Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17755 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 8: Unexpected and Unrequested
‘I won’t take no for an answer, this time. You’ve got no excuse. And ‘I’m scared’ is included in that.’
‘Draco, I never said I was scared. Just that I thought it was a little too dangerous to be appealing.’
‘And that’s why I waited for it to snow. There, you’ve got a cushion if you fall.’
Point out of the window before them, Draco gestured to the smooth white flatness that spanned the school’s grounds, untarnished as yet by footprints. In truth, it had been snowing for a couple of weeks now, but only as the end of term drew steadily closer – barely a week remained – and the teacher’s began to lighten their work loads had they been afforded the opportunity to really revel in the winter season.
Harry followed his gaze, expression faintly dubious. ‘I doubt it would be deep enough to really do much good at cushioning fall of any substantial distance.’
‘And that’s why I’m telling you, I’m going to be with you the entire time. Worst case scenario, one or the other of us casts a levitation charm to catch you if you fall. We’ve both gotten pretty good with them.’
Draco flashed the shorter boy a winning smile. It was only a matter of time, really, before Harry accepted the inevitable and they were out on the quidditch pitch. He may make excuses, may logically deduce a number of reasons not to participate, but he never actually refused outright. It was a strange habit Draco had noticed in him, not entirely unappealing, and definitely beneficial, especially when Draco sought to get his own way. Like now.
‘Look, just give it one go, and if you don’t enjoy it I won’t pester you anymore. As the Slytherin ex-seeker it is basically my duty to ensure everyone in my acquaintance has at least made an attempt at flying.’ As Harry still gazed, considering, out the frost-covered window, Draco drew his winning card. ‘Please?’
Turning from the picturesque scene, Harry’s face softened into that small smile, so faint it was barely there except for the fact that Draco knew it to be. He’d won. As much was apparent in that moment. He felt his smile widen in triumph. Harry could never deny a ‘please’.
‘Alright, but I’ve got to go and get another jacket or something from Featherwood’s rooms. I’m not good with the cold.’
‘I know. But no, you don’t. Magic, Harry. There’s a reason we have it.’
With that, Draco led the way through the corridor with striding confidence, firm in his belief that Harry would follow. A faint sigh, followed by soft footfalls confirmed his belief.
It truly was cold when the pair stepped outside. The chilling breeze wasn’t strong enough to pose a threat to Draco’s long-anticipated flying lesson, but the iciness of the Scottish winter drew clouds of fog with each of their breaths and immediately brought a shiver to shoulders and a red flush to pale cheeks. Quickly drawing his wand, Draco cast a Warming Charm over himself, then Harry; though competent enough himself, Harry rarely took the initiative in casting magic. He claimed he had lived ‘too long without it to be his first port of call’ for such mundane tasks.
Facing the waiting figure beside him, Draco beamed in barely suppressed excitement. ‘Right. Quidditch pitch. I’ve asked Blaise if we could borrow his broom and he said we could, so long as it isn’t returned it in splinters.’
Harry huffed a soft sigh, something that Draco had come to understand was a little like a laugh in the other boy. ‘The fact that he even thinks that such a possibility is a foreseeable outcome doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t be too upset if you happened to crash the broom. So long as you replaced it.’
‘You’re not helping, Draco.’
The blonde laughed as he led the way towards the distant, towering bleachers. He could honestly say that, after months of Harry’s company, he found that he truly enjoyed spending time with the other boy. He was unlike anyone he had ever met, and that wasn’t a bad thing in the slightest. When he came to the realisation that Harry wasn’t expressionless, that he didn’t simply lack the capacity for emotions but instead kept them mostly hidden, expressing them in a subtler way, it made the newcomer even more interesting. It hadn’t been initially apparent to Draco, but the realisation that there was more to the other boy than simple blankness made him infinitely more intriguing.
The additional realisation that Harry possessed a tailored wit, was sarcastic even, yet affixed his poker face so firmly that it was at first unnoticeable, was even more delightful. Though he lacked the maliciousness that Draco at times found himself prone to – not that he was particularly ashamed of the fact – they shared quite a bit in terms of a sense of humour. It made spending time with Harry, even had he not set himself the responsibility of ‘protecting’ him, enjoyable and not the chore that he had at times feared it would be. If only he could shift that strange flatness from his green eyes; it had become something of a goal to draw even the faintest expression from their glassiness. Even that faint, very faint, flicker or a smile left him feeling triumphant.
Draco wondered more than once if the veil Harry had drawn across his eyes had something to do with the incident in Defence Against the Dark Arts all those weeks ago. Or at least, that it was related to what had triggered it. For there had been such a distinct retreat from the brief glimpses into emotion, a retreat that was only recently turned about, that it seemed unfathomable that it could be unrelated. It irked him sometimes, that Draco still didn’t understand what had happened, or why. He had hoped that, in time, Harry would feel comfortable enough to confide in him, to explain even. Harry barely confided anything in others, rarely asked for help, even in such harmless cases as struggling with his schoolwork. Draco, and took it upon himself to learn to read the subtle hints that the other boy was struggling was struggling. He knew Hermione at least was attempting a similar attentiveness. Yet even so, there was not the slightest hint of an explanation.
Deep down, when he got over his affront, Draco knew it was a selfish desire on his part to know more. He knew that it was driven more by his own curiosity than any belief that he could truly assist with whatever had hurt his appointed-charge so badly. Draco didn’t know where such a curiosity had come from – why should he care? – but that didn’t seem to hold any sway over his continued inquisitiveness. Just as the knowledge that it was, admittedly, selfish barely soothed of his disgruntlement.
So instead, he simply sought to immerse himself in Harry’s company as thoroughly as he could. Each glimmering insight beneath the expressionless mask felt… warming, and that such expressionlessness was being chipped away more and more frequently, little smiles and the faintest quirking of facial features more noticeable, made every second he spent with Harry that much more enjoyable. It was like unwrapping a present, a gift of many layers. And Draco had always been partial to gifts. At times, he humoured himself by considering that he was something like a parent watching their baby smile for the first time, speak his first word or take his first steps. He knew he was ridiculously paternal in his protectiveness, but for some reason it didn’t really bother him. He wanted what was best for Harry – a decidedly un-Malfoy and very un-Slytherin sentiment – and if he could witness the smiling responses that such elicited it made it all the more worth it.
And right now, learning to fly a broomstick was definitely what was best for Harry. It was simply coincidental that it also satisfied some of Draco’s needs in the process.
‘I can’t believe that Muggles don’t have quidditch.’
Harry turned towards him, an eyebrow rising slightly in an expression that would have equated to an explosive and derogatory snort in anyone else. ‘Just how would you suppose that people without magic could play a magical sport?’
Draco shrugged. ‘Well, it’s just that… I know that there are other sports out there. It’s just that quidditch is definitely the primary source for of international leisure and entertainment. It just seemed so strange that you wouldn’t even know what it is.’
‘Have you ever played football before? Basketball? Tennis?’
Draco paused in their trek through the snow, a frown wrinkling his brow. His confusion didn’t entirely smother the glimmer of satisfaction he felt at the question, however. Not the words themselves, but the sentiment. Harry had only recently begun to ask questions himself when not in class, even as conversation segues. It gave Draco a warm feeling when he considered the simple change in the other boy. ‘What exactly is that?’
‘Those.’
‘What?’
‘Those. Three different sports. And that’s to say nothing of everything else: golf, baseball, lacrosse, volleyball, polo-‘
‘I know that one.’
A flicker of amusement twitched Harry’s lips. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
Draco grinned in sly amusement. ‘Oh? And what makes you say that?’
‘You’re a spoilt rich boy, Draco, you admit it yourself.’ His smile widened minutely at Draco’s falsely serious nod of agreement. ‘Not that I’m saying that all polo players are spoilt rich people but there is a certain stereotype. Of course you’ve heard of polo. I’m surprised you don’t play it, or do you use hippogriffs and ride in the sky?’
Laughing at the image, Draco shook his head. He would allow the jibe, sarcasm and all. ‘No, we play on simple horses, though I know they used to use unicorns before they were declared endangered. It was a much bloodier sport back then, I believe.’
Harry sent a pointed stare at him from the corner of his eye. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me either?’
Ignoring the dig and suppressing a smile with growing difficulty, Draco continued. ‘My father made sure I knew how to adequately sit a horse when I was six years old. I have to say, it never really held the appeal that quidditch does. It’s unnatural to ride on something with a mind of it’s own.’
‘So much more unnatural than riding on a flying broom?’
The grin spread across his face of it’s own accord. Draco sniffed pompously, attempting to reassert his control of the situation. ‘Infinitely.’
Harry huffed a breath of his own amusement in that little almost-laugh of his. ‘Well, I can’t say that I can truly picture you flying a broom in the sky, but it doesn’t seem any more fantastical than you sitting on a horse.’
‘I resent your judgment, Defaux! I am an exceptional rider.’
Harry offered another faint smile, ducking his head as though satisfied with Draco’s false affront. ‘But you didn’t like it?’
Cocking his head and gazing at the sky, Draco considered the question. ‘It’s not that I disliked it. I actually quite enjoyed the lessons. They were one of the few times my father acted with any semblance of affection in public.’ Memories drifted to the surface of the hearty laughter ringing across the arena, such a different sound when released from the private confines of walls. The warmth that cradled the memory was enough to erase the faint unease that gripped him at expressing his affection to openly. It was odd, talking to Harry. He seemed to elicit such responses in others; Draco had walked in on several such situations between the dark-haired boy and his caretakers on more than one occasion. People just seemed to confide in him. Draco put it down to his ability to remain silent at just the right moments. If nothing else, Harry was an adept listener.
This moment, though, Harry wasn’t silent. A soft hum drew Draco’s pondering attention to his companion. He couldn’t say for certain – Harry was hard to read at the best of times – but something akin to yearning, wistfulness even, clouded his face. The boy tilted his head as he returned the stare. ‘You really love your father.’
Even such a blunt statement didn’t give rise to flustered blathering or blatant denials from Draco as would have been elicited from just about anyone else. He simply shrugged, acknowledging the truth for what it was in much the same way he acknowledged Harry’s realisation of it. ‘You could say that, I guess. Most purebloods – and Slytherins, for that matter – attempt distance themselves from their families as little more than blood relatives. A ‘scarce affection breeds self-sufficiency’ sort of approach. ’ He stroked his fringe from his face; the chilling wind, though hardly strong, was merciless towards any attempts at styling. ‘I suppose my family would seem the same for most, to anyone who looked but… Pansy used to say that it was like we had an Eternity Bond, we cared so much for one another when out of the public eye. She naturally thought it quite horrifying, but I can’t say I would be opposed to it.’
‘Eternity Bond?’
Nodding, Draco let his gaze drift back towards the gradually nearing quidditch pitch and the showers and locker rooms squatting behind them. ‘It’s something of a fabled bond, and not widely known to any save pureblood families – it’s just that old. I suppose most people think it’s only a figment of legend because the details are so hazy. Supposedly, the bond is the embodiment of pure love, though no one actually knows whether it’s actually specifically linked to familial love. Its just that all records indicate the bond occured between family members, a sort of loyalty thing. Some think that it was used as a way to induce compulsive servitude in a particularly faithful slave. Or a loyal son to his father.’ Turning towards Harry, he offered a cynical smile. ‘You can see why Pansy thought it rather a snide allusion.’
Harry didn’t look at him, his own gaze fixed upon his feet as they slushed though the snow and a slight frown crinkling his forehead. He seemed in serious contemplation, the sort of expression that Draco noticed he sometimes adopted when uncovering a particularly interesting magical fact. He could pinpoint the instances now.
‘It sounds beautiful.’
Pausing in surprise, Draco was nearly left behind as the dark-haired boy continued in his stride. Utilising the extra length of his legs, he had to nearly break into a jog to catch up to him again. Silence hung between them for a moment, before, with more hesitancy than he cared to admit, Draco spoke. ‘Most don’t, but I’ve always thought so. If I had the opportunity…’
‘With your parents?’
Draco nodded. This time, he felt faint warmth in his cheeks. It was rather embarrassing, especially coming from a ‘cold-hearted Slytherin, but, as he had become accustomed to, talking to Harry could somehow take the embarrassment and draw it into the open, denying endless pondering and growth into mortification. ‘It’s said that it creates a sort of sixth sense awareness between the bonded partners: just knowing their location, feeling a shadow of their emotions… It would be reassuring, what with…everything.’
He had to clamp his lips together to halt the flow of confession. The heat grew more deeply in his cheeks and he resolutely refused to meet the gaze he could feel peering up at him. Harry’s soft, wispy voice overrode any growing denial on his part, however. ‘That would truly be wonderful.’
The words were spoken with true sincerity. Draco felt his internal struggle slip away like sand through his fingers and composure reassert itself. Dare he say that he felt better for voicing his feelings? Now that was embarrassing.
Offering a smile of gratitude, Draco led the way into the stillness of the empty locker rooms that loomed above them. Harry trailed behind, gazing curiously around him at the reality behind the quidditch matches. They were nothing special – a series of interconnected, low-ceiling rooms that smelt faintly of dampness and lined with benches and cupboards – but Harry didn’t seem to mind. A fact that Draco was quite satisfied with.
Draco enforced the desperate need for his ward to accompany him to every match and, being that he had forsaken his seat on the team for ‘studying’ purposes, Draco could join him. He hadn’t missed the amusement touched with faint awe that had played lightly across Harry’s face as he watched the game. It was in that moment, months ago now, that Draco decided Harry had to fly a broom.
Even non-quidditch players kept their brooms in the sports building. As such, Blaise’s broom was stashed right beside Draco’s, the polished wood of expensive make setting both brooms aside from their less impressive fellows. Snatching the two handles, Draco pointed with his chin towards the pitch, ignoring the still-sceptical expression Harry offered him. ‘Come on, let’s go. Hurrying would probably be a good idea; we won’t be able to fly when it gets dark.’
‘And what a tragedy that would be.’
Grinning at Harry’s muttered reply, Draco led them once more into the cold afternoon. ‘You say that, but you’ll like it. I guarantee.’
It was a strange experience, teaching someone the basics of flying. Draco felt like it was a skill he had always known; like breathing, flying wasn’t something he remembered ever learning. It was ingrained in him. Striding into the centre of the pitch, Draco offered a brief overview of how to sit, how to best set one’s balance, how to steer an admittedly unyielding vehicle. The best he could suggest, however, was just to ‘follow your instincts, feel the broom and let it lead you.’ At that, the scepticism upon Harry’s face became even more apparent. Draco wondered whether, if the wind blew just so, the expression would remain a permanent fixture.
‘Okay, well, just give it a go. We’ll start off the way that you’re supposed to do it.’ Placing Blaise’s broom on the ground beside Harry, he directed the other boy to place his hand just above the polished wood. ‘Now, this part is really telling of how well you’re going to do with the broom. All you have to do is say ‘up’ and the precision with which the broom rises into your hand should indicate…’
Draco raised an eyebrow as the dark wood settled easily into Harry’s hand. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t have to say anything, right?’ Harry only quirked his lips in response. ‘Whatever. Okay, let’s go then.’
Upon consideration, Draco would have had to say that Harry had flown before. He didn’t know when or where but the smaller boy was far too comfortable on the object that he still claimed was ‘maybe a little dangerous to be using without some sort of protection or supervision’. When they had overcome the halting attempts to reach an understanding of exactly how to launch oneself into the air from standing immobility, it had been too easy. Far too easy.
‘See! I told you you’d be fine.’ Draco called across the quidditch pitch as he swooped and dived, leading a far more elaborate route than that which Harry followed. In spite of his lack of dives and loops, Harry as remarkably relaxed in his seat and controlled the broom with relative ease. ‘Are you sure you’ve never flown before? For someone who claims that sitting fifty feet off the ground with only a broom beneath you is ‘too dangerous’, you certainly seem pretty comfortable. Not to mention actually being able to control the broom.’
Shrugging, Harry leant into the broom beneath him and brought it in a lazy dip before drawing it up again and rising. Yes, far too comfortable. ‘I don’t have much of a problem with heights; it just seems dangerous, being so high off the ground. As for controlling it… I’ve ridden a bike before, and that’s got its own level of danger and difficult handling, I suppose. Maybe that’s why.’
Draco frowned as the image of a Muggle bicycle fit itself into his mind. Dangerous? Hardly. ‘You honestly think a Muggle bike has anything on a broom?’
‘Have you ever ridden one before?’
‘No.’
‘Then how would you know?’
He didn’t smile, but Draco got the distinct impression that Harry was thoroughly amused at his expense. Snorting with a roll of his eyes, Draco turned another loop. ‘Alright, Defaux, enough chit-chat. The sun isn’t going to wait forever, and you haven’t even seen the best of what you can do with a broom.’
It was liberating, to fly once more. Draco had truly missed his time on the broom, and though he knew that, with everything else that he had going on this year, it was necessary to drop his spot on the Slytherin team, he felt the absence of quidditch sorely. The rush of wind in his hair, the gut-clenching thrill of plummeting rapidly through the sky, and the sheer freedom of being able to fly as fast and as high as he wanted. It was an experience Draco wouldn’t have exchanged for the world. Or he didn’t think he would have, only a year ago.
The pair flew for what seemed an eternity that was still too short. The chill of the wind rushing by Draco’s head was disregarded in the face of his enjoyment. He revelled in soaring rings around Harry, but with remarkable speed Harry soon made such taunting impossible as he looped and dived with increasing dexterity. Draco was impressed, to say the least. Who would have thought that the quiet, unassuming boy would have had the hardiness to dive within feet of the ground and pull out of the potentially crashing end with nary a flicker of fear? Well, maybe those who had seen him perform magic could have guessed, but even Draco was surprised. It was with no small amount of delight that he embraced this newfound partner in flight. No longer holding back, the Slytherin loosed his mellow pace and set about showing Harry what flying really was.
It had been far too long since he had flown with such joy.
Too soon, however, the faint pinkness on the horizon darkened to a purple that finally urged them from the air. Draco slung his leg with regret from the seat of his broom, casting a longing glance back into the evening skies. A sigh of regret pushed thick fog from his mouth.
Harry caught his gaze, cocking his head as a question quirked his eyebrows. Draco shook his head, turning back to the broom in his hands with a faint smile. ‘I miss flying.’ It felt like a confession.
‘Then we’ll have to do it more often.’
It was such a simple phrase, so unassuming in its straightforwardness, yet Draco felt a faint prickling in his eyes at the flicker of warmth that touched Harry’s words. Raising his eyes to meet those of the bespectacled boy’s once more, he offered a grateful smile when words failed him. The answering faint softness of Harry’s face spoke volumes. It was perfect, really, a perfect conclusion to the liberation of the afternoon. Draco doubted there could be anything to shatter his mood.
Until he saw the owl.
A flicker of movement from his periphery drew Draco’s gaze to the Forbidden Forest. Soaring rapidly just above the jagged tent of trees, an enormous, dark-winged bird soared towards the quidditch pitch. If Draco had any doubt as to the identity of the owl, the destination it sought would have removed any confusion. Draco and Harry were the only possible recipients of the envelope swinging from taloned claws, and Draco highly doubted it was for Harry. Harry never got mail.
The striped bird flew straight towards him. On reflex, Draco raised his arm, and the full, solid weight of the creature sagged his arm markedly, straining at his shoulder. Yellow eyes stared directly into his face, and the Draco could have sworn the glare was filled with sadistic satisfaction as the bird’s grip tightened painfully around his arm, cutting into his robes.
Consciously avoiding the sharp beak of the disgruntled creature, Draco slipped faintly trembling fingers towards the envelope tied firmly at its ankle. As soon as the twine uncurled from the scaled skin, the frowning creature tightened its grip once more, force building in its powerful legs, and launched itself back into the sky. Evidently, no reply was required.
Draco almost feared to meet Harry’s questioning gaze. He couldn’t offer a half-hearted explanation, waving the unexpectedness of the delivery off with carefree intent. For he knew, he just knew that it wasn’t good news that found him that evening. The sick feeling in his gut denied him even the chance to attempt such nonchalance, and Draco doubted that Harry would be fooled by the façade anyway. He never had been before.
Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, Draco pried the expensive parchment open, snapping the plain wax seal with a resounding crack.
Draco,
I have been informed of your development with the little project you have undertaken at school this year. My sister assures me that you have made great progress. I have not yet been to visit our friend in the quieter regions of Diagon Alley to witness its performance for myself, but I have no doubt as to the validity of your mother’s words. She have no reason to lie to me.
I write to inform you, my nephew, that our mutual Master is similarly satisfied. He admits the difficulty of this endeavour for a wizard not yet of age, but you have proved yourself up to the task. He wishes you peaceful holidays; unless you have something to add to your mother’s glowing report, he does not deem it necessary for you to impose upon his time. I expect you to use your break wisely, as befits a descendant of the House of Black. There is much that can be learnt from the Malfoy library, much that would undoubtedly aid our cause. You should familiarise yourself with it.
I must applaud you on your success so far, Draco, even as I am aware that your project is not yet complete. I look forward to partaking in the fruits of your labour, as I’m sure you do also. Your aunt eagerly awaits our reunion, and I pray that your success will only continue.
Be aware, my nephew, of our Master’s plans, and the implications of a failure of such plans. Should the goals of your assignment be unfulfilled, I expect you shall have a less than enjoyable summer to anticipate. Summer may, in fact, be rather long in coming for one who fails in such an important task.
Write me if you should feel the need to discuss further, Draco. I am always available to offer a listening ear.
Your Loving Aunt
Draco could barely read the finishing lines, his fingers shivering and trembling the paper so badly. He was aware of, and yet not registering, Harry’s soft queries, feel the motion of flowing air as he stepped closer towards him.
The letter was not the first he had received from his aunt. Nor was it the first that contained a sparsely hidden death threat, though Draco had to admit she was getting slightly more eloquent with her words. What truly unnerved him were the congratulations – his aunt and his ‘master’ were pleased with his apparent success so far. A success that, dare he even think it, was non-existent.
What had his parents been thinking? To claim that he was in any way progressing in fixing the accursed cabinet… They were signing his death warrant. What could possibly urge them to profess such a fallacy? The only benefit it would afford would be to by a scant offering of time –
The realisation hit him fiercely. Buying them time. If his failure was indeed as profound as he was beginning to suspect, then extending the inevitable was the best he could hope for. Had his parents felt the same? Was that why they had told his aunt, informed Him, that he was making progress when he had assured them both that he was making anything but? The prospect was terrifying.
Finally dropping the parchment, now heavy with meaning and horrifying potential, into his pocket, Draco raised his face to Harry. The other boy’s brow was furrowed with concern, something Draco had rarely seen before, but the novelty barely registered.
‘I…um… Sorry. I have to go.’
Harry was silent for a moment, eyes flickering between both of Draco’s. That expressionless flatness, so oddly penetrating and broken only by his faint frown, was enough to drive Draco to drop his chin and grit his teeth. Anything to hide the terror that was rapidly swelling within him.
Finally, with the same simplicity he always affected, Harry nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll put the brooms back.’ Reaching out, Harry pried the chilled wood from Draco’s fingers. His gloved hands brushed briefly against the Slytherin’s, a gesture that could have been accidental yet felt oddly intentional and comforting in its intent. Offering the ghost of a reassuring smile that Draco barely saw, Harry clutched both brooms to his chest and headed back into the darkness of the shadowed sports building.
Draco released a sigh that was nearly a sob upon Harry’s departure. The sudden blurriness of his vision made seeing now impossible, but that didn’t stop his from spinning rapidly and nearly running back towards the castle. He had to find Crabbe and Goyle. He had to work on the cabinet, because it wasn’t only his life that was at stake. It was also that of his parents.

He’d been avoiding just about everyone for a week now. Between attending classes and snatching some shut-eye, Draco spent every second he could in the Room of Requirement. Not that he slept much anyway. How could anyone sleep with the threat of death looming ominously over their shoulder? Still, more often than not, when he did sleep it was in the junk-room itself, slouched heavily against a pile of overturned ornaments or slumped in a dusty, moth-eaten couch. The resulting pained joints didn’t help the descending spiral of his mood.
He didn’t eat in the Great Hall. He barely ate at all, in fact. When he did, it was only when exhaustion drove him to the kitchens, the location of which was common knowledge to just about every Slytherin older than thirteen. The house elves fussed madly over him in their excitement, thrusting more food than he could eat in a lifetime into his arms before insisting he take more with him when he left. Draco was so withdrawn into his own thoughts that he couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by their attempts at servitude.
His absence had not gone unmissed. Blaise and Pansy cornered him at every chance they could, usually outside classes, and bombarded him with questions and exclamations of concern. Draco fended them off to the best of his ability, resorting to silences and even bursts of anger when all else failed. His friends only grew more frustrated, however, and seethed silently when ignored. It was possibly only the presence of Crabbe and Goyle, their constant companionship as silent and impersonal as ever, that reassured them that he wasn’t entirely cutting himself off from people in general. Not that the nearly-conjoined hulking boys offered much by way of friendship. Any attempts at developing the bonds that were so prevalent in their parents had been nearly dropped in recent years; any requests to join of Draco, Blaise and Pansy’s in their weekend plans was seen more as a duty of the trio than any friendship on their part.
Draco was not fooled into believing that their assistance with his ‘project’, as his aunt termed it, was anything more than a similar sense of duty on their part. He had not doubt that, just as Lucius had suggested he utilise their eyes and ears, Crabbe and Goyle Senior had both enforced as much of their children.
Blaise and Pansy were not the only ones that noted his abrupt change of attitude. Hermione had been the first of the Gryffindors to approach him, concern written deeply into the lines of her forehead, but she had been shortly followed by Neville, and even Ron. In Defence, he could feel Severus’s eyes upon him, and his godfather wasn’t the only teacher who had become abruptly attentive.
In fact, the only one who wasn’t remarkably changed in his attitude was Harry. That in itself was somewhat surprising, and his contemplation of what it meant had even drawn him briefly from his obsessive consideration of the Vanishing Cabinet. Aside from his initial show of concern when he had witnessed Draco receiving the letter from his aunt, Harry had been so normal in his interactions with the Slytherin that it was almost strange. He didn’t watch him with eyes of thinly veiled concern, nor ask questions Draco couldn’t possibly answer. He didn’t offer to help with homework as Hermione had done, nor attempt to bully answers out of him like Pansy. No, Harry acted as normal as Harry always had.
Truthfully, Draco couldn’t have asked for more. It was a relief to find that breath of normalcy in his world that had been unexpectedly reduced to the darkened state it had been over the previous summer break. At times, it was only the intermittent classes alongside the quiet boy that enabled him to keep his composure instead of dissolving into tears of fear and frustration.
It was his frustration that was so draining. No matter how long he spent in the Room of Requirement, the progress he made was barely perceivable. He could accurately note every crack and dent, every coil of carving and finely planed surface, yet the magical configuration of the portal remained as much a mystery as it always had. He had run his magical awareness over every aspect of the imposing structure for hours on end, and had only succeeded in reducing himself into a near hysterical state of panic. He was supposed to be good at cracking codes, at discerning the unexplainable, if his Ancient Runes marks were anything to go by. Apparently such skill made little difference, however. How was he supposed to fix something that he didn’t understand? And not only that, but as the end of term drew nearer, he became increasingly aware of the time he would be forced to take away from his rigorous study of the object. Perhaps he should stay at school this Christmas break? Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to face the possibility of confronting his Aunt Bellatrix, as she would most likely attempt to impose upon their space and drill him for the utmost details of his assignment.
On the last day of term, as afternoon slipped into night, Draco stood disconsolately in front of the Vanishing Cabinet once more. His head rested heavily against the hard, dark wood, the cool flatness likely leaving a mark on his pale forehead. Not that he cared. Not that he really cared about anything much anymore. It wasn’t like he was going to survive much longer anyway. He may as well forfeit his attempts now, given the sheer amount of time wasted in the room of discarded junk and lost items.
Pushing off from the sickeningly familiar hardwood, Draco turned towards the exit. He wasn’t sure how long he had spent in the Room today, but at this point he didn’t really care. He was exhausted, and if the brief glimpses in the warped mirror he passed on his retreat were any indication, he looked it too. Tired, worn, and utterly disconsolate.
With a sigh, he passed into the corridor, glancing half-heartedly either way to ensure no one saw his departure. Crabbe and Goyle, both disguised as first year boys today, glanced at him dispassionately. Nodding with a maturity that was entirely disconcerting on such young faces, the two offered not a word of farewell before starting in the direction of the nearest bathroom. Draco headed in the opposite direction.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when a sharp pain twinged on his left forearm. Wincing, cursing beneath his breath, he tugged the thick material up to his elbow and glared at the writhing dark tattoo that stained his skin. The coiling snake seemed intent on crushing his forearm in a resemblance to the snake it depicted. It caused Draco’s gut to clench uncomfortably. He didn’t know why it moved sometimes, or why it hurt on occasions that were becoming more frequent of late, but he hated it. Any reminder of his connection to the Dark Lord left him sickened. For it was more than simply a tattoo, a brand. It was a magical link to the monster, a sign of servitude that tied him on a deeper level than simple loyalty. Unbreakable, he was forever bound.
Glaring so intently at the mark as he was, Draco didn’t notice Harry’s arrival until the boy was standing right in front of him. When he did, he nearly leapt backwards in a bid to escape the sudden appearance of the other boy. He managed to restrain himself, though flinched violently under Harry’s gaze and rapidly covered his arm once more.
An awkward silence ensured. Well, awkward for Draco. Harry never appeared particularly uneasy with silences, and Draco frequently considered that the boy would be more likely to remain silent for the rest of his life than initiate a conversation. Oh, he talked when spoken to, but Draco didn’t think he could actually recall an instance where Harry had begun any form of communication.
Which was why he was startled once more when Harry spoke. ‘That, on your arm. What is it?’
The silence was static. As he struggled to recover from his surprise, dread set its claws instead into Draco’s gut. It was possibly the worst thing that he could have heard from Harry’s mouth. He had wanted desperately to keep his ultimate secret from his friends, from Harry, to hide his connection to the Dark Lord and conceal the utter hatred that was overridden only by his overwhelming fear. Childishly innocent Harry, who had likely never hated or even disliked someone in his life… Draco couldn’t imagine how the other boy would respond to his own hatred, but even he couldn’t be generous enough to abide the mind-wrenching loathing that consumed him.
‘It’s nothing, Harry. Just a tattoo.’
‘Just a tattoo?’ Harry cocked his head, wide eyes so reminiscent of his little familiar’s that it was disconcerting. ‘What sort of a tattoo causes you pain like that?’
Draco flinched. He had thought he’d hidden his pain quite well, to be honest. ‘It doesn’t hurt, I just… I was just thinking about something-’
‘No, Draco, it was hurting you. And not just physically.’ That odd intensity of Harry’s voice was unprecedented and Draco didn’t quite know how to respond to it. Coupled with the fact that Harry had actually interrupted him. Had he not maintained that expressionless mask, touched only ever so faintly with concern, Draco would have even suspected a Polyjuice potion he was so out of character.
Swallowing his growing unease, Draco dropped his chin. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Just leave it, Harry. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.’ His voice was unexpectedly harsh, a croaking whisper and he couldn’t quite keep the despair from ringing through his words.
It was because of his downcast eyes that Draco missed the darting fingers that snatched at his wrist, pulling his arm from its robed confines. With a startled cry, Draco made to snatch his arm back from its sudden abduction, but with a strength that seemed impossible in the slight boy, Harry maintained his grasp. It was only for the unconscious and slightly irrational fear of knocking the smaller boy over that he didn’t shake him off like a dog ridding itself of water.
Raising his gaze in horror to the bowed head before him, Draco was once frozen at the sight of the single-minded focus that seemed to still any motion in the corridor. How every little thing that Harry did managed to startle Draco was beyond him, but he couldn’t deny he was ensnared in the boy’s intensity as surely as a moth caught by a spider’s web.
Harry hovered over Draco’s arm, studying the writhing tattoo, almost glare. Except that Harry didn’t glate. Harry never glared. Then, with the fingers of his free hand, he grazed the surface of the skin with his fingertips. It left an oddly ticklish sensation, slightly uncomfortable in contrast to the persistent zaps of pain that continued to radiate from the mark. Draco flinched faintly and the fingers retreated.
A mumble whispered from Harry’s lips.
‘What?’
‘I said it feels…wrong. There is something wrong with this…’
Draco didn’t know what Harry meant. He could only watch as the boy moved even closer, as though studying at the finest details of the skull and noting every scale of the twisted snake. Moving slowly, trance-like, his fingers once more danced along the tattoo, tracing the marks.
The first thing to go was the pain. It cut off abruptly, like a curtain closing off a flood of merciless light and allowing soothing darkness to take its place. The sudden absence caused Draco to close his eyes in relief, and as such, when he fixed his attention back on Harry, the mark barely an inch from his nose, it was with dumbfounded shock that he noticed half of it had disappeared. And continued to disappear. Like ash flaking in a gust of wind, the darkness embedded beneath his skin dissolved, colouring the air in shadowy wisps briefly before dissipating and leaving not even a faint smudge on the paleness of his forearm in its wake.
The disappearance followed the faint trailing of Harry’s fingers, leaving no doubt as to what triggered the eradication. Within moments, only the skull remained, and then not even that. The final curve of a bony cranium, and then nothing. Only smooth, unblemished skin.
Harry released Draco’s captured wrist with a ragged sigh, closing his eyes and sagging slightly. Had Draco been more aware, less shocked perhaps, he would have taken more notice of the abrupt paling of the other boy’s face, the faint wavering and unsteadiness of his knees. As it was, he couldn’t have been more distracted. The pale absence of the mark filled his vision entirely; he had never thought to be free of the physical stain that branded him chained him to the Dark Lord, never since that day in the summer holidays months before. Wonder filled him, a liberating euphoria that was more prevalent even than the joy of flying.
A euphoria that was immediately capped by dread. Oh Salazar, if He finds out…if He realises what’s happened… Horror melted the stunned expression from his face, widening his eyes and instilling a terror even greater than that elicited by his approaching death. If He found out, He would kill Draco immediately. If he was lucky. Every Death Eater, and many who weren’t, was familiar with the extent of the Dark Lord’s lenience. And an open display of disloyalty to the Lord himself was one of the most deliberate ways to incur his wrath.
‘What…how…what did you do?’ Barely a whisper, choked into near silence, escaped Draco’s lips. He slowly raised his gaze to meet Harry’s.
The tiredness morphed abruptly into wariness. It was not a familiar expression to Draco, but looked all too comfortable on Harry’s face. A wariness that bespoke of readiness of flight. ‘I…it was hurting you Draco. I just wanted to make it stop…’
‘Do you…even…you can’t know what this means. Oh God…’ An intense panic clawed at his throat, throbbing behind his eyes. He closed his eyelids and clasped a palm over his face. What am I going to do? I’m dead!
‘I… I’m sorry, Draco, I didn’t mean to… I don’t know why… I just wanted to help you…’ Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper itself, and strangled off into something that sounded like a sob. It was so unexpected, that gasp of emotion, a sound that Draco hadn’t heard since that day in Defence, that it broke through the chaotic cloud of jumbled thoughts in his mind.
With shaking fingers, the Slytherin dropped his hand from his face, opening his eyes. Only to see a flicker of movement at the end of the corridor as Harry disappeared from sight. The boy could move fast, that was for sure.
Dropping his arms to his sides, Draco stood numbly in the middle of the empty walkway. The break in his unleashed terror had placed a measure of control back into his grasp. He struggled to keep a firm hold of it, as he worked out his thoughts.
Calm, remain calm. You’ll be useless if you let your fears get the better of you. It’s not as conclusive as it seems. In fact, as Draco considered, the act may not have been as conclusive in itself at all. There was nothing to say that the Dark Lord was aware of his ‘traitorous’ actions. And if Draco had his way, he would keep it as such.
Because if he could… it meant that he was unchained. He was unchained, anyway. His father still maintained his mark, and both Draco and his mother were bound to the Dark Lord by their loyalty to parent and husband, but he, Draco, was free. The realisation was as breathtaking as it was terrifying.

The enthusiastic tooting of the train’s engine smothered any attempts at conversation. Not that the Hogwarts students didn’t try, of course, leading to an even louder cacophony of noises on the platform. Thick, white smoke hung over the bustling students as they wove amongst one another, heaving trunks and bird cages and largely getting in each other’s way.
Draco wove amongst the churning mass of young wizards and witches with single-minded focus. Taller than most of his fellows, he gazed across the sea of heads in search of one familiar face in particular. Already absented of his trunk, he made rapid progress from one end of the platform to the other. Unfortunately, even his advantage failed to aid in his search. The face he searched for was not found.
Growling in frustration, the blonde turned towards the train. Maybe Harry had already boarded, had found himself a seat on the train? Most likely in my own cabin. The thought was tinged more with fondness than irritation, however, and Draco even admitted to himself that he would be rather happy to find the slight boy waiting for him there. How different from their first meeting months before.
Draco had calmed substantially since the previous evening. Taking himself immediately to his dormitory, he had worked at regaining his shattered composure for most of the night, running through options and likely outcomes in his head. He had even managed a few hours of sleep, which in itself was impressive given how energetic his brain seemed to be. When he had awoken the next morning, he had concluded that this unlikely and impossible event could in fact benefit him. If he used it wisely. If his secret wasn’t already betrayed from the moment it came into being. He just had to be smart.
The next thought was that he needed to talk to Harry. The mournful words the other boy had left him with upon their departure still rung in his head. He had never heard Harry sound like that before, and profess as he might how much he wanted the other boy to show him more emotions, that one wasn’t quite so welcoming. Draco knew he had to find his ward; if not to see if he was alright, then to at least explain, to thank him even. The unbreakable chain of the Dark Mark had been broken, physically and, as far as he could tell, magically. He didn’t know exactly what that entailed, freedom or a rapidly approaching doom, but that wasn’t important. How many reformed Death Eaters could claim to have experienced as much?
So, of course, Draco had been rehearsing his prepared speech the entire way to the platform, after a quick glance in the Great Hall that morning had proved to be a fruitless search. And, of course, just when he had adequately prepared himself, the strange boy he had taken to so completely over the past months was nowhere to be seen. It was utterly vexing.
‘Draco?’
Dropping his gaze from where they scanned once more over the heads of his fellow students, Draco met Hermione’s eyes. The bushy-haired girl peered up at him with a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness. Draco admitted to feeling a twinge of guilt well up within him. He had been hardly fair to the girl these past days of madly working on the Vanishing Cabinet. He was surprised to realise that he worried that their amicable relationship was damaged irreparably. Muggleborn or not, he… enjoyed her company.
‘Hello, Hermione.’
Just that simple phrase was enough to bring a broad smile to the Gryffindor’s face. Draco bit back a sigh; trust a Gryffindor’s resilience.
‘It’s so good to see you looking a little better. I was worried you were ill or something. You weren’t yourself this past week.’
Nodding his head in acceptance, Draco offered his own, much more subdued smile. ‘Yeah, I haven’t been well. But I’m better now.’ Unconsciously, even when in conversation, his eyes were drawn about the platform in search of Harry. ‘Um, Hermione. You haven’t seen Harry at all, have you? I needed to talk to him about something.’
Hermione adopted a confused, slightly concerned expression. She raised a hand to her mouth as though regretful. ‘Oh, ah, Draco, Harry’s gone home already.’
Draco had to catch himself from stumbling, he spun so quickly towards the Gryffindor. ‘What? When?’
The girl sighed regretfully. ‘Early this morning. He left before most people even had breakfast. He lives in France, so he said Professor McGonagall set up a portkey to take him home for the holidays. Didn’t he tell you?’
Draco shook his head numbly, dropping his eyes from their constant scan. Hermione, biting her lip now in worry, forced carelessness onto her face. ‘Well, I’m not surprised, really. He only told us at dinner a few nights ago, and only because I asked him what he was doing over Christmas. I thought maybe we could catch up, you know, ‘cause three weeks is so long. I never thought I’d begrudge getting an extra week of break to Muggles students, but there you go.’ She shook her head in self-reprimand, a rueful smile curling her lips. ‘Anyway, he said it wasn’t likely, as he was going back to his uncle’s, in Paris.’
Draco barely heard a word of what the Gryffindor was saying. An unexpected pang of loss tightened his chest. He hadn’t even thought about them being separated for three weeks. For some reason, he had just assumed that they would be seeing more of one another. Especially now that he had burst through the surface from his obsessive fixation. He had just been… a little too late.
‘…send owls, I guess, but it’s not the same, you know? Especially seeing as I don’t even have one!’ The statement and rhetorical question drew Draco from his musings, but he was saved from a reply by the bellowing call to board and ear-splitting whistle.
‘I guess we should get aboard. Prefect duties and all.’ Despite her words, Hermione remained stationary, a pillar of immobility amongst the swarming school of students as everyone hastened to stuff themselves through doors that were truly ill equipped to accommodate the mass assault. Chewing thoughtfully on her lip, the girl finally seemed to reach a decision and fixed her gaze determinedly on Draco. ‘Do you want to sit with Ron, Neville and I? I’d guess that Ginny would join us, and maybe Luna, but you’re more than welcome.’
For a moment, Draco was almost tempted. The last few months, his friendship had grown with the Gryffindors. Yes, they were friends, he could no longer deny it. But even so… ‘Thanks anyway, Hermione. I should probably go and sit with Blaise and Pansy.’
Though she attempted to appear accepting, Draco didn’t miss the slumping of the Muggleborn’s shoulders and the slight drooping of eyebrows in disappointment. ‘Oh, well, that’s alright. I assumed you probably would, but it was just a suggestion.’ Clearing her throat awkwardly, the girl took a step towards the clearing doorway to the nearest carriage. She cast a final glance over her shoulder. ‘I guess I’ll see you in the New Year. Merry Christmas, Draco.’
‘You too, Hermione. Happy New Year.’
The Gryffindor cast a small wave over her shoulder as she disappeared through the door of the train. Draco released a regretful sigh himself before following her lead. It was sad, really, that there was suddenly so much distance between them already. In that moment, Draco realised that Harry was more than a common point of interest between the Gryffindor’s and Slytherins. Somehow, quite unexpectedly and without Draco’s notice, the small, quiet transfer student had bridged the gap between their houses. Without him, the divide yawned once more.
Another sigh followed the first, slipping from Draco’s lips. He was sighing a lot lately. And likely would more throughout the holiday break. There was much to do and, contrary to Hermione’s claim, little time to do it in. And disregarding priorities, one of the first things Draco would do when he returned home would be to send an owl to Paris.
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The Masks of Real Heroes