White Horses

FRIDAY NIGHT. HARRY JIGGLED HIS leg nervously, though it was a tic he'd always hated in others. He was sitting in the Gryffindor common room. Dinner had just ended and all the students had shuffled back to their houses to start work or play, as usual. Also usual was the way most the Gryffindors were ignoring him or shooting him the occasional disapproving glare.

In contrast, Hermione and Ginny were both watching him in barely veiled concern. Hermione had filled the youngest Weasley in on everything that had happened in the Hospital Wing and it seemed the two girls still couldn't assure themselves that Harry hadn't hurt himself on purpose.

Ginny seemed to be chewing on something to say. Both the girls were looking at him in a frank, disconcerting way, as if they expected him to pull out his wand and Avada kedavra himself on the spot. Unable to take it, Harry jumped up and picked up his sack from the floor, saying quickly, "Well, I'm off to the library then. It's Friday, you know."

Hermione, naturally assuming that Draco would be in the library as well, offered, "I could come with. Do you guys need help with any of your studies? Artihmancy?"

Ginny piped up as well, "Yeah, I could go, too! It's really lovely to know all the sixth form work before any of my classmates."

"Oh, uh," Harry stumbled over words as he back away, "that's all right. But thanks, all the same." He practically ran from the common room.

He did start of to the library, and he even kept telling himself the entire way that he was truly going to study. He knew it was a lie, though, and he couldn't deny the flood of disappointment that swamped him when he saw that Draco truly wasn't in their study room.

As Harry walked back out of the library, he berated himself. After all, how could he have been expecting else? Draco had sent him a letter which clearly stated that he wouldn't be coming - what, had he thought it was just a joke? Muttering darkly to himself, Harry followed his feet mindlessly and found himself down in the abandoned dungeons. He paused slightly as he walked past the door to Draco's old room, but continued on toward Gryffindor's dungeons.

He let himself into the empty commons, not bothering with a light spell. Feeling his way through the dark, he found the door to the Head's room. Once he had closed the door behind himself, he finally summoned a dim light. As the glow spread through the room, glinting off particles of dust, he dropped gingerly onto the musty bed. A cloud of dust motes flew up about him like glitter and he stared at the windows in front of him.

Was Draco on the other side of those windows? Was he alone? If he was there, why was he there, and not meeting Harry?

They hadn't even talked once during the week. They'd had classes together, but they were so busy that it was easy to go a whole class period without sharing a word. After all, Hallowe'en had just passed and that meant the rush to exams. Classes were always tough at this time of year.

Harry knew that it was just an excuse though. They'd always made time to talk when they'd wanted to. Even if classes were busy, even if Malfoy was swamped under Head Boy duties, they could make the time if they really wanted to.

Hermione had told him how Draco had been the first to reach him when he'd collapsed. She'd told him that Draco didn't even pause when Snape threatened his grade, but had rushed Harry to the hospital wing. She'd told how Draco had done the impossible and given Harry enough energy to survive.

Harry knew that the Head Girl wouldn't lie to him, but it was still impossible to believe that Draco could've done that, when he now acted so cold. He hadn't even once asked if Harry was all right.

He looked out the false windows at the night-time grounds. He could see the lake glittering with moonlight and remembered playing with Draco and Ginny in the snow, about this time last year. That had been the day that they had reconciled, after he'd found out that Draco was a Death Eater. It had also been the day that Ron and Hermione had gotten together.

When had that day been? Early December, or so he thought. It was now early November - nearly a year later. He and Draco had first started over a year ago, though he had no idea when their 'anniversary' was, if they even had one.

They'd split up and gotten back together so many times that Harry had no idea how to count their time together. When he'd thought that Draco was dead, he hadn't gotten together with anyone else - he couldn't have even imagined being interested in anyone else - but did that time count? He didn't dare ask Draco about something so sentimental. Plus, he never wanted to remind the boy of the months he'd spent imprisoned in his own dungeons.

Harry stared yearningly at the distant quidditch hoops. How long had it been since he'd flown? That had also been about a year. He wanted to fly, maybe even without a broom. He could just step off the astronomy tower and feel the air rushing past him. Even when he'd fallen hundreds of feet from his Nimbus 2000 in third year, he hadn't been frightened. There was nothing to be frightened of...

The boy shook his dark head in disgust. No wonder my friends are worried. I sound positively suicidal.

A voice interrupted his self-flagellation and he recognized the portrait of Gryffindor's gravely tones, "What you be doing, boy? Forgotten the spell already, have you?"

Harry didn't move for a moment, but after his hesitation he did push himself up and walk back through to the common room. His dusty light followed him and dispersed thinly throughout the larger room. Frowning at the insufficient lighting, Harry waved his arm in a circle and all the empty fireplaces sprang to life. The merry light flickered upon the polished roots that laced across the ceiling.

The man in the portrait looked curiously down at Harry and his green eyes had the slightest smile in them as he offered, "I might be convinced to teach you again the secret of the windows."

Harry laughed unhappily and dropped onto one of the poufs that formed a ring in the centre of the room. He could feel the heat of the fires reaching out to him. "No thanks. I remember how to work the windows."

They fell into a easy silence as the crackling of Harry's fires filled the empty spaces of the conversation. Since there was no one to see him but an isolated portrait, Harry didn't bother with his wand to transfigure his pouf into a squashy armchair. He eased back against the chair's soft back with a worried sigh, letting his eyes fall shut.

"Hmph," the portrait intruded again, "I haven't seen magic like that since the days of my own life."

Harry pried one eye open to look at the portrait, "Really?"

The gruff man leaned forward so that he seemed to be resting his elbows on his heavy gilt frame, "Aye. In my lifetime, wizards were not so accustomed to, or dependent on, wands. But it seemed to me that the fashion changed to foolish wand-waving and incantations."

The young Gryffindor started at the familiarity of the words. They echoed eerily the words of Snape during his first class, six years ago. If only the Potions Master knew how much he sounded like Godric Gryffindor.

Harry opened his other eye and looked up at the portrait, "Sir, what happened down here? Why were these dorms abandoned?"

"Ahh," the ancient man propped his whiskery face up on an even rougher hand. "Yes, I thought you might be curious." Harry sat up a bit and waited for the man to continue, hoping Gryffindor's story might be enough to distract him from the lack of Draco.

"I'm afraid it is not that interesting of a tale, really. It must have been, oh, 600 years ago now. I believe it was the year 1389."

Harry smiled a bit at Gryffindor's casual dismissal of 600 years and allowed the man to elaborate with, "It was nothing more than a bitter headmaster, furious over my influence. He'd spent seven years at the school, hating the Slytherins with a passion. And he'd spent those seven years under my gaze, having to listen to my preaching about being amicable with Salazar's students."

"Under your gaze? You mean... he was a Gryffindor?"

The red-haired man chuckled, "Oh, yes. He was one of my house, verily. But he could not seem able to bear that the founder of his house did not have what he deemed to be the appropriate 'Gryffindor' pride. He sought to remove my portrait and when he found that it could be removed by neither spell nor by force, he moved the entire dormitory instead. I was left here so that no further generations of Gryffindors would have to shoulder the embarrassment he felt for his founder."

"But, Godric, couldn't-" Harry broke his question off when he noticed how the man in the portrait had flinched. He recalled belatedly how Draco always referred to his own house's founder as 'Lord Slytherin.'

"I'm sorry," he stammered, as he looked up at that fierce warrior. Even though the man was nothing more than brushstrokes on canvas, the dark anger in his eyes was frightening. "I didn't think - I mean, My Lord, I-"

The fire in those pthalo green eyes was banked and the portrait of Gryffindor told him, "No, it is not your insult to apologize for. I would not protest to your calling me by name, but that name be hated so. Please, however, call me 'Gryffindor,' if you like. I am no lord to you."

Harry relaxed again into his seat and asked tentatively, "If it's not too bold of me, er... Gryffindor. Why do you hate your name?"

The old eyes widened in surprise, folds of sagging skin lifting with the motion, "Do you not even know of the Battle of Maldon?"

When Harry shook his head mutely, the wizard gave a sharp crack of laughter. "I don't know whether to lament the deficiencies of your education or celebrate that my shame has fallen at the hands of History's haphazard pruning.

"The Battle of Maldon, my boy, was one of the great battles against those marauding invaders that we called wicingum in the tongue of my youth. My brothers and I took part in the battle, though not by choice.

"Our father, Odda, owed a Wizard's debt to the leader of the battle, the earl Byrthnoð. Ah, Byrthnoð was a great leader of men - mainly because he was clever enough to use others to his advantage and still clever enough to act simple.

"The old earl knew that he was far out-matched, so he called in my father's debt to him. After all, anyone knew that Odda and his three sons were worth more than an entire troupe of the green soldiers, many pulled from their farms and families. That earl could persuade a river to flow up a hill, though, and so he spurred his unready troops into foolish battle."

There was a glint of admiration in his eyes as Gryffindor admitted, "He did have a good death. I saw him run through by at least two spearmen and even then he did not give into Death's grasping hands until he had prayed to be delivered."

Harry watched the portrait silently, captured in the history. Gryffindor was fingering his sword hilt and resumed his story in a bitter tone, "With his death, my father's debt was then void and it was apparent that the rest of Eathelred's forces would be slaughtered. The wicingum were simply too many and Byrthnoð's forces were not organized enough without a leader.

"I led my younger brothers, Godwig and Godwin, away with me - for we had our own battles to fight among Wizardkind. But we were cursed by those Muggle armies for leaving. They blackened our names in their legends, passing on the tale of Odda's cowardly son Godric, for generations."

The young Gryffindor blinked in surprise. It was hard to process the idea that Godric Gryffindor, renowned in the Wizarding world for his bravery, had been reviled as a coward in his own day.

Looking down at Harry's doubtful expression, the warrior gave a surprisingly gentle smile. "Of course, I truly was a bloody coward - surely why I hated being call such."

"What? You, a coward?"

"Oh, yes," the growling chuckle echoed across the empty common room, "Not on field, of course. Give me a battlefield any day. But there are many different types of cowardice."

His tone reminded Harry of the lectures that Lupin had given him in third year; talks about life, death, and responsibility.

Harry turned away from the portrait. He could feel the fire's heat now uncomfortably roasting his right side, while his left felt chill in comparison. He listened to the man talk but couldn't change expressions - the skin on his face felt tight under the flames heat, as if it was shrinking under their power, like a flimsy plastic mask shrivels in the fire.

"No, I could handle warfare and even face death without fear. But ask me about my emotions and I would turn into a quivering mess. Talk of love? Such things petrified me!"

Harry could feel holes growing in the comfortable glow that Gryffindor's story had left in him. They gaped widely and allowed reality back in.

"Salazar also abhorred talking about such things, but he did so terribly love to know others' secrets. He would pester me - and Helga and Rowena, as well - until we had admitted our darkest secrets to him. And though he seemed as devious as the bloody snakes he communed with, we all trusted him with our deepest-held shames and hopes."

Gryffindor was smiling slightly as he stared off into the past, but Harry was not smiling. He felt as if another hole had opened inside of him and his stomach was sinking faster and faster. All of his insides were leaking out of him.

"That's how our friendship worked, Salazar's and mine. He was so desperate to know all my secrets that he would trade for some of his own. I think that I knew most all his secrets before he died. All but one," Gryffindor mused with a bittersweet expression, even a millennium after his friend's death. "He had one secret that he never would give up to me..."

The room was silent but for the hungry crackling of the many fires. Harry thought painfully of how many secrets Draco had held back from him: his induction as a Death Eater, his plan to betray Voldemort, even his love for Harry... And what was he still hiding? Slytherin had said at the beginning of the year that Draco still held one huge secret, one that could involved him - what was it? Was it the reason for Draco's behaviour? Did he dare ask Salazar what it was?

There was the problem that Gryffindor seemed to be pointing out to him.

He and Draco were enough like Slytherin that they wanted to know each other's secrets - yet they were both scarred enough (and as a result, scared enough) that they couldn't actually bear finding out the answers to their questions. After all, what if the answer wasn't what they wished for? It couldn't be taken back then. But now... oh, now, when they still didn't dare say anything, they could believe what they wished and it would be true enough.

Harry realized that he couldn't ask Slytherin what Draco's secret was. It wasn't because it felt wrong or underhanded, or because he believed Draco would tell him when he was ready. It was simply because he wasn't brave enough to know the truth. And as soon as he realized this, he fled from Gryffindor's room.

DASHING THROUGH EMPTY DUNGEON CORRIDORS blindly, instinctively turning at corners and fumbling through doors, Harry felt like a prat. He hadn't said anything to Gryffindor's portrait, simply run away like a coward. A coward...

He stopped, leaning against a cold stone wall and sucking in gasps of the dark air. Oh god, I should never have argued with the Sorting Hat. I don't belong in Gryffindor. My decisions don't reflect a thing, except that I am a bloody coward and decided to run away from a bloody painting and the truth.

He felt as disgusted with himself as all his schoolmates did, as all his boggart's visions had been. Even there - he hadn't done anything against Seamus for what he'd done. At first, he'd just been too shocked but now he was beginning to share everyone else's opinion: maybe he wasn't even worth revenge. Maybe he didn't even deserve justice.

Harry pushed off the wall and trudged back to the library, where he had started his evening. The doors were now locked, the whole school was sleeping, but it took him not even a minute to get in. He was the only one in the main stacks, though he couldn't be sure that no one was tucked away in one of the private rooms after hours, as he himself would have been.

He glanced around nervously one more time, then let himself into the Restricted Section. No one seemed to be in these secluded rows, not even any Invisibility cloak-hogging Slytherins. He pulled his wand and waved it around the small room, finishing with a complicated flicking motion, "Manifesto digitulus contactum draconigena."

It was gradual, but a dim glow began to appear among some of the books. As it grew stronger, Harry could have almost smiled to see that it was tingeing most of the tomes in the Restricted Section. This spell revealed magically the 'fingerprints' of a person. Anything that Draco had touched in the room would show glowing traces of it; the newest, the brightest.

Apparently Draco had been very curious in his youth, because practically the whole section was lit up by the myriad old glows.

The divination books that Draco had been sleeping on last time were by far the brightest lights on the bookshelves. Still not sure whether he would dare follow the boys footsteps and see where they led, Harry reached out to take one of the books down, but he stopped dead when he saw his own hand.

He pulled back his sleeve with his other hand and it was undeniable: he was glowing far brighter than any of the books. Was it because the magical transfusion Draco had given him? Or was it the hundreds (no, thousands?) of touches that had accumulated on his skin over the last year?

"Finite incantetum."

His voice shook as he whispered the counter-curse and he was suddenly blinking in the unrelieved dark. He looked down at his hands, but they were once again undistinguishable, invisible in the black night. He left the library.

THE NEXT MORNING, HARRY WOKE in a disconcertingly familiar room. The morning light slanting in from the south-facing window to his right. The heavy warmth of the silk duvet on his body. The ridiculous extravagance of satin sheets against his skin. This was Draco's room.

No, that's not right...

He rubbed his eyes and realized that he was in the dungeon room that Draco had used the previous winter. He didn't recall coming here the previous night, but he didn't remember that much after he'd gone down to the kitchens and bullied Dobby into giving him some firewhiskey.

Harry shook his head, his shaggy black hair flopping in front of his eyes, and then regretted it. He had a tender bit on his nose, where his glasses had dug into his face all night. And he had a headache like his skull had been used as a practice bludger. He pushed himself out of the bed with difficulty and staggered from the room.

After twelve corridors, nine sets of stairs, one detour because of a moving staircase and only four breaks to lean against the wall, breathe slowly, and reconsider his close, personal relationship with the porcelain god, Harry arrived at the Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady resentfully opened for his rude command and he stepped into the common room. He was horrified to see Hermione and Ginny already up and working.

"Bloody hell, what're the two of you doing? It's only..." he looked at his bare wrist, where there was no watch to be found. Right. He still had never replaced the one that drowned in the Second Task.

"It's only... what, Harry? It's only half-ten, you mean?"

Hermione smirked slightly, "Not such an unreasonable hour for most of us. But, then again, most of us spent the nights sleeping properly and peacefully in our own beds."

She looked pointedly at his wrinkled clothes and tousled hair. "You don't seem to have slept that much." Her smirk grew even craftier and she was feeling pleased enough for her friend to purr suggestively, "Had a pleasant night, Harry? Looks like things went rather well."

Harry realized just what conclusion Hermione had arrived at and waffled wordlessly for a moment. He was utterly flummoxed. How could he explain how impossibly wrong she was? Instead, he agreed weakly, "Er, yeah... guess so."

And then he rushed for the loo.