Threadbare

Three: Questions

Draco.

There are bruises on his wrists and a hickey on his neck.

Everything seems quiet as you go down to the Slytherin common room. There are students walking around, discussing homework, gossiping about couples, making a complete ruckus. It’s as if you don’t hear any of them: there’s only you and the gloomy sky out the window, with autumn leaves skittering about its surface as if almost completely overcome.

While he’s been avoiding you, he’s been seeing someone else, is that it? No, you think, it’s more than that. Screwing is a more appropriate term. Or perhaps getting screwed, considering those bruises, made obviously by steel instead of cloth. Handcuffs: the Muggle way.

You’ve never tried that before. Nor anything of that sort -- hell, you haven’t even really slept with him, and that was okay until now, until he began going around sleeping with others.

When you grabbed his wrist just moments ago, you thought you would feel -- know -- what happened, who it was, why. Why was what you most wanted to know (and it still is) when you tried to discover the secrets beyond his skin, those bruises you hadn’t seen before. It was only fortunate -- or wasn’t it? -- that you went to his dorm without arranging a meeting, catching him in a sweater and none of those black robes. Catching his wrists. His neck. That neck, which you have never bitten, yes, that neck he offered to whoever it was who left the glaring imprint.

Was it a him or a her? You begin to wonder, and you realize that either way, it hurts. It already does, and like hell, like shattered glass and fiery metal.

You didn’t find out why, and instead of asking, you gave him a hug: you had no strength for anything more, and your soul was melting inside: then you left without another word.

You mutter the password and the slab of stone opens to reveal an empty, quiet room. You take a seat, looking around for lack of anything to do: the common room has only a small glass window high up for owl post, none else -- and that provides you some comfort, though you know not how. For an hour, you fiddle with your robes, pick up a book, fasten back your tie, unfasten it again... You have things to think of, homework to do and owls to send, but when your mind isn’t completely blank, you think of Harry shackled down on a bed with someone else over him. And you wonder if he regrets it as much as you hope he does.

*

You’re surprised when Preston, your eagle owl, hoots noisily outside and interrupts your meaningless reverie. You quickly pull the latch and open the window, and he brings you a rolled-up piece of parchment. You open it to see that your father has sent you a letter.

You read it with detachment, not really taking in the words until the third paragraph, where he says, almost bluntly, that you mother is sick and stuck in bed.

You skim the rest of the letter, all useless information. You notice that your dad doesn’t mention what kind of sickness it is. You write a response, asking him this and how she’s coping and to tell her you miss her. And for a moment, you want to tell him about Harry, and what to do, and has he ever been cheated on?

But he doesn’t know about Harry in the first place, and he would never understand. Harry’s the only one you can tell your problems to -- and now he’s the problem, somehow, which leaves you with no one, really.

A heavy feeling settles over you when you mail your reply. Outside, all color has seemed to disappear. The sun must be setting, but you can't see any color: there is only gray.

And quite fittingly so.

~~~

Harry.

When you awake the next morning with no memory of your dreams, you rub the bruises on your hips -- they hurt the most, out of all of them -- and worry. You guess you should be happy they didn’t come, but it scares you... like encouragements before Potions exams, or waiting for bad news.

As you get out of bed, rubbing your eyes, the image of Draco flits into your mind. It doesn’t need to be called: it’s the most natural thought you’ve ever known: and it reminds you suddenly of yesterday afternoon, staring out the window with a schoolbook on your lap, seeing him arrive and greet and ask and care. He was worried, he admitted; but you’re worried about him too, of what he would do or feel--

“No,” you mumble, heading to the bathroom. You wish there were someone you could tell -- a parent, an older brother, some one old enough to bear it... You find yourself thinking of your godfather: Sirius, beyond the veil and far, far away. It’s amazing and terrible at the same time, how death is so permanent on earth, yet so unreal in mind and heart.

“No,” you repeat to yourself, wishing Sirius were with you.

*

Potions is still your most hated subject: if anything, you loathe it even further. You find things easier to hate now, and you allow yourself this: it’s the only privilege that you have anymore. You walk into the dungeons with Hermione and take a seat immediately at your table lest you be marked late. (Ron passed his Potions O.W.L. -- barely -- but he gave it up when he decided he’d work at the Ministry as an Obliviator or, better yet, an Unspeakable, which didn’t need too much Potions knowledge, according to what everyone had heard.)

You spot Draco at the other side of the room, and you lift your arm in an inconspicuous wave to acknowledge him. His lips twitch ever so slightly -- to keep Pansy and Blaise clueless as they ever were, no doubt. They’ve been flanking him in Potions like sycophants ever since Crabbe and Goyle dropped the class. Now they shoot you menacing glances, and you turn your head away: happy that, at least, you’re officially talking to Draco again. If it helps, or if not, you don’t know -- but it feels better. Like teenage levity managing to seep into you despite all that block it.

Hermione, who’s accepted Draco far better than anyone else you’ve told, takes one look at you, then at him, and nods once. So you’re back together, her gesture seems to tell you.

She’s smart, but then again, you don’t know if what she knows is true.

~~~

Draco.

“Today we’re going to learn Veritaserum,” Snape says, entering the classroom with a swish of his cloak and a whiff of that sharp, woodsy, dewy perfume he’s been wearing lately. “We will spend the first period discussing the ingredients new to you and their characteristics, and the second to start making it. Mr. Longbottom, could you tell me the uses of firedrake’s hair in...”

Thus the class begins.

Harry’s listening to Snape again. It’s strange to see his eyebrows knitted as he scribbles almost as furiously as Granger, struggling to catch up with the information being spewed out, not looking once up at Snape as if terrified of missing a few words. He’s never been this attentive in Potions since... never, really. Except maybe yesterday, but all the same: it’s another one of those things he’s taken to doing recently, perhaps in line with the cheating.

You sigh quietly as you turn back to your own piece of parchment. It’s glaringly empty: whereas Harry is faithfully taking down every word Snape says, you can’t manage to record a single one. And you don’t understand what he’s talking about, either. You’re making Veritaserum, and that’s about all you’ve learned in the class as of yet.

Pansy is sitting beside you, writing notes at intervals. You know she’s thinking about what’s wrong with you today; she’s like your mother, after all: when they worry about you, they avoid looking at you until they can talk to you in private about what’s going on. Pansy is waiting, no doubt -- and you’re ready to make a run for it after class.

Speaking of Mother. You lean back, thoughts drifting completely away from the subject matter as you remember your father’s letter. You haven’t received a reply (you will, later today, probably), and you haven’t really thought about it again until now. Mother sick. She’s never been sick enough to stay in bed, as far as you can remember. She’s had the occasional cold, nothing that couldn’t be cured with a potion within three days or less. And that nosebleed when she blew her nose too roughly, and on a sweltering summer afternoon besides. There hasn’t been anything else, not even a fever. You suppose you should be worried, and maybe you are already. But Mother -- or Father, for that matter -- doesn’t concern you as much as, say, Harry. (Or, perhaps, only Harry. That seems truer.) They don't really care about you as their son; they only desire and live for power, with you as a mere adjunct. Maybe falling ill would be good for her, after all. Shrink her ego a bit. Harry would like that.

You think you’re getting too in over your head for him. You never cared about it until now, until those bruises...

You straighten up in your seat, looking at Snape and forcing yourself to listen.

*

After Arithmancy, you tap Granger gently on the shoulder. Your pride is shrinking every moment, and you don't like it. But it seems, right now, that you have no choice. She whirls to face you: she doesn’t know whether to smile or frown, so she keeps a neutral expression, saying, “Yes?”

“I need to -- I want to -- talk to you. About Harry.”

“Oh... all right,” she responds. She is silent as you walk through the hall, entering an empty corridor. You very well know, in fact, that she’s wondering what spurred you to shove your pride aside enough to speak with her. You know she still hates you -- there is no way, after all, to forget years of gabbing -- but with that hate, there’s something resembling respect between the both of you, although it hardly shows.

“Granger,” you begin. “He didn’t come to the match last weekend, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” she responds curtly.

“Do you know where he went?”

She scrunches up her forehead, trying to recall. “Hmm, he went off to get parchment in the seventh floor stock room right before the match started, because he was running out. He said he’d join us shortly, but he never came.” She shrugs. “Ron said he was probably watching from somewhere else, so I didn't go look for him... but when we came back, he was in his dorm, and he said he hadn’t been feeling okay...”

“Bastard,” you cut in under your breath. It comes out of your mouth before you can think. She hears it, loud and clear, because she says,

“Wha...? What do you--”

“He’s been seeing someone else.”

Silence engulfs you both in thick, uncomfortable currents, and yes. All hope before this conversation, gone.

When she finally breaks the quiet, your voice is sharper than usual, and it’s quavering the slightest bit. “No. Harry’s not like that. Harry--”

“Everything points to--”

“You’ve only been with him for a few months, Malfoy, and I’ve known him for years! He likes you, and he would never do such a thing. You can trust him. Maybe he just needs time, and space, and--”

“He’s been seeing someone else.” This time, you say it firmly: aggressively, even. You remember the bite, and the bruises, and they swirl around in your mind and sting you like bitter winds. And she, defending him like this, isn’t extenuating the situation one bit. If anything, she’s making it worse by emphasizing trust -- your trust, damn it, the trust he threw away like a holey old sweater.

“Fuck,” you mutter, turning abruptly around. You decide you aren’t telling her anything else. She doesn’t need to know, does she? This is between you and him. And whoever it was he went to when he needed time and space. Damn it.

You are silent as you walk away, her stare burning into your back. She’s spewing out angrily now, about accusing him with no confirmation and what proof do you have anyway, but what does she know? You have proof, and she’s just confirmed everything. You tune her voice out. You don’t care anymore. All you can feel is anger and hate, and there’s no room for anything else. You know she’s mad and confused, and that she needs to know--

But so do you. God, so do you.

Author's Note
That was quite an uneventful chapter, I know, but I had to write it... anyway. Next chapter, a Hogsmeade revelation. And that's all I'm going to say for now. For updates through email, send a blank email to [email protected] or go to the site and join there. Feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks.