Threadbare

Seven: Information

Harry.

You awaken the next morning peacefully enough, with the sun’s rays creeping in through the bed curtains and Neville steadily snoring across the room. The room smells like donuts; you don’t know why, but it’s a wonderful way to wake. You stretch your arms above your head, stretch your legs, stretch your back as you review the classes for today and whether you’ve finished all the necessary assignments. But suddenly the memories of last night’s sleep slither into your mind, and you remember that you dreamt of him, like you used to. Him and his hands and his tongue and his hips grinding you down--

On the way to breakfast, with Ron and Hermione at your side, you think about your bad dreams and how they don’t wake you in the middle of the night like they used to, but haunt you in the morning with frightening clarity. The dreams aren’t created by your imagination; they’re memories of that Saturday you wish you could take back; memories plucked randomly and tossed at you in no specific order. All of them are terrible.

Ron, at your right, and Hermione, at your left, are sharing a suspicious sort of silence, the kind a child has when he’s broken his mother’s precious vase and is only waiting for her to find out.

Just when you’re turning at the corridor that leads to the Great Hall, Hermione turns to you and asks if you’re okay.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just noticed that you pay a lot more attention in class these days. I mean, that’s great, and that’s more than I can say for some people here” -- Ron frowns -- “but when you’re not in class you seem quite... distraught.”

Ron says, “I think you being attentive in class is a problem in itself.” Whereupon Hermione stamps her foot on his, temporarily shutting him up. You look at them and want to chuckle, but their concern concerns you. You don’t like them worrying about you, and if you told them the truth, you know they’re only going to worry more. You told Draco, for example, and he’s killing himself over this. Over you. He tries not to show it too much, but you can tell.

“I’m fine, Hermione. I really am. I’m just learning to manage my priorities.”

She sighs so softly that you can’t tell whether it’s from relief or frustration or sadness. “That’s good, Harry. How about you and Malfoy? Are you doing all right?”

“Yes, we’re doing great.” And to change the topic, you mention his mother’s predicament and ask if she knows anything about Bedivere fever.

“Oh, I’ve read about it in a library book. I have a list of all the titles I’ve read. I’m sure I’ll remember which when I see it, I’ll check it for you later if you’d like.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you and Malfoy...?”

“We’re great, Hermione. Stop worrying about us. Now, how about you and Ron?” You wiggle your eyebrows and know, by the way both their cheeks flush crimson, that you’ve won this conversation. Ron hangs his head to hide his face, and Hermione smiles sheepishly.

“You never did tell me what happened in Hogsmeade.”

“Oh, Harry, we didn’t want to tell you because...” She looks to Ron’s general direction for help.

Ron looks cautiously at you. “You might get mad at us for pairing up--”

“--and we don’t want you to be lonely or anything...”

“So that’s why you were asking about Mal -- Draco.”

“Yes,” they say in chorus. Draco was right about sexual tension: you can almost feel the waves coming off them. You grin at them both, not minding at all. Of course you’re not mad at them for pairing up, and if you’re lonely, it really has nothing to do with them. So they finally came to their senses and got together. This only means that they’ll spend more time cuddling and less time thinking about why you’re more attentive in class or sometimes gloomy. And so, in celebration of this, you pull them into a tight group hug. Ron relaxes his tensed shoulders, visibly relieved. Hermione sighs with a smile.

“Just stay together. And no violent quarrels.”

“Right,” Ron says.

“You have no idea how much we love you for this, Harry. Thank you.”

“I’m happy for you guys.”

The three of you resume walking to the Great Hall, a smile on each of your faces. You’ve learned so much about what to show people since what happened. You’ve learned how to smile and laugh for an audience; you’ve learned to make them happy when you yourself aren’t happy. They’re the ones who matter, anyway -- not you. They keep on living in the world they used to: a real world, a living world, a magical world, a world where things can go right. They have that privilege, and you don’t. Your world has fallen apart and no one knows.

*

In Herbology class you’re in the middle of a crucial soil-turning when a voice tells you, so suddenly that you stop working for a moment, that it’s just sex. What happened is just sex, and it wasn’t your fault, and there’s no reason to torture yourself for it. It’s over. It’s done. Just sex.

But it kills you still, because you remember the way he looked at you with cold burning eyes, from lust or anger -- you don’t know. And you remember the way his arms were stronger than you always thought they would be when they held you down to the bed, when his hands pushed your wrists to the brass headboard and fastened the handcuffs. Your hands couldn’t breathe; you couldn’t breathe, and you didn’t want to, not with his face only inches from yours. But you had no time to further control your lungs, because he pressed his wand to your neck and uttered a spell, and everything turned black.

The memory is just beginning, but you feel dead already.

~~~

Draco.

Hermione read this library book once and she found information on Bedivere fever in it. Strange Cases in Wizard Physiology by Samwise Baggins. According to her, it’s in the history section of the library. Good luck. And by the way, I’m going to have a talk with Remus after school. If you want me to ask anything, just say so.

You are horrified with embarrassment. You cannot believe you, however indirectly, asked Hermione Granger for help. This is a disgrace. How were you to know that Harry actually cared enough to ask her? The thought brings a slight smile to your lips. He cared. He cares about you. But you frown because the point is that he shouldn’t have asked her, of all people, because she would probably never let you forget it. With enough patience and perseverance, you know you could have found the book yourself.

You fold Harry’s note and shove it into the pocket of your robes. Then you head to the library, willing to skip lunch in order to do research. After only a few minutes of hunting the history shelves, you spot the catchy bright blue binding of the book. You pull it out of the shelf slowly, place it on the nearest table, and sit down to do some serious reading.

The illness is exactly as your father told you.

Except for one essential detail.

It can be inferred that the only reason the Bedivere family kept him in bed when they found him unconscious was that they were horribly attached to him, because he was the provider of their needs and the only who brought the family substantial income. The extremely rare patients of Bedivere always appear deceased. Their appearance is similar to that of a real corpse: cold skin, a pale complexion, and a considerable degree of rigor mortis. The only way to find the distinction between Bedivere fever and death is a charm (invented fifty years after the Bedivere discovery) cast on the patient, which tells if he is alive or dead.

You know your mother looked alive.

So this is the loophole, then.

But until now you don’t know why your father has lied to you. You can only hope that he’s not hiding some fatal sickness that will be the end of your mother, or planning to cast a spell on her to help him acquire his fell desires. Father wouldn’t do that to Mum -- would he? What you know for sure is that he has never treated her with the almost hostile demeanor with which he treats others. You know he cares about her, even though he doesn’t like to show it. They’ve never had any serious problems with each other. So what is he trying to do, then?

You shake your head to yourself, pick up your quill, and reply to Harry’s note:

You shouldn’t have asked Hermione about that. My pride is at stake. But I found the loophole, so thanks. (Don’t tell her that.) Could you ask Lupin if he knows any illness similar to Bedivere but where the patient looks alive but is hardly breathing? And please don’t mention me. My pride is at stake. Many thanks.

You go down to the Slytherin common room to owl it to Harry, feeling only a little guilty that you’re using him. If Lupin knows nothing, you resolve, you’ll ask Snape yourself and leave Harry out of this. He has enough to deal with, anyway.

~~~

Harry.

You knock on Remus’s door right after dinner and for a moment everything feels normal. You remember coming to his office (or his rooms, if it was later than seven-thirty) around twice or thrice a week before disaster struck in your life. You used to talk to him about nothing and everything: things that you didn’t think Draco would want to talk about with you, or just things that you and Remus had in common. The DADA discussions were the best; Remus taught you new spells sometimes, almost like voluntary training for the time when things are bound to get tough, the time someone is bound to kill someone else. Sometimes Remus shared his treasured memories. He had tons of hilarious stories and you loved listening to them because they made you feel, somehow, like you knew your father and godfather as you should have.

He pulls the door open and he almost looks surprised seeing you stand there. He grins right away, tossing his head toward the inside of the room for you to come in. His reddish brown hair, now grown longer, frames his face quite handsomely.

You nearly blush at this thought.

Remus is considerably older, but he has a boyish smile and hair as soft as unicorns’ tails. At least, it looks soft. Up until now you’ve had no inclination to touch it. Remus’s robes still look ancient and overused; he is the kind of attractive that doesn’t try. So different from Draco, you realize. Draco tries. You used to keep telling him he would be just as beautiful if he didn’t brush his hair five times a day, but he always replied that that worked only for you. But Remus--

You shake the ideas out of your head and smile at him. “Hi.”

“Hi, Harry. Tea?”

“Sure.”

He sits behind his desk. You sit on one of the two chairs before it. He pours you a cup, and by the slowness of it you realize what he is thinking about saying. You clear your throat and say, “About me and Draco Malfoy...”

“What about you?”

“We’re, um, sort of, going out. Not that we go out too often, but you know what I mean.”

He chuckles. “I guessed that much.”

“You don’t... mind or anything?”

“No, as long as you’re happy, Harry. How long have you been together?”

“Since Easter this year. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think you’d... like the news.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Because Draco used to be a slimy git?”

He shrugs. “You’re right about that. The boy doesn’t hurt you or anything, does he?”

Warmth rises to your face. “No. No. What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.” There is an amused smile dancing on his lips and you have to shake your head. Sometimes he seems so much younger than he is. That’s why you love talking to him: he does his best to understand.

You lean back and look around the office. An empty water tank in one corner, an entire wall of disorganized shelves, a stack of paper on a chair. There are two paintings on the opposite wall: an empty beach with breakers foaming on the shore, and a path in a forest leading off to nowhere. The walls covered in maroon wallpaper with golden fleurs-de-lis. There is a file cabinet behind Remus’s desk, and a table with rolls of parchment strewn haphazardly around. The atmosphere is cozier in Remus’s rooms, but his office still feels informal enough to be comfortable, like home, like some remnant from the past. You love it here.

“Oh, Remus, I meant to ask you. Do you know anything about Bedivere fever?”

“I’ve read about it, yes.”

“Do you know of any illness resembling it exactly, except for the fact that the patient looks alive and just asleep?”

“Why, there are many possibilities out there, Harry. But some of the others are perhaps too rare to consider... this happened to a normal wizard?”

“Witch. And yes, she’s pretty normal, I suppose. Narcissa Malfoy?”

“All right. Let’s see...”

~~~

Draco.

You have never been comfortable with Professor Snape. He makes the effort, of course, for all the Slytherins to like him and be at ease under his tutelage, using mostly foul means, like giving hefty house points to Slytherin and taking them away from the other houses. And he tries to make himself appear approachable to his house, but he fails entirely, because to be honest, the man has not one ounce of charisma in his body.

But once you receive Harry’s note about an hour after dinner, you know that you have no choice in the matter.

Lupin doesn’t know anything similar to Bedivere. We had a lovely talk, though. He doesn’t mind at all about us. Sorry I couldn’t help.

You reread it and write a quick reply: Thanks anyway. Can you meet me tomorrow at about eight? Just to talk. Astronomy Tower, all right? Owl me if you have any objections. I’ll be waiting.

After you let Preston fly off with it, you square your shoulders and leave the common room. You walk down the dimly lit halls toward the Potions classroom. Snape is still there, most likely. He’s always doing some kind of paperwork or other, and he seems to like his office much better than his chambers, where he goes only when he’s all too ready to go to bed. He’s younger than your father and already he’s so eccentric. Sometimes you worry about him, but most of the time you just don’t like thinking about him at all.

You walk across the classroom and to the door to his office. You knock softly, hear the muffled “Come in,” and enter. He is, as usual, at his desk, this time grading some lengthy essays. He takes one look at you and, probably because you’re in his house, puts down his quill and gestures for you to sit down. If you were in Gryffindor you know he would take one glance at you, go back to his work, and speak without ever looking up again. And he would leave you standing. Snape is hilarious, really.

His beetle black eyes glint at you. It’s something even he cannot control. “Anything wrong, Mr. Malfoy? Have you come to badger me again about what I may know?”

“Actually, yes, sir, but I’ll try to make this quick. You see, my mother...”

And so you narrate the entire fiasco, conscious the whole time of his eyes fixed unwaveringly on you. Snape remains motionless with his arms crossed over his chest, sitting back in his chair, until you come to the end of your story: the latest discovery that Bedivere patients should, in fact, appear totally and permanently dead. By the time you finish, his frown is deeper than it usually is, and the furrow between his eyebrows is not of impatience, but of concern.

He says, his leveled gaze direct and frightening, “I have a confession to make.”