𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐇

Chapter 10

After tangling himself in a soaked sheet, setting fire to the pan whilst frying potatoes and accidentally cheering up a tomato, Harry resigned himself to the fact that he would never be the world’s greatest housekeeper. He regarded his giggling tomato dolefully until he remembered that, actually Malfoy had been wrong; he did have a house elf who would cheerfully carry out everything that ever needed to be done.

He just had to make sure Hermione never found out about it.

He glanced over at the happy couple. Ron was taking a leaf out of his own book and had ended up somehow emptying the laundry bucket over his own head. He was standing there dripping as Hermione folded a neatly ironed and dry sheet on the desk and floated her perfectly fried potatoes onto a plate, adding a sprig of parsley to garnish.

“I hate you.” Ron scowled.

“Oh shut up,” Hermioned sniggered and cast a Tergeo at Ron without looking at him as she packed up her bag.

“I really hate you!” Ron scowled further.

Hermione poked her tongue out, then smiled at Harry. “How did you do?”

“Er... not very well,” Harry admitted. His sheet was decidedly damp around the edges and he was still trying to fold it, accompanied by peals of laughter from the tomato.

“Mr. Potter, why is that tomato laughing?” Flitwick asked.

“No clue, Sir,” Harry said. “It started and it won’t stop.”

The diminutive professor waved his wand and the giggling fruit fell silent. “All right, class!” he called. “Off you go to lunch and, as always, practise.”

“So what did Malfoy throw a strop over?” Ron asked as the trio made their way to the hall for lunch.

“He said he had house elves to do his dirty work and he wasn’t going to do it.” Harry shrugged.

“That boy needs to be taken down a couple of pegs,” Ron grumbled. “My boot, his arse sounds good.”

“Leave him alone.” Hermione sprang to the Slytherin’s defence. “How do you think he feels, being stuck in a room full of Gryffindors who mostly hate his guts and have a very good reason to want to, if not kill him, then at least hex him from here to Australia.”

“Not only Gryffindors,” Harry added. “The Slytherins hate him too.”

“Why is that?” Ron asked as they took their seats. “Sure, he’s a slimy, creepy git, but what’s he done to get his own house on his back?”

“It’s obvious,” Hermione said.

“Not to me.”

“The main reasons are that some Slytherins will be thinking he let them down by saving our lives. Some will think he’s let them down by taking the mark and supporting Voldemort and giving them an even worse reputation than they had to start with. Either way you look at it, they’re not going to be happy with him.”

Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. “Wonder where he’s gone.”

“Probably sulking somewhere.” Ron shrugged and began to serve himself meat and potato pie.

Hermione bit her lip. “I hope he isn’t being beaten up.”

“Serves him right...”

“Don’t start that again.”

“I was just saying...”

Harry left the pair to bicker. Hermione wasn’t the only one who was worried. Harry had seen the damage that had been caused that morning and, despite his dislike of Malfoy, didn’t really want to see him suffer.

He had half an hour before the end of lunch – just enough time to take a quick look at his map.

The layers of trunk rubble were beginning to build up once more. Harry had to rummage to find the map, but, sitting back on his heels and tapping it, brought Harry back to a darker time, when his obsession with Malfoy’s whereabouts was first and foremost. How many times had he watched the Slytherin’s tiny footprints wandering about the castle? How many times had he watched in vain with Malfoy nowhere to be seen?

So it was now. Try as he might, he couldn’t see Malfoy anywhere. He glanced at his watch. Only fifteen minutes left. He had just enough time to try the one place where he thought Malfoy might be.

Grabbing his bag, the map and, just in case, his invisibility cloak, Harry ran up to the seventh floor.

Neville had told him that the Room of Requirement no longer worked, so he wasn’t surprised to see a slightly scorched wooden door in the wall. He was more surprised to see it ajar. Quickly he put on his cloak and stole quietly inside the darkened room.

The stink of old smoke and char hit his nostrils and he had to smother a cough. Around him were the remains of all the years of unwanted and illicit things. Piles of burned wood and ash, twisted melted ruins, the occasional recognisable object. A noise alerted him. He moved towards the sound, making sure to tread carefully.

There was Malfoy. The Slytherin was hurling warped, burned items aside, his face and clothes streaked with soot. There was a small cut on one cheek that bled freely, but he didn’t seem to notice as he struggled with a large piece of scorched wood and heaved it behind him.

What was he doing? Harry frowned, perplexed, wondering if he should challenge Malfoy, or find McGonagall, or say nothing and leave. He had a few minutes until his next class. Maybe he would stay a while longer and make sure Malfoy was up to no good before he reported him. After all, the last time he had spent time alone and in this room, the worst thing of all...

Harry didn’t want to think about that. Instead he fixed his attention on Malfoy who dug frantically into the heap of ruin. Didn’t he remember that he had a wand? He could move all this stuff by magic.

But a moment later, after tossing the remains of a bookcase away, Malfoy stopped dead, staring down at the floor, then, abruptly, he sank to his knees and burst into noisy, helpless sobbing.

Alarmed, Harry pulled off his cloak. Even if it was Malfoy, and even if a tiny thrill of excitement tingled in his stomach, Harry could not bear to see anyone in pain.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy hitched his breath in a great gasp and turned to stare at Harry as he came forward.

“What are you doing? If you’re trying to get your Death Eater friends back in the castle, I’m going to...”

Malfoy shook his head violently. “No! No... it’s...” he took a deep breath and rubbed his filthy hands over his tear-streaked and even filthier face. “I just found Crabbe.”

Harry stared down at the distorted, stinking and charred heap of something at Malfoy’s knees, then, suddenly realising exactly what it was, was violently sick into the remains of the vanishing cabinet.