Fic - All These Things That I've Done - Harry Potter
Title: All These Things That I've Done 2/3
By: Lady DeathAngel
RATING: M
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.
Genre: drama, angst, romance
Pairings: HP/DM
Warnings: language, slash, sexual content, violence
A/N: A recent fic, the last part of which is nearing the final stages of completion. It's written entirely in second-person POV from Draco's perspective and I'm rather fond of it. What started as a short fic turned into a multi-parter and it's all courtesy of my lovely, wonderful muse
orcatiff who I adore.
Summary: Draco makes a decision. And things fall apart.
There are certain things that you really miss. You miss your mum and you miss Quidditch. You miss the Manor and you miss your dorm. You miss your friends and you miss your classes and you miss the ease of life before reality came and made you into this jaded, apathetic boy in man’s clothing.
You miss being touched.
It doesn’t matter much what you miss, though, and you tell yourself this everyday. You wake up to the same mottled ceiling that you’ve woken up to for the past few months and you miss Hogwarts and you force yourself not to. You walk downstairs and you see Severus and you miss your mum so fiercely you lose your appetite, but you force yourself to forget about her and eat. You spend the day with Severus, honing your Occlumency and learning how to evade questioning while under the sway of Veritaserum and you duel and you practice things that will save your life and you miss childhood.
And then you have your first meeting with Potter and you force yourself to be cold and hard and implacable.
"You look like shit," is the first thing he says and you sneer.
"I’m so sorry," you say. "Should I have done myself up for this meeting? I wasn’t aware you were taking me on a date."
As if the Muggle dive you’ve found yourself sitting in actually requires anything more of its patrons than shirts and shoes. Potter seems well aware of this because he lifts one shoulder in a shrug and has this stupid grin on his face.
"I’ve just been wanting to tell you that since last year," he says before adding, "Are you even eating? You look anorexic or something."
You grimace and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Merlin save you from Potter and his mindless idiocy.
"Can you spare me the small talk and just get down to it. It’s not as if you give a fuck anyway, let’s not pretend you do."
Potter actually looks a bit wounded by this. His green eyes, forever amplified by those hideous glasses, go sort of dull and his mouth twists. And then anger sparks in his expression and he huffs out a sigh.
"Whatever, Malfoy," he says, and you roll your eyes at his dramatics. "So, tell me everything you know."
And you do. About halfway through the meeting it crosses your mind that you’re sitting in the back of a dark, smokey room, surrounded by Muggles, betraying the Dark Lord. And for the first time since your fifth year you feel powerful again. Powerful and a bit more like yourself. You can’t contain the small grin that splits your lips and Potter eyes you warily.
"You do know that if you’re lying, I’ll kill you."
You think he probably could, even if the threat is a ridiculous one. Potter, you think, will be able to kill when he needs to. Unlike you. Not that it matters anymore. The Dark Lord doesn’t send you on missions to kill, he sends you on missions to watch and that’s bad enough. You haven’t slept decently in at least a year, but all of this murder and torture haunts your dreams in a much more vivid fashion than any of the horrific fantasies you could have come up with several months ago.
"I’m not lying," you say blandly but sincerely.
Potter looks skeptical, but he doesn’t say anything else about that. Instead he looks at you expectantly and you relay the rest of what you know. You tell Potter all about how the Dark Lord is targeting Muggles, but mostly as a diversion. You explain the plans that exist to take over Hogwarts as a stronghold and move on from there. They’ve already infiltrated Azkaban and it’s only a matter of time before the Ministry is pushed out of there once and for all. He’s moving and his Death Eaters are moving with him. You tell Potter it looks grim and that he and his better be careful.
"He’ll want to lure you into a trap," you say because you aren’t entirely sure Potter’s brain is developed enough to grasp that concept. "I only know what the plans are. I couldn’t tell you when he’s going to make his move on you."
Though Merlin only knew that the Dark Lord would be arrogant enough to plan a big party over it. Potter rolls his eyes.
"I’ll keep that in mind. Here," he adds, tossing Draco something. "For next time."
You catch the glimmering thing out of midair and recognize it as one of those galleons you were using to communicate with . . . well, it’s familiar. Potter stands up.
"I’ll see you," he says before walking away and you watch him go and follow as soon as the stench of Muggles becomes to great to bear.
::
"How did your meeting with Potter go?"
You look up from where you’re sprawled on the couch and shrug.
"He’s terminally stupid," you retort and Severus’ thin lips slide up in a smirk.
"Yes," he says. "But we already knew that."
::
You keep up the pattern for nearly five months before everything goes to shit. You do your Death Eater duties, the kinds of things you witness you wish could be obliviated from your mind, and whenever Potter summons you, you show up at some Muggle place for a meeting. After about two months he begins to look at you differently, which at first you don’t think much of.
Whereas he was wary and shuttered before, now he regards you with something akin to affection. Trust, perhaps. And you begin to realize, when he starts to tell you things in return (nothing incriminating of course, just random things that are obviously on his mind) that he likes you.
This is frightening for two reasons. One is that Harry Potter is never supposed to like Draco Malfoy. You are allowed to like him or hate him or ignore him if you want, but Potter is only allowed to hate or ignore you. That’s just the way it’s always been and you thought that’s the way it always would be. The second reason for this making you want to move far, far away from everything and seclude yourself in the Himalayas is that you like Potter back. And you don’t just like him. That would be easy enough to handle because deep down you’ve always liked Potter.
No . . . you’ve grown emotionally attached to him.
It could just be the fact that he’s the only non-hostile person you’ve had contact with in nearly a year. Aside from Severus you have no friends, no family, no casual acquaintances except for Potter. You tried to convince yourself the first time you realized that you were looking forward to these meetings that it had nothing to do with Potter himself and everything to do with you being emotionally needy or something.
You’re beginning to think you were wrong. Because it has everything to do with Potter. With the way he looks as worn out and lost as you feel, with the way his hair sticks up when he runs an agitated hand through it, with the way his eyes light up when you say something inadvertently funny and a dozen other things besides. You feel sick when you think about it. Sick and even more lost and confused than ever, but there’s nothing you can do about it.
There’s nothing you can do about anything really, except for what you’ve been doing for months. Betraying your Lord and hoping that it helps.
So far it has been helping and that, in the end, is the problem. With the Order gaining momentum on the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, foiling attack plans but never allowing themselves to fall into a trap, things start to get bad for you. Well, worse than before. The Dark Lord suspects there’s a traitor in his midst and the murmurs reach your ears before he can summon you. When he does you’re convinced that it’s all over now. You’ve been found out and you’re going to die and as you kneel before the Dark Lord your only wish is that you’d been able to tell Potter goodbye.
"Rise, Draco," he hisses to you and you do so with a nearly audible swallow.
He seems amused and pleased by your discomfort and obvious fear. He always is.
"Now, now, there’s no need to be afraid," he says, reaching out and patting your cheek with a hand that’s too soft. "You’ve done very well. So well, in fact, that I’ve got a task for you."
You fight to keep all expression from your face even though you feel like you’re about to sick up all over the Dark Lord’s tatty robes.
"Yes, My Lord," you say in a tight whisper, bowing your head and awaiting instructions.
"There is a traitor among us, Draco. As I’m sure you may have noticed, things have ceased going smoothly for us. I want the man who is responsible to pay."
You tense up, waiting for the ax to fall. But it never does. The Dark Lord takes a step away from you and you raise your eyes. He looks . . . almost pensive. And a bit disappointed. Which is just about the strangest thing you’ve ever seen.
"I put you in Severus’ . . . care, because I didn’t trust you," he says softly. "I see now that I shouldn’t have trusted him. Rumors have been reaching my ears for a long time that he is the true spy, the one who has ruined so much for me. I didn’t want to believe it. Severus, after all, has his uses. I’m rather fond of him."
To hear anyone tell it, you would rather have the Dark Lord hate you than be fond of you. Severus never mentions what goes on between him and the thing in front of you, but you could hazard a few guesses, all of which make you dizzy with disgust.
"However, I can’t ignore the truth any longer. He has gone too far and he must pay for it. Draco," he says, and you nod eagerly, feeling your body clench up with trepidation. "You are going to kill Severus Snape."
You hang onto consciousness by clenching your fists until you’re sure your fingernails have bitten bloody half-moons into your palms. You want to protest that you can’t. You couldn’t even kill Dumbledore and you didn’t like him. You felt ill over nearly killing Weasley and you’ve had nightmares every night for over a year about death and killing and you can’t do it. You know you can’t do it and even if you were capable of it, you couldn’t do it. It’s Severus. You love him.
But you remain quiet and the Dark Lord smiles, a wicked twist of the lips, and sends you away. And . . . it’s all over now. Because you can’t kill Severus. You won’t kill Severus. And that leaves your options very limited.
::
"Draco, don’t be an idiot," Severus chides as you haphazardly throw what little clothing you have into a tartan bag. "This is what the Dark Lord wants. He suspected you and now he’ll have flushed you out. You’ll be useless to the Order if you run away."
You slam one hand against the wall and whirl on Severus who is regarding you with a look that conveys both concern and supreme agitation. Not that you care. The man is being ridiculous because he’s speaking sense. And you have no desire to hear sense when you’ve already made up your mind.
"So what am I supposed to do? Kill you to prove I’m not the spy?"
Severus is silent and you make a small noise of frustration that hurts your throat.
"No! I’m not you, all right? I can’t go around killing my loved ones just because it’s all for the greater good. I don’t give a fuck about your fucking greater good! So just let me go!"
Severus’ lips have gone all tight around the corners and you feel a pang of guilt. You shouldn’t have said that. You know it’s a touchy subject for him, what he had to do. But you’re not him. You can’t kill Severus just to save the wizarding world. There are sacrifices you’re willing to make, but that’s not one of them.
"Draco," he says, walking forward until he’s right in front of you. You have to crane your neck back to look at him. He really is quite tall. "Draco, you must do this. For everyone. For my sake and for yours and for the Order’s."
You don’t realize you’re shaking until Severus lays his hand over yours against the wall to still its trembling.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "I got into this for revenge but I can’t lose you too. I lost everyone else."
He tips his head forward and rests his forehead against yours. You feel the tip of his nose nudge the underside of your own and his breath is moist and warm against your lips.
"You’re our only hope," he says, and something inside you shatters.
It hurts so keenly you almost wonder if you’ve been physically wounded. But you haven’t been and you know it. Severus doesn’t make a move to hold you like he might have when you were a boy. He holds himself rigidly, as close as he can be to you and still miles and miles away. You’re barely aware of the fact that you’re crying. You can sort of feel it happening, the way your body jerks with the force of your sobs and the sounds of pain that are tripping past your lips.
"I can’t," you whisper and it’s more of a whimper than anything. "Don’t make me."
"I can’t make you do anything," Severus tells you, but that’s a lie and you both know it.
"I love you, I can’t-"
"You can."
::
You’re late to your meeting with Potter. You don’t even care. Or at least, you don’t until you see him sitting in the back tapping his fingers against rough wood of the tabletop looking slightly worried. You’ve felt cold for hours. Cold and stiff and unfeeling, but seeing him makes something happen and your insides sort of melt and leave you jittery and nervous and frightened.
You’re wearing one of Potter’s hooded sweatshirts, something he gave you so that you could hide your trademark blonde hair and avoid being recognized. He always smiles when he sees you in it, but today his smile fades quickly and he frowns and leans forward. His frown deepens when you lean away.
"What happened?" he asks urgently. "Are you okay?"
You blink at him. He doesn’t know. It seems amazing that anyone could not know. He should have looked at you and seen it straight away. You feel like everyone should have. You looked in the mirror before coming here and you thought that you looked different. You thought that you’d walk down Muggle streets and they would see and they would know. You thought for sure Potter would know.
"No," you say and your voice is hoarse and barely audible.
Your honesty seems to have thrown Potter off. His eyes go even wider behind the lenses of his glasses and his hands dance on the tabletop while he searches for something to say. You watch him for a moment and then you fold your arms on the table and bury your head in them. The sleeves still smell like Potter, or so you think as you inhale deeply. When you exhale you’re laughing.
You’re pretty much hysterical and you know it. You can feel the laughs being torn from your belly and your throat and your head and they hurt. But you can’t stop. You can’t stop because if you do you’ll cry and if you cry you’ll never stop. This is a much better alternative.
You become vaguely aware of a hand on your head. It’s soothing for a moment and then your body seizes up and you pull away, lifting your eyes to see Potter looking scared. He’s scared for you, though, not of you. And that gives you a little bit of strength. Not much but enough to say, "He’s planning to move on Hogwarts, but the wards should hold him off for a day or so. Azkaban will be weak, then. I’d take care of that first. Don’t contact me."
You stand up, pulling even deeper into the hood you’re wearing and don’t spare Potter a glance.
"I’ll get in touch with you."
You walk away and nobody seems to notice the fact that your body is heavy and your mind is dizzy and you feel like you could die with every step you take. You feel like they should all know. You wish Potter knew.
By: Lady DeathAngel
RATING: M
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.
Genre: drama, angst, romance
Pairings: HP/DM
Warnings: language, slash, sexual content, violence
A/N: A recent fic, the last part of which is nearing the final stages of completion. It's written entirely in second-person POV from Draco's perspective and I'm rather fond of it. What started as a short fic turned into a multi-parter and it's all courtesy of my lovely, wonderful muse
orcatiff who I adore.
Summary: Draco makes a decision. And things fall apart.
There are certain things that you really miss. You miss your mum and you miss Quidditch. You miss the Manor and you miss your dorm. You miss your friends and you miss your classes and you miss the ease of life before reality came and made you into this jaded, apathetic boy in man’s clothing.
You miss being touched.
It doesn’t matter much what you miss, though, and you tell yourself this everyday. You wake up to the same mottled ceiling that you’ve woken up to for the past few months and you miss Hogwarts and you force yourself not to. You walk downstairs and you see Severus and you miss your mum so fiercely you lose your appetite, but you force yourself to forget about her and eat. You spend the day with Severus, honing your Occlumency and learning how to evade questioning while under the sway of Veritaserum and you duel and you practice things that will save your life and you miss childhood.
And then you have your first meeting with Potter and you force yourself to be cold and hard and implacable.
"You look like shit," is the first thing he says and you sneer.
"I’m so sorry," you say. "Should I have done myself up for this meeting? I wasn’t aware you were taking me on a date."
As if the Muggle dive you’ve found yourself sitting in actually requires anything more of its patrons than shirts and shoes. Potter seems well aware of this because he lifts one shoulder in a shrug and has this stupid grin on his face.
"I’ve just been wanting to tell you that since last year," he says before adding, "Are you even eating? You look anorexic or something."
You grimace and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Merlin save you from Potter and his mindless idiocy.
"Can you spare me the small talk and just get down to it. It’s not as if you give a fuck anyway, let’s not pretend you do."
Potter actually looks a bit wounded by this. His green eyes, forever amplified by those hideous glasses, go sort of dull and his mouth twists. And then anger sparks in his expression and he huffs out a sigh.
"Whatever, Malfoy," he says, and you roll your eyes at his dramatics. "So, tell me everything you know."
And you do. About halfway through the meeting it crosses your mind that you’re sitting in the back of a dark, smokey room, surrounded by Muggles, betraying the Dark Lord. And for the first time since your fifth year you feel powerful again. Powerful and a bit more like yourself. You can’t contain the small grin that splits your lips and Potter eyes you warily.
"You do know that if you’re lying, I’ll kill you."
You think he probably could, even if the threat is a ridiculous one. Potter, you think, will be able to kill when he needs to. Unlike you. Not that it matters anymore. The Dark Lord doesn’t send you on missions to kill, he sends you on missions to watch and that’s bad enough. You haven’t slept decently in at least a year, but all of this murder and torture haunts your dreams in a much more vivid fashion than any of the horrific fantasies you could have come up with several months ago.
"I’m not lying," you say blandly but sincerely.
Potter looks skeptical, but he doesn’t say anything else about that. Instead he looks at you expectantly and you relay the rest of what you know. You tell Potter all about how the Dark Lord is targeting Muggles, but mostly as a diversion. You explain the plans that exist to take over Hogwarts as a stronghold and move on from there. They’ve already infiltrated Azkaban and it’s only a matter of time before the Ministry is pushed out of there once and for all. He’s moving and his Death Eaters are moving with him. You tell Potter it looks grim and that he and his better be careful.
"He’ll want to lure you into a trap," you say because you aren’t entirely sure Potter’s brain is developed enough to grasp that concept. "I only know what the plans are. I couldn’t tell you when he’s going to make his move on you."
Though Merlin only knew that the Dark Lord would be arrogant enough to plan a big party over it. Potter rolls his eyes.
"I’ll keep that in mind. Here," he adds, tossing Draco something. "For next time."
You catch the glimmering thing out of midair and recognize it as one of those galleons you were using to communicate with . . . well, it’s familiar. Potter stands up.
"I’ll see you," he says before walking away and you watch him go and follow as soon as the stench of Muggles becomes to great to bear.
::
"How did your meeting with Potter go?"
You look up from where you’re sprawled on the couch and shrug.
"He’s terminally stupid," you retort and Severus’ thin lips slide up in a smirk.
"Yes," he says. "But we already knew that."
::
You keep up the pattern for nearly five months before everything goes to shit. You do your Death Eater duties, the kinds of things you witness you wish could be obliviated from your mind, and whenever Potter summons you, you show up at some Muggle place for a meeting. After about two months he begins to look at you differently, which at first you don’t think much of.
Whereas he was wary and shuttered before, now he regards you with something akin to affection. Trust, perhaps. And you begin to realize, when he starts to tell you things in return (nothing incriminating of course, just random things that are obviously on his mind) that he likes you.
This is frightening for two reasons. One is that Harry Potter is never supposed to like Draco Malfoy. You are allowed to like him or hate him or ignore him if you want, but Potter is only allowed to hate or ignore you. That’s just the way it’s always been and you thought that’s the way it always would be. The second reason for this making you want to move far, far away from everything and seclude yourself in the Himalayas is that you like Potter back. And you don’t just like him. That would be easy enough to handle because deep down you’ve always liked Potter.
No . . . you’ve grown emotionally attached to him.
It could just be the fact that he’s the only non-hostile person you’ve had contact with in nearly a year. Aside from Severus you have no friends, no family, no casual acquaintances except for Potter. You tried to convince yourself the first time you realized that you were looking forward to these meetings that it had nothing to do with Potter himself and everything to do with you being emotionally needy or something.
You’re beginning to think you were wrong. Because it has everything to do with Potter. With the way he looks as worn out and lost as you feel, with the way his hair sticks up when he runs an agitated hand through it, with the way his eyes light up when you say something inadvertently funny and a dozen other things besides. You feel sick when you think about it. Sick and even more lost and confused than ever, but there’s nothing you can do about it.
There’s nothing you can do about anything really, except for what you’ve been doing for months. Betraying your Lord and hoping that it helps.
So far it has been helping and that, in the end, is the problem. With the Order gaining momentum on the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, foiling attack plans but never allowing themselves to fall into a trap, things start to get bad for you. Well, worse than before. The Dark Lord suspects there’s a traitor in his midst and the murmurs reach your ears before he can summon you. When he does you’re convinced that it’s all over now. You’ve been found out and you’re going to die and as you kneel before the Dark Lord your only wish is that you’d been able to tell Potter goodbye.
"Rise, Draco," he hisses to you and you do so with a nearly audible swallow.
He seems amused and pleased by your discomfort and obvious fear. He always is.
"Now, now, there’s no need to be afraid," he says, reaching out and patting your cheek with a hand that’s too soft. "You’ve done very well. So well, in fact, that I’ve got a task for you."
You fight to keep all expression from your face even though you feel like you’re about to sick up all over the Dark Lord’s tatty robes.
"Yes, My Lord," you say in a tight whisper, bowing your head and awaiting instructions.
"There is a traitor among us, Draco. As I’m sure you may have noticed, things have ceased going smoothly for us. I want the man who is responsible to pay."
You tense up, waiting for the ax to fall. But it never does. The Dark Lord takes a step away from you and you raise your eyes. He looks . . . almost pensive. And a bit disappointed. Which is just about the strangest thing you’ve ever seen.
"I put you in Severus’ . . . care, because I didn’t trust you," he says softly. "I see now that I shouldn’t have trusted him. Rumors have been reaching my ears for a long time that he is the true spy, the one who has ruined so much for me. I didn’t want to believe it. Severus, after all, has his uses. I’m rather fond of him."
To hear anyone tell it, you would rather have the Dark Lord hate you than be fond of you. Severus never mentions what goes on between him and the thing in front of you, but you could hazard a few guesses, all of which make you dizzy with disgust.
"However, I can’t ignore the truth any longer. He has gone too far and he must pay for it. Draco," he says, and you nod eagerly, feeling your body clench up with trepidation. "You are going to kill Severus Snape."
You hang onto consciousness by clenching your fists until you’re sure your fingernails have bitten bloody half-moons into your palms. You want to protest that you can’t. You couldn’t even kill Dumbledore and you didn’t like him. You felt ill over nearly killing Weasley and you’ve had nightmares every night for over a year about death and killing and you can’t do it. You know you can’t do it and even if you were capable of it, you couldn’t do it. It’s Severus. You love him.
But you remain quiet and the Dark Lord smiles, a wicked twist of the lips, and sends you away. And . . . it’s all over now. Because you can’t kill Severus. You won’t kill Severus. And that leaves your options very limited.
::
"Draco, don’t be an idiot," Severus chides as you haphazardly throw what little clothing you have into a tartan bag. "This is what the Dark Lord wants. He suspected you and now he’ll have flushed you out. You’ll be useless to the Order if you run away."
You slam one hand against the wall and whirl on Severus who is regarding you with a look that conveys both concern and supreme agitation. Not that you care. The man is being ridiculous because he’s speaking sense. And you have no desire to hear sense when you’ve already made up your mind.
"So what am I supposed to do? Kill you to prove I’m not the spy?"
Severus is silent and you make a small noise of frustration that hurts your throat.
"No! I’m not you, all right? I can’t go around killing my loved ones just because it’s all for the greater good. I don’t give a fuck about your fucking greater good! So just let me go!"
Severus’ lips have gone all tight around the corners and you feel a pang of guilt. You shouldn’t have said that. You know it’s a touchy subject for him, what he had to do. But you’re not him. You can’t kill Severus just to save the wizarding world. There are sacrifices you’re willing to make, but that’s not one of them.
"Draco," he says, walking forward until he’s right in front of you. You have to crane your neck back to look at him. He really is quite tall. "Draco, you must do this. For everyone. For my sake and for yours and for the Order’s."
You don’t realize you’re shaking until Severus lays his hand over yours against the wall to still its trembling.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "I got into this for revenge but I can’t lose you too. I lost everyone else."
He tips his head forward and rests his forehead against yours. You feel the tip of his nose nudge the underside of your own and his breath is moist and warm against your lips.
"You’re our only hope," he says, and something inside you shatters.
It hurts so keenly you almost wonder if you’ve been physically wounded. But you haven’t been and you know it. Severus doesn’t make a move to hold you like he might have when you were a boy. He holds himself rigidly, as close as he can be to you and still miles and miles away. You’re barely aware of the fact that you’re crying. You can sort of feel it happening, the way your body jerks with the force of your sobs and the sounds of pain that are tripping past your lips.
"I can’t," you whisper and it’s more of a whimper than anything. "Don’t make me."
"I can’t make you do anything," Severus tells you, but that’s a lie and you both know it.
"I love you, I can’t-"
"You can."
::
You’re late to your meeting with Potter. You don’t even care. Or at least, you don’t until you see him sitting in the back tapping his fingers against rough wood of the tabletop looking slightly worried. You’ve felt cold for hours. Cold and stiff and unfeeling, but seeing him makes something happen and your insides sort of melt and leave you jittery and nervous and frightened.
You’re wearing one of Potter’s hooded sweatshirts, something he gave you so that you could hide your trademark blonde hair and avoid being recognized. He always smiles when he sees you in it, but today his smile fades quickly and he frowns and leans forward. His frown deepens when you lean away.
"What happened?" he asks urgently. "Are you okay?"
You blink at him. He doesn’t know. It seems amazing that anyone could not know. He should have looked at you and seen it straight away. You feel like everyone should have. You looked in the mirror before coming here and you thought that you looked different. You thought that you’d walk down Muggle streets and they would see and they would know. You thought for sure Potter would know.
"No," you say and your voice is hoarse and barely audible.
Your honesty seems to have thrown Potter off. His eyes go even wider behind the lenses of his glasses and his hands dance on the tabletop while he searches for something to say. You watch him for a moment and then you fold your arms on the table and bury your head in them. The sleeves still smell like Potter, or so you think as you inhale deeply. When you exhale you’re laughing.
You’re pretty much hysterical and you know it. You can feel the laughs being torn from your belly and your throat and your head and they hurt. But you can’t stop. You can’t stop because if you do you’ll cry and if you cry you’ll never stop. This is a much better alternative.
You become vaguely aware of a hand on your head. It’s soothing for a moment and then your body seizes up and you pull away, lifting your eyes to see Potter looking scared. He’s scared for you, though, not of you. And that gives you a little bit of strength. Not much but enough to say, "He’s planning to move on Hogwarts, but the wards should hold him off for a day or so. Azkaban will be weak, then. I’d take care of that first. Don’t contact me."
You stand up, pulling even deeper into the hood you’re wearing and don’t spare Potter a glance.
"I’ll get in touch with you."
You walk away and nobody seems to notice the fact that your body is heavy and your mind is dizzy and you feel like you could die with every step you take. You feel like they should all know. You wish Potter knew.