playing the game, living the lie

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Chapter 1 : leave me alone

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Harry trudged through the cloisters, irritably tucking his hands under his crossed arms in a feeble attempt to ward off some of the bitter winter cold. I'm only 5 minutes away from the portrait hole, he thought, but I'll probably freeze to death before I get there.

His leg throbbed painfully, the cold igniting along a pathway that cut his shin in half diagonally, the reminder of a Quidditch match not some four weeks ago. Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to find anything, not even a hairline fracture, and yet whenever it was cold, it would bloom into pain, like some kind of twisted flower.

It was all Malfoy's fault.

The match in question had been between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and those matches always attracted a large crowd, the rivalry between the Houses - and their respective Seekers - known throughout Hogwarts. Even those who'd barely started in first year had been taken aside by their elders and told 'see that raven haired boy? That's Harry Potter. And that blond haired guy? That's Draco Malfoy. They hate each other.'

It had become a legend, almost as big as that of his own survival against Voldemort. And Harry figured that after last summer, people needed something to distract them from the spectre of approaching war.

He just wished he didn't have to keep being at the centre of all the legends. He was tired, and cold, and his leg ached, and his scar was itchy. He just wanted to get in front of the roaring fire in the Gryffindor commons, perhaps spend a few enjoyable minutes with his friends (if any were still up), and then fall into bed, and blissful, dreamless sleep.

And it was all Malfoy's fault.

He had been keeping one eye out for the Snitch, and the other on the lithe Slytherin, just in case he saw it first. They were the only two things that existed. The rest of the world, the roar of the crowd, even the sensation of height from where he hovered above the playing field, all faded into the background.

One eye looking for the Snitch.

The other watching Draco Malfoy.

And then he saw it, the Snitch, glistening and golden, hovering almost at ground level.

Harry went into a steep dive. He no longer cared about Draco; his mind was elsewhere.

And then a Slytherin Bludger gently brushed the tip of his broom, and Harry went into a spin. He landed with an 'ooof' in a clump of bushes not far from the playing field, and having only started to fall when his broom was a few scant metres from the ground, there didn't seem to be any damage. Yet Professor McGonagall insisted that Harry had to be checked out by Madam Pomfrey, and so the match was cancelled. Harry had caught the Slytherin Seeker smirking at him as he was levitated off the field, and he knew the Malfoy had planned that particular tactic.

And now his leg throbbed when it rained.

Even now was all the Slytherin's fault. He had deliberately unsettled Harry in Potions today, so much that Harry had messed up the his Shrinking Solution almost as badly as Neville did. And Snape had demanded, as punishment, that Harry return to the Potions lab after dinner, and under Snape's close supervision, redo the Potion until he was satisfied.

The man was a git. Insufferable. It had taken Harry two whole hours, mainly because Snape had not been satisfied with anything Harry could do. Finally, he had nodded, noncommittally, and commented that he supposed it would 'have to do.' And so Harry had trudged back to the dorms, bitterly cold, in a foul temper, a few stains from the revolting liquids he'd used tonight marking his robes. And it was a new set of robes too. Ruined. He groaned inwardly. This day, night, whatever, simply couldn't get any worse.

And Malfoy...Malfoy irked him beyond explaining. He'd hate him if he could, and Harry was irked even more by the fact he couldn't. He'd tried to hate the constantly smirking little gimp, but his mind always kept making excuses. Such as Draco's upbringing. Harry might have shoved in a closet, allowed no possessions of his own, and barely fed, but at least he had managed to escape (somewhat) to Hogwarts. The rumours about Malfoy Manor however, made Harry shudder inwardly. He couldn't imagine what Draco must have gone through, must keep going through, every time he went back there. He had heard the tone in Lucius Malfoy's voice just before....just before...when Cedric had....

Died.

But all that was in the past. Harry wished momentarily that despite Draco being a patronising little git, he had accepted his friendship back in first year. He wasn't quite sure why he hadn't really, and it might have saved him a lot of bother in the long run. Draco might have confided in him, trusted him, instead of keeping everyone out and pushing them away, the way he always did. Plus, for some reason, Harry always thought that had the circumstances been different, they might have been great friends.

Maybe. Harry sighed. Maybe he just wanted them to be, rather than this constant pointless sniping. Merlin, anything was better than that.

And just as it always did, thinking of Malfoy made Harry's blood boil. Yes, his father had probably tortured him, taught him the Dark Arts, threatened to do all sorts of nasty things to him if he wasn't a good little stooge for Voldemort, but that didn't give the shit the right to get under Harry's skin the way he did, even when he wasn't bloody around.

He stormed towards the Gryffindor Commons, barely giving the Fat Lady time to open the portrait hole before he burst inside, his face livid, too busy mentally cursing a particular blonde Slytherin to even care about Ron and Hermione busily snogging on one of the chairs near the fire.

Hermione squawked and nearly fell off said chair when Harry came in, eyes widening in shock. Ron himself quickly assessed the situation and started straightening his robes, mussed by their close contact. They glanced at each other, worried now, all trace of their uneasiness over discovery gone. Their expression of mirrored concern grew even paler when Harry continued up the stairs, muttering, "oh for Merlin's sake, don't stop on my account!"

Hermione spoke first, looking after their mutual friend. "You'd better go and see what's wrong. He's been getting all..." her mouth pursed, her forehead furrowed as she searched for an appropriate word "testy for a while now."

Ron nodded his assent, as much for Hermione's benefit as for his worries about his best friend. Ron wasn't exactly the 'touchy-feely' type of person, and not particularly good at expressing his emotions; most of the time he would have let things sort themselves out, or attempt to have an conversation with Harry which would be far too awkward and uncomfortable for any communication to take place...but he could tell from the look on 'Mione's face, that there wasn't chance at further...'quality time' with her, not tonight anyway, and probably not for a while if he didn't find out what was bugging Harry so.

Sighing, Ron Weasley trudged up the stairs to the boys' dorm.

* * *

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed, alone in the Slytherin dorms. Everyone else was at dinner, it seemed, or just outside, doing unknowable somethings, which suited him fine. The loneliness he could cope with. He'd always known it to some extent as a child, wondering the halls of Malfoy Manor, his father so distant and cold, full of forbodings and restrictions, demands and expectations, looming as a presence rather than a person; his mother ever so frail, like a porcelain doll, that he was frightened to touch her in case she broke.

He'd felt lonely in that place, and wrapped himself in the emptiness, taking the isolation inside so that he wore it like a cloak and at least then, he could be one with something, even if it was the one thing that drove all others away.

He hadn't been happy, but then, he'd learned from those around him that happiness was an optional extra, like that new broomstick or set of robes, except not even the Malfoy fortune could buy personal contentment.

Not that they'd needed to try of course. Happiness had nothing to do with being a Malfoy. One defined Malfoyness by what one was not. A Malfoy was not weak, did not pander to the common man, or the larger morass of society. A Malfoy did not live according to someone else's rules, a Malfoy was not a bleeding heart. If someone lay dying on the roadside, a Malfoy would not stop and give aid, even if it was another Malfoy.

A Malfoy did not sully his blood with a mudblood or muggle. After the generations of carefully planned breeding and arranged marriages, all so miserable in their construction, a Malfoy did not have the right to be happy, in love or anything else. It would have been a personal insult to the enduring refined apathy of every single Malfoy in recorded history to even dare to break from the mold, because by proving it could be done, one invariably called into question why the rows of the staring dead had not, and made them look the worse for their stagnation

Of course, there was one rule Draco had never been told, but its' stricture still applied, all the more for its' absence.

A Malfoy does not develop feelings for his best, worst enemy.

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed, alone in the Slytherin dorms. He briefly interlaced his fingers together, stretching them, a momentary burst of effort before sinking once again, back into the mattress and pillows.

He felt...tired.

This was not merely a minor, 'oh, I'll just take a small nap and feel refreshed' kind of tired. Or even a 'my, that was a hard Quidditch match wasn't it? I'll sleep like a log tonight!' This was the weariness caused by having to live up to the expectations of every Malfoy that had ever lived, every Malfoy that could have lived, and every Malfoy that would live.

His father had once told him that the current chain of events could 'make or break' the Malfoys, and Draco hadn't bothered to argue. He privately thought that they'd been broken the moment his father had kissed Voldemort's hem, but he kept those kind of thoughts a secret from everyone, even himself.

Self-denial was a potent weapon in his armory, perhaps his greatest.

If he pretended not to feel, not to care, then it became true, and the pain no longer mattered, if it ever had at all.

But as always, it took its' toll on him.

Which is probably why I feel so tired, he mused to himself, somewhat unfocussed. I wonder what I could do to alleviate my...condition?, he added, only half-seriously, teasing and bitter.

He could perhaps indulge himself in the old familiar game he played, the game of metal on flesh, of metal in flesh, cutting himself with the blade and seeing the blood, sweet and red, pour from the wound like manna. Finally, to feel the pain and taste the blood, a reminder of his own life, his own continued existence. A statement to say: I am still here. Or at the very least, I was here.

Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse. Except Draco didn't feel like dying any time soon.

But that is not what the game's about, Mr. Narrator, he thought to himself, grimly. The game was about winning.

At least, that's what he'd always thought; well, what his father had always told him. Now he was beginning to realise he didn't even know what the rules were.

And that what he had to think was not necessarily what his father told him...he was not merely a tool, or a product...even if his father thought he was. After many years, Draco was finally seeing his father as a man, and he wasn't happy with the revelation. He presumed his father would like it even less.

Yet there was nothing he could do to change this, to change who he was, what he had become. Nothing he dared anyway, because in changing he would have to admit he was wrong, or worse, that he'd blindly followed his father into error, and he could not, would not, do that.

He'd become stone, like the walls around him, an unfeeling thing surrounded by a shell. And not for the first time, he'd wondered if it had to have been this way.

But of course. I am a Malfoy, he acknowledged, wryly, before a stray thought caught him. I'm sure if I was capable of feeling anything anymore, the irony of the situation would be killing me. I have, after all, become complicit in my own denigration and destruction by attempting merely to improve myself, to make my father proud of me.

He'd certainly gone through the appropriate hoops today, crossed his 't's and dotted his 'i's. Goyle and Crabbe would be scribbling notes back to their fathers, falling all over themselves telling them what a bad little Slytherin he'd been, so sarcastic and cutting he would have made Salazar proud. They in turn would become green with envy at how Slytherin Lucius' son had become, and congratulate him, through clenched teeth, before they ran home to report to Voldemort that Lucius' brat was staying on the crooked and narrow path laid out for him. Everyone spied on everyone else, everyone fought for status, advantage, leverage, simple survival.

He'd spent the morning teasing some poor Hufflepuff first year until the girl nearly cried; he didn't know her name - he didn't even know her. She was just a target, a means to an end, a way of proving himself.

A way of making his father proud, perhaps, if such a thing was possible.

He'd even unsettled Harry, although it wasn't his intention. Found himself staring at the Gryffindor, his eyes always slipping across the room to watch his nemesis (lover? don't think that. don't ever think that) the gaze hungry, the emotion concealed. And Harry had felt that gaze, felt his pull, and been seemingly, deeply disturbed by it, if his behaviour in class was any indication. In front of Snape, he made more mistakes than Longbottom, which was saying something.

Trouble was, Draco wasn't entirely sure what it was saying, and that disturbed him beyond expression.

He might even be angry, if he wasn't so bloody tired.

Draco tried to recall the last time he'd laughed, or even honestly found something funny, rather than just pretending. His mind flitted over the spectre of memory, searching for a moment crystallised in time.

He had been in transfiguration one day, a double early in the morning, covertly sneaking glances across at Harry and his little clique of groupies (for the most obvious and transparent of reasons) and Harry had said something so sly and filthy and incredibly out of character with this angelic expression on his face that it was all Draco could do to not start snorting madly in the middle of one of McGonagall's opening monologues. I never realised he had it in him, Draco had somewhat regretfully acknowledged at the time, as if this was a side to the Boy Who Lived he could never, would never, get to see.

He winced slightly at the memory, the emotion wiped from his face as quickly as it appeared.

Stop thinking about him, Malfoy, he cursed silently, and calming himself down internally, he began again.

What about the time when Harry-

No.

Or when I attacked that mudblood Gran-

No. Still related to him.

Stop thinking about him.

That was of course the 'sane' part of his consciousness, the one dedicated to the fruition and eventual triumph of all things Malfoy.

I might as well admit it, he thought to himself, bitterly. He's left me with no damn choice.

I want to kiss him hurt him heal him kill him hate him...love him.

He's robbed me of everything I had, everything I am. He's the only thing I have left and Merlin, when I think of him I want to die.

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed, alone in the Slytherin dorms, and wondered how his life had gotten so fucked up.