The Strongest of Us All

Chapter 3

December 26, 2001

"I'm trying to mentally block the images of you and Draco having sex."

"For Christ sake Ron, we were in bed together but we still had pants on," Harry said, exasperated. "We were sleeping!"

I immediately turn a bright red. Both Ron and Harry seem to have forgotten we aren't at our own table. In fact at this very moment we're sharing it with Professor Trelawney, Snape, Hermione, and a few fifth year Ravenclaws who stayed over break to study. They all stopped discussing the properties of moonstone and looked pointedly in our direction. Snape turns an interesting shade of purple and Trelawney merely asks Hermione to pass the jam.

"I can't say I'm very surprised," she tells Harry calmly. "And such a romantic story dear. Falling in love with the son of your enemy."

My goblet jerks. I've gripped it so hard my knuckles are white. Hermione glares at the Divination Professor.

"And it just gets better," she adds sarcastically. "Draco's father disowned him because he doesn't approve of Harry. But I'm sure you all ready know that, don't you?"

"And really," Snape remarks dryly, sarcastic wit back once he's over his purple-fit. "Enemy is such a strong word."

Trelawney cast a disapproving glance at both of them. "Goodness! Talking about the poor boy as if he isn't here!" She sent me what she obviously thought was a sympathetic look. "Don't worry dear boy. Your father still loves you. My Inner Eye is quite clear on that."

I have the strangest desire to cry. Instead I push my chair back and prepare to leave the hall. "Thank you for your concern Professor. I'm sure my father would be quite surprised to hear that." I walk quickly toward the doors at the end of the hall, vaguely hearing a small skirmish as I leave.

I walk blindly, not really sure where I'm going. I start to head for the Slytherin common room before I remember that my tears will only be met with ridicule by anyone there. I could go the Gryffindor common room but it's not my place. Not really. I almost burst into full-fledged sobs right then and there. Don't I belong anywhere?

I lean against the nearest wall, drawing my knees up to my forehead. It's a cold, clear day and my robes are shit for helping with that. I wrap my arms tight around myself, wishing Harry were here to do it for me. It seems appalling to want him. I've lived my life so far without needing anyone. I shouldn't need him now. I shouldn't and I do. Horribly. But I don't want to go inside right now. I don't want to run the risk of running into anyone.

"Mister Malfoy? Is that you?"

Or someone could find me here anyway.

I look up into the face of a very concerned Professor McGonagall. "Are you all right?"

I shrug, not bothering to wipe my face. Too late. "I've been better. Professor Trelawney was playing self-righteous messenger at breakfast."

Her nostrils flare slightly. "Really?" She seems to be having a silent battle with her temper. Interesting. "Did she really?"

I nod mutely. Could you maybe leave now, so I could get back to my self-indulgent crying fit and generally feeling sorry for myself?

"Is Mr. Potter still at breakfast?"

I shrug again. "I suppose so. I only left a minute ago." I put my head back down on my knees.

There was a heavy silence. "If you see him before I do, tell him Dumbledore wants to see him in his office."

That got to me. "He's not in trouble is he?"

"He's not in trouble exactly." The not yet anyway, was silently added.

My heart stopped in my chest. "Voldemort?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss this," she tells me, pursing her lips. She looks me over thoughtfully. "Despite your and Mr. Potter's former... transgressions, you seem to care for him."

"I love him."

She nods. "You seem to." She then walked briskly toward the Great Hall.

We'd learn soon enough that not only were the Dursleys killed, they were tortured and mutilated. The Cruciatus Curse had been used, along with more straightforward weapons; knives. They were all eventually finished off with the Killing Curse; their bodies set up around the dinner table in a mockery of normalcy. The Death Eaters had resumed their prior activities. Even though the Ministry had finally admitted his return, Voldemort seemed to feel the need to celebrate it with the first Death Eater Muggle killing in 17 years.

I stared after Professor McGonagall a moment. It had to be Voldemort. Forgetting my earlier crying jag and seized by a sudden concern for Harry, I headed after her, bursting into the Great Hall. It was empty. Crap. I ran back out again, running through the halls towards the common room before I realized I needed to go the other way. Stupid fucking stairs. Why did they have to change on Tuesdays? I made a quick turn past the statue of Merlin and dashed towards the portrait of the pink lady.

"Silver...Firebolt..." We'd changed the password yesterday.

With a nod she swept aside and let me in. I jumped up through the portrait hole. A lone figure sat in front of the fire.

" 'Mione!" I gasped. "Where's...Harry?"

"Are you all right? You worried us." She frowned a little. "Don't worry about Professor Trelawney; everyone knows she's a complete crock."

While her worry over me is touching, right now I'm thinking about Harry. What could be wrong? We know Voldemort's back; it doesn't get any worse than that, right? Right?

"Harry..."

She gives me an odd look. "He's out on the Quidditch field, looking for you. Something else is wrong, isn't it? What is it Draco? What--"

I'm off at a mad run again. I'll apologize later.

He was on the Quidditch Field like she said, riding around on his new Firebolt. He saw me immediately and flew down, almost tumbling into me since I forgot to stop running. I nearly collapsed on him, my adrenaline finally giving out. Quidditch builds up some good arm muscles, but I'll be the first to tell you I am not a runner.

"Hey," he said softly, looking carefully into my face. "You all right?"

"Been better," I snapped. "Dumbledore, office, you, something bad, McGonagall."

He stared at me in complete confusion. It made sense to me.

I took a deep breath. "Dumbledore told McGonagall, who told me, to tell you, that he wants to see you in his office. Right now." I grasp his upper arms. "Harry... I think it's something bad."

His eyes darken, and I'd swear that for a second his scar was a little darker than usual. But I must have been imagining things. "What did she say?"

I shrug my shoulders. "She wouldn't tell me anything." I decide to leave off our little convo about my feelings and Professor Trelawney.

Harry seems to stand a little straighter now, taller. His eyes are blank behind his glasses, and I can almost see the magic coming off him. I unconsciously step back. This isn't Harry anymore, not my Harry. This is the Boy Who Lived. He keeps insisting it's in people's heads, that there's nothing special about him. Bollocks. It's him who can't see. This is the boy who carried Cedric's body back because it was the noble thing to do, the boy who faced off with Voldemort twice and lived to tell the tale. Not a boy. Man. I think that's the problem sometimes. Harry has never really had a childhood. And as much as Ron and Hermione and I and everyone try to give it back to him, the space where it was supposed to go has all ready been filled. With this.

He hands me his broom, determination clear in the lines of his face. "Wait here."

Oh no you didn't. You did not just use that tone with me. I am not some scared little first year or a member of the Harry is God fan club. I love you but I DO NOT answer to you.

"I am not waiting here!" I cry indignantly, not caring that I sound like a child whose favorite toy has been taken away. "I'm coming with you!"

He smiles a little and his eyes flash a bit more green. There's my Harry. "All right then. We'd better hurry." I toss him back the broomstick, which he awkwardly catches.

"What? You didn't think I was going to carry it for you?"

You can always count on me to take him down a notch when he gets a little too full of himself. And did that ever sound hypocritical.

We work our way through the hallways pretty quickly, Harry leading, turning right and left and left and right and taking me through half a dozen secret passages.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

He ignores me, finally stopping in front of a huge gargoyle that bears a startling resemblance to Goyle. Gargoyle Goyle. (Hurrah for alliteration!) He stares at it for second, thinking.

"Lemon drop."

Nothing. I begin to wonder if he's gone off his rocker.

"Err, Harry? What are you doing?"

He rakes his hair back nervously. "There's a password to get into Dumbledore's office. It's always some kind of candy." He clears his throat. "Cockroach Clusters."

"Chocolate Frogs," I suggest.

"Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans."

"Droobles Blowing Gum."

"Acid Pops?" I send Harry a look. "What? They were in Hogsmeade."

"Weasley's Wiggling Worms." Now it's his turn to look at me. "The Weasley's have expanded into candy as well as jokes idiot. You should keep on top of these things." He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure I heard him mutter something about 'not having time for this'.

"Cauldron Cakes."

"Pumpkin Pasties."

"Mars Bars."

The gargoyle creaks a bit, swinging slowly around to reveal a moving spiral staircase.

"What are Mars Bars?"

He grins a little at me. Just a little. "They're my favorite. It's a Muggle candy, a kind of chocolate bar." He grabs my hand, pulling me onto the stairs. I try not to crush his fingers as we trek our way up there. What could Dumbledore have to tell Harry? What's Voldemort done now?

We reach a large oak door with an ornate knocker. Harry reaches up and knocks hard once, twice.

"Come in," Dumbledore rumbles, his voice muted and deepened by the door. It swings open, revealing one of the most wonderful places I'd ever seen.

It was a huge room, easily twice as big as any at Malfoy Manor, filled with portraits and books and interesting looking instruments... and a phoenix? Those are rare, so rare that even my father couldn't buy one, much to his dismay. Now I'm rather glad the Headmaster has one and he doesn't. It's fun being petty and superficial. My searching gaze finally lands on Dumbledore, who's looking unusually solemn sitting behind his desk. He motions both of us to the chairs in front of him, his gaze softening just a bit when he looks at Harry.

"Headmaster."

He nods in acknowledgement. "Harry... Mr. Malfoy."

"Don't call me that please, I'm not my father." My voice is slightly sharper and more defensive than it needs to be. Touchy today, aren't we Draco? Harry lightly brushes my thigh with his hand. It's comforting. And possessive, which Dumbledore notices but chooses not to comment on.

"I see," he tells me, and somehow I think those fading eyes, even hidden behind the half moon glasses, really can. Spooky yet reassuring. Today is a day filled with oxymorons it seems. He turns to look at Harry, debating over his words.

"Since you brought... Draco here, I can only assume you want him to hear this." Dumbledore unfolds his crossed hands carefully. "I've received some disturbing news. But first I would like to ask you... has your scar been acting up lately?"

Harry looks faintly surprised at the question. "No. After the other occasions I would have come straight to you if it had."

Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully. "Of course. Well, there is no way of putting this really, so I'm afraid I'm just going to say it plainly." He pauses significantly, obviously not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "The Dursleys are dead. Killed, by what we thought was Voldemort but must have simply been Death Eaters. They... left a message." Dumbledore hands Harry a piece of paper, which he takes out of reflex.

Harry looks down slowly, so pale the scar stands out sharply on his forehead. The parchment rustles slightly, and the words on the paper are red and angry, hardly more than slashes.

YOU HAVE TAKEN SOMETHING FROM US HARRY. NOW WE HAVE TAKEN SOMETHING FROM YOU. AN EYE FOR AN EYE, A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH. A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

Beneath the cryptic message lay a small caricature of a dragon branded with the Dark Mark.

"Bastards."

The word slips from my mouth before I can help it, but more are to follow. "Bloody fucking goddamn vengeful arrogant murderous bastards!"

A harsh sound escapes Harry's lips. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's trying desperately not to cry.

"Oh, oh no, Harry," I whisper helplessly. "Don't cry. Please don't cry." Anything but that. Please don't cry. "It's all right." It's not all right. "You're safe here." I hope you are. You have to be. I pull his unyielding body into my arms. "Don't cry. You're safe Harry, you're safe ma chrisha, don't cry now." I rocked him back and forth, held him when the tears finally fell and when they finally stopped, held him until he lay limp and helpless in my arms, not caring that my voice was becoming hoarser and hoarser and that I had cried right along with him.

When he was completely exhausted I realized that the office was empty, Dumbledore having left us alone at some point. I set him gently on the floor, wrapping my cloak tight around him. I wasn't strong enough to carry him or even use a spell to bring him back to the common room. I was drained.

I ran quickly down the stairs, forcing myself not to look back. I couldn't look back. You don't look back at what you're leaving behind.

I was blinded by my emotions. Blinded by the fear and pain and love and hate that stirred within me. I wasn't thinking rationally, because my mind was too logical for that.

I see I've confused you. I wasn't thinking clearly...because I was too logical? It doesn't seem to make sense, does it? But when you think about it, really it does.

Draco + Harry = love. Draco's family + killing Harry's family = Harry hating Draco's family. So how could 'Harry + Draco = love'? How can 'son of murderer + relative of murdered = happiness'? Isn't that contradicting the rules?

Everything has rules right? The color of your eyes, the weather changes, the way a broomstick flies; it's all determined by a logical equation and their factors, a.k.a. the rules. You can't cross them, ignore them, or break them. You can only learn them, and hope that you find a way around them when the time comes.

Simple and true. No exceptions, substitutions, or refunds. I thought I had it figured out. I thought 'Draco + Harry >= Hate x Bad Things < Love x Good Things'. I thought it was like a complicated hybrid of Arithmancy and Divination. You figured out the odds, rolled the dice and hoped for the best. But I had yet to learn the first rule of love.

There are no rules.

Somehow even though I didn't look back I still wasn't looking forward.

"Ack!"

I'd run straight into Dumbledore, hastily backing away, hoping he'd let me go without asking any questions. Or keeping me here till Harry wakes up.

"School gossip says your father has disowned you," he said evenly. And waited.

How was I supposed to react? Oh yes sir, he has. And I'm not sorry that I'll never see the son of a bitch again. Or maybe, Yes, I'm afraid he has. But after beating the shit out of me for the past 17 years I can't say I'm sad that I won't be going home for the spring break.

It feels a bit strange to break back into the Lying-Draco technique. It's been a while old friend.

"Yes, he has. The papers arrived a few weeks ago."

He looks at me thoughtfully. "And might I ask why."

I squint a little bit. What game is Albus Dumbledore playing? "We have... a difference of opinion."

"On what?"

"The Quidditch World Cup," I burst, irritated. "Dad thinks it's Bulgaria all the way, but for the life of me I can't understand when it's so obviously Russia." Actually, yelling at the Headmaster was not what I was trying to do. I'm very stressed, that's all, and I really need to leave here.

He snorts and nods to himself. "I suppose it was a personal question." He glances up to his office. "How is he?"

I can't bloody take this! "How the hell would you be?" I yell, color rising into my face and my hands clenching at my sides. "They may have treated the dog better and beat the shit out of him on occasion, but they were still his family!" The words are coming out fast and nearly incoherent. "The only person he has left in the whole wide world is Sirius. And God help me, but if they killed him too because you might as well go slit Harry's wrists right now!"

His eyebrows rise nearly to the sky but I can't help feeling like it's an act. How does he see through everything? And the only thing he says is, "So he's told you about Sirius then?"

That's it. That is it. "I can't take this!" I yell before scrambling down the hall. And I can't take this. It's not worth the taking anymore. All this hype about love is getting me hurt even worse than hating or cursing or insulting ever did. Love stinks.

I made my way toward the Slytherin section of the dungeons. It seemed that tonight they were colder than usual, the corners a little darker. My imagination of course. I stop in front of a picture of Uric the Oddball.

"Bloodlines."

Uric looks at me from under some rather amazingly woolly eyebrows. "Access denied."

Shit. Shit! They'd changed the password and 'forgotten' to tell me again.

"Can't you let me in?" I plead. "You know it's my common room." I'm Slytherin born, bred, and raised, hear me hiss?

He bristled at the very thought. "I should think not! Uric the Oddball accepted this job and Uric the Oddball always does his job. If you don't have the password, you're not getting in here!" And then he hefted his axe over his shoulder, grunted, and stepped into the next portrait, chatting in quite the friendly manner with Morgan le Fay.

I stared up toward the ceiling and slowly started to count. 1...2...3...4...5...6...

It was a lost battle. With a cry of rage and frustration I slammed my hand into the craggy dungeon wall. Pounding and smashing and slamming and cracking my hands over and over. It felt good. It really did. The wall was anyone I wanted it to be. My father who has somehow become evil beyond words. Dumbledore, who for all his promises and power can't protect anyone worth shit. Voldemort, for being a scheming evil bastard who thinks killing makes him somehow bigger than God. And Harry Potter. Saint Potter. Boy Who Bloody Fucking Lived.

If I had never met Harry Potter I would not be here. I would not be locked outside the common room filled with people who hated me. I would still have a family. I wouldn't have broken fingers and an even more battered heart. It really is his fault. If I hadn't met him I would be a shadow of my father, a Death-Eating, Cruciatus casting, iron hearted son of a bitch who had minions but no friends. So yeah, totally Harry's fault.

"Because the WORST FUCKING PART is I still love him!"

And that's why I have to stay away you see. That's why I have to get into the common room, crawl back amongst the low lives and the back stabbers. I have to get away from Harry, because if I don't do it now, I'll never leave him. If I stay we both become not only are we Number One on Voldemort's hit list, but on my father's too.

I recognized that drawing. The picture beneath the Death Eater's message. The dragon was mine, a silly little thing I used to have as a pet. I drew it constantly. I loved it. Which prompted my father to have it sold and shipped off to the highest mountain in the loneliest part of existence. Bye Jesse. Nice knowing you. And his little drawing was his way of telling me that I was his property first, and no one will take it away. It's not that he loves me, or misses me, or even really wants me back. It's about possession. Nobody takes from Lucius Malfoy without retaliation. And the Dursleys were his revenge.

It's easier if you think of it that way. If you think about it as 'revenge' and 'retaliation' then you don't see the bodies. You don't see the blood or hear the screams or imagine the terror. It won't haunt your night or your days and you won't flinch when someone mentions it. Think in words. Simple phrases that don't mean anything as long as you don't think too hard.

So there I stood. Or did, until I dropped to the floor. Anger can only fuel you for so long. When it's gone it hits you hard and fast. So I lay there. Nothing else to do.

My knuckles throbbed gently. The pain was starting to kick it. A nice dull ache... enough to tell me I was alive. Which for some reason wasn't all that comforting of a thought.