Not in the Hands of Boys

It was strange that the corridors of Hogwarts should seem so much more familiar at night.

During the hours of the day, while everybody went about their business as if the war hadn't happened, Harry still couldn't shake off the feeling that he was living in a world that was desperately pretending be a perfect replica of the one where he'd spent his late childhood and early teenage years, before the flagstones of the Great Hall had been slippery with blood and the air thick with the acrid, metallic tang of Dark Magic.

He would have loved to lose himself in the illusion to the point where he was beginning to find it convincing, but even after all those months, it didn't work. The harder he tried, the clearer it became that there would be no going back to the way life had once been, regardless of how much he busied himself with homework and studying. No matter how soothing the old routines might appear, the knowledge that he was impersonating a boy he'd left behind a long time ago was always at the back of his mind, tainting every second of his days with the faint, but ever-present feeling of falseness. There were just a few safe spaces where pretence fell away so that he could be nothing but himself, neither schoolboy nor saviour, no longer a child and not yet a grown man.

The most precious among them was Luna's little room, where she would welcome him with her dreamy smile and her gentle, friendly hands; there was no need to hide anything from her, because Luna accepted him with the unquestioning belief in the world around her that set her apart from everyone else Harry had ever known. She was good at listening and even better at interpreting his silence, and no matter how little sense the things she said made sometimes, she still managed to make him feel as if she understood him better than he understood himself.

Another, ironically, was Snape's classroom, where Harry had to play the strange part of student and teacher in one, which seemed fitting for someone who was still trying to find his bearings between a youth that had been cut short and a maturity that had been forced upon him before he had been ready for it. It was jarring and oddly refreshing at the same time to put up with Snape's sneering disdain which was so different from the careful politeness of the other teachers, who seemed just as unsure about what to make of Harry as he was himself.

Harry sometimes wondered whether they would look the other way if they saw him wander through the school at night. He'd begun his nightly walks after the Christmas holidays, when he had first noticed how much easier it was to think clearly while he was strolling along the silent, empty corridors that he knew so well thanks to many years of invisible forays into the forbidden darkness. He never took the chance, though; he always remained hidden under his father's Cloak that was no less useful because of the strange legacy it was burdened with. At first, he'd only taken short detours on the way from his room to Luna's, but soon the walks became a regular habit, even during the nights he had to spend in his own bed because Luna was presiding over Prefect meetings or working late in the library.

No matter how much the school had changed, this part of it felt oddly constant, as if time didn't pass the same way in the nightly corridors. Harry listened to the sound of his own soft footfalls while he made his way from one circle of flickering torchlight to the next without caring where his steps would take him, and finally dared to give his thoughts free rein. He didn't know why it felt safer to let his mind wander out here in the corridors, but he was still glad of the respite the chilly darkness offered him. He was frozen to the bone and tired enough to collapse on the spot by the time he returned to his bed, but he never dreamed during those nights, and he soon made a habit of putting everything that would be disturbing or painful to think about away in a secluded corner of his mind until he could ponder it safely during another solitary, silent walk in the dead of night.

* * *

A thin layer of frozen snow crunched under Harry's shoes while he walked along the path that led away from the steps of the main entrance and down to the lake. It was a beautiful night, clear and bitterly cold; the school grounds were bathed in the silvery light of a moon that was almost full, and the trees were glittering with frost.

Harry had no idea where he was going; he had just found himself in front of the main entrance during another nightly walk and had decided to step outside. The bite of the cold air made him wish that he'd brought something warmer than his Invisibility Cloak, but he didn't want to go back now, so he cast a Warming Charm to protect himself against the worst of the chill and kept on walking with no specific destination in mind.

It was only when he saw the shimmer of something white in the distance that he realised he was headed for Dumbledore's tomb. His steps faltered, and he felt a surge of something akin to panic rise in his chest. He hadn't been there since he'd returned the Elder Wand to the place where it belonged, and he would never be able to look at the tomb again without seeing Dumbledore's still form inside, his empty hands twisted because Voldemort had forced them open when he'd desecrated the tomb to steal what he had considered the key to his victory.

For a second, Harry was tempted to turn around and go back the way he had come, but then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked on. Perhaps it was for the best that he had ended up here tonight; he had been running from Dumbledore's memory for months, but he had always known that he couldn't escape it forever. The grave might be a good place to start facing it at last.

There was a small group of trees behind the white tomb by the border of the lake; it was little more than a shapeless black silhouette, but it formed a sinister backdrop to the gleaming stone of Dumbledore's tomb that stood out like a beacon in the darkness. As Harry came closer, he realised with a mixture of alarm and dismay that there was someone standing beside the tomb, a narrow figure in a dark cloak that would have blended in with the shadowy outline of the trees if it hadn't been for the pale hair that reflected the moonlight almost as brightly as the white marble.

Harry gritted his teeth; his hands clenched into fists seemingly on their own accord. Of all the people at Hogwarts, no one had less of a right to disturb Dumbledore's rest than Draco Malfoy. Perhaps he even knew it himself; why else would he have come here under the cover of darkness?

Harry hadn't tried to walk soundlessly, but Draco obviously hadn't heard him. He was leaning against the tomb, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed, seemingly deep in thought. Harry wondered briefly whether he was thinking about the fateful night on top of the Astronomy Tower, when he had set out to commit murder and found that he didn't have the guts to do it. Had it dawned on him then that he'd chosen the wrong side, or had it taken a direct encounter with Voldemort's wrath for him to finally understand the difference between bragging about the Dark Lord's return and facing the reality of it?

He remembered Draco's pale, terrified face as he had stood before Dumbledore and felt some of his anger ebb away. Perhaps the git had finally begun to see some things differently if he felt the need to pay nightly visits to Dumbledore's grave. Harry had a hard time believing it, but then, he wouldn't have believed that Narcissa Malfoy would save his life either before it had happened.

Draco spoke up suddenly without raising his head, startling Harry badly. "Since you haven't attacked me yet, I suppose you're Potter under that Cloak of yours. Stop trying to hide and tell me what you're doing here."

"What I am doing here?" Harry belatedly remembered to take off the Cloak; there really was no point in being a disembodied voice, now that Draco knew he was here. "It seems to me I should be asking you that question."

Draco shrugged; he was looking at Harry now, his face clearly visible in the light of the moon. "It's a good place to think."

"About the night you failed to kill him?" Harry hadn't meant to bring it up first thing, but the opening had been too tempting.

Draco gave him a sharp look. "What would you know..." He fell silent, as if something had occurred to him; from the way his eyes widened, it was a rather disturbing realisation. "That second broom, and you've got the Cloak - you were there, weren't you?"

Harry nodded; he probably wouldn't have told him, but he saw no point in denying it now. "He made sure that I couldn't interfere, but I saw everything. Thanks, by the way."

Draco stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "What for?"

"For bringing back my broom. It's not going to work, you know."

He had hoped that the apparent non-sequiturs would throw Draco off balance, but they seemed to have the opposite effect on him, because he sounded much more composed when he replied coolly, "Potter, you're not making sense. What's not going to work?"

"You won't manage to guilt me into giving back your wand."

Draco scoffed at this. "As if Saint Potter were even able to feel guilty about anything."

Harry reminded himself that he was likely just trying to get a rise out of him, but his stomach clenched unpleasantly nevertheless. "Then why did you do it?"

Draco shrugged again. "Would you rather if I hadn't?" It took Harry a moment to remember that these had been his own words during another conversation a few months ago, when Draco had asked him why he'd saved his life. He took it as a sign that he wasn't going to get an answer to his question now either.

"But if you were there that night..." Draco paused, as if he were carefully weighing his words. "I just can't figure out what he was playing at. He offered me help while I had him at wandpoint, but he didn't lift a finger during all the time before, when he knew I was trying to kill him and - "

"- and almost killed two of your schoolmates in the process?" Harry threw in; he wasn't going to let him forget that.

Even in the pale moonlight, it was impossible to miss how Draco tensed. "Well, yes. But that's what I don't understand - why didn't he stop me, especially when his precious Gryffindors were getting caught in the crossfire? I thought they were all he ever cared about!"

"So did they, I suppose," Harry murmured.

Draco turned his head, casting his features into deep shadow. He suddenly seemed very alert, like a hunting dog that had sniffed the scent of its prey.

"Snape said he sent you out to be killed."

Harry froze. "What?"

Draco took a step closer, and it was all Harry could do not to back away. "That evening before Christmas when you didn't show up? I'd never seen Snape so angry - he kept talking about something Dumbledore had done, but he wouldn't explain it to me. He did say, though, that Dumbledore had ordered you to let the Dark Lord kill you. Is that true?"

For a split second, Harry considered turning around and leaving without a word. He couldn't get his feet to move, though; he seemed rooted to the spot, and it felt strange to realise that a part of him wanted to answer the question, as if someone who had been his enemy all his life might be able to make sense of everything that had happened when neither he nor those who loved him had managed to find an explanation he could live with.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "It's true, yes."

There was a brief silence, as if Draco weren't sure what to say to that. When he finally spoke again, he sounded incredulous. "And you obeyed him?"

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his breathing even. The moment he had understood Dumbledore's last message to him stood out sharply in his memory - the strangely numb feeling that went beyond shock or fear, leaving him with the merciless certainty that there was no way out.

He was surprised himself by the steadiness of his voice when he finally answered. "I didn't have much of a choice, I was dead anyway."

"I've heard rumours," Draco began slowly, "that you and the Dark Lord shared a connection and that it was your destiny to kill him by sacrificing your own life."

Harry did his best to give a convincing snort. "Says who, Rita Skeeter?"

"Among others." He still couldn't see Draco's face, but there was a humourless chuckle in his voice when he continued, indicating that he was smiling faintly. "Can you blame them? It looked for all the world as if you had died and then come back from the dead to rid the world of him. It's not difficult to see destiny written all over that, I suppose."

"And what do you think?" Harry was honestly curious about the answer; so far Draco hadn't given away anything about his own opinion on the matter.

"I think that I recognise a fairy tale when I hear it, Potter. Besides, you already admitted that you weren't dead, so the messiah bit is out too. It's obvious that there was a connection between you and the Dark Lord, though, and from what you're saying, Dumbledore was trying to make use of it."

"Something like that, yes." It was Harry's turn to pause and think carefully about his next words. "He told me that Voldemort's fear of death was his weakness - that you became master of death by accepting that you had to die, and that it gave you a power Voldemort knew nothing about..."

Draco's reply sounded strangely forced, as if it cost him effort to speak. "It seems to me that we all master death eventually, one way or the other. I never realised that Dumbledore too was so obsessed with the idea."

"He - " Harry faltered, then tried again. "He said that there were far worse things than death that could happen to you."

Draco's sharp intake of breath seemed overly loud in the frosty silence of the winter night. "So he really asked you to let yourself be killed in order to kill the Dark Lord?" There was such clear revulsion in his tone that it immediately made Harry defensive. Ron was allowed to use that tone when speaking about Dumbledore, and perhaps Luna too, but never, ever Draco Malfoy.

"It looked like it at the time - it was necessary that I did it out of my own free will, or it wouldn't have worked. But I came out alive in the end."

"And you're convinced that he knew that in advance? That you would survive, I mean?"

Harry felt as if his insides were turning to ice; this was the question he had been careful not to ask himself ever since he'd begun to think about the matter. Dumbledore had sounded certain enough during their talk at "King's Cross Station", and Harry had readily believed him back then, but many things had begun to look different in retrospective. He could, of course, walk up to Dumbledore's portrait and ask him outright, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

At long last, the only reply to Draco's question he could think of was, "I don't know."

Draco shook his head. "With allies like him, most people wouldn't need enemies any more."

Harry found it strangely reassuring that he wasn't ready to let such a slight against Dumbledore pass - whatever issues he had with his late mentor's memory, he certainly wasn't going to let Draco badmouth him. "I don't see what you're complaining about, it seems to me that Dumbledore chose the Slytherin approach for once."

"Shows what you know." It was almost funny, Harry thought fleetingly, how you could hear a sneer even when you didn't see the speaker's face clearly. "When has any of your lot ever understood Slytherin? Slytherin's loyalty is to our own - you Gryffindors are all about the greater good, and you obviously don't bat an eyelash at the idea of throwing one of yours to the wolves if it serves your purposes."

Slytherin's loyalty is to our own. Harry couldn't help remembering Narcissa Malfoy's voice, telling Voldemort that he was dead while she still had her hand on his chest right over his beating heart; then, unexpectedly, he recalled Pansy Parkinson's demand to sacrifice him to save the others. He'd considered it cowardly and selfish at the time, and it probably had been - but it made him wonder how it might be to know that you belonged with someone who would always put you first, no matter what happened and what else might be at stake.

What had Snape said about his mother? "She'd have let the whole world go down in flames before she'd have allowed anyone to harm her son"? Perhaps -

His musings were interrupted by a low, drawn-out sound that seemed to come right out of the darkness, a mixture between a raspy laugh and the growl of an animal. Draco whirled around so that the moonlight was right on his face again, his eyes wide with terror. His wand was in his hand before Harry knew what was happening, and without thinking Harry reached for his own, pointing it in the general direction from which the sound had come.

He saw a dark shape emerge from the trees behind Dumbledore's tomb, slowly and unhurriedly like a predator on the prowl, and he felt bile rise like acid in his throat when the deep, hoarse voice spoke up.

"Funny that you still dare to speak of wolves, little Malfoy."