Chapter Text
Harry wondered when it had all gone so, so wrong.
Perhaps it was when he started thinking properly about Malfoy.
He thought and thought himself into circles. A million thoughts danced around, each possibility playing tug-of-war in his brain, fighting for dominance in the finite space. Explanations materialised just as quickly as they disappeared, and his brain struggled to keep them under it's confines.
Still, in the weeks leading up to the 1st of September, he could only reach one conclusion. Draco Malfoy, was a Death Eater.
Much to his annoyance, neither Ron nor Hermione listened to half of it.
“He’s not of age Harry, You think You-Know-Who will let Malfoy join?” Ron had asked, exasperated, half lying on his bed. "He's only sixteen, not qualified for much is he?" he added, as a light breeze swooped into the room, ruffling his ginger hair.
His arguments went deaf on Harry's ears. It was quite obvious really, if you stop and think about it. He opened his mouth, the rebuttals ready on his tongue.
Several instances came to mind. Malfoy’s satisfied smirk when he left Borgin & Burkes—which quite evidently meant something must be amiss. The way he’d threatened the Borgin bloke. How he'd squirmed and made a scene at the Robe shop, when Madam Malkin touched his arm. He was definitely hiding something, and Harry knew it was bad.
Before he had the chance to retort however, Hermione had cut him off.
“Harry, I think this is getting ridiculous. Ron’s right, there’s no way they’d let him join,” she said, her tone clipped with irritation.
He frowned, thinking how this would turn into circles again.
If he said Malfoy was a Death Eater, they’d ask for evidence. If he talked about the shady instances; how Malfoy had jerked his hand away at Madam Malkin’s, or that scene at Borgin's, they’d say it didn’t add up.
This was around the time he’d angrily decided to give up discussing the matter further with them. To his absolute frustration, the evidence was just screaming in his ear, mocking him.
But it wasn’t concrete enough, and he was convinced that he'd turn it around.
Warm blood trickled like an army of ants under his nose, and down his chin, as he lay there silently fuming. Harry was sure that he quite possibly never hated Malfoy more than he did then.
See you around Potter... or not.
That bastard, he would've said if he wasn't frozen quite literally.
It was humiliating, lying there like that. Some of the blood got into his open mouth, and the metallic taste of his own blood made his head spin with anger. Blood boiled under his skin, trapped, as he glared at the ceiling and worked himself up some more.
If the animosity he’d harboured for Malfoy had been at the back of his mind all these five years, that dam of hate exploded, crashing down to the front of his eyes.
It blinded him, and the feeling of fury and humiliation rattled him. He was sure his hands would’ve trembled with rage had the bloody curse not immobilised him.
He felt like an animal, like a predator on the verge of killing its prey, except he physically couldn’t get his hands on Malfoy.
Harry swore to himself he’d hex his bollocks off the next time he saw that despicable face.
By the time he reached the Great Hall, the Sorting ceremony inside had already ended. Harry didn’t notice, his chest was still heaving with waves of anger, that he surprised himself when he found the right place beside Ron and Hermione.
Hermione leaned toward him and asked, “Where were you?” though her eyes were trained on Dumbledore's speech.
He didn’t immediately answer, instead he made the mistake of looking at the Slytherin table. Malfoy sat ramrod straight, settled like an arrogant pharaoh between Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott, his shoulders brushing theirs. His face was twisted into a bemused smirk as he moved his hands, speaking animatedly.
Harry's face burned with heat, and he wrenched his gaze away, feeing his temper rising.
They were already eating—Ron was aggressively fighting his turkey, and Hermione had eaten a major part of her chicken legs.
He promptly remembered what happened with Malfoy minutes ago. “How does my nose look?”
Ron lifted his head off the plate, looking at him properly for the first time, and winced. “Blimey, what’s wrong with your face?”
“Why? Does my nose look bad?" he hastily brought a hand to his face, covering the lower half but not quite touching it. "Is it still bleeding?” He asked a little too loudly, a worried furrow forming between his brows.
Heat creeped up behind his neck at his sudden outburst, as several turned to look at them. He ignored them without much choice. Ginny raised an eyebrow when he caught her eye, and wordlessly pushed a paper towel into his hands. He gave her a light nod, and she returned it with a casual smile.
Despite himself, his eyes found the Slytherin table. And quite like he guessed, Malfoy was already looking right at him, an amused expression carved on his ugly, pointy face. When their eyes met, he smirked in the same infuriating way, and it sent another jolt of anger and humiliation through his chest.
Harry scowled back, and the bastard had the audacity to point to his own nose, and mime some absurd gesture. His Slytherin cronies looked in confusion between the two, though they snickered regardless. The humiliation was visceral, thrown in his face like that.
He tore his eyes away again, as his body whirred between anger and frustration.
“Your nose? Harry!—You’re bleeding!” Hermione turned to him, and her wand almost touched his nose. “Tergeo!”
“Thanks, Hermione.” He muttered, looking down at his plate.
"What happened? Why were you late?" She whispered, and Ron nodded in agreement, his mouth full with mashed potato.
"Not now," he said shaking his head. Hermione gave him one of her I-know-you're-hiding-something-and-I'll-figure-it-out looks, which he promptly ignored.
The feast carried on, and the students returned back to their murmurings and casual conversations; about Hogsmeade, new classes, Quidditch and such, no longer interested in the incident concerning Harry.
By the time the feast ended, his anger had still not subsided. Instead, it had increased ten-fold after hearing that Snape would be their bloody D.A.D.A professor. He sincerely wished death upon him, and ignored the reprimands Hermione had uttered in response.
On their way back to the Gryffindor Tower, he beckoned Ron and Hermione, and whispered, “I need to tell you something,” as a few students hovered nearby.
The trio settled into the warmth of the common room, its familiar yellow lights on the four corners, the blazing fireplace that they appreciated greatly throughout these five years, and the flakey couch only Harry was fond of.
Harry leaned back against the backseat of the couch, narrating everything that had happened in the train. By the time he was finished however, Ron was rubbing his eyes, and Hermione had already gone to bed, saying that she needed to prepare for lessons the next day.
Harry leaned forward, shaking him by his shoulder.
“Harry wha—” Ron cut himself off with a yawn and stretched. “Is it time for bed already?”
Harry glared at him, arms crossed, and Ron suddenly remembered what they’d been talking about. Right. Harry mentioned something about Malfoy boasting—though there was no surprise there—about better, more important things he had to do.
Ron sighed. “Harry, mate—er, I think I can see what Malfoy must’ve meant.”
He sat up, finally ready to accept some acknowledgment on his theory.
“He’s probably showing off for Parkinson…. come on Harry, there’s nothing more to this.”
“There is. And it can’t be for Parkinson because I saw her snogging Zabini.”
Ron’s face twisted into amusement, and then disgust. He huffed. “Really? Well I can’t say I’m that surprised… Though I would’ve imagined she had her eyes on Malfoy.”
Harry gave a noncommittal hum, as Ron continued, “Besides, Malfoy took her to the Yule Ball. They were dating weren’t they?”
“Dunno.” He said dryly. He honestly couldn’t give a rat’s arse about who the prick dated.
When they went to bed that night, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something very bad was going on, and that Malfoy was sitting at the dead center of it. Even at dinner, after his nose incident, Malfoy had looked... detached. His chin was propped on his palm, eyes hollow, like he didn't want to be there. What was more, was that he didn't bully any first years like he usually did. There was something odd about him, like he was planing something.
The next morning, Harry once again repeated his encounter—mostly for Hermione, who sat with an uncertain look on her face.
“What do you think?” he asked, waiting with bated breath.
“Well…I suppose it’s too big to be considered a lie…” She began, holding her chin in thought. “But it still doesn’t mean that Malfoy’s what you think he is—”
“Exactly!” Ron exclaimed, who was steadily growing antsy without breakfast, and Harry knew the conversation was over.
“Besides,” she added, “He is a braggart as we all know. I won’t be surprised if he made himself seem more important than he actually is.”
Harry wanted to argue his case again, but grudgingly decided against it. They were already late for breakfast, and he didn't want to get into Hermione's bad side so early in the day. Besides, he had time to think about this.
The rest of the morning zoomed by, and his thoughts about Malfoy had to be pushed back. He allowed himself to breathe for a moment, looking at the free periods sprawled across his schedule. He was Quidditch Captain this year, meaning he’d have to figure out a day for try-outs.
That was exciting.
After a blissful lunch, and a few more hours lazing around in the common room, they left for Double Potions, much to Ron and Harry’s objection.
There were only a handful of students—and Harry was pleased to see that neither Crabbe nor Goyle had made it. To his dismay, the four Slytherins who had made it stood there, grouped up, like a bunch of hyenas.
His lips curled in disgust when he saw Zabini’s hand snake around Parkinson’s waist, and he quickly looked away. He and Ron exchanged a look of contempt, while Hermione had her book propped open on the table.
The air was thick and awkward, and the wall of silence only cracked momentarily with one or two hushed murmurs, until Slughorn arrived.
Harry sighed in disdain as he saw their new potions teacher. He truly wasn't a fan of Slughorn after being invited at the train, and in general just his character; favouring people with connections and fame, promoting his own glory. Harry wasn't impressed.
Slughorn walked slowly, his dark-green robes following him, sweeping the floor behind him. “Now then everyone," he beamed, "Pleasure to meet you all! Get your cauldrons out, and open your copy of Advanced Potion-Making!”
He began asking a series of questions—to identify the potions in the cauldrons, which Hermione answered swiftly.
His face lit up after she answered correctly for the third time. “Your name, my dear?”
“Granger, sir. Hermione Granger.” She said, her voice a little high-pitched.
“Granger?” He asked, and repeated her name. “Granger, Granger… Where have I?… Oh!—Can you possibly be related to Hector DagworthGranger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”
She shook her head, “No sir. I’m muggle-born.”
Harry quickly noticed as Malfoy leaned over to Nott, and whispered something in his ear. They snickered, and when he met Harry's gaze, he smirked and pointed to his nose again.
The action made him bristle in frustration, and he desperately wished he could do something about it. Hermione, who seemingly had seen the exchange, pulled him by his elbow and whispered, “Leave it Harry. Ignore them.”
With a scowl, he tried to comply, instead shifting his focus on Macmillan’s raised hand.
“Professor?” he piped, “What’s in that cauldron?”
“Oh yes! This!” He walked over to the copper cauldron, and made a dramatic yet elegant gesture, “This, my ladies and gentlemen, is Felix Felicis.”
“Liquid luck!” Hermione muttered without thinking, and Slughorn beamed at her.
“Quite right Ms Granger! You may take ten points,” He looked at everyone again, and his eyes rested a moment on Harry’s. “Yes, this is a funny little potion, Felix Felicis. Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous if you get it wrong. However, if brewed correctly, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed.”
After looking off into the distance dreamily—quite like Luna, Harry mused—he turned again.
“And that, is what I shall offer to one lucky student at the end of today’s class!”
There was a sudden silence as everyone, including Malfoy, straightened to look at Slughorn.
He held up a tiny vial of silvery gold liquid, reflecting in the scarce sunlight that sneaked into the dungeons. “One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis… enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn to dusk. It will be awarded to the one who brews the best potion today!”
The Living Draught of Death, the potion they were tasked to brew, was very tricky to make. Everyone scurried to the cupboards, like moths to flame.
Feeling like he was far behind, Harry feverishly leafed through the battered book for ingredients.
By the time he deciphered the illegible cursive and brought back the necessary materials, Malfoy was already cutting his valerian roots. He let out a disgruntled noise, and turned back to the scrawly handwriting.
Soon, the area filled with irregular thunks of chopping, and the air turned milky-blue from the fumes escaping the cauldrons. The room was damp and suffocating, smells of burning copper and rotten ginger clashing in the air.
“Sir, you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?”
Harry looked up moments later, to see Slughorn walking by the Slytherin table. He gave Malfoy an obviously half-heartedly reply, and Harry grinned in satisfaction.
Looks like Malfoy won’t be favoured like him and the other members of the Slug Club.
A few moments later, Slughorn’s overly-happy voice broke the empty room. “Times up!”
Harry let out a deep breath and looked around. His potion had definitely turned out better than expected, and possibly even better than Hermione’s.
His hair stuck uncomfortably to his forehead, and he was sure it must look as bad as Hermione’s frizzy hair. He wiped the sweat off, and loosened his tie a little.
Even Malfoy’s hair was a little scuffed, unlike his usually styled hair. His pale cheeks were flushed from the fumes radiating off their cauldrons, and he was breathing hard.
“Oh yes! The clear winner!” He clapped Harry’s shoulder, “Excellent, Harry! Good heavens, it’s clear you’ve inherited your mother’s gift. So talented Lily was!”
He offered the tiny vial, and Harry couldn’t keep the surprised smile off his face. “Here you are, then, as promised—one bottle of Felix Felicis. Use it well!”
He pocketed the vial quickly, feeling everyone’s eyes bore into him. He determinedly avoided Hermione’s scrutinising gaze.
The vial felt cool against his fingertips. He fiddled with the small glass inside his robes, when a brilliant idea struck him.
Perhaps he could use some of that luck in figuring out Malfoy.
Ron nudged him and asked, “How did you do that?”
He turned to him, and carefully said, “Got lucky I suppose.” as Malfoy was within earshot. He successfully avoided making eye-contact with the git, though judging by his blurry figure from the side of his vision, he was not too pleased.
Later in the common room, he explained the notes on his Potions textbook to Ron and Hermione. The two regarded him with skepticism, though Hermione more than Ron.
When she left after checking through the book for threats, Ron assured him. “Don’t worry mate, she’s just jealous you’re better than her now.”
The rest of the night, his thoughts circled back to what Malfoy might be up to.
He wondered if he was currently sulking in his room about the missed chance of a lucky day.
The thought made his heart thud in satisfaction, and he sunk further into his pillow. The midnight air was cool and crisp, and it caressed his face. Harry felt a renewed sense of peace, finally like he was getting somewhere with this Malfoy problem.