Threadbare

Thirteen: Summons

Draco.

...

A year ago you had asked Harry a question and watched the fire, waiting for his answer. The Astronomy tower drawing room smelled like moonlight and the flames; you were content in breathing it in until you realized he was silent. You thought he hadn't heard you, and turned to your right to face him and ask again. But he was looking at you: not for his eyes to absorb your image and bring it to his brain for future reference, no: he was looking at you with a smile on his lips; his eyes were dark with desire; they were beckoning to you. He nodded slightly. You stood, crossed the one step to his chair, and leaned over him. He pulled you into his embrace. The seat was large enough for you to climb in, supported by your knees, straddling him. His face moved closer, and you thought he was going to kiss you on the mouth; but instead he buried his nose in the crook between your neck and shoulder, whispering, “I'll never forget you.”

...

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Harry, of course.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at you, trying not to look apprehensive. “Why do you want to talk to him?”

“I want him back.”

An eternity passes.

She sighs. “Malfoy—”

“Please. I love him.”

You surprise even yourself.

“He... oh, Malfoy, I don't... Are you sure that...” She is silent for a moment, and then finally resolves the debate with herself. “I think he's with Lupin.”

“Thank you,” you say, and run.

...

You slid a hand up his neck to his hair, combing the soft, messy locks upward. The scent of his shampoo was intoxicating but he was more, and you knew you were making a promise when you said, “I'll never forget you either, Harry.” And you wondered why he had said it in the first place: if he thought his doom was coming, if he thought you were on the verge of a breakup. If he was only making sure you cared about him, because after years of bitterness there might have been some left in your heart. You wanted to prove that it had dissipated, all of it. But there was nothing you could do except to pull him close. And that was what you did, and everything turned out all right.

...

Before turning the corner, you slow your pace and slide your hands down your hair, checking if it's all right. Composure matters, after all. Your heart is pounding against your ribs and you're afraid you'll croak out your first real, friendly greeting in months. You realize all of a sudden how you should have rehearsed this, should have thought of at least one idea of what to say.

But you and Harry's relationship started with no planning whatsoever, and despite the initial misgivings, it carried on fine. Until It happened, of course.

With Harry, you learned to trust your instincts, and you would like to depend on them now.

You stay still for a minute to catch up on your breathing. In a moment you will turn the corner and walk smoothly to Lupin's door and knock and ask politely, “May I please speak with him awhile?” And then you will proceed with the plan, though it is still nebulous as of now. But Harry will agree and you pray that it will work the way you want it to. You and Harry deserve it.

You inhale deeply and walk round the corner.

~~~

Harry.

You watch Draco. You count his steps.

His brisk stride tells you he has a concrete destination and, like it or not, that destination is you.

Your legs, torn between sprinting to him and running away, dare not move.

“We can't let him win,” Draco greets, breathless.

He is a yard away from you, his eyes seeking yours, and you don't know what to say, or whether you should say anything at all. The time you met in the snowball fight at Christmas seems less awkward than now: your heart flutters and thuds at random intermissions. You command it to stay still, but to no avail.

“Can't let who win?” your voice asks, though you cannot remember telling it to. You are immediately aware that this might be the strangest conversation you and Draco will ever have—jabs before sixth year included.

He doesn't blink. “My father.”

You shudder, because after all the memory will always be there. You understand what Draco is trying to say. You understand why. But you cannot agree.

“Draco—”

Your voice is about to say it's a bad idea, but he interrupts: “I'm not asking for anything except for us to start talking again. Do you think you could do that?”

Draco is as suave and collected as he has ever been and you are a nervous wreck. You find that there is nothing you can reply with save a nod so small that you consider doing it again to make sure. But he looks into your eyes and you see that the windows of his soul have opened—perhaps a bit wider—and you know he has received your answer. He holds your gaze; in the end it is so painful that you duck your head to look away.

“So,” he says, starting down the corridor, “Quidditch team doing all right?”

You walk by his side and exchange conversation. He mentions his annoyance toward Pansy; you mention training with Snape and Remus; he talks about the abysmal Slytherin Team chances in the next match; you tell him of how Ron and Hermione have become sweet ad nauseam.

Speaking with him feels like scrabbling dangerously on an old wound, not knowing how much is enough to cut it open again.

New beginnings are never easy.

*

After school the next day, Dumbledore summons you.

“The Death Eaters gather at the MacNair Manor in Surrey on the days of their planned attacks,” he tells you, voice hoarse with age and weariness. “The next assault involves the ruin of Muggle London. It is on the eighteenth of January, and on that day, you must be prepared to save mankind.”

You search for a trace of humor on his face, but even his eyes are grave.

“The Ministry has agreed to help the Order. You must understand, however, that Voldemort himself will not be the Aurors' or the Order's responsibility, but yours. All our fates rest on you, Harry.”

“I understand, sir.”

He gives a slight nod. “Be ready. You are dismissed.”

*

January eighteenth is five days away.

You release a swarm of flies and lie motionless on your bed, killing them one by one. You wonder if all you've learned will be enough.

No.

Nothing is ever enough.

~~~

Draco.

Yesterday's talk with Harry was extraordinary.

Extraordinarily wonderful.

Extraordinarily awkward.

And after the long conversation you realized that no one could ever replace him.

You breathe in and out, slouch on the common room couch, stare at the dank ceiling. All is quiet except for the fire crackling and third years whispering in a corner.

Preston hoots in.

As if that is not enough to interrupt your tenuous thread of thought, he drops an envelope on your face.

Sealed with the Malfoy crest. You roll your eyes.

You rip it open and empty the contents onto your palm.

Only a Galleon.

A hook pulls suddenly at your navel. You gasp loudly, the world weaving itself into darkness around you. Eventually, inevitably, to your great annoyance, you land in your father's study.

“I had a feeling you'd be here soon,” he greets. “Pray sit down.”

You place the Galleon on his desk and sit with a grunt, remembering the last time you saw him. It was months ago, when he admitted what happened with Harry. Truth be told, you never wished to speak with him again. Like so many things in life, it turns out you are to have no choice. You stare at your knees, disgusted with even the blur of his blond hair in the corner of your view. He says no more.

When you finally cannot stand it, you say, angry bile rising in your throat, “Why did you bring me here?”

“I have something to give you.”

He mutters a spell to open the desk drawer that he always keeps locked. Then he gently takes something out of it, a dangling sparkling shiny thing he holds with both hands. As you are busy trying to avoid the mere sight of him, you cannot discern exactly what it is. Your heart is in your stomach and fury has pushed your chest to oblivion. Your lungs are so strongly held down with the urge to cry or scream that you cannot breathe.

“Get me back to Hogwarts,” you tell him.

“After you take this,” he answers dismissively, rising from his chair. He goes over and holds the thing in front of you so that you have to look.

A thin silver chain, and hanging from it, a white gold ring studded with small diamonds.

“What is it.” You keep your eyes dead on the softly shining band.

“It was given to me by... a friend. It was long ago. I would like you to have it.”

“You expect me to wear that thing?”

“I expect you to keep it.”

You swallow slowly, only making your tight throat drier than it is. “It's not another Portkey.”

“It's not another Portkey, Draco.”

You take it quickly and shove it into your pocket.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You obey as slowly as possible. And you are surprised by what you see.

You thought he would appear complacent, a subtle smirk on his lips, a cold twinkling in his eyes. Instead there are small wrinkles on his face you don't remember being there before. His expression is sullen, but no scowl hints his anger or disappointment or cruelty.

For the first time in history, Lucius Malfoy looks regretful.

“Let me go back to school,” you say firmly.

“Not until you understand why I had to resort to—and why I was correct in resorting to—the so-called crime you have disrespected me for making.”

“Disrespected? Fa—with all due respect, you deserve all the disrespect I have to give. I don't even know why I'm here. Now pardon me, because I am doing my best not to blow up, please return me to Hogwarts and we can live a peaceful existence—oh God—we can live a peaceful existence without having to see or speak with or even think of each other again. You have angered me to the end of my—of my—” You do not know what coherence befell on you, but it dissipates as you knew it would.

“I wish you would at least try to understand—”

“There is nothing to understand!”

“Draco—”

“Harry and I were over two months ago. It will delight you to know that it was your fault. I hope you're happy now.”

Lucius's eyes are sharp as daggers.

But you have no doubt you match them edge to edge.

~~~

Harry.

You now have training with Remus every afternoon, because doomsday is nearing and Snape is busy with Order-related things. You go to Remus's office and he opens the door almost immediately, as if he were waiting for you to come. “We're going to practice spells,” he greets distractedly, and then motions for you to sit down.

“I thought we were going to practice spells,” you say.

“Yes, we are.” He raises a quizzical eyebrow.

You chuckle at his absent-mindedness. “We've never practiced spells sitting down before.”

“There's always a first time,” he retorts, before seeming to realize his mistake. “Oh, I mean, you don't really have to sit down practicing. Really, either position will do, as long as you've got your wand—where's my wand, I wonder? Must have put it here somewhere...” He lifts the books and parchment scattered all over his desk. He pulls out each of his drawers, and in a few seconds the search turns almost frantic.

“Remus? I think it's in your pocket.” You point to a piece of shiny wood sticking out from his robes.

“Oh, yes, that's where it is. It was there only a moment ago, how could I have forgotten... Well, where were we? I thought I told you to stand up.”

You shake your head in amusement. “Remus, what's wrong?”

He looks at you almost weakly, eyes uncertain, and you have the impression that you're making him feel small. You casually twirl your wand in your fingers, waiting for what he has to say.

He sits behind his desk. He straightens his back. He places his forearms on the armrest. He slouches a bit. He stares at the front cover of his record book like it holds the answers to all the world's questions. He clears his throat.

“Before anything else...” he begins in a lighthearted tone, and you decide that nothing's wrong after all, that he's merely had a draining day. But then he finally meets your eyes, and you know the day is far from over.

“Harry, there's something I haven't told you about your father.”

TBC.