Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

All the Proud Shall Be	By : ladycat Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 5061 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
"Mr. Malfoy. I presume that you, once again, did not
find the atlas root I asked you for." Professor Snape paces back and forth
behind his desk, his robes billowing behind him like black moth wings. He looks
sinister and forbidding with his eyebrows lowered over his hawk-like nose.

Harry withholds a bitter snicker. A solid week and a half of lessons with Snape
over the summer have given him a very unique view into the professor's mind:
Snape does not like children. Everyone knows that. But Snape understands
children and is truly a gifted teacher. He knows that children need something
to rail against, and has set himself to be that foil. If he's learned to take a
little pleasure doing so through the years, if being the most hated and most
highly respected teacher at Hogwarts�and he is�well, who can blame him? Snape's
sneers are real, yet there's a lift to his eyebrows and a light that dances in
his black eyes that tells Harry that Snape is enjoying this. Immensely, the
twisted bastard. Biting his lip hard, Harry glances at Draco out of the corner
of his eye, wanting to share the joke; if there is any other student in
Hogwarts would understands just how to read Snape's moods, it has to be his
prodigy and frequent assistant.

But Draco is looking at the floor. His hands are locked at his sides, fingers
curled into the same kind of fists as at the lake, ones Harry now understands
are associated with extreme emotional discomfort and fear. Draco, obviously,
doesn't know Snape is entertaining himself�or that Snape is employing the same
kind of games Draco himself is using. Or at least Harry suspects he is using.

His humor dies instantly, replaced with confusion and a hint of annoyance. He
doesn't understand why Draco isn't seeing Snape's games�surely Snape has
allowed the boy he likes to see the things the boy he hates has already
discovered? Draco is the petted favorite, a protege more than a student, and
for him not to know this bothers Harry. Snape should have already
explained this aspect of his role to Draco, who is following in Snape's
footsteps without years of experience or countless students to hone his craft.
There is priceless advice untapped behind Snape's mask�sneering hate instead of
arrogant disdain�but more importantly, Draco's path is perilous and he needs
Snape the same way Harry needs Dumbledore. No matter how much Harry resents
depending on the Headmaster, he is still a boy and needs a mentor and a
confidant. Draco is no different, and for Snape to deny him ... Subtly, Harry
angles his body towards Draco's, allowing their hands to brush. Relax,
the touch says. I'm here.

"Silence?" Professor Snape sneers. He watches both boys intently,
Harry reading the smallest hint of shock in dark eyes before it's swallowed
back into contempt. Harry doesn't bother acknowledging his win; his attention
is focused on reassuring Draco, and Snape becomes superfluous. "Of course.
Very well. For your first detention, you will go out and find more atlas root.
You will not ask anyone for help, is that clear, Mister Potter? No quick trips
to see if Miss Granger has any hints. You two will search alone, and you will
not return until you have at least a solid handful. Am I understood?"

It's just past dinner time so it's not dark out yet, but night falls swiftly in
October. Harry knows that the grounds at Hogwarts are safe. Dumbledore's
warding has been very thorough, some of the greatest witches and wizards in the
nation adding their strength to the spell, along with members of the Order.
Nothing can come in without Dumbledore's magically gifted approval, not even
the creatures of the Forbidden Forest.
So long as they stay within the wards, no matter how dark or cold it is
outside, they'll be safe.

Harry holds tight onto that thought. "Okay," he says, since Draco
doesn't appear to remember how to look up, let alone open his mouth. "Is
there anything else you'd like us to do?"

Snape curls his upper lip, probably disappointed that Harry is nothing but
polite. It's become a game with them to see who breaks first. "Try not
to kill each other, perhaps? The headmaster would be so displeased."

There are way too many things to be read into such a blatant statement, so
Harry doesn't even bother trying. He starts to head for the door, stopping only
when he realizes Draco hasn't moved yet. He turns back, Draco's name on his
tongue�Draco, not Malfoy�but stops.

Draco is staring. There's something so open and vulnerable in stormy grey eyes.
Draco wants, with the desperation of a child, and he wants it from
Snape. Weeks ago, the thought would have sickened Harry, no matter how deeply
he understands the role Snape's assigned himself to play�but now he sees with
unshakable conviction. Outside of this office is something Draco does not
understand, something he does not know how to plot or plan for. He does not
have Harry's experience at throwing himself off the cliff, just to see if he
can fly. He's scared.

And he is asking for Snape's reassurance.

Why Harry understands so clearly, he doesn't know. He doesn't really care.
Snape is watching impassively, unmoving. Bastard Harry thinks even as he
takes two steps towards Draco's side, reaching out to take Draco's hand by the
wrist.

"Hey," he says softly. "Come on. It's not worth it."

Grey eyes meet his and narrow, suddenly glaring with penetrating force. Harry
feels like a character in the muggle program Star Trek, lasers searing
into his body, as Draco searches for something Harry doesn't have a name for�

And just as quickly, it stops.

Draco's arm goes limp, his head dropping into a silent nod. His body moves only
when Harry tugs lightly, following behind with a docility that's frightening.
Draco shouldn't ever be docile, led around like a decision-challenged
Hufflepuff. And Harry, under no circumstances at all, should never feel gratified
that it's him Draco is complying with so easily.

The light is dying as they walk towards the lake, shadow-touched dusk competing
with the last lingering hints of gold and pink as the sun slides away. It's
cool, but not entirely cold yet. Harry surreptitiously checks Draco's attire,
pleased when he discovers that Draco is wearing a jumper as thick as his own.
Harry suspects that Draco has had the same notion he has, but doesn't mention
it here. He doesn't want to think about what plagues him late at night,
suspicions clouding his mind as he fights to find sleep. Hogwarts grounds are
probably the safest place in all of England,
and the best place in a boarding school to truly be alone. That the professors
are sending them there... that two boys who fight and snarl in public are kept
together in private detentions ...

But those are not important here, or now. All Harry cares about is that Draco
is once again by his side.

The lake makes the cool air feel colder when they finally reach it, but Harry
finds he likes that. The chill makes Draco's skin rise, fine hairs tickling
Harry's skin. He finds a place for them to sit, pulling Draco down with him
before Draco has a chance to make that decision on his own, hand still in
Harry's. It's so easy to push up Draco's robe and the tightened cuff of his
jumper, exposing the goose-pimpled flesh of his forearm underneath. Harry rubs
it, bones fragile underneath his touch, smoothing the bumps and warming the
skin. He watches as carefully as he can in the grey of sunset.

Draco raises no objections. He merely sighs and leans towards Harry, allowing
greater access. Their shoulders are warm where they meet. Eventually, Harry
tires of the skin of Draco's forearm. He wants very much to remove Draco's arm
from its clothing entirely, but he's not quite sure why or if that's something
he should really do�he knows without question that Draco will not object�and
besides, it's too cold anyway. He contents himself by mapping as much of
Draco's arm as he can through the layers of robe and jumper, working over
shoulder and neck to finally touch the curve of Draco's ear and the sharp line
of his jaw.

"How's your eye?" he asks.

"Madam Pomfrey gave me something for the pain."

It's an odd kind of answer, but Harry just nods. There's only the faintest hint
of discoloration around a lid half-lowered in ... pleasure? Harry hopes that it
is, that he's not doing something Draco wants to object to. "I'm sorry I
hit you there. I didn't mean to."

"We both lunged wrong," Draco immediately dismisses. "Hardly
something to fret over."

"It's so strange for you to be quiet." Harry brushes the backs of his
fingers over Draco's cheek, feeling the faintest hint of stubble, the hairs too
fair to be visible. "I like it."

"It's strange for you to l�to want to spend time with me." The
stumbled word brings a rush of pink heat to Draco's cheeks . Harry can feel
the blood as it pools and presses his palm against the skin, fascinated. Draco
leans slightly into his palm and says, "I've spent five years coming up with
the most devastating ways to hurt you and your friends. You shouldn't want to
be anywhere near me. And you shouldn't trust me."

"S'lucky for you that I do, then," Harry says.

He means it as teasing, trying to draw a little more life into this silent creature
beside him. He doesn't mean for Draco to start in surprise, turning his head so
quickly it dislodges Harry's hand to flop uncomfortably onto Draco's shoulder,
eyes inscrutable. "You trust me?"

Harry leans back onto his elbows, listening to the squid splashing somewhere in
the middle of the lake, the ripples from its movements lapping softly against
the edges. He kicks his legs out before him, tensing and untensing the muscles.
"I trust you not to hurt me intentionally," he says eventually.
"I trust that I'm seeing Draco, not his father's creature. I trust that
you like being here." He doesn't say �with me'. He can't get the words
past his suddenly tight throat.

"Why?"

Harry thinks about that for a very long time. The question is said flippantly�why
bother�but Harry knows that it's seriously asked and deserves to be
seriously answered. And maybe then Harry can calm his own confusion and
occasional doubts. "Why do you let me see the real you?" he asks
eventually. "Why do you trust me?"

Draco snorts, though his body is trembling very faintly. "Because you're a
Gryffindor," he says airily. "You breathe trustworthiness along with
your halitosis."

"Well, there is that," Harry agrees in the same tone. "But
that's not why you're letting me see things about you, is it? So that's not why
I trust you."

The answer is roundabout and Harry's almost confusing himself�but Draco stops
holding himself so rigidly, the trembling easing into a sigh that sounds
contented. It's a good sound. "I hated you, you know," Draco says,
cruel amusement directed at himself, not Harry. It's probably a first, ever�a
self-deprecating Draco. Someone needs to notify the Daily Prophet.
"You were filthy and skinny and terrified, but you sat down next to
Weasley like it was the most natural thing in the world. I wanted that."

"What, being a scrawny kid, clothed in your cousin's castoffs, and
terrified 'cause you don't know anything?" Not even that your name is the
most famous since Merlin's.

Draco doesn't smile or shake his head, though Harry somehow knows that Draco is
amused as he leans back to mimic Harry's position, wearing a thoughtful
expression. His legs aren't quite as long as Harry's, but their torsos are the
same exact length. Or at least, Harry thinks they are, based on the outlines
the robes reveal. He wants to touch Draco again and doesn't have the first idea
why he wants it at all, let alone why he wants it so much.

"I'd rather freeze then wear the horrid imitation of clothing that you
seem to prefer," Draco says, a hint of a grin lurking around the edges of
his lips. His clothes, Harry realizes, are about to become the subject of a
great deal of teasing. Since they really are awful�he can't be arsed about
getting new ones, as he wears robes to cover most of the worst bits anyway�he
decides that it's a good first step. "No, it's how easy it was, with you
two. I didn't see it then, of course, I thought you'd done the same kind of
thing I'd learned to do�making a formal declaration, like a pair of warring
nations, or bludgeoning your way in charge. I didn't know how to just sit down
and start talking."

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Draco is jealous not of Harry, but Ron.
The sentence runs through his mind several times, leaving giggles and amazement
unvoiced in its wake. It's the kind of thing Harry wants to go tell Ron
immediately, just to see the reactions he'll get blazoned on his expressive,
freckled face�but he won't. Won't ever. Draco is trusting him and Harry is
determined to be worthy of it.

Draco's jealousy is easy to understand, probably because Harry's just a little
bit jealous of Ron in the same way. Ron comes from a big, boisterous family
where no matter what fights have broken out�and here, he carefully does not
think of Percy�there's always love and affection underneath it all. There will
always be welcoming arms and a chat over a cuppa or one of Molly's meals,
people to come to your rescue if you need it or a smack upside the head if you
need that. Oh, yes, it's easy for Harry to be jealous of the family Ron
has, just as it's easy for an only, lonely child to recognize another.

Worse than that, though, is Ron's easy going nature. Despite all his faults and
sore spots, he's remarkably easy to get along with. Ron is instantly
recognizable as the kind of person others want for a mate, which is probably
why it's Ron who's friends with the rest of Gryffindor, while Harry is still
mostly just friends with Ron. Ron is puppyish enthusiasm, plus all the
bourgeoning charm that Bill and Charlie display so easily. All the Weasleys,
really, are cheerful, friendly souls and little phases them for very long. It's
one of the reasons Harry loves them so very much and is grateful to be an
adopted son to Arthur and Molly.

But it doesn't stop him from occasionally resenting them. It's taken him a
while, but he's pretty sure that's what family is: the ability to not
always like someone, sometimes even hate someone, but still never stop
loving them.

"It wasn't that easy, you know. The first thing Ron ever asked me was for
my autograph." Harry sees Draco shift, disagreeing. Lying fully onto his
back, Harry reaches out to tug Draco as flat as he is, their bodies close
enough that combined body heat makes it easy to ignore the chill from the
ground. A strand of blond hair tickles Harry's ear. "But I know what you
mean."

"I suppose we ought to find the atlas root. Weed." The change of
subject isn't unexpected, Draco tense and awkward as he reclines beside Harry.
"Whatever idiotic quest Snape's sent us on. It probably doesn't even exist."

Tiny hints of stars are starting to appear above them. They're faint, the sky
still not dark enough to showcase their brilliance, but Harry can already pick
out familiar constellations. Astronomy isn't his favorite class, but it's fun
to realize he can point up and say �I know what that configuration is'. It's
something even the Dursleys, if the Dursleys cared about Harry's scholastic
achievements, could have been proud of. Wizarding constellations and muggle
constellations are surprisingly similar. Harry doesn't say anything until Draco
finally loses his nervousness and starts relaxing. It happens in a rush, like
Harry's passed some sort of test and Draco gives in immediately after. Though
�gives in' is probably the wrong term. "Nah," he says. "He'll
just send us out tomorrow for more, even if we find it."

"It's the worst excuse I've ever heard of," Draco grumbles. He sounds
more like the boy Harry remembers, now. There's less overweening arrogance and
cruelty, but the bite to his drawling words is back. Harry is glad to hear it.
"Why on earth did they have to send us outside, anyway? It's cold out
here! And it's dark. I don't like it."

He has to laugh. "You really are a spoiled brat, aren't you."

"If you're implying that I prefer my creature comforts undisturbed, then
yes, you're correct. There's nothing wrong with preferring to be warm and
within decent range of a fire. Or some other light source." He pauses for
a moment, waiting for something. When Harry does nothing, Draco grumbles something
under his breath that sounds mostly made up of vowels, and reaches into his
robes. "Lu�"

"Don't."

It's fully dark now, but for the distant lights coming from the castle. Harry's
pretty sure they're fairy lights. Professor Lupin�he's always Professor, when Harry
thinks about the Dark Arts, never Remus�taught them that fairy lights are cool
and white, like muggle florescents, but without the harshness. They offer just
enough visibility that Harry can see when Draco sits up, eyes wide and shining.
"But I just�"

"I said don't." Something more seems to be required, some kind of
explanation other than Harry not wanting the spindly light from Draco's wand,
or the absolutely certainty that Draco won't argue with him. "I won't be
able to see the stars, if you do that," he adds lamely.

"Oh."

Draco remains sitting up, shivering slightly as a gust of wind dances over
them. He glances side-long at Harry, obviously wonder if a warming-charm is
more acceptable�but doesn't ask. It's past eight, Harry guesses, and he wonders
how much time they really have before reality intrudes. He likes lying here,
with Draco, letting the air brush against their skin as they do nothing at all.
He doesn't like the gradual hunch to Draco's shoulder, though. Or the shivering
Draco is trying to suppress.

So he puts a hand on Draco's shoulder and pulls him down beside him, arm around
his back, Draco's head resting on his shoulder. It's not comfortable. He can
feel his arm losing circulation already and Draco's head is heavy and hard
against the bones of his shoulder. But Draco's breath is warm against his neck,
his body gradually relaxing as Harry holds him there, refusing to let go, and
Harry discovers that actually, this is the most comfortable he's ever been in
his entire life.

"I don't understand," Draco says eventually. The words vibrate
through their bodies as well as through the air. "Snape doesn't like you.
At all. �Loathing' might be a good term to describe just how much he hates
you."

"But he needs me," Harry reminds him. Does Snape actually know just how
much he needs Harry? The prophecy has never come up once, not even between
Harry and Dumbledore, but he doesn't know how many people may already know
about it. "And he does like you."

"No, he doesn't. He likes my ... Oh." The hint of realization, bitter
and thick like a muggle pill caught in the throat, is painful to hear. "He
likes my father," Draco says seriously.

Harry presses his hand flat against Draco's back, feeling the knobs in Draco's
spine. It pushes Draco even closer to him, but Harry doesn't think Draco
objects. They're practically snuggling, Draco's leg creeping up Harry's until
their robes are tangled together and Harry is starting to think things he
desperately doesn't want to think right now. Not when he thinks that Draco's
finally going to talk.

"Did you know? That Snape is, um. What he is?" Harry asks, mostly to
distract himself from the warm pressure of a thigh resting on top of his.

"He wanted me to," Draco says idly, like his attention is focused on
something else. Maybe the feel of Harry's hip, pressed against Draco's inner
thigh, robes and two pairs of trousers thin protection? "I've known for
years, actually. I could never understand why I didn't tell my father about
him, but I suppose I wanted to keep my options open. Or maybe I guessed�"
Draco stops, going completely still. Harry expects this, though, and is already
bringing his other arm up, linking his fingers together so that he is holding
Draco tightly. The tension leaves Draco's body in a forceful sigh, cheek
nuzzling against Harry's shoulder in thanks. "I never did tell anyone, if
that's what you're worried about."

"It's not. Snape can take care of himself."

Draco's breath is warm and wet against his neck. Harry shivers every time Draco
inhales, the cool night air rushing in to chill the damp patch of skin.
Underneath pine and crushed grass and squid-infested waters, Harry can smell
the musk of another boy and something crisp and clean�shampoo? Soap? It doesn't
matter, except that it smells too good. Pressure grows in Harry's middle and he
knows that he has to push Draco away. Soon. He also knows that there's no way not
to hurt Draco, who won't understand anything but rejection. It isn't rejection,
Harry thinks frantically, not at all. Draco's body feels so good against his...

But Draco is trusting him and Harry doesn't want to betray that trust in any
way.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he blurts, suddenly. His body quakes
with the desire to stay exactly where he is, and the desperate need to move,
get away, flee from things he doesn't really understand. He holds onto the
thought that any sudden movements will sent Draco scuttling. "Er. The
stuff, back at the castle. Insulting people."

"Being my father's son?" Draco deduces, his tone bitter and scathing.
"Of course. Dumbledore said something that made me think. He's really not
a crazy old bat, is he?"

"Oh, he is. Totally barking, I think. But he's not weak, and he's not
stupid." And Draco will probably never know how much it hurts Harry to say
those words.

"No, he isn't. He just walked up to me one day, ineffably twinkling,
and started talking about rivalries and concentration and using lessons
properly." Draco snorts, amused as he taps a pattern on Harry's belly.
"I thought he was just being barmy, again. It wasn't until I got back to
my common room that I figured it out. They were scared. Everyone was
scared, even Slytherins. Even the ones who knew they'd be Death Eaters like
their parents. So I�made them stop being so scared."

"You did good, Draco. Er, brilliant, I mean." Harry's skin flushes,
scalding hot, and Draco shifts restlessly against him. "I've never
actually watched you go after people, before. Mostly I was too busy being got
after, myself." He tugs Draco's hair lightly, teasing, and feels the skin
against his shoulder shift and bunch�does that mean Draco's smiling? He hopes
so. "You're really good at it, if that's complimentary. Skilled. It was
like watching a general or a�a surgeon, or something."

"A surgeon? Isn't that a fish?"

A�Harry laughs, grateful for the change in atmosphere, using it to push both of
them into an upright sitting position. It takes a great deal of effort to
actually let go of Draco, but he thinks the movement looks natural enough.
"No, that's a sturgeon. A surgeon is a, um, muggle healer. They cut into
you and fix things inside you to make you better."

Draco makes a face, shadows growing more pronounced against skin that glows
sickly pale in the moonlight, until his face looks almost grotesque. "They
cut into you? Potter, that's barbaric!"

"It isn't, really. They use lasers�beams of light that are very sharp and
hot�and they can fix nearly anything, nowadays." He doesn't mention
Dudley's laser removal of a pig-tail. Draco's comments are not specifically
negative towards muggles, yet, and Harry doesn't want to encourage any
deviation. "It's not graceful, maybe, or as easy as Madam Pomfrey waving
her wand and giving us a nasty-tasting potion. It works, though. It's not ... bad."

"No. I suppose it isn't."

Harry blinks, staring almost cross-eyed at Draco as the other boy climbs to his
feet. That Draco has not retreated into his usual anti-muggle vitriol, Harry
has put to Draco wanting to keep on Harry's good side, or maybe Draco wanting
to make his own decisions or something Harry hasn't thought of�but he never,
truly never, expected to hear Draco sound so thoughtful as he discussed muggle
doctoring. Even appreciative. Harry has not considered that Draco's
changed opinion about Voldemort also means a changed opinion about muggles. For
some reason, that thought never even occurs to him.

"How can light be sharp?" Draco asks suddenly.

"Er." Harry searches his memory and comes up with an image of
different colors of light bouncing off oddly placed mirrors, nothing more. The word
�prism' tantalizes him. "I don't know, really. We only had one class about
lasers when I was in muggle school, and I was only about seven years old. I
doubt they really explained the physics of it to us, even if I could remember
it."

"Ah, yes, muggle school." There's the derision Harry is waiting for,
but Draco shocks him by asking, "What was that like?" They begin
walking back towards Hogwarts castle, Harry idly searching the grounds for a
root or weed they cannot see in the dark. They'll be yelled at, of course, for
returning empty handed but Harry expects that and isn't worried. "Was it
like Hogwarts?"

"Sometimes." Harry skips over memories of Dudley sticking his head
down toilets or Dudley's friends pushing him around, instead relating what the
classes were like and some of the subjects they were taught as the boys veer
away from the main doors to head towards the Quidditch pitch, instead. They're
too busy talking to go back inside, yet. "It wasn't really that different,
I guess," Harry sums up. "We just learned muggle stuff instead of
magic. We didn't have the houses, though, but that could be because I wasn't at
a boarding school."

Draco sniffs at him. "No Quidditch?"

"Er, there were other sports, but�no. No, there's no Quidditch
there."

They share a look of perfect rapture, grateful that they are in a world where
they do get to play Quidditch. There's more illumination, this close to
the castle, and Harry can see Draco's eyes light up with happiness. He's never
seen Draco happy before and continues staring far too long, enthralled
by the picture Draco makes. He's very pretty this way, all smooth skin and
boyish enthusiasm, without a sneer to mar his features. His lips are soft and
pink and Harry leans closer to them, too caught up in his studies to realize
he's too close.

"Harry! Hey, 'arry!"

They immediately spring apart, Harry grabbing Draco's hand and pulling him
slightly behind his body�at least, until he realizes the large shape moving
towards them is Hagrid. Who can see that Harry is holding Draco's hand.

He drops it as if the skin of Draco's palm is scalding.

When Draco inhales sharply, Harry starts mentally cursing himself.

"Er, hi, Hagrid," he babbles, wincing and wishing he could turn
around and explain himself. "What're you doing around here?"

"Could be askin' you boys that," Hagrid says. He's eyeing the two of
them curiously, but Harry is far more concerned with the way Draco is shrinking
more and more behind him. "It's a bit late to be out, in'it?"

"We're on detention. For, er. Snape sent us out here to find atlas weed,
or root, except that we can't so we were just going to go back. It's cold out
and�and Malfoy's going to catch sick. He'll never let me hear the end of it, if
he does."

"Is that what he's been telling yeh?" Hagrid's expression is suddenly
dark and scowling, and Harry has the unique opportunity to see Draco
face the kind of immediate, hateful assumptions that he has received from Snape
for years. Behind him, Draco bristles the way Harry has always done, furious
and frustrated because any backtalk only brings about more punishment. It's
confusing, really. Harry wants to be gleeful, satisfied to see Draco finally
face this kind of thing, smugly happy to not be the accused for once.. Except
he also wants to step in front of Draco and tell Hagrid to back off. After all,
it is cold out, and the damp air from the lake means that there is a
very real (if slight) chance Draco could become sick. Harry doesn't want that.
He'll probably be annoyingly demanding to care for, Harry unconsciously
assuming that he'll be the one to nurse an ill Draco back to health.

"It's bloody freezing out here," Draco spits out. He steps out
from behind Harry's body, posture straight and regal once more, mask firmly in
place. If the circumstances were better, Harry might be fascinated to watch the
transformation. "If this weren't detention, I wouldn't be caught dead with
you peasants." His hand brushes against Harry's as Draco stomps away,
muttering imprecations under his breath.

"Yeh all right, Harry?"

Harry nods, wishing he is as good an actor as Draco because it's hard to look
the way he thinks he's supposed to look now. Forced to spend several hours in
Malfoy's company�there should be scowling and dark mutters and possibly a
mirrored black eye. Harry manages the scowl, but only just barely; he's
certain, based on Hagrid's confusion, he looks constipated more than anything
else. "Fine. I've got to get back. Professor Snape's going to be upset
that we didn't find the plant. He'll probably give us even more
detention," he adds with what he hopes is the right combination of
sullenness and morose acceptance.

"Eh, buck up, Harry!" Hagrid's hand comes down, patting his shoulder
hard enough that Harry fears it will dislocate. "I'll talk to him, mebbe,
see if I can tell him how awful Malfoy was bein' t' yeh. Dunno how yeh put up
wit' him for so many hours, out there by yerself."

Yes. Hours and hours they talked and ... cuddled by the lake. All very
traumatic. Harry obviously needs ice cream to console himself after such
awfulness.

Harry chooses not to respond to Hagrid's comments and instead turns to make his
way back to the castle. He tries to make each step heavy and despondent, as if
he does not want to return for his inevitable punishment, when what he really
wants to do is run all the way there to make sure Draco has arrived safely. He
knows, intellectually, that there are no gopher holes to trip Draco's feet and
that nothing's snuck past Dumbledore's protections. Draco is fine. But
Harry desperately wants to explain himself and apologize so there's no
misunderstanding between them. He doesn't want Draco to think ... well, all
kinds of things, really. Not that it matters, since Hagrid falls in step�a
surprisingly slow step, since normally Harry has to jog to keep up with Hagrid.

"Didn't fight again, did ya?" Hagrid asks.

"No. We didn't fight."

"Well, that's alright then, innit? Be out of detention in no time!"

Harry lets Hagrid chatter at him, just barely convincing him to leave before
Harry arrives at the front doors. He doesn't want Hagrid and Snape interacting
if he can help it, the two of them far more like the oil and water Harry and
Draco used to be. It takes a promise of a visit this coming weekend�detention
permitting�but finally Hagrid heads back down to his little hut while Harry
crosses the stone threshold to the castle itself.

Snape is waiting for him, fairy light curling around the edges of his black
robes and blacker hair until he looks haloed. It makes looking at him
difficult, a terrifying visage, dark and sinister despite the almost golden
quality of the light�which is probably why Snape has chosen this particular
pose. The man does enjoy playing up to his audience, Harry thinks with an
internal snort, and simply stares at him. "We didn't find it."

"So Mr. Malfoy informed me. Pity. I thought he, at least, might be
persuasive enough overcome your inabilities."

There's a game here, something hidden within the couched words, the silken,
unctuous tone, but Harry's not the one who's good at making words dance or
decoding the meanings within each step. That is Hermione's forte, proved way
back in first year with Snape's riddle, but Hermione isn't here and Harry isn't
going to tell her anything about this night or this conversation. Instead he
settles for making his flat look even flatter. He can't risk a glare,
unfortunately; it just isn't effective.

"We'll go back out tomorrow night," Harry snaps, tired and testy now
that Draco's gone again, where Harry can't see him. "Surely you can wait
twenty four hours."

"That assumes that you will find my plant tomorrow, Mr. Potter. A
dangerous assumption to make."

Harry's mind whirls, trying to tread in choppy waters, coming up with
explanations and suppositions and not a single clever response. Or maybe a
dangerous one? A soft breeze curls through the court yard, throwing light into
Snape's eyes�and Harry abruptly stops caring. This is a game to Snape, who is
eagerly awaiting Harry's response. If Snape wants to play games, he thinks
grimly, then he can find someone else to play them with. Harry knows what his
priorities are, and Snape isn't among even the top ten.

"If you've something to say, then say it." Harry's proud of how level
his voice is. "Otherwise, it's late, Professor, and it's getting chilly
outside. I'd like to go and get warm."

Snape folds his arms across his chest, the light making his greasy, pock-marked
face shine. It's a disconcerting image, particularly when Snape's expression
goes perfectly blank�and Harry starts being frightened. The crueler, more
satisfied Snape looks, the more petty the next thing he'll say is. But when
he's blank, as if he wants to give nothing away, then, Harry's learned,
whatever Snape says is bad. Very bad. Harry swallows, all his lovely
maturity vanishing as he remembers that he is sixteen and no matter how awful
he thinks Snape is, the man still knows more than he about a lot of things.
Including fear.

"Yes, I suppose you should be well rested." The lack of Snape's usual
sickeningly satisfied purr makes Harry's stomach knot itself. "The
Headmaster has requested that he take over some of your detentions, Mr. Potter,
which you will be serving on the weekends. Alone."

Harry gulps, aware of each drop of blood as it drains from his face. No. Oh please
no.

Snape's grimace is the closest thing to sympathy that he can manage; Harry is
too frightened to hate him for it. "It's time for your training to truly
begin."
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

All the Proud Shall Be