Learning to Live

Chapter 14: Demanding Arrest

As some fifth-years were roaming the hallways, their footsteps should not have echoed so much on the stone floors, but Draco's did as he headed for his office in a spate of irritation. The door magically burst open before they got there, and Harry could have sworn some invisible force propelled Draco faster up the stairs into his parlour.

"Lock the door behind you, Harry. I have to know some things," he commanded, and Harry was in no mood to argue as he magically sealed it.

"She didn't ask anything particularly horrible," replied Harry, sitting down on a chair as Draco paced before the fireplace. Even a roaring violet fire from the Great Hall would have warmed the frigid atmosphere of Draco's irritation. Sure, Draco was a private person, but Harry couldn't see why he would be so upset. Lynch had been only trying to help. Hadn't Draco liked her? Didn't he say he'd been smiling and laughing with her on the Quidditch pitch? Lynch was under an oath of secrecy; what crawled up Draco's arse and died? He gave a brief shudder as he thought how much worse Draco's mood would be if something that really happened.

"Oh really? Did she ask what my favourite colour was, then? Was I crying because I couldn't bear to inform her that I prefer Fizzing Whizzbees?" Draco demanded, still pacing. Harry wondered if he could wear a trench into the dark wood if he kept at it.

"No! She asked you your full name, which you've never told me before," he snickered. "Why don't you ever use it?"

"In the old families you are listed by your first name, but you assume more parts of your full name as you get older," Draco replied. "Dumbledore is ancient, so he has a very long name. I'm still Draco Lucius, myself. What else did the nosy bint ask?"

"You started crying when she asked about your mother," Harry said, trying to lower his voice so maybe Draco would miss that last part.

"She had no right to ask of that!" Draco hissed, all too aware that he was taking his annoyance out on Potter rather than Lynch, who, in his opinion, really deserved his wrath. "It is none of her business. If I hear one more contemptible student of mine sneering about my matricide, I'm going to take so many points off their house they're not going to be able to walk through the Common Room without being hexed!"

"You didn't kill your mother, Draco, so you can't call it matricide," said a very reasonable voice from the fire.

"Yes, Granger, what is it?" Draco asked irritably, completely ignoring her correction. "Lost your copy of Hogwarts, A History again? Still growing more Weasleys?"

"Honestly, I don't know why I bother with you, Malfoy!" she retorted, then looked beyond him to Harry. "The silly git hasn't taken all the points off Gryffindor, has he?"

"No; he takes points off all the Houses, really," grinned Harry.

"In case you two _Professors_ have forgotten, you still have Auror duty," she told them. "Why don't you come down to Headquarters, the one in the Ministry building, this weekend? Harry, it'd be a fantastic time to check up on your flat and help Ron look for Lucius Malfoy, because I know he needs all the help he can get while you two are having the time of your lives at Hogwarts."

"Yes, Hermione, we're really surpassing Fred and George here at Hogwarts, really, especially since you're not here telling us not to stick Dungbombs in Snape's pockets. We'll see you bright and early in the morning. We'll have breakfast at my flat, then meet you at the Ministry," said Harry (as he stepped on Draco's foot when the blond snorted, "Yeah, and I'll be the one waking him.") As an afterthought, he added, "and Draco's sorry for being rude, Hermione."

"I most certainly am not. Why don't you try walking around this school with every little slimeball brat calling you names?" Draco asked her.

"I have," she told him wisely. "That slimeball was you, remember? 'sides, you're an adult now, Draco, and mature and you should be setting an example by not letting that affect you! Don't forget that you can take points off and give detentions, of all things, now. I would have thought you'd be satisfied." Draco looked away, and Harry wondered if his friend could ever be satisfied with anything. "Well, I think I told you everything I wanted to tell you. I'll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Hermione. Say hello to Ron for me!" Harry added before she vanished.

"All right then." Draco sighed, sitting down at his own wing-backed chair. "What else did Lynch ask?"

"Well, she asked what was bothering you the most," Harry replied. "You said it was something you had to make yourself forget. You couldn't tell her for some reason, so she let it go and you started talking about your mother."

"I had to make myself forget something?" Draco questioned, puzzled, all his anger dissolved. "The VeritaSomnium potion does delve deeper into the mind...but I can't fathom why I'd have to make myself forget. Doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"No. But she said whatever was the problem wasn't Narcissa's passing," Harry replied. "Maybe you had to make yourself forget something for someone's protection or safety. It might have been during one of your interrogations. Can you think of big patches of memory loss?"

"That could hardly work. If I had done it properly I would have charmed myself not to notice them. No, this is going to have to come out through VeritaSomnium, if we are lucky. Didn't we have a professor who did that to himself? What was his name...Lionhart...Locklear..."

"Lockhart," Harry intoned, the memory still quite fresh in his mind. "Gilderoy Lockhart. He tried a Memory Charm on Ron and me down in the Chamber of Secrets, but it backfired. Got put in St Mungo's, poor devil. Really likes his 'joined together writing' so apparently he hasn't lost his love for autographing."

Draco snorted in amusement. "Merlin, well it's a good thing my Memory Charm worked properly, as far as we know. I am really so glad I won't ever be like that."

"You never know, Draco. Maybe you might find yourself such an insufferably arrogant idiot you'll just land yourself a nice bed right next to Lockhart," Harry joked, chuckling. "You two could practise your writing together, keep each other company, eh?"

"Oh that's hilarious of you, Potter. You should send that into some comedy mag," he replied as he opened the door to his office. "Out now, it's late and I want to think on this. Are you going to charm your rug or am I going to have to shout something over the Floo Network?"

"Have I ever had a problem with waking up?" inquired Harry lightly, but he added, "I'll charm the rug, only with not such a shrill voice."

"How dare you, that was me trying to sound like Hermione!" Draco declared, jokingly jabbing Harry out the door with his finger. "Goodnight." He slammed it shut, just for effect, but immediately slid down the wood to the floor, his robes puddling around him. There was an itching _inside_ his mind, an itching inside his heart...he couldn't put his finger on it but it felt like a faint buzzing deep within his awareness. Maybe it was his suppressed memory, trying to get out. He wasn't clear on the exact theory of Memory Charms. Maybe he could ask Hermione once they were in the city, in lieu of apologising. There was no use probing his consciousness for spots where he had lost memory, and he certainly wasn't going to go back and examine his torture or any other undesirable moments in his life. He only wished he knew the reason for his self-Obliviation; what made him feel like he had the right to muck about his own mind anyway? Couldn't he leave himself well enough alone? "You're going to go mad one of these days, Draco Malfoy," he muttered before heading upstairs to undress.

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Here was something they saw that should have relieved all the guilt and self-hatred from Draco's mind, but sometimes even the most outwardly self-confident person needs help fighting the daemons of his own mind, and he was no exception. Alai Darko had been wrong. Many were so desperate for normalcy (even one they could not define) that they might have believed anything the victorious post-war Ministry told them. The slight whisper of Hangleton Disease had not disappeared from the Daily Prophet pages, Harry grimly noted.

He sat at his island counter in contemplation, and reached out for the cup of coffee Draco handed him. "Thanks." He didn't drink the stuff except when he had a night's worth of Auror work and couldn't make himself an Alertness Potion of some sort. Snape had ingrained in him a lifelong aversion to Potions, even if he was more than passable in the field. He took a sip. Was Darko--"PFFT! What is this stuff, Malfoy?!" Harry hacked out, spilling loose coffee grains on the immaculate countertop.

The blond looked faintly surprised as he buttoned his black collar. "Why, it's coffee. I made it myself, as you're still groggy."

"This is not coffee, whatever it is. It's lumpy...and ugh...it's got silt or something. This is an insult to the wholly holy beverage made from immortal ground coffee beans grown on the mountains of Columbia or some other country with carpets draped on asses' backs. This is...this is mud compared to that!"

"Yes, I thought it was a bit off colour. I ran it through that blender thing and added some chocolate mix I found, but then it didn't look quite thick enough so I put some thickening egg yolk in it before I ran the whole bit through that percowatsit--"

"Percolator. No, I don't want to hear any more." Harry put a hand up, tongue still arguing with his brain over what the concoction tasted like. He set it down quite firmly onto the counter. "Have you ever seen me make coffee?"

"I never really quite paid attention. You put some brown stuff into the black box, then clean the gooey contents out. I added the yolk in hopes of making it thicker," Draco replied, unflappable as he finished with his collar and started on his cufflinks. "I suppose I forgot something. Should I have stirred it?"

"Stirr--no," Harry replied, biting back his tongue and sparing Draco the Muggle Studies lesson. "I appreciate it, thanks, but I think I'll make coffee next time."

"Good. Leaves me more time to try to make toast." He gestured to a plate of seemingly normal stacks of bread, lightly burned on the edges. Eggs--presumably cooked--were stacked between each slice.

"I thought I told you not to play with the stove? Was this why you set out ahead of me from Hogwarts? To make us breakfast?"

"Yes. Of course. I wanted to surprise you. And I couldn't sleep," replied Draco off-handedly. After the ordeal at the Tate Modern, Harry had procured a map of London for Draco, with big, unlabeled red circles around the street where Harry lived, in case he ever got it into his head not to Apparate.

"Oh...thanks." Harry smiled weakly, reaching for the toast. "At least it's cold." A bite and a chew later, it was "Mmm...surprisingly--er, I mean, it's great, Draco. So you figured out how to work the stove?"

"I did no such thing. You told me not to fiddle with it, remember? I don't trust these Muggle things. I conjured a fire in that horrid excuse for a punch bowl of yours. I think they're not half bad. I didn't dare touch the coffee--beans are common." He sat down on the stool next to Harry, looking a bit like a starved bird on a perch, waiting for a worm to pass by so maybe it could fall down and somehow land in a way that positioned its beak above the creature, because it certainly wasn't one that looked like it was up for anything.

"Er...Draco?" Harry asked, putting down his paper--which Draco snatched up--and eyeing the blond critically.

"What is it?"

"Have you been eating?" he asked. "You just...you don't look any better and Ron said to put some food in you, and I haven't seen you eat with my own eyes so--"

"The Healers told me that after such an extended period of starvation, the starvee--that's me--" Draco said, gesturing to himself and ignoring Harry's look, "starts on liquids, then slowly works his way to solid food before even thinking about three full meals a day. I am to follow it strictly, or else they'll have me under observation. That is why you see me drinking this bit of orange juice and taking a small triangle of toast. I had soup just the other night, in fact, only you were too busy listening to Snape insulting you to notice."

"Right. I was just--"

"Worried, I know, thank you, but no thanks. I can take care of myself."

Harry coughed once. "Thanks for breakfast. It was great, really great. Down to the Ministry then?" This would be a first. An alternate building (in lieu of the construction of the Lockhouse to temporarily replace Azkaban until the Dementors had been rounded up once more) had been set up where Auror spies could congregate and co-operate with real members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Draco had never been to Auror Headquarters in the Ministry of Magic as an Auror before. "Apparate to the Ministry Lobby. You know where to go and you're cleared for it."

With pops barely detectable by the naked ear (they were trained for stealth, after all), they arrived in the dark oak-paneled halls of the Ministry of Magic. The golden gates of the lift opened automatically for them, and they hit the second level. Draco stepped out, a bit dizzy, and faced rows of cubicles, paper aeroplane memos and lively chatter amonst those who wore, in these times of 'war,' the same robes as he. A few in the forefront noticed their arrival, and leapt up to shake Harry Potter's hand. They hesitated and settled for a simple nod to acknowledge Draco Malfoy's presence. For once Draco felt that these were like old times, with all the attention on precious Potter. It nearly made him laugh.

"Harry, Draco, there you are!" Ron exclaimed. "Oh let him go, Dunlop, he's an Auror too." The man nodded, gave the trio a thumbs-up and returned to his cubicle to tell his mates. "Alastair Dunlop, collects handshakes and puts 'em in a Pensieve to watch later...sorry about him. We'll go to my office." He led them to a nicely oak-panelled office a ways from the cubicles. On the wall--Chudley Cannons posters, a wedding photo of him and Hermione with Harry as his best man, his win of the Hogwarts Quidditch cup his fifth year, and wanted posters of many Death Eaters. Draco's glared down at them, then tossed its head arrogantly. Interestingly enough, Lucius' did the same. A huge, ever-changing map of London took up one wall. Harry watched with interest as one building went from a blinking yellow "under construction" sign to "completed" before going to "vacant."

"Your father gave us the Greenwich murderers all right. One of 'em was Leifa Boganda. Never thought he could stand her much, effin' lunatic," he said, shrugging. "Guess he was tired of protectin' 'er. So we've asked for proper correspondence with him, and as you're with me on this file, d'yeh agree?"

"Can we meet him eventually?" Draco asked, but before Ron could answer, a memo smacked into his freckled face.

"Hold on...Merlin's beard, forget about correspondence, Draco, he's with Chief Darko and reporters outside our East End Headquarters right now! We've got to see what he's doing there. Quickly now..." They took the lift down from Level Two and Flooed to the usual rendez-vous point quite a few streets away. They sprinted at breakneck pace, only to find the entire place--although invisible to Muggles--swarming with reporters again. Alai Darko stood with Lucius at the top of the white marble steps quite calmly, evidently enjoying himself. Ron, Harry and Draco put up their hoods and listened intently, panting from the effort of running. They were in shape, but it had still taken quite a bit of effort.

"Excellent question, Miss Higgins," Darko was saying. "I believe this is an indication of how willing the Aurors and the Ministry are to continue this atmosphere of 'constant vigilance,' of terror and guarded suspicion. Did not Harry Potter and the others win the war? Is this not the last of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, secured in the Lockhouse, powerless, his minions hunted down as we speak on this brisk February morning? Is this not delightful? And now, Lucius Malfoy stands before you, such a loyal and secretive spy that none but I myself knew of his true purpose. The good Daily Prophet has already questioned his motives, the allegations pressed against a man who has produced an Auror spy as his heir, currently teaching our young at Hogwarts, with an Order of Merlin, First Class!" Draco felt his heart racing as he looked at his father's pale, calm face, watching it gaze out magnaminously.

He wanted to believe it so, but just the fact that Darko endorsed it made him feel suspicious. That wizard was willing to do anything to gain a small iota of advantage, regardless of what it meant. A true Slytherin would have covered all his weaknesses and cushioned all his losses. Darko never understood the term "damage control." Not to mention, just weeks ago, he'd accused Lucius and the Malfoy name of the worst things possible. Draco's anxiety shot up as he tried to take deep, calming breaths, difficult because of all the running. He was still weak...he felt a bit dizzy, not quite there, and he pulled his hood more closely around himself, wondering if there was anybody there who had been paid by his father to keep an eye on him, and to whisk him away for more grotesque knife thrusts.

"Lucius Malfoy is to be honoured! Why let the current Minister suppress our hopes and keep our dreams at bay with promises of death, of fear, of pain? This man's integrity is just one of the examples of their continued vigilante zeal, and it must be stopped! They must be reigned in, before they turn on a path of destruction as well, just for the sake of maintaining their power!" A cheer went up, and Harry mouthed to Draco, "unbelievable." Anger and objection grew within him with every word, and he nodded in agreement.

"We must be allowed our lives again, and we must give it back to those we have falsely accused! We must give it back to those who, like ourselves, deserve more and deserve better from the Ministry! We must give it back to those like Lucius Malfoy, who stands here beside me a wronged man! His son has been vindicated and recognised, so why not him?" There were claps and cheers for his father...Draco couldn't believe it any more than Harry did, and it made him sick to the stomach with its irony.

It hadn't even been a very good speech! He groaned to himself...why was it getting so hard to catch his breath? He really should have eaten more breakfast, should have gotten more sleep, but how could he, with barely-formed nightmares plaguing him? Harry and Ron seemed fine...Lucius was rising onto the podium with a calm placidity that made him look as if he'd belonged there all his life. The voice was his father's when it spoke, smooth, with its aristocratic drawl, that reasonable, coaxing sound, the same that had caressed his infant ears as he slept, the same that had carefully taught him in his youth, the same that yelled out his name in fury at the realisation of being betrayed. A few words entered the air--Draco couldn't hear them, on account of the ringing in his ears--and the crowd exploded, cheering, whistling, even sending sparks into the air. Lucius was always a good actor, able to isolate that singular emotion needed to get the exact desired result. The perfect politician. Draco looked up to see if he would say more, but their eyes met, his chest burst and he did not even take in another breath before he collapsed in the crowd, Auror robes and all.

"Hangleton Disease! HD! Look what we've brought upon our best and brightest and bravest with his war, with this paper war we continue, but this constant stress upon Aurors!" chortled Darko as standersby rushed to Draco's aid, but drew back when Darko supposedly identified the cause. No one wanted to be infected...Harry angrily shoved them aside. "Draco...Draco!" His pasty face was clammy and cold, but he was shivering, his eyes turned up towards his forehead when Harry lifted the lids. And all the while, his scar itched and itched and itched. "Quiet, you," he whispered to his head, and levitated Draco through the swiftly-parting, virophobic crowd.

When Draco's head fell back in the course of the transport, several photographers immediately snapped away. "Clear off! Auror business!" He went quickly to where Ron was holding the doors open--passing the passive Lucius with a scowl--and moved Draco as quickly as possible to the Auror spy infirmary. To his surprise, Lucius Malfoy followed, now looking quite concerned. More reporters started scribbling, but were cut off by the imposing iron doors and Alai Darko's apology, "We shall see to him at once."

"Must you always be such a drama queen?" asked Ron exasperatedly as he pulled the hood further away. Cold sweat stood out on Draco's face. "Blimey, haven't you been feeding him, Harry? I thought you were gonna to watch him!"

"I did! He's gotta take it slowly--" Harry couldn't believe it; Ron was accusing him of negligence. He wasn't supposed to take care of Malfoy! His own scar was still itching, but maybe Voldemort had heard all the excitement outside and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

"Nevermind!" Ron pulled out his wand, directing it at Draco's prone form. "Ennervate."

The first thing Draco's pale eyes saw were the same pale eyes of his father. "Dad?" he asked weakly, his guard down. His hand reached up for his childhood idol, and Lucius clasped it firmly. Was it tenderness or the photographer who had snuck in?

"Draco. I'm here. How are you? Are you all right?" replied Draco's father. The words were soft, and Draco thought he was going to cry from hearing that caring tone again. All those long bloody miserable years.

"Not likely, no," Draco murmured instead, and Harry wondered over how alike, yet unalike they were. One was unnervingly mature, imperious and entirely secure in his self-confidence. The other still seemed boyish, possibly as lonely as Harry felt on many nights. Without warning Draco sat up and looked at his noble patriarch properly. "Why don't you arrest him, Ron? I can't do it myself."

"How dare you!" Lucius hissed. "I am here under the auspices of Alai Darko, your commanding chief!"

"He's only a chief of this branch," Ron pointed out. "With the end of the war I was reassigned to the main Ministry HQ. I'm not under his command." There was the barest flicker of a polite smile over Lucius' face before he nodded.

"Very well. I demand you arrest me then. No need for the Anti-Apparation Jinx this time, Auror Weasley," he said it in the same drawling tone his own son had used for taunting years ago. "I shall come peacefully." He followed Ron to the door, adding, "take care, Draco. En garde." Alai Darko hustled the reporters out, then urged Lucius to come with him just outside the door to speak with reporters. Ron kept an eye on him through the crack.

"'Bye, Father," murmured Draco, turning his face away from the other Malfoy.

"I did a diagnosis and he's just weak, is all. Sorry we made you run like that, mate. Wasn't thinking at all," Ron apologised.

"Do you ever?" Draco retorted, but didn't turn around. He had closed his eyes.

"Right, g'bye then," said Ron, no longer perturbed by Draco's careless jibes. "I'll pick up the case conclusion and file it for you. I've got lotta cases on my hands so you'll have to do yer own backed-up files. Bring the stuff from your 'in' box to Hogwarts and do it there. There's talk of a reorganisation. I'll just write up the reports, yeah?"

"Thanks so much; we're really busy there. I'd owl more but, my hand is sore enough from marking papers. I'll Floo you sometime," Harry said gratefully before turning to Draco. "Wanna stay here a bit or go back to Howarts? There's a fireplace quite nearby, well, yeh know."

"We have got a session with Lynch tonight, papers, and files," Draco told him, getting up. He faltered a little, so he brushed invisible dust off his robes as a cover. Harry made no comment; Draco hated having weaknesses pointed out, but it was the blond who spoke. "I should have been minding myself a bit more. Sorry for causing such a fuss; Father will be very annoyed."

But that night, when the Evening Prophet landed at the High Table before Draco, the news displayed would not have displeased Lucius Laurent Malfoy at all. Side by side: "Successful call for new elections" and "Hangleton Disease's first victim?" under a photo of a pale and shaking Draco Malfoy in Auror robes. His photographic self kept feebly trying to obscure his face with the hood again, but didn't quite manage it. He nudged Snape and Harry's shoulders and showed them the first article on the front page.

"After a rousing speech given by Chief Alai Darko of the Dark Arts Defence League, the public has finally be given a glimpse of the workings of a Ministry strategically secretive since the start of the war.

"Darko, as an important insider, having directed and organised several spy and Auror divisions, accused the Ministry today of perpetuating wartime tensions in a peaceful post-war reconstructionist society for interests of self-aggrandisement. 'The Honourable Lucius Malfoy is one such victim to the continuation of fear and suspicion,' said Darko in an interview today, claiming that Malfoy, like his son, has been with the Resistance since the beginning. Malfoy has been wanted for the past seven weeks for high trea..." They skipped down to a less introductory paragraph.

"In calling for a return to normalcy, Darko echoes the sentiments of much of the wizarding populace. Gretchen Telemann, 42, Soho, says, "I just wanna wake up without havin' to check for Death Eaters. Now the war's over, why aren't the Ministry relaxin'?'

"Daniel Mobjerg, 61, also present at the speech, questioned, 'Why isn't the Ministry telling us what it's doing, now that we don't need to keep secrets from our defeated enemies? I want to know when I can start talking to my neighbours again and letting th'grantykes out to play.'

"It is no wonder then, that in the face of such discontent, the Ministry has agreed to a call for elections. Parties will be preparing as voting begins abruptly at the end of next week. See page three for more details and a transcript of Darko's speech." Their eyes, ignoring page two, moved along the line to the next article.

"Auror Draco Malfoy's fainting spell during Chief Alai Darko's speech leads many to suspect the receiver of Order of Merlin, First Class, may be one of the first publicly named to be struck down with Hangleton Disease. Could this mysterious illness be further deteriorating when spurred by overwork and unnecessarily heightened stress? The Ministry itself has denied all evidence of HD, and still refuses to release information about its activities. It maintains that the population must keep a high-alert attitude towards their daily lives. Has the Ministry finally ceased its domestic concerns in favour of war and curses? When will the Ministry recognise the all too-human toll its aggressive-defencive attitude is taking on even its own employees?

"Another pressing matter involving Auror Malfoy, 22, of Wiltshire, is that he is also a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly. If Malfoy is indeed a carrier of HD, is it wise of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to allow continued teaching of our children by someone so damaged by war? Alai Darko, who today called for renewed elections in hopes of a more positive attitude towards operation and governing, voices his doubts on page four." They did not bother turning to page four, but instead stared, pondering over the photo of Draco still trying to cover his face with his hood.

"Do you think Dumbledore'll address this? Any of it?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"He'll let them see for themselves. They know there is nothing wrong with me," Draco told him. "I fail to see how this helps Darko's situation at all. It merely shows that his own Aurors aren't in top shape. The Ministry is not entirely responsible for our situations."

"The public doesn't know that. And the parents will not be pleased about this. This means Howlers," Snape said, re-reading the lines.

"I really thought my life was going to work itself out. Now Darko's pulling this fake disease out of his arse and landing it on me," Draco complained, mashing his...currently unidentifiable meat.

"Maybe it isn't so phony," Harry said suddenly, ignoring the way Draco's eyes narrowed and his uneaten meat looked even less like meat than before. "Muggles have something called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Maybe that's it."

"I've had enough with Muggles for the past week, Potter! Don't even try for Muggle healing methods. Father once told me the sickos stitch skin together to heal wounds and cut other people open and attach arteries...I'm not taking any advice from those mad scientists!" Draco declared vehemently.

"You prolly did the same in the war!" Harry retorted, and Draco's expression changed entirely, turning white in fury. Snape was red, which contrasted well and made Harry think of messy vampires. "I'm sorry...that came out of nowhere," Harry said immediately.

Things got nasty quickly. "Fuck you, Potter," Draco hissed, so none of the students or other staff could possibly hear except for Snape and Harry. "You have no inkling of what I went through!" Harry's scar was itching heartily, and somehow he just knew Draco was doing all he could to resist literally cursing Harry's head off. He couldn't fathom where his own string of malice had come from; it was as if the words had been there all along, waiting to be said. He hadn't enjoyed it, this horrible manner in which his suspicions were revealed. How could he fix this?

"I'm sorry, Draco," he said lamely. "I said I was sorry."

"Yes, I am quite certain I heard you," Draco replied fiercely, his eyes narrowed. "For your own good, Potter, don't follow me out." He pushed his chair back and exited through the side door of the Great Hall without another word, leaving his uneaten, mutilated meal behind.