Threadbare

Fifteen: Deliverance

Harry.

In Potions class Draco's expression is tired; his face seems to be weighed down by his troubles; his movements are those of someone who is weary of life. You watch him surreptitiously, regretting that you told him off. Yes, you know full well that you couldn't stand to be with him—or anyone else, for that matter—that night: everything was too much, a maelstrom in your nerves, and you needed time alone to sit down and take it all in. But you could have done it more politely, made it less hurtful. When Draco spots you staring at him you shift your eyes to the blackboard, perhaps because of guilt. After mustering the courage and the effort to be close to you again, you don't think he deserved it, no matter how good your reason was.

Yesterday Remus told you how, for a few months in sixth year, your dad was happy with Lucius and was convinced they could move in together after graduation. They made a good pair, apparently, from Potions to troublemaking. They were so brilliant together that at one point the marauders grew jealous of the secrets James shared with Lucius and, though they would never admit it, the thoughtful gifts Lucius gave James. But their relationship went deeper than secrets and gifts, even if all the Gryffindors and Slytherins tried never to talk or even think about it, at least not in public. Eventually they had nothing to whisper about in dark corners and quiet dorms, because James left Lucius for Lily.

You think it logical to dwell more on the foregone possibility that, had they stayed together, you might never have been born. But you cannot help caring more about your father and his father instead, about how they attracted each other despite differences in attitude and beliefs, like you and Draco; how they crossed house boundaries and rebelled against the norm, like you and Draco; how they may have loved each other from the cores of their beings, like you and Draco.

But they were ruined in the end, as was expected of them from the beginning.

You know there is hope, like a sliver of silver in a cold bedroom, moments before sleep comes. Still, reality is too painful to deny, and in your mind burns the idea that Lucius, in his quest for revenge, has made the past repeat itself.

You grit your teeth, chopping your beetroot more forcefully. Thinking about him gives you the shivers. It's not the good kind, no. Not the kind you associate with Draco. Or used to, at least.

Snape is stalking toward you, so you try to appear busy. He hasn't antagonized you for some time now, but it pays to be careful. Somehow you wish he were his insufferable self instead. You think he's being nice because of the Incident, and you can't bear knowing that he knows.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

When the bell rings, you poke Harry in the ribs and smirk as he rubs his side. There is a scowl on his face, but when he turns to look at you he replaces it with a smile that tells you things are going well so far.

"Can you meet me by the seventh floor stairway in half an hour?"

He doesn't ask why, even though he looks surprised. Sometimes he just knows when it's better not to question.

He nods once in reply.

You join Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle in going to the Slytherin common room. You can feel his curious gaze on your back.

*

You greet him with a smile in your eyes and nothing more. Trust me, you try to tell him as you take his hand, pulling him toward your destination.

When you stop, he stares at the pair of doors like it is the mouth leading to the underworld.

You didn't even need to walk past it.

Your voice is hoarse, at first, and as hesitant as he looks: "The Room of Requirement." And then, remembering you should have strength enough for you both, you swallow deeply, clear your throat, and tell him, "This is going to be hard, Harry. I know that. But you're never going to get past it unless you try. And I am going to do all I can to help you."

He continues to stare at the wood of the doors. His lips are parted in disbelief. He seems to have lost all capability of speech.

You turn the knob and slowly, slowly push open the door.

Of course, you have never seen this place before. It's a cross between an old-fashioned Gryffindor bedroom and your father's study. The wallpaper is dark maroon with gold-colored fleurs-de-lis. There is an antique writing desk to one side, and two bookshelves joining in a corner. On the opposite side of the room lies a bed with dark red sheets and a headboard made out of elegantly carved copper. On a closer look, the thin Greek-like posts on each side, which are crawling with vines, are marked with tiny scratches.

Handcuffs.

Harry swallows audibly. You turn to him and watch as he observes his surroundings. He is silent for a minute, but his chest heaves with panicked breathing. His eyes are wide with the fear of memory.

"Just let the memories come. Don't—don't fight them." You nearly choke on your own words. He looks lost and desperate, and a part of you yearns to take him by the arm and pull him out the door. To stop this torment entirely. But deep down you are certain that any reprieve he gets now will only make the problem worse as time goes by.

His gaze lingers on the bedspread, neatly made and tucked into the corners, the color of lifeless blood. And then he shuts his eyes so tightly that you can almost see the scenes drifting into his head, the emotions filtering into his soul. You slip your thumb under black-rimmed glass, gently trace his left eyelid, and feel the warmth of his tears.

He shies away from your touch. "Why are we here?" He speaks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He does, in a way.

You pull up two ornately upholstered chairs and sit down. You can clearly see how trapped he feels. You ignore the guilt that surfaces inside you and tell him, "We're here to talk about it."

"Draco, please—"

"Harry, please. I only—oh, this sounds so trite, but I only want the best for you. Out of all the people..." You stop short, because you were about to say that out of all the people in the world, you are one of few that he can trust the most; but you recall that the very man who caused this grief was your father, and yet you could do nothing to stop him.

So, instead, you say, "You can tell me anything. You know that."

With obvious reluctance, he sits opposite you. He nods slowly, distractedly, as if his mind is on autopilot and he can no longer think for himself. "I'm sorry for not telling—"

"No, forget it, Harry. Forget about everything except this room and what happened here. And tell me everything."

"You know, you sound awfully like a psychiatrist."

You blink.

"What's a psychiatrist?"

"Oh, nothing," he replies, a hint of a smile on his face. You are relieved if only because the mood is getting lighter, even though it was at your expense.

"Right, Harry. Why don't we start with the moment you realized you were running out of parchment?"

He looks slightly amused, as if he thinks you're joking, but when he sees your serious expression he ducks his head and sigh. A very long minute passes before he starts to speak, but almost at the same time you ask him if it would be better if you asked questions instead.

"I suppose." His murmur is low and shy enough to make your conscience protest again, but seeing as you are quite skilled in not listening to said conscience, you muster the nerve to continue.

"What happened after you went to the seventh floor stockroom? It's in the wing opposite from here, right?"

"Yes. I went to the stockroom but it was locked."

"So you decided to come here?"

"Yes. I didn't feel like looking for Filch, who seems to think he owns all the sodding supplies in there. So, since I had enough time before the game, I thought it'd be good to get parchment from here instead, seeing as I needed it and all."

"You saw my father on the way?"

"He was just walking out the door..."

"So he had been in this room prior to you coming?"

"Yes."

"Was he expecting you, do you think?"

"No. He looked surprised. But then..."

"But then what?"

"But then he instantly looked delighted. Likely because I had come to him and his plans became twice as easy."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"I... yes. He said—something like—that he had been waiting for me."

"And then?"

He shrugs.

He is inspecting his lap. His fringe falls over his eyes so you can only see his nose and mouth. His lips droop down like a wilted flower; the shadows play on his jaw, and oddly, it reminds you of loneliness.

You wait for a while before speaking again. You go through it with him, posing questions until he tells you the entire story in murmurs and nods and grumbles. You don't stop even when he turns away, his lips frozen in a bitter grimace, tears welling in his eyes. You don't stop when he tells you to "please, Draco, please, I don't want to talk about—" then buries his head in his hands, the anger falling in drops through his fingers. You don't stop when he says, "And then he did it," all too ready to move on to the next part, no; you ask him what your father did, even if it sickens you and rips him apart; you don't stop until he tells you that "he fucked me and it wasn't sex, it was murder, he stabbed me dry and tore me in two," and even you cannot breathe.

When he finishes, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks sticky with tears, you slide your fingers under his chin so he can look at you. He is ashamed and tries to avert his eyes, but you gaze steadily into them and he finds he has no choice but to stare back. Never taking your eyes off him, you fish something out of your pocket. He takes the opportunity to look at your hands and see what it is.

You pull the ancient dagger out of its leather sheath. Its hilt is silver with an intricately carved design in black, encrusted with pale sapphires. The Malfoy crest stares blankly from its base. The blade glints in the dim light. For the quickest moment his eyes start, frightened. But you catch his gaze and he seems to realize he trusts you.

"I inherited this when I was born. Never had the chance to use it, though. Harry, this will sound stupid and perhaps a bit mad, but..." You hand the weapon to him, and though the blade is facing you, his hands shake with uncertainty as he takes it.

You gesture toward the bed. "Destroy it."

At first he looks confused. Then, as he recognizes what you expect him to do, he stands, firming his jaw.

The dagger, though small, is sharp as death. He kneels on the edge of the bed and rips the blankets and the sheets and stabs the mattress as if it is your father. He slashes the pillows so forcefully that the feathers rush up and float back down. He wrenches the curtains off their hinges and tears them with his bare hands. Even from a distance you can see his furious tears tumbling from his eyes onto the damage he has done.

When there is none of the bed left to be destroyed, he walks swiftly away from it. Four steps later he turns back. He whips out his wand, murmuring "Incendio." He grips the dagger as he would salvation. You step beside him and watch as the fire consumes the shining green of his eyes.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

He is doing all he can. You know that.

And somehow, you think he is beginning to succeed.

After Lucius raped you, you thought you would never again be filled with the kind of palpable joy that you felt when you found out you were a wizard, and when you flew for the first time, and when you saw your parents in the Mirror of Erised. Those memories were but remnants of a lost world, like one before a dementor's kiss—except it was not a dementor, it was Lucius Malfoy, and you cannot decide if that's better or worse.

But when you spoke about It in detail for the first time—with Lucius's son, no less—you released a slew of bitterness and anger along with the story, and you discovered that redemption was possible, after all. Then, when you destroyed that cursed bed, the fire burned like hope, illuminating the future.

Before today you thought it would hurt you to remember anything, anything at all; and in the Room of Requirement you were convinced that Draco didn't know what he was doing, that he was only wishing in vain to make it all better. But he took the risk, and so did you. And it does feel better.

You lie in bed, twirling your wand, staring out Neville's window. Everyone's downstairs at dinner; you are too full with relief to join them. There is so much thinking that needs to be done, so much to make up for all those times you tried to forget when you should have overcome. You think of Draco, mostly, but also of his father and of Remus and of Sirius and of Ron and of Hermione and, when a fly comes along and you kill it by instinct, of Voldemort.

When all this is over, when the school year ends and there are no Dark Lords to be dealt with, maybe you and Draco could go on a permanent vacation. You could live together, just him and you. Keep chasing the dream that never came true.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

Having skipped dinner, you watch the fire, lying once again on the common room sofa. Blaise, who is on a no-dinner diet, scrutinizes you. You pretend not to notice him, knowing he is bound to speak soon anyway.

"What's wrong?" he asks. You almost smile to yourself.

"Pansy's rubbing off on you, I see."

"I was only asking." Blaise frowns, rubbing his skinny stomach.

"Hungry?"

He hastily stops, and then crosses his arms. "No, not at all."

"Right."

"Why'd you skip dinner, anyway? And where were you after Potions?"

"Walking around. And I'm not hungry. Besides, I've gained three ounces." You smile brightly at him, and he huffs because three ounces is nothing compared with his half stone since the start of Christmas—even if he doesn't look like it at all. He says no more. After a few minutes of silence, he tells you that he's going to take a walk to work off his fats. "Good for you," you tell him, half laughing. He goes out the door with a scowl.

Half an hour later, when the Slytherins start coming back from the Great Hall, you stand and go out as well. You walk until you reach the entrance hall, where you feel a bit lost at the very center, wondering what you came here for. You are only sure that you wanted to avoid the hubbub down in the dungeons.

You take a long look at the stairs leading up. But when you take the first step you realize it's too soon. Harry needs time.

So you summon your broom and head to the Quidditch pitch instead, flying under the moonlight with the cold wind in your hair.

TBC.