Potter

Potter

Harry had begun to hate his name the summer after his fifth year. By the time his sixteenth birthday arrived, he was completely sick of hearing it. When Lupin and Moody had talked to the Dursleys at King's Cross, Harry had not anticipated the result - false, cloying attention, sugary tones completely absent of sincerity, and every sentence puncuated with his name. "Harry, dear," Aunt Petunia would simper, Uncle Vernon would say "Harry, my boy," with an almost jovial, hearty falseness each night, and Dudley could be heard to exclaim "Cousin Harry! Oh, cousin Harry!" on a daily basis. Harry was used to being called simply "boy" or "him," and as far as the Dursleys went, he would have preferred they stuck with that customary mode of address. It would have made the full servings at meals more palatable.

After his birthday, when he arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, it had taken him less than six hours to realise that not only had the entirety of the Order been informed about what the prophecy said, but that someone had taken it upon themselves to inform Ron and Hermione as well. They in turn had told Ginny, and he was quite sure the information leak hadn't stopped there. He braced himself mentally for returning to Hogwarts to find that Luna and Neville knew as well.

Of course, they never said that they knew. They never mentioned the prophecy at all, but the knowledge was there, in Hermione's concerned, "Harry, you really should..." and Ron's loud, "Harry, mate, let's..." Everything they said was tinged with their knowledge, and it was never more apparent than when they said his name. He heard his name repeated, over and over, by Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, the twins, Lupin, everyone, and it was his name, more than anything else, that carried the pity, the awe, and the crushing expectations. Harry could hear Hermione's hope that because of Harry, no one would care if she was Muggle-born or not. Harry could hear Mrs. Weasley's hope that because of Harry, she wouldn't lose any of her children. Harry could hear Ron's belief that Harry could fix anything, even make the Cannons into a winning team. It was faith in him, and part of him said he should take the faith others had as a gift, as approbation, but the rest of him said no. The rest of him could only shudder and shake his head when he was alone, for he was tired of being their source of hope and their source of faith, and tired of hearing it in their voices. When he boarded the Hogwarts Express that 1 September, he thoroughly hated his name, and hated hearing it even more.

It was that utter hatred, that desire to escape his name, that made the contrast so apparent when Malfoy walked into the compartment. "Potter," he said contemptously, and sneered, and some tiny part of Harry woke up, came alive, and for the rest of the trip to Hogwarts, he was in a better mood than he had been in months, though he really couldn't say why.

N.E.W.T. classes weren't given by Houses, but by marks on O.W.L.s, and what classes each student selected. Harry found himself in many classes with Ravenclaws, Parvati Patil, Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy. His classes didn't intersect with Hermione's or Ron's, for the most part, though of course they were all in Defence Against the Dark Arts. But still, every day, he saw Malfoy, and most days Malfoy would look at him with those cold eyes and sneer, and say "Potter," voice full of loathing. There was nothing hidden in Malfoy's voice, no secret knowledge or desires. Just hatred, plain and simple, and there was no "Harry" in what he said either. Just "Potter," and Potter was something Harry could still stand to listen to. Professor McGonagall said "Potter" as well, and though he thought she must know about the prophecy, there was never any sign of it, no hidden messages in her voice, no change in how he was treated. Snape called him Potter as well, and Harry always knew where he stood with Snape. Harry was a name of expectations, hopes, and desires that others pinned on him. Potter was the name he didn't mind hearing, something straightforward. Something clear.

But Harry didn't see Professor McGonagall every day, nor Snape, and he found he began to need to hear "Potter," to claim that part of him every day, so he figured out ways, subtle ways, to make sure that Malfoy had a reason to look his way, to sneer, and most of all, most precious of all, to open his mouth, tossing his head, and drawl out "Potter," hatred and loathing always present, nothing else ever tainting it. Sometimes, Ron or Hermione, or both or them, were there, and Hermione would purse her lips and frown, whispering to Harry in an urgent undertone, "Just ignore him, Harry, really." It took everything Harry had to concentrate on the "Potter" and not let her "Harry" cancel it out. Other times, Ron would slap one fist into the other palm, and scowl, nodding. "Bloody git, we'll get him, won't we?" he'd finish, almost cheerfully, full of a supreme confidence that Malfoy would 'get what was coming to him,' and that Harry would be the one to deliver it. Harry often wondered who the 'we' was that Ron referred to, since he obviously seemed to expect that Harry could handle it fine on his own.

That was how Harry's sixth year passed. Whatever else happened, whoever else said his name caringly, carefully, pityingly, hopefully, with all the nuances he now heard in his name, he knew that every day, he would hear Malfoy spitting out his last name, pouring out six years of rivalry into two syllables. Harry knew how to deal with hatred. He knew how to deal with his last name. He was completely out of his depth with "Harry," with hopefullness, with the sudden desire to know about him, his life, his mind. "Harry" was a tool, maybe not quite real. Potter was, at least, a person, solid and real.

But he went back to the Dursleys immediately after his sixth year, because that was what he was supposed to do, after all, at least until his seventeenth birthday, and then the protections would start to fail, and he'd need to make plans to leave. Dumbledore's offered to be your Secretkeeper! Hermione had exclaimed at the end of term, chattering on and on about what an honour, and how lucky Harry was, to get his own place, and such a good secret keeper, too. Ron had just nodded, thumped Harry on the back, and said "Well, you'll give us an invite over, won't you, Harry?" And Harry had just fled the common room, traitorous mind trying to think of someone, anyone except Dumbledore to be his secret keeper. Part of him even hoped he'd pick his Peter Pettigrew. Just to get it over with.

But he didn't. He picked Michael Corner, because who would pick their ex-girlfriend's boyfriend, and then convienently forgot to invite Ron or Hermione to visit, instead visiting them for a day or two at Grimmauld Place. He found out by accident that Malfoy frequented certain shops at certain times of day in Diagon Alley, and after that, Harry didn't have to wait any longer for someone to remind him that he was Potter, too.

Seventh year was much like the previous year, with a few exceptions. One evening halfway through autumn term, Theodore Nott disappeared. That same night was one of the those where even Occlumency didn't block out everything. Every time it happened, Harry knew what it meant. Voldemort was always gleeful, always stronger, at an initiation.

Crabbe and Goyle didn't return after Christmas holidays, and Harry thought back over the holidays, and remembered the two nights he hadn't slept well, images flashing into his brain, invading his dreams. He knew what it meant.

So when it happened again, just after spring hols, and the next morning at breakfast, Harry didn't spot Malfoy at the Slytherin table, he just knew what had happened, and he stood and strode back to the dormitory. No point in waiting now.

So come mid-morning, Harry left - using a crude Portkey he'd managed to make, using his Charms lessons and some research Hermione'd done - and went to find Voldemort. If he was lucky, he might even be alone, and asleep.

Things didn't go as Harry planned, and he killed three Death Eaters when he'd really meant just to stun them (how could he have known they would fall forward and not backwards?), and it took him longer to get to Voldemort, and while he was alone, he definitely wasn't asleep. Still, at midnight, when the lone survivor left the room, it was Harry. He tied up the remaining Death Eaters, afraid to take off even a single mask. He sat against a wall for five long minutes, his breathing slowing, until he felt he could Apparate safely, back to Hogsmeade.

He stumbled back into Hogwarts through the secret tunnel under Honeydukes. Then Harry made his bleary way to the hospital wing, all too aware of the blood seeping out beneath his shirt. Madam Pomfrey asked no questions, just patched him up and sent him to bed. He was about to take the sleeping potion she'd given him when a voice startled him.

"Well, Potter, what'd you do? Try to tame a werewolf by yourself? Or maybe a friendly giant?" The voice was mocking and hateful, and completely unexpected. Harry closed his eyes for a long moment before turning around, mouth open.

"You... what are you doing here?" Harry had been certain that Malfoy was among those tied up, or among the dead. Not that he was in a bed in the hospital wing at Hogwarts.

"Some idiot student here was sick, and apparently left germs all around Slytherin, so I ended up with some kind of virus." Malfoy's face was drawn up in an unattractive sneer, accentuating the point of his chin. "I was up all last night and slept all bloody day. So I'm stuck here for another night at least, even though I'm perfectly well now." It was clear to Harry what Malfoy thought of that.

"Oh." It was the only sound Harry could make, for he was shocked to the core. "So... so it wasn't you. Last night." Harry blinked and stared at the blanket covering his legs. "I just... you weren't at breakfast, so I assumed." He was talking to himself more than Malfoy now, and he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

"It wasn't me what? Honestly, Potter."

Harry's lips curved upwards, his eyes opened, and suddenly he was crossing the space between their beds, climbing on top of Malfoy's bed, straddling Malfoy, a manic gleam in his eyes. "My sanity," he whispered, almost reverently, and crushed his lips against Malfoy's, hands grabbing Malfoy's hair, pulling his head back.

Harry expected to get hexed, to get yelled at, but he didn't expect frozen shock followed by a response. The kiss was fierce from both quarters, and when Harry tugged sharply on Malfoy's hair, there was an answering shock of pain from his own scalp. They separated and stared at each other for a long moment. Slowly, Malfoy relaxed, having tensed the moment Harry straddled him, and as he relaxed, Harry felt himself relax a bit as well, even though they still stared at each other in astonishment and apprehension. Finally, long moments later, Harry chuckled, a low, bitter sound.

Malfoy's face was contorted in its usual sneer, and a million different emotions, a million different thoughts seemed to pass through his expression before he spoke. "We don't agree on anything."

"Probably not."

"Not to mention the events of the last seven years."

"They were eventful, yes."

"And you seem to think none of it matters one whit."

"It matters. Just not the way that others might think. Not the way that you might think."

Malfoy's eyes glowed angrily for a moment at what he perceived as an insult before he slowly began to understand. "But. It matters."

Harry shrugged, a challenge in his eyes. Then Malfoy nodded.

"Doesn't matter, indeed."

Then they were engaged in another fierce, angry kiss, and when they broke the kiss, Malfoy tilted his head and began to speak, expression more sombre, his tone formal, "Harry -"

Harry interrupted him, eyes blazing. "Don't call me that. Don't - Don't EVER call me that."

Malfoy just nodded after a moment, as if reminded of something, then began again. "Potter... I'm not going to stop hating you, not tomorrow, not ever."

It was the softest Harry had ever heard "Potter," and the hatred was gone, replaced by a sure possessiveness, tinged with formality. There was no warm regard, no facade of affection. Harry didn't care. It was still Potter, and he was still Potter, and "Harry" had finished.