Draco's Detour; or, Lend Some Assistance to the Object

.0 The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

THE FENS, 980 A.D.

Stars glitter in the inky blackness high above a small cottage deep in the swampy wilderness, their brightness losing luster as the night grows long. They fade into pin-pricks of light until there is nothing more than blackness remaining.

The night is still and uneventful, like the one before it and the one before that one and so on and so on.

Uneventful, that is, until a strange purple mist wafts in from the wetlands, cloaking the cottage in its heavy air. Thunder roars and lightning, bold and brilliant and crimson, strikes and touches the ground mere feet from the door.

In the morning, when all the mist has disappeared and the sun has risen, bathing the trees and swamps and grass in its warm light, the mistress of the house makes an unusual discovery when she heads out to tend to her chores. A small bundle lies a few feet in front of the cottage door. It is an infant, swaddled in curiously elegant fabric. The mistress of the house picks up the child and her eyes widen as she notices the brooch keeping the swaddling fastened. Ornate and antique, the brooch is silver and shaped like a serpent, an exquisite piece of emerald serving as its eye. Something about it seems extraordinary and she can sense power in it, as she can in the child in her arms.

One day, she is certain, the whole bloody world will belong to this babe.

.1 One should always play fairly when one has the winning cards.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, SLYTHERIN HOUSE, 1991 SEPTEMBER

He has always been a stringy sort of boy, slender and small for his age, having been weak and sickly for a time after his mother passed when he was a wee lad. His delicate stature and dubious health matters not to the two boys currently pummelling him. They have only been dorm mates for a week and he is not yet good with names. He thinks the one who rubs his knuckles for luck before delivering each punch is named Goyle, while the other one with the abnormally long arms is called Crabbe. They offer no explanation as to why they are hitting him, but he suspects it is because he took the last chocolate biscuit at dinner.

Gasping for breath, he collapses to the ground and makes no move to climb to his feet. The attackers take advantage even more so of his weakness, one kicking him now while the other leans down and slams a fist against his ear.

A bell rings and they - and the crowd of on-lookers that had assembled around them in the common room - scurry off, leaving him laying face-down on the cold stone floor. Potions class is waiting and it would not be wise to be late for a course taught by the Head of House.
When he is certain he is alone, he lifts his head and looks around. As he clenches and unclenches his hands, thin rivulets of blood run off his knuckles and onto the floor. Lifting his hand, he spreads his fingers and studies the damage, a glint of something shiny sparkling up in the space between his thumb and forefinger. Between two flagstones is from where the shine is coming and he digs between them, loosening a small object. Thin fingers rub off dirt, revealing a serpentine brooch with an emerald eye.

Standing up, he brushes dust and grime from his robe before clasping the pin to it. One eye is blackened and his lip is split but that does not matter any longer. The gem in the brooch gleams on his chest and, for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott is proud to be exactly who he is.

.2 The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, SLYTHERIN HOUSE, 1991 LATE SEPTEMBER - ONWARD

Theodore Nott is an enigma, a gangly and strangely elegant tower of a man who commands attention where ever he goes. The standard school uniform looks posh and stylish on him, which is something of a miraculous feat, as it looks dreadful on most other students. The wool is free of wrinkles; his robe accentuates the line of his shoulders; and the magnificent pin, rumoured to have once belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself, glitters importantly and enticingly on his chest. He is, as Pansy Parkinson is wont to tell anyone who will listen, an original. A truly unique wizard who sets the scene for all who follow him, for all who surround him.

Millicent Bulstrode snorts and tells Pansy that she is mad and that her statement is ridiculous, but deep down she knows it's true. There is something about Nott, about the way his robe hangs on his thin frame, about the way he seems to glide around the castle, that makes girls and boys alike stop in their tracks and watch him until he is out of eyesight. Sometimes they follow him and sometimes they do not, even though they wish they had the courage to do so. To see Nott is to see something spectacular, to see something different and special and inspiring.

.2a Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, BOYS LOO, 1997 JANUARY

Nott is bolder now. He is fully aware of those who are under his spell. His walk has developed into a swagger and he has taken to wearing the serpent about his ear. It dangles from his lobe, its weight causing the thin bit of cartilage to sag somewhat.

The serpent swings back and forth when he moves, the light reflecting brilliantly off the small emerald eye. One - only one - corner of his mouth curves up as he watches the play of light on his converted earring in the mirror. As he washes his hands under the lukewarm water streaming out of the tap, he tilts his head this way and that, mesmerised by the image in the mirror.
There is a loud creaking sound; the hinges on the frame squeal in protest as the door to the loo opens. Nott turns the tap off and Summons a towel, drying his hands fastidiously as he turns toward the noise.

Dark eyes lock on pale grey ones.

A short distance is crossed and then there are lips, soft and pliable, brushing against his.

Nott pulls back and studies his guest, towel falling to the floor. He nods and then presses into him, their kiss heated and frenzied.

There is another loud creaking sound; the door opens. Nott turns toward it, seeing no one, and then twists back.

Draco Malfoy is gone.

Nott presses a finger to his lips and stares at his reflection - skin pink-tinged and glowing - in the mirror.

The earring, he realises, is also gone.

.3 It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, GREAT HALL, 1997 FEBRUARY

Draco Malfoy wears an earring now. Harry doesn't know where he got it from. No one else seems to know, either. Ron thinks it's rubbish and that Malfoy must have nicked it from someone. After all, anyone and everyone knows that Malfoy's mum hasn't sent him a single parcel since they started school in September. Rumour has it that the Ministry seized the Malfoy's assets when Lucius was put in Azkaban, but no one knows for sure if that's the case. There is also a rumour going around that Narcissa Malfoy left Malfoy Manor to join her mad sister Bellatrix, where ever she may be. Malfoy won't give anyone the satisfaction of denying or confirming that, not even when Ernie MacMillan bellows down the corridor after him. Hermione says Malfoy is too proud to answer. Ron says Malfoy is just a no-good git who's finally got his comeuppance. Harry says nothing at all.

There isn't much to say, really.

Harry had spent a good portion of the summer wondering how exactly Malfoy planned to make Harry 'pay' what he'd 'done' to Lucius. Knowing Malfoy, Harry had thought, it would be underhanded and cowardly. He'd expected to be hexed while his back was turned many times during the first few months of school, but nothing ever happened. Right before Christmas hols rolled around, Ron made a joke about slugs and ferrets in the middle of Potions class to raise Malfoy's ire, but Malfoy never even turned around to give Ron so much as a glare. Harry sniggered into his fist as Ron's joke was amusing, but the mirth tapered off quickly when he noticed how tense Malfoy's shoulders had become.

Something hadn't been right there.

Something hadn't been right there and Harry couldn't figure out what it was.

He still can't.

He still can't, but now there are other things to figure out when it comes to Draco Malfoy.

Harry can't put his finger on it exactly, but, for some reason, Malfoy has much of the swagger that he'd somehow lost over the course of the summer back.

Hermione says it's because Lucius Malfoy is appealing his sentence. Ron says it's the earring. Harry says nothing at all.

.4 Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, LIBRARY, 1997 MARCH

Potter is staring at him. Potter has been staring at him.

"What is it, Potter?" Draco asks, crossing over to Potter's table in the back of the library. Ignoring Weasel and the Mudblood, Draco curls his fingers over the back of the chair opposite Potter and leans in, leering at him.

"What?" Potter coughs into a fist, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"What is it," Draco says again, more slowly this time, "that you want? You've been staring at me for the past ten minutes. Obviously you want something." He straightens, smirking. "Not that I can blame you, of course. I am rather fit."

He can practically hear the eyes in Granger's head roll and his smirk deepens. Weasley tells him to 'fuck right off' but Draco doesn't give him the time of day. He only has eyes for Potter, who is now clenching his fingers so tightly around his quill that Draco can see the vein crack right up the centre.

If Potter wants to tell him something, so be it. Let him come to Draco, then.

"Nothing, then?" he asks, backing up. "Pity."

Draco pivots on his heel and makes his way down the Potions aisle, counting silently to himself all the while.

Before he can reach 'five', there is a hesitant cough behind him.
"Yes, Potter?"

"You never said anything."

"About what, exactly?" Draco frowns, facing Potter.

Potter's mouth sets into a firm line and he tips his head back, staring up at Draco.

Draco never noticed until right then how very green Potter's eyes were.

"About Ron and the ferret-slug thing. In Potions."

A beat.

"No," Draco says at length. "I didn't."

"Why not?" Potter asks. "I know you wanted to."

"You don't know anything about me." Draco's lip curls and suddenly he has the strangest urge to reach out and shake Potter. He wants to shake Potter for not understanding him, for underestimating him, for deigning to know anything about him.

"I know enough."

"Then why," Draco grounds out through gritted teeth, "didn't I say anything?"

Potter stares back at him in silence, his eyes - those eyes so fucking green and brilliant - narrowing into slits.

"Always forgive your enemies, Potter," Draco says, finally breaking the silence. "Nothing annoys them so much."

.5 Hatred is blind, as well as love.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, GREAT HALL, 1997 APRIL

Malfoy is staring at him. Malfoy has been staring at him.

Ever since they had a brief conversation in the library the previous month, Harry has been catching Malfoy watching him. He doesn't know what to make of this, any more than he knows what to make of what Malfoy had said to him that day.
Always forgive your enemies, Potter. Nothing annoys them so much.

But Harry isn't annoyed. He's confused. So was Malfoy saying that he forgives Harry (for what, only God and Merlin knew, honestly)? Or was Malfoy saying that he didn't consider Harry an enemy but some sort of friend and wouldn't be forgiving him?

Harry passes Ron the kippers and turns around to look at the Slytherin table. Sure enough, there is Malfoy, watching him. Their eyes meet briefly before Harry averts his, staring at the bottom half of Malfoy's serpentine earring, watching as it sways back and forth gently. It isn't as long as the fang Bill wears about his ear, but it is, of course, much more exquisite. Exquisite and mysterious and it draws Harry in. His eyes travel up its length and fixate on the small emerald eye.

An elbow bumps into his side and, just like that, the spell is broken.

"Sorry," Neville mumbles sheepishly as Harry turns back round to the table.

"It's okay," Harry says, pulling his bowl of porridge closer.

He can't shake the feeling that Malfoy is still watching him. Feigning an itchy chin, he rubs it on his shoulder, eyeing the Slytherin table again.

He was right; Malfoy is watching him. Malfoy is watching him and Harry could swear that there is a glimmer in Malfoy's eyes meant just for him.

.6 Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, SLYTHERIN HOUSE, 1997 MAY

Draco has been called many things, a number of which have been true. One of the things he's been called is a liar, and that is one of the few untruths he's been called. Draco has always been honest or, at least, honest in his own way. He has always told the truth, or his version of it. He has never been a liar.

Correction.

He has never been a liar until February of this year.

For the past few months, Draco has been lying to himself. He's been lying to himself and he's been lying to Potter.

Draco doesn't call it lying, though. He calls it taking a detour. It makes him feel better about things to call it something other than what it really is.

What it really is, what he is really lying to himself about, is himself.

He lies about himself because the truth is frightening. The truth is not wrong, although many of his friends and Potter's friends would think otherwise. The truth is just frightening and large and more important than any other truth Draco has known in his entire life. So, frightened and apprehensive of the consequences of telling the truth, Draco takes detours and deceives the others. He deceives himself.

.7 One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, GRYFFINDOR BOYS DORMITORY, 1997 MAY

Every night when Harry closes the curtains on his four-poster and tries to drift off to sleep, he sees Malfoy's eyes. He sees Malfoy's eyes, grey and glimmering, and he wonders what it all means. Malfoy has a look about him and has had it for the past several weeks.

Perhaps, Harry reconsiders, Malfoy has had it for longer. It is possible; Harry only noticed it himself that one morning in early April.

But what does it all mean?

Harry closes his eyes and sees Malfoy's. More often than not, Malfoy's pale grey eyes will fade into sparkling green ones the colour of that emerald in his curious earring. The colour is nearly the same as Harry's own and he wonders for one brief, mad moment if that means something. He wonders if it should mean something to him, if it does mean something to Malfoy.

He had never given Malfoy much thought over the years, save for when he stuck his pointy-faced self where it didn't belong and got in Harry or Ron's business. He doubts Malfoy did much different concerning him.

These days, though, Harry thinks that Malfoy gives him quite a bit of thought.

Maybe that's just wishful thinking. Or maybe it isn't.

.8 If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

HOGWARTS EXPRESS, JUNE 1997

Crabbe and Goyle do anything for Draco, and for that Draco is grateful. Ever since they were sorted together into Slytherin, Crabbe and Goyle have taken it upon themselves to laugh at Draco's jokes, run his errands, rough people up for him, and offer him protection as needed. They are all too eager to be at his beck and call, and take great pleasure in his request to go to the car carrying the ickle firsties and hex off ears and hex mouths shut. They set off and it does not take long for a petite third year to run back to the cars carrying the older students, knocking on compartments looking for prefects. Weasley and Granger follow the grim-faced little girl and Potter is left alone in his compartment, just as Draco knew he would be.

Draco slips inside the compartment, the door sliding back into place with a near-silent hiss. Potter looks up at him, but he does not look surprised to see him.

"I have something for you, Potter." Draco crosses his arms about his chest and stares down at Potter, who moves far back into his seat, slumping down a little.

"For me?" Potter's brows knit together.

"Yeah," says Draco, sinking down into the seat opposite him. "I do."

"Is this some sort of stupid trick?"

Draco blinks, taking in the slight down-turn of Potter's mouth and the wariness in his eyes - those eyes so fucking green and brilliant.

"No. It isn't a trick." He scoots to the edge of his cushion, his knees bumping against Potter's. "It's not a trick," he says softly. "Harry."

Then Draco leans forward and grabs Harry by his lapels and kisses him and Draco feels relief; he doesn't have to deceive anyone anymore.

Harry's lips are slightly chapped and dry but his mouth is wet and warm and welcoming. Draco sighs into Harry's mouth as Harry curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him close. Their tongues touch and their knees bump again and it isn't long before hands clutch at shirts and pull at hair all the while mouth learns mouth. Harry is the one to finally pull away, inhaling deeply.

"Was that it, then?" he asks, and Draco is unable to fight back a grin at the hopefulness he sees in Harry's eyes.

"No." Draco reaches a hand up to his ear, removing the serpentine earring. With the swish and flick of his wand, the earring is a brooch once more.

Pinning the brooch onto Harry's shirt, Draco dips his head down and brushes his lips against Harry's once more. "A man's life is his image, they say, and I think you'll make a brilliant reflection."

Harry laughs, running a finger along the line of the serpent, and Draco knows he is finished taking detours.