A/N: Prepare for one of the longest chapters in the entire fanfiction. I don't know whether to say I'm sorry or you're welcome.
Also, Arithmancy (numerology) is super cool. I highly recommend looking it up!
Harry had a couple hours before he had to meet Ron for Wednesday herbology, so he killed some time by taking a long walk through the castle. He truly didn't wish to resort to it, but he finally put on his Cloak after the third clique of students seemed to whisper while gazing at him with concern. They weren't talking about Harry, though. He definitely heard an utterance of Draco's name.
The Boy Who Lived had spent his entire life being stared at, but now it was with something less like awe and more like disappointment.
Everyone thought they knew his life story—of course, they probably did—but he was certain that the student body was deluding themselves into thinking they knew Draco's, as well.
Using the Cloak felt a little like hiding from his problems, but it was all he could do at that point for some peace. Heading in the direction of Professor Vector's Arithmancy class, he located the lovely and familiar sound of Hermione's voice.
". . .Because a Heart Number is indicative of the inner personality—our fears, desires, and emotions we don't show."
"Very good, Ms. Granger—five points to Gryffindor!" chortled the professor.
The classroom door was wide open, making it easy for Harry to slip by undetected. He looked with familial admiration at the girl with wild and mane-like hair. Hermione beamed at the professor's congratulations. Beside her, a neater figure sat with a more placated demeanor than usual.
"How's potions?" Hermione asked Draco, more warmly than Harry had expected.
The Slytherin replied with a playfully smug grin, "It's fine. Just the partner that takes some getting used to."
"I suppose," she agreed, "Harry has a pretty explosive personality."
"That is objectively true!" Draco nodded dramatically, "I told him that he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he told me to piss off. He threw a tantrum because he doesn't like being so easy to read."
"Sounds like him," Hermione giggled.
Harry did not like the idea of Hermione agreeing with Draco on this matter but supposed that his vehement denial would make him seem more like the child Draco painted him out to be. He attempted to shrug it off.
Just say it to my face, he thought. Or . . . maybe they already have. The discomfort that Harry felt dissolved, but he still didn't like being told off—no matter how indirectly.
"You know," Draco began, "I was curious, so I tried to read his name."
"Through Arithmancy?" Hermione perked up.
"Yep, and his Social Number is the exact same as his Heart Number. That's some pretty damning evidence!"
Harry had no idea what they were talking about but listened anyway, still upset.
"What did you get for his Social Number?"
"Eight," Draco shrugged.
Hermione flipped through her textbook and used her index finger to read out her findings: "'Energetic, confident, dependable, and goal-oriented.' That's pretty dead on. Natural-born leaders that hate being told what to do. That describes Harry down to the tee, if I know him at all."
She did know him, Harry admitted. He was impressed at whatever odd math formula they used to determine his personality—such a concept sounded strange—but it worked fairly well. He just didn't like the fact that Malfoy used his name with it—or that he looked so prideful about it.
"So Harry Potter . . . eight plus nine is seventeen—twelve—five plus nine—fourteen . . . his Character Number is two!"
Twos embodied internal conflict, like opposing forces—two sides of the same coin. These sides, however, often contrast with one another: night and day, good and evil, life and death. . .
Draco looked astonished at Hermione, "You calculated it that fast? All in your head? That's quite impressive, Granger."
"You can just call me Hermione, you know." She looked expectant.
Draco shifted uncomfortably as he racked his brain for an excuse,
"We don't know each other that well. . ."
"Fine, have it your way"—Hermione dipped her quill in ink and held it fiercely over her parchment—"I'll just figure your Heart Number myself!"
"Don't threaten me with a good time! I'm a four, and you'll never know if it suits me or not. Ha!"
Fours were goal-oriented and greatly valued hard work. They represented stability and practicality, yet with a tendency towards perfectionism. They may become so engrossed in the small details that they lose sight of the bigger picture. While some aspects suited Draco, Hermione knew something wasn't quite right.
Hermione honed her focus in on the middle distance that occupied her gaze. "One, six, one, six—your Heart Number is a five, not a four," she corrected him kindly.
Draco was incredulous. His amusement overshadowed any embarrassment he felt about the error he made in calculation. "How do you keep doing that?"
"Practice—that and studying. Arithmancy is all about picking up on patterns. Your Heart Number is 'rife with instability. You're resourceful but impulsive, non-committal, and critical.'"
Draco's nose wrinkled in doubt, not feeling like that description fit him as precisely.
Hermione waved away his concern, as she didn't believe that Arithmancy was always 100% accurate. She continued, "Personally, I feel like you're more in line with the description of a three. 'High energy, endorses social ease, slightly superficial and easily offended.'"
"I'm not superficial!" Draco said superficially.
"The textbook says 'very superficial'. I added the 'slightly' to be nice."
He pouted, "Well, numbers can't always be right." Harry chuckled quietly underneath the Invisibility Cloak, confident that he was far enough away to not be heard.
"Of course not. Threes also indulge in humor. You've never struck me as a light-hearted person." Hermione rambled, "You always look so serious."
Harry's face twisted in skepticism. Draco joked all the time, especially at his expense. Even if Harry found his jokes to be more pretentious than funny, they were still jokes nonetheless.
"I used to be. . ." Draco recalled, "but that wasn't for me. It was more for my parents."
"Are you really not in contact with them anymore?" Hermione asked sympathetically.
Draco's eyes filled with a sort of sadness that betrayed his outward demeanor of poise, "I've tried to write to them, but they never write back."
"I know the feeling." Hermione looked as if she were gently repairing a butterfly's broken wing, "I can't contact my parents either . . . even if I wanted to. I Obliviated them."
Draco didn't know what to say—that much was clear on his face. He hadn't expected Hermione to open up so quickly about something so personal. "What? Why would you do something like that?"
"I needed to go with Harry and Ron . . . but my parents would have never let me do something so dangerous."
"You Gryffindors always seem to have a death wish," Draco said lightly—or, well, as lightly as he possibly could.
"Don't remind me. Even now, Harry is getting into trouble—less, mind you, but it follows him like the plague."
Draco saw the opportunity and took it: "That would be my bad."
Hermione snorted at his comment despite disagreeing entirely. "That's not what I meant!" she replied frantically through laughter.
Harry's eyes widened comically. He was not only shocked by Draco's self-deprecating joke, but by the somewhat warm dynamic between him and Hermione. Harry felt like he had accidentally tripped into an alternate dimension.
What the bloody hell was in that apology letter?
"But it's the truth!" Draco urged, "I don't see it as a bad thing, though. I don't think Potter is capable of living an uneventful life. He'd find it too boring." Hermione's lack of response, a simple grin, marked the conclusion of their conversation, as she had nothing else to add. Draco continued instead, solemnly, "How did he survive that night in the Dark Forest?"
Hermione put down her quill and gathered her thoughts to form a coherent sentence. All she managed to conjure was a shaky "I can't even say for sure."
Draco laid back in his chair, reminiscing on that day, "I saw Hagrid carrying him to the courtyard. I honestly couldn't believe it. Up until that point it seemed like nothing could kill him. But then . . . it was over. I had to accept the idea that You-Know-Who had won."
Hermione comforted him as best as she could, "He would've never let Him win, Draco."
"Yeah, I figured that one out for myself," Draco rolled his eyes, "Much to my shock, Harry—stubborn as he is—got up and grabbed his wand. Just when I thought he was dead, it turns out that he wasn't." Draco stiffly folded his arms on the desk in front of him. "That's when I knew I made the wrong decision. I sided with my parents . . . and the other Death Eaters."
"And if you knew he was alive at the time . . . ?"
"I would have stayed hidden."
Hermione said nothing at that. She merely nodded briskly and leaned back in her chair, almost mirroring Malfoy as they both thought back to the Battle of Hogwarts.
Harry decided to leave. He needed to think. He couldn't imagine Draco as a sincere person—as the kind of person he seemed to be around Hermione—but Harry also understood the fact that he barely knew Draco at all.
-x-
Harry got to the greenhouses as the 9 am class rushed out of them. He was hoping to speak to Neville without him being harassed by the first year Ravenclaws that inexplicably had a huge crush on the new herbology professor.
Harry asked Neville if he could harvest a bit of Fluxweed for his potions assignment, and he told him yes—but only if he was discreet about it. Neville pointed to the large cluster of Fluxweed which the previous day's second years had just repotted. There was certainly plenty for a handful to be spared.
Neville whispered to Harry that he should wait until Pomona Sprout left the greenhouse to water her colony of Gurglerush. In the same breath, Neville rambled about what Gurglerush was—as if it were the most interesting thing Harry would hear that day.
Harry listened, smiling and nodding. Apparently it was a red lily pad-like plant which bubbled in the sun. Neville said it needed special attention because, unlike lily pads, Gurglerush grew over dry land and constantly needed watering to keep its roots from drying out. Even if Neville had a hard time understanding when people weren't interested in his plant facts, Harry admitted that he was a perfect fit for teaching herbology. Harry pocketed the Fluxweed hastily once Pomona left with her watering can.
Ron walked into the greenhouse and found Harry at his new seat near the back. They both knew part of Hermione's plan in leaving them a note was so they would sit at Hermione's seat, in the front row, and be more focused on the lecture and less on their freedom to distract one another. It was a clever plan, but its results were short-lived, since Hermione wasn't in the same class to keep an eye on them.
"My mum and dad got Malfoy's letter," Ron said. Harry asked him how they felt about it and Ron continued, lightly, "They thought it was a cruel joke at first . . . but Malfoy wrote about meeting a girl named Deja, a Muggleborn. Did you know about this?"
Harry nodded, apologetic that he hadn't mentioned it earlier, "I met her last Friday."
"So she does exist!" Ron gasped, "Dad said Malfoy wrote about seeing a Muggle smartphone for the first time because of her—'marvelous' was the word he used to describe it."
Harry had not been privy to this information and was slightly troubled that Draco didn't tell him about it. Maybe he was worried I'd make fun of him.
The acute feeling of guilt subsided once Harry accepted the fact that he likely would tease Draco for his inability to use non-magical methods of communication, probably with something to say about how sheltered he was. Even then, Harry knew Draco would find a way to taunt him back.
Ron spoke again, "I had no idea it was possible for someone like him to be friends with a Muggleborn. . ."
"He seems pretty close with Hermione," Harry considered, not thinking before he spoke.
"What now?" Ron coughed.
Harry tried to minimize just how close they seemed to be, leaving out the part about him spying on them under the Cloak. He made sure to praise Hermione's ability to forgive, knowing Ron would become distracted by how much he admired his girlfriend.
Ron smiled lovingly at the thought of Hermione turning the other cheek, though it didn't seem out of character for her to do so, but then a jealous fire ignited in his eyes. He stared pensively into the distance, resolute, "I want to know what was in that bloody letter."
Harry agreed silently but denied the impulse to cajole Hermione into sharing it, against her will. She was their best friend. Surely, she would share it when she felt the time was right.
-x-
In Transfiguration, Hermione was sprightly as ever while telling Harry about how Draco was now in her Wednesday Arithmancy class, since he got his schedule changed. Harry pretended to be surprised by the news.
"He had an Arithmancy textbook that afternoon in Transfiguration . . . but I never knew he was at NEWT level," she explained, "or that good of a student."
Ron replied with great reluctance, "He did make Head Boy in his sixth year . . . that doesn't happen to students with mediocre marks."
They all winced at the memory of Draco's sixth year power trip.
Hermione tried to change the subject, "Have you guys made any progress in your transformations?" Ron shook his head cartoonishly, and Harry added a shrug to his reply of no. Then Harry remembered something.
"Draco did. He had scales on his arm! I almost forgot." Harry recalled, "He had them after our first class."
Hermione was taken aback, "What? Why didn't he tell anybody?"
"Maybe he was waiting for the right moment?" Ron guessed.
The trio turned their attention to the shutting classroom door. It was McGonagall. Hermione leapt from her seat and confessed everything Harry told her. She babbled frantically, "I don't know why he didn't tell you or anyone else about it, but I think his dedication ought to be rewarded. . ."
McGonagall stopped walking and fixed a perplexed gaze upon Hermione. "A Gryffindor advocating for a Slytherin . . . what weird times we live in," she declared before gliding away to her desk.
Draco entered the class quietly, but Hermione still managed to hound him at the door. She badgered him with the same question she asked Ron and Harry. "Good afternoon, Draco! Did you, say . . . forget to mention anything important to us?"
Draco was a little startled by her intensity, and he couldn't pinpoint what she was referring to. He already apologized, right? What else was there to say?
Hermione then blocked his way with her arms crossed, absolutely scandalized, "Why didn't you tell us you started transforming into your Animagus?"
Draco looked from Hermione to Harry, understanding at last why she greeted him so forcefully. He stared daggers at Harry, who hadn't expected him to be vexed in the slightest.
It's not like I shared anything with bad intentions, Harry justified to himself, I complimented him, if anything.
As Draco passed by his shoulder, he whispered, "Can't keep a secret to save your life" with condemnation.
Noticing the odd atmosphere in the classroom, McGonagall promptly began her lesson on proper meditation.
-x-
Near the end of class, Hermione noticed that Draco seemed a bit unwell, and she asked him if anything was wrong. Draco nestled his pale face into the palms of his slender hands, rustling his hair with a deep sigh.
He replied bitterly, "You wouldn't understand."
"Not if you don't let us. . ." Hermione pleaded. She tried her best to comfort him from beyond the confines of McGonagall's enchantment, but she was severely limited in what she could do because of it. Draco refused to look her in the eye.
"I need to speak with Professor McGonagall," he said with vexation.
Hermione whispered a strained "okay" as he got up, watching the magical barrier around him glimmer as the light fell upon it.
McGonagall looked up at Draco, her eyes leaving from the sturdy textbook before her. Harry only heard faint whispers between the two from his spot in the corner until the Slytherin shouted: "No! I have to be!" Draco stood defensively, clenched fists and jaw locked in place.
"There is no need to yell, Mr. Malfoy. If you have not progressed any further, taking into account your skills in Occlumency, then I must suggest that you are imagining the wrong Animagus."
"That can't be!" Draco insisted grimly, refusing to accept the wisdom of her counsel.
Ron made eye contact with Hermione and jerked his head in Malfoy's direction, ambling away from the bleachers. Hermione simply looked at Harry to pass on Ron's call to action. He took her wordless request as an opportunity to take a break.
"You alright, Malfoy?" started Ron.
"What's the matter?" Hermione asked cautiously.
Draco spoke quickly, "I haven't made any progress in my transformation besides scales. It's been weeks!"
Ron shrugged, "It can take a while."
"Only if you have no experience in stabilizing the mind. I've been an Occlumens since sixth year!"
McGonagall lowered her gaze, "I'm afraid Mr. Malfoy is correct. His practice should have allowed him to reach a full transformation by . . . yesterday."
Draco curled his bottom lip angrily but did not say a word.
"What animal did you imagine?" Ron asked, "Maybe we can help."
"A dragon . . . what else?" Draco scoffed at the idea of being helped in the slightest by someone who had yet to see a single scale, feather, or patch of fur.
Hermione approached Malfoy with sincere concern: "What would be at stake if you weren't a dragon?"
Malfoy sputtered uncharacteristically, "It . . . it's all I've ever known. That's why my parents chose the name 'Draco'—it just makes sense for my Animagus to be a dragon—end of story."
"I thought you didn't want to associate with your family anymore?" Harry questioned.
Draco scowled spitefully, "And I didn't say that would be easy."
"You aren't your parents, Draco," said a soft voice.
The voice in question was coming from a serene man within a magical oil portrait, one that felt like a window into another dimension—one where a great wizard of yesteryear was alive and well.
The man was tall and thin with a long silver beard—long enough to tuck into his belt. Twinkling blue eyes gazed cloudlessly upon Draco from behind the thin frames of his golden eyeglasses.
"Albus. . ." McGonagall greeted, waveringly. Dumbledore acknowledged her greeting with a humble nod.
Draco interrogated him, apparently too upset to act high and mighty in front of the golden trio any longer, "How would you know? I've spent my entire life around my parents, so logic follows that I'd pick up a few things. If I'm still nothing like them, then who am I?"
Dumbledore sighed insightfully, his eyes fixed on nowhere in particular, with an omniscience that captivated everyone in the classroom. "That, Draco, is up to you. With what gifts you have, who do you think you'll become?"
Draco lowered his head and mumbled something only Harry heard: "Just like my father."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'll become a great wizard! I'll prove everyone wrong about whatever they THINK they know about me."
The late professor declined his head, as if he heard something specious—superficially plausible but erroneous nonetheless, "So you believe you are misunderstood?"
"Sometimes, but that doesn't matter," Draco asseverated.
"Oh, I think it matters a great deal," Dumbledore disagreed. He wrinkled his crooked nose at Draco's fallaciousness.
Harry understood one thing well about Draco, notably his proclivity for dismissing things that irked him as meaningless. The nasty habit of his might have led to this explosion of fury after wearing a distinguished mask for too long.
Draco and Dumbledore's portrait stared in silence at one another. Harry wondered if this was the most Draco had ever spoken to the former headmaster. Even on the night of Dumbledore's death, their conversation had been brief—only long enough to buy time.
"Dragons are fierce and terrifying creatures, Draco," said Dumbledore, raising his pearly white brows, "and I don't imagine you enjoy being feared."
Draco knew this to be true. Despite how magnificent dragons were, hardly anyone in the wizarding world had the audacity to approach one. Practically every feature on a dragon had the potential to seriously maim, injure, or slaughter.
Dragons could devastate armies of thousands in battle, all by themselves. They had thick scales for protection against spells and the ability to launch fire fifty feet forward with just their breath. Dragons had large claws for ripping apart their enemy, sharp teeth for tearing flesh, and the innate desire for massacre. . .
Draco turned to the Transfiguration professor with an apologetic expression. "Would you please lift the charm, Professor McGonagall?" he asked politely.
McGonagall blinked wildly at him, "Mr. Malfoy, are you certain?"
Draco nodded once, firmly, with determination, "Positive."
"Very well." With the flick of her wand, the thin layer of light surrounding him dissolved into the air.
Draco put distance between himself and everyone else, looking at Dumbledore's portrait once more. The man blinked slowly, like a purring feline, in encouragement. It seemed everyone was staring at Draco in that moment. Harry couldn't tell if the expression on his face was that of fear or indignation.
Draco closed his eyes forcefully, breathed in deeply and exhaled, anticipating that he wouldn't see fire as he did so. He seemed to be in a trance, meditating again.
Once he opened his eyes, they were no longer an icy gray. His iris had turned black against dusty green scleras. His human form shrunk down and elongated into that of a snake with grayish-green scales marked with black accents along the body. Around the mouth, black stripes created the illusion of a stitched mouth.
"A barred grass snake," Hermione said, praisingly.
"Are they poisonous?" Ron jolted—only slightly relieved it wasn't a spider.
She looked peeved, "It's 'venomous' when referring to snakes, Ronald, and, no, they aren't."
Dumbledore raised his chin to examine the low-lying specimen: "So it is solved, the mystery. I shall be off, then. Farewell, Minerva." And with that, he exited his painting.
McGonagall could not hide her exhilaration. She clapped proudly as if Malfoy were one of her own students in Gryffindor. Draco, however, seemed less than ecstatic—well, as unenthused as a snake can possibly appear.
He slithered to Harry who knelt down with a chortle, "Nice one, Malfoy."
The snake hissed, seeming to brush off the compliment, "This is not what I hoped for, but I suppose I'll live."
A lightbulb went off in Harry's head. He hissed back in Parseltongue, "Can you understand me?"
"Yes, why?"
Harry became just as excited as McGonagall, though she was now a little disquieted by Harry's sudden change of tongue.
"I'm speaking in Parseltongue, you dunce."
"Oh . . . wait, if I'm a dunce, then what does that make you?" The snake flicked its tongue at Harry with relish.
To everyone else who could not understand their conversation, the scene before them was quite odd; Harry was scowling intensely at a grass snake that somehow reciprocated the same aversion.
"What are you two saying, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked.
"He called me a dunce," Harry tattled.
Hermione half-stifled a chuckle into Ron's shoulder. Ron did not display that same courtesy and laughed enthusiastically.
Draco replied, "Uh, no, I said you would be worse than that."
Harry hissed flippantly at him to shut up. It seemed to have the same effect on his friends, too. "He's just as annoying in his Animagus form!" Harry shouted in defense.
The snake grew upward and Transfigured into Draco's human form. He was cackling madly. "You're so easy to piss off," he remarked amid bubbling laughter.
McGonagall pretended not to hear him. "Very, very good, Mr. Malfoy. Twenty points to Slytherin!"
Draco's smile was infuriating.
-x-
It had become a routine by now. Harry didn't even need to ask Draco if he wanted to go to the Chamber after Transfiguration. They made their way back to the handsome study lined with ancient textbooks, completely in sync.
"Do you know how long it took your father and his friends to reach their Animagus form?" asked Draco, mindlessly.
Harry shrugged, "Not really . . . ya' know, on account of them being dead and all."
Draco whispered tiredly to himself with heavily lidded eyes: "It's always back to that, isn't it?" Then he spoke to Harry at a volume he could register, "McGonagall might know."
Draco thought to himself in the silence while Harry stared into the roaring fire, reminiscing on what little he knew of his father's time at Hogwarts.
"I forgot—they had no choice but to make an Animagus potion," Draco concluded, "Do you know—"
"My dad made the potion. Lupin told me he had a natural talent for it," Harry stated, his back still turned.
"You don't say," Draco said mockingly, "I suppose sometimes the apple falls very far from the tree."
Harry should've seen this joke coming from a mile away, but he was too distracted by the memories replaying in his mind's eye. Draco perked up, recalling something important: "Speaking of potions . . . did you get Slughorn's permission to brew the potion we picked for the final?"
Harry stood up silently and awkwardly, remembering the thing he had forgotten to do.
Draco rolled his eyes, "Better late than never. . ." He eyed the unlit fireplace—the one with a golden tray of Floo sitting upon it's mantle. "You think there's another one in Slughorn's office?" Draco asked mischievously, expecting Harry to be compelled enough to find out.
"I'll just walk fast," he declined, grabbing his bag and leaving impatiently.
-x-
Slughorn was having tea in his office by the time Harry knocked on the wide-open door, "Do you have a minute?"
The professor looked up, mid sip, and almost choked on his Earl Grey. He excitedly put his expensive-looking teacup and saucer down on the table, with a clatter, and beckoned Harry inside. "Harry! Always a delight! Please, have a seat."
The sofas in his office were just as plush as Harry remembered them—when he brought a lethally love-potioned Ron with him to Slughorn's office, in search of an antidote.
They sat in front of a tremendous fireplace, much like the one in the Chamber study; the warmth of its inferno washed over Harry's face. Slughorn greeted him obsequiously with the usual small talk.
"How is that Weasleby fellow?"
"He's fine, sir. Just taking a break from potions until the spring semester." Harry decided not to correct him, despite how much he wanted to. He continued, "Speaking of potions, Malfoy and I decided on which one to brew for the final."
He handed Slughorn the parchment with Draco's English translation. The professor adjusted his reading glasses in silence. Harry sensed incoming disfavor and flattered him to change his mind. A pull at the heartstrings would do nicely.
"I'm sure you know of Draco's past, sir." Harry began, gently, "The Dark Mark is something the wizarding world has always believed to be unforgivable, but when Draco found this recipe, he felt hope . . . for the first time in years. I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do to start over."
Harry wanted to puke at the words coming out of his mouth but held it down so as to not ruin the fur rug. Slughorn apparently took the tragedy bait, as his next words were soft and mindful.
"Where did you find this, Harry?" he questioned, inspecting the piece of parchment closely.
"It was in a book written by Jarik Lowen. Do you know him?"
"Merlin's beard! If my memory serves me well, that fellow was around when Hogwarts was built!" Slughorn cried. He probed Harry for further details, asking whether or not his book was a copy, perhaps written at a later date. Harry told him it looked to be the original.
Slughorn gasped, "Then it must be over a thousand years old!"
"That would explain its thousand-year-old look," Harry joked wryly.
Slughorn reiterated his astonishment, "That book could be worth a fortune, Harry!"
"I don't need to tell you how much money the Malfoy family has, I'm sure," Harry bantered superficially, "I can lend it to you, if you like."—Slughorn's eyes practically bugged out of his skull in response—"It's written almost entirely in ancient runes, though. Malfoy just wrote a translation of the page we needed."
"I would be delighted to see it! Lucky thing, Professor Babbling and I are close friends." Slughorn grinned unctuously.
Harry laughed along with the professor sycophantically as his eyes lingered to the back wall where an enchanted portrait hung proudly. The setting it portrayed seemed to be a classroom somewhere in the castle. What was weird, though, was the subject: a boy in a black suit waved his arms erratically.
Harry put two and two together when he realized the iron beads of his bracelet had become warm. The boy in the painting took a piece of chalk and wrote "CHAMBER NOW" on the blackboard.
Five minutes! Harry thought exasperatedly. He couldn't stay put for five minutes!
"What's wrong Harry?" Slughorn asked, "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Harry had to think quickly on his feet before the professor turned around in an attempt to see what had caught Harry's attention.
He waved away Slughorn's concern, "I did, outside the window—probably Peeves."
"Of course," Slughorn agreed, handing back the parchment with Draco's handwriting, "You have my full permission to brew this potion. I think it is a very noble endeavor. Bold, albeit. But I love it!"
"Thank you, Professor." Harry nodded politely, "You won't regret it!" Harry picked up his things and exited Slughorn's extravagant office. He essentially ran back downstairs to the second floor girl's lavatory, skipping the last two steps of each flight.
"Hello again, ghost." Harry snarled at Draco, "You almost got us caught by Slughorn."
"It's not my fault you freaked out," Draco said coolly.
Harry took a second to compose himself and catch his breath after running down four flights of stairs. Instead of yelling, he resorted to yelling at the volume of a whisper, "You were in. The. Painting!" he emphasized, "Any normal person would freak out!"
Draco reveled in how easy it was to irritate his rival. He smirked derisively, "Some are better at hiding it, though. Your poker face needs work. . ."
Harry's hands emphatically mimed the motions of strangulation before Draco's neck.
The Slytherin looked him up and down in reproach, "You've got issues."
"You drive me insane!"
Draco clicked his teeth, "Flattery will get you nowhere,"—Harry tried his best not to explode—"but at least it worked on Slughorn. I didn't know you were so good at fawning."
Harry calmed down to rack his brain for what "fawning" meant.
"It means being fake-nice for the sake of personal gain," Draco summarized, having more important matters to address than definitions. "While you were away, I was trying to transform into my Animagus again. I still can't do it freely. I tried almost everything—I jumped, spun in circles, ran laps around the study—"
Harry smiled contemptuously, "I bet you looked ridiculous."
"Still better-looking than you," Draco said with a pseudo sweetness. His tone was gentle and charming, but his words were biting and ruthless. He resumed his story, "A Giant Squid swam past the study window and frightened me so much that I turned into my Animagus."
Harry almost chuckled but Draco shut him down: "You laugh, but its eye was the size of that entire window!"
Harry looked back towards the window in question—it was like a triptych that stretched from the floor to vaulted ceiling. He stopped laughing as he imagined just how enormous the rest of the beast was. "That's bloody massive!"
"And it scared the ever-loving goblin piss out of me, let me tell you—" Draco declared, "So I turned into a snake, and I couldn't turn back. But then I remembered that I could speak Parseltongue in that form, so I used it to cast a wandless Revelio on that fireplace. See for yourself."
Harry entertained this seemingly ridiculous idea and did as Draco suggested. Once he spoke the spell in Parseltongue, the fireplace lit up with green flames.
Draco pointed vehemently to the dazzling discovery, "It's a Flooless Floo network!"
"That's incredible . . . but how did you get inside the painting?"
"I transformed back shortly after—I still don't know why—but I was able to use it semi-normally. But without the Floo, of course. I just said 'Slughorn's office'. Try out a different classroom!"
It was very amusing for Harry to see Draco in this state. His child-like giddiness was a little out of character, but it was a funny enough sight to witness that Harry didn't care.
The Gryffindor thought for a moment—then he had a moment of clarity. His eyes sparkled with deviance, "Hermione's probably in her runes class right now."
Draco followed Harry into the fireplace and, on the count of three, they said "ancient runes classroom" in unison. The lukewarm flames that danced around their ankles rose up to their knees, their necks, and over their heads. When it fell away from their line of sight, a completely new room waited before them.
On the right, a luxurious armchair sat in front of a curtained Gothic window. On the left, there was a human-sized frame around what looked like a glimmering lake—one that stood upright. The edges of it rippled as Harry walked closer. Suddenly, he was looking down into the ancient runes classroom.
"I worked!" he exclaimed.
Draco yanked Harry away from the window while gesturing for him to be quiet.
"They can still hear you, you know," Draco whispered scornfully. Harry slowly peeked over the golden frame and saw Hermione staring back at him. He waved stupidly.
Draco told him to stop and muttered something else about how he can't take Harry anywhere.
"It's just Hermione, relax."
Draco peered into the classroom and, sure enough, Hermione was making violent eye contact with the both of them. She made no particular face, however. She was expressionless.
"See? Now that's a good poker face," Draco pointed out, "though, her lack of emotion slightly scares me. Should I be worried?"
Harry waved again and whispered, "Oh, absolutely, she's gonna kill us both," through a cheesy smile.
Draco fearfully waved as if his life depended on it. Hermione feigned the motion of scratching the back of her head to discreetly brandish her middle finger at Draco and Harry for their antics.
It was obvious that Harry found this to be utterly hilarious. Not wanting his laugh to give away their location, Draco pulled him back into the Floo flames, and they both returned to the Chamber study. The boys stepped away from the green inferno as it extinguished. They stared at the fireplace in amazement.
Harry and Draco faced each other simultaneously, each stricken with a "that just happened" look—wonder mixed with the anticipation of Hermione's wrath.
They both broke into effervescent laughter. Harry's was audible, but Draco's was almost entirely silent. That only made Harry laugh louder. Draco had never cackled so hard in his entire life.
"Did you see her face?!" guffawed Harry.
Draco wheezed, "It was priceless!"
Any onlooker would've surmised they had eaten purple Fizzychews, as everything in that moment, even mundane things, fueled their laughing fit. Draco fell onto the sofa in hysterical tears until he finally caught his breath.
Harry gestured cartoonishly toward the fireplace and announced, "This is my new favorite thing!"
He gazed upon the object of his fixation with amusement, imagining all the possibilities—all the mischief they could manage. Then Harry's smile dropped.
He furrowed his brows at the decorative engraving along the golden plates that framed either side of the fireplace entrance. He probably wouldn't have noticed if he were farther away. Both sides had intricate designs, but only one had the outline of a key embedded within.
"What? What is it?" Draco asked impatiently, still reeling and light-headed.
Harry reached for the key and found that his index finger fit perfectly in a small divot at the key's bow. He showed the key to Draco, who narrowed his gaze pensively at the hole it left in the golden plate.
"That's the lock!" He cried, pointing wildly at the keyhole.
Upon turning the key, the floor began to rumble. Waterfalls of dust fell from the Flooless Floo as it opened up to reveal a set of stone steps descending into darkness. Draco got to his feet hastily, no longer possessed by laughter.
"That's not at all sinister or menacing," he fired sardonically, gazing into the abyss with worry.
Harry went first into the void, spelling "Lumos." Draco did the same, although with much less enthusiasm.
At the foot of the staircase, there was a wooden door dimly illuminated by the light of Harry's wand.
"Equally eerie door. . ." remarked Draco, with a trembling cadence to his voice.
Their minds ran wild with what could possibly be on the other side. It had a rusted iron handle that creaked when Harry turned it, but the door would not open when he pulled.
"It's stuck," Harry said, pulling harder. It was no use.
Draco offered his services and blankly pushed the door open. Light flooded the stone walls and made the look of embarrassment on Harry's face all the more clear.
"Nox." Spelled Draco. He left Harry behind the rippling threshold and shrugged elegantly. "There's a reason you're not in Ravenclaw," Draco snickered.
Harry simply rolled his eyes, extinguished his wand light, and proceeded to explore the new area. He cast Homenum Revelio to relieve his uncertainty about what or whom they might find within the abode.
But there was nothing—nothing except the unfamiliar portraits framed on the wall, covered in abandoned spiderwebs. A persistent thumping to their left came from the front door as the wind knocked it against the threshold. The hinges were so rusted that the door was rendered unclosable. The emerald walls of the corridor seemed to whisper peculiarly.
"Do you hear those voices?" Harry questioned.
"What voices?" Draco was visibly uneasy, concerned that Harry seemed more on edge than he was. Harry Potter, afraid. Draco dreaded the idea.
Harry's eyes met Draco's and softened. He could tell that he was scared. "You'll be fine," Harry said, his warmth melting through layers of glacial ice, "promise."
Draco practically jumped out of his skin as Harry brought his fist to the wall and banged it.
This caused the voices to become louder and more discernible. They drawled, "Intruder! Intruder!" and "Trespasser!" until it became obvious to Harry why he could understand them and Draco couldn't.
"There's snakes in the walls." Harry scoffed, "Be glad you can't hear them. They're annoying."
Harry left the snake symphony for the peace of quiet, but their whispering never mitigated. He moved into the dining hall, which featured a grand mahogany table long enough to fit twelve people on each side. Dust was absolutely everywhere; cobwebs hung like drapes from every chandelier, window, and picture on the wall. Besides that, it was remarkable—exactly like something you'd expect to see connected to the Chamber study. Imposingly tall windows at the far end of the room faced a cliffside. They were no longer at Hogwarts.
Draco pointed to a portrait on the wall with his jaw wide open. "Harry!" he cried, "I think this is Salazar Slytherin's house."
Sure enough, the balding yet heavily bearded man in green robes was none other than Salazar Slytherin himself. The portrait didn't appear to be enchanted. To that, Draco exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Didn't you say that Jarik Lowen gifted his magical pendant to Salazar Slytherin?" Harry recalled.
Draco caught on quickly, "If it exists . . . it's here."
"Accio pendant!" Harry spelled. Nothing happened, but it was worth a shot. They would have to find it the hard way.
They looked through countless drawers and over several shelves to no avail, and it started to irritate Draco.
He shook his head smally, "This is pointless. We're never going to find it like this. Something that powerful wouldn't be left out in the open. Try casting Revelio . . . but do it in Parseltongue."
Harry hissed the spell while scanning the room in a circle. A section of the wall behind an imposing chestnut chifferobe lit up with blue in the shape of a door.
"Help me move this dresser," Harry said, leaning against the side of it.
Draco was standing indignantly with his arms folded. "That's an armoire, not a dresser."
"What-the-fuck-ever!" Harry riposted.
It was much easier to move after Draco contributed his efforts. As they pushed, the armoire's short legs squealed along the wooden floor, and its cobwebs unraveled from the ceiling. Behind it, there was a doorway to a large room with a giant, albeit miniature, replica of Hogwarts in the center. Harry picked up one of the trees from what looked to be the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Draco snapped at him, "Don't touch it! We don't know what it is!"
Harry put the tree back down on its side in the spot he removed it, and he diverted to the curio cabinet standing beyond the miniature model. The red wood was accentuated by gold flourishes framing the glass windows, which allowed the viewer a peek at the spectacular black marble shelves inside.
There were a variety of objects upon the shelves. Harry saw an astrolabe, a glittering violet gem held within the taxidermied talons of some creature, and several things he could not begin to describe. Upon a velvet necklace display, an ancient-looking chain of gold with tarnished beads stood out among the other artifacts. Its pendant was a hollow glass orb shrouded by golden curlicues which snaked around it as if protecting the white sand within.
"Would the enchanted necklace happen to look like that one?" inquired Harry.
Draco inspected the pendant from afar but was dead set on seeing its beauty up close. "I can't imagine it being anything else," he marveled.
Draco opened the cabinet door and held the pendant necklace in his hand. It felt immensely heavy for what it was, but the weight gave him enough confidence to say that he had found what he was searching for. He put it in his inner blazer pocket as Harry gave him a judgmental glance.
"Don't look at me like that," Draco reprimanded, "Some people would use this pendant to speak to You-Know-Who. It's better in our hands than theirs. . ."
Harry was about to agree when he got a chill down his spine. The snakes within the walls hissed frantically. Even though Malfoy hadn't heard them, Harry was sure by the terror in his eyes that he, too, felt as if all the happiness in the world had died.
"Dementors." Harry sighed, "Wait here."
Draco would not wait there. He followed as Harry charged back into the corridor, waving his wand as he shouted, "Expecto Patronum!"
A fluorescent blue light cast from Harry's wand unlike anything Draco had ever beheld—a brilliant manifestation of a stag galloped forward, and a shockwave of energy sent the Dementor barreling straight out the front door.
Ever since the new Minister banished all Dementors from Azkaban, what few still remained in the wizarding world were vicious and incredibly desperate without the misery of prisoners to feed them. They roamed the ends of the Earth in search of unlucky souls to sustain their wretched existence.
Harry tried to close the front door, but the hinges were just too stubborn. He caught Draco admiring his Patronus before it unraveled into thin air.
"Was that a Patronus? I've never seen one in action before. . ."
Harry was shocked, "But Snape had a Patronus. He never showed you?"
Draco shrugged, "Not fighting a Dementor. That's really advanced magic! As much as I hate to admit it, I'm quite impressed that you can conjure a full-bodied Patronus. That's . . . far more than I could ever do."
Dementors affected everyone differently, Harry knew this, but he didn't know just how negatively they affected Draco until that moment. If he were in his right mind, he wouldn't have beat himself up like that.
"I taught loads of people the Patronus charm in fifth year. Do you—"
"No, I can't," Draco interrupted, "Severus tried to teach me a long time ago." He kept shaking his head, as if not believing what he was saying. "I-I know how to do it, but my memories . . . just aren't happy enough."
Draco folded his arms uncomfortably as he crossed over the corridor threshold and barreled up the stone steps leading to the Chamber study.
Harry saw him reach for something inside of his blazer pocket, but he didn't have a good view of what. He called out to him, pleading for him to come back, but he received no reply.
Harry chased after him and rushed upstairs. "You can't just run away—" he began, rushing breathlessly into the study, but he didn't see Draco anywhere, so he stopped.
Maybe next time, Harry thought. He returned the Flooless fireplace to its original state and clicked the golden key into its perfectly fitted key-shaped hole with a sigh.
Defeated, he called Draco's name once more to the tune of silence. As he gazed disheartenedly upon the floor, he spotted tufts of platinum blond peeking out from behind the sofa, as if Draco were incapacitated. Harry gasped in horror as he got a closer look.
Draco lay on the cold Chamber floor with his eyes rolled into the back of his head and mouth agape, as if he had received the Dementor's Kiss. Both his hands were frozen in place, clawing at Jarik Lowen's pendant, tightened dangerously around his throat. He appeared to be fighting for his very life before Petrification.
The beads of Harry's bracelet were still very warm, and he prayed that meant Draco was still alive.
He figured after all the trouble they got into together, all the fights, all the snide comments and shenanigans that Draco would've at least talked to him before doing something so reckless. Maybe after all this time, he picked up on Harry's lack of caution but not his need for counsel. Harry didn't realize he began to sob until he felt a tear stream down his cheek. He had witnessed death before, but it haunted him still—the lifeless faces of Lupin, Tonks, Sirius, and Fred. . .
Harry frantically backed away from what he believed to be Draco's corpse, as it made him reminisce on Dobby the House Elf and his heart-wrenching death—such a violent end and the tears it brought to the surface. Harry then realized that he might've even considered Draco a friend. Maybe in another life, another world, things could've been different.
The Slytherin stirred on the floor, and the sand in the pendant jumped. Harry wiped the tears from his face as best he could, relieved, when Draco gasped for air. His eyes reverted back to their normal icy gray as the chain of the pendant loosened. He sat up and tried to catch his breath.
"How long was I out for?" Draco asked mindlessly. He saw a glistening wetness around Harry's eyes and was dumbstruck. "Were you crying?"
Harry didn't look upset anymore; he looked angry. "I thought you were DEAD, you idiot!" Harry yelled.
Draco assured him that the mishap was not on purpose. "I didn't know it would knock me out like that . . . better me than you, right?" he said light-heartedly.
Harry had to calm himself down. He didn't quite understand how someone could have such an effect on him that he wanted to strangle them relentlessly through tears caused by the thought of their death. It was an understandably weird dynamic, but it was one he had come to be fond of, whether he admitted it or not. Draco stood up and offered his hand to Harry on the floor.
Pulled to his feet, Harry fumed at him once more, "Now, don't ever do that again!"
He truly didn't expect Harry to be so affected by this. He brushed it off with a joke, "I'll just warn you next time."
Harry crossed his arms in fury. Draco's face shift with a tinge of guilt.
"Look . . . I wouldn't have used the pendant if I thought it could kill me." Draco assured, sneering slightly, "I'm not like you."
Harry shook his head, in disbelief over how much the event frightened him, not even noticing Draco's remark. "It better have been worth it. What did you find?"
"I spoke to Severus," Draco said finally.
Harry slowed his heart rate to a reasonable pace before replying. "What about?"
"Oh, just about things that have been happening. He was glad to hear you were still in potions"—Harry smiled—"and he thinks I should accept your offer. He thinks I should learn how to cast a Patronus."
"So you'll do it?"
Draco didn't really say yes, but he didn't say no either. "I'm not going to go against Severus's advice."
Harry beamed, thrilled that Draco would give it an honest shot before deciding it was impossible and giving up.
Draco handed Harry the pendant and said "Your turn," with a mischievous chuckle. Harry took it, though with trepidation.
"What? I'm fine, aren't I? It's safe," Draco promised.
"It's not that—I just—I have no idea what to say when I see him," Harry stammered. "Dumbledore."
"Then think about it," Draco offered. "There's no rush."
Harry nodded, looking again at the pendant in his grasp, ruminating on what it all meant.