Catharsis

Harry was dreaming about his mother. She sat next to him on the bed, listening to him relate the story of what had happened to Cedric Diggory the year before. She held him tightly while he spoke, rocking slightly. Harry started to cry when he got to the part where Cedric's ghost asked him to take his body back to his parents.

"Hush, dearest," she murmured. "There's nothing else you could have done." She smoothed his hair gently. "It was his fate. And yours."

"If I hadn't told him to take the cup with me, he would still be alive," said Harry miserably.

"Harry," she murmured, her voice musical and soothing. "You must understand - some things are simply meant to be, as unfair as it seems. The truth is, Cedric's fate led him there, not you. We witches and wizards live within the confines of our fate. The absolute best we can do is to live well, with strength and honour, within the limits set by fate. Cedric lived well. His parents should be proud. As I am proud of you. You did everything you could, Harry. Let that be enough." Gently, she released Harry and stood up, looking at something beyond him. "I have to go now, dear."

"Mum?"Harry reached for her hand. "Wait! Can't you stay? Mum?"

Harry awoke, his hands gripping the bedclothes. Hot tears slid from beneath his closed eyelids as he realized he was at Hogwarts, his mother was gone, and Cedric Diggory was dead. His chest hurt and his throat constricted painfully. He fumbled for his glasses and then padded to the bathroom.

Running tap water into a glass, he glared at his reflection. "It's been more than a year," he complained to Harry in the mirror. "When are you going to just get over it?" He stared at his reflection as the water spilled from the glass into the sink. "Never?" he whispered. The tousle-headed mirror-twin gave him no answer.

Harry drank the water, which eased his throat, and returned to bed. But sleep refused to come. Finally, he got up again, pulled on his bathrobe, and wandered downstairs to the Gryffindor common room. No one else appeared to be awake. "It's two in the morning," Harry grumbled. "Of course no one's up but me." Depressed, he dropped into the big overstuffed chair nearest the fire, now reduced to mere embers. He twisted and flopped, trying to get comfortable, wondering if he should get a book. Finally, he decided what he really needed was a walk.

He snuck upstairs and grabbed his invisibility cloak before climbing out of the Gryffindor portrait hole and wandering down the hall, aimlessly. Harry's thoughts returned to the dark days after Cedric's death, and his feelings of misery and depression deepened. He looked up to discover that his feet had taken him up two sets of stairs and down an unfamiliar hallway. Bleary-eyed, he stopped, looking for any familiar sight, but found none. "Oh, great," he muttered. "Now all I need is to get lost and have a search party to rescue me." A vision came to his mind (probably born of exhaustion) of Ron and Hermione decked out in yellow parkas and climbing gear, and laden with water and food. "Don't worry, Hermione," Ron was yelling over the roaring wind, "we'll find him."

Harry shook his head, amused despite himself, and was just turning back to try to retrace his steps, when he heard it. Faint but unmistakable, there came the sound of a piano.

Harry frowned. At this hour? He turned back the way he had been heading, and listened intently. Was it a recording, or someone actually playing a piano? Did Hogwarts even have a music room? He crept silently down the corridor trying to locate the source of the sound.

The music grew louder as he approached; it was a mournful tune. Harry had never had any kind of music education, but he had heard classical music on the radio at the Dursleys'. Uncle Vernon listened to talk radio (just so he could shout at it, Harry suspected) but Aunt Petunia always turned the station to classical. "More refined," was her purse-lipped explanation. Harry never thought it was about anything more than keeping up appearances, but he did like some of what he'd heard. And he really liked what he was hearing now " it was dark and brooding and it suited his mood perfectly.

He reached the door and hesitated, his hand on the latch. The piano fell silent for a moment and then picked up at a faster tempo, violent runs and thick, heavy chords muffled by the door. Harry pushed the latch and the door swung silently open, letting the music pour into the empty hallway. Hurriedly, he slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him with a click. He turned to the room just as the music stopped. There was a muted crash, which made him jump a little.

On the far wall, a set of high windows gave a view to the silent dark sky beyond. The faint moon, surrounded by clouds, provided the only light in the room. Harry held his breath as his eyes adjusted, knowing that the player had realized that someone had entered what they probably had believed to be their private domain. A grand piano occupied a focal point nearer to the windows than the door. Someone was standing at the piano and had turned to face the door, obviously knocking over the bench as they stood.

"Who's there?" a voice hissed.

"Hello?" Harry called quietly, slipping the invisibility cloak off and dropping it into a chair next to the door. "Sorry to bother you. I heard the music from the hall, and"" The figure remained silent and unmoving at the piano. "And well, it was really beautiful and I wanted to hear it more clearly, that's all," Harry ended, a bit lamely. He stepped closer, and as he recognized the pianist, his mouth dropped open in shock. "Malfoy?"

"Potter," came the cool reply. "What are you doing wandering the halls at this hour?"

Harry stared the silver-blond boy, so shocked he couldn't form a coherent reply immediately. "What are you doing here?" he finally blurted out.

"I think I asked you first, Potter," Draco Malfoy said sharply. "Or are you so far above the rules that you have free run of the school after lights-out?"

"No," Harry replied crossly. "I just couldn't sleep. What's your excuse?"

"Excuse me?" said Draco, glaring at him. "I don't have to account to you."

"Oh yeah, like you have business here and I don't?" said Harry, folding his arms across his chest. "Talk about people who think they're above the rules""

"No one knows that better that I do, Potter," Draco replied darkly. He righted the piano bench and sat down again, turning his back on Harry. Absently, he fingered the keys. "I think you should go now."

Harry sighed, blowing the fringe from his eyes, a habit that remained with him from childhood. "Why do you have to be such an insufferable prat, Malfoy?"

Draco calmly tested a few chords on the piano. "Why do you have to be such a nosy git, Potter?"

"Look, I didn't know it was you!" Harry was getting really cross now. "I just wanted to listen."

Draco played a dramatic ascending and descending run, his fingers light and quick on the keys. "Fine. If that is what it will take to shut you up, please feel free to listen." He segued into a Bach fugue intended to show off his technique. "Just save your applause for the end," he added with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed, but he didn't leave. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. Gradually, his awareness of the room faded as his focus on the music intensified. He found himself transported " to a place where there was no Voldemort. A place where Cedric hadn't died. A place where Draco Malfoy played angelic music with a pleasant smile on his lips instead of a smirk. As the piece ended, Harry opened his eyes to discover the last part was actually true " Draco's smile was almost pleasant as he turned his face to Harry. Moonlight streaming over his hair gave him an ethereal appearance. "So," he drawled, "what do you think?"

"Wow," said Harry, surprised. "You play really well."

"I should," Draco shrugged, pleased with Harry's praise despite himself. "My father has had me tutored since I was five." He ran his fingers over the keys again, caressing them gently. "My teacher has special permission to visit Hogwarts for my lessons. He is a wizard, of course," he added, with a trace of his old smugness.

"Yeah, of course." Harry's voice held an edge of bitterness. "Nothing's too good for the Malfoy heir."

The music changed suddenly, resuming the dark and brooding chords Harry had heard earlier. "That has nothing to do with my music," Draco declared flatly. "I have talent. My teacher says so."

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry admitted grudgingly.

Draco frowned with concentration, minor chord following minor chord, increasing in volume until they reached a sudden and violent crescendo. "You need to go now."

Harry frowned in return. "Why?"

"This isn't cathartic anymore." Draco gritted his teeth and stopped, his hands still depressing the keys.

"What do you mean by that?" Harry demanded, irritated.

"Go look it up," Draco snapped. "Catharsis. Do you need me to spell it for you?"

"Fine!" Harry shouted, and spun around to leave. Draco was quiet as Harry opened the door. "It's a shame when talent is wasted on an insufferable prat like you, Malfoy!"

As the door swung closed, Draco was still for a moment, his face twisted with irritation and frustration. He tried a few chords but the moment was lost. What are you going to do now, Malfoy, he thought miserably. The keys clashed violently as he dropped his elbows on the keyboard and put his face in his hands, the very picture of despair.

Harry stormed down the hall, irritated and confused by his encounter with Malfoy. When had he ever enjoyed anything the Slytherin had done? Harry had never considered that Malfoy might have talent for anything, other than tormenting innocent Gryffindors " particularly Harry. But he had enjoyed the music, at least for as long as it lasted. Reaching the entrance to the Gryffindor dormitories, he sighed again. "Muffin-tin" he announced to the Fat Lady, who opened the portrait-hole looking both cranky and sleepy in her hair rollers.

"Why does he have to ruin everything?" grumbled Harry, climbing through.

"Indeed," she replied, yawning.

* * * * *

The next day in the library, Harry approached Hermione and sat next to her. "What are you doing in here on a Saturday?"

"Working," she replied shortly. "Essay due Monday."

Harry hesitated. Experience had taught him that when she spoke in sentence fragments, it was better not to interrupt her. "Can I ask you a question?"

Hermione glanced at him, distracted. "You just did."

Harry laughed nervously. "Yeah. I guess I did. I meant another question, though."

Hermione pulled her hair away from her face, where it was obscuring her view of the three books she was currently researching. "What is it?"

"What do you know about catharsis?"

"Catharsis?" The Gryffindor girl stared at him faintly puzzled. "It's from ancient Greek word kathairein, meaning 'to purge'." She kept one finger on the page to mark her place in the book directly in front of her as she spoke. "Catharsis refers to the release of strong emotions. The concept derives from the ancient Greek medicinal practice of purging the body. It was thought to be absolutely necessary to good health."

"Ew," Harry replied pulling a face. "You mean they threw up?"

"Among other things," Hermione agreed. "Hot and cold baths, herbs, potions"" Harry grimaced. "Lots of cultures have different ways of doing things than we do, Harry," she continued, warming to the topic of her lecture. "Greek medicine was very advanced at the time and has had an enormous influence on modern medicine. "

"Hm," Harry nodded. "So what's this emotional purging stuff? It doesn't involve throwing up, does it?" He cringed again. Harry really hated being sick.

"Why are you asking me about this?"

"Because I thought you'd know. You"ve been to Greece."

Hermione sighed. "True enough. Emotional catharsis doesn't involve physical purging." She glanced longingly at her books and sighed, resigned to giving Harry the short answer he wanted. "They attended plays."

"What?" Harry looked puzzled.

"They attended plays," she repeated. "The ancient Greeks were really into their drama. Suspension of disbelief was kind of a ritual for them. The tragedies were considered purgative because they inspired strong feelings in the audience " fear and pity being considered the most desirable -- which allowed them to release their feelings instead of letting them build up inside. A practice which some of us would do well to emulate," she added severely.

"Um," Harry nodded, avoiding her eyes. "I see." Hermione was looking really curious, but Harry got up to leave.

"And, ah... what about music?" Harry asked casually as he turned to go.

"What about it?" Hermione had picked up the book again.

"Did the ancient Greeks use music for catharsis?"

"I don't really know, Harry," Hermione sighed, a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice. "You might look it up. I think they did use music in their plays."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks Hermione."

"Um-hm," replied Hermione, her attention already fixed on her book.

Harry spent an hour searching the library for information about ancient Greece, but couldn't find much of anything, either in the History section or in Muggle studies. He finally gave up and headed back to his dorm room.

* * * * *

Harry had gone to bed early in an unsuccessful attempt to make up for lost sleep. By eleven-thirty, he gave up and wandered downstairs to play wizard's chess by himself in front of the Gryffindor fireplace. His mind, however, was replaying the dark and brooding music he'd heard Malfoy playing the previous night. As the clock chimed midnight, he gave a defeated sigh and left the deserted common room, clad in the invisibility cloak.

He wasn't sure where he was going until he found himself in front of the door to the music room. Harry tentatively pushed down the latch, and the door clicked open. Looking both ways down the corridor, he stepped into the room and closed the door.

He walked over to the windows, admiring the view they afforded of the Hogwarts grounds. The nearly full moon hung low on the horizon, painting the room in washed shades of grey and yellow. It made him wonder about Remus Lupin, wherever he was, and Sirius, his absent godfather. With a sigh, he turned to the piano that dominated the room. He didn't really know much about music, but this was a beautiful instrument, Harry could tell that much. He lifted the cover from the keyboard and gently slid it away from the keys. Somewhat intimidated, Harry gently depressed one of the white keys and a quiet note rewarded him. He sat at the bench and tried placing his hands the way he'd seen Malfoy do. Wrists slightly bent, he rested his fingers on the keyboard and gently pressed the keys one after another, beginning with the pinky of his left hand and ending with the pinky on his right.

"Not quite ready for the concert hall yet, I think," drawled a voice behind him. Harry jumped and turned on the bench. "Malfoy?" Draco was just closing the door. He strode to the piano as if he was taking the stage.

"Move over," he commanded.

"No, that's okay," Harry replied coolly, standing. "I don't want to come between you and your catharsis."

"Ha, that's funny Potter," Draco narrowed his eyes. "I just thought since you have the good taste to enjoy my music you might want to learn more about it. You obviously don't play, yourself," he added condescendingly.

Harry grimaced and stepped away from the piano. "You're right about that. I never learned an instrument. We don't all have your advantages, Malfoy."

Draco gracefully sat on the bench, sliding to the spot where Harry had been a moment before. "Well that's alright then, Harry. You just run along now." He stretched his hands and looked up at Harry expectantly.

Harry glared down at the other boy. "Are you ever nice?"

Draco frowned murderously. "What does nice get me?"

"Friends?" Harry suggested sarcastically. "What can I say? It works for me."

"I don't need nice," Draco said, through gritted teeth.

"Oh yeah," said Harry. "Because you"ve got plenty of friends."

"Look, if all you can do is stand there and use me to practice your not-very-formidable wit, why don't you just leave now!" he snarled.

"Okay!" Harry stepped back another step. "I"m sorry!" He watched Malfoy ran his fingers up and down the keyboard in an angry crescendo. "I just meant you'd have more friends if you were nicer to be around."

"I don't need your advice," Draco replied with a dangerous edge. "And I don't need to be nice."

Harry scrubbed his face with his hands, frustrated. This was going all wrong. "Never mind. I'll go."

"You do that, Potter."

Harry stopped as he reached the door, and leaned one shoulder against it, his hand on the latch. Draco continued to play, a fast and furious minor tune that made Harry shake his head. How could such an irritating git make such beautiful music? He watched the other boy furiously pounding out notes on the piano, apparently having forgotten he was there at all. What was he so angry about? He had everything -- a father who spoiled him and a teacher who coddled him. Was he just an ungrateful brat?

The song ended and Harry saw Draco rub his eyes, apparently weary. It must be getting very late, he thought. I should go anyway.

"You still there, Potter?" Draco's sharp voice cut through the silence.

"Yeah." Harry's hand was still on the door latch. "I was just leaving."

"Tell me something," Draco banged on the keys in a fury. "Do you ever want to chuck it all?"

"Err"" Harry was so shocked at the directness of the question that he couldn't find words to respond. But apparently, he wasn't meant to, as Draco continued. "Ever want to just walk away and start a new life? One where you can be free? No responsibilities to fulfill, no loyalties to maintain? No duties?" Draco practically spat the word. He turned dramatically and glared vindictively at Harry, who stood, shell-shocked at this barrage, hand still resting on the door latch. "No I don't suppose you do."

Draco stood and began advancing on Harry, his hands clenched to fists at his sides. "Yes, there you go, Mister Perfect, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor that everyone loves and admires."

Harry felt himself go red. "They do not!"

"Oh really?"

"And some days I do want to chuck it all!"

Draco stopped in front of Harry and grinned mirthlessly; a baring of the teeth, nothing more. "Do tell."

"Nothing to tell." Harry glared at him. "And where do you get off, anyhow? What's your terrible burden? Does it keep you up nights -- working out exactly what to say to get to Ron every day? Any time you want to chuck that, I"m sure Ron wouldn't mind." He was getting supremely pissed off at Mister High-and-Mighty Malfoy. God, no one gets under my skin like he does, he thought as he glared at the other boy.

Draco raised his fist and Harry thought for a moment that he was going to hit him. To his credit, he didn't flinch -- he met the fury in Malfoy's eyes with a smouldering anger of his own. However, he did flinch when Draco's words washed over him, harsh and surprising.

"My father," he hissed, "is insisting that I follow the family tradition and take up the cause of the Death Eaters." Draco snarled, his face contorted with fury. "He told me that I have no choice. I have no choice!" Draco's face was flushed with rage, his lips a thin line. He turned and slammed his fist into the door.

Harry stared at the boy in alarm, thinking about those delicate fingers on the piano earlier. "Isn't that what you want?" he asked harshly, torn between anger and concern.

"How should I know?" Draco roared. He spun around, instinctively cradling his injured hand, which was bleeding from the knuckles. "That's not the point! Do you know what it's like to have your own father trying to force you into following his footsteps, with no concern for your plans or desires?" He stormed to the other side of the room and stood glaring out the window, breathing heavily.

"No, I don't. My father's dead," Harry said flatly.

"I wish mine was," Draco muttered, pacing in front of the windows. He suddenly stopped and looked at his hand. "That was stupid."

"Yeah, it was," Harry agreed, walking toward the other boy. "Let me see."

"Never mind," Draco snapped as he turned back to the windows, tucking his hand into the crook of his other arm.

"Don't be stupid twice, Malfoy," said Harry crossly. "Let me see it." He reached out and gently took Draco's arm. The Slytherin seemed like he wanted to shake him off and then thought better of it. He stood impatiently and let Harry examine his hand in the very bright moonlight.

"Does that hurt," Harry asked, gently prodding Draco's battered and bleeding knuckles.

"Yes, it hurts," Draco said, through gritted teeth.

"You should have Madame Pomfrey look at it. You might have broken something." Harry looked up at Draco, his green eyes unfathomable. "You won't be able to play piano for a while."

"I'll live," Draco muttered, looking away.

Harry dropped Draco's hand and turned to leave. "You should accept help when you need it, Malfoy," he said coolly. Then he grabbed his invisibility cloak and slung it over his shoulders before slipping out the door.

Draco stood silent for a moment before closing the cover over the piano keys. With one backward glance at the moonlit windows, he quietly left the room.

* * * * *

The next morning Harry surprised everyone by walking to the Slytherin table. Pansy glared at him, while the younger Slytherins gawked. Harry ignored them.

Draco looked up at the Gryffindor, expressionless. "Potter," he said neutrally, shredding his toast into tiny pieces onto his plate. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss, standing out vividly against his pale face.

"Malfoy," Harry leaned over and spoke in a low voice, not wanting the rest of the table to hear him. "How's your hand?"

"Fine," he replied shortly.

"Did you go see Madame Pomfrey?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco favoured him with an icy glare. "No. I took care of it myself. Everything's fine. You can go away now."

"Okay," Harry spoke in a surprisingly calm tone. "Fine. Just thought I'd check up on you." He turned and walked away, Draco frowning at his back as he crossed the dining hall.

Ron stared at Harry as he sat down. "What was that about?"

"I needed to ask Malfoy something," Harry replied shortly, sitting next to Hermione and reaching for the teapot.

"What?" asked Ron, looking like he couldn't imagine a conversation with Malfoy that didn't involve shouting.

"Nothing important." Harry glanced broodingly at the Slytherin table before turning his attention to his breakfast. "Pass me the toast?" He took a piece of toast and spooned porridge onto it before biting into it with enthusiasm.

"Ugh," Ron wrinkled his nose. "How can you do that?"

"'s good." Harry mumbled, his mouth full. He finished the toast and the rest of his porridge and leaned back. "Hey, I know. Let's go flying for a bit," he suggested suddenly.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "Why not? We have time before you have Quidditch practice."

As they left the hall, Harry could feel Draco's gaze following him to the door. He grimaced, hoping against hope that he hadn't just damaged the fragile peace that lay between them.

Notes: The play list for this chapter includes Chopin's Prelude in C minor, Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# minor, Bach's Prelude #11 in F major, and Liszt's "Nuage Gris".