A Plague of Legends

Chapter Four: A Truce of Sorts

Or, The Hanged Man

Harry hated the way that Malfoy said his name. Potter. Malfoy spat it out like a blasphemy, like the sounds forming his name were disgusting, hateful. Maybe to Malfoy, they were. Harry didn't know.

Truthfully, Harry wasn't sure that he knew anything anymore. But he knew what he remembered, and Harry remembered that Quidditch match. And those horrible, horrible Rita Skeeter articles.

Harry remembered Malfoy's laugh. There had been no shadows in that laughter. Malfoy had also laughed when he heard about Buckbeak's execution.

Harry remembered Malfoy's hair, the way the ungelled strands had flopped over forehead and eyes. Today's hair, Harry noted, was also not gelled. But it had been gelled the day he sent Neville's Rememberall flying, reds glinting as it rocketed towards stacked stone.

Harry remembered how green sheets had touched white skin, like pine needles piercing the moon. The moon had shone yellow the night Malfoy discovered Norbert. Harry wondered if Malfoy would bleed silver when hurt- it seemed only natural.

Harry was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to take that pale skin in his hands and score it with his nails, dragging crimson furrows across its shallow curves- to bite it, tear it, marking it red, for Gryffindor. Could any action change that stark canvas? He shook his head, looked into Malfoy's silver eyes. They matched unicorn blood. They matched Saturday's tassels. Had Harry ever noticed Malfoy's eyes before Saturday? He doubted it.

Right then, Malfoy's eyes were glaring at Harry. Such a familiar gesture.

"Why are you here, Potter?"

Harry reflected that uncle Vernon would probably have liked the way that Malfoy ground out his name. Malfoy could market guides on how to pervert a word: From Granite to Dust- Destroy Enemies' Resolve Using Two Syllables or Less! He lifted up his Firebolt, noted that Malfoy was still riding a Nimbus 2001.

"I've come to practice."

A pause.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"That, I think, should be obvious. I am flying, Potter. It's something people do with brooms." Malfoy pointed at his broom, smirked. "But, of course, it is probably too much for me to expect someone like yourself to understand the intricacies of proper society."

Malfoy circled around Harry's head once, then came to a standstill in front of him, the tips of his shoes grazing wet grass.

"As I remember it, you're not supposed to be flying. Don't you think exercise like this is a little dangerous for someone who's sick?"

Harry had to admit that he was curious. Over the past two weeks rumors had been flying faster than Firebolts about Malfoy's condition. There was one rumor whispered under tented sheets that Malfoy had somehow become pregnant through a freak Dark Arts accident. The father was anyone from Snape to Voldemort. Of course, that one was only popular with the first and second years, but still. It just went to show how intrigued the entire school was. Last evening Hermione had heard Millicent Bulstrode making snide comments about Malfoy's 'delicate condition,' but Harry figured that was due more to Malfoy's win in Quidditch two days ago than any true inside knowledge. Whatever chip currently rode on Bulstrode's shoulder had been growing in size exponentially since Saturday.

Malfoy grimaced. Harry saw the chapped lips pull back and crack a bit at the strain. Apparently Malfoy did bleed red. He watched as that mouth formed words, the only thing filling his ears a distant wind.

". . .Potter? Potter? Anyone present?" An overdramatic sigh, "I said, shouldn't you be asking yourself that same question? After all, You-Know-Who is still alive, isn't he? I am sure that he's just dying for a chance to finish up things with you. What would Dumbledore say if he knew that our only hope-"

For a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy thought that 'hope' was a dirtier word than 'Potter.'

"-was outside, unsupervised and unprotected?"

"I'd bet not much more than your father would say if he knew that his only precious son was out disobeying him."

Lucius Malfoy was probably a lot scarier when it came to punishments than Dumbledore. After all, he had Voldemort to ask for tips whenever he ran out of ideas.

"It means nothing to me if you play tattletale, Potty."

"Somehow I seriously doubt that, Malfoy. I mean, you wouldn't be out here if it meant nothing."

"What about you, vermin?"

"I'm not the one who Dumbledore made a school announcement about this time."

Malfoy's fingers were strangling his Nimbus' handle, but all he did was scowl down at Harry. "What do you want for your secrecy, Potter?"

Harry blinked and stepped back. A few blades of grass brushed up under the legs of his pajamas and pricked his skin. He suddenly noticed how cold it was. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. The skin around Malfoy's eyes was tight, caught up at the corners as he glared at Harry. Harry imagined that Malfoy would never lower himself to beg for a favor, however strong his desire. No, he would barter and scheme to the last, a true Slytherin.

Harry wondered where the 'not' Malfoy had gone, if perhaps he only came out whenever it was a Hogsmeade weekend and there were bed sheets to spare. But Not-Malfoy had been out this morning- the Malfoy Harry knew would never do a triple backwards loop, and certainly not with that look on his face. It had been filled with desperate freedom and some recent pain. Not Malfoy. Malfoy was a petty villain who paced his stage with complete nonchalance and assurance. He mouthed his lines, tormented the hero, tortured the innocent, and sat on a ragged throne at the top of an empty world. Didn't he?

Again, Harry didn't know. But he wanted to know. He wanted to understand this new Malfoy, take him apart piece by piece and then put him back together until his world was once again in order. Harry coughed. He wanted to understand Malfoy. Well. Best become used to the idea and get to it. But it would be smart to be wary around the boy; after all, he wasn't exactly a clock or a car engine. Harry remembered dinner last night and how Malfoy's asparagus had jerked about on his fork. The spear had oozed green.

"Well Malfoy, as long as you keep your secret, I'll keep mine. Deal?"

Malfoy looked at Harry's hand, noted the dirty and ragged nails, the callused palm. He lifted an eyebrow. Git. Harry kept his hand stretched out, fingertips nearly touching Malfoy's broom. Then another hand, ivory soft and almost feminine, reached out and brushed at brown fingers. Malfoy's hand hovered against Harry's, his lordly acceptance expressed by a brief careless touch. Like his hand had more worth than Harry's entire self. Harry grabbed at it and shook, marveling inwardly at the texture as he squeezed. Hermione didn't have hands like that. But it was still just a hand.

"Well, then. As charming as this interlude has been, I am going to get back to my flying. If you will excuse me," Malfoy pulled his hand from Harry's and rubbed it against his robe. He then flew to the opposite end of the field, obviously intent upon ignoring the other boy.

Harry stared down at his hand, the blunt tips still tingling from. . . something. He raised them to his nose and sniffed. Rosewater. One of Harry's odder abilities was that he could spot the scent of rosewater wherever, whenever. It all went back to that summer when Aunt Petunia became obsessed with rosewater, convinced that it made the family seem more elite. The stuff had been everywhere and in everything- she had even made cookies for Dudley with it. Since then Harry had always associated rosewater with Aunt Petunia and Dudley, his face crammed tight with pink wafers.

So. Malfoy washed his hands with rosewater. No wonder Malfoy was so careful during Potions: he was afraid to do something to his precious hands. The thought made Harry smile. What an utter ponce. Harry imagined Malfoy with his face stuffed full of baked roses, little cookie bits clinging beard-like to his chin. For some reason, the vision didn't disgust him like he thought it would. Of course, anyone would look cute when compared to Dudley. Anyone.

Harry's Firebolt quivered in his hand, the wood tensing and relaxing; Harry didn't usually take this long to get into the air. While not the most subtle hint, it was appreciated, and with that Harry took off. The morning was sharp and cool: the perfect weather for flying practice. Harry tried a few experimental rolls, executed the Wronski Feint. He hadn't been flying but for five minutes, however, when he felt Malfoy's eyes on him.

"What?"

"Why are you still here?" Malfoy's voice was decidedly sulky.

"What do you think I came here for- sunbathing? Gods, Malfoy, I'm not going to leave just because you're here. I won't bother you, if that's what you're worried about. Just leave me alone."

"Of course, anything to please. Just make certain that you extend the courtesy."

"Fine."

For the rest of the morning the two boys canvassed the field, dark and light figures bobbing along the length of the Quidditch pitch. If an observer had been present, the sight would have seemed like nothing more than two parallel conversations, each conversant deaf to the words of their counterpart. Or, perhaps more accurately, it was like the same song being sung, unawares, by two different people.

***

'Click,' snicked the door as Harry closed it behind him. He slinked past Seamus, careful not to disturb his snoring roommate. Funnily enough, Harry hadn't noticed Seamus' habit until he'd begun sneaking out for his early morning flights. Dean was busy muttering something about cannibal pumpkins into his pillow, Neville was quietly perched on the edge of his bed, and Ron was snuggled tight into his covers. Harry pushed through red curtains and sank onto his bed. His Invisibility Cloak he packed away safely, careful not to catch the shimmering ends on anything. Harry had taken off his robe and was about to fold it when Seamus began snorting and thrashing.

Meaning that Seamus was probably about to wake up.

Harry shoved his robes under his pillow and sprawled out on his bed, thankful for the decision to wear his nightclothes to the pitch that day. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he affected heavy breathing and waited. He could hear Seamus stirring about, sitting up. The other boy said something made utterly incomprehensible by his sleepy brogue, then flopped back down to his bed, already asleep. Harry sighed. Might as well use the next half hour for beauty sleep.

***

Harry's early morning outings were perhaps the worst kept secret in all of the Gryffindor House. Not that he knew this, of course. However, it is very difficult to hide something like that from the people one shares a room with, let alone with a secret as old as ten months. Add to that the fact that nowhere else was there such a group of protective people as Gryffindors, and the question of discovery became a simple matter of time. Every morning Harry would wake up at five in the morning, take his broom and Invisibility Cloak, and leave for the Quidditch field. The first time he'd pulled the stunt Dean had nearly had a heart attack when, after having his ears mauled by Seamus' best foghorn impression, he had noticed Harry was gone. The sequence of events that then followed might have been funny if not for the fear: what if Harry had been taken?

"Wake up! Wake up! Harry's gone!" Dean's shout called Neville out of a deep sleep, startling him over the edge of his bed.

"What?!"

"Harry's gone."

Neville's words scattered, "But it's only five thirty in the morning. He was here last night. I mean, Seamus hit him with a pillow and he laughed. Harry laughed. He never laughs anymore." Choked, "Oh, no."

Seamus was now up. He rubbed his eyes, shook the grit off his fingers. "Whassit? Huh? A little early for a party, isn't it?"

"Harry. Is. Gone."

"What?!"

"Is there an echo in here?" Dean was anything but amused. "Neville, wake Ron up. I can't believe he can sleep through this."

"Ron. Ron, wake up," Neville tinned.

Ron mumbled something lewd into his pillow.

"I don't want to know what he's dreaming about."

". . .Ron. You have to wake up."

"Ah, damn. Stand aside, Neville, don't want to hit you. WAKE UP, RON!"

Neville jerked back as Seamus' pillow went flying towards Ron.

"Wha- Seamus, what was that for! I was asleep! Take that!" Cue Seamus' pillow on a reverse trajectory from Ron.

"Um, Ron?"

"Let me handle this, Neville. Damn, missed."

"I don't think that more violence is going to help, Dean."

"Why you ungrateful prat! See if I ever do you the favor of waking you up again!"

Ron ducked away from Dean's pillow.

"Seamus! That was my pillow!"

". . .but he started it."

"Ron, this is important, please stop and listen. . . Seamus, grow up."

"Think that was a favor, do you? What time do you think it is?!" Ron's pillow had somehow acquired a mouth and fangs and was making a good attempt at chewing off Seamus' ankle.

"Maybe if I transfigured a broom into a bat we could get their atten- wait. Where's Harry's Firebolt? Do you see it, Neville?"

"You're damned right it was a favor, ya idiot! Learn to appreciate the kind actions of others- ow! My leg!" Dean's pillow went sailing, a pair of shears in its claws. "You are so dead, Ron."

"No, I don't. You don't suppose?"

"We can only hope."

"What about the floor show?"

". . ."

"And just who woke me up at five thirty in the morning, huh? I'm not the one who deserves DEATH." Harry's pillow zoomed towards Seamus.

"Wait. Where's Harry?"

"Finally."

"I know. Couldn't you have sped that up, Seamus?"

"Er. Well, no."

"Guys, where's Harry?"

"It's nice to know we finally have your attention, Ron."

"Shut it, Dean. Where's Harry?"

"He's missing." Neville fiddled with a button on his pajamas.

"What?!"

"Missing. 'S why I woke you up," Seamus sulked.

"Sweet Merlin."

"But Dean and I think he might be o.k. His Firebolt is also gone."

"You think he's out flying? Do you know what time it is?"

"Probably."

"Of course."

"Let's go find him."

The common room was frigid, the ashes of the prior evening's fire blanketing the grate. No one else was up; miraculously, nobody seemed to have heard the commotion in the fifth year boys' dormitory. Shaking a bit, the boys pushed their way past a sleepily grunting Fat Lady and made their way out towards the Quidditch pitch, determined to drag Harry back with them, determined to simply find him there.

The school grounds were even colder than Gryffindor Tower, and the ground was covered in a thin layer of snow that nipped at the boys' feet. It seemed to them that you could hear their footsteps from miles away as the soles of their boots crunched snow and dead grass. But there was one person who did not hear them, one person who noticed nothing as he performed a formless dance. He hung in the air like a marionette whose strings had been cut, his movements jerky and eloquent.

Neville was the one to say it, "He looks like a wounded bird."

"I don't think we should be here." Seamus and Dean whispered in unison. They nodded at each other.

"Let's go." Ron turned around and began the trek back to Gryffindor Tower.

"But he's not safe here. Shouldn't we-"

"I bet Dumbledore already knows." Ron kept walking. "But I think one of us should wait up for him, make sure he gets back alright."

Ron had waited for Harry that first morning, his face shoved into his pillow as he faked sleep. The next day Dean had been the one to wait. The day after that had been Neville's turn, then Seamus, and then back to Ron. They'd been doing this for almost a year now, barring weekends.

Initially all of them had been disturbed by Harry's flying, but the person most upset had been Ron. He had known that the end of the Tri Wizard had scarred his friend, probably more than Harry would ever admit. As far as Ron knew, he had all of the facts about what happened the day of the final challenge. Of course, it had taken Harry several months to be able to talk about it, but after Ron had heard the whole story, he understood Harry's difficulties. It's not every day you help revive You Know Who with your own blood. And then to have the protection that had saved you from him given to V- You Know Who. . . well, the thought never failed to turn Ron's blood to ice water. So it was no wonder that Harry had been out of sorts for a while- he had a lot riding on him. Ron couldn't blame Harry for how he'd been acting lately; it had just really struck him how badly off Harry was when he saw his friend fly. But that was last year, and Harry had been steadily getting better as time passed. Ron didn't doubt that Harry's morning flights were part of that. Hermione didn't, either (the boys had told her about Harry's dawn excursions after several mornings filled with whispered arguments).

No, everything was going well: Harry was looking better day by day, they were all learning reams of magic, and You Know Who hadn't even shown his ugly face once since the Tri-Wizard. Truth be told, everything was going too well. Where was You Know Who? What had he been doing for over a year? Ron was an exceptional chess player, but even he couldn't defeat an opponent whose pieces weren't on the board.

***

Harry rolled over and slapped at his chirping alarm clock. Slap, miss, slap, miss, slap. Harry finally got it on the third try; his coordination was obviously suffering a bit from his earlier flying. He looked at the clock and groaned. It seemed like sleeping in was becoming a bad habit of his. Today, at least, he'd be able to have a relatively leisurely breakfast. Sort of. Dragging himself out of bed, Harry put on some clothes and searched for his only clean robe. Where was it? Where- oh, right. It was under his pillow, stuffed there when Seamus had seemed on the verge of waking up. And after Seamus went back to sleep, taking the thing out and folding it just hadn't seemed necessary. As Harry remembered it, the only necessary thing at that time had been sleep. Harry slid his hands under the pillow and pulled out his robe. It was horribly wrinkled and looked like a car accident. Just grand. Harry creased his nose, trying to recall that straightening spell Hermione'd found last year... he couldn't remember. Damn. Well, he'd just have to ask Hermione at breakfast. Breakfast! Harry was off.

It's very hard to sneak into the dining hall when you're Harry Potter. There's always someone (usually a first year, a Creevy- camera ready- , or Malfoy) paying attention, waiting for that famous mop to peak around the doorframe. Today was no different from usual, which was rather unfortunate for Harry. He managed to slide into the commons unnoticed, but as soon as he began making his way to Gryffindor's table he was sighted. Girls gasped and boys chuckled. Malfoy quirked his lips before brushing some nonexistent lint from his robes. Ron goggled. Ginny choked. Hermione didn't bother looking up from her Arithmancy text.

It was Seamus who finally asked the question, "Blimey, mate! What did you do to your robes?"

"Um. . ." Today's ceiling was quite lovely.

"Harry! Your robes!"

Hermione had finally surfaced from her book. Nowadays the topic of clothing always seemed to do the trick. Harry fidgeted.

"Well, um, they were just sort of like this when I woke up."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

"And you forgot the straightening spell I taught you and Ron."

Harry nodded and shuffled his feet.

"Right." A drawn out and put-upon sigh, "Hold still. Tersus Textilis! And try to remember it from now on." Hermione thumped back down and continued her read.

"Thanks, Hermione. Oh, and you have ink smudges on the tip of your nose. Maybe you should put more distance between you and that book. You should try to keep the relationship platonic. . ."

Hermione laughed. "That's enough out of you!" She rubbed at her nose. "But it's nice to see you so cheerful in the morning- did something nice happen recently?"

Harry glanced at Slytherin table: Malfoy was doing a spot-on impersonation of Professor Binns. Crabbe and Goyle were staring at him with twin looks of utter incomprehension (Harry had to wonder how much of it was an act). Pansy was doodling on herself with a quill. Bulstrode was scowling at Malfoy. Zabini's face was a little too close to her yogurt, the air from her mouth making waves form in the pink gloop. Malfoy floated himself around the table, occasionally waving his hands for emphasis, as he lectured on the completely fictitious and incredibly boring Unicorn Protection Acts (and subsequent Unicorn War) of 923. The rest of Slytherin howled at the impromptu skit. Harry smiled.

"No, nothing much."