HP Fic: To Be Back Again in the Rest of the Room
Middle of January, it is time for a re-post! Here's my entry for hd-holidays, written as a gift for misterwalnut. You can also find it here on AO3.
Author: lamerezouille
Recipient: misterwalnut
Title: To Be Back Again in the Rest of the Room
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, implied Ron/Hermione
Summary: Harry’s just defeated Voldemort, and has had enough trouble for a lifetime. All he wants to do now is to get into his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower and sleep. Too bad he soon finds himself unexpectedly stuck in a malfunctioning Room of Requirement... with Malfoy.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None that I can think of.
Epilogue compliant? Some might say it can be open to interpretation, but I’m a romantic, so I’m saying nope.
Word Count: ~16k
Author’s Notes: Title is from Sufjan Stevens’s song “To Be Alone with You”. Deep thanks to bibliophile41 for her wonderfully fast, efficient and comprehensive beta, and to tama201 for butting in with his very thoughtful comments, too. I would also like to send a lot of love to the mods, for their hard work and super-duper organising skills, without which this fest could not be what it is today. ♥
Harry wakes up with half of his face flaming with pain. He doesn’t know if it’s the pain that woke him up or if his attacker punched him as he was awakening. But he wishes like hell that whatever mess he’s in or whoever hit him, they’ll let him sleep a bit more.
It’s only after a few more seconds that he realises there’s no bed under him, and that he’s not even lying down.
‘What the hell?’ he half-moans, half-shouts, opening his eyes to a large and empty room. Standing next to him is Draco Malfoy.
His first reflex-his half-asleep mind not being able to ponder too much about it-is to throw his fist in the git’s direction and hope to inflict at least as much pain as he’s experiencing himself.
For a half-awake, not-so-burly teenage wizard who isn’t used to punching people in general, Harry’s aim is pretty good. He hits Malfoy right on the nose and even makes him stumble back a few paces.
Harry wants to bask in his self-satisfaction for a few seconds, but he’s interrupted by Malfoy’s outraged cry of, ‘What in the name of Merlin are you doing, Potter?’
Harry briefly wonders if it’s possible to punch someone hard enough that they don’t remember what a punch is without having them faint. He chooses to answer the question simply: ‘Well, I punched you.’
‘I’m very aware that you punched me, Potter. Believe it or not, but your fist in my face was a very good first clue.’
Malfoy really doesn’t sound like he’s in much pain, so Harry decides the tendril of guilt at the edge of his thoughts can very well go to hell.
‘You punched me first, you prat! Did you believe I was just going to stand there and let you beat me to your heart’s content?’
‘Of course!’ Malfoy answers immediately, making no sense at all. It’s as if they haven’t fought each other for seven years, as if Harry hasn’t just defeated the darkest wizard of all time. How can Malfoy’s brain make something so ridiculous work without being damaged? Harry’s not used to using his fists to solve problems; maybe he really punched Malfoy harder than he should have.
Harry also considers the possibility that maybe he’s still asleep.
‘But nothing ever really works for me, does it?’ Malfoy says with a deep, deep sigh.
Harry can feel that Malfoy’s going to start a long tirade of whining and moaning on how difficult it is to be a pointy git with evil parents and a Death Eater membership card, so Harry decides to tune him out to prevent himself the headache.
He takes advantage of Malfoy’s self-absorption to take in his surroundings. They’re alone in a large empty room with dirty white walls and a dusty stony floor. One of the walls has windows, but the glass is yellowish and dirty, and Harry can’t make out anything through it, except that it looks a bit like morning. Harry mustn’t have managed to catch more than a few hours’ sleep if that’s the case: he went to bed not long after dawn. Harry wants to bang his head against the wall, but contents himself with hoping that he’s at least still in Hogwarts. The room feels familiar, but he couldn’t say if he’s been there before.
Malfoy’s voice is persistent, even a little shrill, and Harry can’t help hearing threads of his monologue: things like ‘…this bloody room…’, and ‘…of course it would be you, Potter…’, and ‘…I really, really wanted to punch you so much…’, and then, Harry has to say something because if he doesn’t, he risks encouraging Malfoy’s wrong impression that he can do things like punch Harry with no retaliation whatsoever.
‘Why would you want to punch me? I saved your life twice in one evening. I reckoned it would warrant me at least three months of civility, if not gratefulness!’
Malfoy seems taken aback by Harry’s reaction and cuts himself off with a frown. He’s eyeing Harry suspiciously now, as if doubting the truth of Harry’s words. Harry swears to himself never to punch Malfoy again, if it means he won’t remember how much he owes Harry.
‘Potter?’ Malfoy asks slowly and with knitted eyebrows, as if he’s only just realised Harry’s here and can’t really believe his own eyes.
‘Yes, it’s me, Harry Potter! Don’t you remember just punching me, you twat? You even called me by my name! What on earth is your problem?’ Harry is infuriated. What is he even still doing here? He wants to turn on his heels and slam the door behind him, but while the first half of his plan is executed perfectly, he soon finds himself short of a door to slam. ‘And where on earth are we?! Where’s the bloody door? For that matter, what am I doing here in the first place?’
‘Don’t you recognise this bloody place, Potter?’ Malfoy spits, suddenly very angry.
Harry feels Malfoy has no right to be, when he certainly is the cause of Harry’s presence here, but at the same time, it feels almost nice, fighting with Malfoy. As if, after all the stress and strangeness of war, everything was somewhat back to normal.
‘But I accept it must be difficult for the Holy Saviour of the Wizarding World and all of Humankind to keep track of every single place he played the hero in.’ Harry could really do without the pompous grandiloquence, but as Malfoy speaks, he looks around him again, and it slowly starts to dawn on him. ‘The Room of Hidden Things!’ Malfoy cries at the same time Harry realises what’s really happening.
And yes, they’re definitely in the Room of Hidden Things, except that it’s totally empty. Harry recognises the feel of the room now, but it’s obvious why he wouldn’t have recognised it earlier. Bared of everything that made it itself, the room looks almost dead.
‘Malfoy,’ Harry says calmly. ‘Did you know that another name for this room was the Room of Requirement?’ Malfoy seems to be a bit confused by this statement, and he simply shakes his head. ‘Have you never noticed, when you were here, that when you wish for something, the room gives it you?’ Harry can see understanding starting to dawn on Malfoy’s face as he nods slowly. ‘Malfoy, have you, by any chance, required me?’
Despite Harry’s carefully civil tone, Malfoy has sensed the slight accusation in his voice, and is immediately on the defensive. ‘Well, I told you I wanted to punch you! How was I to know you would just be Apparated here? We’re inside Hogwarts, it shouldn’t even be possible!’
‘Well, inside this Room, a lot of things are possible,’ Harry says with a sigh. At least, now that he knows where they are, he can just wish a door to appear, and then go back to bed. He concentrates on the wall opposite the windows and thinks the most deeply he can about a door, about some way out.
Harry lets one minute pass before feeling like a complete idiot. The wall is still empty, and Malfoy’s smile is way too pleased.
‘How long have you had constipation problems, Potter? I can recommend several very efficient potions if you wish. My great-aunt Cerbreria swore by them, after she reached one hundred and fifty years of age.’ Harry glares at him and already feels his hands clenching into fists. ‘There’s a reason I wanted to punch you so much, you know,’ Malfoy adds, with a smart-arse tone that makes Harry want to do just that. ‘Because ever since I arrived here, I’ve been trying to get out. And because every time something bad happens to me, it is always in some way related to you, Potter. If you knew how satisfying punching you can be, maybe you’d do it to yourself.’
‘Punching you was nice too, maybe I’ll do it again soon,’ Harry says, returning the pleasantry. ‘I’m trying to get us out of here, all right? So just shut up, will you?’
‘If your escape plan is to wish us away, I wouldn’t put my galleons on it, Potter. I’ve been wishing for it for at least fifteen minutes. There’s no door and the windows are impenetrable. Why don’t you just use your wand and magick us all away on your white and shiny battle steed?’
‘I can’t use my wand because someone wished me here, but didn’t seem to wish I had anything to defend myself with! Why don’t you use your wand?’
‘Because some stupid-haired hero took it from me, you gigantic and useless prat!’ Malfoy shouts, seething.
‘All right, let’s try to calm down, then!’ Harry says, trying to placate the git. Maybe if they stop fighting at least for a little while, they can find a way to get out. ‘We have no wands and no door, and the magic of the Room seems to only work for asinine things like punching me. It’s not good, but I’ve definitely known worse.’
‘Thank Merlin for small mercies,’ Malfoy deadpans. Harry tries to not let it get on his nerves. He just has to ignore Malfoy and think. Where is Hermione when he really needs her? He thinks briefly of wishing her here the same way Malfoy has done him, but if she gets stuck with them too, it wouldn’t help any. Perhaps there could be a way of getting a message out there? Ask someone to get them from the outside?
Malfoy is now tapping his foot not even rhythmically, and there is no way Harry can stand the git for any extended period of time. Malfoy certainly couldn’t even survive one day without an armada of house-elves catering to his every whim…
Wait a minute.
‘House-elves!’ Harry exclaims suddenly, but Malfoy doesn’t even look at him weirdly. After Harry’s escape from Malfoy Manor-Harry tries his best not to let his memories bring him back to Dobby’s lifeless eyes-Malfoy must know as well as he does how much house-elves’ abilities tend to be underestimated.
‘Kreacher!’ Harry calls, hoping the house-elf is still at Hogwarts and still loyal to him. ‘Kreacher!’ he calls again, after a few minutes of waiting in vain.
Malfoy gives Harry a look. One that he really doesn’t like, and that doesn’t say any good things about either Harry or any house-elves, for that matter. Harry grits his teeth and remembers his own advice of ignoring Malfoy as much as he can.
‘Winky!’ he tries then, even if giving up on Kreacher kind of breaks his heart a little bit. There’s still no house-elf appearing anywhere near them and Harry decides to give up. He really doesn’t want Malfoy to give him one of those looks again.
‘So, Potter,’ Malfoy drawls in an annoying way that brings Harry back to their first meeting. He was so sure Malfoy had grown up at least a little bit since then, it’s almost disappointing. But then again, Malfoy can bring out Harry’s own inner eleven-year-old so well, he should refrain from judging him on this kind of thing. ‘It looks like there’ll be no easy way out of this for you. I guess it’s a novelty for you to have to work for it, isn’t it?’
‘Shut up, Malfoy. You have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Except that the git’s partly right, isn’t he? If he wasn’t Harry Potter, after all, if he hadn’t had this prophecy and this wretched piece of soul inside him, if he hadn’t had Hermione or even Ron with him, if he hadn’t had the most incredible luck in the world, there’s no way he would have been able to do a quarter of the things he’s achieved.
What a great hero he is, really.
‘Whatever, Potter. Let’s just all admit that we’re stuck here and that we’ve only got to wait until your throngs of fans notice your disappearance and come and get you. I’m sure it will take no time at all.’
Harry thinks of the Marauder’s Map, lying idly on his nightstand. As soon as he wakes up, Ron will definitely notice Harry’s absence and see his dot on the map, stuck there with Draco Malfoy’s. Even with his grief over Fred and his budding romance with Hermione, there’s no way Ron won’t see the emergency of the situation and come and get him right away. Counting on one’s friends can be a good thing after all. And Harry no longer needs to be a hero for anybody anyways.
Harry nods decisively and decides to extend an olive branch. ‘What about you, Malfoy? Aren’t your parents gonna be looking for you, too?’ They were willing to lie to Voldemort for you, after all, he doesn’t say. It doesn’t feel very right that Harry would know more about what Malfoy’s parents did during the Battle of Hogwarts than Malfoy himself does, but he doesn’t really know how to broach the subject without having to relate how he survived death too. Not only is it way too intimate to talk about to anyone, but Harry’s certain that if Malfoy ever knew the truth, he’d just use it as another example of Harry being a dim-witted sacrificial lamb and a bloody Gryffindor. Though, Harry has to admit that he wouldn’t be completely wrong.
‘My parents went back to the Manor. I was…disinclined to follow them there. Not until it’s inhabitable again, at least. It’ll take them at least a week.’
Harry notices how Malfoy didn’t use the word home and finds it fair enough. Even he has never thought of Privet Drive as home, and-even if it could be debatable by some-the Dursleys remain a bit better to live with than Voldemort. What doesn’t surprise Harry at all though, is that Malfoy seems absolutely content to let his parents do all the Evil Overlord cleansing work.
‘All right. We’ll just have to wait it out, then,’ Harry says with what he hopes is an optimistic smile. If they don’t just fight their time away, it’ll only be a night of uncomfortable silences and awkward glances, but Harry would really be happy with that. It’s better than what he could have hoped for, and Harry doesn’t fancy being punched again.
‘Very well, Potter. At least, with the three of us, things sure won’t be boring,’ Malfoy says with a smile way too mischievous for Harry’s comfort.
‘What do you mean, the three of us?’ Harry asks warily.
‘Well, you know. You, me… and him.’ Malfoy points his thumb to the corner behind him, and only then does Harry notice that what he’d thought was a thicker patch of grey dust is, in fact, the pearly grey shape of the ghost of Vincent Crabbe.
***
‘Er…’ Harry says very eloquently. ‘So, Crabbe’s a ghost, now?’
The question is stupid because with his translucent grey skin and the few inches that separate him from the floor, it’s fairly obvious that Crabbe’s a ghost. And it shouldn’t surprise Harry any, really. If he had to bet on anyone he knew for ghost-potential, Crabbe was definitely coward enough to fear death-or maybe he was just too stupid to recognise the light at the end of the tunnel for what it is. Harry wouldn’t put it past him, but he tries not to think too ill of the dead. Even if the dead in question is Crabbe.
The revelation is still boggling Harry’s mind a bit when Malfoy speaks again.
‘And don’t think about it because there’s no point. He won’t go looking for help on our behalf. He won’t even talk to me.’
‘Why not?’ Harry asks, genuinely surprised. He remembers Crabbe’s last moments very well, and how strained his relationship with Malfoy seemed to be, but he’d thought that years of friendship and the knowledge of death would have overcome that. Mostly because every time Malfoy turns his gaze towards Crabbe, Harry can see all the guilt in Malfoy’s eyes, and something that resembles sorrow very much.
‘Well, it seems my insistence about keeping Your Scarred Majesty alive the last time we were here made me “the worst blood traitor who’s ever traitor-ed”,’ Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes before turning to Crabbe. ‘Aren’t those the exact words you used, Vince?’
Crabbe unfolds and refolds his arms, while looking pointedly everywhere but at Malfoy, and Harry could almost find Crabbe’s prima-donna shenanigans funny if it weren’t for the sadness he can still see in Malfoy’s eyes, despite how skilfully he’s trying to look indifferent.
‘At least, those were the only words Sir Ghost-face deigned to say to me,’ Malfoy concludes, turning back to Harry. ‘Maybe if I killed you now, I would come back in his good graces, and he’d fetch help for me…’ he muses half-seriously.
It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes now, because if the war taught him anything, it’s that Draco Malfoy is not a murderer. And according to the last few minutes here, Malfoy even seems to be decently funny. Or at least he is when his humour is not aimed at people’s dead families.
Harry finds himself oddly hopeful to know that in spite of everything that’s happened, Malfoy is still able to joke.
There’s silence then, and Harry is almost surprised at how not-awkward it manages to be, despite Harry and Malfoy just standing there, looking at each other. There even seems to be some kind of moment taking place. Harry feels like he should say something serious, like how sorry he is that Crabbe died while bearing a grudge, because he really is. He can imagine Ron dying while he was away from them last Christmas, with the last words they said to each other being heinous ones, and the idea of something like this happening to anyone-even to the likes of Crabbe and Malfoy-breaks his heart a little bit.
‘All right, so if you don’t want me to punch you anymore, I think I’ll just go back to bed,’ Malfoy says with what sounds like the genuine hope that Harry might let him get in another good punch after all. He’s enough of a realist not to wait for an answer though, and a few seconds later, Malfoy has relocated to the middle of the room, wished a bed to appear and slipped under fluffy-looking blankets.
Harry spares a glance for Crabbe, and sees that he has returned to his corner to sulk. Harry wonders idly how boring it can be to be a pouting ghost for the rest of eternity, but decides that he is too tired to care. Seeing Malfoy in his huge four-poster bed has made him remember how well he was sleeping before all of this happened, and he really wants to go back to this state. If he’s lucky, he’ll be woken up by a rescue team coming to get them.
He concentrates on his wish for the most comfortable and sleep-enhancing bed, takes off his shoes and glasses, and gets in.
***
This is twice in a too short period of time that Harry wakes up with his face hurting. This time it’s not a fist that just hit his face, but the hard cold stone floor. He looks around him and notes that he’s unfortunately still in the Room of Requirement and that none of his interaction with Malfoy has been a dream. Harry wonders what time it is and if Ron’s going to get there soon. The room is a bit clearer than before, and even if Harry feels rested all right, it isn’t late enough for Ron to be already awake-he certainly didn’t have a disappearing bed.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ Harry hears a gruff voice ask just behind his head.
Oh yes. Crabbe is still a ghost, too.
‘My bed’s vanished, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘His bed hasn’t,’ Crabbe says, now floating just above Harry’s face, a finger pointed towards Malfoy, who is deeply asleep in his majestic bed.
Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to know why the Room of Requirement deprived him of his bed but let Malfoy enjoy his beauty sleep. Harry still very much requires a bed after all. He chooses to believe that the Fiendfyre has somewhat partially damaged the room, rather than that Malfoy has deliberately sabotaged Harry’s sleep. It’s better to keep a certain peace intact for the time being. Harry’s very proud of how adult he can be about all this.
Harry sits up and puts his glasses back on. The floor is very cold and he hopes they’ll find their way out before he has to worry about bathroom arrangements. He’s lacing his shoes when he notices that Crabbe is still hovering next to him, looking at him fixedly, his colourless and unblinking eyes boring into him. Harry hates to admit it, but it makes him feel quite nervous, and hairs are starting to rise on the back of his neck. And more than anything, it feels exceptionally awkward. Harry is this close to ask Crabbe something as inane as, ‘So, you’re a wannabe Death-Eater turned ghost. What’s that like?’ but is saved by the proverbial bell when Malfoy’s voice rings in the almost empty room:
‘Stop trying to find ways to kill him, Crabbe, there’s absolutely no point. Unless the Dark Lord turned ghost too; then you’d expect he’d let you haunt a more furnished area of the castle as a reward, wouldn’t you? But even then, there’s nothing much you can do about Potter, what with being non-corporeal and all.’
‘And there is nothing you can do about me, what with being a filthy coward and all,’ Crabbe snaps back, his eyes not leaving Harry once. ‘I may be a ghost, but at least I died for a cause, instead of surviving for myself.’
Even in the darkness, Harry can clearly see Draco blanch at that, but he’s a little annoyed when Malfoy chooses not to answer Crabbe, as if he’d made a point. Because there definitely is nothing honourable in the way Crabbe died as far as Harry’s concerned. Instead, Malfoy chooses to redirect his attention to Harry, with a sneer.
‘What are you doing on the floor, Potter? Have you slept there?’ He mocks, with no hint of the genuine good-humour he’d showed earlier, but rather a touch of cruel disgust.
There’s something that slashes into Harry very deep, the way he’s said it. Partly it is because sleeping on the floor reminds him of when the Dursleys confiscated his mattress at age seven. He was forced to sleep on the floor of his cupboard after they had discovered bedbugs in his bed sheets. He had slept a week without even one blanket or one pillow, as punishment. Harry has truly made peace with the Dursleys by now-with the war he couldn’t have done anything else-but it still hurts a lot, thinking about it and feeling the icy floor and the shame all over again.
The other reason Malfoy’s tone hurts so much is because he’d genuinely thought he could make his peace with him too. Despite the punching and the being stuck with him in the Room of Requirement, Harry had genuinely thought they were starting off on the right foot.
Harry scowls at Malfoy for his trouble and snarls, ‘I did not sleep on the floor, but I didn’t need Sleeping Beauty’s bed either, you ponce. I think you forgot to put curlers in your hair before going to bed, Malfoy.’ Harry knows the way Malfoy’s name curls on his tongue like an insult is useless, but he can’t help feeling a bit vindictive at Malfoy’s angry look.
‘Whatever, Potter,’ Malfoy says before turning his back to Harry and seemingly going back to sleep.
Harry wishes for an armchair and something entertaining to read and decides not to waste another thought on Malfoy or Crabbe and the silly situation they’re all in. Apart from the fact that he has to wish back his book and his chair every few hours, it works very well to keep his mind off things.
***
By the second time Harry sees the sun set behind the Room of Requirement’s windows, he starts losing hope of seeing Ron and Hermione coming to save him. He’s been alternating between thinking they’ve just been occupied otherwise (and then wanting to completely sear the idea from his mind) and convincing himself that the Room of Requirement is presently unplottable, so Ron couldn’t find his dot on the map anyway (and then not really remembering where exactly he’d left the Marauder’s Map after all).
Malfoy doesn’t seem too worried about their situation and keeps quipping about how Harry’s fans are supposedly ransacking the whole Wizarding World looking for him, and that they’d be here in no time. Malfoy continually implies that it’s always been Harry’s deepest wish to have so many people adoring him and trailing after him. Harry is always torn between wanting to make him eat his smug smile (the image of Colin Creevey’s corpse flashing through his mind doesn’t help) and hoping Malfoy’s right in thinking that they’ll be busted out soon.
They aren’t busted out the third day nor the fourth, though, and soon they’ve been there for more than a week.
Harry had been worried at first that they’d starve slowly, between having no link to the outside world and the impracticality of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law of something or other, but food does come every day. Real and nourishing food; good food, even. The only problem is that there’s only one portion of it each time it appears, and it’s always one of Malfoy’s favourite food, which makes the prat even smugger, and Harry extremely suspicious.
Malfoy is much more human than Harry would have thought, though. Because each time food appears in the middle of the Room of Requirement, so obviously meant for Malfoy that it only misses a tag with his name on it, Malfoy looks up at Harry, wishes a knife in his hand, cuts the dish into two perfect halves, eats his part and leaves the rest for Harry.
Maybe Harry just hasn’t been able to figure Malfoy out as much as he’d thought he did, or maybe he’s just still too used to the Dursleys’ eat-everything-and-leave-the-crust-for-Harry ways, but he can’t help but feel wrong-footed every time Malfoy does it. By the twelfth or thirteenth meal, he’s more or less used to it, but there’s still this tiny little part of himself expecting Malfoy to spit in his soup.
The worst of it is that, despite these weirdly kind table-manners, Malfoy still isn’t pleasant to be stuck with in a room at all. They talk only to exchange barbs and spiteful remarks. Malfoy still thinks Harry is some kind of megalomaniac attention-whore and keeps laughing at the room’s uncooperativeness towards Harry’s wishes over and over again, even if Harry’s sure it must start to get a bit old.
And no, Harry’s wishes-situation doesn’t get better at all. Whatever he wishes for never lasts more than a couple of hours and he’s taken to wish for just a thin blanket and mattress at night so that he’d fall from lower when it disappears. As a result, his nights are restless and filled with dreams of short and violent falls.
It’s more manageable during the days, where he can just make an effort of wishing for things explicitly at regular intervals, but he still can’t wish for more than three or four things at the same time. Also, he can only wish for his clothes to get cleaned and not for new ones. Once, he’d been sloppy and made the mistake of wishing for a clean outfit instead of for his outfit to be clean. Malfoy’s cackling at his naked butt had been unbearable and very, very long.
The one thing that is still constant and predictable is Crabbe. The ghost just sulks all day long in one corner or another and insults Harry and/or Malfoy every twelve hours or so, using a not very large variation of “blood-traitor” synonyms. It’s boring, really. Sometimes Malfoy tries to rile him up or provoke him the same way he does with Harry, but it never really works on Crabbe so Harry wonders if he should re-examine his own reactions a bit.
Crabbe and Malfoy’s interactions, despite being somewhat monotonous, could be entertaining, if only Malfoy didn’t look so broken up about it when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. Harry isn’t enough of a bastard to find any cheer in that.
One night, maybe ten days in, after Harry wakes up because of the usual reason of his blanket and mattress disappearing, he hears whispers coming from inside the curtains of Malfoy’s four-poster.
‘You were the one to start the Fiendfyre!’ Harry can hear Malfoy whisper angrily.
‘And you took off with your beloved hero without even looking back for me, or did you?’ Crabbe replies, not really bothering about his sound-level.
‘He’s far from being my beloved hero! And I didn’t take off with him, he rescued me. I was supporting Goyle, and I didn’t know where you were. I almost died in there, too!’ Malfoy is angry and even through the whisper, Harry can hear how rough his voice sounds. Almost like an animal’s growl.
‘If you’d really been my friend, you wouldn’t have gone without me. You’d have died too. I’m sure Greg would have sacrificed himself to the cause, like me, if you hadn’t taken him with you.’
‘What?!’ Malfoy breathes more than he speaks now, and Harry can almost hear the tears getting held back behind his eyelids. ‘So... you don’t think I’m a blood-traitor because I let you die, but because I didn’t die with you?’
‘You never really cared for anything, Malfoy. Not for the cause, not for your supposed friends. You ever only cared about yourself. You’re pathetic and selfish and weak and a coward. You’re useless to the world and you deserved to die here with me. And certainly now you will. It would only serve you right.’
***
The next day, no food comes. Harry wonders if what Crabbe said about dying here like him was some kind of bizarrely accurate foreshadowing. He wants to speak to Malfoy about it, he wants to ask if maybe Crabbe has more powers here than he lets on, if maybe Crabbe’s the one locking them up here.
But Malfoy doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t even look at him. He sits on a chair and stares blankly ahead at nothing. He doesn’t even seem surprised or bothered when no food shows up.
Crabbe’s cruelty has obviously reached right through Malfoy’s chest and Harry feels like he should say something, maybe. He doesn’t know what to say though, and he’s not certain he really wants to. A lot of what Crabbe said is true after all. For the whole length of the war, the Malfoys had only cared about themselves, about their own family, and even though it saved Harry in the end, it’s not necessarily a good thing.
In the meantime, Crabbe just sulks in his corner all day, as if nothing has happened. Harry wishes the ghost acted dodgier, so he could suspect him of being the bad guy in this whole situation more seriously. It would be nice and simple then. Harry would have a target and someone to fight (even though he has no freaking idea how to fight a ghost) and they’d be out of here in no time at all.
After so many years of misconceptions and chasing the wrong bad guy, Harry knows it can never be that easy.. In all probability, Crabbe is just a ghost, the Room of Requirement has just been irreparably damaged by the Fiendfyre, and the food was merely an anomaly.They shouldn’t have gotten used to it so easily.
Harry gets a bit lost in his thoughts and forgets to wish for his armchair to stay material. His arse hits the ground painfully and he lets out a not-very-manly yelp, but when Malfoy doesn’t even blink, Harry knows things are bad. He definitely has to do something if he doesn’t want them to drown in a sea of negativity soon.
‘Um... Malfoy?’ Harry says warily.
No reaction.
Wow, Harry can’t believe what he’s doing, how awkward it is. ‘You know, I...’ Harry wants to admit he’s heard what Crabbe has said, but he fears Malfoy would accuse him of invading his privacy, and he really wants to help, not fight. ‘I-I wanted to thank you, you know... For not saying it was me, back at your manor. It was a very brave thing to do, you know. Not everyone would have-’
Harry doesn’t really know how to finish this thing he’s trying to say. He’s hoped Malfoy would have interrupted him by now, but he’s still staring into nothing. Harry finds it almost scary.
‘Er...’ Harry starts again, ready to say anything-anything-to fill in the awkward silence.
‘It wasn’t my manor,’ Malfoy saves him unexpectedly, his gaze still unfocused.
Harry almost sighs in relief, because he really has no idea what he could have said. Maybe he would have started rambling about what he’d seen of Malfoy through Voldemort’s eyes, and that really isn’t something he wants to think about.
‘Er, your parents’ manor, then?’ Harry corrects himself, not sure what Malfoy’s point is supposed to be.
‘It was the Dark Lord’s manor when you were there, Potter. I didn’t refuse to identify you because I was brave. I did it because I didn’t want the Dark Lord to come there again. I’m the exact coward Crabbe told me I am, no need to try and butter me up.’
Harry’s only reaction is to gape like a fool. He should have known Malfoy would be able to read right through him, but he’s really not expected him to be so self-deprecating. For someone who’s always appeared to think so highly of himself, Malfoy’s revelation catches Harry off balance.
‘Even though,’ Harry persists, because even if he believes Malfoy is a coward most of the time, he knows he hadn’t been one back there. Harry’s vision had been distorted at the time, but he can still remember what he saw in Malfoy’s eyes. ‘Whatever your motivations were, standing up to authority is one of the hardest things a human being can do.’
‘Look who’s talking,’ Malfoy says a little less heavily, his eyes turned to Harry at last. ‘You spent the whole of your time at Hogwarts standing up to authority.’
‘Well, not everybody can be like me,’ Harry says with a bit of a smile.
Harry’s not sure he doesn’t just imagine it, but he thinks Malfoy’s smiling a bit, too. It’s nice and it makes the room feel warmer. With no food today and Crabbe-the-ghost chilling the atmosphere permanently, it’s a very good feeling.
Malfoy glances over his shoulder at his over-the-top four-poster and, after biting his bottom lip almost imperceptibly, he says, ‘You shouldn’t have to sleep on that shitty mattress, Potter.’ With the way his head is inclined, Malfoy’s eyelids hide his eyes almost completely and Harry can’t really say if Malfoy’s about to mock him or to be nice to him. The clench of his jaw doesn’t let anything on.
It feels like Malfoy is gonna say something else, but his last words have made Harry jittery and he doesn’t let him talk. ‘Well, I don’t really have a choice, now, do I? I’d rather fall from the lowest height possible...’
‘What I was going to say, Potter,’ Malfoy shots back with a sneer, obviously more at ease with an antagonistic stance, ‘is that I could wish my own bed big enough for the whole Quidditch League if I wanted to. So, if you want to sleep somewhere decent, now that we don’t have food anymore and we need to be asleep not to feel hungry, I thought that we could share. But if you’d rather-’
‘No!’ Harry exclaims, aware that his desperation gives Malfoy even more of the upper hand, but unwilling to let the chance of a real bed pass away. ‘That’s really nice of you, Malfoy, thanks. I owe you one.’
‘Whatever, Potter.’
Malfoy goes to bed with his back to Harry and doesn’t say anything more. Harry climbs onto the thick and soft mattress and feels like he’s never been so comfortable in his whole life. He takes his glasses off and promptly falls asleep, only sparing a thought on the wish that he won’t have nightmares tonight. If he wakes Malfoy up with sobbed cries of dead people’s names, he’s sure he won’t be able to share Malfoy’s wish-bed again.
***
The next morning, Harry wakes up not only in the most rested state he’s been in since before Dumbledore’s death, but also to the divine smell of a just-cooked breakfast.
When he opens his eyes, he can see the blurry shape of Malfoy bent over a plate of pancakes, sausages, tomato, bacon-and certainly many other things that Malfoy’s back is obscuring from view-and it looks as if whoever or whatever sends them food wants to apologise for the diet of the day before.
‘So the food is back, then?’ Harry asks not very intelligently.
‘It is, Potter. Thank you for stating the obvious, it was very useful,’ Malfoy deadpans, but continues with something a lot more gentle in his voice, ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know how this room can circumvent Gamp’s Law. It could be very intellectually stimulating to research it. The Room of Requirement itself must be the most ingenious piece of magic ever. One of the Seven Wonders of the Modern Magical World.’
Harry puts on his glasses, gets out of bed and they eat in silence. It is not quite comfortable, but definitely more than just bearable. There isn’t a truce between them exactly. For there to be a truce, there should have been a war first, and they were both way too exhausted to actually be at war against each other. It’s more like a warm-ish amiability that seems to be surprising them both.
The day goes on, Malfoy asks him about the book he’s been reading lately, and they even tentatively discuss what they could do to get out of the room if nobody finds them. It’s very difficult, having to think about that, about the world going on out there, about Ron and Hermione searching frantically for him everywhere, thinking something awful might have happened.
Harry misses his friends painfully, and Ginny and Hagrid, and everyone, but he’s also a bit relieved he doesn’t have to face the Weasleys with Fred gone or his godson when Remus and Tonks are dead. He wonders if it makes him a bad person, and he guesses it does, so he asks Malfoy if he misses his parents instead. It’s easier to listen to him trying to hide how much he really does than to think about his own grief.
‘So, what will you do when we get out?’ Malfoy asks, taking Harry a bit by surprise. He himself would have phrased it if we get out.
‘I haven’t really thought about it yet,’ he admits. ‘Before ending up in this room, I mainly pictured myself sleeping a lot for the next few months. I guess this whole Voldemort-crap really took a toll on me. I’d wanted to be an Auror then, but I don’t quite know if I’d really feel up for it now, even if I don’t really feel qualified to do anything else.’
The truth is, Harry’s not even sure he would be able to make it as an Auror either. He doesn’t really fancy adding any more names to the list of people he wasn’t able to save. And he feels so ashamed most of the time: he’s supposed to be this Big Damn Hero, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself in the real world. Malfoy’s face, when Harry glances up at him, is neither mocking nor pitying though, and Harry feels almost as grateful for this lack of judgement as he is for half the bed at night.
‘What about you, Malfoy? D’you want to work in research, then?’ Harry asks with what he hopes is a livelier tone, referring to Malfoy’s earlier remark.
Malfoy snorts and rolls his eyes, but answers anyway, ‘I don’t know that I’ll be able to work at all, Potter, let alone in research. As I’m seeing it now, I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up in Azkaban.’
Oh. Harry’s never really thought about this possibility. Well, the War has only been over for a short time and it’s not as if Harry had been sitting around wondering about Malfoy’s future, but the sudden idea of Draco Malfoy in a damp Azkaban cell really doesn’t sit right with him.
‘That’s absolute bullshit!’ He exclaims, maybe a bit too vehemently. ‘I haven’t fought this war for people to keep on hurting innocent people.’
‘I’m hardly innocent,’ Malfoy says with a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at his left forearm. Whether Malfoy ever actually had it or not-and Harry is not so sure now as he was two years ago-Harry knows that Voldemort’s death has made the Dark Mark invisible. He also knows that having a Dark Mark and being an actual Death Eater are two very different things.
‘You were barely of age when you did the worst they can accuse you of, and the rest of the War, you were more of a-’
‘If you say the word victim,’ Malfoy cuts him off sharply, ‘you can rest assured that I’ll have no qualms about punching you again, Potter.’
‘Whatever, Malfoy,’ Harry tries to intone the same way Malfoy does. ‘Even if you do punch me, I’m not letting anyone send you to Azkaban.’ Because even if Malfoy doesn’t want to hear it, in Harry’s eyes, he was a victim. He wasn’t the helpless-princess-y kind of victim, but he was a prisoner in his own home, forced to use Unforgivables and let his friend die in a fire.
Harry glances at Crabbe’s ghost and can see him quickly turning away. He’d been listening in, and from the brief flash of emotion on his pearly grey face, Harry can tell he didn’t like what he was hearing. Harry doesn’t know if Crabbe’d always been like that or if it was the Carrows’ influence over the last year, but what a douchebag!
They spend the rest of the afternoon reading quietly and sometimes exchanging a few comments about their respective readings (Malfoy’s reading a very pretentious nineteenth century Transfiguration research dissertation, whereas Harry’s choice is a Muggle crime novel that Hermione had once recommended), but by the time the sun is setting, Malfoy’s become pretty restless.
‘What do you know exactly about Gamp’s law, Potter?’ Malfoy asks with a wicked glint in his eyes that makes Harry rather wary.
‘Er... That you can Transfigure anything into anything, except food and four other things?’ Harry says, trying to remember if Hermione had ever said more about it. He can’t really recall if they were ever supposed to study it in McGonagall’s class, and realises that even with Hermione there, gallivanting in the woods for the most part of a year hasn’t been very beneficial for his education.
‘Well, you can’t conjure food out of thin air, but you can change it, so I was wondering: what about drinks?’ Harry doesn’t really follow where Malfoy’s going with this, but he’s not sure Malfoy’s noticed. He’s using his most snotty and posh accent right now, and that means he won’t really be listening to whatever Harry has to say anyway. ‘We could begin with water, right? The water produced by an Aguamenti is the same we wish for here: it’s real water, refreshing, clean water that quenches our thirst, right?’
‘Slow down, Malfoy,’ Harry interrupts, and Malfoy looks at him quizzically. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re rattling on about.’
‘What I’m talking about, Potter, is wishing for some alcohol.’
Next Part
Author: lamerezouille
Recipient: misterwalnut
Title: To Be Back Again in the Rest of the Room
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, implied Ron/Hermione
Summary: Harry’s just defeated Voldemort, and has had enough trouble for a lifetime. All he wants to do now is to get into his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower and sleep. Too bad he soon finds himself unexpectedly stuck in a malfunctioning Room of Requirement... with Malfoy.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None that I can think of.
Epilogue compliant? Some might say it can be open to interpretation, but I’m a romantic, so I’m saying nope.
Word Count: ~16k
Author’s Notes: Title is from Sufjan Stevens’s song “To Be Alone with You”. Deep thanks to bibliophile41 for her wonderfully fast, efficient and comprehensive beta, and to tama201 for butting in with his very thoughtful comments, too. I would also like to send a lot of love to the mods, for their hard work and super-duper organising skills, without which this fest could not be what it is today. ♥
Harry wakes up with half of his face flaming with pain. He doesn’t know if it’s the pain that woke him up or if his attacker punched him as he was awakening. But he wishes like hell that whatever mess he’s in or whoever hit him, they’ll let him sleep a bit more.
It’s only after a few more seconds that he realises there’s no bed under him, and that he’s not even lying down.
‘What the hell?’ he half-moans, half-shouts, opening his eyes to a large and empty room. Standing next to him is Draco Malfoy.
His first reflex-his half-asleep mind not being able to ponder too much about it-is to throw his fist in the git’s direction and hope to inflict at least as much pain as he’s experiencing himself.
For a half-awake, not-so-burly teenage wizard who isn’t used to punching people in general, Harry’s aim is pretty good. He hits Malfoy right on the nose and even makes him stumble back a few paces.
Harry wants to bask in his self-satisfaction for a few seconds, but he’s interrupted by Malfoy’s outraged cry of, ‘What in the name of Merlin are you doing, Potter?’
Harry briefly wonders if it’s possible to punch someone hard enough that they don’t remember what a punch is without having them faint. He chooses to answer the question simply: ‘Well, I punched you.’
‘I’m very aware that you punched me, Potter. Believe it or not, but your fist in my face was a very good first clue.’
Malfoy really doesn’t sound like he’s in much pain, so Harry decides the tendril of guilt at the edge of his thoughts can very well go to hell.
‘You punched me first, you prat! Did you believe I was just going to stand there and let you beat me to your heart’s content?’
‘Of course!’ Malfoy answers immediately, making no sense at all. It’s as if they haven’t fought each other for seven years, as if Harry hasn’t just defeated the darkest wizard of all time. How can Malfoy’s brain make something so ridiculous work without being damaged? Harry’s not used to using his fists to solve problems; maybe he really punched Malfoy harder than he should have.
Harry also considers the possibility that maybe he’s still asleep.
‘But nothing ever really works for me, does it?’ Malfoy says with a deep, deep sigh.
Harry can feel that Malfoy’s going to start a long tirade of whining and moaning on how difficult it is to be a pointy git with evil parents and a Death Eater membership card, so Harry decides to tune him out to prevent himself the headache.
He takes advantage of Malfoy’s self-absorption to take in his surroundings. They’re alone in a large empty room with dirty white walls and a dusty stony floor. One of the walls has windows, but the glass is yellowish and dirty, and Harry can’t make out anything through it, except that it looks a bit like morning. Harry mustn’t have managed to catch more than a few hours’ sleep if that’s the case: he went to bed not long after dawn. Harry wants to bang his head against the wall, but contents himself with hoping that he’s at least still in Hogwarts. The room feels familiar, but he couldn’t say if he’s been there before.
Malfoy’s voice is persistent, even a little shrill, and Harry can’t help hearing threads of his monologue: things like ‘…this bloody room…’, and ‘…of course it would be you, Potter…’, and ‘…I really, really wanted to punch you so much…’, and then, Harry has to say something because if he doesn’t, he risks encouraging Malfoy’s wrong impression that he can do things like punch Harry with no retaliation whatsoever.
‘Why would you want to punch me? I saved your life twice in one evening. I reckoned it would warrant me at least three months of civility, if not gratefulness!’
Malfoy seems taken aback by Harry’s reaction and cuts himself off with a frown. He’s eyeing Harry suspiciously now, as if doubting the truth of Harry’s words. Harry swears to himself never to punch Malfoy again, if it means he won’t remember how much he owes Harry.
‘Potter?’ Malfoy asks slowly and with knitted eyebrows, as if he’s only just realised Harry’s here and can’t really believe his own eyes.
‘Yes, it’s me, Harry Potter! Don’t you remember just punching me, you twat? You even called me by my name! What on earth is your problem?’ Harry is infuriated. What is he even still doing here? He wants to turn on his heels and slam the door behind him, but while the first half of his plan is executed perfectly, he soon finds himself short of a door to slam. ‘And where on earth are we?! Where’s the bloody door? For that matter, what am I doing here in the first place?’
‘Don’t you recognise this bloody place, Potter?’ Malfoy spits, suddenly very angry.
Harry feels Malfoy has no right to be, when he certainly is the cause of Harry’s presence here, but at the same time, it feels almost nice, fighting with Malfoy. As if, after all the stress and strangeness of war, everything was somewhat back to normal.
‘But I accept it must be difficult for the Holy Saviour of the Wizarding World and all of Humankind to keep track of every single place he played the hero in.’ Harry could really do without the pompous grandiloquence, but as Malfoy speaks, he looks around him again, and it slowly starts to dawn on him. ‘The Room of Hidden Things!’ Malfoy cries at the same time Harry realises what’s really happening.
And yes, they’re definitely in the Room of Hidden Things, except that it’s totally empty. Harry recognises the feel of the room now, but it’s obvious why he wouldn’t have recognised it earlier. Bared of everything that made it itself, the room looks almost dead.
‘Malfoy,’ Harry says calmly. ‘Did you know that another name for this room was the Room of Requirement?’ Malfoy seems to be a bit confused by this statement, and he simply shakes his head. ‘Have you never noticed, when you were here, that when you wish for something, the room gives it you?’ Harry can see understanding starting to dawn on Malfoy’s face as he nods slowly. ‘Malfoy, have you, by any chance, required me?’
Despite Harry’s carefully civil tone, Malfoy has sensed the slight accusation in his voice, and is immediately on the defensive. ‘Well, I told you I wanted to punch you! How was I to know you would just be Apparated here? We’re inside Hogwarts, it shouldn’t even be possible!’
‘Well, inside this Room, a lot of things are possible,’ Harry says with a sigh. At least, now that he knows where they are, he can just wish a door to appear, and then go back to bed. He concentrates on the wall opposite the windows and thinks the most deeply he can about a door, about some way out.
Harry lets one minute pass before feeling like a complete idiot. The wall is still empty, and Malfoy’s smile is way too pleased.
‘How long have you had constipation problems, Potter? I can recommend several very efficient potions if you wish. My great-aunt Cerbreria swore by them, after she reached one hundred and fifty years of age.’ Harry glares at him and already feels his hands clenching into fists. ‘There’s a reason I wanted to punch you so much, you know,’ Malfoy adds, with a smart-arse tone that makes Harry want to do just that. ‘Because ever since I arrived here, I’ve been trying to get out. And because every time something bad happens to me, it is always in some way related to you, Potter. If you knew how satisfying punching you can be, maybe you’d do it to yourself.’
‘Punching you was nice too, maybe I’ll do it again soon,’ Harry says, returning the pleasantry. ‘I’m trying to get us out of here, all right? So just shut up, will you?’
‘If your escape plan is to wish us away, I wouldn’t put my galleons on it, Potter. I’ve been wishing for it for at least fifteen minutes. There’s no door and the windows are impenetrable. Why don’t you just use your wand and magick us all away on your white and shiny battle steed?’
‘I can’t use my wand because someone wished me here, but didn’t seem to wish I had anything to defend myself with! Why don’t you use your wand?’
‘Because some stupid-haired hero took it from me, you gigantic and useless prat!’ Malfoy shouts, seething.
‘All right, let’s try to calm down, then!’ Harry says, trying to placate the git. Maybe if they stop fighting at least for a little while, they can find a way to get out. ‘We have no wands and no door, and the magic of the Room seems to only work for asinine things like punching me. It’s not good, but I’ve definitely known worse.’
‘Thank Merlin for small mercies,’ Malfoy deadpans. Harry tries to not let it get on his nerves. He just has to ignore Malfoy and think. Where is Hermione when he really needs her? He thinks briefly of wishing her here the same way Malfoy has done him, but if she gets stuck with them too, it wouldn’t help any. Perhaps there could be a way of getting a message out there? Ask someone to get them from the outside?
Malfoy is now tapping his foot not even rhythmically, and there is no way Harry can stand the git for any extended period of time. Malfoy certainly couldn’t even survive one day without an armada of house-elves catering to his every whim…
Wait a minute.
‘House-elves!’ Harry exclaims suddenly, but Malfoy doesn’t even look at him weirdly. After Harry’s escape from Malfoy Manor-Harry tries his best not to let his memories bring him back to Dobby’s lifeless eyes-Malfoy must know as well as he does how much house-elves’ abilities tend to be underestimated.
‘Kreacher!’ Harry calls, hoping the house-elf is still at Hogwarts and still loyal to him. ‘Kreacher!’ he calls again, after a few minutes of waiting in vain.
Malfoy gives Harry a look. One that he really doesn’t like, and that doesn’t say any good things about either Harry or any house-elves, for that matter. Harry grits his teeth and remembers his own advice of ignoring Malfoy as much as he can.
‘Winky!’ he tries then, even if giving up on Kreacher kind of breaks his heart a little bit. There’s still no house-elf appearing anywhere near them and Harry decides to give up. He really doesn’t want Malfoy to give him one of those looks again.
‘So, Potter,’ Malfoy drawls in an annoying way that brings Harry back to their first meeting. He was so sure Malfoy had grown up at least a little bit since then, it’s almost disappointing. But then again, Malfoy can bring out Harry’s own inner eleven-year-old so well, he should refrain from judging him on this kind of thing. ‘It looks like there’ll be no easy way out of this for you. I guess it’s a novelty for you to have to work for it, isn’t it?’
‘Shut up, Malfoy. You have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Except that the git’s partly right, isn’t he? If he wasn’t Harry Potter, after all, if he hadn’t had this prophecy and this wretched piece of soul inside him, if he hadn’t had Hermione or even Ron with him, if he hadn’t had the most incredible luck in the world, there’s no way he would have been able to do a quarter of the things he’s achieved.
What a great hero he is, really.
‘Whatever, Potter. Let’s just all admit that we’re stuck here and that we’ve only got to wait until your throngs of fans notice your disappearance and come and get you. I’m sure it will take no time at all.’
Harry thinks of the Marauder’s Map, lying idly on his nightstand. As soon as he wakes up, Ron will definitely notice Harry’s absence and see his dot on the map, stuck there with Draco Malfoy’s. Even with his grief over Fred and his budding romance with Hermione, there’s no way Ron won’t see the emergency of the situation and come and get him right away. Counting on one’s friends can be a good thing after all. And Harry no longer needs to be a hero for anybody anyways.
Harry nods decisively and decides to extend an olive branch. ‘What about you, Malfoy? Aren’t your parents gonna be looking for you, too?’ They were willing to lie to Voldemort for you, after all, he doesn’t say. It doesn’t feel very right that Harry would know more about what Malfoy’s parents did during the Battle of Hogwarts than Malfoy himself does, but he doesn’t really know how to broach the subject without having to relate how he survived death too. Not only is it way too intimate to talk about to anyone, but Harry’s certain that if Malfoy ever knew the truth, he’d just use it as another example of Harry being a dim-witted sacrificial lamb and a bloody Gryffindor. Though, Harry has to admit that he wouldn’t be completely wrong.
‘My parents went back to the Manor. I was…disinclined to follow them there. Not until it’s inhabitable again, at least. It’ll take them at least a week.’
Harry notices how Malfoy didn’t use the word home and finds it fair enough. Even he has never thought of Privet Drive as home, and-even if it could be debatable by some-the Dursleys remain a bit better to live with than Voldemort. What doesn’t surprise Harry at all though, is that Malfoy seems absolutely content to let his parents do all the Evil Overlord cleansing work.
‘All right. We’ll just have to wait it out, then,’ Harry says with what he hopes is an optimistic smile. If they don’t just fight their time away, it’ll only be a night of uncomfortable silences and awkward glances, but Harry would really be happy with that. It’s better than what he could have hoped for, and Harry doesn’t fancy being punched again.
‘Very well, Potter. At least, with the three of us, things sure won’t be boring,’ Malfoy says with a smile way too mischievous for Harry’s comfort.
‘What do you mean, the three of us?’ Harry asks warily.
‘Well, you know. You, me… and him.’ Malfoy points his thumb to the corner behind him, and only then does Harry notice that what he’d thought was a thicker patch of grey dust is, in fact, the pearly grey shape of the ghost of Vincent Crabbe.
***
‘Er…’ Harry says very eloquently. ‘So, Crabbe’s a ghost, now?’
The question is stupid because with his translucent grey skin and the few inches that separate him from the floor, it’s fairly obvious that Crabbe’s a ghost. And it shouldn’t surprise Harry any, really. If he had to bet on anyone he knew for ghost-potential, Crabbe was definitely coward enough to fear death-or maybe he was just too stupid to recognise the light at the end of the tunnel for what it is. Harry wouldn’t put it past him, but he tries not to think too ill of the dead. Even if the dead in question is Crabbe.
The revelation is still boggling Harry’s mind a bit when Malfoy speaks again.
‘And don’t think about it because there’s no point. He won’t go looking for help on our behalf. He won’t even talk to me.’
‘Why not?’ Harry asks, genuinely surprised. He remembers Crabbe’s last moments very well, and how strained his relationship with Malfoy seemed to be, but he’d thought that years of friendship and the knowledge of death would have overcome that. Mostly because every time Malfoy turns his gaze towards Crabbe, Harry can see all the guilt in Malfoy’s eyes, and something that resembles sorrow very much.
‘Well, it seems my insistence about keeping Your Scarred Majesty alive the last time we were here made me “the worst blood traitor who’s ever traitor-ed”,’ Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes before turning to Crabbe. ‘Aren’t those the exact words you used, Vince?’
Crabbe unfolds and refolds his arms, while looking pointedly everywhere but at Malfoy, and Harry could almost find Crabbe’s prima-donna shenanigans funny if it weren’t for the sadness he can still see in Malfoy’s eyes, despite how skilfully he’s trying to look indifferent.
‘At least, those were the only words Sir Ghost-face deigned to say to me,’ Malfoy concludes, turning back to Harry. ‘Maybe if I killed you now, I would come back in his good graces, and he’d fetch help for me…’ he muses half-seriously.
It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes now, because if the war taught him anything, it’s that Draco Malfoy is not a murderer. And according to the last few minutes here, Malfoy even seems to be decently funny. Or at least he is when his humour is not aimed at people’s dead families.
Harry finds himself oddly hopeful to know that in spite of everything that’s happened, Malfoy is still able to joke.
There’s silence then, and Harry is almost surprised at how not-awkward it manages to be, despite Harry and Malfoy just standing there, looking at each other. There even seems to be some kind of moment taking place. Harry feels like he should say something serious, like how sorry he is that Crabbe died while bearing a grudge, because he really is. He can imagine Ron dying while he was away from them last Christmas, with the last words they said to each other being heinous ones, and the idea of something like this happening to anyone-even to the likes of Crabbe and Malfoy-breaks his heart a little bit.
‘All right, so if you don’t want me to punch you anymore, I think I’ll just go back to bed,’ Malfoy says with what sounds like the genuine hope that Harry might let him get in another good punch after all. He’s enough of a realist not to wait for an answer though, and a few seconds later, Malfoy has relocated to the middle of the room, wished a bed to appear and slipped under fluffy-looking blankets.
Harry spares a glance for Crabbe, and sees that he has returned to his corner to sulk. Harry wonders idly how boring it can be to be a pouting ghost for the rest of eternity, but decides that he is too tired to care. Seeing Malfoy in his huge four-poster bed has made him remember how well he was sleeping before all of this happened, and he really wants to go back to this state. If he’s lucky, he’ll be woken up by a rescue team coming to get them.
He concentrates on his wish for the most comfortable and sleep-enhancing bed, takes off his shoes and glasses, and gets in.
***
This is twice in a too short period of time that Harry wakes up with his face hurting. This time it’s not a fist that just hit his face, but the hard cold stone floor. He looks around him and notes that he’s unfortunately still in the Room of Requirement and that none of his interaction with Malfoy has been a dream. Harry wonders what time it is and if Ron’s going to get there soon. The room is a bit clearer than before, and even if Harry feels rested all right, it isn’t late enough for Ron to be already awake-he certainly didn’t have a disappearing bed.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ Harry hears a gruff voice ask just behind his head.
Oh yes. Crabbe is still a ghost, too.
‘My bed’s vanished, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘His bed hasn’t,’ Crabbe says, now floating just above Harry’s face, a finger pointed towards Malfoy, who is deeply asleep in his majestic bed.
Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to know why the Room of Requirement deprived him of his bed but let Malfoy enjoy his beauty sleep. Harry still very much requires a bed after all. He chooses to believe that the Fiendfyre has somewhat partially damaged the room, rather than that Malfoy has deliberately sabotaged Harry’s sleep. It’s better to keep a certain peace intact for the time being. Harry’s very proud of how adult he can be about all this.
Harry sits up and puts his glasses back on. The floor is very cold and he hopes they’ll find their way out before he has to worry about bathroom arrangements. He’s lacing his shoes when he notices that Crabbe is still hovering next to him, looking at him fixedly, his colourless and unblinking eyes boring into him. Harry hates to admit it, but it makes him feel quite nervous, and hairs are starting to rise on the back of his neck. And more than anything, it feels exceptionally awkward. Harry is this close to ask Crabbe something as inane as, ‘So, you’re a wannabe Death-Eater turned ghost. What’s that like?’ but is saved by the proverbial bell when Malfoy’s voice rings in the almost empty room:
‘Stop trying to find ways to kill him, Crabbe, there’s absolutely no point. Unless the Dark Lord turned ghost too; then you’d expect he’d let you haunt a more furnished area of the castle as a reward, wouldn’t you? But even then, there’s nothing much you can do about Potter, what with being non-corporeal and all.’
‘And there is nothing you can do about me, what with being a filthy coward and all,’ Crabbe snaps back, his eyes not leaving Harry once. ‘I may be a ghost, but at least I died for a cause, instead of surviving for myself.’
Even in the darkness, Harry can clearly see Draco blanch at that, but he’s a little annoyed when Malfoy chooses not to answer Crabbe, as if he’d made a point. Because there definitely is nothing honourable in the way Crabbe died as far as Harry’s concerned. Instead, Malfoy chooses to redirect his attention to Harry, with a sneer.
‘What are you doing on the floor, Potter? Have you slept there?’ He mocks, with no hint of the genuine good-humour he’d showed earlier, but rather a touch of cruel disgust.
There’s something that slashes into Harry very deep, the way he’s said it. Partly it is because sleeping on the floor reminds him of when the Dursleys confiscated his mattress at age seven. He was forced to sleep on the floor of his cupboard after they had discovered bedbugs in his bed sheets. He had slept a week without even one blanket or one pillow, as punishment. Harry has truly made peace with the Dursleys by now-with the war he couldn’t have done anything else-but it still hurts a lot, thinking about it and feeling the icy floor and the shame all over again.
The other reason Malfoy’s tone hurts so much is because he’d genuinely thought he could make his peace with him too. Despite the punching and the being stuck with him in the Room of Requirement, Harry had genuinely thought they were starting off on the right foot.
Harry scowls at Malfoy for his trouble and snarls, ‘I did not sleep on the floor, but I didn’t need Sleeping Beauty’s bed either, you ponce. I think you forgot to put curlers in your hair before going to bed, Malfoy.’ Harry knows the way Malfoy’s name curls on his tongue like an insult is useless, but he can’t help feeling a bit vindictive at Malfoy’s angry look.
‘Whatever, Potter,’ Malfoy says before turning his back to Harry and seemingly going back to sleep.
Harry wishes for an armchair and something entertaining to read and decides not to waste another thought on Malfoy or Crabbe and the silly situation they’re all in. Apart from the fact that he has to wish back his book and his chair every few hours, it works very well to keep his mind off things.
***
By the second time Harry sees the sun set behind the Room of Requirement’s windows, he starts losing hope of seeing Ron and Hermione coming to save him. He’s been alternating between thinking they’ve just been occupied otherwise (and then wanting to completely sear the idea from his mind) and convincing himself that the Room of Requirement is presently unplottable, so Ron couldn’t find his dot on the map anyway (and then not really remembering where exactly he’d left the Marauder’s Map after all).
Malfoy doesn’t seem too worried about their situation and keeps quipping about how Harry’s fans are supposedly ransacking the whole Wizarding World looking for him, and that they’d be here in no time. Malfoy continually implies that it’s always been Harry’s deepest wish to have so many people adoring him and trailing after him. Harry is always torn between wanting to make him eat his smug smile (the image of Colin Creevey’s corpse flashing through his mind doesn’t help) and hoping Malfoy’s right in thinking that they’ll be busted out soon.
They aren’t busted out the third day nor the fourth, though, and soon they’ve been there for more than a week.
Harry had been worried at first that they’d starve slowly, between having no link to the outside world and the impracticality of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law of something or other, but food does come every day. Real and nourishing food; good food, even. The only problem is that there’s only one portion of it each time it appears, and it’s always one of Malfoy’s favourite food, which makes the prat even smugger, and Harry extremely suspicious.
Malfoy is much more human than Harry would have thought, though. Because each time food appears in the middle of the Room of Requirement, so obviously meant for Malfoy that it only misses a tag with his name on it, Malfoy looks up at Harry, wishes a knife in his hand, cuts the dish into two perfect halves, eats his part and leaves the rest for Harry.
Maybe Harry just hasn’t been able to figure Malfoy out as much as he’d thought he did, or maybe he’s just still too used to the Dursleys’ eat-everything-and-leave-the-crust-for-Harry ways, but he can’t help but feel wrong-footed every time Malfoy does it. By the twelfth or thirteenth meal, he’s more or less used to it, but there’s still this tiny little part of himself expecting Malfoy to spit in his soup.
The worst of it is that, despite these weirdly kind table-manners, Malfoy still isn’t pleasant to be stuck with in a room at all. They talk only to exchange barbs and spiteful remarks. Malfoy still thinks Harry is some kind of megalomaniac attention-whore and keeps laughing at the room’s uncooperativeness towards Harry’s wishes over and over again, even if Harry’s sure it must start to get a bit old.
And no, Harry’s wishes-situation doesn’t get better at all. Whatever he wishes for never lasts more than a couple of hours and he’s taken to wish for just a thin blanket and mattress at night so that he’d fall from lower when it disappears. As a result, his nights are restless and filled with dreams of short and violent falls.
It’s more manageable during the days, where he can just make an effort of wishing for things explicitly at regular intervals, but he still can’t wish for more than three or four things at the same time. Also, he can only wish for his clothes to get cleaned and not for new ones. Once, he’d been sloppy and made the mistake of wishing for a clean outfit instead of for his outfit to be clean. Malfoy’s cackling at his naked butt had been unbearable and very, very long.
The one thing that is still constant and predictable is Crabbe. The ghost just sulks all day long in one corner or another and insults Harry and/or Malfoy every twelve hours or so, using a not very large variation of “blood-traitor” synonyms. It’s boring, really. Sometimes Malfoy tries to rile him up or provoke him the same way he does with Harry, but it never really works on Crabbe so Harry wonders if he should re-examine his own reactions a bit.
Crabbe and Malfoy’s interactions, despite being somewhat monotonous, could be entertaining, if only Malfoy didn’t look so broken up about it when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. Harry isn’t enough of a bastard to find any cheer in that.
One night, maybe ten days in, after Harry wakes up because of the usual reason of his blanket and mattress disappearing, he hears whispers coming from inside the curtains of Malfoy’s four-poster.
‘You were the one to start the Fiendfyre!’ Harry can hear Malfoy whisper angrily.
‘And you took off with your beloved hero without even looking back for me, or did you?’ Crabbe replies, not really bothering about his sound-level.
‘He’s far from being my beloved hero! And I didn’t take off with him, he rescued me. I was supporting Goyle, and I didn’t know where you were. I almost died in there, too!’ Malfoy is angry and even through the whisper, Harry can hear how rough his voice sounds. Almost like an animal’s growl.
‘If you’d really been my friend, you wouldn’t have gone without me. You’d have died too. I’m sure Greg would have sacrificed himself to the cause, like me, if you hadn’t taken him with you.’
‘What?!’ Malfoy breathes more than he speaks now, and Harry can almost hear the tears getting held back behind his eyelids. ‘So... you don’t think I’m a blood-traitor because I let you die, but because I didn’t die with you?’
‘You never really cared for anything, Malfoy. Not for the cause, not for your supposed friends. You ever only cared about yourself. You’re pathetic and selfish and weak and a coward. You’re useless to the world and you deserved to die here with me. And certainly now you will. It would only serve you right.’
***
The next day, no food comes. Harry wonders if what Crabbe said about dying here like him was some kind of bizarrely accurate foreshadowing. He wants to speak to Malfoy about it, he wants to ask if maybe Crabbe has more powers here than he lets on, if maybe Crabbe’s the one locking them up here.
But Malfoy doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t even look at him. He sits on a chair and stares blankly ahead at nothing. He doesn’t even seem surprised or bothered when no food shows up.
Crabbe’s cruelty has obviously reached right through Malfoy’s chest and Harry feels like he should say something, maybe. He doesn’t know what to say though, and he’s not certain he really wants to. A lot of what Crabbe said is true after all. For the whole length of the war, the Malfoys had only cared about themselves, about their own family, and even though it saved Harry in the end, it’s not necessarily a good thing.
In the meantime, Crabbe just sulks in his corner all day, as if nothing has happened. Harry wishes the ghost acted dodgier, so he could suspect him of being the bad guy in this whole situation more seriously. It would be nice and simple then. Harry would have a target and someone to fight (even though he has no freaking idea how to fight a ghost) and they’d be out of here in no time at all.
After so many years of misconceptions and chasing the wrong bad guy, Harry knows it can never be that easy.. In all probability, Crabbe is just a ghost, the Room of Requirement has just been irreparably damaged by the Fiendfyre, and the food was merely an anomaly.They shouldn’t have gotten used to it so easily.
Harry gets a bit lost in his thoughts and forgets to wish for his armchair to stay material. His arse hits the ground painfully and he lets out a not-very-manly yelp, but when Malfoy doesn’t even blink, Harry knows things are bad. He definitely has to do something if he doesn’t want them to drown in a sea of negativity soon.
‘Um... Malfoy?’ Harry says warily.
No reaction.
Wow, Harry can’t believe what he’s doing, how awkward it is. ‘You know, I...’ Harry wants to admit he’s heard what Crabbe has said, but he fears Malfoy would accuse him of invading his privacy, and he really wants to help, not fight. ‘I-I wanted to thank you, you know... For not saying it was me, back at your manor. It was a very brave thing to do, you know. Not everyone would have-’
Harry doesn’t really know how to finish this thing he’s trying to say. He’s hoped Malfoy would have interrupted him by now, but he’s still staring into nothing. Harry finds it almost scary.
‘Er...’ Harry starts again, ready to say anything-anything-to fill in the awkward silence.
‘It wasn’t my manor,’ Malfoy saves him unexpectedly, his gaze still unfocused.
Harry almost sighs in relief, because he really has no idea what he could have said. Maybe he would have started rambling about what he’d seen of Malfoy through Voldemort’s eyes, and that really isn’t something he wants to think about.
‘Er, your parents’ manor, then?’ Harry corrects himself, not sure what Malfoy’s point is supposed to be.
‘It was the Dark Lord’s manor when you were there, Potter. I didn’t refuse to identify you because I was brave. I did it because I didn’t want the Dark Lord to come there again. I’m the exact coward Crabbe told me I am, no need to try and butter me up.’
Harry’s only reaction is to gape like a fool. He should have known Malfoy would be able to read right through him, but he’s really not expected him to be so self-deprecating. For someone who’s always appeared to think so highly of himself, Malfoy’s revelation catches Harry off balance.
‘Even though,’ Harry persists, because even if he believes Malfoy is a coward most of the time, he knows he hadn’t been one back there. Harry’s vision had been distorted at the time, but he can still remember what he saw in Malfoy’s eyes. ‘Whatever your motivations were, standing up to authority is one of the hardest things a human being can do.’
‘Look who’s talking,’ Malfoy says a little less heavily, his eyes turned to Harry at last. ‘You spent the whole of your time at Hogwarts standing up to authority.’
‘Well, not everybody can be like me,’ Harry says with a bit of a smile.
Harry’s not sure he doesn’t just imagine it, but he thinks Malfoy’s smiling a bit, too. It’s nice and it makes the room feel warmer. With no food today and Crabbe-the-ghost chilling the atmosphere permanently, it’s a very good feeling.
Malfoy glances over his shoulder at his over-the-top four-poster and, after biting his bottom lip almost imperceptibly, he says, ‘You shouldn’t have to sleep on that shitty mattress, Potter.’ With the way his head is inclined, Malfoy’s eyelids hide his eyes almost completely and Harry can’t really say if Malfoy’s about to mock him or to be nice to him. The clench of his jaw doesn’t let anything on.
It feels like Malfoy is gonna say something else, but his last words have made Harry jittery and he doesn’t let him talk. ‘Well, I don’t really have a choice, now, do I? I’d rather fall from the lowest height possible...’
‘What I was going to say, Potter,’ Malfoy shots back with a sneer, obviously more at ease with an antagonistic stance, ‘is that I could wish my own bed big enough for the whole Quidditch League if I wanted to. So, if you want to sleep somewhere decent, now that we don’t have food anymore and we need to be asleep not to feel hungry, I thought that we could share. But if you’d rather-’
‘No!’ Harry exclaims, aware that his desperation gives Malfoy even more of the upper hand, but unwilling to let the chance of a real bed pass away. ‘That’s really nice of you, Malfoy, thanks. I owe you one.’
‘Whatever, Potter.’
Malfoy goes to bed with his back to Harry and doesn’t say anything more. Harry climbs onto the thick and soft mattress and feels like he’s never been so comfortable in his whole life. He takes his glasses off and promptly falls asleep, only sparing a thought on the wish that he won’t have nightmares tonight. If he wakes Malfoy up with sobbed cries of dead people’s names, he’s sure he won’t be able to share Malfoy’s wish-bed again.
***
The next morning, Harry wakes up not only in the most rested state he’s been in since before Dumbledore’s death, but also to the divine smell of a just-cooked breakfast.
When he opens his eyes, he can see the blurry shape of Malfoy bent over a plate of pancakes, sausages, tomato, bacon-and certainly many other things that Malfoy’s back is obscuring from view-and it looks as if whoever or whatever sends them food wants to apologise for the diet of the day before.
‘So the food is back, then?’ Harry asks not very intelligently.
‘It is, Potter. Thank you for stating the obvious, it was very useful,’ Malfoy deadpans, but continues with something a lot more gentle in his voice, ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know how this room can circumvent Gamp’s Law. It could be very intellectually stimulating to research it. The Room of Requirement itself must be the most ingenious piece of magic ever. One of the Seven Wonders of the Modern Magical World.’
Harry puts on his glasses, gets out of bed and they eat in silence. It is not quite comfortable, but definitely more than just bearable. There isn’t a truce between them exactly. For there to be a truce, there should have been a war first, and they were both way too exhausted to actually be at war against each other. It’s more like a warm-ish amiability that seems to be surprising them both.
The day goes on, Malfoy asks him about the book he’s been reading lately, and they even tentatively discuss what they could do to get out of the room if nobody finds them. It’s very difficult, having to think about that, about the world going on out there, about Ron and Hermione searching frantically for him everywhere, thinking something awful might have happened.
Harry misses his friends painfully, and Ginny and Hagrid, and everyone, but he’s also a bit relieved he doesn’t have to face the Weasleys with Fred gone or his godson when Remus and Tonks are dead. He wonders if it makes him a bad person, and he guesses it does, so he asks Malfoy if he misses his parents instead. It’s easier to listen to him trying to hide how much he really does than to think about his own grief.
‘So, what will you do when we get out?’ Malfoy asks, taking Harry a bit by surprise. He himself would have phrased it if we get out.
‘I haven’t really thought about it yet,’ he admits. ‘Before ending up in this room, I mainly pictured myself sleeping a lot for the next few months. I guess this whole Voldemort-crap really took a toll on me. I’d wanted to be an Auror then, but I don’t quite know if I’d really feel up for it now, even if I don’t really feel qualified to do anything else.’
The truth is, Harry’s not even sure he would be able to make it as an Auror either. He doesn’t really fancy adding any more names to the list of people he wasn’t able to save. And he feels so ashamed most of the time: he’s supposed to be this Big Damn Hero, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself in the real world. Malfoy’s face, when Harry glances up at him, is neither mocking nor pitying though, and Harry feels almost as grateful for this lack of judgement as he is for half the bed at night.
‘What about you, Malfoy? D’you want to work in research, then?’ Harry asks with what he hopes is a livelier tone, referring to Malfoy’s earlier remark.
Malfoy snorts and rolls his eyes, but answers anyway, ‘I don’t know that I’ll be able to work at all, Potter, let alone in research. As I’m seeing it now, I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up in Azkaban.’
Oh. Harry’s never really thought about this possibility. Well, the War has only been over for a short time and it’s not as if Harry had been sitting around wondering about Malfoy’s future, but the sudden idea of Draco Malfoy in a damp Azkaban cell really doesn’t sit right with him.
‘That’s absolute bullshit!’ He exclaims, maybe a bit too vehemently. ‘I haven’t fought this war for people to keep on hurting innocent people.’
‘I’m hardly innocent,’ Malfoy says with a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at his left forearm. Whether Malfoy ever actually had it or not-and Harry is not so sure now as he was two years ago-Harry knows that Voldemort’s death has made the Dark Mark invisible. He also knows that having a Dark Mark and being an actual Death Eater are two very different things.
‘You were barely of age when you did the worst they can accuse you of, and the rest of the War, you were more of a-’
‘If you say the word victim,’ Malfoy cuts him off sharply, ‘you can rest assured that I’ll have no qualms about punching you again, Potter.’
‘Whatever, Malfoy,’ Harry tries to intone the same way Malfoy does. ‘Even if you do punch me, I’m not letting anyone send you to Azkaban.’ Because even if Malfoy doesn’t want to hear it, in Harry’s eyes, he was a victim. He wasn’t the helpless-princess-y kind of victim, but he was a prisoner in his own home, forced to use Unforgivables and let his friend die in a fire.
Harry glances at Crabbe’s ghost and can see him quickly turning away. He’d been listening in, and from the brief flash of emotion on his pearly grey face, Harry can tell he didn’t like what he was hearing. Harry doesn’t know if Crabbe’d always been like that or if it was the Carrows’ influence over the last year, but what a douchebag!
They spend the rest of the afternoon reading quietly and sometimes exchanging a few comments about their respective readings (Malfoy’s reading a very pretentious nineteenth century Transfiguration research dissertation, whereas Harry’s choice is a Muggle crime novel that Hermione had once recommended), but by the time the sun is setting, Malfoy’s become pretty restless.
‘What do you know exactly about Gamp’s law, Potter?’ Malfoy asks with a wicked glint in his eyes that makes Harry rather wary.
‘Er... That you can Transfigure anything into anything, except food and four other things?’ Harry says, trying to remember if Hermione had ever said more about it. He can’t really recall if they were ever supposed to study it in McGonagall’s class, and realises that even with Hermione there, gallivanting in the woods for the most part of a year hasn’t been very beneficial for his education.
‘Well, you can’t conjure food out of thin air, but you can change it, so I was wondering: what about drinks?’ Harry doesn’t really follow where Malfoy’s going with this, but he’s not sure Malfoy’s noticed. He’s using his most snotty and posh accent right now, and that means he won’t really be listening to whatever Harry has to say anyway. ‘We could begin with water, right? The water produced by an Aguamenti is the same we wish for here: it’s real water, refreshing, clean water that quenches our thirst, right?’
‘Slow down, Malfoy,’ Harry interrupts, and Malfoy looks at him quizzically. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re rattling on about.’
‘What I’m talking about, Potter, is wishing for some alcohol.’
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