Beautiful Illusion

CHAPTER 05 - Black and White Aren't Colours

***

"Some things were perfectly clear,
seen with the vision of youth
No doubts and nothing to fear,
I claimed the corner on truth
These days it's harder to say
I know what I'm fighting for
My faith is falling away
I'm not that sure anymore"

***

The sun had cast its last, bleeding rays and the clouds had swirled up to obscure the stars by the time Harry and Draco stumbled into Harry's cabin, weary to the bone. The night was tranquil and chilly, scattered snowflakes drifting lazily down from the leaden sky. Their two shadowy forms were the only elements of darkness against the untouched white backdrop.

The crackling murmur of their skis on the snow had been the only sound for quite some time; they had intuitively formed an unspoken agreement along the way that conversation would be a waste of energy they didn't have.

The door had been mercifully unlocked, allowing for a quick entrance in out of the cold. A rush of warm mustiness surged out as the door opened, clashing with the brisk iciness of the evening air, and the clicking of the doorknob broke the silence.

The cabin was dim as they slid through the doorway, the shadowy nooks hinting at unseen menaces lurking in the darkness.

Harry had always been secretly afraid of shadows, and their many illusions of the light that left you unsure if what you were seeing was real or just a figment of an overexcited imagination. He was not afraid of the dark; there was nothing to be feared in what could not be seen. It was the possibilities of what could linger within shadow's fickle depths that sent chills running down his spine.

Shuddering (in a hopefully discreet manner), he headed for the sizeable silhouette of the plush lounge. Its comforting mass seemed like an extremely desirable place to rest his exhausted body on right about now...

"I'll just rest here for a while..."

Draco's eyelids flickered as he sank onto the couch, wincing as his wounded body screamed in protest at the movement.

Resigning himself to the far less comfortable shagpile rug, Harry lowered himself tentatively to the ground.

Typical Malfoy, always taking the best things for himself.

Before his annoyance could really fester inside him, Harry looked at Draco more closely and saw that extreme fatigue was evident in every contour of his toned body. Harry watched the boy's jaw twist painfully as he stretched cautiously, bending to remove his skis.

He really does look tired.

Even in the poor light, Harry noticed that Draco was shivering, his lips stained blue.

"What's the bet I've got enough energy left in me to start up this fire?"

The golden warmth of the fire would be a pleasant relief, but Harry was so tired that he doubted he could do it.

It couldn't hurt to try.

"There's no way you could do it. I'm barely able to move, and we all know who has the greater fitness level here."

Even Draco's drawl was more sluggish than usual, as if it was an effort just to form the words.

"We'll see about that," Harry replied, voice infused with false confidence.

"Incendio."

Pointing his wand at the darkly still fireplace, Harry was hugely surprised to see cheery orange flames burst forth, jostling amongst themselves in an attempt to coil their way higher and higher into the black depths of the chimney.

Weak amber light emanated from the blaze, creating countless muted shadows in the corners of the room where the light's merry path could not penetrate.

"Told you I could do it."

He spoke as if he had never doubted himself.

I got lucky.

"You got lucky, Charlie, admit it."

Draco's face broke into a sleepy smile and for a fragile instant he looked completely at ease.

A slight shift of his weight on the couch, however, brought forth a deep frown of pain. Draco covered his face shakily with his palm in a transparent attempt to disguise his discomfort.

You must use every possibly opportunity to gain information, Harry.

"I think I know what you need, Draco -" he began, feeling sickened at the thought of taking advantage of even his enemy like this.

What am I doing?

"Oh, really? What would that be, Charlie?"

For the first time in his life, Harry witnessed Draco Malfoy attempting a smirk and failing, his jaw muscles indolent after their trek.

"- You need a stiff drink. There's really nothing better for numbing pain and, well, numbing basically anything in fact."

A small twitch of the lips seemed to be all the Draco was capable of at present in the ways of facial movement.

"We are full of surprises, aren't we? I never pictured you as the drinking type."

There's plenty more surprises where that came from, Malfoy.

"Yes, you'd never know it to look at me, but I'm really quite the drunkard."

Harry smiled teasingly at Draco, willing him to take the bait and banish that terrible apathy from his features.

Harry was used to Draco's face being alive, whether it be simmering with hatred as he traded glares with Harry across the Great Hall, glowing with anticipation as they strode out onto the Quidditch pitch, the screams of the crowd ringing in their ears, or lit up with quiet joy as he shared a joke with his Slytherin housemates.

Lately, that passion that had always set Draco's features aflame had been buried progressively more deeply beneath a cool, neutral screen so eerily reminiscent of his father. The gradual transformation scared Harry, and he was willing to do anything to coax the life back into Draco's countenance.

His efforts were rewarded with the following charming statement, accompanied with a languid laugh.

"Oh, sod off and go fetch the drink."

Much better.

***

Muffled, gloomy silence hung thickly over the kitchenette as Harry reached into the cupboard, extracting a gleaming bottle of Firewhiskey from its corners. Placing it carefully on the bench, he reached even further inside and removed a small, twinkling bottle.

Veritaserum.

Harry revisited Dumbledore's words to him, in the moment before he grasped hold of the Portkey that would send him away from his comprehensively mapped-out life and into the jungle of uncertainty and strange new realisations.

"It is vital that you utilise each and every opportunity to gain information from Draco during your time undercover. However, I don't believe that directly questioning him about Voldemort's plans would be the most effective option. Subtlety is the key, Harry. Remember that."

Harry recalled feeling the familiar stirrings of anger at Dumbledore's ambiguity as the Headmaster handed him the small bottle. The potion's weight light and cool in his hands, he had grasped hold of the Portkey and, with one sickening jolt, been hurtled into something he had never once contemplated in his many ruminations about how his life was going to pan out.

Gazing intently at the clear, innocuous liquid swirling within the bottle, Harry felt awe surging through him at how such a harmless-looking potion had the power to destroy so many lives, wrench apart lifelong friendships and dredge up secrets buried within the dim memory of the past.

Can I really do this?

How could he justify the use of this potion on Draco, when so far he had been undeniably more open with Harry than Harry had been with him? The two characteristics that Harry despised most in others were deceit and hypocrisy. Yet, by using this potion, he would not just be making a hypocrite out of himself. He would be betraying Draco's trust, whatever little of it he may have gained.

How far am I willing to go for the sake of this bloody mission?

Harry was used to waging moral battles with himself, but as he twisted the Veritaserum in his hands, he felt as though the strong, high-minded side he had always prided on winning was fighting a losing battle.

***

"Here we go".

Placing the Firewhiskey and two glasses upon the table, Harry glanced at Draco, finding his eyes oddly drawn to him in the semi-darkness.

The soft light wavering through the room flickered softly upon Draco's countenance, sharpening his nose and hollowing his cheeks; melting his ash-blonde hair into a strangely ethereal gold. The overall effect was decidedly eerie, and Harry quickly averted his eyes.

Focusing on the alcohol instead, he took hold of the Firewhiskey. The broiling crimson liquid it contained felt pleasantly warm through the glass, transferring heat through Harry's body far more effectively than the fire had done.

Hands trembling almost indiscernibly, Harry poured the alcohol, listening to the gentle sizzle the fluid made as it connected with the glass. He could feel Draco's gaze burning him, just as real as the small, fiery drop that escaped from the bottle to hiss against his numb skin.

Harry passed Draco his glass, and cradled his own against his chest as he settled on the rug once more.

"Thanks."

The quiet civility from Draco only served to unnerve Harry further.

This is so weird! I'm sitting here, with Draco Malfoy, in a cabin in the middle of a bloody snowfield, drinking Firewhiskey. Next thing I know we'll be spilling our innermost secrets to each other.

He watched Draco raise the glass to his lips, and knock back the flaming liquid in a single swallow.

"Had a lot of practise, have you?"

Harry had intended the remark as a careless joke to lighten the weighty atmosphere, but it had quite the opposite effect.

"When you have a life like mine, you use anything within reach to escape it."

Draco's grave tone told Harry that this was information he never would have revealed under normal circumstances.

Hating himself for probing at Draco's weakness, Harry couldn't resist further inquiry.

"To escape...what, exactly?"

"The expectations. The pressure. The pain. When you're the son of one of Voldemort's elite, life isn't all flowers and rainbows."

The bitterness in Draco's tone stunned Harry.

I always just assumed he loved being part of Voldemort's inner circle.

"What do you mean, 'the son of one of Voldemort's elite'? Is your father a Death Eater?"

Harry cringed inwardly at his feigned ignorance, but found himself unwillingly interested in Draco's reply.

"Yes, he's one of their most 'influential' members. Influential, that is, if you could consider any of Voldemort's slaves to have authority or a mind of their own."

Now that's one I haven't heard before.

"You're not afraid to use Voldemort's real name."

Harry's words sounded like a statement, but both boys knew it was a multi-faceted question.

Reaching for the Firewhiskey, Draco poured himself another glassful and promptly drank it before replying.

"My father is. He's terrified of Voldemort, always has been. He's been trying to instil that terror in me since I was old enough to walk. I guess my using Voldemort's name is just a perverse way of defying my father, and everything he stands for."

"What does he stand for, Draco?"

Both boys' voices had lowered until they were hushed murmurs, barely discernible above the jolly snapping of the fireplace.

"Fear. Weakness. My father's always told me that weakness is one of the greatest sins, yet he's one of the weakest people I know. His fear has kept him trapped in the service of an insane, egomaniacal tyrant for years."

The harsh light burning in Draco's eyes as he spoke was unsettling.

So much for the whole 'perfect evil family' theory.

"Aren't you ever afraid?"

Harry's voice was almost inaudible now; the boys had subconsciously moved closer together as they talked.

"Of course I bloody am. I'm fucking terrified all the time, and I hate it. I hate my father for what he's done to my family. For what he's done to me."

Reaching brusquely for the bottle, Draco tipped another liberal shot into his glass with hands shaking from barely-suppressed emotion. He drained it, and poured himself another.

Harry's astonishment and sympathy must have been written in his face, because the next words Draco spoke were:

"Oh, don't look at me like I'm all tragic and misunderstood, Charlie. I'm not. I used to love being the Malfoy heir and the status and riches that came with the name. I suppose I still do. I just never realised quite how inconvenient being a Death-Eater protégé would be."

So he is planning to be a Death Eater after all.

Bracing himself, Harry played what he thought was his final card.

"My parents were murdered by Voldemort."

Harry's serious timbre betrayed the fact that, although this information was part of his cover story, it was also very much true. Fighting to keep the sorrow and deep hatred he felt over his parent's death out of his voice, he persisted with the line of conversation.

"I've spent most of my life hating him for what he did, and I have to admit that it surprises me that you would want to become a Death Eater, especially after you've seen the suffering that Voldemort causes, as much to his followers as his enemies."

Harry told himself that this was just Charlie talking, and that the real Harry Potter wasn't surprised at all, but every word that he spoke, he believed.

Draco sighed, a simple exhalation that Harry could draw no conclusions from.

"Of course I don't want to be a Death Eater. Sometimes you have to make hard choices, choices that other people wouldn't and couldn't understand. You have to accept that you're going to be hated for what you do, but take comfort in the fact that you're doing the best thing for you and your family."

"And you think that doing the right thing is serving an evil tyrant and helping create another era of fear and devastation?"

Disguise or not, Harry's beliefs were being laid bare, open for Draco to scorn and dismiss. Yet he didn't quite do that.

"Best and right are two completely different words, Charlie. Like I said, it's complicated, life is complicated. You wouldn't understand, so don't bother."

Nonetheless, Harry couldn't quite bring himself to believe that being a Death Eater was what Draco wanted, considering all that he had just exposed.

Draco spoke again before Harry could respond to his last statement, his pitch completely altered.

"You haven't so much as touched your drink. If I'm going to get hopelessly drunk, I might as well do it with company."

Here Draco laughed; a harsh, choking sound that chilled Harry to the core.

Feeling unfathomably broken and slightly disoriented at the swift change of topic, Harry drew the Firewhiskey to his lips, and sipped.

The blazing liquid surged down Harry's oesophagus, forging a molten pathway inside him. The pungent alcohol set every one of his nerve endings alight, the incredible heat an amazing, painful sensation that he wanted to relive over and over again.

Damn that's good.

"Good, isn't it?"

Harry turned, expecting to see the trademark smirk back on Draco's face, but he found only a haunting stare, as though the two had now shared in something deeper than simply drinking together.

"Yeah, it's good."

Harry found himself grinning, and for this he was supremely thankful.

If alcohol can make that awful broken feeling go away, it's no wonder Draco needs it so much.

Swilling the remainder of his Firewhiskey, Harry poured another. Unsure of whether he wanted to pursue this deeper, more painful line of conversation, he waited in silence for Draco to speak.

"So, Charlie, I presume you attend Durmstrang, since you obviously aren't a student at Hogwarts?"

Light, meaningless banter it is, then.

"No, actually, I don't. My Uncle tutors me himself; he seems to think that the magical education system isn't good enough for me."

"Ah, so you're the cherished, doted-on nephew. How touching."

Years of gruelling manual labour, callous words and rejection flooded to the front of Harry's mind. He could almost taste the brackish sweat on his skin and feel the deep, throbbing ache in his bones as he repainted the garden fence for what must have been the fifteenth, entirely unnecessary time. The memory of the trepidation and disgust he saw in Aunt Petunia's eyes as she raised the frying pan above his head was startlingly clear, even now.

Cherished? Doted-on? You don't know how far off the mark you are, Malfoy.

Now that he wasn't so drained, Draco's defences appeared to have been raised. The feelings previously revealed in his eyes were now obscured behind shuttered silver orbs; as opposed to the open, fiercely bright shine of moments before.

"Hardly. My uncle pretty much leaves me to study by myself, and Apparate off to visit his Italian mistress."

"Oh yes, every aristocrat worth his Galleons has to keep a mistress, of course. And what about you, Charlie? Do you have a pretty little heiress of your own?"

The casual tone suggested to Harry that Draco couldn't care less about his reply, but the severe scrutiny he suddenly found himself under hinted that this was not the case.

"Oh, no. Um, girls aren't really my type..."

Oh Merlin, I just told Draco Malfoy that I'm gay. I'm going to kill Dumbledore for this.

Draco raised an eyebrow at this 'confession', and his face seemed to soften before saying:

"I could tell, you know. From when I first met you, I knew that you flew for the other Quidditch team, so to speak."

Harry's pride was sorely offended by this remark, considering that he was in fact straight, and this was all part of the façade.

"How could you tell?" If his tone was sharper than usual, Harry couldn't be held responsible.

"Oh, there were many signs. For example, no straight boy blushes whenever he makes eye contact with me."

I do not blush.

Here Draco smiled faintly, and sipped his Firewhiskey. Harry imitated his movement, and let the heated fluid blunt the embarrassment and indignation he was currently experiencing.

Deciding that now that Charlie's sexuality (not my sexuality, Harry reminded himself) was in the open, it would be fruitful to steer the conversation more in Draco's direction, Harry spoke.

"Well, I don't suppose you, er, 'fly for the other Quidditch team' as well, do you Draco?"

Harry could feel the familiar crimson heat seeping into his cheeks, and abruptly occupied himself by staring at his liquor.

"You could say that." Draco's voice was slipping back into softer tones, and Harry unthinkingly drew closer.

"Do you know what it's like, being a gay heir in a respectable, pureblood family?"

The soft cadence shrouded the hurt in the words.

"I've never exactly told my Uncle about it..."

"You think I go around parading my sexual preferences, Charlie? I'm not a bloody idiot; I know what the punishment for a transgression of that kind would be! But I think that my father suspects, sometimes, and the consequences aren't pleasant."

Draco drained his glass at the end of the sentence, wincing as the strong liquor coursed through him.

"At times, I feel as though alcohol is more than a convenient relief. I hate being reliant on anything, or anyone, and I always feel disgusted with myself afterwards, but when all sensation is dulled I forget that I'm a coward and that my life is already mapped out for me. It's an amazing feeling. The only experience better is the natural high I get from skiing. That's why I love it so much here."

As if swiftly realising that he had revealed too much of himself, Draco quieted.

Oh my God. I never realised.

A wave of nausea spread through Harry and he closed his eyes and gripped the rug tightly, praying for it to pass. It did, and clarity returned. In that moment, Harry decided that tonight, he was going to forget about his mission, and allow himself to learn that black and white weren't even colours.

He swallowed, and revealed more of himself than he had ever planned to.

"It's ok to need other people, Draco. With my parents dead, I feel so unbelievably alone sometimes. But then I remember that there are people who care about me, and want to see me happy. If you have no-one to live for, there is no joy in being alive."

Harry was too caught up in his own swirling thoughts to realise that tears were trembling in Draco's eyes, threatening to overflow and crumple his composure.

"What you don't realise, Charlie, is that I don't have anyone to live for."

These words, whispered so softly that they could have been lost in the crackling song of the flames, shocked Harry out of his reflections.

"How can you say that, Draco? I bet that your parents would be appalled to hear you talking like that."

"My parents are concerned with their own affairs, and the upholding of the family name. There's little room for me in the equation, other than as an heir and a means to an end. I only wish that I'd realised that when I was younger."

Deciding that any comments on Draco's family matters at this point would be inappropriate and uninformed, Harry amended his approach.

"Well, what about your friends at Hogwarts? They must be people that you live for."

"Friends, Charlie? That's an interesting word. Would you classify two goons with more muscle than brainpower, who follow me like lost children and cater to my every whim to be friends? Or perhaps a girl who fawns all over me to try and secure herself a slice of the Malfoy fortune is a better candidate?"

"Surely you must be close with at least some of your housemates?"

Please, for Gods' sakes, say you are.

The last thing that Harry had wanted was to find himself feeling sorry for Malfoy, but sorry didn't even come close to how he felt as he listened to Draco speak.

"I'm not saying that I dislike my fellow Slytherins; I get along with them and they're my allies in the face of persistent prejudice against our house and what it supposedly stands for. I just don't consider any of them to be true friends, and I'm sure they wouldn't look upon me as a real friend either. The majority of children in Slytherin have been taught to keep most people at more-than-arms-distance. It's a basic survival tactic in our world."

Our world. His world. A world I can't understand.

I should not be hearing this.

"How about people from other houses? Are you friends with any of them?"

Harry had no idea why he'd asked that question, as he already knew the answer. Feeling uneasy, he took a huge swallow of Firewhiskey and struggled not to choke.

A sour, scornful laugh was the initial response from Draco, followed by words that made Harry feel as if he had been stabbed in the stomach with a blade of pure ice.

"Friends with people from other houses? You've got to be joking. With sodding Harry Potter strolling around the school with a 'Draco Malfoy is an Evil Bastard' sign practically taped to his scarred forehead, who's going to want to have any contact with me?"

Following this minor outburst, Draco tipped another generous serving of Firewhiskey into his glass and swallowed, grimacing.

Harry nervously reached up to flatten his hair. Feeling only smooth, fine strands lying evenly on his scalp, he remembered that his hair wasn't the messy tangle that he was accustomed to anymore.

There's no way he could know he's actually talking to 'Sodding Harry Potter' right now.

"Harry Potter? He goes to school with you?"

His pretended ignorance, especially when Draco was so clearly hurting, was incredibly hard to maintain.

"Yes, he bloody well does. And no, I can't get you his fucking autograph."

The shocking vehemence in Draco's voice, coupled with the strong language the mention of Harry evidently provoked made his blood freeze.

"You really hate him, don't you?" Harry's voice was muted; he didn't trust himself to be any louder lest his turbulent emotional state come across in his speech.

"I used to think so."

There was a pause, in which the soft popping of fire and wood was the only sound. Then, as if a dam inside him long filled past capacity had burst, Draco continued on.

"The sod has made my life at Hogwarts a hassle ever since our first train ride together. I thought it would be nice to have a famous, powerful friend like him; someone who would bring me popularity and influence; someone who understood what it was like to have expectations that you could never achieve thrust upon you. So I introduced myself, and the bastard just looked straight into my eyes and rejected my friendship. He didn't even know me, and he'd judged me."

"As time went on, I realised that we never could have been friends. And do you know why? Because Harry Potter, Dark-Lord-Conqueror-Extraordinaire, has never known the pressure of being unable to live up to expectations. He lives up to all of them, every fucking one, and even creates new ones for himself."

Harry waited apprehensively for Draco to continue.

"In first year, nobody expected him to be good at Quidditch. I thought that maybe, in this area, I could be the one who shone. But no, he had to go and be bloody brilliant at it, without even trying."

"In second year, when everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin, I told myself that maybe I wouldn't want to be Harry Potter after all. Then he went and rescued some Weasley girl and he was everybody's favourite, perfect little hero again."

Draco was silent for a minute, clearing his throat and sipping his Firewhiskey before proceeding with his rant. Obviously, he had needed to say this for years.

"Then came third year; the year that Sirius Black escaped and Potter was having fainting spells whenever he saw the Dementors. Finally, here was a year that seemed to not be all sunshine and roses for Harry Potter. But again, it wasn't to be. Potter got himself kidnapped by Black and cornered by a werewolf, and still emerged unscathed and more arrogant than ever."

"Fourth year was the Triwizard Tournament, and Potter someone managed to be chosen as the second Hogwarts Champion. For a while, it seemed as though the ever-rosy public opinion of Harry Potter had swayed. Then he dodged a few tail whippings from some dragon, and he was the Wizarding World's idol yet again. For Merlin's sake, he even came back from the last task clutching a dead body, and Dumbledore still grovelled at his feet."

The last sentence stung Harry, and he gasped.

Apparently taking Harry's inhalation as a sign of acquiescence, Draco nodded in approval. His cheeks were becoming slowly more flushed as he talked, his eyes growing wilder and dewier.

"Finally, there was fifth year. The year that Potter's Number 1 Fan, Albus Dumbledore, finally got kicked out of Hogwarts. The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Me finally seemed to have met his match in Dolores Umbridge. For once, I was getting recognition from the authority, and Potter was getting punished. I admit that I liked it."

Oh God. Fifth year. Sirius.

If there was one memory that Harry didn't think he would be able to handle in his current frame of mind, it was the memory of Sirius's death and the incredible, raging anger that he felt because of it.

There was another pause, before Draco spoke words that Harry had never, in his darkest and wildest dreams, imagined he would hear Draco Malfoy saying.

"Then, when he and his cronies were captive in Umbridge's office, I saw a look in Potter's eyes that I had never seen before. It was a look of absolute desperation, one of utter terror. I could hear the pain in every syllable of his oh-so-obvious warning to Severus. After that day, I just couldn't hate Potter anymore. I still can and do think that he's an arrogant prick who deserves to be taken down a peg or two, but I can't hate him. Because I know what it's like to be that desperate, and I finally realised that when you hate someone, you wish them the worst. And I could never wish that feeling upon Potter."

Draco's eyes smouldered in the reflected firelight as he trailed off; the amber glow of the flames varying their colour from silver to bronze, and the ephemeral hues in between.

Harry felt as though he was lying exposed in the snow with an icy breeze screaming past him, so cold was every fibre of his body following Draco's assertion. His head was spinning with a multitude of tangled thoughts, each one more startling and impossible than the next.

Draco doesn't hate me. How can this be?

If there was one constant in Harry's erratic life, it was the knowledge that Draco Malfoy hated him. Now, that knowledge had been cruelly torn away from him with just a few choice words. Harry felt as though the only part of his life that had remained constant had just melted away into the eddying vortex of uncertainty that every other aspect of his existence had become long ago.

This is what it feels like to have your world turned upside down.

Harry and Draco's gazes were locked, their faces only a few inches apart; it was unthinkable that either of them could look away and splinter the intensity of the moment.

To both boys, their uneven breathing seemed thunderously loud in the hushed room.

Still, the silence was deafening.

***

"Shades of grey are all that I find
When I look to the enemy line
Black and white was so easy for me
But shades of grey are the colours I see

Shades of grey wherever I go
The more I find out the less that I know
Black and white is how it should be
But shades of grey are the colours I see"

***