Draco By Trial

Your face it haunts

My once pleasant dreams.

Your voice it chased away

All of the sanity in me.

Evanescence - My Immortal

Draco pulled a face as another vial of Veritaserum was brought forwards. He scowled darkly as he felt the liquid run down his throat, leaving an unpleasant stickiness.

Fudge was staring at him, obviously expecting him to start from where he'd left off. He sighed heavily; it was only going to get more difficult, but he'd expected this, he was prepared. He had to do this, or everything else, everything that had happened that year with Harry and every decision he had made, was completely meaningless.

He cleared his throat and began again.

"I found it very difficult to be around Harry at first. I'd hated him for so long, it was almost like a habit; a drug maybe. At times I found myself almost forcing him to argue with me, just to regain some sense of normality."

*

"I hope you didn't have too much trouble with Weasley about the other day."

"Now do you actually care whether Ron's pissed off with me or not?"

"Not really, I was just being polite. I have absolutely no idea why you want to be friends with such an irritating plebe like him."

"You know, he said almost exactly the same thing to me this morning! Except not quite so verbose." Draco said nothing to this. "Has anyone ever told you that you're overly verbose? I mean, it's one thing having a good vocabulary, but you take it to a whole new level!"

"Well I'm sorry if my superior skills at using the English language get to you, but I'm not responsible for your inferiority complexes." Potter merely laughed.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," Draco said seriously, slightly disgruntled that he was being laughed at.

"I know! That's what makes it even funnier!"

They were walking outside in the early evening light, plodding through the snow towards the Quidditch pitch. They each held a broomstick and were wearing their thick training robes. The annual Slytherin - Gryffindor match was in just over a month and Draco felt a kind of morbid excitement at the thought. If not for the fact that he would be facing Potter on almost completely new terms, then for the fact that he would be fighting against his team-mates as much as he was for. He had no idea why he was still on the team and tried not to think about it too much. He would have liked to have believed that it was because his skills as a seeker far surpassed anyone else in his house, but a more fatalistic part of him considered that it may be the fact that his former friends would get far too much pleasure out of seeing him fail against Potter to take him off the team. He was being ridiculous and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to help it.

It was a very odd sensation, going out to practise Quidditch with Potter, and he wasn't quite sure if it was pleasant or not. He'd decided that, if anything, it would be a learning experience; an opportunity to study in depth how Potter practised, how he rehearsed each move, whether he was meticulous or careless in his learning.

Potter was the first to get on his broom and take off, and Draco paused to examine his style. When he first took off, there was always that moment of doubt in the observer's mind, as to whether he would actually stay there and would not come crashing back down. Until that exquisite moment when Potter seemed to gain complete control; where in a moment he seemed to become intricately aware of his surroundings and the part he played in them, and then he appeared to just melt into one being with his broomstick, as though he'd just worked out how to use his other arm. Draco considered Potter to be an extremely graceful flyer, not the practised ease of his own flying, but a kind of natural grace that could never be learnt. It was rustic and rough, but at the same time showed a poise and elegance which never seemed to follow the boy once his feet hit the ground again.

It made Draco extremely jealous.

He remembered the tortuous hours spent training at Malfoy Manor. He'd had his first lesson when he was seven. He'd been begging his father for a broom for months and finally, Lucius had given in, but not before making Draco promise that he would apply himself seriously to studying the art of flying. Draco had readily agreed without really listening to his father words. He didn't care; he was getting his first broomstick! The following day, his father had taken him into the library and placed numerous thick tomes in front of him, saying that he could get on a broom once he had read every word and understood how to execute each move. Draco remembered staring unbelievingly at his father's retreating back as he was left alone amongst the dusty books, before turning back to begin what seemed to be an almost impossible task for a seven year old. For days, he spent hours in the library, studying, until he was finally able to announce proudly to his father that he understood the mechanics of every standard Quidditch move. Lucius had looked sceptical, but shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine," he'd said, before walking outside. When Draco followed him, he found Lucius standing in the sunshine, holding out a shining new broom to Draco.

"Show me," he'd said, in that same soft tone. Draco had confidently taken the broom, his heart leaping for joy at the feel of it in his hand. Lucius had taken a step backwards as Draco had straddled the stick. He pushed off the ground and, for the first time, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and the wind roar in his ears as his rose far above the ground.

However, it had quickly become painfully clear to Draco that reading about flying, and actually flying, were two very different things. His broom had lurched violently and he'd immediately lost balance, his fingers slipped forwards and he fell sideways, plunging to the ground below where his father stood. He'd landed awkwardly, his leg crumpled underneath him and clearly broken. His father had leant over him, his shadow blocking out the sun, and had said,

"That's why I didn't want you to start yet." He'd then turned on his heel and gone back inside. Draco hadn't had the courage to get on a broomstick again for a year.

With a slight scowl, Draco released the snitch, then pushed down with his feet and took off into the air, a bitter wind chafing his cheeks and lips. Barely a word was spoken between them for over an hour; a tacit knowledge between seekers that no communication was needed but the dip of a broom, a quick glance or the toss of a head. They dived and looped and circled each other as they sought, time after time, for the glittering, golden snitch. It was strange however, that neither seemed inclined to actually capture it. Time and again it appeared, and they would race, elbowing each other, urging each other on, flying so close that their knees were knocking, but then, at the final minute, one would slow or swerve erratically, momentarily putting the other off, and the chance would be gone. Neither wanted to be the victor; every opportunity to end the lesson seemed too soon.

Darkness fell and still they hadn't caught the snitch. Draco flew over to where Potter was idly circling, and sighed.

"There's not much point anymore is there? We'll never find it now."

"No, I suppose not." Potter's sigh joined Draco's in the ether. Draco summoned the snitch and it flew neatly into his palm.

"Hmm, first time I've caught the snitch when you're around," he said, in a not altogether pleasant tone. They floated aimlessly for a few minutes, neither willing to be the first to speak again.

"We should go somewhere," Potter finally said.

"What, now?" Draco asked, surprised. "It's dark Potter, we should go back inside. Besides, I've got homework to do." Potter frowned deeply, obviously chagrined by the fact that Draco was being sensible.

"Don't you ever just do anything on impulse Draco?" Draco jerked at the use of his first name, thinking that it didn't sound quite right coming from Potter, and wondered if it was deliberate. Potter, for his part, didn't seem to have noticed.

"Not really, no," he answered primly. "I like to be prepared for every eventuality." In some sad way, this was very true. It probably reflected more on Draco's upbringing than his actual personality, that in every aspect of his life, he planned meticulously for fear that some unknown factor may creep up and set everything off-key. He was almost pathologically tidy and was slightly over-obsessive about handing in work on time. Potter sighed at his answer, seemingly disappointed for a moment, before a look of determination settled comfortably on his face.

"Well, I don't," he said firmly. With that said, he sped off over the Hogwarts grounds, leaving behind a very perplexed Draco Malfoy.

"Potter? Where're you-" Draco began to yell, before realising that the red and gold blur that was Harry Potter was already well out of hearing range. With a slight shrug, he took off in the same direction.

Draco had thought that, by now, he knew every inch of Hogwarts and its grounds, so it surprised him slightly to realise that he had never thought to investigate what was behind the castle. Potter obviously had, as he self-assuredly rounded the castle and made a beeline for a large clump of trees in the distance. Draco had now caught up to Potter, who had slowed somewhat, but was uncertain as to whether he should actually say anything. He took another look at the expression on Potter's face, and decided to keep his mouth shut and just wait to find out what he was being shown.

Out, far beyond the castle now, over and past the trees, and Draco saw, nestled comfortably between hedgerows and thick shrubbery, a single field, dotted with luscious red flowers and patches of long grass. What was wholly remarkable, was that the entire area seemed to have been completely untouched by the snow and frost which had withered all of the surrounding plant-life.

They touched down and Potter immediately dropped his broom, falling to his knees and then lying back, his face turned up to the stars. Draco stood momentarily, looking down at the boy, then gently sat next to where he was lying, crossing his legs.

"How long have you known this place was here?" he asked quietly, still unsure of the need for his words. They seemed to coarsen this place. Long grass tickled his knees and back, even his neck as he leant his head back briefly to gaze at the sky.

"Not so long," Potter murmured, not moving. "Neville told me about it. This is the only spot where these flowers grow for miles around, so Professor Sprout looks after them. There's some spell to keep the snow away." Draco moved slightly to get a closer look at one of the flowers. The blood-red bud bobbed slightly in the wind, and there was a strong odour that he couldn't quite place.

"They're poppies," Potter said; a gentle reminder.

"Ah yes, the poppy. Papaveraceae. More like a weed than anything else in these parts. Extremely useful though, I think Professor Snape uses them for headache potions, and cold cures. It's the seeds you see, very helpful for coughs." Draco stopped talking when he saw the look on Potter's face; slight horror mixed with humour. "What?"

"It's just, well, for a start I think it's scary that you know all that, you seriously need to get out more!" Draco bristled and was about to speak again, when Potter carried on. "And, it's just that, can't you just admire them without analysing?"

"Well, I suppose on an aesthetic level-"

"No," Potter said, shaking his head and sitting up. "Just look at them." Draco humoured him for a moment, and simply stared at the flower. Deep-red petals, if he was morbid by nature he would have said they were the colour of blood, with spots of black towards the centre that only seemed to highlight the intensity of their colour. There was such a strong smell surrounding the flower; it smelled of every flower combined, but also with something bitter underneath, as though it wasn't really all it appeared to be. He looked back at Potter, who was staring at him as though willing him to have a reaction.

"Potter," Draco began, "it's a flower. I mean, OK it's a nice colour and everything, a bit bloody actually, but it's just a flower." Potter stared at him momentarily, and then grinned.

"I know," he said, "but if you get the right sort, you can make absolutely mind-blowing drugs!" Draco simply stared as Potter lay back down in the grass, and then he grinned. A laugh escaped him, a small chuckle which slowly built until he was rolling on the floor, clutching at his stomach completely unable to stop. Potter was staring at him as though he'd lost his mind, but Draco didn't care. It felt so good to be able to laugh like that, after so many months of pain and worry and embarrassment, it seemed like, at that moment, it was the most important thing in the world for him to be doing.

His laughter gradually died away, leaving him feeling strangely contented as he lay next to Potter, silently star-gazing. Potter, on the other hand, didn't seem to be so content with silence.

"So are you ever going to tell me what happened?" Draco was immediately on guard, and hated himself for it.

"What do you mean?" he asked evasively. Potter sighed.

"If you don't want to tell me..." Draco could hear the hope, the slight lilt to his voice as he let the sentence drift off, and hated the part of him that said this was what Potter had wanted all along; just the latest gossip that he would get thrown back in his face and be ridiculed for. He looked up at Potter, whose eyes continued to stare upwards, and really wished he could trust him. For once, here was a person who appeared to only want to listen to him; who appeared genuinely interested. Just from looking at him, Draco found it almost inconceivable that he had any ulterior motives. But how could he ever be sure? Certainly, it was strange the way Potter had approached him with an offer of friendship; so sudden and out of character. It was strange what they were doing now, sitting alone together, laughing. At the same time though, it didn't seem so odd. A lot of things had changed in a very short amount of time for Draco: the loss of his father, his inheritance of the Malfoy name, being ostracised from his friends. Draco was also not so oblivious that he hadn't noticed that there must have been changes for Potter as well, he just didn't know what they'd been. In a way, he thought, maybe, amidst all these changes, it was inevitable that they would be drawn together like this. The past years seemed almost like another life time where he was allowed to waltz through life as though there was nothing wrong with the world and his family life was perfect. Maybe this was just another way for the two of them to move on, further away from a past that was altogether too unpleasant.

"It's OK, I don't mind," Draco said slowly, still unsure. He turned his head away from Potter and focussed on a single star above him. For a moment, he said nothing, just lost himself in the bright point above him, stared until his vision blurred and all he could see was silver.

"My father's in Azkaban," he said, settling vaguely on this starting point, but not sure how far back he was willing to go.

"I know."

"He's there because of you." Draco wasn't sure whether he was trying to sound accusatory, or was just stating a fact. Potter had stiffened and sat up straight, looking down at Draco with suddenly cold eyes.

"No he's not," he said. "He's there because he's weak." It was Draco's turn to sit up as anger coursed through him.

"Don't you dare insult my father!" It was a reflex reaction really, defending his father that way, but it was what Potter had said more than anything that sparked it. Malfoy's were never weak.

"Always the same Malfoy," Potter spat. "Clinging on to that ridiculously warped idea that your father's perfect. It's quite pathetic really."

"And what would you know about it?" Draco retorted without thinking. Potter paled, then got to his feet and turned his back.

"What was I thinking? What am I even doing here? Ron was right," he muttered before grabbing his broomstick from the ground. It was that comment, and that alone, that spurred Draco to speak. He never wanted to give Weasley the satisfaction of being right.

"Wait," he said. Potter spun around, eyes flashing, his whole body taut.

"What?" he asked harshly. Draco took a deep breath, barely believing what he was about to say.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"What? I didn't quite catch that." Draco looked up sharply, trying to find some element of mockery, but only saw caution; a guarded expression that unsettled him.

"I'm sorry. That was unnecessary." Potter gaped at him briefly, before suddenly flopping back to the ground, all tension lost from his frame.

"It's OK. So tell me about it," he said simply.

*

"It was like he'd infected me," Draco said, suddenly animated. "Night after night we'd sneak out of school; sometimes he had to literally drag me out of the library. His influence definitely didn't do anything for my grades, but I didn't seem to mind all that much. I'd never had many close friends, and I had no idea what to expect from Harry. He challenged me in every way you can think of, and sometimes he made me want to beat him senseless, but other times, it was so intimate. It was like we shared something that no-one could take away from us because nobody could touch it. I suppose that's what friendship is really, isn't it?"

The room was silent as they listened to this eloquent, clearly highly intelligent young man speak. His face shining with a raw emotion, as he spoke about friendship and closeness and intimacy. It seemed almost impossible that someone this tender, could also be so brutal. The image was incongruous with what they already knew. It was like watching a tragedy unfold before their very eyes, and every person was captivated; waiting for some explanation that could possibly make sense.