White Horses

THE NEXT MORNING, HERMIONE WOKE up against an unfamiliar body. She wasn't particularly used to any bodies whatsoever being pressed up against her, but she and Ron had spent the night together a couple times, so the feeling wasn't entirely alarming. Opening her eyes, she saw a mess of silky black hair in front of her face, tickling lightly across her cheek. She could tell by the slow, rhythmic breathing that caused the boy's back to rise and fall that Harry was at last deep asleep.

Hermione dropped a light kiss onto that wild hair and then gently rolled off the bed. Harry didn't wake, and so she moved as quietly as she could while she got dressed and tried to make herself as presentable as she could muster after a night of crying.

Wearing her regular Muggle weekend clothes and no robe, she slipped out of her room to go get some breakfast. She took the plates of food that she'd left for Harry, since they didn't look so appetizing after 18 hours and made a detour by the kitchens to drop them off.

Once there she hesitated, surrounded by the cheerily busy house elves, but for once it wasn't thoughts of S.P.E.W. that made her pause. Hermione was toying with the idea of simply grabbing food here from the kitchens, and avoiding the Great Hall altogether. But she knew that she needed to get her copy of the Sunday Prophet. It was only a matter of time before the story got out after all - even the bloody portraits spread gossip at Hogwarts.

Waving sadly at Dobby and the pile of dirty blankets and empty bottles that hid Winky, she left the kitchens and started toward the Great Hall that was right above them. It was still quite early, so she could at least feel relieved that she wouldn't run into Ron. She simply didn't have the energy for another fight with him.

She walked into the Great Hall and almost immediately, her delivery owl swooped down to pass off the copy of the Prophet it held clutched in its talons. She resisted opening the tightly rolled paper until after she had sat down at the Gryffindor table and poured a bowl of granola for herself. Then she loosened the twine ties on the paper and let it unfold before her.

As the headline flashed in front of her, Hermione had to stuff a breakfast roll in her mouth to keep from screaming her rage out loud. Chewing furiously on the soft pasty, she skimmed over the front page article, picking up on the main parts: ...trouble for Potter and Malfoy's illicit affair...we wonder has he finally realized the appalling unnaturalness of his...report seeing Potter run through the Slytherin common room, tears pouring copiously...only appropriate that such an end would...

Hermione crumpled the paper in her hands as she worked hard to swallow her tears along with the thoroughly masticated bread in her mouth. This was just outrageous. She couldn't have expected anything else, of course, but she was still furious to read the Prophet's smug, censorious report of her friends' heartbreak.

Muttering to herself a string of curses that would not be appropriate for the ears of any of the younger students, she yanked a napkin from the table and began piling it with pastries, whole fruits and other tidbits to take to Harry. She got up from her table and was about to dash from the room, but when she had slid off of the bench, it had left her facing the Slytherin table and, sitting there, Draco Malfoy.

It stopped her for a moment to see the sober new Malfoy calmly reading the paper. He was on the front page and seemed to be intently reading every word, with no hint of a reaction. Hermione was sorely tempted to stride over to him and rip the paper from his hands, beat him over the head with it, anything that would make him react in some way. But she had her own unresponsive boy waiting for her in her room, wasting away on her bed, so she left for the Gryffindor dorms.

GINNY HAD GONE TO THE Head Girl's room as she soon as she woke up, but there had been no response there. Wondering to herself if Harry was in there and simply ignoring her, she'd headed down to the Great Hall. She was surprised then to run into a fuming Hermione in the corridors.

"Hermione! What is it?"

Her exclamation caught the brunette's attention, where she would have otherwise gone right past Ginny without noticing her friend. She pulled up short and held up a greatly crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet. It was with a definitely not-Hermione-like voice that she snarled furiously, "The usual tripe."

Ginny could gather enough from the bold headlines that it was a rather unfavourable report on Harry and Draco's troubles. Before she could say anything, Hermione spat in frustration, "See if you can make any sense of Malfoy - he should still be at breakfast. I don't know what he's done to himself, but I've got to go see to Harry."

With this rather alarming command, Hermione was off again, her angry strides eating up the hall faster than even Ginny's long legs could. The Weasley girl stared silently after her friend, then murmured to herself, "Guess I'm to see to Malfoy, then." She started again towards the Great Hall.

When she passed through the heavy oak doors, Ginny didn't even bother stopping at the Gryffindor table, but headed straight for the Slytherins. It wasn't too hard to find Malfoy, since there were only about twenty students at his house's long table - but when she saw him, she did understand what Hermione had meant when she'd said, "I don't what he's done to himself."

The strange boy who Ginny considered to be a friend - though he was not like any other friend she had - looked... well... different. He had chopped off all his hair, leaving it short and almost spiky, though it still looked impossibly soft and she wanted to run her hands through it to see if it really felt as much like the silky fur it appeared to be. He was also wearing a pair of thin and square silver glasses which she had never seen before, though she realized after a moment that they must be the glasses from the blinding incident that the others had told her about.

The Head Boy's usually silver eyes were simply a dull grey today and he shouldn't have looked good - especially with that dead expression on his face - but he did. His pale, drawn face looked more angular and masculine. He finally looked like a grown man, though a gravely serious and pained grown man.

She wondered what Harry would think if he could see the boy, but banished the thought of Harry from her mind. Hermione had left her in charge of Malfoy; Harry was already being taken care of.

Ginny sat down next to the Slytherin with none of the hesitation that afflicted Hermione. She pulled a plate of bacon toward herself and started munching on a piece as she stated conversationally, "So, you've seen the article, I see."

Malfoy didn't reply, but continued to read his paper. He was on the third page now, where the report about he and Harry was continued.

Ginny picked up another piece of bacon, "How are you doing, then?"

Draco turned the page, to follow the article as it continued further onto page four, and said simply, "I am just fine, Ginevra. How are you this morning?"

The ginger girl looked around the table for something else to eat and replied as she was reaching across the boy to grab a plate of potato pancakes, "Well, I'm pretty good, but I must say that there is a lot of tension around me these days. Hermione is furious over that article, of course. Ron is moping about because he can't say two words to Hermione without pissing her right off. And Harry won't even talk to any one, you know, just lies there on Hermione's bed all day without moving."

Draco had twitched the littlest bit when Ginny brought up Harry so bluntly, but his only response was a bored little hum, as if he truly didn't give a damn about the pack of Gryffindors.

Ginny asked again, "Are you sure you're all right, Draco? Because you seem quite bothered to me. And you seem to be staring rather intently at that picture of Harry in the paper."

The Slytherin quickly closed the paper and left it face down on the table. He grabbed his cup of coffee, a disgusting habit that he had picked up from Potter and his Muggle-lover friends, and took a huge swig.

"So why did you do it, Draco? It was you, wasn't it."

He looked at her with frigid grey eyes and asked coldly, "Why did I do what?"

Ginny would not cave into his attitude, though, and she asked just as coldly, "Why did you break up with Harry and throw away the one thing in your life that made you happy?"

He winced and replied quickly, "That's not at all true. I have other things in my life which make me happy." And it was true; there were other things that he quite enjoyed, such as flying or reading or his herbology experiments. But none of them could make him as happy as Harry had, and he knew it.

For only a brief moment, he buried his face in his hands in misery. But then he let his hands drop and forced himself back into control. It had been the only thing to do, right?? They'd just been making each other miserable and he couldn't even bear to look at Harry, because of the awful visions he kept seeing - and he couldn't stand being in the same room with the Gryffindor and not being able to look at him, or touch him.

He started at a gentle touch. Ginny had wrapped a thin arm around his shoulders and whispered softly to him, "Oh, Draco, what have you done..."

They stayed like that for a moment, and Draco didn't even throw off her comforting arm, but held himself perfectly still as he tried to will away the damn feelings that were trying to surface. They were saved by the arrival of an officious looking black owl. It coasted into the Great Hall on silent wings and landing gracefully in front of Draco.

The intelligent owl reached down and grabbed the letter that had been clasped in its talons with its equally sharp beak. It held the letter patiently up to Draco, who took it and then quickly forgot the bird. Most owls would take offence and nip at you, or would settle down to eat some of the free food on the long table, but not this one. This one pushed straight off the table and took flight again without a single sound, leaving the Hall as swiftly as it had come.

Ginny looked over at the envelope that Draco had left on the table, and was surprised to see a broken seal of the Ministry of Magic on its flap. "What is it? What does it say?" she asked, unsure if the boy would tell her anything.

Surprisingly, though, Draco did not simply tell her, but handed her the letter to read for herself as he explained, "It is a notice from the Ministry. They have officially declared my mother dead, and me, the new Lord Malfoy."

HERMIONE HOLED HERSELF BACK UP in her room, setting the pile of breakfast foods next to the smoothed out copy of the Prophet on her small bedside table, within easy reach of Harry. Should he ever wake, that was. He was still deep asleep and so Hermione took the chance to do some more of her homework. Who knew what would happen when he woke?

She turned around every time she heard the slightest noise from the bed, but the hours continued to pass without any real interruptions. At nearly noon, she closed her book and looked over at the bed. Still no difference in Harry. She walked over and sat herself down on the bed, a bit concerned about whether the boy was still even alive.

"Harry?"

She called out his name, accompanied by a soft touch on his shoulder. The boy didn't move or make a sound. Hermione gently pushed him over and he rolled onto his back, his sleeping face now pointing at the ceiling. He was still alive at least, but he looked even worse than before. His face was swollen from crying and the rims of his eyes were even redder, if that were possible. His glasses had been pressed into his face the whole time and so she pulled them off, wincing at the angry, purple indents they had left across his nose and around his eyes.

Even in this coma-like sleep, Harry didn't seem peaceful. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were rolling desperately beneath his thin, reddened eyelids. Now that he wasn't being muffled with a mattress in his face, she could hear him making faintly distressed sounds as he dreamed.

"Harry."

Hermione called to him again, jostling him a bit to try to pull him from his seemingly painful dreams. Her prodding didn't seem to wake him, but it did cause some sort of reaction. He curled in towards her and mumbled softly, "Draco." And then he fell into a deeper, deader, but calmer sleep.

FOR THE REST OF THE day, Hermione let the boy sleep, occasionally trying to calm him when he would thrash about, making soft keening sounds in his distress. She finished all her work and then sat about quite uselessly, which was unusual for her. But she had plenty on her mind to ponder about, as she wondered what she could possibly do for Harry, what would happen to he and Malfoy now, and what to do about Ron. By the time night had fell and she was crawling onto the bed next to Harry again, she knew the answer to at least one of her questions.

HERMIONE'S ALARM JOLTED HER FROM sleep the next morning and she reached out one arm to knock it off the table with a well-ingrained move. She rolled onto her back tiredly and listened to Harry's careful breathing next to her. She was quite certain that he wasn't sleep, so she said, "Good morning, Harry."

The boy didn't reply to her greeting, though, so she pushed herself out of the bed. Padding over to her private bathroom, she grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, squeezing out a liberal amount of paste onto the brightly coloured piece of Muggle life. She knew that most of the students at Hogwarts used spells to clean their teeth, but she still preferred her way. As the daughter of two dentists, she couldn't quite trust the cleaning spells to work as properly or thoroughly as she herself could.

Speaking around the piece of plastic in her mouth, she asked in a slightly garbled tone, "So, you're still not going to move then? You know that it will just make people talk more, if you don't show up to class." The boy continued to ignore her and so she muttered, "Not that you care about what they're saying right now. But I did warn you."

She shut the door to the bathroom behind herself, as she got on with her morning ablutions. Apparently Harry would be spending another day locked in her room. She ought to get him some more food, she realized. But perhaps if she didn't, he would actually be forced to get up and find something for himself. Not likely.

Hermione left without Harry ever responding to her. As she walked to breakfast, she wasn't entirely how she should precede with this. She had gotten so angry at Ron for suggesting that they just leave the boy alone, but was her way really working any better? Harry couldn't just waste away in her room forever, not eating and not attending his classes. She was going to have to do something soon.

Walking into the Great Hall, she was swamped with d?·vu. It seemed to be fast becoming a regular thing for her to walk into breakfast amid stares and whispers, followed by a storm of newspapers rustling. The headlines were once again flagrant and completely prejudiced, flashing accusations and tabloid-like reports in pulsing, magical letters. And once again, she saw that new Malfoy at the Slytherin table, pouring over the newspaper pages as if he could find an answer to his life there.

She didn't understand any of it.

WHEN HERMIONE RETURNED TO HER private room after class, she was happily shocked to find Harry had at least changed positions. Her fellow Gryffindor was sitting up in the centre of the bed, his legs folded Indian-style beneath him. He was holding onto his own feet, the fingers of one hand worrying at a small hole in his left sock and the other just clutching at the thin material. She noticed they were one of the mismatched pairs he'd received from Dobby.

"Harry?"

He looked up at her, for the first time in over two whole days. His eyes were still an almost bloody red, but he wasn't crying now. His lips were bloodless and clamped tightly together, and she asked softly, "Will you talk to me now?"

The dark-haired boy looked away silently. It seemed that was asking too much right now. Hermione gently set down her bag, making all of her movements smooth and slow, as if trying not to spook a wild animal. She eased down onto the edge of the bed and Harry turned his head back to look at her.

Holding one hand out to him, Hermione waited silently for his response. His hand shaking slightly, Harry finally reached out and grasped her offered hand. Smiling sadly, Hermione moved closer to him on the bed and wrapped her arms around the boy, making the sort of soothing sounds that her mother used to croon over her whenever she'd been heartbroken as a child - over some perceived injustice, or the bullying of children who couldn't understand the studious little girl.

She smoothed a hand over Harry's thin, silky hair as the boy trembled in her arms, holding onto her tightly and letting his breathy sobs be muffled by her robe-covered shoulder. All she could do was hold onto him as he broke down and wonder helplessly what was going through his mind.

AS IT TURNS OUT, WHAT was going through his mind was something like this: How can anything hurt this much? Even he couldn't believe the pain. He'd thought many times during the course of his relationship with Draco that it was going to hurt unbelievably if things came to an end. The longer they had been together and the worse that things had got, he hadn't been able to help dwelling on the thought time and again.

But he'd never felt heartbreak like this before. After all, he'd never loved another person like this before. The only other romantic relationship he'd ever even had had been his thankfully short disaster with Cho. When he'd first fallen for her, he'd been head-over-heels smitten with the small Chinese girl. But by the time they'd actually gotten together, he hadn't had any particular feelings left for Cho. By the time they'd broken up, he'd been painfully relieved to be free of her.

The greatest loss in his young life was probably the murder of his parents. And while he would always feel regret for the proper family life that he had lost and would always be bitter about being left with the Dursleys for 16 years, he couldn't really claim a specific pain because of his parents' death. He'd been too young at the time - he didn't even have any memories of them, but only second-hand photos and stories filtered through old love and hatred.

The greatest pain in his life up till now had been Sirius's meaningless death. Because the man had finally had a chance at life after over a decade of wrongful imprisonment, and because the old convict had never even never even gotten to grow up, and because it had all been his own stupid fault.

It was staggering to realize, but even that pain could not compare to what he was going through now. He couldn't even bring himself to feel the hateful rage that had protected him from the reality of Sirius's death. Who could he blame for this?

As he held onto Hermione like she was the last stable thing in his world, his body throbbed with what felt like physical pain. There was an actual ache in his chest - and he'd always thought that 'heartbreak' was just a figurative term. His eyes burned constantly and he couldn't seem to stop the tears that kept welling up as he had wept silently into his friend's duvet for hours at a time.

Harry still couldn't quite believe it was real. He hadn't ever imagined an actual future for them, but he'd never imagined a future without Draco, either. He'd given up everything for the boy - they'd both lost their reputations, the support of their houses, any chances for a future here in the Wizarding world, even the teachers had turned against them. They'd been so lucky to have even a handful of friends who hadn't abandoned them, but in the end, they'd truly only had each other. And that was gone.

He felt lost, cut off from anything, and the feeling made him cling to Hermione all the more fiercely. It was something like Apparating and the feeling of emptiness and dislocation he'd savoured when Hermione had first taught him the Wizarding form of travel, but this time it wasn't relief or freedom that he felt. He was lost in an endless field of pain, and he couldn't find himself, and he couldn't find Draco.

He wasn't going to reappear someplace else, new and whole and unharmed. He'd been splinched - only it wasn't his body that had been torn to pieces.