Palindromes

Chapter 2 - Never Odd or Even

Draco had left the café, but he hadn't gone far. Just down the street was number ninety-three, Diagon Alley: home to Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes, owned by the Weasley twins themselves.

It was a plain enough brick building, hunching slightly over the street like all shops seemed to do. But the large sign and other various oddments attached to the building were anything but plain; Draco scowled and thought they were gaudy. The door and the long benches where he sat were painted the color of Weasley Hair Orange. Harry was guaranteed to come by here.

"Oy, Fred, is that Malfoy?" Draco's head turned quickly from side to side and then finally upwards. The twins were leaning out of two windows, each holding one end of a string of glittering yellow letters. It resembled a birthday banner and read "NEW FROM WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES! CANARY CREAM MINIS! SOMETIMES BIGGER ISN'T ALWAYS BETTER!"

"Who else could have that poncy blond hair?" Fred laughed. Draco's eyes narrowed, but he stayed still.

"Ron did for awhile, remember? We slipped that- what was it?"

"I dunno. But that's right. Now that you mention it, I do remember. He wasn't so pleased about it, yeah?"

Draco heard a distinct snort. "Pleased isn't the word. He tried one of Ginny's hexes on us. Good thing he hasn't got her aim or we might have had to relive that bogey incident."

There was collective shudder in which Draco was included. Deciding he had heard enough, Draco got up and left, taking one long look at the sign before turning away, deep in thought.

So, Potter was the one in my room last night. Draco knew it now, beyond doubt.

"Postulo Servus," he murmured. The words required no wand and technically required no magic- it was more like a summons. In an instant, a house elf appeared at his feet, head bowed. "Take us back to the inn," he demanded, and they disappeared immediately.

<>

The air above the clouds was as cold as Harry remembered it, though the numbness that was overtaking him was unfamiliar. The wind had been so cold at first that it was painful to move, to even blink and close his eyes- but it was no worse than the pain in his scar.

But then the numbness set in and it was almost a relief not to feel anymore. The brilliant cold kept him sharp and aware and his head felt remarkably clear. He could hardly breathe. He could hardly feel, except for the warm buzz of the motorcycle beneath him. And it was all wonderful.

By the time he arrived in Diagon Alley his entire face was tinged a pale blue and his lips faintly purplish. Thankfully, the streets were dark and empty; no one was there to notice him creeping stiffly along, the feeling seeping back into his limbs hurting worse than before. He swore darkly under his breath and made for the Leaky Cauldron.

Then he reached the wall that separated the wizarding world and the inn, only to spend the next ten minutes prodding various bricks in various orders before slumping against the wall, thawing and listening sullenly to the merry sounds of the pub on the other side. He couldn't go through it, he couldn't climb over it (the wall stretched upwards until it met with a small round window and then the roof); he would have to wait until someone else came through so he could sneak in.

A loud crack broke the silence, the sound of someone Apparating. Footsteps approached. Harry felt a sudden flutter of panic and anticipation in his chest. The doorway of a closed shop loomed nearby and he hurled himself into it, hoping that he hadn't been spotted.

"Hurry up, Harry." His stomach dipped and he seemed to freeze again, no longer aware of the stiffness in his joints and the quick pulse in his scar.

"Yes, sir, Harry will be done right away, Sir," came a high voice that could only belong to a house elf. He relaxed slightly, trying to still his breath. But really- a house elf named Harry?

"I'm not seeing, 'right away', Harry. I'll have you punished when we get home." Then there was the grumbling sound of shifting bricks. Harry shot a cautious glance around the doorway and tried to muffle a gasp.

Rather than an archway opening up to the back entrance of the inn, the wall had formed into something like a ladder leading to a rounded balcony where the window had been before. Harry could see a door leading inside. Missing bricks served as handholds that were regularly spaced and easy to climb; the house elf and its master were already most of the way up.

Harry had no choice but to follow. No one else was likely to come by at this hour. As they disappeared over the balcony, he made a dash for the wall and began climbing, body hugged tight to the bricks.

A light flickered on just as Harry reached the top. He peered over the balcony and looked in; the room was elegant in an exaggerated sort of way.

He was obviously looking into a bedroom. A large bed made entirely of mahogany dominated the space, the gold accents on its frame catching the light. The lamps had long coppery arms and surrounded a cherub's head, seeming both beautiful and sinister at once. The combined effect was so vivid that Harry barely noticed a flash of blond hair disappearing into another room.

Taking this to be his chance, Harry fell into the balcony, aching for rest, but moved on. Outside, the clacking of bricks told him the wall was returning to normal. He passed through the doors, there was a sharp snap, and the balcony became a circular window once again.

People were speaking in the next room, their voices politely hushed, but occasionally he caught a false laugh or exclamation. Harry scanned the area. It was apparently empty, giving him some amount of security, but he remained cautious. He would need to find somewhere to hide. Quickly.

He scrambled beneath the bed. It was there that Harry discovered Harry.

The house elf was sleeping. Harry stared at it for a long time until he was quite sure of this, though he didn't chance poking it to check. He felt nervous that it could wake at any moment.

A man entered the room- this was clear by the shape and fit of his boots, and the decisiveness of the footfalls. A shaft of bright light shone under the bathroom door and gleamed on leather that must have been recently polished. These were the shoes of a rich man, and Harry knew instantly whose rooms these were. The man was Lucius Malfoy, fresh out of Azkaban. With his chest pressed against the marble floor, Harry could feel the heavy pounding of his heart.

Lucius rapped the door lightly. There was a reply from within that Harry could not make out.

"Draco, where is that house elf of yours? My guests are awaiting drinks."

The door opened, the light extended its reach to under the bed. Harry struggled away from it, casting nervous looks at the house elf throughout.

"Summon him if you want," said Draco placidly. Harry bit back his surprise. Of course, Draco wouldn't drawl at his father, but his voice was very different without that element of hatred. "I bet it's going at the sweets again."

Lucius made clear his disdain. "It would be wise to rid it of those sugar cravings. You shouldn't cater to its tastes, like you do. I saw it just this afternoon with some of that Weasley rubbish, those creams."

"I didn't give them to him, Father. They were handing them out yesterday, we passed by the shop. Though," Draco paused, laughing, "the prats had gotten their sign wrong. I don't suppose they know how to spell 'canary', put in two N's instead of one."

"That is no surprise. I wouldn't expect better from a Weasley," Lucius returned. Harry made fists beneath the bed, furious that he could do nothing.

"Yes, I told them that. They seemed rather peeved that I had noticed it before they had. But they gave the elf some creams anyway. I suspect he's still carting them around in his pocket."

Harry had a sudden idea. Could he...? Yes, it was possible; he would just have to reach over there...

He slid his arm along the floor towards the house elf and, barely daring to breathe, turned out a tiny pocket that the elf had sewn to its pillowcase front. Three candies rolled into his hand, small and pale yellow. Fred and George had sent him a letter (more of an ad really) about them early in the summer. He had pinned it up on his wall, as it was the first time he had received anything that reminded him of junk mail by owl. The twins were ahead of their time.

"Canary Cream Minis!" It had read. Painted canaries had fluttered over the paper, making a chirping noise so loud that Harry had needed to hide it in his sock drawer until the charm had worn off. The slogan was blazed across the top in bright yellow script- "Sometimes Bigger isn't always Better!" A cream had also been included in the envelope, with a note saying that he should try it out on Dudley.

Harry had tried it on himself instead, and had stayed a canary for a good five hours. Afterwards, when he reported this to the twins, they had written back saying that it must have been a freak reaction, they were terribly sorry, and could they look into it sometime? His aunt and uncle hadn't been quite so amused.

Eying the sweet with a faint sense of worry, Harry swallowed one whole. He didn't dare to chew. Within moments he gave a slight noise- nothing more than a pop- and turned into a canary.

"Did you hear that, Draco?" Lucius asked. Harry could hear a frown in his voice. Draco did not reply, and they dropped the conversation- Lucius briskly left the room, calling genially to his guests. Harry risked a hop towards the far side of the bed, and saw Lucius speak again as he turned to close the door.

"Get yourself in order and then come meet our guests. They're quite...fascinating, wouldn't you say?"

Draco remained expressionless, his voice flat. It was strange how much more intimidating he looked at this angle. "I suppose I'll find out."

The man swept out the room, closing the door with a light click. Harry had just begun thinking of an escape plan when a pale hand shot under the bed and closed around him.

Draco's grip was tight and furious. He stood up and brought Harry up to his face, his fingers crushing through bird bones and feathers. Harry heard things crack and struggled, wanting to scream, but all he could do was claw and peck at Draco's hand. The hand clenched tighter and tighter; Harry realized abruptly that he couldn't breath, could hardly think.

Malfoy smiled, thin-lipped. His eyes were bright.

"Who are you? You're a nasty little bird, aren't you? You didn't think I couldn't see you under there? Sod. Spies think like that. You must be spying on us." He didn't seem to mind the blood trickling down his hand and to the floor, startlingly red against the stone. "Well, my friend," He tilted his head forward slightly and smirked through his shadowed features. "You have particularly poor taste. Malfoys don't like being spied on. I saw you following me up here. Did you expect to find some family secrets- or perhaps put my father back in Azkaban, though it couldn't hold him in the first time?"

His laugh reminded Harry of freezing in the clouds while on the motorcycle, and that chill, chill wind. "That's something that Weasley would do, isn't it? Perhaps neither of you understand what being a Malfoy is. Come. I'll show you." And with his clean hand Draco straightened the front of his robes methodically, and then pushed his way into the sitting room.

Lucius sat at the head of a short, rectangular table topped with black marble. He scarcely looked up as his son entered with blood on his hands and a glassy-eyed bird in his fist. He tipped his wine glass towards Draco in greeting and gestured to a seat on his right.

The other guests didn't look up at all. There were two women and one man, all beautiful and obviously Muggle by their clothes; Lucius watched them with a glimmer in his eye, holding a wand in his right hand and a shining silver fork in his left.

He did not eat. His plate was empty and looked as if it had never served food. In fact, all five plates were clean except Draco's, where there was a simple dinner.

Draco ate simply while the guests ate air.

It was an odd sight; Harry wasn't sure whether he was hallucinating, or if this was actually real. The sounds of clinking knives and the delicate ring of a spoon against an empty bowl broke the silence, and it seemed like a dinner party. But their mouths opened as if speaking passionate words and closed as if ending them without forming a single phrase. This was no dinner party; there was no talk, and there was no dinner. Harry watched only because he could do nothing else.

Draco finished and rose after an indefinite amount of time. Lucius stood and nodded him out of the room, before sitting once again. He seemed intent on entertaining his guests. Harry found himself being carried to another bedroom- smaller than the one he had entered earlier, but no less elegant. Perhaps less golden and slightly darker, with hints of burgundy and other dark reds.

Draco drove him into an empty owl cage with close-set bars. He proceeded to clean his wounds in a pitcher that was filled for water meant for drinking, dissolving the dried blood. After he had dried his hands, he poured himself a glass. It made Harry feel faintly ill, but he didn't have the energy to move. His breath came in short gasps and a fluttering of yellow wings.

"My father will watch those Muggles under Imperius for days," said Draco after a long silence. "He will starve them and never let them gain control again. They will waste away and he seem happy about it. And then they will clap as he performs Cruciatus on the others." Draco drank calmly as he spoke and tipped his glass to Harry once, exactly as his father had.

"It's not that he's evil, per se. You could call it brilliance, or madness, I suppose. Being a Malfoy is madness itself. But my father is brilliant as well. A difficult combination." Draco spoke in short, clipped sentences as if he were thinking these things for the first time. He drained his glass, smiling again. It was not the smile of a lunatic, but Harry wanted it to be so he found signs: the light in those gray eyes, the tint of blood on his lower lip.

Draco leant forward, his forehead pressed against the cage in a confidential manner. "But it doesn't matter what I tell you," he whispered softly. There was lazy pleasure in his voice. "Nothing matters. Our side is going to prevail. All great leaders are mad, did you know that? No you didn't, I can tell. It doesn't matter." He paused, licking the blood from his lips.

"I'll watch you die. Father says I should do it more often."