Draco's obsessed with sex and it's all Harry's fault; Blaise is once again on the warpath, Slytherins raid the Hospital Wing, and too much Harry really can be bad for Draco's health.
-----------
'Where the hell are we?' Draco says, half an hour later. 'Are we almost out of this God-forsaken place?'
'Nearly. Shh.'
'Don't shush me, Potter. If I have bugs in my hair, I swear, I'm going to make you eat them.'
Harry rolls his eyes; he has quickly discovered that it is no use telling Draco to be quiet, because Draco never stops talking. Telling Draco to be quiet is like telling Hermione to put down a book—good effort that goes to waste.
It's fine, though, because in a weird sort of way, Harry finds the chatter endearing.
'Here,' Harry says, stopping before the trapdoor and holding it open. 'Go in, and try not to touch anything.'
Draco eyes the passage warily before giving Harry an accusatory look. 'What is this place?'
'It's fine, just go.'
'If it's fine then why all the secrecy?'
'Because,' Harry says, and angles himself behind Draco to shove him forward into the Shrieking Shack, 'if you run out of here screaming like you did from the Forbidden Forest, someone is bound to hear it and I really don't want them to seal off this passageway.'
'That wasn't screaming! That was raising the alarm! And why would I—oh…' Draco stops as Harry closes the door; he looks around very quickly. 'Oh no, Potter, this is not what I think it is. Please tell me it's not what I think it is.'
'Okay,' Harry says with a shrug, attempting to mollify him. 'It's not what you think it is.'
'You're a terrible liar,' Draco tells him. He is still looking around suspiciously. 'Why, why, why did you bring us into a haunted house? Do you do this for fun? Is having frequent tangos with death your official hobby or something? Is that it?'
'It would certainly explain a lot,' Harry says, considering. 'And it's not haunted, come on.'
Draco hurries to keep up with him as Harry climbs the stairs out of the basement towards the ground floor. 'How do you know it's not haunted?'
'Because,' Harry says, and pauses on the stairs. He considers something for a moment, then looks over his shoulder at Draco. 'D'you remember Professor Lupin?'
'The werewolf?' Draco asks. Then his voice rises several pitches as he hisses, looking alarmed, 'There's a werewolf in here?'
'No. Well, not anymore.' Harry continues up the stairs with Draco jogging to keep up. 'Lupin was a werewolf before he came to Hogwarts. Dumbledore built this passageway so Lupin could come out once a month to transform and not miss too much schoolwork. The Whomping Willow was planted to keep anyone from wandering in on him by accident.'
'So the screams people heard—'
'Were him, yeah,' Harry says as he reaches the main floor and dusts off his jeans. 'This place was never haunted.'
Draco relaxes slightly at this bit of information and looks sideways at Harry. 'How did you find all that out?'
'Er,' says Harry. 'It's a long story.'
'Is there any sex?'
'What?' Harry asks, startled.
'Sex,' Draco repeats. 'All good stories involve sex. If there isn't any sex, then I don't want to hear it.'
'You're obsessed with sex,' Harry tells him.
'Hormones,' Draco replies. 'Not my fault. I blame Mother Nature. And you.'
'Me?' Harry asks as he opens the door. 'Why me?'
Draco catches him by the wrist as they step outside. There is snow everywhere, and everything is white and crisp and sparkling prettily in the setting sun. Draco yanks Harry back roughly, making him stumble, and catches Harry with his lips. It hurts, but not badly, and Harry manages to say 'Mmrf' against Draco's mouth before returning the favour. Draco's lips are cold and chapped and very dry, but the inside of his mouth is hot and slick and tastes vaguely of cocoa and mint. It also tastes like saliva, but so does Harry, so he doesn't really notice that. Kissing Draco is like sipping a really good hot chocolate by a warm fire after a very long walk in the cold. It feels good. It tastes good.
He decides he really likes the way Draco tastes; it's something Harry thinks he could get used to.
Harry also finds it very hard to think while they are kissing, especially when Draco is doing those little things he does with his tongue that leave Harry tingling and buzzing, and it feels like something inside his brain has dislocated from the rest of him. So Harry has no idea how long they have been kissing, and he only notices that there is snow in his hair and ears and eyelashes and that his feet are getting very cold when Draco pulls away, licking his own lips nervously.
Draco lingers close to Harry. His pupils are very dilated despite the persistent light of the sinking sun, and they look like two black mirrors inside silver rings. His left hand is still resting against Harry's jaw, his touch very light and warm. Draco bites his lower lip and grins at the same time.
'That's why you,' he says, his voice a little hoarse. He runs his thumb across Harry's lower lip, and Harry bites it. 'Ow! Prick,' he says, pulling his hand away.
Harry smirks at him. He is happy that Draco's smiling, happy that he is managing to distract Draco from his problems and very happy that he is able to kiss him again. And he is happy that Draco has come here with him and is looking as nervous as Harry feels and—and bending down to scoop up a handful of snow to stuff in his collar.
'Aaufrghk,' Harry splutters, ducking and shaking his head, trying to clear the snow out of his scarf before it all slides down his shirt. Draco is grinning like a fox and as Harry recovers, he scoops up more snow and takes off at a run, Harry on his heels. Draco makes a snowball and hurls it back at Harry with very good aim, but Harry is not the best Seeker Hogwarts' has seen in a century for nothing, and he catches the snowball in midair by reflex and throws it back, and it makes a loud smack when it hits Draco in the back of the neck.
Draco doesn't fall, but he stumbles, and it's enough for Harry to catch up and tackle him, and they both hit the snow with a muffled pwunff. Harry is on top, and he raises himself up on his knees just until Draco rolls over, then sits on Draco's chest before he can wriggle out from under him. Draco has snow all over his robes and hair and stuck in his eyebrows and is laughing so hard it's making Harry's thighs vibrate, so Harry shifts, moving his hips further down, so he is sitting just below Draco's stomach.
Draco abruptly stops laughing. He is watching Harry now and bites his lip again, and Harry has to resist the urge to lean down and kiss it.
Instead, he grabs a fistful of snow and shoves it up the front of Draco's shirt.
Draco makes a constrained, strangled sort of noise and wriggles violently, nearly uprooting Harry, but Harry is determined and holds him down. Eventually Draco quits admonishing unflattering adjectives at him and stops moving, but he is still breathing very heavily. Every pant produces a little puff of white breath and his cheeks and ears are rather pink and his hands are gripping Harry's thighs extremely hard.
Harry shifts again so he is resting right on top of Draco's hips, and Draco's breaths are coming sharper and quicker and now his neck is pink too. It's a good look on him, Harry thinks, being splayed on the ground and flushed with his hair everywhere, mouth slightly agape and vibrantly red against the backdrop of snow.
Draco shifts now, or maybe just raises his hips as an experiment, but whatever the reason, it makes Harry's mind flicker briefly and he feels like there are about a hundred Snitches fluttering inside of his stomach. Draco notices this and does it again, more deliberately and for longer this time, and Harry's eyes roll back and close briefly because that feels entirely too good to be possible, and he should probably breathe sometime soon but he doesn't want to risk ending the feeling in his groin because if that happens he'll probably die.
It feels... it feels like electricity rushing through his body, making every hair stand on end, stinging and prickling, and it makes him shudder violently—it feels like taking a steep dive on his Firebolt and pulling out just in time, only instead of fading, the feeling grows stronger, the harder Draco presses against him, and Harry presses back and feels all of his insides suddenly melt and pool between his legs.
'Hell,' Draco murmurs. His eyes are closed now, and his breathing is ragged and uneven. His hands are still on Harry's legs, but he isn't gripping hard anymore; rather, he is rubbing them up and down Harry's thighs, thumbs massaging the defining line of muscle through the denim. His neck arches with his body as Harry grinds against him slow and hard, and his mouth is open and gasping for air and Harry can't watch him any longer without leaning down to kiss that soft spot under his chin. He kisses Draco's jaw and his throat and feels Draco swallow against his lips, and utter something unintelligible.
'You know,' Harry says against Draco's skin, his voice somehow both soft and thick at the same time, 'when I first figured out who you were, I couldn't believe it. I tried to deny it for a while...' He moves his mouth up the slick curve of Draco's neck, feathering kisses and licking and nibbling and he pauses where Draco's jaw meets his ear. 'I didn't want it to be you. I almost convinced myself that you were right; that we shouldn't meet. I knew you'd feel the same. But then I read your letter again...'
Harry has one hand in the snow, holding himself up. It's growing numb with the cold but he doesn't care, because his other hand is under Draco's shirt, and this hand is also probably cold because Draco's skin feels extremely hot under his fingertips as he skims them just beneath Draco's belt. 'You remember the one,' Harry purrs in his ear. 'Your intellectual porn?'
Draco makes a noise suggestive of great agony, perhaps even dying, and Harry nuzzles Draco's ear and jaw with his nose and feels the edge of his boxers under the belt, and he slips two fingers under the elastic band. Harry is painfully hard now and is pretty sure Draco must be too, and he confirms this by pressing against him again, and this time Draco shudders underneath him. Draco's hands move up Harry's thighs to his hips and take them in a vice-like grip as Draco lifts his head.
'This—Potter—fuck,' he says in Harry's ear. Harry nibbles his earlobe to encourage him, or distract him, or maybe just to hear that strangled noise Draco makes again. 'Bloody hell,' he hisses, and Harry licks the outer shell of Draco's ear with the tip of his tongue, 'I can't think when you—' Harry is sucking on his earlobe now, 'when you—' the fingers in Draco's waistband slip a few centimetres deeper, and Draco gives an involuntary spasm and his hands move from Harry's hips to his ribs and hold on so tight that it stings, 'fucking—cold.'
Draco sucks in a breath and forces out very quickly, 'I can't feel the back of my legs anymore and I think my spine's frozen and my hair is soaked, so as incredibly, insanely, retardedly good as the rest of it feels, Potter, I think I might actually die if you don't get off me right now.'
Harry stops kissing his throat and sits up to stare at him. Draco is extremely pink now, from his collar right up to his cheekbones, and his pupils are still dilated, but Harry sees that he is also shivering quite badly. Harry quickly rolls off and helps him to his feet with shaking hands. Draco wavers slightly as the blood in his body realigns with gravity and Harry uses a hand to steady him and mumbles, 'Sorry, I didn't—I mean, I was—'
But before he can say anything else, Draco kisses him again, hard and quick with just his lips, and effectively quiets him. 'Shut up,' Draco adds as he pulls away. 'That—you—' He pauses to pant and tries again with, 'That was—hell—that—'
It's almost funny that Draco can't finish a coherent sentence until Harry realises that it's because he's shivering too much. 'We should go,' Harry says quickly, and takes Draco by the sleeve and pulls him along. 'Get—inside. Three Broomsticks. Could use a drink, yeah?'
'Yes,' Draco agrees through shaky teeth. 'Yes. Drinks. Potter,' he says again, and stumbles slightly because Harry is pulling too hard and fast for him to keep up when his body is shuddering like this. 'Potter, wait, that—'
Harry stops and Draco nearly runs into him, and Harry kisses him quickly and softly on the chin, on the corner of his mouth and then on his lips while he laces his fingers with Draco's; his hands are perhaps the only part of him besides his hips that are still warm. 'Shh,' Harry says against his lips. 'I know. That. That was—brilliant,' he manages to say. 'But if you go into shock or get hypothermia and die then there will be no more thats and that is a horrible, horrible thought so—' he pauses to kiss Draco again, something which he seems unable to stop himself from doing these days, '—drinks, now, and that—that, later.'
'Yes,' Draco agrees again. 'Yes. Very cold. Drinks. Where are we?' he asks suddenly and looks around. They are not too far from central Hogsmeade, and Harry still has him by the hand and Draco feels slightly light-headed as Harry drags him along. He is tingling everywhere; half of it is probably blood recirculating through the parts of him that are frozen but the other half is every surface that Harry has touched, kissed, licked and pressed against. His teeth are chattering and his body is giving little spasms and he feels like he's going to fall over himself with every step but Harry pulls him along smoothly, surprisingly strong.
They stumble into the Three Broomsticks together. Harry still has Draco's hand, but both are too giddy and cold and flustered to notice that some people are giving them odd looks. Draco isn't thinking about who he is here with, he isn't thinking about the fact that Harry Potter gathers much more attention than other boys usually do, and that their holding hands is probably being photographed and will end up in tomorrow's edition of the Daily Prophet. He is too happy and practically glowing to give a damn about anything other than the fact that Harry just gave his hand a squeeze, and his mind is drifting back to how Harry felt on top of him, and Harry's mouth on his throat, fingers sneaking beneath his waistband and—
Harry stiffens beside him, and because Harry is the only thing on Draco's radar at the moment, Draco does notice this and follows Harry's line of sight to the bar, and his stomach deflates and drops between his legs like a lead weight.
Lucius Malfoy is at the bar, leaning against the bench and speaking fast and quietly to Madam Rosmerta, who is looking rather irate. Lucius stops mid-flow when he sees who has just come bursting through the door, and his grey eyes narrow. Draco's brain and body feel like they've been Stunned and he's standing in the entryway like a deer trapped in headlights, and drops Harry's hand automatically.
Lucius steps away from the bar and approaches his son, who wishes his legs would move so he could make a run for it, but his feet are so firmly glued to the floor that he thinks that Lucius has cast some sort of spell on him; thinking about it further, Draco realises how very probable that possibility actually is.
Harry is still beside Draco and their shoulders are nearly touching. But Draco isn't paying attention to Harry anymore; all he notices is how his father stops three feet before him and fixes him with the same look he gives Harry, the look he reserves for Weasleys and Mudbloods and blood traitors. It's the look you give someone you would kill if you thought you could get away with it, and Draco suddenly considers how many murders his father probably has gotten away with to date.
Finally, Lucius opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Harry steps in front of Draco. Lucius stops himself and directs the look from Draco to Harry, and his hand tightens on the walking-stick that contains his wand. Harry is an unwavering barrier, however, and meets his gaze with steady eyes and shoulders.
'Can we help you?' Harry asks shortly.
Lucius' upper lip curls slightly. It is a challenge in disguise, and Lucius knows this, but they are in a crowded bar and, as good as Lucius is at avoiding prison, it would not be in his best interests to act with so many witnesses nearby. Instead, he looks at Harry as if he'd like to spit on him, and sweeps past them without so much as a word.
Draco remembers with some urgency that he needs to breathe, and does so, and nearly chokes when he attempts to inhale and exhale at the same time. Harry turns to face him, looking angry and worried and rather pale. The snow in his hair has melted and his bangs are wet and sticking to his forehead, hiding his scar.
'Come on,' Harry says. He touches Draco's shoulder lightly and leads him away from the entryway, and Draco follows in a daze, weaving through chattering friends and couples and groups of drunkards to a small, empty table towards the back of the room. Draco collapses into his seat and drops his head into his arms as he folds them on the table. Harry sits quietly beside him, not saying anything, but Draco feels a hand on his knee and it gives a slight squeeze.
Madam Rosmerta comes bustling up to them from the other side of the bar and asks what they'll be having. They're both of age now and Harry wisely decides that Draco could probably do with something stronger than Butterbeer, and orders them two Firewhiskys. They wait for the drinks in silence while Draco melts and slowly relaxes, with help from Harry's hand on his knee; Harry splays his fingers along Draco's thigh and gives it a firm squeeze periodically.
When the drinks arrive, Harry cups his glass in his hand but doesn't drink because he's watching Draco, who is staring at the smoking liquid as if it's the most wonderful thing that was ever invented. Harry squeezes his thigh once more before taking Draco's hand up on the table, and then gives that a squeeze, too. The lady at the table across from them is looking at them with clear disgust and Draco laughs rather nervously.
It's stupid, Draco thinks. All of this is extremely stupid and awkward and his father is going to kill him and he's in a bar with Harry Potter having drinks and he's holding his hand and he really, really doesn't give a fucking damn anymore.
With this rather rebellious and independent thought, Draco takes his Firewhisky and downs it in one. There is a burning in his throat with a wrath that could challenge a Hungarian Horntail, but it feels better going down, and, what the hell, he squeezes Harry's hand in return.
Draco's had Firewhisky before. It's strong stuff, sure, but once you've swallowed and waited a couple of seconds, the burning dies down and the buzz kicks in. What the burning doesnot do is get worse, and Draco coughs slightly as his oesophagus screams in silent agony, and it feels like the saliva in his throat has turned to acid, and begun burning trails along his insides.
Draco's only vaguely aware of trying to stand, hand at his throat, and swaying—Harry's also standing up, and yelling something, and people around them are moving, and shouting—but the searing pain travels up to his ears, blocking out the sound from Draco's mind—he coughs again, and it feels as if his lungs have been torn from his windpipe, and with a hazy sort of alarm, he realises he can taste blood in his mouth... and then the pain reaches his eyes, scorching them from behind, and everything goes black.
: : :
Blaise is going to kill Harry Potter.
No—kill is too mild a term.
Blaise is going to destroy Harry Potter.
Yes, that's much more suitable, he decides. Because a Killing Curse would be far too kind. No, what Blaise is going to do, is carve that ugly scar right out of his forehead, impale him on the wrong end of a broomstick, set that untidy mop upon his head on fire, and feed his sorry arse to the giant squid.
Feet first.
Blaise nearly takes the door to the Hospital Wing off its hinges as he storms into the ward. Madam Pomfrey says, 'My goodness!' and Blaise is vaguely aware of Hermione and Weasley beside her, standing outside the bed in the far corner that has its drapes closed, but his sights are focused on the lump of black hair that he knows is behind that curtain. That unkempt little pillock is his target, and damned if anything is going to stop him.
Hermione has talked to Blaise enough that she's more than aware of how protective he tends to get. She also knows he's particularly fond of Draco, and it is this, combined with the look of murderous rage on Blaise's face as he thunders towards them, that tells her Something Bad is about to happen if she does not intervene.
Madam Pomfrey is attempting to scold Blaise but he bypasses her easily, and Ron looks as if he senses the danger too and he moves to step forward, but Hermione takes the initiative first and intercepts the Slytherin's path. Blaise attempts to walk right through her, but is once again caught off guard by how very strong small girls can be when they want; she has him by the elbows and plants her feet into the ground, and his chest collides with her head and shoulders as she blockades him.
'Blaise—' she begins.
'Piss off,' comes the quick reply. Blaise doesn't mean it, he really does like the girl, even if she's bushy-headed and a Mudblood to boot, but right now he has an agenda and anyone that intervenes isn't worthy of consideration. 'Take your bloody mitts off me, I'm going to rip that four-eyed pillock limb from bloody limb—'
'Don't talk to her like that,' Ron says warningly. 'Harry's not done anything wrong—'
'Not done anything wrong?' Blaise snarls, eyes snapping to Ron. Hermione tightens her grip on his arms. 'You know what, Weasley? I've changed my mind. I'm going to rip you limb from bloody limb and then use your appendages to beat your thick-witted mate to death with.'
'Now, really!' Madam Pomfrey exclaims, swooping amongst them with a look of disapproval. 'This is a medical ward, Mr Zabini, so will you kindly refrain from making violent threats! Mr Malfoy has had quite enough excitement for one day and needs his rest—'
Before she can finish, the door slams open again ('Good heavens!' exclaims Madam Pomfrey) , and Pansy comes barrelling into the room with much the same murderous intent as Blaise, dark eyes flashing as she approaches them. 'You!' she snarls, thrusting an accusing finger at Blaise; it's as if Ron and Hermione aren't even there as she marches up to him, and Hermione lets go and backs away just as Pansy slaps him hard across the face. He takes the blow with hardly a turn of his head. 'I told you—I bloody told you this would—you never—and you.'
Her voice hits a low, dangerous-sounding timbre with that last word that would have normally impressed Blaise; right now, he is oblivious to her as he focuses on said 'you'—Harry has just stepped out from behind the curtain, looking weary and resigned. Blaise shrugs off Pomfrey as she attempts to stop him with a hand on his shoulder, walks right up to Harry, and seizes him by the collar.
Harry raises his chin but doesn't struggle. Instead, he meets Blaise's eyes. Blaise wonders if he could complete the incantation of the Killing Curse before someone else in the room Stunned him.
'Well?' Harry says after a moment, deadpan. 'Are you going to hit me, or what?'
'That is quite enough,' Pomfrey snaps; she bustles up to them and forcibly separates them—an impressive feat, as both Harry and—especially—Blaise are bigger than her now. 'You lot will clear out right now or mark my words, it'll be straight to the Headmaster!'
'Fine,' Blaise says, his voice remarkably calm, and jerks his head at Harry, who gives him a wary look before brushing past him. Blaise follows on his heels, well aware of the other three following, and says in a low voice, 'I don't mind killing you in the corridor.'
Harry bites back a retort and waits until he's outside the Hospital Wing before turning to look at Blaise again, who probably would have hit him if Hermione hadn't rushed up behind him to latch onto his elbows again. 'Blaise, please, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation—'
'I'd love to hear it,' Blaise snarls, eyes still fixed on Harry. 'Tell me, Potter, what is your reasonable excuse for dragging Malfoy outside of school grounds when you knew for a fact that his father was here today?'
Harry's mouth clamps shut, and Blaise ignores Hermione's 'I'm sure he didn't mean—' as he barrels on. 'Go on, Potter. I'm sure you have a perfectly fucking reasonable explanation for taking him out of the only place he's protected from his father. Of course, "perfectly reasonable" in your opinion being, "I'm the sorriest, stupidest bloody sod in the whole of England, and thought we'd go for a stroll outside school grounds for a round at a bar, despite the fact that we all know what kind of man his father is"!'
'Blaise,' Hermione says again, but this time, Harry cuts her off.
'No, he's right,' Harry says curtly, his voice tight. 'It was a stupid thing to do.'
There's a deathly silence in the corridor, which is broken as Pansy steps forward and brings her nose even with Harry's chin. 'You are very, very lucky that Draco is suddenly very fond of you,' she says in that low, dangerous voice. 'Or so help me Merlin, Azkaban be damned, you'd be a dead man.'
Harry takes the threat with a heavy sigh, too angry at himself to argue with her; nasty and slightly irrational or not, Blaise makes a very good point. Harry hadn't even considered the consequences of taking Draco off school grounds earlier that evening. All he'd been thinking about was cheering Draco up and having a good time. If he had known Lucius would be in Hogsmeade...
But he should have suspected as much. Draco'd been right—his father's not the sort of man to let insolence go unpunished. Harry should have known better.
'Stay the fuck away from him,' Blaise says, finally pulling free from Hermione's grip. He still looks like he wants to pummel Harry, but Pansy replaces Hermione, holding him. 'If I so much as smell you in this corridor—'
'What?' Harry snaps. 'I've got as much right to be here as you!'
'Bollocks you do,' Blaise snarls. 'If it hadn't been for you, Draco'd be fine. You are the reason he's in there.'
'But I—'
Pansy steps up beside Blaise, still holding his arm. 'Haven't you done enough, Potter?'
'Stay the fuck away from him,' Blaise repeats, eyes narrowed.
Harry opens his mouth to argue, but small hands close around his arm. 'Harry,' Hermione says, 'let's go. It's late—if Filch sees us out here—'
'I don't give a damn about Filch!' Harry snaps, trying to pull away.
'Harry, please,' she says. 'We can talk about this later. Let's just go.'
'If I were you, I'd listen to the Mudblood, Potter,' Pansy says nastily.
Ron, who has been a quiet, lurking figure behind Hermione up until now, moves forward—and then stops, as it's Blaise who reacts first, eyes flashing from Harry to Pansy. 'Watch your fucking mouth, Parkinson.'
Pansy looks like Blaise has slapped her—so, in fact, does Ron. Hermione's eyes soften a little, but her grip on Harry grows tighter. 'Later, Harry,' she says firmly. 'Let things calm down a bit.'
'But—' Harry starts to insist.
'I think it would be best,' says an icy voice from behind Harry, 'that you follow Miss Granger's advice, Potter.'
Harry goes rigid at the sound of Snape's voice, doing a quick about-face to bring him into view. Snape's expression is very grave indeed, and he looks as angry as Blaise does, if not more so. His eyes wander to the others. 'It is after curfew. The four of you will return to your dormitories immediately.'
All four begin to protest, Blaise spectacularly so, but Snape quiets them all with a severe look. 'Return to your dormitories,' he repeats. 'And no arguments, Mr Zabini, or Mr Potter's enrolment at this institution will not be the only one in jeopardy tonight.'
This statement seems to have the desired effect; Blaise snarls but otherwise obeys, and the others go quietly, Hermione and Ron shooting Harry sympathetic looks as Snape looms over him.
'I have just spoken with the Headmaster,' Snape continues as the others leave the corridor, dark eyes now fixed on Harry. 'I assume your memory is not so poor that you don't remember the conversation we had prior to your detention?'
'No,' Harry says stiffly; he remembers it rather vividly.
Snape's colourless lips form an unpleasant, greasy smile. 'The Headmaster wishes to have a word with you, Mr Potter. Follow me.'
Harry follows Snape in a disgruntled silence all the way to the Headmaster's office, pausing only once; outside the stone gargoyle as Snape hisses, 'Cinnamon Snaps,' and the statue leaps aside, allowing them up the staircase. Inside the office, Dumbledore is sitting behind his desk, hands folded before him, as if awaiting their presence. Harry steps into the centre of the room as Snape joins Dumbledore by the desk, standing stiffly off to the side.
'Good evening, Harry.'
'Sir,' Harry says, unsure of exactly how severe the situation is. Dumbledore's voice is mild, but Dumbledore's voice is always mild, even in the direst of circumstances.
'Professor Snape was kind enough to bring me up to date on everything he knows,' Dumbledore says quietly, fixing Harry with a steady gaze. 'Perhaps you will be able to explain the rest for us.'
Harry stiffens; just what, exactly, has Snape told Dumbledore? Certainly not the truth—the twisted truth, perhaps, engineered to paint Harry as the villain, as Snape is wont to do. 'Sir, I—'
'Please have a seat, first,' Dumbledore offers. Harry sighs heavily and takes the chair across from him, squirming slightly. Dumbledore doesn't make him uncomfortable, but it's hard for anyone to sit still when Snape's glare is cutting into them like a blade. 'Now, Harry, I must ask you to relate to me everything you can remember regarding the situation between Mr Malfoy and yourself.'
'Er,' Harry says, thinking back. When should he start? The letters? When he guessed it was Draco? When he found out for sure it was Draco? Or only after they met in person? Or just the ordeal in the pub?
'Er,' he says again, earning an eyeroll from Snape.
'Best to begin at the beginning, Harry,' Dumbledore says wisely, granting him a soft smile.
Harry sucks in a deep breath, and decides to do just that. Starting at the speech McGonagall gave them and the first letter he received, Harry explains—sometimes in vaguer detail than others—the events that have transpired, being careful to leave any hint of less-than-appropriate material out of his story. That they only met after the holidays, and did so without informing their Heads of House because they were both worried about who the other was (Harry also wisely leaves out the tiny detail involving Polyjuice Potion) and how they'd gotten into a row—and how that had precipitated the incident in the Great Hall.
Harry is inwardly relieved that neither Dumbledore nor Snape demands to know how Harry and Draco went from several months of supposedly unromantic letters and a row one evening to snogging in full view of the school the next morning. Instead, they listen quietly as Harry describes him and Draco 'talking about it' the evening before their detention, and, skipping over the liaison in the corridor and the short meeting outside of Potions, how Harry had left Draco alone... and then heard about Lucius Malfoy coming to school and decided to go see him—'to make sure he was all right,' Harry finishes. 'That's it.'
There's a moment's pause and Snape says in an icy voice, 'And then you decided it would be in Mr Malfoy's best interests to be smuggled off school grounds, away from the protection of our watch, and practically delivered to within reach of his father?'
'That's not what I was trying to do!' Harry protests, sitting forward in his chair. 'We were just—I was trying to—he was upset!' he snaps in frustration as Snape rolls his eyes again, uncaring that he is yelling at a professor. 'I was trying to help!'
'Harry,' Dumbledore says, quietly but firmly. 'Do take care and try and remember your manners in my office; Professor Snape has made a legitimate complaint—that you knowingly disobeyed a direct instruction not to pursue Mr Malfoy—'
'Only because he doesn't like the idea of us being together!' Harry snaps before he can stop the words from tumbling out. Then, as an afterthought, 'Sir.'
'—and be that as it may, I must ask you to consider the idea that Professor Snape also had an ulterior motive for requesting such abstinence,' Dumbledore finishes, ignoring Harry's raised voice.
'Something, I gather from your clearly dumbfounded expression, that has not once crossed your mind,' Snape adds with a self-satisfied sneer. 'Once again, Potter, you are so arrogant that you are convinced that everything is about you.'
Harry growls low in his throat but Dumbledore speaks over it. 'What Professor Snape means to say, is that we are both aware of just how dangerous a man Lucius Malfoy is. I would have expected you to understand this as well, Harry, and I must say, your actions were a bit disappointing to say the least.' Harry looks at the floor, clenching his jaw. 'Young Mr Malfoy very nearly had a fatal accident today.'
Harry feels his insides go cold as Dumbledore allows this piece of information to sink in. Finally, he finds his voice; although, it's very hollow as he asks, 'Is he going to be all right?'
Dumbledore glances very briefly at Severus, who narrows his eyes and sighs in resignation. 'Mr Malfoy's condition, for the moment, is stable. While I cannot promise good news, your Freezing Charm had the desired effect...' Harry looks up, surprised that Snape is acknowledging any action of his as appropriate. 'However, the damage sustained was severe nonetheless. Lucius did not chance using a slow-acting poison on his son, no doubt in an attempt to ensure fatality. I have done what I can. The rest is up to Mr Malfoy. Time will tell.'
Harry's stomach, which has been slowly tying itself in a knot as Snape was speaking, tightens painfully at these final words. Time will tell.
Draco could still die.
Harry hangs his head, unable to look at either of them anymore. He feels that, right now, expulsion would be extremely justified, even though such a punishment would make him unable to see Draco again for the rest of the school year—assuming he's all right in the end. The silence continues for several long moments before Dumbledore speaks again.
'Although Professor Snape finds that the event warrants your dismissal from this institution,' he says mildly, and Harry hears Snape inhale sharply, 'I believe that your intentions were genuine, however reckless your actions may have been.'
There's a moment's pause and Harry chances a glance up at the Headmaster. 'You will serve detention with Professor Snape every night this week, and, furthermore, every weekend until the end of term. You are also banned from any Hogsmeade visits for the rest of the year.' Harry nods, swallowing thickly. 'Your Quidditch privileges may also be revoked—at, however,' he adds as a greedy smirk creeps its way onto Snape's face, 'the discretion of Professor McGonagall. I for one,' Dumbledore continues, 'hope that the consequences for Mr Malfoy of your brash behaviour will be enough punishment in itself.'
'Yes, sir,' Harry says, too guilt-ridden to even take pleasure at the expression Snape adopts as he hears that the decision of whether or not to revoke Harry's Quidditch privileges is to be left to McGonagall.
'Well,' Dumbledore says, sitting back in his chair, 'I think that about covers everything, Severus. Harry, you will return to your dormitory immediately. No detours. Professor Snape will contact you with a time and place for your detentions, which will begin tomorrow evening.'
Harry doesn't really remember nodding and saying, 'Good night, sir,' as he leaves Dumbledore's office and pads, bleakly, back to Gryffindor Tower. It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep himself from running back to the Hospital Wing and collapsing by Draco's bedside, apologising for being the biggest idiot that ever stepped foot inside of Hogwarts.
How could he have been so stupid? It hadn't seemed like such a horrible idea—they'd go into Hogsmeade, they'd take a walk through town, they'd be able to talk to one another away from the prying, judgemental eyes of classmates and staff alike...
He's too benumbed by the severity of what's happened to even be properly upset; his eyes sting but he isn't crying, thankfully, as he enters the common room and finds Hermione waiting for him.
'Ron went to bed,' she explains, mingled curiosity and concern written all over her expression. 'Are you all right, Harry?'
Harry looks at her for a few moments. Words failing, he resigns himself to just shaking his head.
The concern in her eyes becomes more pronounced. 'Are you expelled?'
Again, Harry shakes his head no.
Hermione lets out a breath. Harry wishes he could do the same, but his chest feels extremely tight. 'Detention?'
'Yeah,' Harry manages.
Hermione looks at him for a moment, and then envelops him in a tight hug. 'It'll be all right, Harry.'
He stiffens momentarily, unprepared for the hug, before sagging against her. She doesn't let go for several minutes, until he finally says, 'Listen, Hermione, I really think I need to go to bed.'
'Oh, right,' she says, pulling away and flushing. 'Sorry. I just—it'll be okay, Harry. Really. Try to get some sleep.'
As Harry watches her retreat to the girls' dorms, he realises that he specifically said 'bed' and not 'sleep'; Harry doesn't think he'll be able to sleep ever again. At least, not while he knows that while he will wake up, there's a chance that Draco will not.
: : :