A Plague of Legends

Chapter Seven: Following the White Rabbit

Or, Temperance

Draco had never been good at exercising patience. His father claimed that it was Draco's worst character trait and had done his best to correct the flaw. For the most part, the elder Malfoy had done an outstanding job; Draco was now able to maintain an impassive front for months, even years, as he laid siege to castles in the sky. Draco was well aware that revenge was best served, not coldly, but in its proper time. If timed and calibrated correctly, even the toss of a head could destroy an opponent. Even so, he had never been able to eradicate his impatience- only subdue it.

***

The past couple of weeks had been very strange, to say the least. Not for the first time since that Saturday (had it really only been two weeks?), Harry wondered if he hadn't somehow fallen out of reality; he now had a good idea of how Alice had felt when she'd followed the White Rabbit down that hole to Wonderland. Harry also wondered where his own White Rabbit was leading him.

Thick and dull from boredom, Harry slid a look over to the opposite side of the pitch; Malfoy was hovering listlessly near the goals. The other boy wove in and out of the hoops, his movements sluggish and uninspired. Harry thought he understood: flying alone was one thing, but flying by yourself when you weren't alone was an entirely different matter. Harry knew that both he and Malfoy were not flying like they could; Harry certainly wasn't flying like he wanted to. He just couldn't with Malfoy there. His only consolation was knowing that Malfoy felt the same way. Not that it was much of a consolation.

Harry was floating in circles and examining his Firebolt's finish when Malfoy's voice blared into his ears, almost startling him off of his broom.

"Potter."

"Yes Malfoy?"

"This isn't working."

"Really?"

"Don't be an idiot, Potter. I know that you're not that stupid. At least, I hope not."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Cute, Potter."

"I try." Harry beamed.

A sigh.

"Potter, try for one moment to concentrate. Hopefully that won't be too strenuous an activity for even you. Do you think you can handle it?"

Dryly, "I think I can manage."

"It is patently obvious that we are both almost unconscious with boredom, so unless you do me the favor of not showing up here anymore, we are probably both moments away from death by monotony."

"I was coming here last year, Malfoy. If anyone should leave, it's you."

"And how am I to know that you're not lying?"

"I'm not lying!"

"Do you honestly expect me to believe you? Have faith that you, a Gryffindor, would never lie? Well Potter, how about this: Bring me one witness who can honestly support your claims and I'll leave. I'm prepared to take the risk that you can't."

". . ."

"No more complaints?"

Harry gnawed at the inside of his lip, cautiously observing the other boy. Malfoy hung in the air like a Muggle airborne satellite, graceless and without joy. Sleep tugged insistently at the corners of his eyes, desperate to hide the venom and. . . hope? The hope lurking there.

"What do you have in mind?"

***

When Harry agreed to spice things up, he had not anticipated that breaking and entering would be what Malfoy had in mind. Of course Malfoy was Malfoy- and Malfoy was a Slytherin- so Harry immediately recognized his mistake.

"Malfoy," Harry hissed into the broom shed. "Where did you get that key?"

A series of thumps and thuds issued from the shed. Something crashed. Harry twitched. Malfoy swore.

"Mordred! Someone should dispose of these old Comets; only brooms with rot or termites should shatter that easily."

"Malfoy!" Harry was going to strangle him. The git couldn't have seriously. . . never mind. He most certainly could have.

"What?" Malfoy's irritated voice echoed back at Harry, "Oh, the key. I stole it from Blaise."

"You stole it from Zabini," Harry repeated blankly.

It was not exactly the way Harry had imagined Malfoy treating his girlfriend. Scratch that. It was precisely how Harry pictured Malfoy treating his girlfriend.

"Yes, yes. Do you need it spelled out for you?"

Thump. Crack. Smash.

"Malfoy! Where did Zabini get the key?"

"Oh, she," thump, "stole it," crash, "from Hooch."

"She stole it from Hooch." Harry wondered if his voice sounded as weak and disbelieving to Malfoy as it did to him.

Malfoy emerged from the shed, covered in dust and clutching something in his right hand. He brushed his robes and shook his head, grimacing slightly as dust clouds were sent scattering.

"Well, yes. You didn't think that we could just ask for the thing, did you?" Malfoy snorted.

"What did you and Zabini need it for?" Now Harry was curious.

Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair, coughing slightly as the resulting brown grime settled on his face. He looked down his nose at Harry (something which Harry was quite impressed by, considering he was taller than Malfoy) and pronounced, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Harry would believe that the day Fluffy became a vegetarian.

"Did I stutter?"

Malfoy's sneer lacked its usual bite, probably because he was a bit preoccupied with removing cobwebs from his person. There was even a spider scampering about in a panic on Malfoy's head. Harry imagined he heard it scream when Malfoy squeezed the life out of it.

"Did it... did it have something to do with that Slytherin Quidditch match two weekends ago?"

Malfoy stilled, crushed spider remains coating his fingertips, forgotten.

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy's lips were a glacier and the words tumbling off of them, ice.

"Malfoy, I know. The Quidditch match Hogsmeade weekend. The one where you wore bed sheets? Where you flew on the Comet you probably just broke?"

"I don't recall seeing you in the stands."

"You were busy with the game," Harry shrugged, a drawn out and exaggerated gesture. He fixed his gaze on a point just beyond Malfoy's head.

"I see."

"You do?"

"Yes, Potter, I think that I finally do."

Malfoy padded up to Harry, the soles of his boots seeming to float above the frosted ground. He only stopped when his lips were almost touching Harry's neck, the ghosting clouds of his breath warming Harry's damp skin. Harry shivered. Malfoy reached up and ran his fingers through Harry's hair, pulling slightly at the tips as though to test their strength. Harry shivered again, trembling as Malfoy lifted his face and gazed at him with lidded eyes, wind-chapped lips lifted like an invitation. Malfoy's eyes blazed silver with hatred and malice and something else, something that kept Harry's own eyes locked on them. Something that Harry could feel throbbing deep inside.

"So, Potter, did you like what you saw?" Malfoy's left hand cupped Harry's face.

". . . like?"

Malfoy dragged his fingers across Harry's cheek, cold and rough. Rough?

"Yes, Potter, like. You've been watching me ever since, haven't you? Have you found what you're looking for?"

Malfoy traced Harry's scar with his thumb, the faint sensation of slime and grit grinding into skin. Harry shook his head up and down, then sideways. He didn't know. Just- didn't know. He didn't even know why he wasn't breaking away. It hurt. He should. The other boy's touch left a trail of lacerated flesh behind it.

What was Malfoy doing to his face?

"Ah. I see."

Harry wondered what Malfoy saw.

"Do you?" Harry kept his voice low, afraid it would break.

Malfoy rested his hand at the nape of Harry's neck, tugged. Harry leaned forward, following the curve of Malfoy's arm until their foreheads were lightly resting against each other, lips grazing. Malfoy's breath tickled at Harry's mouth and flooded Harry's lungs. It wasn't a kiss, though. A kiss was something you did with the person you loved, or at least liked. A kiss was mouths and teeth and tongues and passion, not moist foreign breath coiling on the tip of a tongue. Not slanted eyes that promised hatred and something else from behind shadowed lashes. No, this was not a kiss. Never a kiss. This was simply two pairs of lips resting against each other, a little too close for comfort. Harry shuddered, turned his attention to Malfoy's eyes. They were an impossible shade of silver. And for one moment, it was as if the world was composed of nothing but green and silver colliding, tectonic battles in Slytherin colors.

Malfoy suddenly snarled and sent Harry stumbling backwards. He pointed at his forehead, to where a mirror image of Harry's scar had been etched in crushed spider remains. It stood out a black mountain ridge, framed by strands of moonlight.

"I am nothing as simple as the darkness to your light, Potter. Nor am I some pathetic penitent seeking redemption. Remember that, for the time when you truly wish to understand me. Until then, mind your own." A flash of black cloth, and Malfoy's face was clean.

Harry touched his scar, the lightening bolt covered with taut skin and spider legs. His fingers came away green and black and smelling faintly of rosewater. 'Mind his own?' And if he had somehow come to consider Malfoy his own, what then? A puzzle, toy, phantom, or labyrinth- whatever Malfoy was, Harry had claimed this pale monster until he surfaced from Wonderland, emerged from behind the Looking Glass.

Malfoy sneered. "Potter, clean your face. I'm not going to fly with someone who looks like he just rubbed his face in a trash heap."

Harry grimaced. This, at least, was familiar ground. Malfoy was still going to fly with him? Well. Harry looked down at Malfoy's right hand. He wondered what it was cradling.

"And whose fault is it that I have spider guts all over my face?"

"Yours, I would assume. I have no interest in where you spend your spare time, and most certainly don't want to know what you do with it."

Was it just his imagination, or was Malfoy grinning? Harry blinked. No, still there. Time to strike number twenty-two off of the 'Things That Git Malfoy Would Never Do' list.

"Potter, your face."

Harry spat on the edge of his robe and rubbed at his scar. The cloth came back green and covered in spider legs and saliva. Just wonderful. This was his last clean robe. Well, had been, at least. He scowled at Malfoy. Malfoy scowled right back.

"Potter, you really are helpless. Your cheek. No, the other one. Potter, there is only one other cheek- oh, stop, you're pathetic."

Harry was again overwhelmed by how surreal the situation was. It was five thirty in the morning, he and Malfoy had broken into the Quidditch shack (technically, it had only been Malfoy, but Harry was familiar with the phrase 'aiding and abetting'), Malfoy had. . . something-ed him, and now Malfoy (the same Malfoy who had tormented him for five years of his life) was rubbing at Harry's cheek with his sleeve, his lips twitching away a smile. Harry stifled a flinch, scarred by the contact, and instead peered down at Malfoy through his bangs.

White Rabbit, indeed.

"There, finished." Malfoy stepped back with a look of extreme satisfaction on his face. Harry marveled at Malfoy's anal-retentiveness.

"Alright Potter, let's go."

"Back to the pitch?"

Dryly, "Well yes, Potter, I have been operating under the assumption that I am not the only one who came here to fly. Was I incorrect?"

Harry sighed. "Ok Malfoy, but first, what is in your hand? If it's a Snitch, I-"

"Potter, you dull, boring bastard."

Harry bristled.

"Did you think that I would go to all the trouble of risking detention and Blaise's ire for a mere Snitch? You obviously have no idea how rich my family is. If I wanted a Snitch, I would get one from home; our Snitches are top of the line and hand-etched (with the Malfoy coat of arms, of course) by a master gold-smith. Why would I use a school Snitch?" Malfoy looked for a moment as though he wanted to go on, then shrugged, obviously having decided that any more explanation would be wasted on Harry.

"Then what's in your hand?"

"It's a Zuu." Malfoy stretched his hand out towards Harry. Nestled in his palm was what looked like a miniature disco ball.

Harry shook his head, less than pleased that he now had 'Dancing Queen' stuck in his head.

"A what?" It was not a disco ball, nor was it a strobe light. And Harry wasn't tapping his foot to one of Abba's more inane tunes.

"A Zuu. They're very rare; my father only lets me use ours under his direct supervision. Most people have never even seen one, what with how popular Quidditch is." Malfoy obviously didn't think much of most people.

"So what does a Zuu do?"

"It is a game module. There are approximately one hundred flying games stored in the average Zuu (and trust me Potter, this Zuu is definitely average). High quality Zuu can store upwards of one thousand games."

As Malfoy spoke, he traced the Zuu's faded etchings, faint shadows of serpent grappling with lion, raven with badger. The shapes dented Malfoy's skin, melding together shallow impressions of snake tongues and thick manes.

"Potter- catch!"

Harry fumbled for the ball, his fingers sticking to the cold metal.

"Malfoy! What if I hadn't caught it? It would have been-"

"Broken. Yes, Potter I am suitably impressed by your grasp of the obvious." Malfoy probably couldn't have sounded any less impressed if he'd tried. Harry counted to ten, throttling the urge to chuck the Zuu at Malfoy's head.

"Now choose a number from one to one hundred."

"Why?"

"There are one hundred games preset into this Zuu. What do you think it's for?"

Harry returned Malfoy's scowl. How was he supposed to be able to think this early in the morning?

"Fine. One."

The Zuu jumped out of Harry's hand and began spinning, spitting out rainbows, flags, and what looked to be shields.

Malfoy grimaced. "Mordred. You really do have no imagination. One."

"It's always best to start at the beginning." Harry favored Malfoy's frown with a sunny grin.

Malfoy nodded, the stillness in his eyes untouched by a brief wry smile.

"So it is. Shall we begin?"

***

Harry was staring at Malfoy. Again.

The first time had been in the spare seconds before Snape had bustled into class and attacked them with a pop quiz. Harry'd pinned Malfoy with a half-hearted glare and a slight tinge of red about his cheekbones. The second time had been while Snape snarled out brewing instructions at them, Malfoy's quill a blur on his paper. Harry had bit his lips, the flush spreading to his neck. The third time had been when Malfoy was lecturing Goyle on the subtleties of mushroom shredding, the fourth when Malfoy had spilled Harpy blood on his fingers and licked it up (while staring at Harry, disgusting gross yuck), the fifth when Malfoy had unbuttoned his robes and fanned himself with a crumpled bit of paper. This was the sixth time. This time, Malfoy was doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was just sitting at his desk, staring at Snape like the man was some sort of divine messenger. Prat. And through it all, that faint tint of pink remained, grafted to Harry's skin like a cancer.

Ron watched Harry watch Malfoy watch Snape. He briefly wondered who Hermione was watching.

Harry's flushed reflection refracted across the empty beaker and back at Ron. Ron choked back a cough and nudged Harry.

"Harry, the Salamander tail."

Ron stopped pealing the Bepapa and motioned to their cauldron with his scalpel. Harry just continued to chop their mushrooms, eyes fixed on Malfoy as his knife ground the bits of fungus into mush. Ron shoved an elbow into Harry's side, "Harry, the Salamander tail! The potion'll turn if we don't throw it in now. And blink for Merlin's sake."

Harry turned to Ron and blinked the dryness out of his eyes. "Oh, right."

Harry flipped the Salamander into the pot, his gaze leaving Malfoy for only a moment. The blond and Snape were now talking, their dark and light heads contrasting as they bent over Snape's desk. Snape traced the paper with the edge of a nail, a rare smile twisting his face as he nodded comments to Malfoy. Malfoy nodded back and touched the older man's shoulder, pupils engorged and luminous as he murmured a reply. They looked like lovers. Ron shuddered. Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts like bouncing ferrets (a classic!) and Snapes with handbags and vulture-topped hats.

Ron looked over at Harry. Harry was staring again at Malfoy, his teeth worrying at his lower lip and the Snitch Look heavy on his face. Malfoy shifted closer to Snape. Harry glowered. Malfoy never looked up.

And Ron watched.

***

Ron considered Potions as he trounced Dean in a game of chess, his hands thinking out moves for his absent mind. Harry was obsessing over Malfoy, and it was getting out of hand. Of course, it was obvious why. Harry was still worried about the git being a Death Eater (Ron was completely convinced of Malfoy's guilt) and was trying to figure out what to do about it. After all, Harry had been acting weirdly ever since that meeting with Dumbledore.

Really, Ron still couldn't believe Dumbledore- didn't the headmaster remember Barty Crouch? If there was one thing Ron had learned from chess, it was that there was no defense that could not be breached. So yes, there were some pretty impressive spells guarding Hogwarts now. And yes, the age of initiation for Death Eaters was said to be eighteen. But nasty spells and hearsay did not make for secure halls and well-kept secrets. Ron just knew that Malfoy was passing information on to his father and searching out Hogwarts' every last weakness, his master's Mark burning on his arm. While no one did anything.

Hogwarts was said to be the safest place in all of Britain, but how safe could it be when turncoat teachers, traitor animagi, imposters and Death Eaters on the Board of Directors could gain easy access to its halls, dorms, and classrooms? It wasn't, and Ron had stopped believing that it was the moment Harry emerged from the Tri Wizard bloody and blank. A year of silence and peace had done nothing to calm Ron, not when the silence was so tense and the peace so brittle. Not when Harry came back from summer vacation with glazed eyes and empty smiles.

And now Harry was playing cat and mouse with Malfoy. Malfoy who had been 'claimed' by something, who dropped the words 'Dark Lord' like they were party favors, who worshipped Snape, a former Death Eater.

Something was up, and Ron knew it. Harry, it seemed, knew it, too. This year, the threat wasn't going to come from unknown quarters. It was going to be Malfoy. Ron knew this as surely as he knew there was a black skull flaming dark on Malfoy's arm.

Ron considered the board and made his move.

"Checkmate."

***

"Draco?"

"Hmmm?"

"How old were you when you first had sex?"

An irritated laugh.

"Why the sudden interest?"

A soft rustling of sheets, the sharp smack of flesh on flesh.

"Just because."

"'Just because'? Well, you're being so agreeable, why not. Just so long as you realize that I'll roast this on a spit-"

A low moan.

"-garnished with Basilisk saliva-"

Thrusting towards slick fingers.

"-and serve it to you on camel dung if you should decide to tell anyone."

"Of cour- ah. . ."

"Hm, thought you'd like that. I learned it from my very first. I was ten and she was my tutor. She had the most amazing fingers. . ."

Chuckling.

"You're not so bad yourself. Ow!"

"Serves you right, you ungrateful sod."

Teeth clacking against teeth.

"And then?"

"And then she moved on to my father. Or, onto my father, as the case may be. She was taken care of soon afterwards."

"Taken care of?"

"By my mother."

"Ah. Aaah."

"Yes, well, she can be a tad possessive. My second first was when I was twelve."

"Oh?"

"My Quidditch coach."

"And what," gasping, "was his specialty?"

Legs shifting, opening.

"He had the softest-"

Groans.

"-wettest-"

Gasps.

"-hottest mouth I have ever had the pleasure to fuck."

"And here. . . I thought. . . your mouth was. . ."

Low muffled laughter.

"I learned from the best."

"Then I. . . guess I should. . . thank him."

Bodies layering, melding. A hiss.

"You can thank me instead."

***

Draco considered his latest project; it was his most ambitious to date. If he pushed too hard or moved too quickly, he would lose his advantage. Likewise, slow and cautious movements would yield the same result. Draco knew this, knew it like he knew the curve of sweaty thighs and the smell of rosewater. He knew it like his renewed hatred for Potter, thick and heavy.

He knew it, but even knowing it he struggled. He wanted satisfaction now, yesterday, five years ago. He wanted Potter's neck in his teeth, stomach pinned to the floor, dick in hand. Draco wanted him bloody, crying, screaming, and hateful, ruined as thanks for all of the self-righteousness and valor and looks that never stopped. They never stopped. They scraped and probed and scarred, marking Draco as their own when he was never theirs, never would be theirs, he was himself, a Malfoy and that was the only claim he would tolerate, the only collar he would wear. Not even Blaise dared bind him. But Potter did.

And Potter would pay.