Lumos Obscurum

Chapter 2 - The Antagonizing

Harry woke up the following morning somehow still tired, with his left foot asleep and a cramp in his lower back. He sat up and reached behind him to rub at the sore spot on his back, wincing. A soft snore came from above him, and he scowled. Draco had of course, claimed the bed (the Dursleys hadn’t argued) and Harry was forced to sleep on a couple of old, fraying blankets on the floor.

He craned his neck upward and watched as Draco rolled over and burrowed deeper under the covers, an expression of contentment on his face. Harry’s scowl intensified.

He stood up, glared down at the figure occupying his bed for a half second before turning to his closet to find some clean clothes. There weren’t many to choose from. Aunt Petunia had, unfortunately, ceased doing the laundry for him when he had returned at the beginning of the summer. (“I will not contaminate my expensive washing machine any further,” she had stated firmly.) The first week of vacation, Harry had tried doing the laundry himself, but half of his shirts ended up shrunken. After that horrid experience (during which Dudley gave him much grief), he had stopped doing his own laundry, instead deciding to wear the same clothes as long as possible and clean them all at once with a simple laundering charm once he returned to Hogwarts and was allowed to use magic freely.

He debated with himself whether to wear an orange juiced stained yellow t-shirt or a slightly dirty blue one. After a minute, he took the blue shirt off the hanger, deciding that his appearance really didn’t matter all that much. He grabbed a pair of jeans and headed to the bathroom.

Once he finished showering and dressing, some fifteen minutes later, he came back into his room, rubbing his wet hair vigorously with a towel.

Draco had still not risen. He was now lying on his side, his mouth half open, and one arm dangling over the side of the bed, almost touching the floor.

Harry studied the scene before him for a long moment before coming around to the front, and giving the bed frame a sharp, deliberate kick.

The bed rocked, teetering dangerously before slamming back down to the floor. Draco jerked awake and abruptly sat up. “Don’t warn the tadpoles!” he said stupidly. Then he seemed to shake himself out of it, for he looked up at Harry in confusion. “What-?”

“Must’ve been a mouse,” Harry said innocently, tossing the now wet towel onto the bed and exiting the room.

He descended the staircase and went into the kitchen for breakfast. This morning was quite different from the previous' in the form of one person recognizing his existence. Aunt Petunia was busy fluttering around at the stove, and Dudley was occupied with shovelling food into his mouth, but Uncle Vernon was staring suspiciously at him from his plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs.

"What was that loud bump we heard just now? If you're causing any more trouble, boy..." Uncle Vernon said threateningly.

Harry sat himself down and spooned some eggs onto his plate from the large serving bowl resting at the center of the table. "David fell out of the bed," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "He seems a little unstable to me, not all there, if you know what I mean."

Uncle Vernon stared at him with his beady eyes, as if he wasn't quite sure whether to believe his nephew or not. He finally acknowledged Harry's statement with a small grunt that was neither negative nor positive in nature, and rustled morning edition of the newspaper, holding it up in front of his face.

"There's another article on that attempted jewellery store heist yesterday," he announced loudly, eager to change the subject. "But it looks like they haven't the faintest clue who the culprit is. Damn policemen, wouldn't know a snake if it bit them on the nose," he complained, while Aunt Petunia nodded vehemently.

At that moment, Draco entered the kitchen and squeezed himself in next to Dudley. Dudley made a muffled noise and shuffled over a fraction of an inch.

"Morning, David," Uncle Vernon said heartily. "Trust you had a good sleep? Aside from that unfortunate slip-up this morning, I expect. Lost your balance, I dare say?"

Draco stared at the large man blankly. "Uh, yes," he said finally, deciding to play along with whatever he thought Uncle Vernon was on about, Harry assumed.

"No worries," Uncle Vernon boomed. "Happens to all of us," he finished reassuringly, burying himself in the paper again.

"Right," Draco said, in a tone that suggested he thought Harry‘s uncle was quite mad. He spooned some eggs onto his own plate, then out of the corner of his mouth he said to Harry, "Bet you think you're clever, don't you, Potter?"

"I like to think so, yes," Harry responded casually.

"I'll have you know that I did a Detection spell, and it found no traces of any mice whatsoever. That said, I do not appreciate your little tricks, have I made myself clear?”

Harry was thrown off by this. Malfoy did magic? And the Ministry of Magic didn’t detect it? How-?

“You done with your breakfast yet, Potter? You have a very busy day ahead of you, you know,” Uncle Vernon’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“I know,” Harry said, shovelling the remainder of his eggs down his throat and getting up from the table, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“And you’ll be expected to entertain David when you’re through,” Aunt Petunia chimed in.

Harry sighed in annoyance as Draco smirked.

"Why can't Dudley-?"

"Dudley has more important matters to attend to," Uncle Vernon interrupted, knowing what Harry was going to ask. "He's heading over to Piers' house this afternoon for tea-"

Harry snorted.

"-and he can't miss his morning television shows, can he?"

Dudley shook his head, his chins wobbling from side to side, putting another helping of bacon on his plate.

"Besides," Aunt Petunia said nastily from the sink. "David is not his responsibility. He's yours."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"Now hurry up," she snapped. "Time's wasting."

Harry went into the hall closet and grabbed the dust rag and the polish. Tuesday was Dusting Day after all, and dusting every inch of the house often took up most of the day.

He started with the living room as the Dursleys would probably be clumped in the kitchen for a while yet, and he didn't want to spend any more time with them than necessary.

Carefully spraying some polish onto the cloth, he started dusting the top of the mantel. From the mantel, he moved to the sides of the fireplace, the frames of the pictures of Dudley on the wall (he amused himself for a bit by thinking of how one baby picture of his large cousin greatly resembled a basketball), and then the end tables.

Usually on Dusting Days, Harry cleaned very quickly, anxious to finish the chore and then relax for the rest of the day. This plan usually worked pretty well, but he sometimes missed an area in his haste, thereby receiving a severe telling off from Aunt Petunia.

Today, however, Harry worked slowly, dragging out the task as long as possible. Because after he was done, he didn't have any relaxation to look forward to. Instead, he had to look after Draco.

He sighed miserably, wondering for what seemed like the hundredth time, what had possessed Professor McGonagall to bring Draco Malfoy here of all places. What was wrong with his own home? With all that bragging he's subjected Ron, Hermione, and I to for the past five years, I'm certain that Malfoy has some large castle or something somewhere, where he has a dozen slaves to cater to his ever whim. Wouldn’t surprise me if he even had them hand feed him grapes, he thought. And what of that 'big responsibility' McGonagall went on about? I'm sure Malfoy is perfectly capable of handling himself.

A cough came from behind him, and Harry jerked his head around to see Draco leaning carelessly against one white wall by the stairs. He had obviously come into the room when Harry was deep in his musings.

"Oh, don't mind me," he said brightly, when he saw that Harry had spotted him. "I've always liked to watch the servants at work at home. Not working when they were... amused me, you see."

Harry turned away from him. "Go away, Malfoy."

But Draco moved forward, watching Harry closely.

"That's what you are, aren't you? A servant? You were outside yesterday, doing some sort of dreadful chore in the yard. And now you're cooped up inside on a glorious day like this, dusting of all things. Why, you're even dressed like a servant. Haven't you even the sense to wash your clothes?" Draco said disdainfully, studying the dirt on the other boy's shirt.

Harry stiffened but decided not to dignify that remark with a response.

"You know," Draco continued in a low voice, so as not be overheard by the Dursleys, who were still in the next room. "I always thought that you were treated like a king in your home during the holidays. Being the 'Great Harry Potter' and all that jazz."

Harry gritted his teeth, taking an angry swipe at an end table with the cloth and accidentally bumping the lamp.

Draco tutted. "Careful, Potter," he said from beside Harry. "Don't want to break anything."

"Malfoy-"

"Anyway," he interrupted, his voice slightly growing in volume, "turns out that it is quite the opposite, isn't it? The Great Harry Potter is nothing more than the Muggles' house-elf." Here, he heaved a huge, fake sigh. "Oh well, I suppose even the best of us have to be wrong at some point in their lives."

Harry clutched the rag very tightly in his right hand. "And the point to this little observation you've made?"

"The point, Potter, is that I was wondering if you have seen the irony of things yet?" he leaned closer so that his breath flitted over Harry's ear as he spoke. "What would the wizarding world think if word got out that you are, in fact, not great at all, but nothing more than a servant boy to Muggles?" he hissed quietly, and an odd sort of shiver that he didn’t think had anything to do with his anger crept down Harry's spine at the sensation of Draco's breath on his skin. "What about all the little children who have looked up to you for so long? Would be horrible for them, wouldn’t it, when they saw their saviour exposed. What would they think when their dazzling image of Harry Potter vanished and they saw who he truly is? They'd be crushed, wouldn't they? Along with the rest of the wizards and witches and goblins and those poor, demented house-elves who have looked onto you for salvation for so long, as the one who would save them all from the Dark Lord."

"I expect that I wouldn't care all that much," Harry said stiffly. "As I've proven in the past, I don't care what other people think of me."

Draco chuckled softly. "I'm simply asking if you see the irony of things, Potter. Life's just one big, ironic mess, isn't it?"

"If you're through with your little psychoanalysis, Malfoy, I suggest you leave and let me get my work done," Harry said irritably.

No answer came.

Harry looked around behind him. "Malfoy?"

He had gone.

***

Harry threw himself into his work for the rest of the day. He started cleaning with a new passion; after the living room, he did the kitchen, Dudley's bedroom, the hallways, and finally his aunt and uncle's bedroom. He dusted furiously, energetically cleaning every smooth surface in the house, doing anything that would keep his mind off of what Draco had said to him.

He couldn’t let it affect him... he just couldn’t. After all, he really didn’t care about what other people thought of him, he said so himself. It had been evident last year, when he had stuck to his story of witnessing Lord Voldemort’s return despite all the whispered conversations and Daily Prophet pieces claiming he was deranged.

However, looking back now, he had to admit to himself that he might’ve cared a smidgeon about people thinking that he was mad.

Never mind, he told himself fiercely, driving the thoughts out of his mind as he finally finished dusting, ending with the headboard of the big bed in the center of the bedroom.. This is exactly the reaction Malfoy was hoping for. Don’t be so foolish as to believe what that bastard said. He’s just trying to get you worked up..

And he‘s succeeding, he finished grimly.

How was it that every encounter he had with that blond idiot left him feeling like this? How could he work himself into a temper over such a small thing? Did Draco Malfoy really have that much of a hold .over him?

Harry put the polish away, tossed the filthy rag into the laundry basket, and resolutely went down to dinner, refusing to let himself answer that question.

Dinner consisted of roast beef and potatoes, with Dudley nicking some peas from Harry's plate to which Draco sniggered and the Dursleys turned a blind eye. Afterwards, the Dursleys retired to their bedroom (where Aunt Petunia would inspect Harry's dusting job and Uncle Vernon would enjoy making a number of angry phone calls regarding his drill company, Grunnings), Dudley went into his room to play a computer game featuring the blowing up of alien spaceships, and Harry and Draco were left to their own devices. Harry would like very much to simply ignore Draco and go about his own business, but he knew that if the Dursleys found out about it, there would be hell to pay.

"C'mon," Harry said reluctantly to him. "Let's go in the living room.”

"Have you thought about what I said earlier, Potter?" Draco said haughtily as they made their way into the now dark living room.

“No,” said Harry abruptly, turning on a lamp, casting shadows over their faces. “As if I give a damn about what you have to say.”

Draco raised one blond eyebrow skeptically but did not respond.

Harry sat down heavily onto the couch and tossed Draco, who was sitting as far away as possible, the television remote control. “Here, you can watch some telly if you like."

Draco looked blankly down at the strange device in his hand. “Telly?”

Harry sighed and resigned himself to explaining the concept of television to Draco.

“It’s like those wizarding moving pictures. Except that the people talk, and they tell stories.”

“But what’s the point of such a thing?” Draco asked, cynically playing around with the buttons on the remote.

“To entertain Muggles, of course.”

“Why - ah!” Draco exclaimed; he had accidentally pressed the power button, and the television flashed to life before them with a click.

Draco stared at the moving pictures in front of him, leaning forward on his seat. “Why’s that odd looking yellow man have claws coming out of his hands? Must be quite painful,” he said curiously.

“It’s a cartoon,” Harry said shortly. “Animation. Not real.”

“Oh,” Draco said in a tone that made it clear he didn’t understand.

Harry shook his head and leaned down, reaching underneath the end table, extracting a book that he kept hidden there. He leaned back, resting his head against a pillow situated on the top of the couch and opening his worn copy of Flying with the Cannons.

He stretched out his legs and began reading about Mad Michael, the Cannons' Keeper, so called because of the odd strategies he used to block the Quaffle.

He shortly become immersed in his book, despite reading it several times before. He always enjoyed reading about the exploits of Mad Michael, especially the time when he actually jumped from his broom in order to catch a Quaffle heading towards his middle hoop. He had fallen, of course, and broken several bones, but that was beside the point.

Because of his readings, he became only vaguely aware of Draco sitting beside him as the night grew on, and only certain moments at that, such as when Draco made a startled exclamation when he discovered the art of channel surfing.

The hours passed, the evening wearing into night, and Draco was still completely engrossed in the spectacle before him. A short while ago, he had discovered Star Wars, and had bombarded Harry with questions and remarks about the movie.

"Why do they bother with those silly 'mind tricks' or whatever they called them, when they could just use an Invisibility Cloak to sneak pass?" Draco shook his head. "Idiots, the lot of them."

"That's nice," Harry murmured absently, now reading about the Cannons' famous Vulture Strike Formation. However, he could feel himself growing tired; the words were starting to blur together.

This Vulture Strike Formation (called this because of the downward swooping motion used) has won the Cannons many a game...

"And why must they use that god awful piece of junk to get around when it'd be much more convenient to simply use broomsticks..."

The three Chasers form up, with one in front and the other two at his flanks...

"What's that supposed to be, a large furry troll? Honestly, the inaccuracy of these Muggles..."

Draco's voice faded off, echoing indistinctly in the back of his mind.

...while the Keeper flies out of the goat area... Harry blinked. No, that's goal area, he corrected himself blearily.

He was drifting off to sleep... he should really head up to bed...

But his body didn't seem to want to move... the hard work and stress were catching up to him. He let the book close and fall to his side, landing on the middle couch cushion with a soft plop. His head tilted back and he at last escaped into dream-land...

***

It was cold. Very cold.

Where was he?

Some sort of large, spacious room. He was at the very bottom, in a type of pit, he guessed. There were stone benches surrounding him, but he was not allowed to sit. No, no, he still had one thing left to do. Then he'd be able to rest.

He was distantly aware of a kind of battle going on around him. There were loud shouts, bangs, and bright flashes of light. They were making his head hurt. He wished it would all go away and let him be.

A wave of light hurtled his way, startling him slightly.

Oh.

It looked like he was in a fight as well.

There was a woman in front of him, an expression of glee on her face. She knew she would win, as he knew he would lose.

Well then, who was he to back down from a good fight, even if he knew he was to fail?

So he fought hard. He fought gallantly. But most importantly of all, he had fun.

And when that last curse hit him, he didn't feel any sense of remorse.

At least now it would all be over.

He felt himself falling backwards. He was tumbling... rolling over... head over heels... plummeting into that black void where he would never be seen again...

Harry woke up, sweating. It was completely dark silent, and he wasn’t in his bedroom. He was slumped over with a sharp object digging into his side. What-?

The dream he’d just experienced came rushing back to him and he sat up straight. Oh, I’ve been dreaming again. Big surprise, that, he thought with a sigh, and wiped the sweat off his forehead irritably, already anxious to forget about the nightmare. He knew what event he had been relieving, and whose head he had been inside, for he had experienced that type of dream many times beforehand, and they always ended the same way: tumbling into the endless void, where he didn't know how long nor how far he would be falling. He did not know the destination. Nor did he care, because he just wasn't going to think about such things, and that was that.

He yawned, blinking drowsily, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. He saw that he was still in the living room, slumped over the arm of the couch, and the sharp object that was irritably digging into his side was Draco Malfoy’s elbow. Draco was asleep, nestled against Harry’s side as if he was Draco’s own personal pillow.

Harry made a noise of revulsion in the back of his throat and stood up quickly. Draco fell back against the couch, letting a soft snore escape, but was otherwise not acknowledging the loss of his pillow.

Bloody hell, Harry thought as he frantically brushed off the side of his body that Draco had touched. If I never wake up to something like that again, it’ll be too soon.

He was finally able to collect himself, realising that that it was probably the middle of the night, and he needed to get him and Draco up to Harry’s room before the Dursleys found them.

He reached down, yanking his Flying with the Cannons book out from underneath Draco, and saw with annoyance that some pages were bent. He frowned over at Draco’s unconscious form as he placed the book safely back in it's hiding place. He also put away the remote control (since the television was off, he guessed that Draco had bumped the power button when he fell asleep), before finally turning to Draco.

“Wake up,” he hissed irritably.

There was no movement from Draco.

He kneed him lightly in the side, not wanting to wake the Dursleys. “Get up,” he hissed again, more forcefully this time.

It soon became clear to him that Draco was anything but a light sleeper.

Harry let out a sigh of exasperation. “Fine,” he said rudely. “I don’t give a toss where you sleep. You can sleep out in the garden and get bit up by all of the bleedin' bugs, for all I care.”

Harry walked toward the staircase, throwing one last look of disgust back sleeping boy before ascending.

At least now he would get to sleep in his own bed.