The Curse of Charon

Chapter Thirteen - Victory and Defeat

By Hogwarts standards, the next few months were fairly uneventful. Only a few incidences rocked the school, and none to the extent that the school was able to be rocked. No one died, no one got involved in a terrible battle with an arch-nemesis, Harry Potter and Voldemort did not meet for a final showdown as it had been hoped and feared that they would almost every term since Harry had first joined the school.

That was not to say that the term was boring, for the students it was fairly exciting in it's own little way. There were make-ups, break ups, fights, jokes and tears. All the ordinary things that made up the everyday life of a quite extraordinary school.

There were things that happened, things indeed, some of them good, some of them less good. Then the things were slowly woven into the tapestry of life, and soon forgotten save for the memories when the tapestry was looked upon.

*

Severus Snape, for the first time in his life, had found himself not knowing what to do. He had just been assaulted by a student, a student who had played up in his class before, a student he felt no liking for whatsoever. His obvious reaction would be to seek the harshest punishment possible, and he was almost surprised when his mind did not immediately jump to this conclusion. Then he realised what was holding him back. Granger. Would she hate him forever if he was nasty to her boyfriend? Would she turn her back on him? Would they never again share an afternoon of friendly, intelligent conversation? Would he never again look into her big eyes, eyes so full of thirst for knowledge, again?

Then the familiar release of coldness, like a friendly hormone, ran through him, and he no longer felt anything but hatred. Even still, he would first see if Weasley repented. He would bring him in and ask for an apology. If he did not repent, well...not even Granger could prevent his wrath.

Things moved quickly after that, he asked Weasley to come to his classroom, and Granger came too, and pleaded with Weasley to keep his temper, to apologise, to get himself a lesser punishment, but Ron just stood there, with loathing in his eyes, and Snape felt almost glad when he left, having said precisely nothing. Granger stayed behind for a little while afterwards, this time pleading with Snape himself, saying that Ron didn't mean what he said, that he was just angry, that they had done a terrible thing and really he had every right to be angry.

Maybe Severus felt his heartstrings twang a little at her desperate pleas. Maybe not. It was very hard to tell, now that the ice had reformed around him, and his slight warmth of the last few weeks had disappeared completely. He was cold and uncaring once more, and Hermione left in tears.

Then before he knew it, Severus was in the same room a month later, with the Headmaster, and the head of Weasley's house, and Weasley's parents, showing them what the boy had done via a pensieve, and his mother was disappointed, and his father was disappointed, and they all agreed that he should be punished harshly, and that Severus himself should choose the punishment, and that he could punish him with as much severity as he wished, and although the word echoing in his mind was 'expulsion', the word never quite found it's way onto his tongue, and then suddenly, where the word had been echoing before, instead was Granger's face, begging him to have mercy on her boyfriend, and then Severus found himself sitting down again, and mumbling something about detentions, and all of the terrible, heavy atmosphere dissipated from the dungeon room, and Weasley's parents breathed sighs of relief and left, and Dumbledore patted Severus on the shoulder and called him a 'good man', and then he found himself sinking back into his chair, wondering whatever had possessed him to lose the power of rational thought, before remembering that it had been Granger's tears, and realising that not only was he hooked but he was sunk.

*

Harry found himself sat face-to-face with his best friends, on the evening of Professor Snape's meeting with Ron's parents. He could see the panic in Hermione's eyes, and the cold, dead hatred in Ron's. For some strange reason, he could see his own eyes as well, in fact he could see all of himself, like he was a spectator of his own body. It was only then that he realised that not only was he not very interested in what happened, but he actually didn't give a fuck. He found himself glancing anxiously at the clock whilst Hermione tried not to cry and Ron sat and seethed, and wishing that it's hand would move forward more quickly, until they rested on six o'clock, when he could go out into the twilight of the late February evening, and he could meet with Draco and he could be happy. He hadn't been feeling so well lately. It wasn't that he was distinctly unhappy, more like mildly uncomfortable. It didn't bother him; after all it was only to be expected. He had lost his godfather; his friends seemed so distant to him now, even though they sat only feet away from him. Anyone would be sad.

"I have to go, see you later," he gabbled quickly, and shot out of the common room like a bullet from the barrel of a gun, jumping down the stairs two at a time in his haste to meet Draco outside.

*

Draco himself was considerably less excited. He was pacing the floor in his private room, wondering what exactly to do. He had received instructions only that week from Lucius on what he was to do for the Easter holidays, which were only a fortnight away. He had to convince Harry to come to Ireland with him, to O'Halley's castle there, on the pretence that they would be able to be alone there, freer to do what they wanted than they would have been at Hogwarts.

Then, once in the castle, they would be ambushed by Lucius and his cronies, and Harry would be taken to a cell and chained up, and Draco would be forced to reveal his treachery and lies, and the Harry would spend his last few hours desperately hating the one who loved him most.

It made him miserable just to think about it. It had been bad enough at Christmas, when he at least had a few months before he had to betray the only person he truly cared for, other than his mother. Now he only had weeks left, and he felt sick every time he remembered what he was fated to do.

A far-off clock chimed, and Draco went out of his room, out of the dungeon and out of the school, onto the vast expanse of lawn that was currently populated only by his love, and felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach as he saw a smile appear on Harry's face, and noticed how perky he had suddenly become.

*

"Dean," said Seamus quietly, coming into the dormitory. Dean did not move, or otherwise acknowledge the fact that he had been spoken to.

"Dean," Seamus hissed again. "Dean, I need to talk to you."

Dean looked up from the magazine he was reading.

"Oh?" he said. "What do you want?"

"Well, firstly I need to apologise."

"What for?" asked Dean innocently.

"Don't be stupid. I'm sorry I was such an idiot the other night. I don't know what happened."

Dean's look of casual disinterest crumbled away, and he smiled.

"Come here," he said, and Seamus sat down on the bed with him. Dean kissed him on the neck, and put his arms around him.

Seamus started to cry, at first whilst trying to retain some degree of composure but eventually wildly, sobbing hard.

"Shhh," said Dean. "It's ok, it's ok. What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Seamus said, between chokes and gulps. "I thought you hated me!"

"Don't be silly," said Dean soothingly. "I never ever hated you, and I never will. You're too lovely to hate."

"I've been an idiot," said Seamus, trying to mop his tear. "But I'm going to make it up to you. Come and stay with me over Easter. There are some nice places to visit nearby...and I always did want to kiss someone in a stately home..."

Dean laughed.

"Me too."

"So you'll come?"

Dean kissed him on the lips, softly, sweetly.

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

He nearly fell off the bed as Seamus threw his arms around him.

Just as they were busy falling off the bed together, Neville walked in.

"Hello Neville," said Dean, his voice cold. "Come to have a dig at Seamus and I?"

"Do you have a problem with me?" Neville asked. "Because if you do, we can take it outside..."

Both Dean and Seamus snickered; Dean was over six feet tall, whereas Neville barely stood at five-five.

"I'm serious," Neville said, with a gleam of steel in his eyes, usually soft and placid as those of a cow.

"All right then," Dean said, even though Seamus had his arms around him and was trying to keep him on the bed. "Outside, by the greenhouses, in ten minutes."

"I'll be there," said Neville, who stalked into the bathroom.

"What the bloody hell did you do that for?" Seamus asked, once Neville had left the room.

"He challenged me. So I accepted. What, was I supposed to just stand there and ignore him?"

"Yes! He's obviously not feeling himself, hasn't been for some time if you ask me, couldn't you have just left the boy alone?"

Dean sat up, and looked over to the bathroom door sulkily.

"I'll take him, you just see if I don't."

Seamus sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly want Dean to get into a fight, especially not since they had only just made up a minute or two ago, but he didn't really see a lot of choice. Dean could be very stubborn.

Anyway, maybe it would sort Neville out a bit, he thought, as he stood up and followed Dean down the spiral stairs to the common room.

Dean headed towards the portrait hole, but Seamus held him back, clinging to his jumper. He turned, and addressed the common room.

"Ladies, gentlemen, assorted ghosts. I feel it is my duty to inform you that there will be a fight, near the greenhouses, to commence in five minutes. The contenders are Mr Dean Thomas and Mr Neville Longbottom."

People listened, and liked what they heard. Fights were always a popular form of entertainment, especially when they involved well-known people. Neville and Dean weren't quite as famous as Harry or Draco, but people knew who they were, and would probably have paid money to see them fight. Luckily for their pockets, it was free.

Ron turned to Hermione, and broke the silence that had been hanging mid-air since Harry had left.

"Do you want to go and see the fight?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes," she said, smiling slightly, and they stood up and joined the crowd of people who were following Dean and Seamus out of the common room.

It was slightly chilly outside, with just enough of a nip in the air to warrant a cardigan or jumper. The atmosphere within the veritable mob of people who had come to see the fight was exuberant, uplifting, all of them anticipating a good time. It was almost like a Quidditch match, except with (marginally) more blood.

It seemed almost as though everyone was there, like no one wanted to miss the fight, which was probably true. Seamus was now taking bets, jotting them down in his notebook like a born bookmaker. Most of the bets, however, were in Dean's favour. Seamus felt slightly sorry for Neville. No one seemed to think he stood a chance, and no one was willing to give him a chance, not even before the fight started. He could imagine the crowd turning on him during the fight, cheering for Dean only. He didn't know quite what would happen to Neville, but one thing he was sure of was that it would break him.

"Sonorus," he whispered, pointing his wand to his throat, and when he coughed it rang out loud and clear. The chattering, excited students turned to face him.

"If you would please clear the space immediately before me, I believe this match between Mr Dean Thomas and Mr Neville Longbottom can begin."

The crowd parted, leaving a circle of people around the two boys. Dean looked cool and calm, and ready, ready to take on Neville, ready to win. The expression on Neville's face was very surprising. He did not look scared or nervous, he looked angry. Angrier than Seamus had ever seen him. His cheeks were flushed red, and his eyes glinted with some sort of feral ferocity that no one would have ever expected to lie beneath their usual placidity.

*

Harry saw the swarms of people heading down towards the greenhouses, and pondered them for a moment. Why on earth would so many people want to go to the same place at the same time? It was quite perplexing.

"Draco?" he said. "Do you know where all those people are going?"

Draco lifted himself off the grass and looked over to where Harry was pointing.

"No idea," he replied. "Maybe something is happening."

"Do you think we should have a look?" The expression he wore was one of worried uncertainty. Draco smiled at his innocence.

"No, I think we should stay here. I'm enjoying this."

It was Harry's turn to smile.

"So am I."

*

Neville turned out to be a better fighter than anyone could have imagined, although his bravery in combat could equally have been described as eager stupidity. In the end, Dean's extra height gave him the advantage required to win. It was a blow to Neville's stomach that sealed his victory.

He wasn't in very bad shape, considering the intensity of the fighting. He was a little bruised, and had a few scratches on his face from where Neville had tried to claw at him wildly, but it was nothing that some of the muggle antiseptic cream his mother always gave him couldn't fix.

Neville looked far worse. He already had the beginnings of a black eye, and his lip was split nastily. His knuckles were also bleeding, from where he had fallen against part of the hard stone pavement that ran through the middle of the soft grass they had fought on.

He wasn't at all worried about his injuries, though. It was his pride that hurt the most, the fact that he had been soundly trounced by Dean Thomas. All of the people who had come to watch were had crowded around Dean and Seamus to congratulate the victor or to collect their winnings, and he was left alone, a tiny, insignificant piece of humanity that no one wanted.

He tried to blink the tears that came from his eyes but failed, and winced as the salty water infiltrated his wounds.

Slowly and laboriously he dragged himself to his feet and slunk off to somewhere where he could drink the bitter taste of defeat alone.

*

Harry was running towards him, arms outstretched, face illuminated by the sweet, soft light of love, and Draco felt such a traitor as he let himself be held in those arms, and felt the warmth of the boy he hugged, a warmth that would soon cease to be entirely. They were on the floor together, rolling around on the damp grass, neither noticing the dew soaking through their coats, or the nip of the wind, still cold even in April, only a few weeks away from Easter.

He heard himself asking Harry to come to Ireland, as if he wasn't controlling his own body, and he saw the joy on the dark haired boy's face, saw the light and wonder of pure love in his shining green eyes, and felt so low. He saw himself pretending to be just as joyous, saw his own lies, heard himself promise to love Harry forever.

He would love Harry forever, he knew that, no matter what, but it was so hard not to let the tears come when he knew that Harry's forever would be considerably shorter than his own, that Harry's young life would always be young whilst his own would drag on for an eternity, each year colder and more tired and greyer that the last, each one lived in the knowledge that he had sold his love out to evil.

Something prickled at the back of his neck. Why not tell Harry now? Why not tell him Lucius' plan, tell him how he was betraying him, how he was leading him to his certain doom. Of course, Harry would hate him forever, but somehow he thought that a world in which Harry hated him might be a little bit better than a world with no Harry in it at all.

"Harry," he said, the false smile fading from his face. "Harry, there's something I have to tell you, something I need to tell you."

Harry looked up at him, looking happier than he had done in a long time, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushed and pink with the sheer joys of being alive. Alive. Something he would only be for a few weeks longer. Draco thought of all of Harry's friends, all the people who liked, and admired, and respected him, all of the people that would miss him if he was gone. All the people that loved him. It was then that he realised that he was not the only one who loved Harry. There were many people, and he was going to take him away from them all. What kind of a love was that which he felt, if it still allowed him even to consider such a heinous crime?

"What is it?" Harry asked. "What do you want to tell me?"

Draco looked at him, looked deep within those eyes of his, greener than a polished emerald, greener than anything green that ever was, and found he could not tell him. He found that he was unable to utter the few words that would save Harry's life. Because when he had looked at what he was about to kill, he found himself so afraid of what would happen if Harry hated him, that it seemed almost preferable to let him die.

Of course, the second that he had looked away again, it seemed stupid, and he once again knew that the only thing to do was to tell him.

But he could not, because there were those eyes again, staring at him from the depths of the beautiful, beautiful soul within, and once again he could not speak.

"Nothing," he muttered. "It's not important."

"Are you sure?" said Harry, fingering Draco's blonde hair gently. "It sounded important."

"It wasn't," Draco replied, shivering as Harry's soft fingers brushed against his head. "It really wasn't important."

"Ok," said Harry, and they lay on the grass together, two halves of an age-old whole, black and white, darkness and light, good and evil.