Steel

Steel Chapter Two: Reopened Wounds

"Oh where is the beauty that beam’d on thy brow? Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now? That heart is now broken that never would quail, and thy high songs are turn’d into weeping and wail."

-

The Lament of O’Gnive

* * * * *

It took three days and as many owls from Dumbledore to convince Harry to attempt Draco's journal again.

He grabbed it, along with a gin and tonic, and made for a comfy armchair in the living room. His was a pleasantly furnished flat, really only large enough for one occupant. It was fairly tidy, if somewhat cluttered. From the Quidditch trophies on the mantel to the pumpkin juice stains on the upholstery, it was distinctly Harry's.

He knew, having once stood by as another was wronged, that he could not let it happen again. If Draco wasn't really a cold-blooded killer, then Harry saw no way he could permit what had happened between Malfoy and himself to stand in the way.

With this thought, Harry thumbed through the ragged volume until he found where he had left off.

* * * * *

Let me begin, if not at the beginning, than somewhere nearer to it than we currently are. We'll start with why I insist on writing this all down rather than fleeing while I still have a chance of escape. The answer is that I am a Malfoy and we finish what we have started. I will not run from justice like a frightened dog. I record my version of events because I know the chance that I will get to recount them for myself is slim. I fully do not expect to live to see the end of this. I hope this brief explanation serves to quell your curiosity on this particular point.

* * * * *

Harry ceased reading as he felt a pair of warm lips press against his neck. He slammed the journal shut loudly.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped.

Hermione primly removed herself from the arm of his chair. "Oh I understand," she replied. "Next time I enter my own living room I'll try to remember that your presence is a giant, flashing 'Do Not Enter' sign."

"Sorry, forgot it was yours too," Harry mumbled. "Besides, I didn't expect you home yet. I didn't hear you come in."


Hermione watched his face carefully, searching its well-loved lines for some clue as to what had been distracting him so much over the past few days. She saw his brows knit and the corners of his mouth turn downward. He stared forward without seeing, as though he was focusing all of his energy on what he was about to tell her. She knew not to interrupt him when he was like this. Whether this state signified that he was emotionally closed or vulnerable, she had yet to discover. She only knew that it meant he was volatile and, usually, grappling with some larger-than-life problem that could only come from being Harry Potter.

Just as Hermione was about to be lost in her own musings, Harry snapped back to attention.

"They're re-opening the Malfoy case."

If there was anything that Hermione had expected to hear, it was not that. She felt her breath catch in her throat as her eyes immediately darted to Harry's left arm, which he was rubbing absent-mindedly.

"Do they want you to testify?" she ventured gently.

"No. They want me to be his lawyer."

"His lawyer? His lawyer?!? As in, the one who says 'Malfoy's not guilty'? He shot you Harry! You were there, you saw him with the gun in his hand! There's no way he's not guilty and if there's anyone knows that it's you! And..."

"Hermione, you're ranting! Calm down for a moment OK?"

It was only then that she realized that at some point during her speech she had taken to her feet.

Harry had stood up facing her, and the worn book he had been reading had fallen to the floor.

"Sorry," she mumbled, stooping down to retrieve the faded volume for him. He reached out and pulled her arm back. His eyes locked with hers.

"Leave it."

Hermione stood back and let him get the book himself. He placed it facedown on his chair so that she could not see the cover.

"Harry, who put you up to this?"

"Dumbledore."

"And what made him think..."

"Who knows." Harry ran a hand through his hair distractedly. "He said if I read that," he gestured towards the nearby volume, "I would understand why it could only be me."

"And have you read it?"

"Well I was trying to until you barged in!" he snapped. Hermione looked taken aback. "Sorry. I've been rather excitable lately. I've actually been trying to read it for the past four days, but I can't seem to get past the third page or so."

"What is 'it' exactly?"

Harry gave a bitter laugh. "Malfoy's journal. He admits to killing Blaise Zabini in the first page, the first line even. The only way he's innocent is if there's a disclaimer somewhere saying 'All I write in this journal is a lie.'"

"So then there's no new evidence?"

Harry shrugged irritably. "He shot Blaise for a girl it seems. The journal is over one hundred pages long, so I'm sure there's more. Malfoy is quite a prolific writer. Maybe Dumbledore wants me to sympathize with his tortured, poetic soul." He ventured a smile. It both looked and felt alien on his pale face.

Hermione moved towards him. "Harry..." He put a hand up to silence her. She grabbed his wrist and brought his hand to her lips. "Harry," she attempted again.

"Mmm?"

"I'm here, you know. I wasn't there then, but I'm here now, and maybe I can help you. I'm removed from the situation. I can read the journal and give you the relevant facts."

"Dumbledore said there are reasons that only I can defend Malfoy."

"Harry, don’t let this tear you apart. I’ll read it for you. If there’s something you need to know, I’ll tell you about it. Please let me do at least that much."

Harry stared at the floor in silence for a few minutes. "Thank you," he choked, "Thank you so much."

Hermione offered him a small smile. "Go and sit down in the kitchen. I'll make some tea."