Deadlock

deadlock, 'ded-"läk. n. A state of inaction or neutralization resulting from the opposition of equally powerful uncompromising persons or factions.

["You must stand for something... or you could fall for anything."

-author unknown]

He could never remember it being so quiet at sunrise, even in such a rural spot, where the only thing around was this castle- and even as big a castle as it was, it had acres and acres of land surrounding it for privacy, secrecy, and serenity.

This castle. He had always thought of it as his haven. It had been his life for the past six and a half years.

The funny thing was, before he'd come here, he had been someone without ever knowing that he was. Ever since he'd been told, it had simply been expected of him to do the same thing over and over: win. He'd done nothing but win since he was a year old, and, whether or not he and the rest of the wizarding community were about to admit it, it had taken a toll on him.

All of them had ignored it. Harry Potter was their sure thing, their absolute, the one thing that was there to believe in even if the world was to disintegrate. They couldn't afford to have him anything but consistent.

They'd ignored it... but they couldn't do it anymore, not now. Now, they could see in their savior's eyes what they had tried so hard to keep at bay, tried even harder to deny:

Death had defined Harry Potter more than any scar, any legend, any uncommon ability ever would.

Gripped with insomnia and constant dark circles under his eyes after the events of his fourth year, war had done nothing for Harry but put him in a constant state of alert, even within the confines of Hogwarts, where wards, teachers, and Albus Dumbledore had always kept too much harm from coming to Harry in the past.

Then, fifth year happened. They all knew it would be war like no student had ever seen- those who had been alive last time Lord Voldemort had been an obstacle were too young to remember. His godfather gone and his killer out of Azkaban, Harry fought to avenge him. He fought because it was expected of him. He fought because everyone knew the battle would start with him, and he was here at Hogwarts.

They all knew, but they weren't expecting it to start within the walls of the castle where they lived.

[October 2]

It was a Thursday, thought Hermione Granger in retrospect. Having a large explosion in a nice scarlet color wasn't her idea of a pleasant wake-up call, and her only thought had been, 'and I have Potions today, too...' before she'd passed out. That was three days ago, and now... she wasn't allowed to have visitors, and she didn't have any idea how anyone else was.

They were, all five of the girls in the dorm, in Madam Pomfrey's makeshift ICU. Four of them had at least a 75% rate of survival, and the mediwitch was of the mindset that they'd been very lucky indeed, even for that. The dire one was Lavender Brown; the curse had come through the window, and Hermione remembered well the fight between Lavender and Parvati about who got the window bed. Parvati had sulked for a week and a half, throwing disgruntled looks toward Lavender every time they were in the dorm.

She hadn't seen Parvati since the attacks, but she imagined she'd be glad not to have gotten the bed now.

Hermione, through fervent eavesdropping while she was supposed to be asleep, had discovered the explosion had been a banned curse- not Dark in origin but modified for Voldemort's purposes when he'd last been in power. Doubtlessly, she thought, it'd had something to do with the bloodline- or lack thereof- of three of the girls in her dorm, including her.

God, she hated not knowing things. It was, for her, a worse feeling than any other heartbreaking emotion she could possibly feel because at least she'd know what her heart was broken over.

It was better to know. Whatever else happened, it was better.

More than ever, Hermione regretted her inability to speak. Isolated as she was, talking to herself would at least give her the small comfort of hearing a human's voice and theorizing aloud. She had it all in her head, of course- she just knew it was a student. She just knew it was a Slytherin. What she didn't know was which Slytherin.

That gave a lot of potential for another attack because without a name, everything else meant nothing. It was just speculation by a girl hit with a Dark Arts spell, a girl who'd been asleep when her dorm room window had shattered into a thousand tiny crystalline fragments and her room had been engulfed in red light and flame.

A girl, who, at present, couldn't talk. Could barely move without her body screaming in agony. A girl who had nothing to go on but the eminent death of a girl she'd shared a room with for six years.

She was straining to stay awake now, knowing very well that she should surrender to sleep. She'd heard it around three thousand times in the last three days, after all; about how 'it-was-a-very-powerful-spell-an-ancient-Dark-spell-and-you-need-to-recuperate.'

Her last coherent thought was one of Draco Malfoy and his unwillingness to speak to them preceding the attack. Bet it was him, she thought lethargically, the evil git. I'll bet it was...

[October 4]

Draco's father didn't know.

The news may have surprised many a Gryffindor, those uneducated prats who'd never met his father, never been to his manor. Those classmates who speculated as to his childhood and his loyalties. Those bloody hypocrites who accused him wholeheartedly of prejudice while fervently badmouthing any Slytherin they could, despite their bloodline, despite their personality, and often despite the fact they'd never met said Slytherin.

Yes, Draco knew if it got out, they'd never believe it.

But this wasn't about them.

Immediately following The Attack- one so oddly close to him, just a few corridors and a trick staircase away, it warranted capitalization- he'd written to Lucius, skirting around the issue in such a way his father would surely knew what he meant. It was, he'd always been told, a Malfoy trait.

Just as vaguely, his father had owled him back, cold and unfazed as always. Only Draco, or someone else in Lucius's family, would have been able to detect the faint hint of confusion in the letter Draco received.

He admired that about his father- his ability to stay in control, be the one getting under people's skin but never deign to let anyone else get under his. As Lucius had often told him, his weakness in that area lay in Harry Potter.

"You may hate Potter," Lucius had told him one summer, " but you may not tell him. You may not waste that on him, Draco."

"Why?" he'd asked, and meant it, because he didn't understand why Potter wasn't all right to hate. Lucius hated Potter; he'd seen the look in his father's eyes when he mockingly called Potter 'The Boy Who Lived,' just like everyone else did. Potter had sent his father to jail.

"Because," his father had snarled, and he'd seen in the deep blue eyes- deeper by far than Draco's pale blue- the criticisms Lucius wanted to say out loud: 'you incompetent child, you disgrace to our surname, you, whose academic skills are second to a Mudblood-' "because hatred can be turned against you, just like love. It's emotion, and it's dangerous."

He didn't understand. He'd never understood what his father had meant by that statement, even now, at sixteen years old and no longer a boy. He only knew how much he despised not knowing.

Draco Malfoy was bred to hate the Muggle-born, told to hate the Weasleys, but chose to hate Harry Potter. And amongst the insults- which he never tired of- he clung to one certainty: Potter hated him first. Now, he was in control of that, which was safer and more familiar. He. Could. Control. Potter.

He only wished he knew who had blown up the Gryffindor girls' Sixth Year dorm, and if Mudblood Granger and the others were dead or not.

[October 5]

Parvati Patil groaned and attempted to sit up. She felt rather like she'd been hit in the head with a speeding Bludger, repeatedly, all over her body. After trying in vain to prop herself up on her elbows without causing prompt and intense pain, she laid back on the pillow, panting slightly, and studied her surroundings. She was obviously in the Hospital Wing, judging by the pungent smell of antiseptic, the starch white sheets on her bed, and the curtain surrounding her and blocking her view of anything else in the room. She tried to recall why she was here and thought she'd almost broken through the mental haze when she heard the Hospital Wing doors open and close somewhere to her left.

Shoes that obviously had heels on them clacked on the white tile floor, and Parvati heard soft, even breathing. She lay very still, alert but silent. Soon after, she made out the sound of soft humming coming nearer and recognized the slightly tinny voice as that of Madam Pomfrey.

Parvati's view was partially obstructed by the large white curtain surrounding the bed, but she very clearly heard Madam Pomfrey say, "Hello, Miss Parkinson... your sleeping draught's just here. If you'll excuse me, I'm due to check on Miss Brown... you can see yourself out, I'm sure." There was a period of silence while Madam Pomfrey walked out of the room.

Well, thought Parvati, the girl is Pansy Parkinson. This knowledge didn't help her, since Parvati couldn't see Pansy at all. She was obviously on the other side of the curtain, near the door, but Parvati had only a slit of outside vision available. She stayed silent, waiting for Pansy to leave so she could shift positions. It would do no good for the Slytherin to know she was here.

About five long minutes later, she heard Pansy sigh softly and shift position herself. She was obviously bored; Parvati was bored just listening to her... but why wasn't she leaving? Was there something else she needed from the mediwitch?

Soon after Pansy's shifting, Parvati became aware that she had to sneeze. She knew this would alert Pansy to her presence, but there was really nothing she could do about it... She sneezed loudly, sniffling and propping herself up carefully on her elbows.

"Who's there?" called Pansy immediately. Parvati wasted no time in identifying herself.

"Parvati." A pause, then: "Oh... er, Parvati Patil."

"Yes," came the cross and- bitter? She wasn't certain, but she thought she'd heard a touch of bitterness- reply, "I know who it is. Where are you?"

"In the bed behind the curtain."

A second later, Parvati's curtain was yanked back and replaced with the image of an oddly weary-looking Pansy Parkinson. She was studying Parvati curiously.

"I- we- thought you were dead," she said, and Parvati frowned.

"Dead- why?"

"The spell, of course," the blonde replied. "The professors won't say anything about it, and no one's allowed to visit any of you lot."

"Well, I'm not dead, at least," said Parvati. "The other girls I can't say; we aren't allowed out of bed."

"You don't look dead, either," replied Pansy, rolling her eyes slightly.

"You do," answered Parvati with a slight grin. "Half-dead on your feet." Her answer was a small and vaguely offended 'hmph' and Pansy averting her eyes from the dark-haired girl. There was a relatively uncomfortable silence, and Pansy fiddled with a thin silver band on her left hand as Parvati toyed with the edge of her stiff sheet.

Parvati saw Pansy open her mouth to say something, but never got a chance to find out what it might have been as Madam Pomfrey walked briskly back into the room.

"Well," she said upon spotting Pansy, "what on earth are you still doing here, Miss Parkinson? It's after hours as it is; I thought you'd left ages ago. Go on now, shoo, and stop pestering my sick patients." Pansy's face morphed into a sullen glare, and she turned and stalked out of the wing, her high heels clattering.

"And you, Miss Patil! For Merlin's sake, lay down; you need your rest, you need to recuperate." Parvati settled back obligingly on the pillow while Madam Pomfrey fussed around her, pouring her water and putting a hand to her forehead. She was asleep almost immediately.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Harry didn't really sleep very much because he figured whatever he could see within the confines of Hogwarts was preferable to what he might see in his dreams. Usually, he lay in his bed, staring into space. Occasionally, he'd get up and sit in the Common Room or walk around the school, invisible. Tonight, he'd decided to go see Hermione.

Harry collided head-on with Pansy Parkinson while turning the last corner into the corridor to the hospital wing. While sprawled rather ungracefully on the stone floor, she blinked, very confused, probably owing to the fact that Harry was in his Invisibility Cloak. He debated whether or not to reveal himself; Pansy didn't seem to be a genius, but he doubted she'd fail to notice the fact that she seemed to have just run into a large block of solid air.

He pulled off his Cloak after some deliberation. Pansy's eyes narrowed slightly and she pulled herself off the ground without waiting for him to offer a hand.

"Oh. You," she said flatly. Harry nodded.

"What're you doing up?" he asked her tiredly. He had no desire to fight with her; he was weary, stressed, and he wanted to see Hermione. She glared at the question and studied him intensely, obviously trying to decide if he was serious or not.

Finally, her mouth curved slightly upwards and she raised an eyebrow at him. "Up after curfew? Me? You must be mistaken, Potter, no one has been by the Hospital Wing tonight." Harry started to say something but quickly closed his mouth and looked at the Slytherin.

"Oh- of course, right," he answered her. A silent nod, and Pansy and Harry were on their respective ways. Pansy disappeared around a corner, and Harry pulled his Cloak back over himself and crept toward the entry to the Hospital Wing. He pulled down the handle of the door to no avail. It was locked fast. He, remembering Hermione, drew his wand and held it to the lock.

"Alohomora," he muttered and tugged at the handle again. Nothing happened; he assumed Madam Pomfrey was taking extra precautions after the unprecedented attack on the Gryffindor girls' dorm. A simple unlocking charm wasn't going to work. He cursed softly under his breath, wishing fervently he'd paid more attention when Professor Flitwick was talking about the various forms of the charm- it'd been just a few weeks ago, too. What was that one- clodeus, wasn't it? It was worth a try...

"Clodeus," he whispered. There was a blinding flash of light and a loud bang. Harry jumped and backed away from the singed door, groping frantically around for his Cloak, which had blown off him in the aftermath. Turning towards the far wall, which was cloaked in darkness, he felt around on the floor. Engrossed in his search for the Cloak before Madam Pomfrey- or worse, Filch- came, he didn't notice the soft footsteps turning the corner or the nearly silent, "What the hell..." that followed.

Harry crawled closer to the wall, waiting for his hand to hit fabric.

"Potter?" Harry jumped, stifling a gasp, and turned. Squinting at the figure at the opposite end of the hallway, his countenance darkened upon identifying them.

"Yeah. I mean, yes, Malfoy, it's me."

Draco Malfoy stepped further into the hallway, eyeing Harry suspiciously. "What are you doing?" Harry finally felt the light, almost liquid feel of his Cloak on the floor. He picked it up, tucking it under an arm, and straightened.

"Never mind me," he said firmly, calm tone belying the panic he felt at being caught. "Why are you here? This is the Hospital Wing corridor, didn't you know? Six years in this castle, you'd think you'd know where you were going."

"I know," replied Draco coldly, "exactly where I am. Why I'm here is none of your concern, so run along."

"I've as much right to be here as you."

"Not after curfew, you don't."

Harry rolled his eyes slightly. "Then I've got as much right to break the rules to be here as you."

There was a short silence. "Bet you couldn't get the door open to see your dear sweet Mudblood, could you?" Draco said finally.

Harry ignored the 'Mudblood' comment. "It's not just a locking spell," he answered vacantly. He was too tired to bother with Malfoy. He was worried about Hermione, he was worried about the war, he was worried about everything. He hadn't been sleeping well, and he couldn't understand why. Though he'd almost expected to be, he wasn't plagued by nightmares or by visions.

He didn't care about why Malfoy was here. He just wanted in.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Students were nearly killed, Potter, you complete prat," he said. "Do you honestly think that they'd guard the Hospital Wing with a charm that can be broken by Alohomora?"

"No. Not with people like you around," replied Harry. "It was probably you who put Hermione in hospital in the first place, wasn't it? Did you know that they thought Lavender Brown was going to die?"

"I didn't cast the fucking charm," snapped Draco in response.

"Bet you know who did," hissed Harry back. In one swift movement, Draco strode across the floor until he was standing directly in front of Harry.

"I," he said, and Harry could tell he was struggling to keep his voice low and level, "do not know which of Voldemort's pathetic cronies cast the spell because I'm a spy for your side, you messy-haired dolt. Now, go back to bed." He shoved Harry roughly toward the wall and turned back the way he had come.

"You're on- you're on our side?" repeated Harry in disbelief. Draco turned toward him irritably and graced him with an icy glare.

"Yes," he said emphatically.

Harry's eyes widened. "You're not a Death Eater? But your father- you-"

"I," said Draco in a low, even voice, "am on the winning side. I am in it to win and to stay alive. If I must do that on my own, I can. I'm not here to be your loyal fighter or rid the world of evil scum, or whatever your people call the Death Eaters. If your side loses... if they start to lose-" He paused and looked at Harry significantly. "I switch sides."

"Lucky you," snapped Harry, "I don't get that particular luxury."

"No," agreed Draco quietly, shaking his head slightly at the shorter boy and turning back around. "You're the savior." His footsteps echoed in the nearly silent corridor as he walked away.

Harry, once alone again in the corridor, sighed and began to pull on his Cloak when the door to the Hospital Wing opened.

"Harry Potter?" said Madam Pomfrey tiredly, clad only in a sea green bathrobe and an eyeshade, now pushed onto her forehead. Harry groaned inwardly. "It must be one in the morning! What on earth are you doing out here? If it was within my power to give you detention, I would... as it is..." The mediwitch sighed. "I'll speak to Minerva in the morning. You get back to your Common Room this instant! Go, go!" she added when Harry hesitated.

Harry hurried out of the corridor, waiting until he heard the Hospital Wing door click shut before he threw his Cloak over himself.

He went back to bed immediately after going into his dorm, and, thinking apprehensively about what McGonagall was going to do to him tomorrow, forgot to wonder about the sudden and odd appearance of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger did not fall asleep all night, despite the fact that she had no history of insomnia. She tried in vain to keep her eyes shut until about two in the morning, at which time she began to count the ceiling tiles.

Harry slept fitfully while his subconscious wondered at the fact that no nightmares had befallen him.

Both of their nights were much longer than usual.