Control

"You need them both... talent and discipline. One without the other is useless."

~ Mr. Kravitz, from Bruce Coville's Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher

Control

"My father's coming to visit," says Draco Malfoy haughtily. His clear, ringing voice saunters down the crowded corridor, and every student within hearing distance shivers involuntarily. "In three days. Old Dumbly-door had better watch it."

"Heh," snickers Vincent Crabbe. "Dumbly-door."

Several paces ahead, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger frown in mid-thought and look at each other quickly. Their gazes turn to Harry Potter, who is walking absent-mindedly off to the side.

"Er..." starts Ron.

"Never mind," says Harry. "He's only been talking about it for weeks now. Dumbledore won't let them do anything."

"But Harry," frowns Hermione, "have you been... well, you realise that there were... legal questions about... the circumstances of--of Cedric's--"

"Yeah," says Harry, "It's okay. Like I said, I've talked to Dumbledore."

Harry hasn't done anything of the sort, but he smiles lightly and the worries are dropped. Truly, no-one really likes to be concerned about... well, anything. Duty is a merciless motivator, though, and that's the one thing about friends - they'll be there for you when they'd rather be anywhere else.

Draco Malfoy's loud announcement does not come as a surprise to Harry. For one thing, everyone has been whispering about it for some time. Ever since the start of the term (six weeks ago), Draco has been smugly and annoyingly predicting the imminent removal of most of Hogwarts' faculty. Cedric Diggory has indeed been remembered: Lucius Malfoy and the Board of Governors are coming for an inspection. After all, one cannot have students dying, for whatever reason - it simply doesn't look good.

Of course, Lucius Malfoy was supposed to have been removed from the Board of Governors after the incident with the Chamber of Secrets. And his removal was very likely supposed to have been permanent. But people seem to like giving second chances - perhaps it makes them feel powerful - and the art of politics operates in a strange manner. In any case, impossibility really lies in the mind.

As for Harry - who is trying very hard not to think about what exactly the inspection will bring up (and succeeding) - life has settled into the familiar routine: classes, Quidditch, sneaking about. He catches the worried looks exchanged between Hermione and Ron, the way their eyes seem to meet over his head - how Hermione always seems to be waiting for Harry to say something and how Ron never really seems to know what to say.

"So, how are you, Harry?" Hermione often asks. As if she's waiting for him to fall over at any moment. As if there's a hidden meaning in that question. As if she's afraid of something.

If you ask Harry (but then, no-one really does), Hermione seems almost morbidly eager to discover something wrong with him. Far, far too often, Harry is tempted to feign some sort of deathly illness, just to give Hermione a reason to get to work, researching fiercely - helping the hero of the wizarding world save himself again.

Even more difficult are Ron's stammered, "Er... all right there...?"'s and the way he trails off before he actually says "Harry." It has come to the point that Harry dreads stumbling in the hall or dropping his quill or coughing or breathing too loudly, because Ron will assume that something is not all right with Harry but will go right on pretending that everything is.

But really, there is nothing wrong. Everything is under control. Harry supposes that he hasn't made anything easier by refusing to discuss what happened to him at the end of last year. But then, when he plays it all over in his head, there isn't really much to tell.

Although, sometimes, he really doesn't remember all of it. Something like: they grab the cup, Voldemort waves his wand, some spirits get angry, and Harry runs. He can see it in his head, the same scenes, as if he were looking through hazy Omnioculars. Some details change with each replaying, but they're only details, after all... and, in fact, when you get right down to it, everything's just about details and who cares?

Things seem to be so fuzzy anyway.

"They'll all be given a boot to the arse," Draco is proclaiming. "Mudblood-worshipping idiots, and Dumbledore's the worst of the lot. Anyway, now that Diggory's blood is practically dripping from his hands, they've got to be out of their minds if they're going to let him stay. They should've had a purge years ago. My father will see to it."

Harry doesn't like thinking about blood. After all, there wasn't any blood on Cedric Diggory. None at all. Just that flicker of emerald light, and then... nothing. His fingers twitch and he drops one of his textbooks. Ron and Hermione are almost down the corridor before they realise that Harry isn't walking with them.

"Er, where are you going?" asks Ron hesitantly.

Harry, walking backwards, says, "I think I'm going to skip breakfast. I've got a stomachache."

Hermione eyes almost glow with fervour. "A stomachache!"

"I just want to lie down for a bit," says Harry easily. "Save me a place in Transfiguration."

It's okay that Ron and Hermione don't believe him, because at least they don't ask questions, and they don't talk. Then again, if they do, Harry doesn't know about it and doesn't want to.

He pulls out his wand as he walks down the corridor. Quite often, he catches himself checking to see if he has it with him. But he doesn't walk around with it drawn. Hermione would probably be ecstatic with worry and Ron would get even more nervous. Harry just feels better with a wand in his hand; it gives him a sense of control.

He frequently tells himself that he doesn't feel guilty about what happened to Cedric Diggory. Because, you know, he's gone through the appropriate stages: the denial, the anger, all of that. He tells himself that it's okay to let it go, that he's come to terms with it.

Last year, the first night Harry spent at the Dursleys' after returning from Hogwarts, he shattered his lamp in his sleep. He awoke to the gibbering, keening wail of his aunt and Vernon's furious shouts. They had respectively shrieked and roared at him until one of Harry's pencils had shot through the air and had grazed Petunia's dressing gown. Neither of them spoke to him for a week afterward. Not that Harry could have really told the difference.

Several nights later, Harry managed to dump a drawer of clothes onto his head, along with the drawer. The sharp wooden corner had scratched his temple, and it'd taken him nearly five minutes to staunch the bleeding. He'd gone to look in the mirror, had seen the blue-black blood smudged on his face, and had passed out. The mirror had had fresh spidery cracks running along its sides when he'd regained consciousness.

The next night, it was Hedwig's cage. Rising off the desk, slamming against the floor, rising again, falling again. Hedwig's cage, with Hedwig in it. She'd bitten him when he took her out, feathers flying everywhere. There's still a faint mark on Harry's right thumb.

"Pine needles," says Harry and stumbles through the portrait hole. The very sight of his bed makes him actually feel sick, but there's no other place where he can lie down.

He can't go to sleep, of course. At the Dursleys', he'd taken to drinking alcohol before bed. He's sure they know about it, but Vernon doesn't speak to him, and Harry didn't stop. He didn't know what it was, doesn't look at the label. It takes him only two small glasses to start feeling dizzy. It's bad in the morning, but otherwise he can't sleep. Anyway, he'd only been doing it for a couple of weeks.

He'd cried so hard after Hedwig had bitten him - huge, noiseless, airless gasps that choked all the oxygen away in great big spasms of pain. He was terrified that he'd get another angry letter from Crouch or the like, terrified that Hedwig would hate him forever, terrified that he'd kill someone in his sleep and he'd never know.

Harry flips over onto his stomach and manages to tangle the tip of his wand on the curtains around the bed. Little blue sparks shoot out of the wand and the curtains catch fire. A wayward curse escapes his lips; the flames change from blue to green and sputter angrily.

"Aquarum!" snaps Harry, and a burst of equally angry water gushes forth from his wand. The curtains drip sullenly, and the bed is now soaking wet. Harry narrows his eyes at the drenched curtains, and they flap once, loudly, flinging water onto his face.

He takes off his glasses and wipes them with his robe, smearing the water around the lenses. His hands are shaking as he puts the glasses back on.

For once, Harry thinks, Draco Malfoy probably isn't exaggerating. It's all too possible that Lucius will show up with those Governors and ransack Hogwarts, spin the school round on its towers, terrify all of the first-years. Lucius will bring it all back again, and here's Harry, who has successfully managed to avoid thinking about Cedric Diggory and the Tournament throughout the entire summer.

Of course, everything had been too easy last year. Dumbledore had given a speech, shocked the entire wizarding world, and started preparing for a war. Harry had gone home, had moped about the house, and had done nothing--

--had done nothing while Voldemort had simply raised his wand--

kill the spare

--and he had never properly apologised to the Diggorys, although Amos Diggory makes him more uncomfortable than he'd ever admit--

harry harry potter ced's talked about you told us all about you

--and he still hasn't told Ron and Hermione what had happened--

so how are you harry

The curtains catch fire again, the wet curtains. Harry hasn't even picked up his wand. Bright green flames slither toward the ceiling, green like the colour of Floo, like old meat, like Lily's eyes, like algae, like Avada Kedavra.

Harry reaches up both his hands, not even sure what he's planning on doing, but before he touches the curtain, it tears and lands in a pile on the floor, and the fabric makes angry wet hissing noises as it smothers itself. His vision is blurry as he throws his wand across the room, listening to it hit the wall with a faint wooden clack.

Harry doesn't need it anyway.

"Merlin," he whispers and presses his fingertips to his head. No, his scar doesn't hurt; he has a headache. He probably wouldn't get them with such frequency if he slept every now and then, but the next time he goes to bed, it could be Neville or Seamus or Dean or Ron that he's beating on the floor or smothering with a pillow or setting on fire or--

no no not harry please not harry

Flying might help, but the Quidditch pitch is under strict, strict supervision, and he's not supposed to be there now, anyway, because the Ravenclaw team is practising (Harry re-memorises the schedule every week.). Watching Cho Chang fly is one of the most exhilarating things in the world, and it isn't entirely because Harry fancies her a little, but he can see Cedric's soft, smiling eyes reflected in Cho's and he's been avoiding her since school started. Or maybe she's been avoiding him.

Remember Cedric Diggory, indeed.

Harry's seen Ron throw pillows, yell at people, turn red in the face and shred his Potions essays to little pieces, pretending it was Snape. Harry's afraid to do anything like that. When he was seven years old, Dudley threw a plastic cup at him. It bounced off his head and left a welt. There had been a burst of light, and then Dudley screaming, blood trickling from his cheek, plastic shards on the rug. Harry had cried, terrified that he'd somehow killed his cousin.

There was that night in the Shrieking Shack, before Sirius or Remus Lupin could explain anything, and Harry had been riding on his torrent of fearful rage--he'd wanted to curse both of them; he'd wanted to shove his wand through their throats--

"Merlin," Harry whispers again and swings his body off the bed. He's never really skipped lessons before, but there's a first time for everything. He thinks twice before picking up his wand, but having it in his hands stops his fingernails from drilling into his palm. The Fat Lady tsks at him as he leaves the room; Harry ignores her.

He takes every left turn he can find, eyes fixed on the stones beneath his shoes, trying to lose himself in the walls and the floor. At least then, if he disappeared, the Aurors wouldn't arrest him. It's very possible that Lucius will be taking Aurors with him for the inspection. Harry doesn't know how the Muggle judicial system operates, much less the wizarding one, but he doesn't care to find out about either.

Because, really, there was no-one in that maze but Cedric Diggory and himself. Harry Potter's word against everybody else's. Orphaned, impressionable, scar-ridden, psychologically unstable, magically dangerous Harry Potter.

Caught up in his thoughts and the tips of his shoes and the way the flagstones of the corridor repeat themselves, Harry doesn't even look up until he hits someone. It feels like walking into a steel pillar wrapped in soft fabric. Whoever it is inhales sharply; fingers reflexively latch onto his shoulder, and Harry stumbles into the wall.

"Shit," he says involuntarily, surprised. Those fingers on his shoulder tighten, and as Harry hastily tries to detangle himself, they slide under his chin, forcing his gaze up. Harry braces himself for a grimace of pain or anger or fear or--

He finds himself staring up into the frosty silver eyes of Lucius Malfoy.

The man releases his grip, and Harry lurches backward so quickly that he has to put a hand out on the wall for balance. Lucius straightens ever-so-slightly - imperceptible, really - and his chin raises a fraction of an inch. Harry feels like he's just been spit on by twenty generations of immense wizarding supremacy. The silver fangs of the serpent on Lucius' staff gleam in the dim light.

"Clumsy, aren't we?" says Lucius.

Harry has forgotten the sinister, crackling force that surrounds Lucius Malfoy; the chilling way the man speaks down to you, no matter what you were; the faint inward gleam of those eyes that somehow darkened rooms. Lucius' voice is soft and entrancing and dangerous, like an unsheathed dagger lying at Harry's fingertips. The consonants alone feel tainted.

"Sorry," Harry mutters and turns away. He looks around quickly and realises that he's succeeded in losing himself. The walls are lined with the same glimmering candles that illuminate the Great Hall, but here, in the closed, noiseless corridor, the effect is eerie. Everything is flat and colorless, like a vast grey box with no top or bottom and endlessly long sides. Harry thinks about how even Dumbledore claims not to know all of the castle's secrets.

"Hogwarts' star pupil is absconding from lessons. How very fitting." Lucius' voice slides against Harry's ears, and in his mind, he can see the faint red gleam of Voldemort's eyes, hear the Dark Lord telling Harry to bow down to him.

"What do you mean, 'fitting'?" demands Harry, and he knows that he should just turn and leave. He would leave, too, except that he doesn't know where he is, and something about the way Lucius' mouth tilts up in that smirking manner makes Harry want to curse him.

kill the spare

"Silly me," says Lucius, "but of course you wouldn't know about it."

An answer calculated to provoke. Harry knows this, knows he really should apologise again for nearly plowing the man over and just turn and walk away. But his feet won't move and his head hurts, and Lucius' expression burns into him, and Harry has felt cold since the term began. In his head, he can hear Ron yelling, "Stupid git!" as he's ripping up a Potions essay covered with the critical, sneering handwriting of Professor Snape.

"You're three days early," says Harry, trying to control the topic of conversation. Although, on second thought, it's not possible to have a conversation with Lucius Malfoy. Conversations end up mutating into awkward bouts where you seem to end up talking to yourself, attacking yourself, while Lucius sneers on, amused.

That same amused sneer still lingers. "Bravo, Potter. How well you know my schedule. Do you need a job as my secretary? I'm sure something could be arranged."

Harry can actually feel his wand arm twitch. "So then why don't you go off and terrorise some students? What are you doing skulking about the corridors?"

Lucius smiles then - slow, condescending, a frightening contortion of mouth muscles that doesn't at all reach his eyes. "What are you doing skulking about the corridors?"

"Mind your own business," snaps Harry.

He's pushing the line and he knows it, but Lucius Malfoy knows it, too. Harry just wants to find out who's actually in control of the situation. He doesn't think about why Lucius is humouring him - because the man really is humouring him - which makes Harry even angrier - and green crawls into his vision and fades out again.

Lucius flicks an eyebrow at him. "Such atrocious manners. Pity you weren't raised properly."

He pauses deliberately and adds, "Of course, your pedigree was dirty from the start."

Harry says, calmly and deliberately, "Fuck you."

There - they drop the pretense because neither of them is very good at it.

"Really," says Lucius and laughs softly, unpleasantly.

Fear breeds anger. Harry catches the flash in Lucius' eyes and realises that, whatever business the man is here to take care of, he doesn't want to know about it. That hard, cold stare seems to contract and turn toxic before Harry's eyes, a predator lying in wait.

One slim, pale hand darts out toward Harry's wrist; he jerks his arm away, but Lucius Malfoy moves like a biting snake. Harry can feel the pressure from each separate finger pressing into his flesh, cutting off the flow of blood. Lucius' skin is like ice shrouded in silk. The wooden handle of Harry's wand digs into his hand, and he forces himself not to grimace.

"Testing your boundaries, Potter?" Lucius' voice burns with coldness. "Trying to see how far you can go?"

Harry can feel himself trembling and knows that Lucius can feel it as well. "Get your filthy hands off me."

Lucius twists Harry's wrist, forcing him to step closer. The chilly grey eyes skim impassively over Harry's face. "You of all people would have an intimate knowledge of filth. After all, you wallow in it every day."

His tone is cool and curves around Harry like a gleaming fishhook covered with barbs. The candles in the corridor flicker when Harry inhales. Lucius narrows his eyes, and strands of champagne-blond hair flutter across his face.

Little pinpricks of light spatter over Harry's field of vision. He drops his gaze, trying to quell the bubbling wave inside his ribcage that threatens to drown him. He's going to have bruises on his wrist for the next week.

"Such a common boy of such common lineage," continues Lucius. "Slinking about the corridors like a common criminal."

"You of all people would know about that," Harry says in an undertone.

Lucius doesn't move, but his eyes slowly harden from the inside out - a deliberate, crackling freeze that makes Harry numb inside. He's painfully aware of his own shallow breathing. Lucius' eyes pin him in place and he can't move.

"Would I," Lucius says softly.

He squeezes Harry's wrist and presses the elbow back; tendrils of pain crawl down Harry's arm. When Lucius speaks again, his lips actually brush against Harry's left ear.

"Why don't you prove it?"

Harry's mind flashes back to second year, standing in the corridor twenty paces away from Dumbledore's office, Lucius Malfoy's disdainful sneer curling around his face like a sinuous feline with poison tipped claws.

"Why don't you prove it?"

The cold, furious manner in which Lucius shoved the mangled journal at Dobby... the rasping shnnk! of Lucius' wand being pulled from its sheath... the concentrated, pointed expression on Lucius' face as he raised his wand.

avada kedavra

kill the spare

no not harry don't hurt harry

Fight or flight.

Lucius' breath whispers in Harry's ear, soft and taunting.

His closeness is terrifying.

avada kedavra

Harry is in motion before his mind has realised what had happened. A distant feeling of surprise hovers around his brain as he finds himself several arms' lengths away, wand pointed at Lucius' throat. Every nerve in Harry's body screams and jangles from the shock of the sudden, uncontrollable response.

In the invasive silence, Lucius Malfoy meets Harry's eyes. Grey meets green, and the urge to run forces all the air from Harry's lungs. The impulse is so strong that Harry is almost shuffling in place, eyes fixed on Lucius like a skittish horse watching a rattlesnake.

But when he focuses his eyes on the tip of his wand, his hand is completely steady. He brings his eyes up to Lucius' face and they stare at each other wordlessly.

Kill the spare.

Lucius brushes one pale, gloveless hand along the edge of his dark cloak and says calmly, "Are you going to get another innocent killed?"

"You fucking, fucking liar," Harry whispers. His voice shakes. "You're not--I never--you fucking liar."

But his hand is completely steady. Every step he takes reverberates in the corridor, in his head, thudding off-rhythm with the beat of his heart. He takes five steps and stops, the tip of his wand pressing into the hollow at the base of Lucius' neck.

From here, Harry can hear him breathing. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle in warning.

Lucius blinks slowly, a lazy flicker of the eyelids that leaves a faint curl at his lips when he finishes. "Really, your behavior is incredibly... uncouth. Do you always prowl round the school with your wand drawn?"

Harry can feel the soft vibrations of Lucius' words moving down his wand, his arm, and into his chest. And in his head, Harry hears, Kill the spare.

"No," Harry says, but for a moment, he's not sure what he's talking about.

Lucius breathes in softly. "So impulsive."

"No," Harry whispers.

"You have no control over yourself."

Harry thinks about how that pencil had grazed Petunia's dressing gown and how if it had been several inches higher it would have been her torso and he thinks about how that heavy drawer had barely missed his own face and how he wanted to rip off Hedwig's wings with his bare hands right after she'd bitten him and how he wanted to kill Sirius and how he should've just left his curtains to burn and burn the whole castle down in a blaze of green green green--

Kill the spare.

"I don't need control," says Harry. He tightens his grip on his wand, and he feels that funny twitch in his stomach, that feeling which always tells him that he's done a spell wrong but it's too late for him to fix it and all he can do is stand there and let it happen, burn itself out, because he can't control it anymore.

Silence is an answer.

Something flickers in Lucius Malfoy's gaze. He stands still, with a wand at his throat, trains his eyes on Harry Potter's face, and waits.