Beneath You

Beneath You
By Cinnamon
Chapter Five Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it
Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year --
Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,
I know your secret, my dear, my dear.

-Did You Never Know, Sarah Teasdale

Later that night, Harry’s strange illness began to come back, and he was getting worried. After all, it had been weeks now, and if it was just the flu, surely it would be gone by now. However, given his status as The-Boy-Who-Lived, he was quite sure Hermione would flip out and he didn’t want to worry anyone. It was probably just a cold.

Still thinking about the strange incident in the library, Harry made his way outside to the hollow. It was abandoned, but the cool air seemed to soothe the illness a little, and Harry sat at the base of the tree for a long time, eyes closed, breathing deeply. It was very quiet and he was feeling very weak. The feeling left, however, and he opened the book. The last thing written was Harry’s scribbles from earlier, Malfoy hadn’t written anything.

Twirling the quill, Harry thought carefully before writing, “Are you alright, Malfoy? I didn’t mean to scare you or whatever, I didn’t mean anything by it, I don’t even know what I was thinking! Maybe the whiskey hadn’t worn off yet! Do you think that could be it? Because I certainly wasn’t feeling like myself… I was having problems breathing. That could be why… I mean, I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. That could have been why. Yes. So I’m sorry. I hope you’re not angry.”

It was rather late by the time he got back to the common room, and he made his way upstairs, falling asleep nearly instantly and dreaming that he was pregnant with Hermione’s baby and that was why he was ill in the evenings and the nights. He woke up, understandably feeling quite disturbed.

It was Saturday, and he spent the day practicing Quidditch with his team. When he got back to the common room, Hermione was waiting and she smiled triumphantly. “Finished my essay, want to read it?”

He read it over, commented on it, and they started a game of chess. The game was interrupted, however, when the portrait flew open and Ron staggered in, bruised, bloody, and grinning. “That’ll teach him!” he crowed, flopping down in a chair and wiping his bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve.

“That’ll teach who?” Harry asked.

“Ron, you’re bleeding!” Hermione cried.

“Crabbe. The bugger tried pounding me again!”

“Looks like he succeeded…” Harry said.

Ron shrugged. “I did worse to him. Now he’ll leave me and Pansy alone!”

“Ron! You didn’t fight him!” Hermione begged.

“No, Hermione, I let him pound me into a bloody mess and didn’t try to defend myself at all,” Ron replied sarcastically. Hermione fell back against the back of her chair weakly.

“You’ll be expelled for sure,” she told him.

“It was self-defense!”

“Doesn’t matter, you still fought him.” Hermione grabbed a tissue and started cleaning his face up. “I’ll wipe the blood off and then heal it,” she told him, voice gentle now. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Ron lied.

After they’d taken care of Ron, Harry snuck out to the hollow, needing to get away. Ginny had come back into the common room and had glared at him from her own chair, and he hadn’t been able to stand it. He didn’t quite have the guts to apologize either, and thought that waiting until she was less angry was the best course of action.

Malfoy had written earlier that day. “Potter… you sexually repressed little boy. Never mind. Don’t even think about last night, ever again, alright? Forget it. Maybe I caught whatever it is that’s got you feeling sick. Yes, if that’s what you want to believe, go right ahead. As I said before and I’ll say again, if you don’t understand, I’m certainly not going to waste my time explaining. Besides… it won’t happen again.

“Had to clean Vincent up this afternoon after Weasley was done with him. I’m nearly impressed with the level of damage. Snape wasn’t quite so impressed, so just to warn you, he’ll probably be doubly furious with you come Monday morning. The whole lot of you Gryffindors will pay for this. I’m quite looking forward to it.

“I’ve been trying to write my palm reading essay all day and I just can’t get it right. No matter what I try in that course, the nasty woman doesn’t like it. Is it my fault that I’m going to be rich, handsome, and successful my whole life? Some of us are just not BUILT for tragedy and she seems to only like reading about it! It’s driving me mad.”

“Sexually repressed?” Harry mumbled indignantly. “It’s not my fault I’ve got priorities. Like…Quidditch.” Somehow, it just didn’t sound as convincing as it had all the other times he’d said it.

Unnerved, Harry decided not to comment on the first part of Malfoy’s note.

He smiled a little, took out his wand, and whispered, “Accio homework.” His own palmistry essay floated from the castle and he snatched it from the air, reading over it quickly. “Here,” he wrote in the journal. “My class did that assignment last week, and I got full marks. Just copy mine and change the tragedies. Instead of your lover being killed in a car crash, write that they die in ritual sacrifice or something. Tragedy, Draco, it’s all about tragedy. Trelawney rarely cares if it’s true, as long as it’s full of sorrow. Make it up. Ron and I have been doing that for years. Oh. And if I were you, I wouldn’t mention the sexual nature of your hands. She’d think it was too good to be true.”

He carefully folded the scroll and slipped it inside the book.

***

The next day was Sunday and Harry spent the day hiding from Hermione, Ron, and Ginny in the South Tower, the same one where he had locked Pansy and Ron on Halloween. He didn’t like to spend too much time considering why he was avoiding them. After all, he just wanted to be alone. The South Tower was the best place for that.

It was November now and the tower was drafty. He sat in the same room where Pansy and Ron had been locked, careful to keep the door open, and wrote letters to Sirius about everything (almost) that had been happening. He left out any mention of Malfoy, because he decided it wasn’t even worth talking about. Really.

He was lying to himself and he knew it; but Harry, again, did not really want to spend too much time considering why.

He went to the hollow late that afternoon, and when he opened the notebook a small red leaf fell out, fluttering to the ground. Curious, he picked it up.

It felt like leather in his hand and was the most vibrant shade of scarlet he’d ever seen, with gold-tipped edges and veins of the same bright yellow. He studied it thoughtfully for a moment, wondering how it had gotten in the book and hesitantly considering that maybe Draco had left it there for him. The image of Draco seeing this leaf, as beautiful as it was, and picking it up with the intention of leaving it for Harry felt incongruous. There wasn’t a message either, and Harry almost let the leaf go so the wind could carry it away, when he realized that his Divination homework wasn’t there. So Draco had been there since Harry had left it.

Maybe it was in thanks for the homework?

Whatever it was, he tucked the leaf in his pocket and sat down to write. He was in an oddly thoughtful mood. “ I dreamed of you the other night, did I tell you? On Halloween, it was probably because you were there. It was very strange, I was flying through the air (not on a broom though) and then I fell and landed in snow and you were standing there and said something about destiny and seeing everything backwards. It was the night after the Halloween Ball, so I figure that the whole destiny thing came from that, because our whole plan was to prove fate wasn’t real, right? However, the rest of it I can’t even begin to sort out. Oh, and Ginny’s been avoiding me ever since the Halloween Ball! I feel badly for it, but I much prefer this to having Ron constantly pushing her at me, trying to get me to fall in love with her. Hermione says I did something horrible to her and must apologize before she tells Ron, who’ll kill me for it, but honestly, abandoning her at the Ball is hardly a capital offence, is it?”

He put the book back and studied his hands in disgust. They were stained, again, with the ink from the hollow. It seemed to be a permanent state these days, though he hadn’t noticed until Draco had commented on it in Potions. The ink wouldn’t wash off.

The sun was starting to set and Harry felt a headache coming on. He made his way back to the castle feeling suddenly exhausted and as weak as a kitten.

***

Nighttime was always Draco’s favourite time to check the journal. He hardly ever went to sleep before midnight anyway, and it was always easier to sneak away when all of his housemates were asleep. He didn’t feel up to discussing with any of them the reasons he was doing this. Writing little notes to Harry and all that. Not that any of his housemates would ever have the courage to ask. He was Draco Malfoy. His secret nighttime wanderings were never remarked upon.

“Dreaming of me, Potter?”, he wrote, after reading Harry’s last message. “How cute. As for little Weasley, chances are that if she hasn’t told her brother yet, she won’t, so I’d just enjoy the break from her clumsy attentions, if I were you.” Not to mention, of course, that she was most likely upset over something much more than being abandoned at the Ball. But if Potter hadn’t found out about that yet, he most likely wouldn’t, and that suited Draco perfectly.

The next morning was Monday, and Draco was exhausted in Potions class. He hadn’t slept well after returning from the hollow, he had to fight a ridiculous craving for cherries, and was having a hard time paying attention to the lesson. As, apparently, was Potter.

Snape was in a foul mood already, even Draco could tell that. When he asked the class if they could remember the three primary ingredients to the Draught of Phoenix Tears and only Granger’s hand went up, he turned to Potter. Draco followed his gaze and, rather than the usual anticipation at the thought of Potter being called on in class, he only felt vague stirrings of pity. Potter looked wretched, pale, and weak.

“How about you, Mister Potter?”

Rather than try to pretend he knew what was going on as he usually did, Potter just blinked, his eyes looking rather glassy. “What?”

“Three primary ingredients in the Draught of Phoenix Tears.”

Potter licked his lips. “Uhh, the first would probably be phoenix tears.”

“Very good, Mister Potter,” Snape said sarcastically. “And the other two?”

There was dead silence. Granger seemed to be trying to psychically send the answers to him, Weasley couldn’t seem to look at him and was staring at his desk, and Snape’s cruel smile, which used to delight Draco, was growing by the second.

“Oil of an infant Mandrake root and belladonna!” Draco called, before pausing to think. He winced as every student in the room turned to gawk at him. Snape turned slowly, and Potter’s eyes widened and flew to his. Draco cleared his throat almost nervously.

“Excuse me?” Snape hissed.

“Those are the other two primary ingredients, sir.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that. However, I had been waiting for Mister Potter to reply.”

“He didn’t seem to know the answer.”

“And you thought to help him? How… noble, Mister Malfoy. But the fact of the matter remains that Mister Potter has demonstrated again and again that he is failing to pay attention in my classroom!” Snape wheeled around to glare down at Potter. “In fact, I believe you still owe me a detention for one of your past transgressions! I must admit, for Resident Hero, Potter, you are quite a disappointment. In fact, I honestly must say that perhaps you’ve allowed your hero status to go to your head and feel as if you can just float through my class! I regret to inform you that no one passes my class without effort, Potter. And so, I further regret—” though he didn’t look it at all —“to say that unless you can prove to me that you’ve been paying attention, I am going to have to fail you. And of course, you are aware that without a passing grade in Potions, you will not be graduating.”

“Please, sir, he does pay attention, he does. He’s just not feeling very well today!” Granger cried.

Snape glared at her and she fell silent. “In order to prove to me that you’ve paid attention, you will write me a essay summarizing everything we have discussed this year—and be glad that I am not making it cumulative of all seven years. Five scrolls should be enough, if you write small. Knowing your illegible scrawl, you’d better make it seven. You must receive a passing grade on this, or you will fail my course.”

There was a tense silence in the classroom. It had been an unusually harsh punishment, and even Draco was looking at Snape with reproach in his eyes.

“Only you will be required to complete this, Potter, as your detention for your past transgression. None of you,” he glared at the other Gryffindors, Granger in particular, “may assist him in writing it or I will fail him.”

Potter looked even paler than before, except for the bright red flush on his cheeks that let Draco know just how furious he was. He didn’t say a thing, however, and Snape nodded, satisfied, and went back to teaching the lesson.

After Potions, Draco felt a little more awake and went about the rest of his lessons with more energy, though he was oddly worried about Potter. He had looked very ill in class and Draco knew that Granger hadn’t been making that up as an excuse. When he finally had a free moment, after his last class, he hurried down to the hollow.

Potter had already written a long, furious letter about how much he hated Potions and Snape and how he was going to fail out of school and it was all Snape’s fault.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Draco replied. “Honestly, you could at least try to pay attention! But even I’ve got to admit that he was rather harsh today… After all, even I could tell you were ill. Are you alright, Potter? And you know you must have looked half-dead if I am bothering to comment on it, don’t you? Because honestly, even if you were dying, I wouldn’t care! But you’re not, are you?” He scowled to himself and scratched that last bit out before continuing. “And I suppose, as I’ve got some free time now, because I’ve already studied all of this year’s Potions lessons over the summer, that I can help you write it, if you want. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

He read over it once more, still scowling a little and wondering at this spark of philanthropic goodness that had come upon him, unbidden. But it wouldn’t be fair for Potter to fail because he’d been ill in class one day!

Why he cared, Draco didn’t consider.

***

Hermione was hovering over him worriedly. “You were feelings sick and you didn’t tell me until now?” she lectured, tucking a blanket around him. Classes had just ended and she had helped him up to the common room, Ron carrying his things.

“Just weak, honestly, I’m fine,” he replied, though he was slightly worried. He had woken up with a killer headache and, while that had gradually faded, the weakness he always felt in the mornings and at night hadn’t, and he had gone through his classes in a daze. Hermione had helped him through them, all the while mumbling under her breath about sending him to the hospital wing. She started on again about that now.

“Honestly, Harry, you’re ill, you’ve got to go to the hospital wing!”

“I don’t want to cause Dumbledore to worry, I’m sure it’s just a cold or something,” he argued.

She looked uncertain and turned to Ron. “What do you think?”

“You know how he hates the hospital wing,” Ron said, nodding. “And he’s not puking or anything, he’s just tired. I think you’re overreacting.”

She bit her lip. “Maybe. Alright, Harry, I won’t force you to go now. But I want you to list everything about the illness. I’ll write it all down and then go see if I can research it in the library. It could be a curse or something, and if it is, then we’ve got to find out how to stop it and who’s doing it. Ron, get me some parchment and a quill. Harry, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make it better?”

He grimaced. “I just want to sleep, really,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes open.

She petted his forehead. “There, there, of course you do,” she cooed, treating him like a little boy. Ron returned with the parchment, and Harry told her everything he could remember about the illness. After she’d flounced off to the library, dragging Ron with her and telling Ginny to watch over him, Harry stared blearily into the fire in the hearth.

Ginny was sitting nervously across from him, reading a novel, and she kept darting swift, wide-eyed glances at him, as if waiting for him to speak.

And there was something he was supposed to say to her, though at the moment, Harry was too weak to remember what. Something about the Ball… and the punch… Oh, bother. He still hadn’t apologized for abandoning her by the punch table.

He’d tell her tomorrow, when he wasn’t so tired…

***

Hermione and Ron had returned late from the library. Ginny had covered Harry with a blanket and gone up for bed, leaving him curled up on the huge chair, and he looked altogether too comfortable for them to wake him and move him, especially given his illness. They left him there and snuck up to their own rooms.

Harry woke up suddenly around midnight, jolted awake by unsettling dreams he couldn’t remember. He was feeling a good deal better than before and couldn’t fall back to sleep, so he grabbed his cloak and made his way down to the hollow.

The moon was bright and cast the brittle, cold night in silver shadow. His breath fogged before his face and it took Harry a few moments to realize that it was snowing. He stepped out of the castle onto the large stone steps and blinked in surprise. A light dusting of snow covered the ground and was still falling heavily from the sky, swirling in the sharp breeze. It looked almost like another world.

It was very quiet, and he stepped off the stairs and into the snow hesitantly, not wanting to destroy the fresh snow with his footprints.

His was the first pair that cut through their snow, walking straight to the hollow, shoulders hunched for warmth and hands shoved in pockets, crimson and gold scarf tied tightly around his face.

The hollow was sheltered from the wind so here the snow fell more slowly, fluttering down to the ground, where it was thicker than in the open grounds where the wind could blow it around. His fingers were nearly numb when he reached into the hollow and pulled the book out, grabbing the quill and ink as well. He brushed a spot in the roots off and sat down, reading Draco’s last message. He frowned and bent the book in the moonlight to make out the words that had been scribbled out and smiled musingly when he realized what they had said.

“I didn’t know you cared,” was all he had time to write, before he suddenly became aware of eyes, watching him. He looked up, and dropped the quill. “Draco.”

***

Draco paused in the trees, feeling the strange urge to turn and run. After all, he had known Harry would be there, he had seen his tracks in the freshly fallen snow, too clear to have been very old, and only one set going towards the hollow, none returning. Still, he had followed them. Following the footprints was a different matter entirely to standing there, face to face with Harry, the book on Harry’s lap, the quill lying in the snow beside him. It was the first time they’d seen each other there in the hollow since the first night, on the way back from Hogsmeade, and the many things they had been in denial about since this entire thing had started were there now, staring them right in the face. It had been easy to pretend that things between them weren’t changing before, when the only evidence was writing in a notebook in a hollow no one else knew about. Now, whatever the change was, it was evident in the slight widening of Harry’s eyes as they met Draco’s, the slight flaring of Draco’s nostrils as he inspected Harry, sitting in the moonlight, with the book lying open in his lap.

Things could have gone any number of ways then. Draco could have laughed scornfully and walked away, Harry could have flung the book aside, they both could have denied everything and anything and run as fast as they could back to their dorms and forgotten anything had ever happened in that hollow. Or they could say something, anything, to break the fragile, tense silence.

There was nothing either could think to say.

Finally, Draco walked forward the three steps separating him from Harry, and extended his hand down to where the other boy sat on the root of the hollow tree.

After a moment, Harry slipped his ink-stained hand into Draco’s smooth, clean one, and let Draco pull him up to his feet.

The book dropped, unnoticed to the ground, lying in the snow beside the quill, and Harry accidentally kicked the vial of ink over. It soaked into the snow, staining it black, and the book, the quill, and the ink well would be buried, forgotten, in snow by morning.

Harry licked his lips and let go of Draco’s hand. “You’ll help me study, then?” he asked huskily

Draco smiled. “Nothing better to do, honestly.”

Flashing him a grin, Harry nodded. “Alright then.”

They walked back to Hogwarts side-by-side, their returning paths marked in the snow, fresh and sharp beside the softer footprints they’d left on their way to the hollow.

Both would be covered in snow by morning.