. The entire experience has filled him with an uncanny dread since the very first time he caught himself staring at the Chosen One.
Draco musters the strength to turn away. The roiling in his stomach worsens to an awful boil, and he feels as if he’s being cooked from the inside out.
Fucking absurd, he thinks. It’s been how many years, now?
Draco isn’t about to go sniffling after Potter like a kicked crup puppy. He’s hardly certain what to make of him, really. They were children until they weren’t, and there’s a significant line to be drawn between tugging each other’s hair and being on the opposite sides of a war.
Something needs to be said, Draco knows. Eventually. Probably.
He supposes he could be the bearer of the olive branch, or however the fuck that saying goes, but he isn’t inclined to getting himself punched in the nose. Draco rather likes his face, thank you, and would do well without pronounced amber knuckles colliding with it.
Over Potter’s head, his friends bicker amiably. Granger attempts to correct Weasley’s pronunciation of the disillusionment charm to no avail.
Draco sniffs. He’s not surprised Weasley hasn’t learned the spell yet, although it’s fifth year charms magic and from what he understands, their trio used it daily during the war. Draco suspects it wasn’t Weasley doing the casting back then, but by all rights, with a tutor like Granger, he should know it by now.
Dare he say it? She inspires a modicum of respect.
Draco is loath to admit it, but he’s been outfoxed by her far too many times to delude himself. She’s got a mind he fears treading upon, no matter the facade of civility he and Potter’s crew have upheld since his trial at the Wizengamot.
The sound of Weasley’s whine jerks Draco from his thoughts. He brushes his temples, but the soothing motion is ineffective in tuning them out. Their voices carry across the room, needling his eardrums. He does not understand how Potter settles comfortably in the center of their disagreement. He’s either focused on his work or, knowing Potter, completely zoned out.
“Bloody hell, I’ve had enough.” Draco’s gaze darts to his side, where Pansy thrusts her wand onto their desk again. It rolls down the tabletop, coming to rest between their teacup saucers. “This is awful. I’ve known this charm since fourth year, at least.”
“Are you lying for sport, Pansy?” Blaise throws his arms over the back of his chair, his textbook askew in his lap. As he cants his head to the side, he wears the expression he’s cultivated so well: a facade of bland disinterest, like he’s been asked by wandering preachers to join their church. “Or do you just like the sound of your own voice?”
Pansy’s lip curls, her brows slanting into a dangerous curve. “Blaise — ”
“Now, now, children,” Draco admonishes. His interjection is even less well-received by Pansy, whose cheeks flush redder by the second. “We’re reviewing, aren’t we?” He rolls back his sleeves to grasp his own wand. “Surely you could use the practice, Pans?”
Her burning glare on the back of his neck is more felt than seen as he leans over his notes. Draco tries to keep his face neutral, tracing the shape of the spell in the air. His wand touches the rim of his cup, the incantation for the disillusionment charm tumbling off his tongue. The fabric of reality seems to ripple, and the teacup disappears from sight.
Draco pokes at it. The air seems to vibrate as it rattles on its saucer, almost wholly invisible. He hums, satisfied.
Pansy huffs at the sight of it. She reaches forward as if to grab and throw his hard work, and perhaps Draco shouldn’t have insulted her, but an indignant Parkinson makes for an amusing one.
The pads of her fingers trace its silken rim, wavering between visibility and camouflage. She feigns indifference, although her voice is colored with thinly veiled offense. “Are you suggesting my charms work is substandard?”
Draco does a poor job of hiding his smile. “I wasn’t suggesting anything,” he lifts his chin. Pansy’s snarl is enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re twisting my words, darling. Presumptuous — ”
“Oh, you are such a bloody arse, Draco. We both know what you meant.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her seat, scowling. “I’m better than you at transfiguration, so you just have to needle me in charms, don’t you?”
“I do,” Draco acknowledges.
Blaise snorts, earning a nasty look from their friend.
“Whatever,” Pansy sighs. Her bob bounces around her shoulders, fluffed like a heckled cat. “Review your work, you insolent twit. You missed a spot.”
Draco drops his gaze downward, squinting at his handiwork. Pansy thrusts a single manicured finger towards the rim. “It’s bothering me, so fix it.”
His lips purse as he realizes she’s right — a fragment of the cup remains opaque. It’s nearly identical to its surroundings, just off by a shade. Draco repeats the spell from memory, and the incantation flows free. The rogue spot quivers, shifting to match the rest of it. Draco nods as the stream of magic leaves him. He glances up to catch Pansy’s stare.
“Show off.” She rolls her eyes and looks away, her expression sour as an underripe lemon.
“All right, that’s enough, class — wands down,” Flitwick claps his hands once. The students respond in a flurry of movement, wands clattering onto the well-worn desks. Idle chatter dies as their attention returns to the professor.
Granger and Weasley fall blessedly quiet, which is something of a dream. The sea of faces turns to Flitwick. He clears his throat, and the makeshift stool beneath him quivers.
“Our next assignment is to use these charms in practice,” he clasps his hands over his waist, his gaze surveying each of his students. Draco hopes it doesn’t alight upon him. “It’s — Miss Granger, if you could save your question until after I explain, that would be greatly appreciated.”
Draco’s eyes shift to Granger, who lowers her hand with reluctance. Her dark skin flushes even deeper as Weasley elbows Potter, snickering.
“Brilliant,” he whispers rather loudly. Granger shoots him a venomous glare, and the redheaded nuisance swallows his laugh.
“Shut it, Ronald.”
Flitwick waits until Weasley’s shoulders have stopped trembling with mirth. “Yes, well,” his eyebrows sit near his hairline, and his mouth is pressed thin. “Now that I have your attention, it’s a two-part assignment: disillusionment and tracking.”
Pansy heaves a sigh. Draco almost doesn’t catch her mumble, “Of course it is.”
“Half of the class will be tasked with disillusioning themselves and taking up stations at various parts of the castle,” Flitwick turns to the notes on his desk. “The other half will search them out. Simple enough, no?”
No, Draco thinks.
“I will select a group of people to be sent out into the corridors — not onto the grounds, mind you, this project remains in the castle — and the rest will be paired with a partner.”
The Slytherin students nearest Draco release a collective groan, and Pansy drops her head onto the table. Blaise says nothing, but turns up his face to stare at the ceiling.
Draco feels dread settle deep in his own gut. Working in tandem isn’t a favorite of his at the best of times, and Flitwick looks amused, which is even worse; his eyes are bright, which Draco perceives as a threat.
“Relax, it’s an easy activity.” Flitwick chuckles. “When each duo retrieves their assigned target, you’ll all return to the classroom, and the trackers will then be disillusioned. This assignment practices both identifying sources of magic and reviews our early charms’ work. It’s not a competition, but you will be timed.” He surveys the classroom, the blatantly diverted attention of his students, and nods once. “I’ll break you off into groups now.”
Merlin. Draco exhales. He shoves his nerves down, reaching for his family ring. It sits on his finger, a gift from his mother, and soothing at that; he habitually twists it, and it flashes in the dim light. Group work. What a brilliant bloody idea.
A simple enough activity, all right, but Flitwick’s reassurance does little to assuage his knot of nerves. Draco’s lucky because he’s good at charms, but whoever he ends up working with could prove to be more difficult than they’re worth. He need not be accused of attempted murder by some angry Ravenclaw in the middle of an assignment.
Draco has tried to stay away from trouble. He’s tried, and he’s succeeded. Since his return after his trial at the Wizengamot, he has been a disgustingly stand-up citizen. Offensively so. He’s even stooped to charity, because he can’t perceive his wealth as anything but undeserved and sometimes — only sometimes — he thinks its rightful place is in the hands of the less fortunate.
It feels fake even when he does that, like a plea, a desperate criminal striving for righteousness. He imagines The Prophet’s journalists would have a field day if he publicized it.
Draco agreed to return to Hogwarts to finish his schooling, and he has endured every jab, jinx, and judgmental stare in the weeks since. Public humiliation. It’s a special torture to be subjected to, Draco thinks, but it’s nothing compared to the horrors that occurred within the walls of his own manor.
The other students either ignore him or want to hurt him; for retribution, for years of senseless bullying. They like to force Draco to remember what it’s like on the opposite side of a hostile wand, as if the mark forever tattooed on the inside of his arm isn’t enough.
He recalls. He’d faced the Dark Lord’s wrath more than once.
So Draco tolerates it — he might even deserve it, to a certain degree. He does his assignments with his head bowed, eager to escape to some seaside cottage after graduation to wallow in solitude and forget his family name.
He does not want to work in groups. The only way he’s emerging from this assignment with a passable grade is if he’s paired with Pansy or Blaise, and that’s unlikely. Flitwick looks far too keen on the project to not have ulterior motives; it’s probably some rubbish about inter-House unity, but Draco can’t shake an unyielding sense of foreboding.
Several Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are chosen to be disillusioned, and they gather at the front of the classroom. Flitwick stands on his tower of books, eye level with his students, and gives them a brief explanation of their duties. He passes each a piece of parchment, presumably inked with their designated hiding spots.
With a word, they’re dismissed, and the students cast their disillusionment charms. As their bodies shift to camouflage themselves, they disappear from view. A few disorienting outlines betray their presence, but barely. The door opens, seemingly on its own, and the patter of footsteps fade as they depart.
“Right, then.” Flitwick lifts his chin, and the remaining students cease their whispered conversations. Draco straightens in his chair. “Let’s pair the rest of you, shall we?”
Flitwick rattles off a list of names, and Draco obligingly stops paying attention. Alphabetically speaking, he has a way to go. Duos rise from their seats and approach their professor, receiving a slip of parchment and instructions for the tracking charm.
Tracking and disillusionment, how elementary.
Contrary to what Draco said to Pansy, they are doing fairly simple magic. Review in theory is fine, but he’s certain all the eighth year Hogwarts students have enough practical knowledge to warrant graduation, at least.
He glances at Pansy, who rests her head on her arms. Her eyes roll disdainfully as two Gryffindors are partnered. Draco wishes he could freely show derision the way he used to, because she’s right; the students who need this review should be held back a year or three. Appare vestigium. He could perform that spell in his sleep.
“Neville Longbottom will work with Blaise Zabini.”
The recitation of his friend’s name shakes Draco to attention. Not working alphabetically, then — all right. Fine.
He turns to gauge Blaise’s reaction, but his expression remains carefully blank save for a slight curl of his lip. He inclines his head at Draco and stands, wordless. Blaise joins the once-sniveling Longbottom and their professor with a few long strides.
“Can’t believe he grew up to look like that,” Pansy murmurs, almost too soft to hear.
Draco leans down to catch her words, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on their desk. “What?”
She shakes her head, hair bobbing as she moves. “Nothing.”
“No, you said something.” Draco’s mouth opens, parting like a fish. He takes a moment to process her earlier words. “You think Longbottom’s, what, good-looking?”
“Oh, shut up, Draco. He grew up nicely, that’s all I’m saying.” A pink flush tinges Pansy’s cheeks, but her eyes are sharp. Mean. “I don’t like him, tall or not. He’s pitiable, I — I haven’t forgotten the last seven years.” Her nose wrinkles. “Besides, he’s a bloody Gryffindor.”
“Mhm,” Draco hums, amused. This is priceless information. He’s not much of a stock broker, but he has always dealt in gossip. “Grew up nicely, you said?”
“Shove off.” Pansy’s brows draw together tighter. “Don’t even try to tease me. I’m certainly not on your level.”
The words are innocent enough, but their meaning isn’t lost on him. Draco’s skin warms awfully fast, a Remembrall shifting a telltale shade of red. He’s sure the answer is written all over his stupid, horrendously bright cheeks, whether it be from mortification or otherwise. Sodding Pansy. No couth whatsoever.
It’s like she wants him to die.
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” he says, his tongue lodged halfway in his throat.
Don’t say more, Draco mentally begs. He’d cast legilimens silently if he could. Imperio, even.
“Sure,” Pansy says, unrepentant. “We can pretend you’re not batty over him, if you’d like.”
“Pansy,” Draco mutters, pained. His hands twitch in his lap, his skin tingling wildly with nerves. “That’s a load of hippogriff dung.”
“But you’re really one to talk, prattling on as if you haven’t spent seven years pining after Mr. Chosen One — ”
“Pansy,” Draco chokes, her name like a vice, squeezing his jugular. He swallows his aborted retort, because it would really do no good. The volatile heat of rage rises within him, although whether it’s directed at Pansy or at Potter for existing, he knows not. “I’ve told you countless times, I don’t — ”
“Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley.”
The call of his name forces Draco to snap to attention. An uncomfortable silence falls over the room, as if conversation was sucked in with a collective intake of breath. Pansy has stopped spewing her vitriolic accusations in favor of staring at him. She looks, for all the world, like someone has just killed her cat in front of her.
“What luck you have,” she says blandly. “Sorry.”
Flitwick is holding out a piece of parchment, expectant, and the Weasel has turned around in his chair. His freckled face is struck with unabashed horror, his jaw hanging slack. It would amuse him if it weren’t directed at Draco himself.
“Bloody hell.” Weasley shakes his head. A mottled redness colors his cheeks, vibrant enough to match his hair. “Merlin, no.”
“What’s that, Mr. Weasley?” Flitwick asks, because apparently everyone is keen on prolonging Draco’s suffering to an impossible degree.
“Sorry, professor,” the Weasel sniffs, like a sniveling plague rat. “But no, absolutely not.”
He turns back around in his chair, but Granger seems to have traded with him. She glances over her shoulder, studying Draco with a look that might be pitying. Oh, the indignity of it all! He wishes someone would just strike him down. It’s his time. Really.
Flitwick cocks an eyebrow, but appears otherwise unfazed. “Oh?” His gaze flickers to meet Draco’s, who resolutely says nothing. He will not become the antagonist here, although he feels a bit like a bull before a red cape. “Why ever not?”
“Wh — why not?” Weasley gasps. He stumbles over his words, and Merlin, it would be hilarious if Draco could enjoy it. Unfortunately, this is just as hellish a punishment for him as it is for Potter’s lapdog, so his face remains plastered in a frown. “Because it’s Malfoy, that’s why — ”
Draco’s skin prickles at the way Weasley says his name. His pent-up frustration roils beneath the surface, and he wants so badly to hex him. Nothing permanent, just a slug or two in his mouth, maybe. Karmic justice and all that rubbish.
Draco snarls, shoving down the urge to lunge across the room, his wand aimed at his throat. “As if I’d want — ”
“Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick admonishes, straightening to his full height of three and a half feet. Propped on his tower of books, he almost looks intimidating. “I ask that you hold your tongue. You are in no position to refuse. This is a prime example of why we need to practice these exercises in inter-House unity.”
Knew it, Draco thinks, dry. His hackles are still raised, and he eyes Weasley’s back with his sharpest glare.
“It couldn’t have been anyone else?” Weasley trembles in his seat. Granger rests a hand on his shoulders, leaning in to murmur something in his ear.
The remaining students are eyeing them all as if this is some sort of drama on the Wizarding Wireless Network. It’s not completely unlike the entirety of their school careers, burning under the spotlight’s searing gaze. Draco hadn’t missed this sort of attention as much as he thought he would.
Weasley shakes his head again, dislodging loose strands of red hair. It seems to vibrate with the sheer force of his anger, and well, Draco has no desire to work with him either, but the fact that he’s so unpleasant about it is enough to ruffle his feathers.
“Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick tries again. “I believe this is an opportunity to — ”
“I’ll do it.”
The bubble of quiet that encompasses the class pops. All the air seems to rush out of the room, and students lean across their desks, whispering.
The speaker’s voice is soft, but their words are confident and firm. Each of the remaining observers turn to face the source. It takes all of Draco’s restraint not to look, to sit and force his eyes to trace the wood grain in the mahogany desk.
He knows the voice better than any other, he realizes. He doesn’t need to check, even in this suspended state of incredulity.
Potter’s head is tilted in a mimicry of deep consideration. He blinks slowly, as if he’s just risen from a long nap. He adjusts his glasses on his nose.
Flitwick sucks in his lip. “You needn’t get involved, Mr. Potter. The divisions for this assignment are purposeful.”
Screw me, Draco thinks, because this would happen to him. It’s not the power move Flitwick thinks it to be, pairing up him and Weasley. Draco’s likely to die more than anything, although perhaps that was the intended goal.
“It’s really not a problem,” Potter speaks again, and if Draco didn’t know any better — if he hadn’t spent the last seven years learning the way Potter works, what makes him tick — he’d say he sounds almost eager.
Knock it off, he mentally berates himself. Enough of that.
Potter scrubs a hand through his unruly head of hair. He looks sheepish as he stands, turning immediately in Draco’s direction. He doesn’t have to scan the room — he knows where he sits, three rows behind him, like this was something of note. Draco shakes off the uneasy feeling of having been observed.
“Um,” Potter passes him a weak smile. “Let’s move along, yeah?”
What the fuck.
In a rush, the absurdity of the situation catches up to him. Draco blinks, and Potter inches closer. What in Merlin’s name?
Potter is volunteering to work with him?
A series of emotions fly through his brain, each contending for the dominating spot. Draco can hardly parse them; his only overarching sensation is confusion, accompanied by surprise and trepidation. A little indignation, because he’s being handled like a social leper. He’s never been a charity case for the Chosen One to oblige.
Morgana above. What the fuck.
There can be no reason for this but some twisty little plot. It’s something clever, he’s sure, a plan devised by Granger to solidify his status as a criminal. Maybe. Draco can’t really focus, although he tries. The overwhelming bizarreness of the situation outweighs his logical train of thought. He half expects to look outside and see the sky has turned green.
Draco glances between Potter and Flitwick. He’s definitely not awake right now, because this is some strange, contorted dream in which Potter offers to do things for him, like save him from serious embarrassment and a horrible death-by-Weasel.
He supposes he could add that to his list of ways to die.
Flitwick hums, thoughtful, before he shrugs. “Very well. Come gather your notes.” He turns toward his desk. “And Mr. Weasley, don’t think I’ll forget about this outburst.”
Draco stands, lifting his chin.
“Godspeed,” Pansy says, which he appreciates. She’s the only one who understands what this is doing to him.
He pockets his wand and strides forward, past tables of students who don’t even bother to whisper their insults. Draco avoids the desk where Weasley and Granger are speaking in an undertone, the former glaring daggers into his back.
Potter waits before Flitwick’s podium, his hands tucked into his robe. Draco stops several paces away and accepts the proffered slip of parchment from their professor. He listens as Flitwick gives them vague instructions, nodding mutely until they’re dismissed.
This is hell, he decides. This is the ninth circle of the deepest realm in hell.
Draco treads in Potter’s wake as they leave the classroom. He keeps his gaze on the ground, watching the hems of the Gryffindor’s robes billow with movement. The door swings as they emerge into the corridor, and Draco imagines a flurry of conversation erupting from the rest of the students as it closes behind them.
“Well,” Potter says as soon as they’re alone, “that was something.”
Draco’s silver eyes flick upward, narrowing. He’s still unsure if he should be angry or relieved about this turn of events. Draco doesn’t want to be saved by Potter, damn it. He owes him enough already. “Quite.”
Potter releases a breath. He reaches for his hair again, and Draco wonders if it’s a nervous tic. “Yeah. Sorry about Ron, he can be a little — ”
“You didn’t have to rescue me, you know.” Draco sweeps ahead of him, shoes tapping on stone. He needs to make up some lost ground here, because a metaphorical carpet has been torn out from under him. A tinge of bitterness seeps into his tone as he speaks. “Or save Weasley, whatever. I wouldn’t have killed him.”
There’s got to be a balance here, somehow. Draco can’t keep receiving kindness from his former enemies and be left reeling. It’s not good for his head.
Potter stumbles to catch up, arms swinging as he moves to match Draco’s pace. When he reaches his side, he leans forward to catch his eye. “I know.”
The shock of it makes Draco’s heart stutter. He curses it for the foolish, fickle thing it is. He’s so unused to kindness that his body can’t handle it — you’d think Potter had said something absurd, like invited him on a romantic flight around the Quidditch pitch.
Then why volunteer?
He asks as much, and Potter’s shoulders rise and fall.
“Don’t think either of you would’ve passed this assignment if you worked together, and I know you both need to,” he glances over, like Draco is really supposed to believe this is a friendly gesture. A sodding olive branch. “Er, well, I assumed. And Ron’s failing, so.”
A beat of silence passes, and Draco wants to say something. He could fling an insult, or drop a smarmy “how thoughtful of you,” to berate him. Classic Potter. Silly, thoughtless, genuinely kind-hearted Potter, who’s so utterly stupid that he cares about whether Draco completes his schooling. Or whether Weasley does. Semantics, whatever.
He’s livid at the thought, but in truth, Potter is right. Draco needs to pass his classes, all of them, and a botched project with Weasley would do very little for his already poor standing amongst the students and staff.
Draco doesn’t offer his thanks, and he doesn’t think Potter expects him to.
They’re still walking, aimless, when Draco realizes he’s been angrily stomping them in no particular direction. He draws to an abrupt halt, giving no explanation, and Potter stops beside him. He blinks at Draco, then seems to remember what they were dismissed from class for.
Potter’s hands slip into the pockets of his robes. With a breath, he withdraws the parchment Flitwick gave them. “Here we are.”
“Well?” Draco neglects to find his own, assuming the same name and instructions are inked on both. He gestures with a flippant hand. “What’s it say, then?”
“Yeah, all right. Let’s see.” Potter clears his throat, unfolding the parchment with slow, deliberate motions. Draco wants to tear it out of his grip, but he supposes that wouldn’t be well-received. Instead he waits, impatient, as Potter readjusts his glasses and squints at the curling script. “We have to find, uh,” he looks up and blinks, owlish. “Susan Bones.”
Draco glances back down the corridor, as if Bones is hidden behind a suit of armor. For all they know, she might be. “The Hufflepuff?”
Potter wrinkles his nose. His brows scrunch together in a mask of confusion, and his scar seems to shrink with the movement. “Um, yes, I suppose. Does the distinction matter?”
“It — ” Draco begins, a scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, before he swallows it. The words recede like the tide. There’s no reason for him to shame Bones, other than that she wears yellow and he, green. “Just trying to put a face to the name. Let’s go.”
“We’ve studied with her for seven years,” Potter says, sounding vaguely amused. Draco refuses to look at him. He won’t. He has no desire to see that imbecilic grin.
He glances down. Potter is smiling in a confused sort of way, like he doesn’t understand how Draco functions.
“I paid her no mind,” Draco says, although it’s obvious. He thinks it’s a kinder way of saying he didn’t care at all.
“Mhm,” Potter hums. He doesn’t comment on it, as Draco had expected he would.
In the two years they’ve been apart, he’s changed. Perhaps.
What am I thinking? It’s not like Potter’s personal growth affects him in any way. Draco increases his stride, desperate for this entire ordeal to be over. It’s enough that he has to linger in his presence, reflecting on his own inadequacies and the brown slope of Potter’s cheekbones.
Enough.
“Wait, I’ve got — I was thinking — hang on,” he waves at Draco’s back, jogging to catch up.
Potter tucks Flitwick’s note away, shoving it haphazardly into one of his pockets. He rummages through the others, removing and replacing his hands. Each time his palms come up empty, he scowls. “I’ve got, er, a thing for this.”
Draco stares. He wants to ask what he’s searching for, but opts for snark. “How many bloody pockets do you have?”
“The usual amount, I think,” Potter bites his lip as he reaches into his robes again, this time withdrawing his wand. “Could’ve sworn I had it…”
Draco means to tell him that dozens of pockets isn’t standard, but he’s interrupted as Potter sighs, lazily waving his wand in the air. “Whatever. Guess I’ll have to — Accio Marauder’s Map!”
There’s a tense moment, anticipation breaking across Draco’s skin in gooseflesh. He watches the flicker in Potter’s jaw, the furrowed concentration, before he fixes his gaze on his extended arm.
The spell is followed by a complete and utter nothingness. The halls are quiet as they were before, the portraits stoic and bored, the suits of armor presumably Bones-less.
“This is riveting,” Draco remarks, because he can’t help himself. “Really, Potter. Ten out of ten.”
“Hm,” Potter doesn’t move, but he worries his lip.
Draco knows he can cast a summoning spell; everyone saw it during the Triwizard Tournament, but this is Harry Potter, the world’s greatest Gryffindor. It’s possible he’s a blithering idiot and mucked it up.
Then Draco hears the distant sound of rustling pages, like someone flipped open a textbook. It’s a weirdly peaceful noise, reminiscent of the library. Draco stares as a thick sheet of unmarked paper appears at the far end of the corridor and flutters into Potter’s hand like a giant butterfly.
He opens and closes his mouth. “That’s what you had us wait for? A blank page?”
Potter’s lips twist into a frown, so the disbelief must ring in Draco’s voice — good. He doesn’t understand why they’d spend ten minutes summoning a piece of paper when they could’ve tracked Bones’ magic already. “This is pointless.”
“It’s not,” Potter says. The paper crinkles in his grip, as if it heard Draco’s voice and took personal offense.
“A monumental waste of time,” Draco insists. If he can do anything right, it’s argue with a Gryffindor — with Potter. He’s never once failed at instigating a disagreement, which is both satisfying and pathetic, if he’s honest. “We’re being timed, Potter.”
“We are,” he agrees, like a pillock.
We are, Draco mimics privately, in the safety of his own head. Oh, woe is he, to linger about with a man that reeks of unpleasantness; really, Draco’s been repentant of late. What did he do to deserve this? Is he to be tortured forever in life, as well as death?
“This is rubbish,” he mutters, although he doesn’t fully intend for Potter to hear.
“Oi, Malfoy, shut it for a minute, would you?” Potter narrows his eyes. His lashes are long and pronounced, thick enough to obscure the green. Draco takes a moment to look at them before he sniffs and turns away.
A moment of silence stretches between them. It’s not cold but taut; this thread of theirs, a tightly wound string of patience, ever on the verge of snapping. Potter sighs.
“I’m not the best at tracking spells,” he says, returning his attention to the parchment. “And I thought this was far better than wandering through the halls.”
“Well,” Draco muses, because it’s not much of a surprise that Potter hardly knows more than expelliarmus. “You might not know how to cast basic charms, but I assure you we would have already been on her trail.”
Potter glances at him, unimpressed, before he taps the parchment with his wand. A shiver runs through the paper, and he mumbles something. Draco has to strain his ears to hear the words: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
There is no moment of suspense; from the point where Potter’s wand touches the parchment, a puddle of ink erupts across the page, decorating it in shapes of deep brown and black. Draco stares, transfixed, as brush strokes paint themselves in dizzying swoops. They twist and shift until it reveals a map of Hogwarts in real time, flat in Potter’s hand.
Draco swallows his surprise. Well, all right. Suddenly the plethora of Gryffindor escapades makes sense.
Footprints move across the paper, petite and quick, accompanied only by the names of their owners. Draco nearly reaches forward to touch the parchment himself, but withdraws his fingers so they hover mere inches above. Beside Potter’s arm, his skin is distinctly pale. His throat bobs. “Where did you get this?”
Potter’s mouth twitches, pleased. “Secret.”
Draco’s eyes track across the map, switching between the moving blots of ink and the curve of Potter’s smile. “Should you be showing me this?”
The parchment rustles as Potter shrugs. “Maybe not. It only works for Hogwarts, though, so I don’t see the harm.” Potter looks down at their own shifting dots. On the paper, the little treads marking Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter stand unusually close. “Ron’ll be brassed, yeah, but it’s not like we’ll have need of it in a few months, so.”
Draco steps dutifully away, his cheeks warm. He coughs, just to fill the quiet. “So, what? You want to use this to find Susan Bones?”
“Yeah, why not?” Potter purses his lips, tilting his head to one side. His lashes flutter as his gaze switches between Draco and the map. “It’s an easy solution. Look, she’s right there.”
For once, Draco isn’t sure if he wants to combat him on this. What’s the point, if it preserves the peace?
“The tracking charm is easy too,” he says dryly, although the effort is half-hearted at best. He leans forward to see where Potter’s pointing anyway.
Sure enough, Susan Bones’ footprints shuffle along the seventh floor corridor. She lurks close to the side of the wall, and Draco wonders how long she’s been waiting. He hums. “We could just do the exercise, as instructed.”
“As instructed? Who knew you were such a stickler?” Draco bristles at that — he isn’t second in their year for nothing — and Potter blows out a breath of air. It ruffles the longer locks that obscure his face, and he levels Draco with a flat stare. “Fine, then. Track her with appare vestigium. Fumble blindly along the walls, and we’ll be done with this. It’ll only take a year.”
“Something tells me you’re not quite adept at tracking charms, then?” Draco’s eyebrows rise. He feels a jolt of pleasure as Potter casts him a nasty look. “But if you’re so passionate about it, who am I to deprive you?”
“I told you so myself,” Potter mutters, but the twist falls from his lips. “All right, then?” He lifts the map again, and there’s a gleam in his eye that says he knows he’s won.
Draco hates it. It’s so distinctly Potter, the winning mark of a champion. The greenness of the gaze pierces him, sharp enough that Draco has to turn away. Perhaps he should make room for “death by stare down” in his compendium.
“Fine.”
Potter flashes a quick, satisfied smile. Draco finds it immensely uncomfortable to be on the receiving end, but he can’t find it in him to summon a rebuke.
Potter briefly checks to see if Bones moved, but her footprints are static, blipping where she was when they last looked. He glances up, his glasses sliding down his nose. Fool.
“Come on,” Potter adjusts them and gestures down the hall. “It’s this way.”
For reasons he cannot fathom, Draco follows without complaint.
Post-war, Draco expects change in almost every regard. The very basis of his values have been fundamentally challenged, so why wouldn’t the rest of the world follow suit?
Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t revolve around him, which in itself is a distressing realization.
It comes as a shock to him that Hogwarts is largely the same.
The stones of the foundation are the same cobbled granite. Each tower stands stubbornly tall, save for one. The castle has been under construction since the battle, but despite the additions, it’s still familiar.
Outside, the sun shines — having no alternative — on the utter lack of anything new. Dust motes dance in the streams of light, glaring behind the windows and illuminating the corridors. The halls have changed little, although Draco recognizes what’s been lost; there a tapestry once hung, long-burned; there, rubble dusted the floors and the hems of his robes, and there — Draco winces as the memory of fallen bodies shadow his thoughts.
There, a life was lost.
He shakes himself back to the present, his shoulders rising to his ears. He feels a bit like a turtle, trying to retreat into a shell he doesn’t have. Potter glances at him, curious, but thankfully doesn’t make a comment.
Hm. Changed, indeed.
Draco takes a moment to admire the unexpected display of couth. He doesn’t think he could stomach ridicule of his sanity from his longtime rival — or worse, pity.
Potter matches his stride as they march through the halls. It’s an unsettling experience; Draco is threatened by the proximity, because this is so much more than the carefully constructed civility they’ve maintained since their return in September. Standing by his side isn’t strained, exactly, but awkward. Draco wonders if he can lodge an official complaint with McGonagall, but he guesses he wouldn’t be taken seriously.
“It’s a left here.” Potter interrupts his torrent of thought. He looks back and forth down each corridor, then checks the map again. “She should be close.”
Draco stares down the length of the hallway. He sees nothing, though he supposes Bones is unmoving. Her job description is literally to stand still. He reaches out to Potter, palm up. “Give me the map.”
Potter freezes. His gaze flicks up to meet Draco’s, and he swallows once. Time moves slowly as he passes it over, the wrinkled edges of the pages crinkling in his grasp.
He pretends not to notice Potter’s hesitation. Draco’s fingers tingle as the parchment exchanges hands, and he flares it out with an inordinate amount of care. “All right,” he squints at the little blurbs that represent himself and his tagalong. “So this bloody thing says — ”
“Oho, what’s this?”
The voice emanates from above them, and Draco jumps at the sound. Its pitch is high and shrill, squealing like an unoiled door hinge. Potter startles beside him, his shoulders rising in a tense approximation of a shrug.
Oh, Draco thinks, because of course this would happen. He truly is living in his own personal hell. The sodding poltergeist.
“Potty and Malfoy, Peevsie sees!” The speaker grows louder, the treble of his voice reverberating through the air. “Student beasties, trying to kill each other again?”
Peeves. His tone is annoying and singsong, grating against Draco’s eardrums. It makes him yearn for Pansy’s whine.
“Merlin,” Potter swears, scrambling to tear the map out of Draco’s hand. “Now is really not the time — ”
Draco fumbles as Potter snatches the parchment, nearly tearing it. He hurries to shove it into his robes, but before he has it tucked away, Peeves materializes above them. “What’re you hiding, Potty wee lad? Sneaking about again, are we?”
“Go away, Peeves,” Potter warns, fingers tight around the map. “We’re in class right now.”
“Doesn’t look like class to me. Should call ickle Filchy on you, I should,” Peeves’ hat flops as he swoops through the air, becoming level with Draco’s shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Wait, Peeves — ” Potter shifts to shove the parchment deep into his robe, but Peeves moves at a speed that only comes with years of evading capture. He nabs the map with incredible precision, launching himself towards the ceiling with an unearthly cackle. “No!”
Potter’s aborted shout is followed by horrible laughter. Peeves disappears around the corner at the far end of the hall, stolen goods in hand.
Draco’s fingers curl into his palms. “Just our luck,” he spits. He turns to his partner, only to see Potter bolt down the corridor. “Wait, Potter!”
The Gryffindor doesn’t respond. He hurtles after the poltergeist, hair flopping like a godforsaken flag. Draco is left standing alone, the hem of his robes swirling in the breeze generated by Potter’s hasty departure.
Fuck. He wants to throw himself onto the floor. Merlin, fuck this. Everything is a colossal joke, and the world is conspiring against him. If Potter gets himself into trouble, Draco will be convicted of murder, or something equally embarrassing. He has no choice but to follow him.
Draco swears, kicking the stone inlay as he treads after him. His fists squeeze and unclench at his sides. He curses every single factor that played a part in landing him in this situation, starting with Harry Potter and ending with the Dark Lord himself.
There’s never a dull bloody moment, is there? Couldn’t conduct a simple incantation, no, that’s too much effort — Gryffindors and their horrid maps. Draco’s patience has worn spider silk-thin. Even outside of class he’s being tested, and frankly, he’s sick of it. If he’s going to end up in hell, he’d rather just be there already. He’s had his fill of awful poltergeists and homework assignments and Harry sodding Potter, thank you very much.
Draco’s shoes slap a rhythmic beat against the stone as he jogs, ignoring the portraits whispering on the walls. They watch the students race by with vague interest, and Draco knows by the end of the day, everyone in the castle will hear some demented story about the Malfoy heir chasing their precious Chosen One through the seventh floor corridor. He groans.
Potter’s already nearing the end of the hall by the time Draco reaches him, his robes billowing as if caught in a terrible storm. He reaches out to grasp Potter’s shoulder, only slightly out of breath, but the Gryffindor shrugs out of his grip. Draco’s hands drop to his sides.
“Potter, really — ”
“Don’t reprimand me,” Potter spits. He wheels around the corner as he speaks, all drama and performance. He skids to a halt, scowling when he sees the empty pathway. It’s sorely bereft of both Peeves and other students.
Potter glances back at him. He isn’t sheepish per se, but marinating in frustration. Distress would be the right word, Draco thinks. It’s an emotion he himself is very familiar with.
“I need to get my map back,” Potter says, rubbing his arm. The movement is uncharacteristically hesitant.
His reluctance is almost enough to keep Draco from rolling his eyes. Almost. All this for a map? Really? He knows better than to say it’s just a slip of parchment, because even he has never seen a charmed map like it before; but in the grand scheme of things, it’s still a piece of paper.
“You sodding moron,” Draco settles on, which is a kinder address than his initial thought. “We have an assignment to finish.”
“Who cares?” Potter throws his hands in the air. His eyes are bright and angry behind his glasses. His skin flushes with color, darkening his cheeks to a deep bronze. “To hell with Flitwick’s bloody assignment! That map belonged to — it’s — ”
He pauses, gasping for breath. Potter’s fiery gaze falls to the ground. “It’s,” he tries again. His shoulders tremble, although with fury or anguish, Draco can’t tell. “It’s important to me.”
Merlin. And people like to call Slytherins dramatic? All this for a map, indeed.
A retort creeps up on Draco’s tongue, sharp and lashing. It sits there, just on the edge, but he doesn’t open his mouth. Potter’s biting his lip, his hands bunching in his robes. There’s a desperation to him that doesn’t really fit his person, like it’s an oversized spirit trying to squeeze into his lanky frame.
He looks young, Draco realizes. It’s a childish tantrum borne of feelings nobody but Potter can parse. His skin is smooth and unmarked save for his scar, his eyes cast toward the floor. Draco often forgets they’re fresh out of childhood, both of them; although Harry Potter fought the Dark Lord and won, he’s only eighteen.
It’s important to me.
Draco wonders what it possibly could be. Something so precious that he whines about it, like a bloody plush toy. Something important.
For the first time since Potter volunteered to work with him, he falters. His lungs swell behind his ribs, making it difficult to breathe.
They’re both just people. Children thrust into battles they shouldn’t have had to fight and learning spells they shouldn’t have needed to cast. There’s no love lost between the two of them, surely. Draco still has white scars marring his chest, and he’s certain Potter has no shortage of his own.
The revelation comes as less of a surprise than anticipated: the sight of his longtime rival downtrodden doesn’t elate him anymore.
Ugh. Well, let it never be said that Draco is a cruel person. There’s a difference between being a selfish prat and reigniting a war. He’s come to understand his own faults, thanks.
Draco clears his throat. “Well, all right.”
Potter’s gaze shoots up so violently that it surely gives the poor bloke whiplash. Draco ignores the stunned look that plasters itself across his face. Even he can’t believe what he’s saying, after all.
“I suppose we’ll never finish this assignment if you don’t get it back,” Draco concedes. In his burgeoning embarrassment, he focuses very hard on the other end of the hall. What lovely masonry it is. Really spectacular. “How about we find Bones, and explain to her we can’t escort her back to the classroom, but can she please tell Flitwick that we found her, and — ”
Potter makes a disagreeable noise. He shakes his head, his eyes still wide. “I can’t.” Panic colors his tone, a flavor like lemon zest and bitterness. “Who knows what Peeves will do with the map in that time? I need to get it back now.”
Draco’s patience dribbles out quickly, like water down a drain. Expecting him to deal with this is unreasonable.
“What would you have us do, then?” He snaps, straightening to his full height. He has several inches on Potter, which still satisfies him to no end. “We can’t parade around the school all day, looking for your bloody map!”
“I never asked you to come with me,” Harry counters.
Then what? Leave Draco to face Flitwick himself? To drag a disillusioned Susan Bones back by the arm? He makes a face, lips curling with derision.
“You really expect to track down a sodding poltergeist?” Draco spits, brows drawn together at a sharp angle. “Are you a priest? An exorcist?”
Harry’s forehead furrows. “No — ”
“Don’t be stupid, Potter.” Draco isn’t sure how else to make him understand. Is he really this dense? “You’d have better luck killing the Dark Lord three times over.”
Harry levels him with a look, and the ice in his gaze freezes Draco’s veins. His voice is brittle, like wood chips and gravel. “Because you’d know anything about killing Voldemort.”
Oh. So that’s how it is.
The coldness of his tone makes the hair on Draco’s arms stand up. He summons his most venomous glare, pseudo-truces forgotten. Who gives a fuck?
“Fine,” Draco hisses. “Enjoy a failing grade and a shoddy piece of parchment, you idiotic — ”
Harry snarls, launching himself forward to grab Draco. “Listen, you — ” he cuts himself off as he stumbles, one hand braced on the windowsill, the other fisted in Slytherin robes.
“Let go of me,” Draco begins, but his words are lost as he feels an uncomfortable tug in his navel. It’s a disconcerting, vaguely familiar feeling. The insistent lurches make him ill. Brilliant! What a wonderful time to throw up.
An overwhelming surge of nausea sweeps him. His eyesight shifts and blurs, swirling into a kaleidoscope. Potter’s arm is the single anchor in a spiral of movement, and the seventh floor hallway fades around him.
Maybe Draco’s dead. In the process of dying? Who’s to say, really.
The room spins in a whirlpool of color. Draco’s feet are thrust out from under him, kicking into what feels like nothingness. There’s a sensation of falling, not unlike when he makes a mistake during Quidditch practice. The wild butterflies and sickening rush of air push through his body.
Draco catches a brief look at a cresting wave. He barely has time to process his thoughts — what is that — when it touches him. There’s a splash, and he’s enveloped in bitter cold.
Potter and Draco have been deposited into a frothy, spitting sea.
Water fills his mouth, striving to pull him down. It fills his throat, a burning, choking vice. The salt stings the insides of his cheeks, and it’s dark when he opens his eyes. Weak shafts of light penetrate the tossing ocean. It’s filtered green, like the Slytherin common room at dusk.
His first thought is of the lake.
Draco thrusts his legs, but his limbs are deadweights under the heaviness of his robes. He needs air or he will drown, he needs to get to the surface, to breathe —
A shadow obscures his vision, and then a strong arm snakes around his midsection. Intense panic overtakes him. Kraken? Giant squid? How did they end up in the lake? Draco fights to remove himself, but the force drags them upward, kicking furiously.
They break the surface in unison. Draco coughs violently, and large globs of water spill from his lips. Potter — the owner of the arm — is in somewhat better condition, although his glasses are askew.
Draco, Merlin help him, is greatly relieved he isn’t a sea monster. What the fuck.
Potter’s hair plasters his forehead, sticking to his lashes. He blinks through the water that dribbles from his brows. It speckles his glasses, giving the illusion of a fractured, spotted face. If they weren’t in immediate danger of death, Draco would call him a mockery of a Picasso.
“Bloody,” Potter croaks, shuddering at his side. He braces a hand on Draco’s bicep to keep them both afloat. “Hell.”
Draco sucks in several deep breaths, flinching at each shift in the tide. He sees nothing but Potter and the pointed caps of waves, bobbing them up and down like buoys. He frantically moves his arms and legs to tread water, heedless of Potter’s hand, but his robes are so heavy. It seems as though his pockets are laden with stones, when in reality they only hold his wand —
His wand. Draco sputters and sinks below the surface again, rifling through his robes for the telltale touch of hawthorn wood. He’s jerked back above water before he makes any headway.
“Malfoy!” Potter pulls on his sleeve. It’s sticky and cold. “Do you want to fucking die?”
Draco shoves him away with a string of expletives that would make even Weasley blush. “My — sodding — wand!”
“Hold still, you knob,” Harry coughs, grasping Draco’s wrist in a vice. “You have a death wish, I think.”
And it’s Draco’s turn to be stubborn, because he shakes his head and wonders how deep the water is, if it’s possible that it fell when they crashed into the sea. “I need my wand.”
“We need to get the fuck out of the water — ”
“Which we can do with a wand!” Draco sounds hysterical. His voice is hoarse in his aching throat, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“I have a wand,” Potter counters, squeezing Draco’s arm as he tears at his own robes. “It’s in here somewhere, I just — Merlin, fine,” Potter detaches himself from Draco and squints at him. “Don’t go killing yourself. I’ll be right back.”
He dives before Draco can respond. The water swallows him in a greedy gulp, and a flurry of bubbles rises to the surface in his place. The abrupt quiet without stuns Draco, and amid the dark clouds and roiling sea, he suddenly feels very alone.
Potter.
The long moments drag into minutes, and Draco struggles to stay afloat. His skin prickles with anxiety. He becomes fairly certain Potter died, cast away in the freezing ocean. Merlin, this is not the Hogwarts lake — this is anything but. It’s a great, salty mess.
How can Draco get out of this one? It’s not like he wanted him to drown. He didn’t tell him to dive!
Draco’s visualizing how he’ll explain to the Wizengamot that he had nothing to do with it, how Potter was just being stupidly heroic, nothing new there —
The surface of the water breaks and Potter appears, spluttering. After the initial shock, Draco nearly weeps with relief. Here he is, alive. He stubbornly rises from below with his stupid sea-slicked face and hair, all mangled beyond belief. Potter’s verdant eyes are still bright with life, and oh, Merlin and Morgana both.
Draco’s absolutely not thrilled about his wellbeing. Certainly not. He won’t go to Azkaban after all, what an improbable joy!
“Here,” Potter spits out salt, sounding groggy. He reaches out to grasp Draco, then extends his other hand. Draco’s wand is clutched in his fist, bent at an odd angle.
“It was like this when I found it,” Potter murmurs, downcast. The water sloshes around his neck. “Sorry.”
Draco doesn’t foist Potter off. He takes the splintered wood, and the hawthorn prods the skin of his palm. Light swirls of unicorn hair cling to the shaft, clearly broken out of its core.
It’s the second time Potter has returned his wand to Draco in as many years, although it’s the first time he’s been gifted something so broken. He wants to throw it, or bury it in a ritualistic fashion. Draco wants to scream.
He pockets it, mute.
Potter looks like he expects Draco to argue. Faced with silence, he blows out a breath, then tugs him forward.
“Listen,” he says, conspiratorial. “The water isn’t that deep.”
Another wave rolls over them, dousing their heads as if to oppose his point. Half of Potter’s face is covered by his soaked fringe, and Draco wonders if his own hair looks as terrible as he feels.
“Well,” Draco rasps. He sort of wishes he’d just drown already rather than endure this misery.
“It’s — it’s not deep,” Potter insists. “It’s twenty feet, tops. There’s a slight incline along the floor,” he points to the east, his finger trembling with cold. “The shoreline is that way.”
Draco follows the direction with his eyes. If he kicks his legs and squints, he rises just enough over the waves to see a beige crust of beach. It’s a small inlet, sandwiched between sheer cliffs, as if some god had taken a rock hammer and chipped off a single square of land.
Draco’s heart thuds in his chest. His body is numb, stricken with a deep, impenetrable cold. They need to get out.
“We can,” he gurgles, barely able to speak. He dips his head in a weak nod. “We can get there.”
They’re both drained, sapped of energy by the unrelenting sea. Draco feels himself sink a little further down. Potter pulls him up, blinking slowly at his side. “Yeah.”
All right. We can do it.
Draco surges forward, tugging Potter along. He doesn’t think about how strange it is to think of himself and Potter as “we,” he only considers each stretch they traverse. His feet are clunky as he kicks, but he can’t lose his shoes — they’re dragon-leather, for Merlin’s sake — so he just keeps moving.
The tug of the tide grows weaker just a few short strokes toward land. They move in tandem, each picking up the slack wherever the other falters. Draco’s teeth chatter, rattling around his skull like Gobstones. He passes a glance at Potter, noting the sallow tinge to his cheeks. If he’s any example to go by, then Draco’s pale lips are probably blue.
Here’s your exercise in teamwork, Flitwick, he thinks sourly. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin drowning together.
The shore seems impossibly far, but after a few minutes of swimming, the tip of Draco’s shoe brushes the ocean floor. He gasps, pushing aside the water with his arms like an exuberant infant. Both of his feet press into the wet sand, and it feels like a lifeline. The water tickles his neck, swirling around his ears, but he’s standing.
For once, Draco has little to complain about.
Potter isn’t as tall as him, so he treads further forward. His eyes shutter and he fumbles in the waves, but he stands vertically. His head stays above water, so Draco assumes he can reach the floor.
They push through the last few yards of churning ocean. When Draco’s shoulders and waist break the surface, he whimpers. The ceaseless pull of the water retreats, pouring down his back in rivulets. It’s like stepping out of the shower, if the shower was vile and decorated with seaweed.
Draco’ knees buckle as he emerges from the sea, a hideous, bedraggled Venus. He collapses in a sodden heap.
Ouch, he thinks, or says. He’s not sure he can control his thought to speech function.
Potter isn’t far behind him. He can’t reach Draco as he falls, but he rushes forward anyway. The attempt at rescue is nice, Draco muses, even as he hits the sand. An errant shell slices through his white cheek, and the redness of the blood looks almost fake in the dull light.
“Eugh,” Potter grunts, lifting Draco with his seemingly limitless strength. “Come on.”
“‘M not that heavy,” Draco says into the ground. Sand granules bury themselves into his lip and the rest of his poor, wretched face. “Don’t need to groan so much.”
“Pick your battles, Malfoy,” Potter intones, and drags him across the dirt.
He’s probably enjoying this, the tosser.
Draco’s legs carve crevices in the sand, shallow ruts like a carriage wheel. Potter drops him after they’ve retreated a safe distance from the ocean. The tides still reach for their feet, whispering past their ankles, but they pull no further.
The ground is loose and uneven, the furthest reaches crested with dunes. Sharp stalks of beachgrass ripple over the tallest of them. They wave in the breeze in a mockery of a greeting.
I’m alive, he realizes. The revelation makes him feel somewhat hysterical.
The sensation of dry land has never been greater, and Draco’s aching body sinks into it. Salt stings the cut on his cheek, lingering in his lashes. He squeezes his eyes shut, both with pain and exhaustion. Behind his lids, a stark grey sky roils with the threat of rain.
Potter flops down at his side. A puff of sand rises as he falls, and Draco shifts to squint at him. He’s hazy in the mist, blurred into the drab background. His robes cover him in a literal wet blanket, and his hands are encrusted with beach matter. Potter huffs a breath, meeting his gaze. The brightest thing on the beach, Draco thinks, are his eyes.
He immediately hates himself for it. Fuck that.
Draco struggles to distract himself with literally anything else, but their situation hasn’t improved much. With the immediate threat of drowning gone, he considers how in Merlin’s name they got here. He immediately suspects Potter, although he’s also soggy and half-dead, and that wouldn’t be Draco’s own modus operandi in an assassination attempt.
He could be giving Potter too much credit. Perhaps it was Weasley, or a fucked up twist on Flitwick’s exercise? The sand grates on Draco’s chin as he moves to look around. Then where is everyone else?
He runs through the possibilities in his head, remembering the strange twinge in his stomach as the seventh floor corridor swirled away.
Potter had side-along Apparated him. He’d been planning to get him alone and murder him, to finally be rid of filthy Draco Malfoy — but no. That’s impossible. Not only because Potter is heroic to the point of stupidity, but because the wards at Hogwarts prevent Disapparition.
Then how?
A whisper prods at the back of Draco’s mind. His last lingering tendril of logic, pushing to make itself known, says Portkey.
“Portkey,” Potter gasps, echoing Draco’s thoughts.
The sand beneath them crunches as Draco tenses. He glances at Potter with some difficulty, arching his neck at an awkward angle. The Boy Who Lived looks ready to pass out.
“I must’ve, erm,” Potter trembles, his fringe still sticking to his brow. Liquid beads his glasses and renders them difficult to see through. There seems to be a crack in his lens. “Must’ve touched a Portkey on the window ledge.”
It’s a surprisingly insightful analysis for a Gryffindor, Draco must say. He says as much, and it earns him a weak fistful of gritty mud to the face.
“I don’t understand it though,” Potter admits, flopping onto his back again. He lays there, chest heaving. “Why the stones on the sill are enchanted is beyond me.”
“Mhm,” Draco agrees. Part of him feels distinctly homicidal, and he wants to reach over and strangle him. A Portkey, honestly. It’s so typical of stupid Potter to find one and drag Draco along. Of course they would be paired up and discover a rogue, forgotten teleportation device. Of course.
The other part of him — the greater part, maybe — is preoccupied with the fact that they’d almost just drowned, and it seems he owes Harry Potter for saving his life. Again.
“Brilliant,” Draco coughs. It summons up another barrage of water from his lungs, which he spits out in disgust. His lips twist, pulling the facial muscles so his cheek stings. Wholly, he’s fairly brassed. “I sort of hate you.”
Potter sighs. The sand beneath his head squelches as he nods in agreement. “Brilliant.”
For a moment, the only sounds that stretch between them are their breaths and the rumbling of the ocean. It would be peaceful if Draco were dreaming, perhaps. Not that he has or ever will dream about Harry Potter.
Not in a million years.
It isn’t all terrible. In the grand scheme of things, Draco supposes it could be worse. He could be marooned with Weasley, in which case he probably would’ve settled for drowning.
“My wand,” Potter recalls, sitting up with a sudden jerk. He sways as he moves, waving like a pennant. Draco almost wants to offer a hand in support, but he just declared his hatred of the man, and he isn’t maintaining complete control of his spastic muscles at the moment.
Stumbling to his feet, Potter palms his pockets. He digs through them, his face a mask of alarm. He removes two globs of seaweed and a rogue seashell from the folds of his robes before his expression changes. Draco knows exactly when he’s found it, because he relaxes, his eyes brightening.
Potter withdraws his wand with a flourish. A piece of kelp is draped across it, flopping around the grip. His lips curve into a soft smile. “Thank Merlin.”
“All right, yeah,” Draco waves a flippant hand. A flash of silver on his finger catches the sunlight, and he allows himself a moment of gratefulness that his ring didn’t fall into the sea. “Yours isn’t destroyed. Delightful.”
“I said I was sorry,” Potter’s expression sours. “It wasn’t even my fault.”
“Yeah, all right.” Draco says, moving his elbows to lean on them. “Now my oxfords and I would be much obliged if you’d get us off this terrible beach.”
“Don’t be such a toff,” Potter scowls, but obligingly raises his arm. He swishes his wand once, then twice.
A seagull calls in the distance, far over the water. The wind brushes clumps of Draco’s hair into his face. It’s all very poetic.
In the silence, Potter waves his wand again. He frowns as it does exactly nothing, sitting quiet and magicless in his palm.
“What are you waiting for?” Draco drawls. He swipes a hand through his tangled mane and only succeeds in decorating it with sand. “We haven’t got all day.”
“I’m trying,” Potter snaps, tearing the seaweed away and throwing it to the ground. Draco wrinkles his nose at it.
Potter rubs his wand against his chest and lifts it again, his movements slow and deliberate. He traces the shape of a spell in the air, steady, and mutters something.
There’s the hush of magic in the air, thrumming beneath Potter’s skin. Draco can feel it from where he rests, that raw, incredible power of his; he easily recognizes it. He’s been around it for years, after all, the buzz and glow of a Chosen One powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord. Harry Potter is unquestionably strong.
When he waves his wand, there’s nothing. No shift in their coordinates, no disturbance in the air. The magic seems to move below the surface, like the sound of loud music blaring in another room.
“That was anticlimactic,” Draco says, because it was. He can be as rude as he likes, as they’re still damp and stranded. Who will hear him here?
“It — ” Potter sucks in his lower lip, then glances at him. “It’s not responding.”
It isn’t the devastating blow Draco expects — not really. He’d suspected as much when Potter had failed his first attempt, but chalked it up to inadequacy. One can never be too hopeful, dealing with fools. Or Potter.
The revelation still fills him with worry, but it’s not a double-edged sword of both concern and shock, which is a bonus. He really can’t afford to sink into a state of unresponsiveness.
I’m alive, he reminds himself. Existential dread is a sign that I’m alive.
“Well,” Draco means for his voice to come out barking, but he sounds afraid. “Isn’t that just wonderful?”
Potter taps the shaft of wood, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His brows have adopted the customary scrunch that’s becoming awfully familiar. “Maybe it’s waterlogged?”
“Waterlogged?” Draco repeats. “Waterlogged?”
He scoffs, because it’s his defense mechanism, damn it. He’s rapidly sinking into a state of panic, and if Draco isn’t poking fun at someone, how can he cope?
Potter shoots him a glare. “It could be,” he says, indignant.
“Please. It’s not a piece of Muggle technology.”
“I know that,” Potter’s chest puffs outward, presumably swollen with prideful rage. Typical. “I just — I don’t know why — ”
“Perhaps you cracked it when you snapped mine in two,” Draco says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it’s a real possibility. He’s still sensitive about the loss of his own, and the idea of damaging Potter’s fulfills some sick desire to make things even. As if Draco doesn’t already owe him enough.
Say something, he dares. He wishes Potter would rise to the bait; Draco’s itching for a fight, to show him exactly what he thinks of this shoddy situation, even if he can barely stand. Do something.
Potter narrows his eyes, but after a beat, he only sighs. “Stop being an arse, Malfoy.”
Potter turns away from him, leaving Draco to simmer in his pettiness. He stumbles a little further along the beach, swishing his wand the whole while. Draco can’t see his face, but he follows his movements; Potter traces their tracks, inelegant and sloping, as if someone had dragged a sled through the sand.
“We have a real problem on our hands,” he says. The proclamation is almost lost to the wind.
It carries back to Draco, reaching his ears in a whisper. Potter’s words carry an undercurrent of anxiety, soft, but very much present. Draco snorts without humor. ‘Problem,’ doesn’t even begin to cover it; they’ve got a national sodding crisis to deal with. Harry Potter, missing with — with a former —
“Obviously,” Draco says. His voice comes out weaker than he’d like.
He can’t stop thinking about it. Harry Potter, and a former Death Eater. The rumors that spread will be incredible. Oh, they’ve really done it now.
It’s not like they’ve got many resources around them. Draco casts his gaze about: the crushed shells they’d obliterated as they’d crawled out of the sea; the prints of their shoes; the sopping wet piles of their discarded House robes. There’s a broken pincer of a crab resting unnervingly close to his fingertips. It’s vile. The whole beach smells like fish.
Potter has slumped forward, the tip of his wand pressed to his lips. He runs his fingers through his mess of hair. He’s tired — Draco can tell.
He fixes his attention on himself, studying his own sea-weathered body. Draco’s bespoke shirt sticks to him, nearly transparent. His trousers are little more than stockings, clinging to him. The cold pinches his skin — or perhaps it’s a crab.
They look, for all the world, like the first bloody creatures that flopped out of the oceans and made life on land. Draco wants to yell, or cry, or perhaps both. It would be so freeing. So wonderful to scream.
He restrains himself. “I don’t understand how we got here.”
Potter doesn’t look up from examining his wand, but he tilts his head. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“A rarity.”
“Hilarious, Malfoy, really.” Potter rolls his eyes, but his voice is quiet. “You’re a right jester.”
He appears contemplative, which is unsettling to watch. Draco knows he’s not actually daft; Potter just acts like it most of the time. In true Gryffindor fashion, he doesn’t think things through. He’s a real go-getter, that one. A go-getter, and an occasional fool.
But Potter’s survived so long for a reason. He’s brave and smart enough, although the credit could be given to blind luck.
Lottery winner, Draco thinks.
Potter hums loudly. “I think,” he says, when his eyes widen. He pauses midsentence, and blinks. Once, and then twice. A realization.
When an explanation isn’t forthcoming, Draco loses his patience.
“What is it?” He demands, pushing himself upward. He can’t sit here and wait while Potter has strange beach epiphanies. What a waste of time!
Potter shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “It was Fred and George.”
“The Weasley’s?” Draco cocks an eyebrow. He draws himself into a fully sitting position. “Is that it? They did something?”
Potter shakes his wand free of water. It still doesn’t respond, although the rush of magic curdles beneath his skin.
“The twins,” Potter finally says, heaving a sigh. “They fought in the seventh floor corridor during the Battle of Hogwarts. They — ” he swallows, looking at Draco. It’s the most sheepish he’s ever seen him. “They told me about their defense mechanisms. I’d forgotten about the precautionary measures they’d taken, honestly.”
“‘Precautionary measures,’” Draco repeats, dubious. “‘Defense mechanisms’?”
Potter nods.
“A bloody — ” Draco sucks in a breath. “A bloody Portkey?”
“I’m afraid so,” Potter says, frowning. When he presses his lips together, they become a thin line. “They rigged a series of Portkeys around their position to warp some Death Eaters elsewhere.”
Ridiculous — so typical of them — Merlin’s beard!
His thoughts whisk by in a flash, and Draco exhales through his nose. All right, so that was a thing. It sounds like the foolhardy, useless strategy a Gryffindor would use. What are the odds that Bellatrix Lestrange would rest on a windowsill in the middle of a battle?
Draco braces his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. When he speaks, his throat feels like he drank a gallon of seawater, which is probable. “Could’ve drowned us.”
At this, Potter grins. It’s a small, wry thing. “That was probably the point.”
Ah. Well, that’s true.
Draco hums, tilting his head back. The clouds above are ominous, congregating over their heads like spectators for some historic moment. It’s dim, without a sliver of distant blue to break the altostratus. It’s the sort of weather he’d love if he were at home, curled up with a cup of tea and his charms textbook. Alas — “Looks like rain.”
Potter casts his gaze to the sky. Meager shards of sunlight pierce the clouds, but it’s not enough to bring any warmth to their skin.
“Which brings us to the other problem,” Potter says. He looks back at Draco, offering him his hand.
It’s a strange parallel. Draco finds himself thinking of their childhood, before they had Houses. Before they’d made friends. They’d both been on the train, both slinking into the Great Hall for the first time. There had been a handshake offered then, too.
Draco stares at it. This one feels like pity, and that’s never something he wanted. Never again.
He smacks Potter away, ignoring the sting of skin-on-skin. He shifts his center of balance to stand on his own. Draco’s legs tremble like the jelly he puts on his scones, and he digs his toes into the sand to steady himself.
“The weather,” he says, disregarding Potter’s frown. “It’s different.”
“It wasn’t raining at Hogwarts,” Potter agrees.
Wind rushes along the beach, drawing up salt in its streams. It stings the cut in Draco’s cheek and pulls at Potter’s drying curls, whipping errant strands into his eyes. The sheer cliffs frame them on each side, giving the illusion that their only escape is into the open air.
When he turns to Draco, Potter’s gaze reflects the color of the sea. “Where the hell are we?”