A Plague of Legends

Chapter Eighteen: The Meaning of Friendship, Part I

Or, Judgment, Reversed

"Human emotion is an ephemeral thing, fragile and easily broken or warped. The ties between lovers and friends are more often than not eventually sundered by opposing desires, quarrels, and changing ideologies. This is as it should be, for at the heart of humanity is an innate Chaos that struggles against society's imposed rules and 'morality'. Humans are always changing, moving, creating and destroying. That is the way of things. There are few human bonds strong enough to withstand the Chaos within. Family is one such bond. . ."

Demetrius Malfoy, 1023 A.D.

***

"Wait," Ron said as the Fat Lady's portrait slid into place behind him.

Hermione turned back to look at him and almost wished she hadn't. He'd been angry for hours, brooding over Harry's inexplicable pilgrimage to Slytherin yesterday, upset over how Harry had donned his rusty armor, left behind charger and friends all and gone to the rescue of someone who would never be in distress. It had been odd, out of character in a way that was almost in-character, Hermione supposed. Lately Harry had become obsessed with helping, with patrolling and checking wards and staying out until all hours on the prowl. It seemed. Not for the first time Hermione regretted how she'd become an almost permanent fixture in Snape's office.

But there was no way Hermione could miss or ignore Ron now, not with the way he seemed to be burning up inside. Everything about him was red: face and fingers and the tips of his ears, not to mention his hair. Even his eyes were red, bloodshot with exhaustion and the anger that was bursting blood vessels all over his body. He clenched his fingers and stared at Harry, and Hermione didn't know if he remembered she was even there. She wasn't sure she wanted him to remember.

Harry just stood there, trying his best not to look nervous as he picked at his nails. He knew Ron's temper, had to have seen it on the rise throughout the meeting and then today's lessons. He obviously knew why Ron was mad, or at least had an idea why. Of course, it was plain why: Ron hated Malfoy beyond anyone else and no matter how laudable Harry's Samaritan impulses had been, he was about to pay the piper.

Hermione watched Ron take a step forward and saw that he'd carefully fisted his hands in his robes. He was trying to stay calm- that much was obvious. Otherwise his hands would be free for all sorts of wild gestures (a habit Hermione was very familiar with). The fact that he was trying was more frightening than anything else, really. Hermione forced herself to step in.

Clearly, and as soothingly as possible, Hermione said, "What is it, Ron?"

Ron ignored Hermione and walked closer to Harry, seeming to get angrier with each step. Slowly, he said, "What was that about, Harry?"

As if from outside a bubble, Hermione watched her friends interact, like they were staging some play she had no business performing in, perhaps wasn't even supposed to watch. If she reached out Hermione could almost feel the edges of the bubble pressing against her fingers, a physical manifestation of Ron's anger and Harry's fear.

Hermione watched Harry shuffle his feet and look down, hiding his face. "'That'?" he asked. His voice quavered slightly.

"Lunch yesterday," Ron said, and something inside Harry seemed to crack at that.

"Why did you go to Malfoy, mate?" Ron asked his question carefully, like there were infinite layers of meaning to it and he was searching them all. Hermione wasn't sure what for, anymore. Not with Ron's voice so cold and angry, not with his eyes slanting just as they did before he declared checkmate.

"He was trying to be kind Ron, that's all," Hermione said, though she didn't believe it. Neither boy gave any sign that they had heard her.

Harry said nothing, just stared at Ron, his own eyes full of mysteries laid bare. For once Hermione understood none of them.

In the face of Harry's stare, something in Ron seemed to shatter, and he took another step forward, his Adam's apple working around his furious words. "It's Malfoy, isn't it?" he asked, snarling. Betrayed stared at betrayer and Hermione floated on the rim, less than a ghost to the both of them.

Harry shook his head, less a denial of meaning than that of emotion, and made a low sound in his throat. He looked at Ron, pleading.

Ron shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and said, savagely, "It was Malfoy you were talking about, wasn't it mate?" With each word Ron's voice rose, louder and louder until his accusation echoed around them. Hermione crossed her arms, the hair on them raised, and she hugged herself, scared. Ron scared her.

"Ron. . ." Harry said, and then fell silent.

Hermione forced a whisper from her throat, tried to diffuse the situation. "What was Malfoy, Ron?" she said, wincing when it bounced off of their bubble.

Ron made a face like he'd tasted something too awful for words and yelled, "You're fucking Malfoy, aren't you. You're bloody fucking Malfoy."

Hermione watched the bubble burst.

***

Draco woke screaming.

He saw the blood on his hands and screamed, unable to stop remembering.

There had been laughter as he died, long full chortles that had curled around his weeping form. He had not even known he was crying, a pure physical reaction to the pain as he was ripped open.

There had been blood.

So much blood.

The blood had painted black whorls onto the stone beneath him, and he had scrabbled at it as they tore his heart out. They had laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And then they had crushed the muscle into pulp and made a wine of it, that Draco had dipped his fingers in, and drank.

Drank it like it was pumpkin juice or elixir, not his blood and Draco screamed because its taste coated his mouth. He screamed until there was nothing left in him, nothing but the swirl of blood sitting deep in his stomach.

It was still there, still present, still inside of him and on him though it shouldn't have been, not like that, and then Draco was dispelling the wards around his bed, running past Vince and Greg (they looked worried and scared, the bastards; the traitors), running out of his bedroom and into the boys' bathroom where he collapsed over a toilet and stuck his fingers down his throat (his fingers, Mordred his fingers). Draco heaved up everything inside him, from his pre-sleep snack to dinner before that and still he could feel his blood seeping into the depths of him.

Draco thought about stabbing himself, of peeling open his stomach and purging himself of the poison that way. He sank to the floor and, shaking, rested his head against the rim of the toilet and clung to himself for comfort. He wished for Harry's arms circling him, like that time, and then gripped himself harder because he didn't need anyone, certainly not Potter. He didn't and the wish for his mother (he wanted to be surrounded by her perfume, lilacs in bloom) was a temporary weakness, nothing more.

Draco was still collapsed in the toilet stall when Vince and Greg found him. They came softly, their steps making light slipping noises against the flagstone and Draco wished that they were dead. If he had had his wand on him he would have hexed them dead, except there was too much blood on his hands already, wasn't there?

Draco held up his hands to the light, watched the spit on them glisten slightly. Spit and stomach acids, not blood. But there was blood on his hands, wasn't there?

Wasn't there?

Vince and Greg hovered over him, like nannies whose charge had wailed the house awake from nightmares. But Draco was not a child anymore, and he knew that his dreams were no mere nightmares. Nightmares did not taste of blood, no matter how much they might be steeped in it.

Draco ignored them and concentrated on breathing, on his hands. His hands were clean, but he could feel them crusted with blood. He wondered what would happen if he chopped them off; if the memory of blood would sink into his arms and stain him black. Blood was never red or blue in memory, never anything but black, like crusted scabs and poisoned hearts.

Draco stared at his hands.

Greg was the first to violate the silence. "You alright, Drake?" he asked. His heavy breathing beat into Draco, fractured nightmarish echoes.

Draco stared at his hands, clenched them. His nails digging into his palms, Draco looked up at his betrayers and sneered. "I told you not to speak to me."

It was not difficult to be cruel to two such as them. It was even easier to take comfort from their discomfort, pleasure from their pain. His loss pained them, he could tell. It split them open, deprived them of a solidarity that had never been lacking before. His loss pained them, and if it pained him in turn what did it matter?

Nothing at all, Draco was coming to find.

There was room aplenty for thoughts such as this in the long silence following Draco's words, their very situation an admission of guilt. But there was no guilt in their eyes, only a sad sort of understanding as they watched Draco pick himself up from the dirty floor and brush himself off. His hands shook as he did so, and he leaned against the stall wall to keep from wobbling.

Vince's eyes narrowed and he pushed past Greg to stand in front of Draco. "What did you see?" he asked, and groped at his pocket.

What, did Vince have something in there that would make it all better? Did he think this all as simple as a small bruise, some superficial wound that could be healed with a light kiss and whispered spell? What did he think was happening, anyway?

Draco pressed himself against the wall's wood, sure that if he let go he'd fall down. Shaking, he summoned the energy from Mordred knew where and spat at Vince, saying, "Fuck you, you know what I saw."

Greg made a choking noise and Draco stared at him, willing his eyes to express every last measure of hatred inside him. "You know."

Greg shook his head; Draco could see Vince doing the same thing out of the corner of his eye. "We don't-"

Their protests would have been amusing had their actions not proven so deadly. They were so obvious, so very clear, and yet even now they insisted on muddying the air around them with their pathetic lies. What did they think they were hiding? Draco held all of their secrets in the rattling cage of his chest; it was only a matter of time before he pried them free.

Draco laughed, low and cracking. "I think it's time we stopped playing these games, don't you?"

Vince shook his head and said, "We're not-"

His eyes lied; the final confirmation.

Draco made a cutting movement with his hand. "Don't bother. I'm not interested in your excuses or lies." Slowly, with infinite venom, Draco said, "You ask me what I See? What I know?" Draco chuckled bleakly. "I See you."

To their credit, neither Greg nor Vince gasped or started or did anything but stiffen ever so slightly. They just stood there, faces and forms like granite as they waited for Draco's reckoning.

Draco pushed himself forward until he was standing in front of Vince, almost touching him. "So what I want to know is how you could do it. How could you?"

Greg shook his head and opened his mouth. "We-"

Draco ignored him. "You knew he would die. You knew that they all would die. And yet you did nothing. Said nothing. Became willing instruments of their deaths."

"Not Blaise," Vince said quietly. "Never Blaise."

Draco laughed bitterly. "Do you think it matters anymore?"

"Yes," Vince said. "It does."

Draco laughed again, shaking so hard he felt his grasp on the wall slipping. "And how, pray tell, can it possibly matter?"

Vince just looked at Draco and shook his head. Then, smiling reassurance like it wasn't the end of everything (like everything was going to be fine) he reached into his pajama's pocket and held out a bar of chocolate. "Eat this. You obviously need it."

How kind of him to be prepared, Draco thought, hating.

Draco shook his head and curled back his lips. "Save it. I'd rather crawl my way back to bed than be helped there by you."

Greg peered over Vince's shoulder. Draco was suddenly struck by how close they all were, needed to claw his way free. Greg looked down at Draco and said, "It matters. You matter," his eyes layers of truth and lies. Truthful lies.

"We'll protect you Draco," he said.

"We're friends," said Vince.

"Not anymore," Draco replied, and watched as a flurry of denials and reassurances blasted forth, none of it more than air blowing hot against his deaf ears.

Draco could see the words come out of their mouths, but all he could hear was Voldemort laughing.

Draco could still hear Voldemort laughing.

***

"You're fucking Malfoy, aren't you. You're bloody fucking Malfoy," Ron spat, and Harry flinched at the venom- at the disgust- flowing from Ron's lips.

Harry shook his head, more at the sound of Ron's words than their actual meaning. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Ron, I-"

"No," Ron said, making a cutting gesture with his hand. "Don't bloody bother lying. You're fucking that disgusting wanker." Ron stopped and laughed. The sound tore at the air between them. "Of course. It all makes sense. The lost points. You skipping lessons, both of you. The way you two would arrive almost at the same time, looking like-" Ron took a deep breath and smacked his fists against his thighs. Ron's hands were white and strained, the skin stretching over Ron's knuckles somehow more frightening than simple violence.

Ron laughed again, louder and harsher this time, like it was all so funny he couldn't keep it in. But then there were his eyes. "And to think I covered for you all those times. Did you think it was funny, Harry? Did you laugh about it with Malfoy?"

Harry let out a sharp breath, feeling like Ron had kicked him (like he'd kicked Ron) and said, "No! I never did. I never would have. . ."

Ron just looked at him, and made a low raw noise that might have been a chuckle but for the pain in it. "No wonder you protected him that time. No wonder."

Harry shook his head, firmly this time, and tried to inject as much honesty into his voice as he could. "No Ron, that's-"

"Save it," Ron said, looking at Harry like he was something beyond contempt. Merlin knew Harry deserved it. "Just save it. Have you forgotten what he's done? What he's said? He calls Hermione a Mudblood and you have the nerve to fuck him?" Ron turned and gestured at Hermione, almost as an afterthought. What Harry and Ron saw, however, could not be ignored.

Hermione stood crying, hugging herself as she shook, trails of tears working furrows into her face. She wept silently and looked at Harry like she didn't know him. Then, trying to stop her trembling, Hermione opened her mouth, obviously determined to say something. Instead all that came out were wet, jagged hiccoughs. Ron seemed to awaken at the sight, shaking himself, then walked over to Hermione and took her into his arms. Pulling Hermione against him, Ron rested his chin on the top of her head. He was gentle, so gentle, and Harry wished it didn't have to happen like this. He wished for a lot of things, really.

When Hermione's trembling had lessened Ron looked back at Harry and said, "What's it like kissing the Dark Mark, Harry?"

What's it like losing your friends, Harry?

Harry struggled for words or feelings- something to save him from falling into the pit in front of him, inside him. Ron was tearing a hole in him, scarring Harry like he himself had been scarred, and that was fine. Harry deserved it, even wanted it- had been wanting it for a long time. He wanted to fix everything, heal the wounds Ron's eyes revealed and dry away Hermione's tears. But Harry knew Ron wasn't going to let him near Hermione, knew that Ron was more likely to punch Harry than accept his apologies, however heartfelt. So instead Harry answered Ron's question, desperate for time, though only Merlin knew to do what, and said, "He's not Marked."

Ron snorted, tightening his arms around Hermione. "And you think that'll make a difference? He wasn't Marked when he was eleven, either, but that didn't make him any less a worm."

"He's not a worm," Harry said, desperate for the words that could convey what Draco was, what he was to Harry. And then froze, because he didn't know. He didn't know, and Ron's description of Draco was both completely right and completely wrong.

What was Draco?

"Then why don't you tell me what he bloody well is. Because all I know about that git is the misery he's given us. Or does he fuck all that away?" Ron gritted out, his voice on the rise again.

"He doesn't-" Harry stopped, shook his head. It wasn't like that. Somehow, it wasn't. "It's not like that. It's not anything like that!"

"What is it like, then? How good can it be for you to do this to us?"

At that Harry snapped, too guilt-ridden and unsure and somehow still overcome with the way Draco's lips had sculpted a mantra of his name. Harry, Draco had said, and Harry's lips against his skin had been like needles dancing designs into silk. And then there were the games and the lies and yes the desire to flee or hide or even destroy, but all that seemed to fade in the light cast by Draco's eyes.

"I don't know, alright? I wish I did, but I don't. I don't know what it's like, it just is and don't you think I'd explain it if I could? I know it's disgusting and awful and wrong, but it's more than that you know and I'd change it if I could, describe it to you so it makes sense, but it's never made sense. I hate it and myself and Malfoy for not stopping and I'm not doing it to you, I'm doing it to me and-"

"Yes, you damned well are doing it to us! It's about us and has been ever since you didn't shake his hand, or do you want to take that back, too?" Ron roared, his red bleeding into the air around them.

Harry shook his head, took two steps forward and, in a low, urgent voice that cut through Ron's rage, said, "I don't take back anything we've ever done or had together. Nothing Ron, and don't you think that means then, too?"

"I don't know," Ron said, his arms breaking Hermione in two and his eyes pitted with anger. "Not when it's Malfoy, not when it's you. Not you."

Harry was about to say something, to defend Draco and them and himself though Merlin knew how or even why, when Hermione whispered, "It is true?"

The question sat in the following silence, and it weighed down on Harry, grabbing at the lump in his throat and trying to split him open. But he was already exposed, wasn't he, and they all deserved better. "Yes," Harry said, firmly.

Hermione wiped away the moisture hanging from her lashes and nodded, as though coming to a decision. Harry wished he knew what that decision was, and watched as tears once again slipped down Hermione's face.

"Do you love him?" Hermione asked- her sodden gaze filled with reflections of Harry.

Harry shook his head, "No, I-" then stopped. How did he feel about Draco? He didn't know. Merlin, he didn't know anything anymore, not who Draco was, not what they had, not even how he felt. Slowly, with courage he'd never known he possessed, Harry said, "I don't know."

Hermione was crying harder now, leaning into Ron's arms like they were all that was holding her up. Then, finally, she asked, "Do you love us?"

Harry started, taking an involuntary step forward. Reaching his hands out, he said, "Yes!" his own voice now husky and rough.

Hermione flinched away, hiding her face in Ron's shirt. "Don't touch me," she said. "Don't touch me."

Ron held Hermione tighter and stared at Harry, disappointment and betrayal and the hurt of Harry's secret burning in his eyes. His eyes were like a weapon in their pain, torn open and raw as they questioned friendship.

They wouldn't be upset (such a weak word, so misleading) if they didn't care. Harry wouldn't have lied if he didn't care. They wouldn't be here, like this, if they didn't care. Harry wondered if they cared too much, or if this was what the word 'friendship' meant. If contained in this moment, beyond acts of foolish bravery and daredevil deeds, was the true meaning of friendship.

Harry took another step forward and tried again. "Ron, Hermione, I- I didn't mean for you to find out like this. I just-"

"You mean you didn't ever want us to know. Ever," Ron interrupted, his expression black. "Well, we do," he finished, shouting- only to cut himself short when Hermione began shaking again. "What do you expect us to do with this? Are we supposed to suddenly become friends with him, just because you two are shagging?"

"No!" Harry said, an almost-yell but for Hermione cringing in Ron's arms. "No, I don't expect you to like him or be nice or anything, really, I just-"

Ron's gaze funneled his anger as he said, "What do you expect, Harry? Are we supposed to just smile and let you prance your way to hell? Supposed to pretend you're not making the biggest mistake of your life, being with that, that Bundimun? That everything's just like it was because that's how it always has been? Everything's fixed just because we know now?" Ron said, hissing. "Well I don't know you, not anymore."

Which hurt, but everything right then hurt. The pain pulled at Harry's seams, tearing him apart until it was the only thing left, it and the truths it revealed. They came flooding out Harry's mouth.

"Well I don't know me anymore either, alright?" Harry said. He could feel his throat draw tight over the rising words, feelings slipping past clenched teeth and growing anger. They hurt, battering at his tongue and lips and aching chest until he caved to their inevitability and said, "I just know I want you, both of you, with me." Harry took a deep breath, then said, "Him, too."

At that, Ron stared at Harry, his arms automatically tightening around Hermione as she nestled closer and hid behind the frizz of her hair. It seemed like she would never stop crying, like each tear was dedicated to Harry. Harry and Draco. The weight of Ron's judgment lay on Harry heavier than any angry explosion Ron had ever indulged in before.

But this was more than an indulgence, and Harry knew it. Knew it even as he did not know what Ron's answer would be. Ron stood before Harry, a complete mystery in his (righteous) fury, and Harry knew he should have told him about Draco when he'd asked, when it could have all turned out differently.

Harry remembered Ron smiling reassurances at him and how Ron had been so very trusting, so incredibly supportive. And now Ron was standing betrayed before him and exacting vengeance with every rasping breath he let out, stark contrast to when he'd joked about girlfriends and boyfriends and promised to always be there. It seemed like today was a day for breaking trusts, with everyone a betrayer and betrayed in one.

So Harry let out a bereft laugh and said, "I guess this means you don't want to be introduced to him."

It was unreasonable, Harry knew, for him to say that; to even think it, really. But the situation was beyond reason now, beyond anything but the low sounds of Hermione's sniffles and Ron's heavy breathing.

"What in Merlin's name do you mean by that?" Ron said, his voice caught somewhere between a choke and a bellow. He put the Gryffindor banner to shame, and in a different situation Harry might have joked about, suggested that they compare to see if Ron was actually redder. He could imagine himself holding up the flag, laughing at the stupidity of it all as Ron flushed even harder. Harry wondered if he'd ever get that back again. Knew he didn't deserve it but even so was desperate for even the most shattered piece of hope.

Taking in a deep breath, Harry cast out his nets for a falling star. "Nothing, I was just remembering when they found Za- Blaise, and you- never mind."

Harry shook his head, suddenly ashamed of himself. This wasn't one of his games with Draco, even if they had become something more than habit, less than second-nature.

Ron drew in a sharp breath and seemed to almost turn white under the red of his skin. He looked like he'd been struck or stabbed, and clutched at Hermione like he was either trying to keep himself from exploding or falling down. Harry wished he knew which.

"Ron?" Hermione said, and looked up at Ron. The corners of her eyes were heavy with salt.

Ron's mouth was ominously open, his face still splotched white and crimson, when a familiar voice echoed from the stairs. "What's going on down there?"

Steps slow and lethargic, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil made their way into the common room. They had just exited the stairwell and come to stand near the Hermione, clucking at her obvious distress, when more voices echoed from the dormitories above.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" Parvati whispered, brushing the tears from Hermione's cheeks. Hermione shook her head and whispered something about being tired. Ron reached up and wiped the salt from her eyes. Parvati looked at Hermione, then at Ron, and then Harry. Slowly, Parvati let out a hissing breath and narrowed her eyes. Even more slowly, as though time had been transformed to molasses, Parvati glided towards Harry; the candlelight made her skin seem dusky and pure. It also made the shadows in her eyes larger, more dangerous.

Eyelids half closed, Parvati stared a threat at Harry and said, "Harry. What did you do?"

The question was repeated, murmured under breath by over a half dozen mouths. Harry wondered when they had gained an audience.

Not certain what to say, Harry took a deep breath and prepared for- something. What, he wasn't sure. And then Ron took it all away.

"Harry's fucking Malfoy, that's what he did," Ron said, and sealed his lips in Hermione's hair.

There was silence, and it burned Harry- burned him as Gryffindor stared at him, shocked beyond the possibility of belief in Harry's betrayal. Their stares smoldered like the look Ron was giving him, hurt and enraged, yes, but different now, somehow. When, no, how had it changed?

And then Harry had little time for Ron because Parvati's palm was cracking against his face, and as Harry's head whipped back he saw the beginnings of what were perhaps inevitable tears crawling down her face. His cheek stung hot, but Harry barely felt its pain as Parvati hissed at him and named him traitor. Lavender was there dragon-quick, pulling Parvati away, and if her mouth was drawn tight as she muttered apologies (she's not herself, please forgive her, we all know you're not a traitor) Harry was the only one who noticed. Everyone else was too busy shouting their own recriminations to see, mobbing Harry with their prejudices and his betrayal. More and more people entered the common room, wakened by the shouting voices, until only a few lone words distinguishable from the building cacophony.

Harry. Malfoy. Sex. Traitor.

Slowly they came, straggling down the stairs in ones and twos until fully half of Gryffindor was crowded around Harry and Ron and Hermione. The mass thrummed, charged with tension, and Harry had no idea how he might gain control of this assembly. So he didn't bother trying and instead stared at Ron, willing his friend (friend?) to tell him why the look in his eyes had changed, to say something. If Harry had said something in that moment he knew he would not have been able to hear himself, so loud was the uproar. But he was equally sure that somehow, somehow he would be able to hear Ron, even if the answer was whispered. Ron stared back, his eyes glassy and hard but somehow so very different than before, and Harry tortured himself with hope.

Harry was still looking at Ron when a pale, freckled hand reached up to brush his cheek. Harry started and glanced down to see Ginny looking up at him, her eyes shrouded. Her fingers lingered a little too long near the corner of Harry's mouth and she said, "I'm still in love with you, did you know?" then smiled when Harry flinched and pulled away from them. Her smile broadened, the lines it drew marking Ginny's face with sad understanding, and she shook her head before Harry could say a word. Stepping back, she turned to Ron and said, "What did Harry do?"

Someone from the crowd swore and shouted, "Harry's shagging Malfoy, that's what!" only to flinch and retreat when Ginny stared at him, her moonlike eyes reflecting Ron's rage. Or was it her own?

Silence fell upon the room, everyone's throat swelling shut from the look in Ginny's eyes. Harry's own words lay dead on his tongue, slain by those eyes; they shone with their own light (and maybe always had), full of what might have been acceptance or simple determination. Or perhaps not, and Harry was delusional in his despair.

Again Ginny turned to her brother, her manner sadly proud and regal, and Harry wished that he had been able to love her, that he had seen her before this. Still smiling, she addressed her brother. "Hey Ron," she said.

"Hey Ginny," Ron replied.

"What did Harry do, Ron?" Ginny asked, but in a way that made Harry wonder if he even knew what she was asking. There was something in her eyes and voice, something that it seemed was only there for Ron, because suddenly Ron grimaced, nodding (Ginny nodded back), and that something from before firmed in his eyes. He turned around to face the rest of the room, careful of Hermione in his arms.

Glaring out a warning, he said, "Yes, Harry's been fucking Malfoy."

Ginny glanced at Harry and smiled, her mouth wobbling a bit, then placed her hand on Ron's right arm and rested it there.

Ron paused at her touch, then took a deep breath and said, almost shouting, "And if anyone has a problem with that they can take it up with me."

***

The Great Hall was vibrating with a strange low thrumming when Draco made his entrance, rather like the buzzing of bumblebees. Of course, that was not much different than usual, so Draco paid the noise no heed until it suddenly disappeared. In its place came the gazes of everyone in the Hall, so blatant and curious Draco felt violated as he stalked over to the Slytherin table. Potter was one thing, but the entire bleeding school was a completely different matter.

What had happened? Draco doubted he should receive so much belated attention over his display of temper two days ago, but there was no other explanation. Carefully composing himself, Draco slid into his seat and began his morning meal. The table was quiet, so quiet Draco could hear that his was the only fork moving, slowly scraping against his plate. The sound of metal screeching against china raised hairs on the back of his neck and Draco looked up to glare at his housemates.

Vince and Greg turned away when his gaze passed over them, most likely still shaken by the previous night's revelations. The underclassmen paled at his sneer and looked down at their plates, scowling disgust but obviously unwilling to shoulder Draco's anger. The upperclassmen smirked threateningly and licked their lips, looking almost impressed- deadly impressed. Pansy pursed her mouth and with narrowed eyes scanned Draco's face for Mordred knew what; if she was looking for weakness- some remnant from before- she was not about to find it. Millicent however propped her elbows on the table and leaned towards him, her mouth curving upwards in a vicious feline grin. Draco tamped down on a brief surge of anger; hadn't she learned her lesson by now? He stared at her and was nonplussed when her smile didn't flee before his disapproval.

Draco threw his napkin down and stifled a sigh. "Is there anything you lot want to say to me?"

Millicent leaned closer and grinned conspiratorially. The hate sparking in her gaze was reflected in the eyes of their fellows. What in Mordred's name had happened, to set Draco's House against him?

"Actually, there is," she murmured, "So Draco, what's it like fucking the Pride of Gryffindor?"

There was a sudden roaring in Draco's ears, like ocean currents pulling him under, and Draco fought the urge to shake his head clear. Red dots dancing before his eyes, Draco forced his face from its sudden rictus and sculpted a hasty smile, asking, "What did you just say, Bulstrode?"

Millicent lifted her goblet to her lips and sipped at her pumpkin juice, her eyes glittering at Draco over the gold rim. Slytherin hardly dared breathe as it waited, and Draco could feel alliances shifting around him, could feel himself being cut loose and set adrift.

This could not be happening.

Slowly Millicent set the goblet down, licked the pulp from her lips and said, her voice husky with victory, "I asked you what it's like fucking the Boy Who Lived."

For a moment Draco saw nothing for the red flooding his vision. Then, pressing his hands to the table, he slowly forced himself up from his seat. Ignoring the sudden burst of noise behind him (which immediately spread to the rest of the room) Draco made his way to Gryffindor Table. He felt the steps as little more than the shuffling of undead limbs, and made an effort to sharpen his movements until his shoes cracked a military beat against the stone floor beneath him.

Clack clack clack clack.

Every step took him closer to the lions' den and soon he was near enough to see the stunned look on Granger's face, the protective scowl Weasley wore like a shield, Potter's pale lips. A low growl was issuing from most of the boys at the table, and the girls turned from him as one, like he was a blight on their shining, unsullied purity. By ruining Potter he had ruined them all, and if it were not for the reaction of his own House Draco would have relished the uproar. Instead, he studied the lions and wondered what it might take to set them loose.

Draco stopped in front of Potter and placed a hand on his hip, smirking. "Good morning," he said, making it patently obvious the morning was anything but.

Potter was sitting at the end of the table, across from the Weasel and the Mudblood and next to the female Weasley creature, as frighteningly red-headed as her brother. And now her right hand was resting on Potter's thigh, the slut. She looked away from Potter and at Draco and smiled. Her eyes were like twin mirrors, and looking into them Draco thought he could see himself; when her smile widened he knew that she saw too, somehow. So he smiled back, teeth bared and mouth tasting of blood, and promised himself he'd cut off that hand, her right hand, the first moment he could.

For now, however, she was nothing and Potter was everything.

Potter said nothing to Draco's greeting, instead stared at the she-weasel's hand, his bangs covering his eyes. Draco would have thought Potter deaf but for the subtle tensing of Potter's shoulders, the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped his knife. Draco understood Potter then, all too well, but didn't care.

"Potter," he said.

Potter looked up at Draco, thick brows clumped together, and swallowed heavily. Throat rough from eating, he said, "Malfoy?" and put down his knife to pick at his nails.

Draco let out a long hiss. He would not allow Potter to play these games. Potter was not going to play him. "Get up, Potter. I need to talk to you."

"We can talk later," Potter said, and continued bloodying his fingers. The school was silent around them, and Draco's hearing was plagued with the sound of snapping nails. It drove him mad, especially when Potter knew how he hated the habit, and he said so before he realized what was coming from his mouth.

Jenny Weasley smiled.

Enraged, Draco grabbed the hand Potter had been worrying at (his fingers were bleeding, stupid prat) and yanked, pulling Potter out of his seat. Out of the corner of an eye Draco could see the Weasel red and sullen, but surprisingly the dunce did nothing to stop Draco. Instead, he actually seemed to be keeping the rest of his House from tearing Draco's heart out, shaking with anger though he was. Draco hated him for it, hated him and Potter and their damn bonds of friendship. Nothing lasted forever, not even friendship.

Especially not friendship.

Draco was inspecting the disgusting state of Potter's nails when his ear tingled with the forerunner of Potter's breath. Draco looked up in time to see Potter staring at him, a hurt puzzled look on his face. Had they hurt him? Draco was about to go over to Gryffindor and rip Weasley's intestines out with his bare hands when he remembered that he didn't care, and that Potter's blood was staining his skin.

He didn't care.

Potter moved away and said, loud enough to be heard by his friends, "Is there something you wanted?"

Potter's expression turned cold and distant, but for a moment there was a break and he looked strangely hopeful and warped, like he couldn't decide whether he wanted Draco to take him away (take Draco away?) or for Draco to disappear forever. And then it was gone, leaving arctic emotion in its wake- but it was too late. Draco had seen and understood. Not that it mattered, because neither of them had a choice anymore, did they- Potter had seen to that with his idiotic display. That must have been the culprit, the clue that tipped Potter's friends off. No, it was too late for anything but to show everyone in this school exactly who Potter belonged to.

Without answering the question Draco lifted Potter's hand and sucked Potter's bloody fingers into his mouth, all the while staring into Potter's eyes. The room suddenly shook with gasps, but Draco's ears were empty but for the quick, indrawn breath Potter took before trying to pull away. Draco shrugged and bit down, holding Potter to him as his mouth filled with Potter's blood. It was easy after that; they both surrendered to a familiar rhythm. Slowly, Draco ran his fingers up Potter's shirt, running them over buttons and under cloth until they reached Potter's tie. His mouth still wrapped around Potter's fingers, Draco undid the orange-red tie from Potter's neck and pulled at the silk, watched it snake free.

Potter's fingers in his mouth tasted like blood and salt and the remnants of sex that surely should have been washed clean. Draco sucked the blood from Potter's flesh, nibbled farewell on the edges of Potter's fingers and stepped back, watching Potter's fingers fall wet from his lips. His hand fisted around Gryffindor colors, Draco raised the tie to Potter's face. It hung like a war banner between them.

"Mine," Draco said, and shoved it into his pocket.

Eyes still locked with Potter's, Draco lifted his hands to his own neck and unstrung his tie. A few tugs later and Slytherin hung limp in Draco's hand, quivering slightly in Draco's suddenly unsteady fingers. The tie slid over his palm like a snake in water, its fabric catching on minute imperfections in his skin.

The Great Hall was completely silent now, quiet but for Harry's heavy breathing, and Draco took a moment to appreciate this before slinging his tie around Potter's neck and tying it fast. His, and now everyone knew it.

Curving his mouth into something wicked and impulsive, Draco reached out and up, grabbing at the nape of Potter's neck and pulling him down just so. Then, deeply aware of his audience- his entire audience- Draco lifted his mouth to Potter's and stopped just before their lips touched. Moving his lips against Potter's, Draco whispered, "You pillock, what have you done?"

Potter shook his head and tried to pull away. "We're not talking about this here!"

Draco snarled and grabbed at his tie (now Potter's), carefully pulling it taut. Today would not show a repeat of his performance with Vince, no matter the provocation or the red blurring his vision. Potter made squeezed choking noises but moved forward, following the lead of Draco's hand on his tie and the pressure of Draco's fingers on his nape. Lips almost in contact again, Draco pulled on the tie and spat at Potter, enraged. "I asked you what in Mordred's name you'd done, Potter. You owe me an explanation and I want it now! Afraid I'm going to ruin your good name, princess?"

At that Potter growled and grabbed Draco's hips, pulling Draco closer and relieving the pressure on his throat. Voice raw, he said, "Fine! Make a scene, I don't care! We're both of us ruined, anyway. And I didn't mean to, it just- Ron just found out about it."

Draco scoffed. "You are telling me that idiot sidekick of yours somehow managed to connect the dots? Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Potter flushed red and tightened his grip; Draco could feel his skin bruising. "Ron is smarter than you'll ever know, Malfoy, and if you only knew what he's done for us-"

"I still wouldn't care," Draco spat, flailing against his imprisonment and ignoring the pressure of Potter's fingers. "Not that it matters, you realize. You've made our bed and now we have to lie in it. So I suggest you put on a smile for your friends and look happy, because otherwise you're never going to get through this."

Potter's skin flushed, darkening, and he angrily said, "Don't think I don't know exactly what you're doing here-"

"You do, do you? How about this, then!" Draco pulled down on Potter and, releasing his tie, yanked at Potter's collar. There was the sound of buttons hitting the floor and then Draco was biting at Potter's neck, sucking the salt free from olive skin. Draco could feel Potter tipping his head back reflexively, giving Draco better access, and Draco bit him gently as a reward. Draco sucked at the side of Potter's neck and hoped the school was appreciating the peep show they were getting. It would be their last.

Then just as suddenly as he'd started Draco stopped and moved free of Potter and his scent and the growing pressure against his leg. "Mine," Draco repeated, loud enough for the words to echo, and moved away. That should show his House-mates and everyone else, Draco thought. However, Draco had barely taken a half step back in the direction of Slytherin when a familiar hand (familiar, how could it be so familiar) latched onto his wrist and pulled him back, into Potter's arms.

Smiling grimly, Potter leaned down and said, "Now it's my turn," and returned Draco's favor; he held Draco still, his lips burrowing into the hollow of Draco's throat, tongue and teeth brutal against Draco's skin. For a long moment Draco knew nothing but the weight of Potter against him and then Potter was gone, headed back to his table as the Gryffindors' whistles violated Draco's ears. Draco watched him go, too stunned for the moment to think, and then-

All alone sat Lady Weasley, a still island among the tumultuously cheering lions, and she was looking at Draco and smiling. She smiled Madonna-like and raped him with her eyes, stealing Draco's secrets for her own even as she welcomed Harry back to her fold.

At that something in Draco snapped, perhaps never to heal again, and he was moving forwards before he realized it. Potter had almost reached Gryffindor when Draco grabbed at him, pulling on his robes and spinning Potter around to face him.

"What?" Potter's eyes shone at Draco's anger and the corners of his lips were twitching as he asked, "Was there anything else, Malfoy?"

So he thought he'd won, did he? Not for long, Draco vowed. Potter would be wise not to mistake this for their usual play; their audience today was no mere collection of plants or mice.

Potter stood complacent under Draco's glare, then moved his right hand up to adjust his glasses; too late, because they were now sliding across the floor, finally skittering to a halt against the tips of Miss Weasel's shoes. Draco's knuckles hurt, and he grinned viciously at Potter. The world stopped in that moment, with Potter panting before Draco, cupping his jaw with his left hand while the Weaselette's hands hovered over Potter's shattered glasses. And then Ginny reached down, cutting herself on glass shards, and Draco barely had time to see her smile falter before Potter struck back, his right fist hooking into Draco's stomach. Draco stumbled backwards, coughing as he clutched at his stomach.

Free of the prison of his glasses, Potter's eyes were revealed hard and joyous and- understanding?- as they stared down at Draco. Draco damned Potter and his insight even as Potter worked his jaw and smiled, saying, "Are we done yet?"

Not even close, Draco was about to say- his wand was already in hand- when Greg's voice issued from behind him. "No, and you'll pay for what you just did, Potter."

Harry nodded and slipped his wand hand into his robes. "For which part?" he asked casually, as though he wasn't interested by the answer.

What was Potter's problem? Draco wanted to scream. Playing games with Draco was one thing, but Greg and Vince were another. They didn't play games, didn't Potter know that? His hot-shot Auror antics would get him nowhere with those two. And where was that screeching Harpy, McGonagall, when you needed her? Where were any of the teachers?

"Everything," Greg replied, and plodded forwards.

Draco forced himself upright and turned on Greg to warn him away (Don't touch him Greg, don't you even think of touching him), only to be struck speechless by the look on Greg's face. It was set in rage, his entire face shadowed in anger, and Vince close behind him was no different. Greg glanced at him and shook his head. "Not this time, Drake. He shoulda never touched you, never come near you. Now he's gonna pay; I'm gonna rip his hands off so he can't ever touch you again."

"Like bloody hell you will!" came a bellow from Gryffindor table, and Weasley stormed into the fray, finally. He wore his rage badly, as always, but still stood proudly at Potter's side. Still.

Greg moved in front of Draco, shielding him, and Vince came to stand beside him.

"We'll protect you, Draco," Vince said grimly as Greg paced towards Potter.

"I don't need your protection!" Draco said, desperate and angry.

"What, can't fight your own battles, Malfoy?" Weasley sneered.

"Yes, you do," Vince replied.

"You've learned nothing at all, have you?" Draco hissed, ignoring Weasley, and had wrapped his fingers around his wand when Vince turned and hit Draco, striking him across the face. Draco spun to the ground and lay there, shuddering slightly as he struggled to right himself. Through the ringing of his ears he could hear shouting from all over, and knew his reign in Slytherin was over for good.

"You bastard," Draco heard Potter say. "You'll pay for that."

Then, "Great Merlin, Crabbe. He's your friend. How could you do that to him?"

Draco rose to his knees and shook his head, trying to free it from the red. He was almost blind from it. Then he wiped the blood from his mouth and said, "They're not my friends. Not anymore."

He would not be pitied by the Weasel. He would not.

Vince ignored Potter and Weasley and instead focused on Draco, saying, "We did learn. We're not giving you the chance to protect him, this time."

"Protect him?" Weasley echoed.

Draco shoved his hands against the stone floor, trying to stand up; immediately he collapsed, curling up on the floor and coughing. He should have taken Vince's chocolate last night, should have eaten more over the past weeks; shouldn't be this weak. A Malfoy was never this weak.

"It's over, Drake."

Draco heard the rustle of cloth and then Potter said, his voice closer, "That's not for you to decide, Goyle." Potter's words were hard and cold, and brought to mind memories of a younger, long lost Potter. Maybe not so lost after all.

There was a pause, and then Vince said, "You want to know how I did that, Weasel? I did it because I am his friend, and I know a mistake when I see one. I did that as a favor to Draco, and it's something I should've done a while ago. I'm through with this stupidity; he's better off a bloody mess than with Potter, anyway. And don't tell me you don't feel the same, don't want to do what I did. You just don't have the guts, Gryffindor."

There was silence as the Hall listened, waiting for Ron's reply.

Instead of answering, Weasley let loose a yell and punched Vince in the gut. That seemed to be the signal, because suddenly benches were scraping across the floor everywhere, students were shouting, screaming, yelling as the Great Hall exploded into violence. Food, magic, and fists went flying and in a matter of moments the original four combatants were obscured from Draco's already blurry field of vision.

Seeing the violence around him, Draco knew it was only a matter of time before he was trampled. He clutched at his wand and wondered if he had the strength or control to cast a Shield Spell; the trembling of his hands said he did not. He had resigned himself to having to drag himself to shelter when a slender shadow huddled beside him and chanted translucent protection around them.

Pansy crouched next to Draco, her short hair brushing against his chin, and quickly scanned him for severe injuries. Scan complete she mumbled, "Nothing but some bruises, severe exhaustion, and signs of malnutrition. Thank Merlin for those new Medi-Wizard lessons. . ." Then, still muttering in a language Draco supposed was English, Pansy reached into her robes and took out a bar of chocolate. Scowling, she said, "I was saving this for History of Magic today, but you need it more than I do. Now eat."

Draco did, and within moments felt his shaking lessen. Stifling a sigh of relief, he turned to Pansy and nodded his thanks even as he surveyed her with critical eyes. "Pansy, why in Mordred's name are you here? I've been knocked from my position, you know what that means."

Pansy shrugged and nodded.

"Then why are you doing this?"

Pansy was silent for a moment and stared through the translucent shield, caught up in the sight of the writhing chaos outside. Still looking away from him, she said, "I'm not doing it for you."

"Of course not," Draco returned snidely. "You're doing it for yourself. But why? How does aiding me help you?"

Pansy ignored him, staring at the outside for long enough that Draco wondered if her habit of talking to herself had somehow damaged her hearing. Finally she turned to him and said, "I'm doing it for Blaise."

Draco lacked the muscle control to stop himself from stiffening; instead, he said, tiredly, "Pansy, Blaise is dead. You gain nothing from this."

"I know," Pansy said, quietly. "But she would have wanted me to, you know."

At that Draco locked eyes with Pansy and said, "No, I don't know."

Pansy shrugged again. "She loved you."

When Draco found himself unsurprised he realized that he did know, and had known all along. "And you're here because you-"

"I'm here in her place," Pansy said shortly, and that was that. So if her hand shook a bit as she tucked her hair behind her ears, Draco didn't mention it. There was nothing to be gained in doing so, not now. "I suppose there's no point in asking why, is there?"

This time it was Draco who shrugged.

"There is one thing I want to know, though," Pansy said after a long silence, which they spent watching McGonagall finally descend upon the melee from on high. The rest of the teachers followed her, but a brief opening in the crowd showed Dumbledore still sitting at the head table, grinning inanely as he bit the heads off of Cockroach Clusters. What in Mordred's name was the old coot playing at, allowing this insanity?

"Yes?" said Draco, shuddering slightly as the Headmaster looked through the throng at Draco and smiled. Thankful for the distraction, he faced Pansy.

"What is it like, having the Boy Who Lived?" Pansy asked, wonderingly.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the question. After another prolonged silence where he saw Slytherin beaten back by an alliance between Gryffindor and most of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, he nodded. He supposed he did owe Pansy that much; they were both pariahs now, anyway.

Vince and Greg emerged from the crowd, the last Slytherins to retreat, and Potter and Weasley followed close on their heels. Potter seemed haloed in light, though that was most likely the fault of Draco's still-blurry vision; he pulled to a stop after transfiguring Greg into a plush lion. Then Harry peered through the crowd at Draco and inexplicably smiled.

"It's like Falling."

**to be continued in part II**