Seven Day Lifetime

"No, no. I already know how it ends. Tell me how it went."

*

Harry knew, even when he really didn't, that there was always only one way the story could end.

They told him when he was just a little thing: nothing but knobby knees and elbows that were always lost in oversized jumpers and green eyes that were, they said, just like his mother's. They told him when he stepped into a new world, and everybody suddenly paid attention to him, and asked him to see the scar. They told him when came to the Great Hall one night and was awarded sixty points for pure nerve and outstanding courage. They told him when he pulled a special sword from a special hat because, they said, he was a special boy. They told him when he came back and Cedric didn't, except Cedric had, because his body had been heavy in Harry's arms. They told him when he was the first in class to successfully cast a curse--any curse. They told him when he caught the snitch. They told him in DA meetings, and in classes, and in detentions, and in the Great Hall and the common room and the Quidditch Pitch, too.

Harry would defeat the Dark Lord and save the wizarding world.

They always told him how it would end.

But they never told him how the story would go.

*

So this is how it goes:

Harry's first class on Mondays is Double Potions with the Slytherins. He wonders if this is meant as punishment. Every time he asks Hermione, she shushes him and tells him to take more notes. So he has taken to asking Ron, and every morning they share a laugh at the expense of the two biggest gits in Hogwarts' history.

"Hey, Ron, do you think this is supposed to be some form of torture? Think Voldemort's finally figured out what will really kill me?--Snape and Malfoy at eight o'clock in the morning."

Ron looks at Harry, and Harry thinks he looks like he might be ill. His skin seems a little waxy, as if he has just seen Hagrid in nothing but his mother's favorite apron, and his freckles stand out like blotches of ink on blank parchment. Harry wonders briefly if he would be able to escort Ron to the hospital wing if he were to spew all over himself.

"Not everything has to come back to you and Voldemort, Harry."

Harry doesn't ask Ron again after that.

- -

On Tuesdays Harry holds DA meetings in the Room of Requirement. The meetings have grown to epic size, with nearly everyone in the school attending save Slytherins, and now must be split up according to skill. Level One on Tuesdays, Level Two on Saturdays, and Level Three on Sundays.

The professors do not interfere with the DA meetings. It was established early on that the students would rather learn from their peers. From Harry Potter.

So he teaches them everything he thinks they need to know, and later, in bed, pretends he doesn't enjoy the fact that no one, not even Hermione and all her books and studying and practice, can come close to Harry Potter's natural skill at casting curses and hexes. He pretends he doesn't love the way they all look at him, with adoration shining in their eyes, and worship thick on their tongues when they all thank him, again and again, "Thank you, Harry."

But these thoughts never go further than his bed.

Because he thinks that, somewhere in all of the telling, they told him he was supposed be humble, too.

- -

Wednesdays Harry relaxes in his common room after dinner. It's always the same. He and Ron play chess while Hermione reads nearby, and none of them say much, and nobody else says much to them.

And everybody thinks these are the times that Harry likes the most.

They think he likes the sound of exploding snap in the background, and the soft, constant murmur of conversation and laughter. They think he likes the way the fire glows like a halo around Ron, who always sits with his back to the flames. They think he likes the soft scrape of parchment when Hermione turns a page. They think he likes the warmth of the fire and his friends.

And it isn't that he doesn't like these times.

It's just that Harry finds them terribly boring.

- -

Thursday is for Quidditch, and is Harry's favorite day of the week besides Sunday. He has just spent an unhealthy amount of time servicing his broom, and is anxious to see if Bepperbee's Breakneck Booster Polish will really have effect on his Firebolt's pick up, which he thinks has been lagging a bit as of late.

He's on his way to the Pitch when someone calls his name. He knows exactly who it is without looking, because the "Potter" holds no notion of admiration or respect, only contempt and loathing and something colder. Something that Harry thinks has been bred in, or groomed to fruition by a childhood of bedtime stories about a poor, defenseless Dark Lord and the ruthless infant who sucked out all of his powers.

"What is it, Malfoy? I've practice and no time for you."

He expects to see Malfoy dressed in his quidditch robes, holding his broomstick in one hand and a forged note proclaiming that the pitch be used for Slytherin practice tonight in the other. So he's somewhat surprised to see Malfoy in his school robes and carrying no broomstick or note.

"I don't particularly care what your schedule allows for, Potter. You clearly spend too much time alone with that bottle of polish, and just insinuating what you might do with it is enough to make me want to poke out my mind's eye with my wand."

Harry tightens his grip on the handle of his broom and tells himself to count to ten.

"What is it, Malfoy? You've ten seconds before I start pretending you don't exist."

He never actually gets to ten.

"Snape says he needs to see you immediately, and it must be bloody important if he's sent me to fetch you."

Harry thinks his hands might be gathering splinters, but grips the Firebolt harder anyway.

"Now?"

"No, this is the type of immediately that calls for your presence tomorrow, sometime after classes, whenever you get around to it... Yes, now, you imbecile!"

Harry doesn't hear the insult, because it suddenly occurs to him that Dumbledore left late last night on urgent business, which means that Snape is Harry's only connection to any developments Voldemort and his Death Eaters make outside of Hogwarts. And Snape has never sent for Harry before.

He drops his broom and takes off at a run towards the castle.

For some reason, his feet feel heavier than they really are as he runs. He feels like everything's spinning, and gravity is hugging him closer, tighter, harder, and it feels like it doesn't want to let go.

- -

It's a Friday when McGonagall sits in the Headmaster's chair and tells the school over an uneaten breakfast that Dumbledore has been killed. The teachers all wear black bands around their arms, and the house flags change to black, and Harry thinks black has never looked so beautiful, or so tragically alluring. It seems deep and endless with nothingness, like he could just fall without knowing he'd fallen, like a pretty oblivion.

McGonagall reclaims her seat, and proper goodbyes are put away until after What Will Come.

Afterwards, Harry has Divination. He thinks it might have been sometime around Trelawney's third breakdown, in which she predicted they would all die horrible, tragic deaths at the Hands of You-Know-Who, that he decided he didn't want to make up his star charts any more.

So he turns in what he knows will come to pass, not what he sees on a chart or tea leaves.

He turns in what he's always been told.

"I will save the wizarding world from Voldemort."

- -

Harry Potter defeats the Dark Lord on a Saturday, and Trelawney gives him top scores for the rest of the year, no questions asked.

*

And this is how it should have gone:

Harry's first class on Mondays will be Double Potions with the Slytherins. He won't be any good at the advanced potions--he's better with a wand than his hands--but Hermione will partner up with him, so he'll manage.

Harry will almost drop the entire bottle of snakeskin into the cauldron when Ron elbows him in the side. Ron will grin like a poor fool under a Humourus curse, and his eyes will sparkle the same way they did six years ago, when he was eleven and met Harry Potter on a train to Hogwarts with dirt on his nose.

"This is torture. Snape and Malfoy at eight in the morning on a Monday. Merlin!"

Harry will have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

"I think it's You-Know-Who's master plan to do us in."

Ron will clap his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"We will not perish, Harry. We will not."

Hermione will scold both of them for talking and then shoo Ron back to his partner, and Harry will be close to tears from the effort of holding back his laughter.

- -

On Tuesdays Harry will hold DA meetings in the Room of Requirement. The room will be much bigger than it was in his fifth year, but there will be more people interested in learning to defend themselves from the Dark Arts than there had been in his fifth year.

Harry will want to teach them everything he knows, and he'll be willing to do it one by one if he has to. He'll circle the room and chart each student's progress. He'll give them words of advice and, more often, praise their efforts. He'll blush when first years gush over what a fabulous teacher he is, and then he'll say he wouldn't be half as good if Hermione didn't make him read and study and practice. He'll swell with pride when someone casts a charm perfectly, or helps another student with a spell, or simply says, "Thanks for doing this, Harry."

And later, in bed, muscles aching and pride bursting, he'll review the progress of each of his pupils, and take pleasure in seeing their improvements, in knowing he played a part in making them a better wizard.

- -

Wednesdays Harry will relax in his common room after dinner.

Sometimes they will all crowd together, Harry and Ron and Hermione and Dean and Seamus and Parvati and Lavender and Neville and everybody else, and they'll chat, or play games, or study together. Everything will feel fuzzy, like the whole world is right there right then, in that little Gryffindor common room, and all the rest will just sort of blur away. Those will be the loud, funny times, and Harry will like those.

Sometimes it'll be just them, just Harry and Ron and Hermione. They'll talk a lot. About classes and students and teachers and, sometimes, how it's supposed to end. Harry will be able to tell them anything, and so he will tell them everything. He'll always feel particularly warm then, around the fire and his best friends. Those will be the cozy, friendly times, and Harry will love those.

And sometimes it'll just be Harry. When he'll be by himself, he'll think about his parents, and Voldemort, and What Will Come. Harry won't light the fire when it's just him, so he'll be cold, and the room will be dark.

Those will be the lonely, quiet times, and Harry won't like those much.

- -

Thursday will be for Quidditch, and will be Harry's favorite day of the week besides Sunday. As captain, he will install a more rigorous practice routine, with extra Bludgers and a Snitch enchanted to go faster. But Thursdays will be a break for the team, and he'll let the players enjoy free flying time and little strenuous flying.

He'll be on his way to the Pitch when someone will call his name. But when he'll turn around, the only person he'll see will be Draco Malfoy, so he'll turn back and continue walking.

"Potter! Are you deaf in addition to being blindingly stupid? I'm talking to you here."

Harry will twist around and stare disbelievingly. Malfoy will come up the pitch, dressed in his Quidditch robes, carrying his broomstick in one hand and clutching a piece of parchment in the other, and Harry will resolve then and there not to let Malfoy take away his open flying session.

"Oh, no, Malfoy. We always have the pitch at six on Thursday."

Malfoy will smirk at him, and Harry will think that, if he were to sniff the air, he would smell the aroma of true evil.

"I've special permission from Snape."

His voice will remind Harry of a snake's underside. Slippery and smooth and hard.

"No, you don't. That's a fake. Snape left on business two nights ago."

Malfoy will step up to him, and instead of asking the obvious question of how Harry Potter could possibly know the business of Severus Snape, he'll sneer and ask-

"Are you calling me a liar, Potter?"

"Is your father a Death Eater?"

Suddenly there will be a flurry of robes as Malfoy reaches for his wand and Harry follows, but Harry will be faster, fastest, and his hex will already be cast before Malfoy can fully draw his wand.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

And then Malfoy will be frozen on the ground, stiff and white as ice, and everybody will seem to appear out of nowhere, and they will all smile and slap Harry on the back, and he'll be reminded once again of how the story is supposed to end.

- -

It will be a Friday when Dumbledore will rise from his seat and quiet an unusually noisy hall by telling the students that Professor Snape has been killed. The teachers will all wear black bands around their arms, and the house flags will change to black, and Harry will think about how fitting it is, all of the black. So ugly, so full of hate, so cold and so cruel. Just as Snape had been.

Harry won't miss him, and he won't cry for the loss, but he will feel a sense of duty and respect toward the man who has given his life for him.

Harry will be pleased when Ron expresses much the same to him during Divination, and together they will make up their own star chart from a combination of what Harry's always been told and how the story has gone so far:

"We will save the wizarding world from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Oh, and Hermione is going to help, too."

- -

Harry Potter will defeat the Dark Lord with the assistance of Ron and Hermione on a Saturday, and Dumbledore will award Gryffindor House so many points that nobody will bother to count them all.

*

But this is how it went:

Harry's first class on Monday was Double Potions with the Slytherins.

"This is torture."

Ron's voice came from Harry's right, where he always sat. Hermione was on his left, ears alert for Snape's lesson and right hand busy with notes. And Draco Malfoy was on the far side of the room, surrounded by Slytherins and a stale air of indifference.

Harry almost always watched Draco, and sometimes he was obvious about it, and sometimes he wasn't. He wasn't so obvious about it when Draco spoke up in class, and he watched Draco's lips move without really listening, because it was only polite to look at a person when they were speaking, wasn't it? He wasn't so obvious about it when they fought, because it was perfectly normal for his eyes to flash and his face to flush when he was angry, wasn't it? He wasn't so obvious about it when they stared at each other from across the Great Hall, because Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hated each other, and enemies were to be kept closer than friends, weren't they?

But Harry knew he was being obvious about it when he stared at Draco, who was doing nothing but sitting there and looking bored, from across their Potions classroom at eight o'clock on a Monday morning. So he turned back to Ron and gave him a smile that wasn't felt anywhere but his lips.

"Yes. Complete torture."

- -

On Tuesdays Harry held DA meetings in the Room of Requirement. The classes seemed to be growing with every consecutive meeting, but Harry never imagined that any of the Slytherins would attend, and he certainly never thought that Draco would have been the one to lead them there.

Harry was wrong.

"So what is this all about, Potter? Word is you're creating some secret army for Dumbledore."

Harry was at a loss, because Draco had never spoken to him without a sneer on his lips before.

"Er- well, yes. And no. I mean..."

Draco still stared at him fully, openly, looking so beautiful without barriers built around him or taunts on the tip of his tongue, and all Harry really wanted to do was stare back.

"Potter? Are you--? What is it?"

Harry shook his head and looked away.

"We're not really building an army. We're just, uh, practicing."

"Practicing what?"

"Different curses and hexes and... stuff. We're learning to defend ourselves."

"And will we learn to 'defend ourselves' against Unforgivable Curses?"

Harry started. No one had asked to be subjected to an Unforgivable Curse for the purpose of learning to deflect it before, and Harry was honestly thrown.

He looked closer at Draco, and noticed for the first time that he wasn't as perfect as Harry had thought. His exact posture was strained, and there were thin, shallow lines around his mouth and brow, and Harry doubted that these lines had come from smiling. Draco was staring at him intently, patiently, his silver eyes dark with weariness, and Draco looked, all together, Harry thought, very, very tired.

"If you want to learn how, Malfoy, I'm willing to teach you."

Draco nodded and didn't ask any more questions after that, and Harry never asked the obvious ones.

And later, in bed, Harry noted that, somehow, somewhen, Draco had managed to corral all of Harry's thoughts and arrange them neatly until he was the center of Harry's entire universe. Harry couldn't seem to remember if Justin Finch-Fletchley had ever successfully cast his Patronus, or if the first years had caught on to the Expelliarmus hex.

He only considered Draco's improvements, and Draco's set backs, and the way Draco had smiled at him when he asked if Harry could stay back a moment, and go over this one last thing with him. He only thought about Draco, and how Draco smelled when he leaned in, and how Draco felt when he laid his hand on the back of Draco's neck, and how Draco tasted when they kissed.

- -

Wednesdays Harry used to relax in his common room after dinner.

But he made an exchange.

His common room for the night sky. The fire for the moonlight. His friends for Draco.

Sometimes he and Draco went up to the Astronomy Tower and shared a cloak and secrets, and watched the stars unfold from the gloaming. The tower was cold, but Draco was warm, so Harry smiled and asked Draco to hold him tighter. They talked about everything and nothing, about all the ways they would fly to the moon on shooting stars and pull cobwebs out of the sky. Harry loved those times.

Sometimes they went down to the Lake and sat on the dark grass, and talked about how it used to be. How Draco used to smile broadly when the family owl swept into the Great Hall carrying a letter from his father. How Draco used to brush up on his Dark Spells in a broom closet that was charmed not to set off the wards. How Draco used to go home for the holidays. Harry didn't really like those times, but he loved Draco, so he put up with them.

And sometimes they didn't really know where they went. They just held on to each other, and didn't look where they were going. Harry liked those times the best.

- -

Thursday was the only day not meant for Quidditch, and was Harry's favorite day of the week besides Sunday. As captain, Ron had designated Thursday as the team's only day off from practice, but today Harry decided he would rather fight the Ravenclaws for a small space of sky on the Pitch than sit in the common room and fend off Hermione's attempts at making him study.

He had just spotted Terry Boot, the Ravenclaw captain, when a hand gently clasped his shoulder. Harry spun, and instantly smiled.

"Draco."

"Harry."

Draco's voice was raspy, and Harry's smile vanished as soon as it had come. Draco's robes were sliding awkwardly on his shoulders, his hair a little mussed, like he had run his hands through it repeatedly in agitation or something else, and he was paler than usual. His eyes looked dull, as if someone had come in and tarnished the silver glint away, and his skin looked drawn and tight, like it hurt for him to smile.

But that could have been because he had no reason to smile.

"What's wrong?"

Draco took his hand, and his fingers were tight around Harry's. Harry shivered, because Draco's hands were very cold.

"I have to go away for a while, Harry."

The world suddenly became very small, and it seemed to Harry as if he and Draco were all that existed. The rest of the world didn't just blur then, it became vapor. All that existed were Draco's sad eyes, and the bowed corners of his mouth, and his hand around Harry's.

"What? Where? Why? I'll come with you!"

Draco's hand tightened around Harry's, and Harry gripped Draco back.

"You can't."

It was becoming almost painful to hold on, but Harry wasn't letting go.

"Why not?"

Harry knew he sounded childish, but Draco was leaving, and he couldn't go with him, and his hand was starting to hurt so very badly, but he didn't care how he sounded, so long as Draco didn't go anywhere.

"You know why, Harry. You know why."

Tears were burning Harry's eyes, and he thought it might have been from the pain in his hand, but he knew it wasn't.

"No!"

Harry wanted to hold on tightly, to never let go, but of all his strength seemed to have been washed away by something. Maybe it was the tears.

"I have to go now, Harry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I have to go. I'll come back, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

Draco dropped his hand, and the pain didn't go away all at once, but Draco did.

- -

It was a Friday when the rumors flew around the Gryffindor table that Draco Malfoy was dead. At the Slytherin table, all of the students wore armbands bearing the Malfoy family crest, and the house flags hung black over their uneaten breakfasts, and Harry could do nothing but wish to fall into that blackness, to be swallowed whole by its oblivion, and smile when he passed Ron the butter.

Harry felt as if he were plummeting, his muscles rigid and his stomach in his throat, and he wanted to scream. He was riding Draco's shooting star straight into the ground, cobwebs tangling in his hair, and had no idea how to stop it. All he could do was go along for the ride, and then fall, and then crash.

Harry couldn't remember what he had turned in on his star chart later that day in Divination, but Trelawney told him later that it had something to do with Draco Malfoy and Voldemort, and for some reason he received perfect marks.

He realized later it must have been the end to this story.

- -

Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord on a Saturday, and finally saw Draco Malfoy again on a Sunday, his favorite day of the week.

FIN