Threadbare

Five: After

Draco.

You didn’t expect to see him at breakfast today. You remember how, last night, when you went straight back to school a few minutes after he told you what happened, he was completely silent. He was silent even after his tears had run out, and after you walked with him to the Gryffindor tower. And so were you. At that juncture, there was nothing left to say, or perhaps no way to say it.

But now he’s with his friends, smiling (though strained) at their conversation. He’s talking and moving and still alive. And you don’t know why -- how -- he can manage it. You certainly cannot.

You can’t even accept it, to begin with. Somewhere inside, you’re still waiting for him to take it all back, or for time to reverse, or something. You couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night, just thinking about him: what happened to him, and how you accused him of something he didn’t do instead of trying to help. When you could no longer think, you lay there the entire night with your mind empty and your eyes refusing to shut.

He’s coping better than you, it seems. And it doesn’t feel good knowing that.

“All right there, Drake?” Pansy nearly yells in your ear, breaking your reverie. Her voice is naturally too loud, but she doesn’t make an effort to keep it down either. Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise turn their heads to look at you.

You don’t answer. Why waste the energy? It’s all the same to Pansy anyway, she’d probably think--

“Want to go bully Potter again?” she asks, focusing her eyes toward your line of sight. “Wipe that smile off his face?”

“No... I bullied him just yesterday, and he might get desensitized.” Which is true, to an extent. You look away from him and at Pansy, who is blinking as she stares back at you.

“One of these other days, then.” She goes back to her food.

Yours has been barely touched, but you’re not hungry. You push your plate away.

“Can I have your eggs?” Crabbe’s mouth is full of egg, in fact: and he spews some on the front of your robes. You flick the residue away quietly and nod. You want to see Harry again, for no reason in particular, but with your so-called friends hanging around you like this, and Pansy already having seen you, you don’t want to risk it. So instead, you look at the teachers’ table.

Vector is chatting with Sinistra, Dumbledore with McGonagall, Flitwick with Lupin, who came back this year as the DADA teacher, and was gladly accepted by all but some Slytherins. The rest of them are busily eating, except for Snape, whose eyes are staring fixedly into space, his brow wrinkled. Probably thinking of another potion formula, or about how much he hates Lupin.

No, wait. He isn’t staring into space -- he’s staring at the Gryffindor table.

You shift your gaze to check, even though you already know.

He’s staring at Harry.

When you glance back at Snape, he turns his head to look directly at you.

You fix your eyes down at the tabletop, what feels like fear tingling on your skin.

~~~

Harry.

You go on a walk with him that afternoon by the edge of the lake farthest from the school. Cottony white clouds cover the sky above; the sun’s light is dim, providing no warmth. Early November chills both your bones. He is pacing quietly at your right, hands in the pockets of his robes, each step calculated. He hasn’t said anything after “Hi,” and you begin to wonder if this silence is meant to be easy or uncomfortable.

He clears his throat before you can guess at it. “So,” he starts.

“So.”

“It happened during the match, didn’t it?”

“What--”

Oh. Great.

He didn’t ask you questions last night, and you were relieved and perhaps thankful that he didn’t pry for information. You’d told him all he needed to know. You were assured, by the time he took you to the Fat Lady’s portrait, that he wouldn’t ask until you were ready to answer. But it was a false hope: he’s always been concerned about everything that comes your way. Now you know he was just too stunned after you told him to begin.

You want him to let it go; you want to let it go.

But you answer him anyway. “Yeah, it was about that time. It started a little before it, maybe. I was knocked out for a while; I couldn’t tell.” This, of course, is the truth. You couldn’t -- you still can’t -- tell how long it took before you awoke, before he arrived, before you were raped, before your manacles released your wrists, yet still leaving you alone without your dignity. All you could think of was how you wanted time to fly by. And how it never obeyed.

“What do you mean, it started?”

“He handcuffed me to the bed, then cast some sort of spell to knock the wind out of me. I woke up and he came back. And it happened. I don’t know how much time I lost.” The truth.

“Wait... in your common room?”

“No, in a room on the seventh floor.” The Room of Requirement, to be specific. Or the Come and Go Room -- so much more appropriate. Ha.

“Harry, I hope you don’t mind me asking -- who was he, anyway?”

Your heart misses a beat for no good reason as you consider, for the briefest of moments, divulging the secret.

“The thing is, I don’t know. I was blindfolded. I couldn’t see a thing.”

You’re lying through your teeth, and not because he made you promise not to tell anyone. You told Draco, after all. And you wish you hadn’t, for the same reason you don’t want to say anything else.

You don’t want him to share your grief and your sin and your filth, as you always knew that he would. He always has.

If he finds out whoever did it, you’re sure he would seek revenge. You don’t want any trouble.

“What -- but didn’t he speak? Didn’t you recognize the voice?”

“Well, he spoke, but I was still disoriented from that spell. The only thing I discovered was that he was a man. That was it.”

“A man? An older man?”

“Yes, I think. He was quite long.” Pause. He stares at you. “I mean, his body was long, he was taller than me, that’s what I meant.”

“Oh.”

You amble along on the grass, your eyes on the lake. The sky, in its crystal blue and pristine white glory, gazes up at you from the water. The wind forms ripples on the surface, cold and whistling in your ears, and you wrap your arms around yourself for more warmth. Draco sees this, and you’re not surprised when he drapes his left arm over your shoulder, rubbing his hand on your forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice sharp and solitary in the autumn cold.

“There was nothing you could’ve done. I’m not blaming you for anything.”

“I accused you. I would’ve stopped him if I could, if I knew... but besides that, I blamed you too, for cheating on me, when you weren’t -- well, you weren’t doing anything wrong at all. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all right, Draco, I understand.” You’ve been through years of antagonism, you remind yourself. You’ve overcome all of that, opening your minds enough to grow close to each other, to go beyond enmity and indifference and mere casual friendship. And you see it now, in the way he foregoes his pride and the way you willingly offer forgiveness, something that never would have happened years ago. That must mean, you think, that you can get through this as well. You find that you can trust him now, even after all he’s done to you. And that is a comforting thought.

~~~

Draco.

It soon gets too cold outside, and you suggest going back in. He nods right away, and you stroll back, still clutching him close. You don’t care, at this moment, if anyone sees you. And no one probably will, seeing as only the desperate would be out in this growing wind. The desperate, and you and Harry. (Or maybe you are desperate, too, and you just don’t know it.)

You spot Remus Lupin on the lawn. He’s ostensibly on his way to that half giant Hagrid’s hut, and he’s carrying a sack of some squeaky, jumpy little creatures. You and Harry are about to hide behind the cabin, but too late: Lupin sees, and he blinks a couple of times. You resist the urge to pull apart from Harry. You don’t think you should give the werewolf the satisfaction of catching something. Sure, Harry’s quite friendly with him, but he doesn’t know about you. Hasn’t until now, anyway.

“Remus,” Harry greets.

Lupin saunters over to you both. “Harry,” he says. Haha, he doesn’t know how to act in front of you.... You shake your head inwardly. It’s a wonder how evil you still are, even when everything’s gone awry.

“Professor.” You smile an electric smile, and he looks at you like you’re insane.

“Um. Draco Malfoy.” Harry throws his head casually your direction, although he seems a bit uneasy.

“I know,” Lupin replies, appearing confused still. “Harry, you haven’t been around to see me lately. Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” He swallows. He certainly doesn’t look like nothing’s wrong (in addition to the fact that it’s a complete lie), but you keep quiet. “It’s just -- I’ve been busy lately, and yesterday was Hogsmeade, so... I haven’t had much time.”

“Ah. Well, if you’re sure.” He raises the sack. “I have to take these to Hagrid. Come by sometime, right?”

“I will.”

Lupin disappears with his eyes still trained at you, no doubt curious as to what you’re doing less than five meters from Harry. Really, if the man -- no, werewolf -- thinks you have a restraining order from the Ministry... by Merlin... Speaking of which, you look at Harry, whose eyes are following Lupin’s retreating figure intently.

“So. See him? Is he your psychiatrist?”

It’s a serious question, but Harry actually chuckles. “Psychiatrist? No, he meant see him and talk to him about stuff. We’ve done that a lot since school started, but not the past three weeks. As I said, I’ve had no time. I kind of miss him, though.”

“You’re gonna have to tell him about me, do you realize that?”

“Yeah, of course. But he can keep a secret.”

“Good.” You pause, noticing that Harry appears a bit worried despite what he just said. “What do you talk about, usually?”

“Lots of things. The Order. School. Snape. Dumbledore. My friends.” His eyes are fixed at nowhere as he walks. “Sirius.”

“So he is a shrink,” you joke. The corners of his lips twist up the slightest bit, so small that it hardly shows. He has long accepted his godfather’s death, but rape is, in some ways, harder. It doesn’t pass; it stays as long as you live, an eternal poison, a mark as permanent as his scar. You don’t know that, because it wasn’t you. You could believe that everything -- that he -- can be healed. But maybe he knows better.

You wonder if he’ll always be this way: if his smile will always be but a difficult miniscule movement; if his laugh will always come in chuckles: a strained, forced obligation instead of real.

And you wonder who did it. Because you’re going to make his life hell, if it’s the last thing you do.

~~~

Harry.

“...And so he writes she’ll be fine in two weeks,” he tells you at the Astronomy tower that evening after dinner. “Do you believe that? He’s hiding something from me, I know it...”

The both of you are seated in your juxtaposed chairs, facing the crackling fire. Your arms are close, but not touching. It’s comfortable. At least, it would be, if the occasional shocks of ice down your spine stopped completely. You know Draco isn’t him, and that he wouldn’t hurt you: but your body refuses to acknowledge the difference. Maybe, it can no longer easily tell. It insists on frightening you, and so you are frightened, even if you’re wrapped under this blanket of warmth and oh-so-comfortable non-touch.

You choose to ignore your fear and continue the conversation. “Your birthday presents.”

“What?” He sounds genuinely befuddled. “What do you mean?”

“Your birthday. On the eighth -- that’s six days away. I mean, your parents must be planning a surprise, right?”

“Er,” Draco answers lamely. It is obvious he has had much on his mind: not just because he’s apparently forgotten about his coming birthday, but because of his tone: the way he says ‘er’ that sounds distracted and guilty at the same time.

“You forgot your birthday was coming,” you state.

“Er. Well. I hardly think they’re planning a surprise, though, because I always port to the Manor on my birthday anyway, to pick up presents and food. Remember that portkey I told you about?”

“The ring you twist on your birthday so it can take you home?”

“Anytime a week before and a week after my birthday, actually, yes.”

“So you can use it right now?”

“Yes. I’d like to go earlier than the eighth -- tomorrow afternoon, maybe. I want to pay Mum a visit.”

“That’s good,” you say, ending the subject. The flames before you are an enchanting blend of red and orange, with blue and black tongues in the centers. They reach out to swathe you in calming heat. It hits you how much like home it feels to be back in this room again; and then it hits you that it’s been only two weeks since you were last here. Time has walked slowly, and yet has left you behind, only to wonder where it has gone.

He’s quiet again, and you’re afraid he’s about to ask you another question about that happened that Saturday; but he glances at his watch and asks, “Do you want to go back?” His gaze is sincere, but sad. He’s never asked this early before -- you used to talk for hours on end, sometimes even till the wee hours of the morning -- but you remind yourself that things aren’t the same anymore. Even you aren’t the same, and probably, so is he. He knows it’s hard for you to stay here, alone with him for too long a time, lest it turn uncomfortable. And, you admit to yourself, it is. A little bit.

“Okay.”

He takes you back to the Gryffindor tower: another new habit, you notice. You always used to part ways in a corridor off the Entrance Hall. You know he’s trying to protect you: trying to make up for what he had no power over.

Before you reach the portrait, he lays a hand on your shoulder. “Can you meet me tomorrow? At about eight -- I’ll probably have dinner with my parents.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

For the longest moment, he looks at you longingly, like he wants to touch you and to take you in his arms and never let go, but is too afraid that you’re afraid of it. As if to decide the matter, he moves close and gives you a chaste kiss, so tender that when he steps back, you wonder if it was even there.

Your eyes lock with his before you turn toward the common room. You walk away, storm clouds and an overcast sky all that you can see.

~~~

Draco.

When Harry has stepped into the portrait hole, you turn back to go down to the Slytherin dungeons, eager to get some rest and thinking. There are no candles to illuminate this hallway, but shafts of dim moonlight. As a prefect, you’re used to going on rounds late at night, but this darkness makes you nervous. You feel almost as if you’re being watched.

Your footsteps echo behind you as you walk. There is no other sound, until you hear the soft, almost inaudible rustle of cloth.

“Who’s there?” You look around you. All is calm, but oddly tense.

A quick moment later, you hear footsteps coming toward you. You pull your wand out, ready for a spell; but after another rustle, from behind the shadows comes none other than Severus Snape.

With his chin is held high, you almost miss the worry in his expression. Almost.

“How is he?”

“Who, Professor?”

The left side of his lips twitches in what looks more like a grimace than a smile. “Potter, of course.”

“He’s... all right.” And why does he ask, pray tell?

“Has he told you about anything... strange that’s happened to him lately? Something disturbing, perhaps?”

“No, not really,” you reply without missing a beat. Lying isn’t too hard when you’re a Malfoy. When you’re used to it, that is. Inside, though, you’re starting to get scared. You know this is Snape, and no matter how much he hates Harry, he’s never done anything to really harm him. But here he is, speculating about what happened -- maybe even knowing about it firsthand. You remember he was staring at Harry during breakfast. And at you.

There’s that same shiver crawling up your spine. You don’t like being here with him, all alone.

“If you say so,” he says, squinting at you in that skeptical manner of his. “Go to sleep, Malfoy. You have a busy Monday ahead of you. Good night.”

He walks off, and that’s when you realize:

“Professor, wait! How--”

But he’s no longer there to respond. You blink to yourself as you go on your way, a single discovery turning your insides and making your heart beat twice as fast.

He knows about you and Harry.