Threadbare

Ten: Weeks

Draco.

Week One.

Saturday, eighth of November, 1997. You are not woken by Blaise Zabini's daily alarm clock, which he uses to get to the bathroom first every morning. Crabbe's snores and Goyle's deep breathing are miraculously nonexistent. Theodore Nott isn't muttering to himself, like he always does right before he wakes up. In fact -- you strain your ears to listen -- the room is absolutely and positively empty.

For a moment you listen only to your own breathing and the emptiness of sound. You stretch your back, then sit up on your bed, pulling back the curtains. Yes, the room is empty, and alarmingly neat. You rub your eyes slowly, realizing you might have overslept. That's all right. There's nothing notable in your schedule today, anyway. You spare a glance at the wall clock across the room. Only nine o' clock. Why is everyone awake and gone?

You hurry to the bathroom, splash some water on your face, check the floor. Wet. So they've taken their showers.

You brush your teeth, spend half an hour under the warm shower, and dress in a gray sweater and black trousers. You go downstairs to the common room, thinking about what to do today. You remember the days you used to wake up on Saturday mornings and immediately think of how to torment Harry. You thought about him too much for your own good, of course, and eventually you discovered why.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DRACO!!!" they yell when you open the common room door, nearly giving you a heart attack.

Oh.

*

After a day of sweets, presents, alcoholic Butterbeer, Quidditch, stupid games, and watching Crabbe and Goyle try to torment the Whomping Willow (Slytherins know how to have fun -- you have to give them that), you stumble into the common room with your head light with inebriation and your veins burning with too much sugar. Pansy is clinging to your arm in case you trip, although she looks no better than you. The first thing you notice is Preston rapping on the window with a package. Pansy rolls her eyes, yells at no one in particular to please keep this window open, and lets Preston in. You take the package from his claws and he flies away with an irritated hoot, off to the owlery where there's actually somewhere to perch. It's nine-thirty in the evening, too early for bed, but you yawn and head for the dorms anyway. Pansy asks where you're going, as if it isn't obvious.

"I have another surprise for you," she says, smiling in what's supposed to be a mysteriously alluring way.

"Bring it upstairs, then," you tell her, and shut the door behind you. You bet Pansy is rolling her eyes and thinking about how you love playing hard to get. At least you're sure she won't be mad.

When you enter the room, you jump stomach first onto your bed, examining the package. The wrapper is a metallic bright red, but the ribbon is a curly mess of green and silver.

Of course you know whom it's from.

You carefully untie the ribbon and unfold the wrapper, not wanting to ruin them. You lift the lid of the small box.

A dragon stares up at you.

You notice a piece of card inside. You read it slowly:

This is a model of a Hungarian Horntail. I got it in the Triwizard Tournament and thought of giving it to you. You remind me of a dragon, you see.

I sneaked into Hogsmeade some time in October and had protection spells put on it. Just keep it near and you'll be all right. If the dragon breathes fire on you -- which you can induce by pressing on both wings -- what comes out is really a potion to keep you safe from many hexes wherever you go. It last about an hour after you spray, but the potion inside doesn't run out.

I don't know if this present is welcome. I hope you accept it as a peace offering at least, or something to remember me by. Thanks for everything.

Goodbye,

Harry.

Goodbye.

You press the dragon's wings to its body, squeezing, aiming its mouth on your wrist. As promised, the fire is really a gentle, airy potion that reminds you of perfume. You bring your wrist to your nose and sniff. It smells like...

Well. It smells like him.

Maybe you're imagining things. You sniff again. It's Harry's scent still; you remember it as clearly as the color of his eyes, the texture of his hair, the way his skin tastes under your lips.

The potion inside doesn't run out. You wonder for a second how much he spent for the spell and potion services. But that train of thought doesn't last too long, because so many things mean more than money. He might have spent a fortune, but the more important thing is that...

What? That he remembered your birthday? That he sent you a gift? That he wrote you a note? That he made sure it would never run out so you would be forced to remember him forever?

No, he wouldn't do that. He wants you to forget about him.

But he still cares.

You stroke the dragon's spine and it seems to smile at the touch, closing its eyes and tilting his head back. It's adorable.

The door bursts open.

You shove the dragon and card into the box and place them in your nightstand drawer as carefully and calmly as possible, so as not to arouse suspicion. Pansy smiles down at you. You roll onto your side and smile back.

And then you see what she's wearing.

If it can be defined as ‘wearing' at all.

It's a black thing. That much you can distinguish. Her full breasts are visible from behind two transparent, lacey, and obviously under-wired cups. The thing ends in a see-through ruffle just under her buttocks, and behind the cloth you can see her black and lacey underwear scarcely covering her crotch. She twirls around for your viewing pleasure, and apparently it's a thong she's in, and you shut your eyes because you really, really didn't need to see that.

Her grin is so wide that you don't know whether to punch it off her face or to pander to all her requests lest she be truly disappointed. "Like what you see?" she murmurs in a husky voice that really does not fit her. Where did she learn it, you wonder.

She steps closer to the bed with the grace of a courtesan, kneels slowly before you, and edges closer until your faces are only inches apart.

Normally, when a woman seduces a man, even if she is not particularly beautiful, he feels a fluttering in his stomach and a slight thudding of his heart. The extraordinary sensations come simply because she cares enough to give him what all men are rumored to want.

But no sensations come to you, except perhaps that slight sting of horror, because even if Pansy makes a fine friend, she doesn't interest you in a remotely physical way.

"Pansy," you whisper, if only because she's so close. Her breath melds with yours in a considerably unromantic manner. She smiles seductively, nodding the slightest bit so that she looks up at you from behind her eyelashes. "What are you trying to do?"

"Give you your birthday present, of course." She laughs, an undesirable raucous giggling. "Don't you want it?"

She asks it in a clearly rhetorical tone, but you answer, "No offense, Pansy, but no, I think I'd rather pass on this one."

Her smile dissipates like morning mist. In one instant she no longer appears to be the temptress that she was; she hunches her back a bit, and raises her arms awkwardly, as if uncertain whether to cover her nearly-bare chest or not. She looks down at the floor as she raises herself up on her feet. She rubs her arms with her hands, and you know she's only pretending to be cold.

"It's not that I don't like you," you clarify, tactful as usual. "But you're not my type, Pansy. I like you as a friend."

She nods briskly, not wanting you to think she's desperate. "Of course. I understand completely, Draco."

"You'd better get dressed."

"I was just about to do that."

With fast, wide steps, she crosses the room to the door and exits with a gentle click.

You lie back and try not to think about Harry.

*

The next two days are extraordinarily boring. School is more of a menace than usual, and the energy you used to put into it has been exhausted. You finish your homework competently enough, but besides that there is no purpose. Your ears refuse to listen in class, and you lapse into empty daydreams. No, you don't think about Harry much. Nor anything else.

Tuesday evening finds you lazing comfortably in front of the common room fire. The rain outside is a pathetic shower, but the sky is glum enough to have driven everyone inside to catch up on their homework.

You have today's Charms notes in one hand -- a few sentences, some doodles, and random trivia care of Professor Flitwick -- and a quill in another. The quill is not loaded; it's there for ornament.

You are interrupted from your study (or lack thereof) by Preston, who carries a folded piece of parchment sealed with the Malfoy crest.

A letter from your father, plenty of small talk and the command for you to port home and take your presents before they rot. You read once and hurl the letter into the fire, strangely devoid of emotion. Your anger is still there, but frozen in time -- left for display or future reference. Left to fall back to.

You sneer at the flames as you remember that he didn't even wish you a happy birthday.

Not that it would change anything if he did.

*

You spend the next afternoon researching the origin of gnomes in the library, dragging Crabbe and Goyle along with you. The place is empty and you have a table to yourself, while they share both a table and a book, poring over it with curiosity and wonder you have never thought them capable of. Goyle scratches his head; you shake yours with a small smile and continue working.

Minutes later they begin to speak in hushed tones, but their voices are so deep that you can recognize some of the words. Your name is mentioned, and without a thought, you look up and frown at them. They stare at you, wide-eyed and silent; and then, as if nothing happened, they resume reading.

You wonder what they might be saying about you.

~~~

Harry.

Week Two.

Monday, in the middle of your Potions essay: Narcissa Malfoy must be well now.

As an afterthought: So must Lupin. He transformed last week; I expect he's coming back tomorrow. I've had just about enough of Snape in DADA.

The essay is fourteen inches of miniscule handwriting. You never thought you could do it. You never thought library books could contain so much information.

One more inch to go.

*

"We have three spies," Dumbledore says slowly, "and they work separately. They don't know each other, but they are feeding us the same information, and by this we can rightfully assume they are trustworthy. Harry, the Death Eaters are planning something tremendous. We don't know what it is yet, but we know it has to do with you."

"I understand, sir." You shift in your seat. What is he getting at?

"We need to train you, Harry. The Order, and I especially, have no doubt that you have the potential to be a very powerful wizard. But we need your effort and your time. Can you give us that?"

"Yes, sir."

He nods as slowly as he speaks; this is the way he does everything these days. He is old, and where there is no beard covering his face there are wrinkles. His eyes still twinkle from behind his half-moon spectacles, but it is a muted sort of sparkle, tired over the years. Just the sight of Dumbledore is enough to make you frown wistfully, but when he is before you, you can do nothing but nod and obey -- as a favor; as a debt.

"You may choose who it is you want to help you, as long as he or she is available. It would be better if--"

"Can I ask for Professor Lupin?" you interrupt in one breath. This decision will be the one thing, at least, that is not prophesied to bring you doom.

"Certainly." He nods. "I'll inform him right away, then. You may go."

You stand and exit the office, torn between a smile and anxiety.

*

You and Remus are to hold training sessions from seven to nine every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Wednesday evening, the first session, you are trying to learn the pronunciation of an extremely complicated hex when he asks if you're all right. There's something about his tone that suggests the question is not about the spell.

"You feel different to me, Harry. What's going on with you?" He sits down, gesturing for you to do the same. You shrug. He combs a hand through his hair to keep it from falling over his eyes. He never manages to remember to get a haircut like he's been meaning to. You don't feel like reminding him, though, because his hair looks quite all right -- good on him, even -- though there is the occasional strand of gray peeking out from behind the rust-colored locks.

He blinks slowly -- or it seems slow to you -- and you notice the bags under his eyes. They are always there a few days before and after the monthly transformation. You cannot bear to wonder what it feels like to be struck tired and ill once a month, and how in the world girls and werewolves have gotten used to it. "Are you fine with where we started?" he asks with concern. "Perhaps we could make the initial hexes lighter, and work up to--"

"No, Remus, where we started is good. I need to be as advanced as I can get."

"But what... How are you and Draco, by the way?"

Of course, it had to come up one way or another.

"We broke up."

"Ah."

But you change the subject and ignore the surprised frown that appears on his face. You try that long hex again, and after a few repetitions he blinks himself to good sense and tells you you've finally got it right, it's time to practice with the wand. Eventually Draco is forgotten.

*

Thursday. Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

Ron is getting better every week, and as you watch him fend off another Quaffle, you smile proudly to yourself. You don't know if you being team captain has contributed to his skill, but nonetheless you're happy for him, because finally he's found something he can be really good at. Seeing him practice reminds you of the first time you ever flew, and the first time you kissed Draco Malfoy and meant it, and he kissed you and meant it back.

You look away from Ron, some part of you worried that he may sense that you're thinking about Draco again and feel obliged to do something about it, like turn Draco into a ferret. You want no such thing to happen; Draco is only your classmate now, someone you go to school with; you don't even speak with him anymore, really; you'd rather keep it that way than revert to the old enemy stage. You want no bitterness; you only wish to move on.

You glance idly at the stands and you imagine that, among the handful of students watching, there is one with platinum blond hair and a green and silver tie, squinting into the sun to look at you. But there is a flutter at the corner of your view, and you swerve swiftly to the right and cut through the air to capture the Snitch. When you have it resting inside your palm, you fly around and begin to practice feints, refusing to look anywhere but the ground and the sky.

~~~

Draco.

Week Three.

Since you and he don't even look at each other anymore, you think you might get used to this.

*

But then he bumps into you on the way to the Potions stockroom for ingredients.

But then his eyes are expressionless behind his glasses, a startling green with no emotion. He looks down at the floor and walks right past.

*

These days you find yourself bored more often than usual, and so you send owls to the entire Slytherin team saying that weekly Quidditch practice starts Wednesday in anticipation of the Slytherin/Hufflepuff match the 31st of January next year. Besides, you can't risk another loss.

Wednesday afternoon you fly and remember him flying. And you try to be free but you can't: you're not him; you'll never be. Without him the sky is a transparent cage. Flying is a task, and your heart has forgotten how to enjoy it.

*

Your mother is awake and well. She has been told that her sleep was caused by Bedivere fever. You shall not tell her otherwise. But I need not force you; you know what's good for yourself. Owl back if you will.

You burn the letter. Pansy, obviously troubled, starts with a palm on your shoulder and eventually gives you a comforting back rub.

At one point you close your eyes and imagine Harry--

Then you tell her to stop and thank her with a smile, using homework as an excuse to be left alone.

~~~

Harry.

Week Four.

On the last day of November Dumbledore tells you, "It is recommended that you learn the Killing Curse."

You stare at him, bewildered.

He sounds as tired as ever when he says, "Only if you want to, Harry. But if you remember the prophecy..."

"I'll learn it," you say, if only because you don't think he can come up with another plan. He has protected you all these years; now you have to do it yourself. You cannot risk hurting him and many others in a battle only you are meant to fight.

"It will be hard for you and on you, Harry. Just a warning."

"I can take it."

He nods. "You will begin tomorrow."

You don't need to be told; tomorrow is a Monday, after all. It's routine. "Yes, sir," you reply anyway.

"Another thing, Harry."

"What is it?"

"Professor Snape will be teaching you."

*

"You must enunciate every vowel, Potter. It's not av-duh. It's a-vuh-duh. Some wizards end up killing themselves with mispronunciation. Say it again."

"A-vuh-duh Ki-dav-ruh."

"That will do. Now, for wand movement..."

Snape, albeit stern, is extraordinarily patient and shows no signs of irascibility. You wonder why, but your relief overweighs your curiosity.

*

"How was it?" Ron asks, peering over Hermione's Transfiguration notes. There is a buzzing in your head and emptiness in your chest. Exhausted, you flop down onto the couch beside him and shut your eyes.

"Where's Hermione?"

"At the library. You look worn out, Harry."

"I am. We worked on some flies. One of them was out for about fifteen minutes. The rest just got dizzy."

"Fifteen is respectable."

"It's a long way from forever."

You can feel Ron shrug. You lean back, eyes closed, for five minutes or so. Then you go upstairs to get some sleep. Homework can wait till tomorrow.

That night you dream of Snape's cold, dimly lit office. Remus is showing you how to flick your wand while saying Avada Kedavra. He gazes at you with the intensity that reminds you of the way he used to look at Sirius: hungry and curious and beckoning at the same time. He comes closer, almost floating. You walk to him, every step echoing on the stone walls.

He places his hand on your shoulder. It slides up, settling warm on the back of your neck. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw.

He is so close his breath blows kisses on your lips--

*

On Wednesday Remus decides to work outside, at least until it gets dark, because the clouds are a stretched-cotton white and the sky is satin blue, the color of summer and Quidditch. You follow him to the lawn between the pitch and the lake, staring at the soft auburn you wish to run your hands in.

You don't know what last night's dream could possibly have meant. You don't know what you're feeling. It's strange yearning for someone two decades older, especially since--

You shudder. You haven't thought about that in ages, and it's felt wonderful, really. But your mind grasps the memory the same way your hand grasps the Snitch in every match you've ever won: by instinct. How does it remain so fresh?

Remus sits on the grass, smiling at you with his eyes crinkling a little at the edges. You think it's adorable that someone so much older could appear so childlike with the help of good weather. He told you to bring thick robes, and so it's warm except for the early December air on your face. But when you fold your legs under you on the spot beside him, a shiver chills through your spine and you look down at the tiny flowers beside your knees.

"Shall we study the Disillusionment Charm?" he asks cheerfully.

"All right."

He begins, as usual, with a brief history and the charm's theoretical aspects. You stare at the grass, nodding at all the right moments, asking questions, listening to the timbre of his voice.

*

You run round the lawn with only your body's upper half bathed in the cold chameleon charm; Remus holds a mirror and follows you, and you both laugh at how strange you look as a tree trunk with human legs. And in the midst of this laughter you look past him and at the Quidditch pitch, where you see a familiar figure in green and gray practice robes, spinning in the air on his latest Nimbus. You close your eyes for the briefest moment, imagining the wind in your hair, stinging your cheeks. When Draco flies you feel like you're flying too.

Remus's eyes are hot caramel on the back of your neck. You turn back fast enough for him not to have time to worry.

*

The next day you walk into the Great Hall for dinner and spot them quite by accident. Pansy Parkinson is gripping Draco's arm and they are laughing at one of his jokes. And then she moves closer, arm slinging around his waist, and he laughs even more.

He's moved on. Perhaps it's time for you to do the same.

*

After the following evening's training session, you are seated beside Remus in front of his drawing room fire, absorbing the heat. It drizzled a bit but you insisted on mastering the Disillusionment Charm before heading back in, and by the time you did you were both cold, your robes splattered with water. He didn't complain then, and he doesn't now; he closes his eyes as the heat flows over both of you.

And that's when things begin to happen.

*

Somehow his legs and yours are entangled. Somehow you are pulling him down, clutching him to your chest, as your back lightly hits the couch surface. Somehow he says "Harry" in a hoarse uncertain whisper that sends tremors through your veins. And you press your forehead to his, his nose brushing against yours. He hesitates; somehow you pull him more tightly into your embrace. You shut your eyelids and kiss him, thinking RemusRemusRemus again and again, your fingers in his hair.