Necromance

Draco watched Harry across the great hall at breakfast. In this, at least, there was nothing new, but the gaze had become more unwavering, more assessing as if now gathering information rather than levying scorn. Of course, the scorn had been absent from the silvery gaze for nearly a year. Sometimes, he wondered if anyone that didn't matter had noticed.

His eyes flickered to the staff table, lingering on Severus, and next to him, the werewolf. That was another gaze that had altered, somewhat, in composition. Some time between sleeping and waking, Draco had reached the inescapable conclusion that there was only one logical choice for Severus's mystery guest.

Bloody Gryffindors. He snickered, quietly, fairly sure that his godfather's carefully crafted cold austerity would take some amount of beating if that friendship were to get out. But Draco couldn't say, honestly, that he found it without merit. Weren't they all Dark Creatures by now? The damned, and the monstrous.

He allowed himself a small smile towards Severus, and lifted his orange juice, careful to keep his eyes only on the potions master, and then returned his look to Harry--who was watching him with a curiously blank look of his own. Sipping at his juice, Draco took the opportunity to examine the other boy's surroundings, a welcome distraction to the faint itch of his arm--he wondered, momentarily, what that meant Harry was feeling.

The Mark had burned, pulled, ached, and felt as if it was splitting his skin under Voldemort, but he was fairly certain it had never itched. He'd have to ask Severus.

Harry was surrounded, as always, by the red and gold throng, and though they jostled and joked, perhaps with more enthusiasm than they had before the Dark Lord's fall, and though Harry smiled vaguely at their jokes, and responded with good humour when knocked around, he was conspicuous in his detachment, failing to notice until that jostle or that joke directed at him, what was going on around him. Draco wondered if Harry were even aware of the mudblood's recent attack of mothering as she resolutely forked a more nutritious sausage onto his plate next to the barely touched pumpkin pastry there.

He became aware of a similar sausage sitting on his own plate, apparently of its own volition and looked up at Pansy. "That wasn't necessary, Parkinson."

"Someone has to eat it," she replied, daintily spearing a portion of pastry on her fork.

With a snort, Draco stabbed the unfortunate piece of meat himself and slid it down the row onto Vincent's plate where it mercifully disappeared. Even with a distinct lack of Goyle, Crabbe maintained mealtime consumption for the both of them. A more tainted part of Draco wondered if this was a result of the boy's never ending growth spurt or a more emotional response to the loss of his fellow thug after their OWLs. He wasn't quite arrogant enough to suppose that there'd been no human response to the loss of a best friend, however lacking in intellect they both were. They were, after all, all human. "Here, Vince. Take the rest." He slid his entire plate to his friend and laid a hand on the broad shoulder when Crabbe made to stand. "Finish eating and keep Parkinson company, will you?" He shot a smirk to the look of annoyance on her face, then used Crabbe's shoulder for balance as he stepped over the bench and smoothed his robes. "I'll see you both in History of Magic."

As always, Crabbe took his words at their value, turning back to his breakfast with a vague sound of agreement before Draco had so much as lifted his bag from the floor. He was well aware that the rest of the school thought Crabbe and Goyle had been his bodyguards, and there had been a time when they were--in the physical sense. In the magical sense, it had always been quite the other way around.

But Crabbe and Parkinson could take care of each other.

Clenching his hand to resist scratching at the mark on his arm, Draco hurried from the great hall, deliberately counting his steps by way of distraction, and had only gotten to one hundred and seventeen when the itch turned into a tingle that all but engulfed his hand, spinning him around just in time to see Potter edging through the doors after him.

It wasn't hard to maintain the facade of barely-contained hostility that had been his cover for the last year of the war--with that bloody tingling in his arm and the pounding of his heart against his ribs, it was all he could do not to wrap his hands around Potter's throat and squeeze. "I presume, Potter, that this is your idea of letting me know when you want to talk to me?"

For a moment, Harry's eyes flicked from Draco's face, to his arm, and back to his face, where he smiled and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. A silent shrug--of course. So that's how it would be. Draco could fill silences as easily as he could maintain them. "Do you think you could turn it off?" He shook his arm in irritation, trying to bring feeling back to his fingers that felt full of pins and needles.

This time, the look was somewhat more stricken, and Harry spread his hands, shoulders hunching. It made him look even shorter than he was. Not for the first time, Draco wondered if battling a Dark Lord for seven years stunted one's growth.

"Bloody hell, Potter. Show some control," Draco hissed, his steps only slightly too fast for the time of day and destination, forcing Potter to jog every few paces to keep up. When he caught a glimpse of the black haired young man's scowl, the next withering comment died unvoiced; Draco found that he did not have it in himself, just yet, to goad Potter when unstable and angry.

As had been pointed out many times, Slytherins were notoriously fond of self-preservation and Draco had had rather enough recently of risking that. "Alright, calm down. It's as new to me as it is to you."

That got a surprised look from the wide green eyes, and Draco smiled thinly. "I spoke with Severus last night." He hurried on before any wrong conclusions could be made, an ominous twinge in his arm suggesting strongly that it might be a good idea to do so. "Didn't tell him you're talking or what you said. You have to realize he needed to know why his mark started burning again." He looked over at Harry, quickly. "I don't fancy another round of who's behind the nice white mask, Potter. There's more important things to do now."

Slowly, the shoulders unhunched, and Harry nodded, very slowly.

And Draco realized that a tension in his own shoulders loosened with Harry's. Behind them, he could hear the faint babble of conversation and stopped, turning the Gryffindor to face him while they still had the time and privacy to do so. "Can you get away at lunch?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded, speaking so low that only Draco was likely to hear. "In the forest?"

"Your little clearing, I presume?"

Again, Harry nodded, then pulled away from Draco and hurried to History of Magic on his own. Mentally, Draco reviewed their schedule and began to smile. Care of Magical Creatures was before lunch. Perhaps Gryffindors weren't creatures entirely of instinct and impulse after all. Or perhaps Harry had simply gotten very very good at slipping away when he wanted to be alone.

Draco arrived at the clearing early. Or rather, in the vicinity, as it seemed that the precise location didn't want to be found. He leaned against a tree, arms folded, and watched Harry approach. "Nice wards, Potter," he said, as soon as Harry was near enough to hear him.

Harry half shrugged, grabbed his shoulder, and propelled him through the brush and into the clearing that the rational part of Draco's mind insisted hadn't been there until Potter was. He felt vaguely, if mildly, offended.

And more than a little conscious of the thrum of the wards that surrounded them. Harry didn't even seem to notice, instead, kneeling on the ground in what appeared to be a disturbingly well-practiced motion and dropping his bag to the side, pulling out a sharpened quill and beginning to mutter under his breath, fingers spread wide and steady over the patch of cleared ground before him.

Draco felt his skin crawl, the mark tingling in an echo of raw power, and he fought the urge to shift nervously as the shadows rippled beneath his feet. Only when they passed him unmolested did he resume breathing, and his eyes returned to Harry's still back--he knew better than to interrupt and spoke only once Harry was quiet and still. "Where did you learn that spell?" The question came out more harshly than he'd intended, and he took a step towards the other boy.

The Gryffindor twisted, still on his knees and regarded Draco with a neutral expression--save for those wide green eyes that reflected sparks that shouldn't be. "In a book."

Draco felt himself relaxing--marginally. He'd been afraid, at first, that Harry would tell him the spell had already been there in his head. "The Animi Ligate is not part of the standard seventh year texts, Potter."

This time, when Harry looked at him, Draco could feel the rake of his eyes, but he simply watched Potter watching him. "You know the book."

Vague irritation filtered through Draco, more reflex than genuine response. "I told you I've studied the Dark Arts, Potter. I did get rather further along than Goody Tiddle's Little Wizard's Book Of Hex and Jinx."

For answer, Harry turned his back on Draco, and pressed the tip of his quill to one finger, letting a single drop of blood hover, then singe the ground. "patesco" He didn't look behind him as the heavy brass-bound trunk shimmered into solidity before them. "Do you know that one?" His voice was still oddly neutral, devoid of any inflection at all.

Draco found himself thinking that it didn't suit him. At all. "The patesci incantem, he answered instead, neither boy looking at the other, both looking at the trunk. "It lays bare that which is hidden and the essence of the caster in its vicinity. Blood magic."

Harry held up his pricked finger, then stuck it into his mouth. "Obviously," he said to the last.

"What do you want to hide so badly?" Draco found himself not entirely wanting to know the answer, keeping a wary eye on that trunk.

Harry flipped it open. "Just books," he said, "mostly."

The books within left the fine hairs at the base of Draco's neck attempt to stand at attention and crawl away. "That one was my father's," he said without thinking. It didn't matter now, after all. Lucius wouldn't be coming back for it.

"I know," Harry said, lifting it from the trunk and sitting back on his heels. "I bought it in Borgin and Burke's." His hands smoothed over the cover, caressingly. Back and forth, a soothing hypnosis. "I saw you in there with your father once," he explained.

Draco shook himself, and sat. "I only went there with him that time. Where were you?"

Harry's lips only quirked, and he shook his head, still stroking the book with his fingertips. "Never would've thought I'd gone there more than you."

"How many times have you gone?" Shallow vertical lines appeared between almost colourless brows.

"Dunno," Harry said, and for a moment, looked very young again.

Draco sighed, and put out a hand, hesitating the briefest of moments before laying it on Harry's, over the book. His palm tingled. "Look, I get the point--I don't need to see everything in the trunk," he said. He didn't want to see everything in the trunk if the book was at home in there.

"Alright," Harry said, and simply sat still.

"Are they all dark magic texts?" Not needing to see wasn't quite the same as not needing to know.

"Mostly," Harry said, and slid his hand forward to curl his fingers over the top of the book, clutching. Draco had already opened his mouth to prompt Harry for further explanation when he continued on his own. "There's a couple of Potions texts, but-" he shrugged gracelessly. "Reckon Snape's been right about my talent there."

"Why not ask Granger?"

Draco had not been prepared for the short, sharp bark of laughter that replied. "That'd go over brilliantly, wouldn't it? Hermione, you know how worried you've been about me the last few months? Well I'm fine--now how about helping me figure out which Dark Ritual I need to get my godfather back?"

Draco's heart tumbled into his belly with a thump. "Potter, are you insane?"

At this, Harry smiled a peculiar smile, and glanced up at Draco in a manner both sad and coy. "That's what they say."

Draco let out his breath in a rush, digging his palms into his thighs to resist the urge to rake them back through his hair, thereby mussing it. Not even years of hair products could quite quell the nature of nervous habit. "I don't."

"Thought you were at the forefront of the movement."

"Not seriously." A flash of irritation flitted through Draco, both at Harry for bringing it up and at himself for the annoyance he felt that he'd once been that immature and couldn't deny it now. "Look, Harry, that was when we were kids."

"Suppose we still are." Harry's voice had dipped back into the monotone with which he'd agreed to every plan of the Order's. Draco had come to recognize it as the "This is utter shite, but it's easier than arguing" voice.

"Oh, yes, Potter," the old name still dripped from Draco's tongue with oily sarcasm. "Every childhood is rife with battles, life or death games of chess, and the odd slaying of a dark lord. Harry, you haven't been a kid for years." Suddenly, he was too tired to meet those dull green eyes any longer, and looked away, back at the trunk. "I don't intend to spend the next twenty years of my life holding grudges for what we did as children now that we're on the same side. Believe me. I've seen proof enough that it doesn't work." He felt his lips quirking. "Other than giving you something to obsess over, naturally and forgive me, but you seem to have quite enough of that already." With a gesture, he encompassed the trunk, the clearing, and Harry's own mad mind in that statement.

When no answer from Harry seemed forthcoming, Draco turned Harry to face him with gentle hands, his voice plaintive. "But Harry--Necromancy?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders and twisted, stepping out of Draco's grasp and turning his back. "Didn't say that," he said, shutting the trunk with short, sharp motions, and a vicious flick of his wand. "Get out of here, Draco."

For a moment, Draco almost did, then snorted quietly. "I don't think so."

"I mean it."

"Ah, why not? So do I. You don't think you're the only one who turned off the old 'oh no! don't kill me! please!' receptors?" He clasped his hands, voice sliding upwards into the realm of falsetto, and shrugged. "Pointless if you ask me. We do what we have to do until we die."

"What does that have to do with giving me some peace? Letting me get on with this?" Harry's voice remained low, but it wavered, no longer quite the monotone.

"It appears that you're what I have to do."

Despite himself, Harry snickered, and when he turned around, both eyebrows lifted in an expression of disbelief.

"What? Only lifelong good guys get the straight lines?" Draco spread his arms dramatically and appealed to the heavens. "Where are all the good lines for redeemed bad guys, I ask you?"

"You lot get more than your share already if you ask me," Harry said, but he did fall into step next to Draco. "You're not going to turn me in." Despite the lightened mood, it was not a question, and Draco shivered.

"No, I'm not," he agreed. "But hypothetically--if I was, if I did--what would you do?"

"Stop you."

Draco sighed, wishing that trick worked--the trick where the frustrations left with the sigh. "I believe you." He resisted the urge to rub his forearm, and instead, curled his hand around his wand in his pocket. Defence may have been laughable, and attack not an option, but he was still wizard enough to take comfort in ten inches of yew and dragon heartstring. "Which is why," he continued, "I have no intention of even considering turning you in." Draco shrugged, not looking at Harry as they walked, just hidden within the fringe of the forbidden forest.

"No? I thought you were all side-of-good now."

"Suppose I am. But I'm still a self-preservationist when you get right down to it." Draco trailed his fingers through the overhead branches, plucking a startlingly orange leaf and twirling it between his fingers. "You're not looking to take over the world," Draco stole a glance at Harry, hesitating a moment, "are you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Well that's good then," Draco said, rubbing his thumb over a growing indentation in his wand--not that he'd admit to nervous habits. "The way I see it, Harry, you're not trying to take over the world, and I don't want to die a mysterious, messy, and possibly painful death, so there's really no debate."

"I don't want to kill you," Harry said, voice low.

"Well there you are, then. Every reason a man could need to not turn you in. What more could you want?"

"It's Dark Arts."

"Potter, unless you've really not been paying attention all these years, you know my feelings regarding the Dark Arts." Draco's lips quirked at the corner, and he looked up into the sky, wondering which god was looking down and laughing at him for the irony his life had become. "I've been into that kind of thing a lot longer than you have, or have you forgotten that some of those books in your trunk came from the Malfoy family library?"

"Thought you gave that up when you switched sides."

"Most people do. It's best for my health that way," Draco said. "There's something about turncoat Death Eaters studying the Dark Arts that fails to inspire trust in folks."

"What could they possibly be thinking?" Harry muttered.

Draco clasped his chest. "My god--did you just make a sarcastic comment?"

"Reckon I did."

"Some good may be coming of my presence after all. Either that or it's the end of the world again, but that really loses its gut-wrenching terror effects after the first time." As the silence stretched, Draco wondered if he should simply stop expecting answers from Harry and take it as a pleasant surprise whenever one came. No matter. He'd never been lacking when it came to carrying on enough conversation for two. "So--how are you going to explain this to your little Gryffindor gang?"

Harry answered, though Draco wasn't entirely sure if he was pleasantly surprised by it or not. "Haven't got a gang."

"Oh, you know what I mean. Your little band--the ones who're acting as if everything's perfectly normal while tip-toeing around like they think you're one push from exploding." He sneaked a glance over at Harry's face, green eyes far enough away to trigger that urge to prod that Draco'd never been all that good at resisting. "Where on earth could they have gotten an idea like that?"

Harry looked at him. Blankly, but looked at him.

"Come on, Potter. We could hear your tantrums all the way down in the dungeons. What was all that about?" Draco opened his mouth, ready to continue on as that certainly wasn't the sort of question Harry was going to answer, but found himself interrupted instead.

"Reckon I thought if I shouted loud enough someone might listen."

Draco closed his mouth with a snap, and stopped, watching Harry as he walked a few more steps over lightly crunching leaves. "...Did they?"

Harry turned, and this time, the blank glassy expression had melted into something inscrutable. "Dunno. If they did, don't think they heard. Not really." He leaned back on a tree, and let his head fall against the wood, tracing the branches with his eyes. "Felt good, though." A small, sad smile curled his lips.

"Then why did you stop?"

"Don't have the energy for it anymore," Harry said, wrapping his arms around his chest. "It stopped feeling good as soon as it all made sense."

Hesitantly, Draco followed, leaning against the broad trunk near enough to feel Harry's warmth, but not touching. "Makes sense then?"

"Not the kind of sense that helps," Harry said, and let the silence stretch again.

"We're going to be late to Potions."

"Go ahead." Harry gestured to the school, making no move of his own to head back.

"Oh no you don't. You're not skiving off while I chop shrivelfigs."

"We'll be partners if we show up late together."

Draco rolled his head against the tree, staring at Harry. "I think I can bear it, Potter. Can you?"

At last, Harry pushed away from the tree with a sigh. "Had worse."

"Not interrupting anything out here stealing you off to Potions class with me, was I? Dark ritual? Demon summoning?"

"No. Can't do any more yet," Harry said, walking back towards the school.

"Why's that?" Draco's steps faltered, but Harry kept walking. And this time, Harry didn't answer.

*

Trust--the word had existed so briefly in Harry's vocabulary that it left little more than smoke when it disappeared for the last time. He didn't trust Draco more than anyone else, not more than Hermione who kept asking him to, and not more than Ron who kept ordering him to.

Then again, he didn't trust Draco any less than them either.

And at least Draco didn't care.

That was the worst bit, Harry thought, having to listen to his friends tell him how much they cared--if they'd cared when it mattered, they'd have been beside him helping. Funny when the one who only cared about saving his skin turned up to help instead.

Harry wished they'd stop caring and leave him alone. Caring was only another word for trying to keep him from doing what needed to be done, trying to make him the way they wanted him to be, trying to change him.

Harry was so tired of being changed.

"Harry!"

He kept his eyes closed, hoping she'd go away, or talk to Ron instead. At least she'd stopped pawing at him to get attention. He winced. Not that her sharp pokes to the ribs were much better.

"Pay attention. What did Malfoy want with you? Is everything alright?"

No, Hermione, as usual, nothing is alright. Harry shrugged. He'd been getting quite a lot of mileage out of the basic shrug.

"You know I only ask because I care."

You don't care. You feel guilty for not doing anything before. That's not caring. That's wanting to make things better so you don't feel bad around me. Harry shrugged again, and waited for her to get angry. Some days, it took longer than others.

She shoved a blank book into his hands, and a quill, and pointed sternly at it. Oh. So it was going to be one of those times. "What's going on, Harry? Where were you before Potions?"

He took a deep breath, let it out, and this time, the irritation didn't go out with it, so he scrawled an answer, and thrust the book back at her. "I went for a walk."

"With Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged again, hunched his shoulders, and this time refused to take the book or quill from her.

"I don't know why you're shutting us all out, Harry."

Yes you do. He turned then, and began the long solitary walk up the stairs to Divination, Hermione's stamp and huff following him like a physical presence.

When Harry stood in front of the portrait hole, classes done, he and the Fat Lady watched each other.

"You know you have to give the password, dear. It's just the rules," she said, not unkindly.

Harry tilted his head on one side, and mouthed the password.

"My speech reading isn't what it once was. Could you repeat that?"

This time, Harry only shook his head, and wrote, very carefully: butterbeer.

"Right you are then," the Fat Lady said, and swung outwards, letting him into the Gryffindor dorm.

Before Ron even called his name, Harry had stopped mid-way up the boys' stairs, waiting for him, and leaned against the wall. Ron's angry yell, therefore, lost some effect when Harry had already turned to watch him, eyebrows lifted expectantly.

"Harry, mate--we've been friends for seven years--you, me, Hermione-"

Harry's eyebrows twitched back down, and he frowned. Ron sounded more tired than angry. That wasn't in the script.

"She didn't want to say it, but I reckon someone should." Ron did not try to put his arm around Harry's shoulders, did not try to step closer or engage him. "And you're pretty good at not interrupting these days. We can't keep doing this." Ron's chin lifted fractionally, looking down at Harry even though Harry himself stood on a higher step. "We'll be here when you're out of this, mate, but we're not going to be treated as if we don't matter. Not even by you."

Harry opened his mouth, but the words deserted him, along with sound, and his throat closed over as if a key had been turned. Ron only kept looking at him, and at last, Harry answered the only way he could. He nodded, and turned away, climbing the rest of the way to his bed, sliding between the covers, and closing burning eyes.

He wasn't used to getting what he wanted.