Chapter Eleven: What Happened Next

Draco had been very quiet for the rest of his trip to Diagon Alley, and had explained it to his mother (but only when she asked) that he was tired and hadn't wanted to get up so early.

“But Draco,” she said, “Look how busy it is already! I really should've taken you shopping sooner, everyone else is doing their last minute shopping now.”

For the next few hours, Draco pondered whether he would've rather gone shopping on another day and avoided seeing Harry at all, or have things go just as they did.

Somehow, they managed to not see Harry for the rest of the shopping trip, though Draco was paranoid that they might. It was a struggle for him to not get agitated anytime his mother stopped to look at new, flashy items, or asked him “Oh, surely you might need one of these this year?”, regardless of whether or not the item was on the school list.

When they returned to Malfoy Manor in the middle of the afternoon, the first thing Draco did was collapse on his bed and fall asleep. The stress from his actions that morning and the cold that was—while mostly gone—still affecting him had sufficiently worn him out.

His mother woke him half an hour before people were supposed to arrive for dinner, and so Draco had time to dress and make sure he looked nice but not enough time to write about his morning in his journal. He managed to write a few sentences before hearing “Draco! Come down and visit with the guests!”

The dinner went well, though Draco didn't feel quite himself through most of it; he supposed this was because he had been asleep so soon before it started. He did an admirable job of not thinking about what he'd said to Harry earlier that day, and when he did think about it he was sure he didn't let his thoughts reach his expression.

He spent most of his time listening to Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott talking, mostly about the pureblooded women at Hogwarts; both of them had fallen under pressure from their parents to be considering wedding plans. Draco made his opinions known once in a while so he didn't appear too disinterested, but every time one of them brought up the idea of doing anything more than holding a casual conversation with a girl (which was a lot), Draco thought about what he and Harry had done the previous school year.

Those thoughts made it very difficult to remember he was being straight that evening.

Draco only tried once to get his mother's attention, and by the time he managed it he'd forgotten what he wanted to ask. She had surrounded herself with women—her age and Draco's—, and the budgie effect had set in without any thought to the rest of the company. One attempt at this was enough; Draco decided after that to decide first how important the question was, and whether or not it could wait until afterwards.

It was almost one in the morning when the final guests left, and Draco had barely gotten his robes off before crawling under the covers and falling asleep again. Distantly, he wondered how it was possible that anyone could sleep so much in one day.

Draco dreamed of Harry. They were the sorts of dreams that he'd come to recognize as a sign he was obsessing over something. In his dreams, Draco was saying the same words he'd said at Madam Malkin's over and over again, and without fail something happened to prevent Harry from responding—or, more upsetting, Harry wouldn't respond.

Draco woke the next morning feeling like he'd barely slept and wishing he could fall asleep again. Instead, he picked up his journal from where he'd hidden it under the bed and wrote down the events of the day before.

I keep trying to convince myself that it was just the cold talking, he wrote, that I was light-headed from coughing and that saying as much makes it a good excuse. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize that I still would have said it without a cold. In fact, I would've said it more eloquently, too. Stupid cold.

It was too late to do anything about it, and Draco tried to remind himself of that every time he started feeling anxious over the next few days.

It's out of my hands, he thought, and he wrote it in his journal as if to affirm it. I said what I could. It's his turn.

*

Harry felt deeply confused.

Almost a week had past since the incident in Diagon Alley; he would be back on the train to Hogwarts in four days. In that time, he would have to think of a way to handle this sudden, unexpected turn of events with Draco, and so far nothing he came up with had helped.

He spent a lot of time thinking. When he had woken up on the morning of the twentieth, he had been hoping Ron and Hermione would be able to tear themselves away from each other often enough to distract him from the thoughts he'd had all summer. He'd wanted them to bring him back to reality—there were people that loved him, he had friends that cared about him, and they might remind him that life did not, in fact, revolve around Draco Malfoy.

In spite of the fact that they didn't spend nearly as much time around him as he'd originally hoped, Harry found himself wishing they'd spend more time somewhere else. After the events in Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions, Harry wanted to think about Draco more than ever.

The thing that worried Harry the most was Draco's honesty. Draco was a Slytherin for a reason, a fact he reminded himself of frequently, and there was a high probability—especially given Draco's family history—that there was an ulterior motive to this.

What if Draco joined the Death Eaters? thought Harry conspiratorially. He's had two and a half months to make a decision like that. What if this is an act of vengeance? What if he's trying to lure me into a trap?

At a moment when Harry had felt on the edge of revelation, though, Ron and Hermione had found him sitting under a tree in the yard and broke into his thoughts.

“Harry!” Hermione said cheefully. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

“Stop looking so serious, Harry,” added Ron. “We've still got a few days before school starts; let's have some fun!”

“I'm not really up to it right now, thanks,” Harry said, feeling guilty as he tried to formulate a reason. “Haven't been sleeping well.” It wasn't entirely a lie; he'd laid in bed thinking about Draco and the events of August twentieth every night since it happened.

“Have you been having dreams of Voldemort?” Hermione asked, lowering her voice. “You should owl Dumbledore, or at least talk to one of Ron's parents.”

Harry felt a flicker of annoyance at how everything immediately went back to Voldemort. What he said next was of his mouth before his sense of reason could stop it. “Actually, I haven't been able to sleep well because you and Ron can't seem to control your hormones at three in the morning.”

Hermione was momentarily speechless, and Ron had flushed pink, but most mortifying of all was how loudly Harry's annoyance had allowed him to speak.

It was loud enough for Mrs. Weasley—who had been hanging the laundry on the line on the other side of the yard—to hear.

Harry felt awful for it later, and apologized profusely after Mrs. Weasley let Ron and Hermione out of the kitchen many hours later (after a long and very sound talking-to; through the cracked-open kitchen window, Harry heard her alternately raging about not knowing what was going on in her own house and jubilating that Ron and Hermione would inevitably get married). Hermione (who was still speaking to him, at least; Ron refused to say a word) informed him rather miserably that Mrs. Weasley had also given them a sex talk and instructed Hermione how to cast an anti-pregnancy charm.

“She had to point out that men 'can't be trusted with their wands',” Hermione lamented, sitting down next to Harry on the lawn. “That was more visual than I ever wanted. And she kept trying to elaborate on personal experience!”

“I'm really sorry,” Harry said again, feeling genuinely apologetic. “If I'd known she was going to hear me, I would've kept my voice lower.”

“She would've found out eventually anyway,” said Hermione resignedly. She sighed and was quiet for a moment, then turned to look guiltily at him. “Were we really waking you up at night?”

Harry paused. “Sometimes,” he said hesitantly. “It was uhm... mostly just moving around, I think.”

“Mostly?” she began sharply. “You said mostly. You mean there's been more than just 'moving around'?”

“Hermione. Do you really want to know how much I've heard?”

“...You're right. No, I don't.”

They sat in silence, watching the sun sink lower towards the horizon and reflecting individually on that afternoon.

“So...” started Harry. “Uhm... How far have you gotten?”

Hermione blushed, but asked, “How do you mean?”

“Well... Have you two done 'it'?”

“Honestly, Harry, use grown-up words.”

Harry sighed. “Have you and Ron had sex?”

“No,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact but her expression still embarrassed. “We've decided to wait a bit.”

“Only 'a bit'?”

“'A while', then.”

“When is 'a while'?”

Hermione glowered at Harry. “Why does it matter? Do you want to make note of it on a calendar or something?” Then she took a calming breath, and continued, “We decided not to do it yet, but don't have a specific 'when' in mind.”

Harry said nothing in response. His thoughts had drifted back to Draco; they had once decided that sex—actual intercourse—was not going to be on their list of activities. They'd made that decision because they agreed that neither of them wanted to give up their virginity to the other.

Waiting for someone we care about, he remembered. It struck him that maybe Draco had said what he said—It WAS a confession of love, right? Or affection at least?--simply to get into his trousers. The thought made him feel a little sick.

I'd rather he be a Death Eater trying to lure me into a trap.

When lining those possibilities up side by side, however, Harry decided he couldn't decide which was worse—being tricked, or being used.

*

After a very tense supper for all present (Mrs. Weasley had informed Mr. Weasley of the talk she'd given Ron and Hermione that day), Harry went to bed early. He was tired, but more so he wanted to be left alone to think again, even though it rarely brought him anything new.

He didn't trust Draco to be honest with him. After years of Draco's attitude, it was hardly a surprise; Draco was a Slytherin, and had tricked him in more benign ways before. This, for all Harry knew, could be the most dangerous trick yet, and he was terrified to find out for sure.

Remember that look on his face? He asked himself. He said “I think I hate you more than anything,” and he looked like he meant it.

Harry hadn't forgotten that; Draco's fair features contorting, his brow furrowed and his grey eyes bright with emotion, the twitch of his nose as he spat out those words... It was amazing how clear that horrible memory was.

What irritated Harry was the second voice, the one that was still trying to give him hope at something positive with Draco.

It could've just been hurt, it argued.

Hurt from what? He argued back.

There was no real answer to that; instead, that hopeful feeling reminded him of the summer before, when Draco had sworn to kill him for what Harry had done to Draco's father. That was hatred. That look from that last train ride, though... That had to have been pain.

Harry was almost convinced, until it occurred to him that, even if it was pain, maybe that had been enough to push Draco to join the Death Eaters in the name of exacting vengeance.

Harry rolled over and sighed. No matter how I look at this, he thought, it still looks like a trap.

*

Draco boarded the train, feeling more nervous than he liked. He wanted to see Harry, and at the same time he hoped he wouldn't; after what he'd said to Harry, he feared what might happen next. Rejection was an upsetting thought, but acceptance could change his life irreversibly.

Not for the first time, Draco wished there was some way to make existence stop and give him time to sort out his thoughts and feelings, to give him time to pick the best plan of action. As it was, he felt uncomfortably like he was being forced into making a decision, or (more worryingly) had already made it.

He sat quietly in the prefects meeting, not paying any attention to what the Head Boy and Girl—Ernie from Hufflepuff and Granger, the latter of which didn't surprise him in the least—were saying. Draco tried to focus on what they said, but inside he felt tense and nervous, and his ability to concentrate was shot. He was assigned a train car to patrol along with one of the other prefects and numbly went about the business of making sure the students were behaving. He managed two rounds, assured himself that Harry wasn't in the carriage he was patrolling, then sat in one of the empty compartments. The other prefect he was working with, a quiet Ravenclaw girl, raised an eyebrow at him before doing one more round and joining him.

Draco bristled a little at her presence, but chose to ignore her. He had other things on his mind.

He had managed to wedge himself deep into his own thoughts when the girl interrupted him.

“Are you a Death Eater?” she asked, her tone suspicious.

Draco sneered at her, startled by her forwardness and insulted by her supposition. “Why? Would you report me to Dumbledore?”

She shrugged. “Probably. Everyone's saying you're a Death Eater and really close to Voldemort because of your father.”

“I'm nothing like my father!” Draco spat angrily. “What business is it of anyone else, anyway?”

“I just wanted to know,” she said, sounding defensive. “So are you a Death Eater?”

“No.” Draco shoved the robes of his sleeves up and showed her his Dark Mark-free arms. “Happy?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

Draco glared at her, annoyed. “Are you always so blunt? It's tactless.”

“It's better than spreading baseless rumors,” she said dryly.

“What if I were lying?”

She shrugged again. “I probably wouldn't believe you. Then I'd suggest to a professor that you'd joined the Death Eaters and let them handle it.”

“How noble of you.”

She made a dismissive noise, then reached into her bag to pull out a book.

Just like a Ravenclaw, he thought, and turned his attention out the window.

The tea cart came by and disturbed the peace of the compartment after an hour or two. Draco ignored it, preferring to obsess over Harry, but a few minutes after it moved on, the Ravenclaw girl said, “Do you want one?”

She was offering him a Cauldron Cake.

Draco weighed his options: He could sneer at her and rudely turn her down, or he could admit he was hungry and accept the witch's attempt at a peace offering.

No point in making enemies, he thought. “Thanks.”

They didn't say much else for the rest of the trip, but the silence between them felt easier.

*

Harry and Ron had not had an easy time of making conversation with each other, mostly because Ron hadn't quite forgiven Harry for telling Mrs. Weasley about him and Hermione. Hermione had come in halfway through the train ride, her Head Girl duties done for the moment, and took in the silence that sat between the two boys.

“Ron, you're being ridiculous,” Hermione said after a moment. Just let it go already.”

“I'm not being ridiculous!” he insisted. “I just wish Mum would leave off about whether or not you and I get married!”

“You make it sound like we won't,” she replied, and Harry—possibly because he wasn't actively involved in the discussion—detected a warning sign.

“Well we're not going to anytime soon,” Ron continued. “Honestly, the way she goes on you'd think we HAVE to get hitched...”

“So you and I have fooled around, and the whole time marriage hasn't been a high probability between you and me?” Hermione's tone was bordering on something like insulted or offended.

Ron looked uncomfortable. “Well, it's not like it's been out of the question...” he said defensively. “It's just... we're still dating, you know? We might decide at some point that marriage is completely out.”

“But you'd still fool around with me even if you don't know whether or not you'd marry me?”

There was a long pause. “Is there a right answer to this?”

Harry winced, and in spite of how Ron had been treating him over the last few days, he felt deeply sympathetic for what he knew was coming next.

Harry didn't even blame him for leaving the compartment before a full two minutes had passed. Hermione could be impossible to understand when she spoke that fast and that angrily. Her voice chased Ron out of the compartment and down the hall. When he was gone, she took a deep breath, sighed, and sat down.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “He's got no business ignoring you like that.”

“He should just get over it already,” Harry muttered. “I didn't do it on purpose.”

“I know, Harry,” replied Hermione. “He's just... stubborn.”

“I don't see why it's such a big deal, anyway. So what if his mum's fussing like you're already married? She'll calm down eventually.”

Hermione sighed the sigh of long suffering. “If you were on the receiving end, you'd be frustrated by now, too.”

Harry felt a little guilty, realizing he'd been complaining to entirely the wrong person. It occurred to him that, in spite of the railing she'd just given him, Hermione was just as sick of hearing about marriage.

“I'm going to go talk to him so he knows I'm not really angry,” Hermione said. “I might have to take care of Head Girl duties again before the train stops, so I guess I'll see you when we get to the station?”

“Yeah,” Harry responded noncommittally. “See you then.”

He rather wished Ron and Hermione hadn't gone. He didn't want to be left with his thoughts anymore; there was no way he could avoid seeing Draco that day, and he still had no idea what to do or say to him that would express what he wanted.

In all honesty, Harry had no idea what he wanted. He still wasn't sure whether or not Draco's words were honest or part of a Death Eater plot.

He still wasn't sure which was scarier.

Hermione and Ron didn't return before the train pulled into the station. Bitterly, Harry supposed they'd spent the entire time making up then snogging instead of distracting him when he felt he needed it the most. He was scared, he could admit, and he wanted them to be proper friends and keep his mind off of Draco, even if they didn't know they were doing so.

He struggled a bit with his trunk and with Hedwig's cage (Hedwig inside, hooting in annoyance when the cage bumped too hard), thinking dark thoughts as he disembarked from the train. Harry looked up, thinking to look for Ron and Hermione even if they were being horrible friends, and was startled to see Draco moodily attempting to herd underclassmen away from the station and towards the thestral-led coaches.

As Harry stared, stunned by Draco's sudden and somehow unexpected appearance, a small group of first years—obviously strung out on sugar; Harry wondered at the logic of providing such young people with so many sweets—collided with Draco, knocked him over, and continued moving, apparently oblivious to the damage their jostling had caused.

Time slowed with the weight of a fateful decision about to be made. Harry saw Draco sitting up, wincing in pain from the impact. Some nearby students were chuckling to see someone so proud knocked to the ground so gracelessly.

Am I sure about this? Harry thought, walking the few feet over to where Draco had fallen. Or is it too late to change my mind anyway?

He remembered his suspicions about Draco's allegiance; that Draco might be trying to trap him, that Draco was a true Slytherin and never did anything without his own needs going first. He remembered that Draco didn't have to acknowledge him here, with everyone standing around and watching them.

Harry stopped in front of Draco and extended his hand, and wondered if Draco had felt this scared when they were first years and had offered his own hand of friendship to Harry.

Your move, he thought.

*

Draco opened his eyes and saw the hand of assistance being offered to him, then followed it up the arm to the shoulder and the person attached to it.

What the fresh hell are you thinking? He thought, but the meaning of the gesture wasn't lost on him. This was the chance to start over again. This was Harry acting on the faith and good will you could expect from a true Gryffindor, the nobility to give a former adversary the chance to try again.

Seven years ago—to the day, Draco remembered—a blond boy extended his hand in friendship towards a relative newcomer to the world he knew, claiming to be the right kind of person. The newcomer—a smaller boy whose black hair couldn't seem to pick any direction besides “against gravity”— turned him down. Now, the first boy finally understood why.

This is how it should have been, Draco thought. I had it backwards.

As he took Harry's hand, he marvelled at how the whole world felt right again—a way it hadn't felt since he was eleven.

Everyone who had witnessed Draco Malfoy take Harry Potter's hand of assistance had fallen deathly silent.

“Astronomy Tower,” Draco murmured once he was upright, his lips barely moving. “Midnight.”

Harry said nothing, but made enough eye contact to let Draco know he understood.

With that, Draco returned to ordering the underclassmen towards the coaches.

*

Harry's heart hammered in his ears, but he tried to look nonchalant. What? he thought at the students around him. That was perfectly normal.

“Harry?”

Ron was standing ten feet away, looking at Harry as if he'd grown an extra head. “What...?”

Hermione was standing next to Ron, looking equally alarmed but admiring. “Either you've lost your mind,” she said, “Or you've gone a hundred extra miles towards building inter-House unity. Oh, Harry, I'm so proud of you! Even I couldn't have done that!”

“But... It was Malfoy!” Ron cried. “Future Death Eater and all that!”

“He's not a Death Eater,” cut in another voice, and the three of them turned to see one of the Ravenclaw prefects fixating Ron with a glare. “He's not like his father. He told me himself, and I believe him.”

“He's a Slytherin!...” Ron began to argue, but Harry stopped listening. In spite of having no good reason to believe her, Harry felt immensely relieved.

Maybe I made the right choice after all.