A Plague of Legends

Chapter Six: Chasing the Snitch

Or, The Knight of Wands

The rest of the morning saw Harry and Ron strapped to Infirmary beds and Hermione holed up in the library. Hermione might have felt bad about leaving them to fend for themselves, but they had all of the sixth year boys in Gryffindor and Slytherin to keep them company.

Excepting, of course, one Draco Malfoy.

Hermione might have otherwise been tempted to laugh at how the Infirmary seemed to be filled with tottering mummies (thankfully, no one was suffering from truly serious burns), she was instead obsessing over Malfoy. And she resented him for it.

She resented that she could not just let this go, even though it was only Malfoy. Or perhaps because it was Malfoy. Malfoy wasn't worth the time that she was currently dedicating to him, definitely wasn't worth Harry's sudden and strange preoccupation (don't think she hadn't noticed), wasn't worth the imprint her hand had left behind it years ago. Why should she care? She didn't. And yet, here she was, scouring through all of the texts on possession she could find. And there was not much. The really important texts were in the Restricted Section, and even Hermione had been having a difficult time wrangling passes there from teachers since fifth year. While it could not be said that paranoia was running rampant at Hogwarts, the floors might have been covered in broken glass with the way all of the teachers were acting.

Hermione shoved the mess of books in front of her away to make room for her elbows, steepling her fingers as she rested her face in her hands' netting. A lock of brown bushy fluff fell in her face. She crossed her eyes and puffed it away, only to watch it come floating back. Puff, fall, puff, fall, puff.

It just didn't make sense. Dumbledore just had to have protections up that prevented things like possessions from happening at Hogwarts. No one wanted demons roaming the halls, rooming with children, and studying human magic - even if their true power was sheathed in flesh. It just didn't make sense. And as for that rubbish Malfoy had tried to feed her about it being a family trait- well, deception was a Slytherin institution, now wasn't it?

Hermione nibbled at one of her split ends, scrutinized the brown tips for hints of lurking demons. Demons. . . demons? What if she wasn't approaching the problem from the right angle? What if the possession wasn't demonic? The Veela had been very clear that 'not all possessions are of demonic origin.' What if Malfoy had been possessed by a human? Hermione twitched, accidentally jerking out a clump of hair. What if he was under the Imperius Curse?

Hermione rubbed her forehead, her teeth scraping along the inside of her mouth. Malfoy under the Imperius Curse... didn't really make sense. Malfoy was just as annoying and nasty as he'd been when she first met him, even if he acted up less. He certainly didn't act like he was under the Imperius; and why should he be? Even if he wasn't a Death Eater yet, everyone in the school knew where his loyalties lay. Hermione heaved a sigh and dropped her head to the table, rubbing her face against pitted wood. Malfoy had been pretty explicit at the end of their fourth year. The honorific 'Dark Lord' would never be used by any but his followers. And Hermione sincerely doubted that Malfoy had been under the Curse for all of his time at Hogwarts; with You Know Who still less than a shadow on the horizon their first year, there would have been no point to it.

Wait.

Wait.

What if- what if Malfoy was a Death Eater? No one was supposed to be initiated until they were eighteen, but what if? Hermione recalled that the Veela had been very careful to say that Malfoy was claimed, not possessed. And what else was the Dark Mark, if not a mark of ownership? You Know Who claimed people and their allegiance through the Mark, so what if Malfoy being 'claimed' was really another way of saying that Malfoy was a Death Eater? It made a strange sort of sense. Hermione only wished that the Veela were still there- she would have asked about Snape. Just to confirm. Except. . . that Veela had refused to give her a concrete answer. Just whose side were the Veela on, anyway?

But it made sense. It did. More sense than Malfoy being possessed by a demon- or a human, for that matter. After all, why would anyone want to possess Malfoy?

***

Harry wanted to punch Ron. If he had to hear about what a snake Malfoy was (the Slytherin had somehow escaped mummification) one more time, Ron was going to get it. On principal, Harry did agree with Ron. If anyone deserved to be wrapped in smelly cloth, strapped to a bed, and made to drink foul healing potions, it was Malfoy. But after three solid hours of Ron's moaning, he needed to hex Ron's mouth off.

"I can't believe that Malfoy didn't even get burned just a little bit! I mean, he was right there with the rest of us, wasn't he?"

Harry's wand hand twitched.

"It's just, really! It was probably the closest he's ever going to get to a real woman - look at how short he is, and with that face he could be a girl himself! - and I bet he'll never have enough restraint to stay away from a Veela."

Harry fisted his pillow and muttered something that sounded like, 'pillocks who just don't shut it.'

"And you're right, you know, he never shuts it, always goes yapping on about how much money he has-"

Ron was going to die. If not by Harry's hand, then definitely when Crabbe or Goyle woke up and heard Ron ranting.

"And I don't see why we had to deal with these," Ron swatted at his bandages, "and he doesn't." Ron paused to take in a breath.

"Ron?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Just let it go, okay?"

"But Harry, he-"

A deep sigh, "He's not worth it. Just let it go. And do you really want to risk having one of those two" Harry jerked a swathed thumb at the snoring behemoths in the corner, "waking up and hearing you?"

". . . I guess not." Ron slid a sullen glance at the sleeping Slytherins, "When do you think Pomfrey's going to let us go?" The following yawn threatened to break open Ron's face.

"Well, we got hit more badly than Seamus and the others did, so probably after dinner. And just be happy that we didn't turn out like them." Harry waved his hand at the Slytherins' twitching forms, then snuggled into his blankets and buried his head under his pillow. When he spoke again, his voice emerged muffled and cotton-like with exhaustion, "Let's get some sleep. Madame Pomfrey said it would make the skin grow back faster, and I'm tired anyway."

When no answer followed, Harry looked over at Ron's bed only to see the other boy already drooling into his pillow.

***

Draco found himself practically skewered by stares the moment he entered the Infirmary. Bloody Gryffindors. Bloody Potter and his bloody sidekicks. The Mudblood was glaring at him, and the Weasel was making an attempt at what Draco supposed was a snarl. It might have been more effective if the Weasel's face hadn't been half obscured by unraveling gauze. Draco sniggered as an off-white strip fell over the Weasel's eyes. Weasley bared his teeth, an amusing try at ferocity, but Potter just pinned him with those damned questioning eyes again. Draco sneered, uncomfortable.

Potter's eyes made him feel naked, strung up, and open. They grabbed at him like a child would a toy, upending his heart's contents to sift through like building blocks. Draco could just feel Potter grasping at this morning, his muddy fingers examining it for some meaning, some hint of the who of Draco. Potter had more gall than he'd ever dreamed.

As he scowled into Potter's darkening eyes, Draco had to wonder at the intensity of Potter's gaze, wondered what questions Potter obviously wanted to ask. Mr. Perfect had no right. And yet. . . the 'intensity'? Potter had not exhibited anything like intensity since the end of fourth year. Had he somehow woken Potter from his slumber, somehow jolted the hero from his apathy?

Draco smiled. It seemed as though life had just become more interesting.

***

Malfoy matched them glare for glare, their mutual hatred damming any possible action and sparking tension in the air. Then Malfoy's shoulders rippled in what might have been a shrug, his eyes stopped their disturbing shining, he smiled and winked at Harry, then went to sit on Goyle's bed.

Wait. Malfoy winked at Harry? Malfoy winked at Harry? Malfoy winked at Harry?! What?!

Hermione shook her head, trying to get rid of the disturbing image. It wouldn't go away. In fact, it was now beaming sardonic approval at Crabbe as he ate a Chocolate Frog. Somehow, Hermione had always thought that Malfoy didn't care about anyone, but here he was hand-feeding Crabbe chocolate. Hermione had a sudden flashback to herself doing the same thing twenty minutes ago. Ron's lips had smeared chocolate across the pads of her fingers. It had felt like velvet. She glanced at Ron and pursed her lips when she saw the lidless, bug-like look his eyes had taken on. Hermione leaned over to Harry.

"Harry, do you have any idea why Malfoy would wink at you?"

"No." Harry's reply was low and toneless, uttered without any apparent thought. All of his attention was fixed on Malfoy, who had his hands full pinning Goyle to the bed as he tried to shove Chocolate Frogs down the other boy's mammoth throat. Hermione was briefly reminded of a TV documentary she'd once seen about American Rodeos. Harry's breath hitched beside her.

"Just stop thrashing, you pillock! You'll feel better if you eat this!"

"But Drake, I- glarph!" Goyle glared at Malfoy as he hacked chocolate up from what might have been his windpipe.

"Greg, do I have to give you the Chocolate Lecture again? It doesn't matter how you feel about the stuff, we both know that. . ." Malfoy stopped his monologue, turned to face the tableau of his audience.

The silence in the room was deafening. Hermione could hear the chocolate swishing in Goyle's mouth, could hear Ron's moist inhalations, could feel Harry's shoulders tensing beside her as Malfoy fixed them with another glare. Harry quivered, obviously remembering the discussion of twenty minutes ago. While Ron was more than ready to believe the worst of Malfoy, and always would be, Harry was not convinced. He'd argued that there was no way a Death Eater could have infiltrated Hogwarts, certainly not after the protections installed last year. But even though Harry cited belief in Dumbledore's abilities as his reason, Hermione wondered if it wasn't something different. Something to do with the way Harry had been watching Malfoy lately, the way he was watching the other boy even now.

Who was back facing his minions and talking. . . but he wasn't talking. He was- babbling was the best word Hermione could think of. Malfoy was babbling, the short and baby-like consonants cutting off soft lisping vowels. Whatever language Malfoy was speaking in, it was not English. Ron looked like he was either about to faint, or start laughing. Didn't Malfoy realize how ridiculous he sounded? Hermione allowed herself a tight superior smile before turning to see how Harry was reacting.

He wasn't. Harry still had that expression on his face- the one where Harry's entire world was focused in on one point. Ron called it Harry's 'Seeker face'. Hermione wondered when Malfoy had become the Golden Snitch. And why. And what Harry was planning on doing once he'd caught this new Snitch. She only hoped that Malfoy didn't turn out to be Leprechaun's Gold.

Malfoy had finished his ludicrous monologue and was glaring at Goyle when Crabbe spoke up.

"Glut re oo ocolat eet goo oddy."

Hermione's mouth twitched and she managed to catch herself before she fell out of her chair. Ron lay boneless on his bed, glucking at the ceiling. Harry just continued to look at Malfoy like he was a butterfly pinned to corkboard, breaths low and jagged. No one was surprised when Goyle entered the conversation, his low voice butchering the babble into troll-speech.

And then it was over. Malfoy clapped Crabbe on the shoulder, left a couple of Chocolate Frog packets at Crabbe's feet, lifted an eyebrow at Goyle, and swept out of the room.

"What was that?" Ron's voice punctured the silence. Hermione turned to look at him. Arms crossed over his chest, Ron looked for all the world like he'd just been forced to ingest Bubotuber Pus.

"That was Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor scum." Crabbe popped a Chocolate frog into his mouth.

"Obviously. But why were you making noises like farm animals?"

Hermione had to admit that Ron did have a point.

"If you're too stupid to figure that out, you're even dumber than we thought, Weasel." Crabbe's look made Hermione feel like a bug under glass.

"Ron, they were doing it so that we wouldn't understand them."

Hermione felt tired; why was she the one who always had to explain? Sometimes she felt like nothing more than a commentary track, something that the people around her could turn off and on at will. Her only role, to provide commentary and explanations for the events that continually unfolded around them. Hermione Granger: exclusive Greek Chorus of Harry Potter and Company. Hermione shuddered. She only hoped (optimistically, yes) that there would be no need for a Greek Chorus for a long, long time.

"I know that, Hermione. But I was talking about the noises. They could've spoken in French or something," Ron huffed.

"And who's to say Whiz Kid over there can't speak French?"

Goyle's snores almost drowned out Crabbe's low whispers. "Or even you, Weasley. This way you'll never know what we said."

"What? How? What language was it?"

But Crabbe had flipped onto his stomach and covered his head with a pillow.

***

Harry and Ron were released just before dinner, the patches of new skin shining waxy pink against fading summer tans. Thankfully, Ron's hair had been re-grown. Even so, Ron couldn't stop fretting needlessly about possible bald patches. At dinner Hermione had given them notes for all of the classes they'd missed (McGonagall had been particularly displeased when she discovered that half of Gryffindor was missing for the exam review), Ginny had welded herself to Harry's arm (her nails busily tracing patterns across the discolored skin), Lavender and Parvati were browbeating Seamus and Dean for their apparently foreseen defection, and Neville was nursing a mug of pumpkin juice, his face slack and the corners of his eyes smiling. Harry didn't doubt that he was remembering the Veela and they way they cast out invitations to sex simply with the swaying of their hips, the curves of their necks. Invitations offered in one hand, fire in the other. Madame Pomfrey had tutted on about how lucky they'd been for the Veelas' restraint. She'd also tutted on about how lucky Malfoy had been to escape harm, about his admirable control. Harry frowned, shook Ginny off with a curt look and terse apology.

Hermione had wanted- still wanted- to go to Dumbledore and tell him of their suspicions. Harry. . . didn't know. He didn't understand why he wasn't sure, especially when before he'd always gone to Dumbledore with less pressing worries. Something had changed. What, though, he didn't know. Not Malfoy, that was certain. Yes, himself. But why?

It was like- like at some point in the past few days Malfoy had become his. Not Malfoy, but Not-Malfoy. Like Harry's own secret puzzle, or a maze that, if navigated successfully, held some sort of prize. Or was that prize itself the true puzzle? He slid a glance at Slytherin Table, his eyes following their now-habitual route.

Malfoy was sitting next to Zabini, his fingers catching in the curls at her nape. They laughed intimately over something, ignoring the empty places dotting the table, Bulstrode's empty glares, the obvious emptiness between them. Malfoy touched his lips to Zabini's forehead, the careless act speaking of years of practice. Harry's own lips tightened. He imagined the tattoos of past kisses made visible, raised and welted flesh covering Zabini's forehead. Then, as if in slow motion, Malfoy dragged his mouth from Zabini's forehead, turned, and acknowledged Harry. Had he felt Harry's eyes on him? He must have. And then Malfoy did it again: he smiled, the curvature of his lips filling the emptiness between them with malice and something else. Something else. Harry blinked, thickly considered returning the gesture, only to abandon the thought when Malfoy turned back to Zabini and graced her with another kiss. A deep kiss. An empty kiss.

Harry turned to Hermione, "Let's tell Dumbledore."

***

The password to Dumbledore's office turned out to be, of all things, an American Muggle sweet: Three Musketeers. Harry wondered if Dumbledore hadn't intentionally meant it for Ron, Hermione, and him. When Harry mentioned it, Hermione grinned and said that if they were the Musketeers, then Ron would definitely be Porthos. She only grinned wider when Ron scowled and demanded to know if that was an insult. Harry wished he was in on the joke.

Harry's footsteps pounded in his ears, each slow pace thudding as they spiraled up to Dumbledore's office, each step a betrayal. But a betrayal of whom: Malfoy? Or himself? Now facing the office door, Hermione grabbed at the knocker and rapped it into the door, the oak reverberating like an accusation. Nothing.

Harry stuck his head into the door and called out, "Professor Dumbledore, sir? Are you here?"

Silence. The Musketeers looked at each other.

"He won't mind if we go in and wait for him." Harry offered.

"But. . ." Ron ran his finger along the edge of the doorframe and blankly inspected the layer of dust coating it.

"And this is important. Let's go in." Hermione's voice was decisive.

They filed into Dumbledore's office like criminals, their steps hesitant and echoing. Three chairs sat before Dumbledore's desk, and Harry wondered again just how much Dumbledore knew about the goings-on of the school. Had he been expecting them? Hermione settled into the chair on the left and Ron the one on the right, leaving Harry to take center stage.

And so they waited. And waited, and waited. Harry sat like a stone sentinel as Hermione and Ron dozed on either side of him. Hermione had shoved her cheek into the plush of her chair's arm and Ron's face was pillowed against Harry's shoulder, his nose tickling Harry's neck, when Dumbledore arrived. An amused chuckle alerted Harry to the Headmaster's presence.

"Ah, Harry. How may I help you? Yes, you'd best wake Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. Have a sweet?" Dumbledore held out a small silver wrapper with the words "Three Musketeers" splayed across the front. Harry smiled and shook his head, then poked Ron and Hermione awake.

"Well, if any of you do wish to have some, by all means tell me." Dumbledore's eyes let out a little twinkle before he settled himself and folded his hands in front of him. "Now, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

Harry and Ron stared expectantly at Hermione, who scowled before beginning.

"It has to do with the Veela lesson earlier this morning, Headmaster."

Hermione tapped her index finger against her thigh.

"Unlike the rest of the boys in our class, Draco Malfoy was completely unaffected by the Veelas' dance. One of the Veela said it was because he'd already been 'claimed.' She talked about magical possession. Sir, we think Malfoy might be a Death Eater. Doesn't the Dark Mark act as a symbol of possession?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Malfoy."

Dumbledore stroked his beard, his eyes gone dark. "Well, I can assure you that Mr. Malfoy is no Death Eater. No Death Eater is inducted until they are eighteen, regardless of potential motivation."

Harry felt Hermione tense then relax beside him. He applauded her restraint.

"We are currently trying to discover what is wrong with the boy - as you know, he has been ill since this summer. And you say the Veela hinted at a claim?"

Dumbledore sighed. The forlorn sound twisted and spasmed in the air.

"This is unfortunate news. Mr. Malfoy's loss would be deeply felt; for someone raised in darkness, he has extraordinary potential to shine brightly."

Ron's cheeks puffed red and he looked like he wanted to shout, settling instead for a low grunt, "Malfoy, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. Remember, the potential for darkness and light can be found in everyone and everything, just as there is more than one side to every story."

Dumbledore's serious eyes belied the gentleness in his voice.

***

Ron huffed, "Well, that didn't do any good."

"Ronald Weasley, it most certainly did do some good! What did you think would happen? Did you think Malfoy was going to get expelled just like that?" Hermione snapped her fingers.

Harry stopped himself from snorting. As if Hermione's slight blush wasn't a telltale sign that she'd been thinking the same thing.

"Well, yes."

Cue another of Ron and Hermione's epic arguments. They fought all the way back to Gryffindor Tower and didn't even stop once they'd entered the common room. By the time they arrived in Gryffindor, the argument had veered completely away from Malfoy's non-expulsion and instead settled on the inexhaustible hot spot of study habits.

The lack of attention the other Gryffindors gave the spat was a testament to how often Ron and Hermione indulged in their histrionics. Harry sighed and turned towards the sanctuary of his room, intent on studying in peace. Before he left the common room, however, he was amused to see Lavender mouth 'True Love' at Parvati while motioning at the very much in denial Hermione and Ron. Harry privately agreed.

Harry passed the rest of the evening almost completely alone; his two best friends seemed to be aiming for an all-time record on their longest fight (four hours being the champion-holder) and the rest of Gryffindor had gathered to watch the event. No one was foolish enough to try to disrupt the fight; all of Gryffindor had learned that lesson early on last year. It had taken weeks for Hermione and Ron to convince Ginny that it really had been nothing personal. Harry briefly wondered if someone had thought to make popcorn, only to remember that wizards didn't do popcorn. He then wondered if the floor show had noticed their audience. He somehow doubted it.

Harry had just curled up in bed when Ron entered the room, his face and hair a matching set, Seamus and Dean patting him consolingly on the back. So he'd lost again. Ron changed into his bedclothes in silence, his movements stiffly eloquent. Their suitemates followed suit, no one willing to break the tense quiet, no one wanting to risk another explosion. Ron flopped onto his bed, his breathing harsh as he clutched at his pillow, hands tearing at the faded cloth. Harry listened to the inhalations and exhalations as they wheezed through Ron's lips, listened for the sound of his name being called. But that moment never came, so Harry waited until sleep calmed Ron and soothed the protests of his lungs.

Only when Harry was sure of Ron's slumber did he close his eyes.

***

Five in the morning. Harry rolled over and out of bed, careful to keep his footsteps and breathing light. With a few quick movements and some creative wriggling, Harry had grabbed his Firebolt, thrown on his robes, and was past the Fat Lady. The halls were empty as usual, and it was not long before Harry had left the school and was on his way to the Quidditch pitch. The morning air was chill and sharp, and sliced through the last of Harry's morning fatigue. Harry stood for a moment at the arena's entrance, savoring the sensation of wind drowning his lungs. Staring up at the sky, Harry wondered if Malfoy would come, wondered at the thought itself. Why did he care? Silence, silence, nothing but silence and Harry.

And then- not even the cackling of nearby birds married the silence on the pitch- the sound of grass being crushed under shoe exploded in Harry's ears like fireworks. The air parted, displaced, behind him. Harry turned to regard his companion.

"Malfoy."