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Let Me Be Your Voice	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8661 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers: Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
The first few weeks of school passed uneventfully. Harry found the best way to deal with his many admirers was to just be himself. As soon as the other students saw that he didn’t respond to praise or sucking up, but was quiet for the most part and seemed to struggle in his lessons as much as the rest of them, they got over the hero worship pretty quickly.

Harry spent a lot of time considering Malfoy. He didn’t track him as he had in their sixth year because Malfoy made no attempt to hide. He showed up to his lessons as scheduled, ate his meals in the Great Hall and spent his evenings studying in the library. He kept to himself for the most part, and even Blaise and Pansy seemed to leave him alone.

The strangest thing about Malfoy this year, though, was that Harry had yet to hear him utter a single word. This phenomenon intrigued Harry, and he found himself paying close attention to Malfoy whenever they were in the same room together, trying to figure out what was going on with him.

Malfoy ignored Harry, to Harry’s chagrin. He seemed entirely unaffected by Harry’s constant watching.

One night in the common room, Hermione approached Harry while he was Malfoy-watching, pretending to study.

“Harry, may I speak to you outside?” she asked.

He looked up, surprised to see her. “Yeah, of course,” he said, shaking the clouds from his mind. He followed her into the deserted hallway.

“You seem to have taken up your obsession with Malfoy right where you left off,” she said, sounding strained.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, knowing full well he was entirely far too engrossed with Malfoy.

“Harry. You aren’t stupid and I know you know what I’m talking about. Just try and be a bit more discreet, will you? People are talking. They think you’re watching him because he’s plotting something like before. It’s worsening our attempts at uniting the houses. Just let him be.”

“Right,” Harry said. “I just wish I knew why he doesn’t talk.”

Hermione breathed heavily, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you go up and ask him?” she suggested. “Anyway, there’s a meeting scheduled in the common room tonight after dinner. Mrs. Weasley will be there, and I’m certain she’s expecting you; so don’t miss it.”

She turned and went back to the common room, closing the door behind her.

~x~

Later that night, the eighth-years gathered together in the common room, Mrs. Weasley sitting in a comfortable arm chair turned towards them away from the fire, while Slughorn stood facing them, warming his large backside in front of the hearth.

“I suggest we have a party,” Seamus piped up. “In my honest opinion there’s no better way to foster, um, what d’ya call it?”

“Inter-house cooperation,” Hermione supplied.

“Yeah, that’s the word,” Seamus agreed. “We can have it here and invite the seventh-year students. It’ll be a blast!”

Molly Weasley tapped her quill against the clipboard she held in her lap thoughtfully. “What about the rest of the students?” she asked. “Don’t you feel like they may feel left out?”

“Oh, Molly,” Slughorn chuckled jovially. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Finnigan. The best way to shake things up and get people talking is a celebration.”

“Aww, go on, Mrs. Weasley,” Dean Thomas quipped. “They can plan their own party or we can have another later on, after we’ve seen how well this one goes.”

Mrs. Weasley raised her eyebrows at Dean. “I’ll remind you to address me as Professor, Mr. Thomas,” though her voice was kind and amused. “I think a party isn’t entirely out of the question, but I want to make it perfectly clear now, that if we do this, it must abide by school rules. That means there will be no alcohol consumed. Do I make myself clear?”

Seamus led a group of the eighth-years in a slew of groaning agreement.

“Surely a little bit of spirits could be allowed,” Slughorn suggested, winking at the groaning students. “I mean, most of the students are of age, after all.”

Mrs. Weasley ignored him. “Furthermore, the seventh-year students will need to be back in their dormitories by curfew.”

More groaning followed. Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, looking at Professor Slughorn’s frowning face. She sighed. “I will speak to Professor McGonagall about extending their curfew to eleven o’clock for one night.”

Dean rocked his elbow into Ron’s side. “Your mum is really cool, mate!” he laughed.

Harry noticed Mrs. Weasley’s face go pink at the compliment. He was surprised she was being as receptive to their idea of a party as she was.

He watched Malfoy from the corner of his eye, get up and wander to their dormitory, unnoticed by the rest.

“…Harry dear?” He heard the tail end of a question put to him by Mrs. Weasley.

“Sorry?” he said, turning his attention to her. “What was that?”

“I said I think things should go perfectly smoothly with you in charge. Would you like to lead your classmates in planning this party?”

“Not really,” Harry answered. He noticed Seamus’s face had grown sullen. “I nominate Seamus Finnigan as party planner,” he said, having a burst of inspiration.

Mrs. Weasley appeared slightly surprised at Harry’s refusal, but Hermione took her focus off him. “I second the nomination and volunteer to assist.”

Mrs. Weasley seemed pleased. She smiled fondly at Hermione. “That’s very good of you, dear,” she said, and Harry stopped listening.

“I’ve got to use the loo,” he whispered to Ron, who shrugged, mortified by his mother and fiançée planning a party with Seamus in charge.

Harry got up and left the group, making his way as quietly as possible down the hall to his dormitory. He was about ready to push the door open when he heard cursing coming from within, followed by a loud thump against the door.

“Stupid Ministry-issued piece of shit!” Malfoy swore. “I swear I’d prefer death over this hell!”

Harry pushed the door open to find Malfoy lying flat on his back on his bed. The limited-use Ministry-issued wand lay at Harry’s feet on the floor. He stooped to pick it up.

“Everything all right in here?” he asked. “I heard you shouting.”

Malfoy glared at Harry in response, but said nothing. He rolled onto his side facing away from Harry.

Harry felt foolish for hoping Malfoy would act any differently. He crossed the room and put the wand on Malfoy’s bedside table, his eyes drawn to the curve of Malfoy’s arse and the way his jumper had hitched up at the back, pulling his shirt up and revealing a pale sliver of skin.

He jumped when Malfoy turned over suddenly, staring at Harry with fury in his eyes, as if to tell him to mind his own business.

“Why don’t you talk in front of anybody any more?” Harry blurted out, hoping to get Malfoy to answer him or even to just yell at him to fuck off.

Harry waited, then realising Malfoy wasn’t going to answer, he went on. “It’s not the same around here without you spouting off and rubbing your superiority into everybody’s face. Why don’t you talk?”

Malfoy gave Harry a look that Harry read as him saying are you fucking kidding me? I didn’t exactly come out smelling like a rose. You think having me pick fights is going to go over well?

“Yeah,” Harry said, as if Draco had spoken. “I see your point. I just don’t like the way you’ve seemed to have given up. It’s like you’re not you any more.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He picked up the limited-use wand and pointed it at Harry, face drawn in a frown. Nothing happened. He dropped his arm, defeated, and sat down on the edge of his bed staring at the wand. Without a word, he pulled his bed curtains closed around him and Harry heard him whispering a spell.

He reached out, to try to talk to Malfoy once more, but realised the curtains had been fixed with an Imperturbable Charm.

~x~

“What has happened to Draco Malfoy?” Harry asked Professor McGonagall the next morning. She’d taken to calling him to her office on a weekly basis for a chat.

“What?” McGonagall asked. “You know as much as I do, Potter. You were at his trial this summer.”

“No, I mean, why has he stopped talking in front of people? You have noticed, haven’t you? I mean, he doesn’t even participate in lessons.”

McGonagall’s face grew troubled. “Well,” she started. “Of course, I am aware of Mr. Malfoy’s performance, but…”

“Talk to Harry about it, Minerva,” Dumbledore’s portrait said from behind her. “He may be able to assist.”

The neighboring portrait of Snape scoffed at the suggestion, but said nothing.

McGonagall put her clasped hands on top of her desk and fixed Harry with a concerned gaze. “Frankly, he’s not going to be able to sit his NEWTs if things don’t change soon,” she told him. “He hasn’t handed any assignments in as of yet, and when I ask him to show me what he’s working on, for he does spend hours working in the Library, the scrolls are covered in illegible scribbles. I’ve even called him up here to talk to Albus and Severus, but he stares straight ahead and refuses to speak. I’m afraid I’m at as much of a loss as you are.”

Harry frowned. “I talked to him last night,” he said. “Or rather, I overheard him shouting about how much he hated everything and how he’d rather be dead than here, but when I asked him about it, he refused to answer me.”

McGonagall moved her chair to the side so Harry could see Dumbledore and addressed the portrait. “Well, you see he can speak, Albus, but chooses not to.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore’s portrait asked. “When you said you overheard Mr. Malfoy, did you see him speak, or did you just overhear him?”

Harry felt his face begin to colour. “Well, I wasn’t planning to eavesdrop or anything,” he explained. “I heard him through the dormitory door as I was about to enter.”

The portrait of Snape scoffed again. Harry glared at the rendition of the greasy-haired Snape. “I cleared your name too, you know,” he said bluntly.

Snape sneered and walked out of his frame.

Dumbledore’s voice continued as if he hadn’t noticed the exchange. “It could still be a curse,” he said thoughtfully. He looked at Harry down his long nose. “Harry, would you be willing to put aside your past with Mr. Malfoy and consent to assist him in his lessons? I don’t know that he will accept your assistance, but if his attitude doesn’t change, I’m afraid he will have to go back to Azkaban for not fulfilling his end of the agreement with the Ministry.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’ll help as much as I can.”

“Potter,” McGonagall said, calling Harry’s attention to herself once again. “I will speak with your professors about the assignment. On another note, have you put any thought into the speech you’ll be giving at the dedication ceremony?”

~x~

It wasn’t until his last lesson of the day, eighth-year Potions, that the assignment was implemented. Malfoy did not seem pleased when he and Harry were called into the hallway by Slughorn before starting that day’s potion, and told they would be partnered in all their lessons.

Harry sat chopping tentacula roots into cubes while Malfoy added wartcap powder to their cauldron. They had been assigned to make an ink-repelling potion to be used to treat the desks in the Ancient Runes classroom.

They worked in silence, until Harry tried to add the roots to the potion. Malfoy caught his wrist, and pointed at the Potions textbook spread open before them.

“Oh,” Harry said, reading. “It needs to stew for five minutes first. How long until then?”

Malfoy looked at his wristwatch and held up two fingers. Then he noticed the foxglove seeds Harry had harvested from a stem. He pulled the pile towards himself and began peeling the outer layers off.

Harry watched Malfoy’s long fingers work, entranced by the delicateness of his hands. Malfoy stopped and leaned to his right, scribbling a note on a piece of parchment Harry couldn’t see because the cauldron was blocking it.

“What are you writing?” Harry asked, but Malfoy held up a finger as if to say, Give me a minute, you idiot, before the cauldron explodes.

Malfoy scooped the cubed tentacula roots into the cauldron and stirred it three times clockwise, followed by one counter-clockwise turn, then jotted another note down on his parchment. He pointed to the potions book and Harry read: “Allow the tentacula roots ten minutes to boil before adding the foxglove seeds.”

“Right,” Harry said, craning his neck to get a look at Malfoy’s notes, but Malfoy folded the parchment in half and stood up, starting to clear their workspace by taking the leftover ingredients back to the potions cabinet. He looked at Harry impatiently. “Oh, yeah. I’ll help clear up.”

Once Malfoy had stepped away, Harry hesitated half a second, and then shoved the folded parchment Malfoy had left into his pocket and gathered the rest of the ingredients, then followed Malfoy to the cabinet.

Once they returned to their potion to stir in the final ingredient, Harry felt himself sweating a bit, hoping Malfoy wouldn’t realise his notes were gone, but he needn’t have worried; Malfoy didn’t seem to miss them.

Slughorn dismissed them after the bell rang, and Harry tried to help Malfoy finish clearing up. Malfoy gave him an exasperated look and pointed to Ron and Hermione on the opposite side of the room. Harry felt like he could hear Malfoy’s voice in his head tell him: Go on and catch up with your little friends, Potter, before Granger has an anxiety attack.

Hermione was looking at him, slightly agitated. He turned back to Malfoy. “Right, I’ll catch up with you in the dormitory later, and then we’ll sort out how to write up our essay.”

Malfoy threw up his hands as if Harry was being dimwitted, and turned away, but not before Harry noticed the smirk was back on Malfoy’s lips. He was glad to see it again.
- 6
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- 8
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Let Me Be Your Voice