Seekers Play Rough

SEEKERS PLAY ROUGH

Crashing silent broken down

Falling into night

Who gave up and who gave in

I'll go without a fight

Cut me down or cut me dead

Cut me in or out

Kiss me blind time after time

Take away my doubt

Fix me now I wish you would

(Fix me now)

Bring me back to life

(Fix me now)

Kiss me blind somebody should

(Fix me now)

From hollow into light

Chapter 9:

Turnaround

It was amazing how quickly she forgave him.

Sitting in the cold Autumn sun, he told her as much. She smiled and shook her head.

"Oh, Ron. There's nothing to forgive, it's not like any of this is your fault." She smiled again. "It's really okay."

Immediately, Ron's knotted muscles relaxed, his head stopped pounding and a calming, relaxing coolness diffused through his every nerve, his every vein and his every fiber. The world seemed clearer than it had been in days--bright, sharp and solid. He closed his eyes with a contented sigh.

"This was all just another one of Snape's cruel, manipulative..." Hermione trailed away. "Demonstration in the most powerful magic of all, I guess," she resumed. "The power of suggestion. I mean, look at how we were all stumbling over ourselves!"

"Yeah," was all he could manage. "I wonder if we can get him in trouble with the Ministry for that."

"I don't know... he didn't actually give us an illegal potion. It was our own stupid fault for allowing ourselves to believe..." She trailed away again, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "I mean, he even got to Malfoy, didn't he."

Ron nodded. "I wonder what he was keeping on his desk--you know, that thing that Malfoy seemingly drank. If it wasn't an antidote, I mean."

Hermione shrugged. She honestly could not care less what it might have been. What bothered her the most was Malfoy's sudden disappearance. "How did he do it?" she demanded, following her own train of thought and leaving Ron in it's dust.

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

"How did Malfoy just disappear from class like that! Everyone knows that you can't Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds!"

Ron could think of nothing to say, so he instead attempted to imbue his silence with a knowing air. Hermione frowned at the grass for a moment, as if attempting to intimidate the very ground under her feet into giving her an answer. She then sighed heavily, and, appearing to let it go, turned back to Ron.

"Come on, Ron," she said, suddenly cheerful, grabbing his hand and pulling him off the bench. Yesterday, such contact would have sent him into a blushing, light- headed daze. Today, he simply stumbled off of the stone seat and grinned at her. It was a relieved grin. Yesterday, she would have glared at him, before pointedly looking away. Today she grinned right back at him--equally giddy with relief, with the knowledge that everything would be okay now. Their relief chipped away at the tension that had been mounting steadily between them since the very first day Snape had announced their amorelation research.

"Let's go find Harry."

~*~

After wandering the halls and grounds for the better part of an hour, talking and returning the comfort level between them to normal, Ron and Hermione finally came upon Harry. He was sitting alone in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, apparently oblivious to the chill of the late September breeze that made the fallen leaves dance through the swaying grass around him. He was staring up at the heavy gray clouds, utterly motionless except for his tousled hair and restless robes being toyed with by the cavorting breeze. His face was completely blank.

When Hermione and Ron sat down on either side of him, he jumped with a small yelp of surprise, wrenched away from his thoughts. Ron could only guess at what was troubling his best friend. He was deeply worried by that--he used to be able to read Harry like an open book, he always knew what was on the boy's mind. Lately, though, Harry seemed closed off, distant and unreadable. Still an open book, perhaps, but Ron had no idea which page to turn to.

"I owe you guys an apology," Harry said suddenly, before they had even settled themselves properly in the cold grass beside him. "I--I thought I had the elixir, and--"

Hermione smiled. "So did we."

Harry stared at her for a moment, looking vaguely surprised, then continued doggedly with his obviously rehearsed speech. "And, I saw Goyle after two hours and--and I sort of freaked."

"Ugh." Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust, as Hermione furrowed her brow. "No wonder you weren't yourself!"

Harry leaned closer to Ron, eyes intense. "Ron," he said, his solemnity knocking the half-smile off Ron's face. "I'm sorry for all that I've said and done in the past few days. I was being an ass, and it never even occurred to me that you were going through the same thing as me, I was so sure that someone else--that I--had it, and--" He seemed to suddenly lose the words, the conviction. He slumped in the grass and looked away. "I'm sorry."

"Harry!" Ron clapped his shoulder enthusiastically. "No need to apologize. We were all being bleeding nitwits over this whole thing. I'm just glad we're okay now." The final statement lingered in the air between them, a ghost of the awkward question it could have been.

Harry smiled crookedly as a bit of windswept black hair tumbled into his eyes. "Right."

Suddenly a cold drizzle began to spatter into the grass around them as the dark clouds that had been lingering since breakfast began to empty over Hogwarts. Hermione flinched and curled her lip in disgust as a particularly large and cold drop burst against her cheek. She turned to Ron and Harry with a questioning gaze as the cold drizzle thickened around them, hissing into the grass. Ron hunched his shoulders and arched his eyebrows at her, but Harry was staring into the distance again, apparently oblivious.

"Oy, Harry," Ron said, looking at his far-off friend. "You, the Boy Who Lived..." The drizzle had turned to rain, making Harry's dark hair glisten, making his robes plaster themselves to his hunched back, his slight shoulders. Beyond him, Hermione rose to her feet, pulling her dampening robes closer. "...Do not have the sense to come in out of the rain." With that, Ron got to his feet. Harry stared up at Ron blankly, then suddenly, he smiled. He was still curled easily in the grass, still oblivious to the cold and the wet, and he looked for all the world, in that moment, like the carefree child he had never had the chance to be. He tossed his head, flicking wet clumps of raven dark hair out of his eyes, and looked up at the dark sky, just as thunder growled sullenly in the distance. He was still smiling.

"I feel good," he said to the rain, to the clouds.

Hermione shook her head, bemused. "We're all relieved Harry," she said with a partially playful, mostly annoyed smile. "But that's no reason to stay out here and catch colds!" As she spoke, Ron reached down and grabbed the shoulder of Harry's sodden robes, pulling him forcefully to his feet.

"Come on, you foolish nit," he said. "It's wet, it's cold, and we're missing lunch." Harry stumbled, his eyes flashing briefly, before he relaxed and hugged himself.

"You're right. It's freezing." He shivered, looking at them apologetically. Hermione grimaced, flicking wet hair over her shoulder. Ron just grinned, and hastened his steps. He walked behind Hermione in silence for a few steps, hurrying to the shelter of the castle in the gathering gloom, before he realized that Harry wasn't beside him. Pausing, Ron raised his head--which had been ducked against the rain, watching the wet ground beneath his feet--and looked out through the cold cloudburst. He saw Harry only a few feet away, head down, staring at the ground, motionless.

"Harry," he called. Harry shuffled his feet in the soaked grass. Water was dribbling off his forelock into his eyes. Ron walked back to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him forward. Bonelessly, Harry followed, eyes distant again. Ron marveled at just what could cause his friend to go through such wild mood swings, but resolved to worry about it when he wasn't cold, wet and hungry.

~*~

Gryffindor table was chaos. Dean Thomas was standing on the bench with a large wooden dish, pelting anyone within a nine foot radius with biscuits. Ginny was giggling wildly and, during a frantic duck to avoid one of the baked missiles, had shoved Neville's face into a plate of mashed potatoes. When she saw the trio approaching, she waved and leaned her elbow casually on the back of Neville's head, smiling innocently as her submerged captive made alarming gurgling noises. Cullen was regaling Fiona with some wild tale or another, involving many enthusiastic actions, while Parvati used magic to turn the projectile biscuits back on Dean. Seamus was resolutely shoving food into his mouth, but would pause sporadically to add to the chaos by hefting a ladle at some random head, before returning his attentions to the roast chicken before him. Ron--now changed into dry clothes--settled into his seat and immediately added to the chaos that had Hufflepuffs giggling, Ravenclaws staring, Slytherins sneering and teachers determinedly knocking back drinks.

Harry settled between Ron and Hermione, suddenly feeling secure at the crowded, loud table. No matter what changed in the world around him, the Gryffindors would always be there, ready with a food fight or a prank. Always ready to make him laugh. Ron and Hermione would always be there. Harry snuggled more securely into his place on the crowded bench just as Ginny hit Dean with a vicious tickling charm, causing him to fall backwards off the bench into a helpless, hysterical heap on the ground, dropping the bowl on an unfortunate first year boy in the process. Ron had, in a marvelous display of the Weasley ingenuity, seated himself in the middle of the table and was methodically soaking Neville's left shoe, his hat, both socks, and Trevor in gravy. He then sent the sopping articles to hover placidly over the table, spinning slowly as they rained thick brown drops down upon the attending Gryffindors.

Harry sighed and reached for his cup of pumpkin juice, feeling too drained to participate, but allowing himself a grin for the pathetic croaking of a suspended toad and the protests of his owner. Just as he brought the drink to his lips, however, the juice surged out to meet him. With a wet explosion and a shower of confetti, the pumpkin juice exploded in Harry's face, soaking his newly- dried clothes and still- damp hair. Around him students burst into laughter as those on the outer reaches of the long table continued their battles, oblivious. Neville's cold, wet hat plopped into the lap of a fifth- year. Coughing, Harry dropped the remains of his porcelain mug as if he had been scalded and looked around for the culprit. Directly across from him sat Parvati, uninvolved with the chaos around them and smirking coolly at him. She held her wand pointed at his face.

"Evening, Harry," she said blandly, as if she hadn't just shattered his mug in a spattering of juice and confetti. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Parvati," Harry replied sternly, failing to conceal a dangerous grin that pulled at his lips as he remembered what it felt like to be a true Gryff again. He lazily stretched his arm along the table, claiming a handful of treacle pudding as he addressed her politely. "I believe you just broke my cup. Are you aware that there are severe penalties for such a crime?"

Parvati blinked innocently. "Why, no, Boy Wonder," she said, guilelessly using a nickname she was aware he hated. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she suddenly grinned and asked "What's my fate, then?"

Harry leaped onto the table in a burst of energy, and, with one foot in a tureen of peas, yelled: "A pudding shampoo!" He proceeded to lather her head vigorously with the custard, as she, in retaliation, methodically shoved handfuls of boiled turnip into his socks. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, entranced by the fight, joined into the hysterical laughter of the Gryffindors that bubbled and echoed around the hall. Harry was acting like a Gryffindor again.

~*~

Draco Malfoy sat alone in the dark. The pain in his forearms had long since receded, replaced with nothing but a cold numbness. The stone under him, the darkness around him, these were immediate. These were what mattered. He stared at the silver blade of the knife at his feet, glinting in the semi-darkness. The light it reflected was the only light in the room. It seemed to gather the pale, dying sunlight that filtered through the heavy curtains, to amplify it, until the sharp edge shone, glowing in the dimness. Draco studied the dagger, waiting for the blood to stop flowing completely, waiting for the numbness to fade, the blood to dry, the pain to return.

It was an old dagger. Another family heirloom from some long- forgotten relative. It was heavy. It felt good when he held it. The blade was always sharp. The grip was carved of obsidian, with dark jade snakes twining themselves around it, carved in perfect detail as they writhed and knotted along the length of it. Each jade serpent had a perfect pair of miniscule ruby eyes. They burned in the gloom, glaring up at Draco reproachfully, demanding more blood. The blade was six inches long at least. A beautiful blade, it curved slightly, bearing the Malfoy family crest carved at its base, where snakes surged up from the heavy pommel to meet it, twining gracefully. The knife had a beauty all its own. It was a sinister beauty. The beauty of sunlight glinting off razor blades in an alley, the beauty of blood in the street, the beauty of battlecries. The beauty of death.

Draco didn't know how long he had been sitting there, but slowly, reality was returning to him. The haze was clearing from his mind, and though the pain hadn't returned yet, he knew it would. It always did. Draco liked that. Pain. It was something he could control. A constant he could fall back on. It would always be there. And when it stopped coming, when he stopped hurting--well, by then, he wouldn't care anymore. Pain meant he was still alive.

Getting slowly to his feet, Draco reached out languidly and gathered his dagger to him. Blood dripped in the silence, falling to the cold stone floor with a pattering not unlike raindrops. He slipped across the empty space of the cheerless room, through the shadows, coming to a desk. His desk. It was pushed against the rough stone wall, dark and heavy, carved of mahogany, inlaid with rosewood. Trimmed in gold. It was beautiful. Like everything in this room, everything in the house. As Draco slid the dagger away into one of the velvet lined drawers, he considered. Maybe that was why he did what he did. Maybe that was his reason. Everything in the house was equally dark and beautiful. Made to appease the eye, made to be shown off, made to awe. Including himself. Maybe that was why his forearms bore scars he refused to heal magically. Everything in the house bore scars. Everything was as empty and as dark as it looked. The walls of the house were full of hate. The ache in the house had no physical embodiment, nothing tangible. Maybe that was why he did what he did. The grief needed to be known. He knew that now. While the house bore no outward signs of suffering, while it was perfect in its beauty, he was not. He took pleasure in marring the pale skin that he father was so proud of.

See? I'll never be perfect.

Draco stepped away from the desk, taking care to wipe drops of blood off the polished wood. He wasn't exactly sure why he did. No one ever came here. No one would see the blood. This room was his refuge. It was his. And his alone. It was his eye in the storm of chaos that was life in this house. It was his asylum, it was his cold, dark haven. It was his, and no one could touch it but him. His mother never set foot in the room. Not his servants, or even the elves--none ever came here but he.

The blood was stopping now, turning cold on his arms. Draco walked slowly to the wardrobe in the corner. Just the same as everything else, it was dark, cold and beautiful. It loomed there, dominating the dismal wall. Draco's hands slipped and fumbled on the latch to a small drawer at its base. They were numb, his hands. Slick with blood. He finally succeeded in wrenching the slim drawer open. In its depths lay nothing but a pile of pristine, perfectly white strips of satin. Draco roughly pulled out a handful, his hands marring the virginal whites with the dark red of his own blood. Without sound, seated on the cold stone floor like a child, Draco methodically wound strip after strip of pure white around the open gashes. Pure white, perfect white, to hide his imperfection. He bent all his concentration on the task, placing layer upon layer over his forearms, until the dark red stain stopped seeping through. His labor complete, Draco leaned against the wardrobe and stared up into the darkness above his head, where the high, vaulted ceiling of his room was lost in shadow. He was dizzy again. He often got dizzy.

He had come to conclusion. When he had arrived in his dark room hours before, his thoughts had been wild and frantic, roiling and tossing. He had been in a panic. But, as the blood flowed, his mind calmed. It always did. He wasn't sure why, but the pain focused his mind, honed it to a sharp point. Something about this whole fiasco had made him realize that he, Draco Malfoy, was not a victim. Never a victim. He, Draco Malfoy, could control his emotions, and would not be controlled by them. He had come to a conclusion.

He wanted to fuck Harry Potter.

Immediately, as soon as possible. There was no other reasonable resolution. Obviously, he must truly want Potter if he hadn't been under the elixir's influence the entire time. Thusly, there was only one thing he could do: satisfy his lust as soon as possible. Clear the air.

He was going to fuck Harry Potter. And there was nothing the Boy Wonder could do about it.