[Fic] "Unexpected Turns" -- Harry Potter, G/H/D, Theme 20
Author: Elizabeth Culmer edenfalling
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter, Ginny/Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Theme: #20 - Far away
Warnings: none
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Unexpected Turns
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"Malfoy. Come with me."
Draco counted to ten -- he'd thought he'd made it quite clear that one price of his defection was a bit of privacy when he wanted it -- before he looked up from his study of the fire. Weasley's sister was trying to look calm and decisive, but he was an old hand at reading poses; she was nervous, a little embarrassed, furious -- probably about being nervous and embarrassed, which would explain why she was trying to smother her anger -- and, underneath all that, scared to death.
That was interesting. He hadn't seen her really scared since the whole mess with the Heir and the Basilisk back in second year, not even when she'd faced down his Aunt Bellatrix in a formal duel last winter. What had yanked her strings?
Draco leaned back in the sagging armchair and smirked. "Make me."
"Look, you're not a prisoner," she said, resting one hand on her hip. "You brought Hufflepuff's cup as proof of your good faith when you defected, and we believed you. You're only in Grimmauld Place for your own protection, so would you stop acting like we're going to chain you up and start casting Unforgiveables at you? If you at least tried acting like a human being, we'd be a lot more inclined to let you out of the house occasionally. Also, come with me."
Draco sighed elaborately and followed her out of the small sitting room.
He was expecting Weasley's sister to take him to another interminable Order meeting, or maybe to the library to quiz him on some part of his piecemeal knowledge of Dark Arts, but she led him up to the third floor, to where the DA members had set up their rooms once it became clear the war wasn't ending as soon as they'd hoped. She pulled him into one of the bedrooms, locked the door, and then folded her arms and stared at him.
Draco glanced around the room -- two beds, nothing terribly frilly, but the flowered comforters and the nightdress on the closet door said that girls lived here, and the books on one night table and dresser practically screamed that one of those girls was Granger. Draco sauntered over to the window seat, folded his arms, and stared at Ginny Weasley.
She sighed, short and frustrated, and sat on the bed with pink flowers. "There isn't a way to say this that doesn't make me sound like an idiot or worse. So I'm just going to tell you."
There was a long pause.
"I don't feel like I'm being informed," Draco said, while Weasley fidgeted.
"Shut it, Malfoy. This is embarrassing." She scowled, and began talking to the floor. "You know -- you must've heard Hermione say it at least once -- that Harry has a saving-people thing. A martyr complex. He thinks that if anybody gets hurt, it's his fault -- even if there's nothing he could've done -- and he thinks it's what he deserves if he gets hurt instead. It gets worse the longer any bit of trouble goes on, and it gets really bad when Voldemort's involved."
Draco made a noncommittal noise to show he was listening. This was old news, but Weasley wouldn't have dragged him up here just to tell him things he already knew.
"I didn't notice at first," continued Weasley. "I thought he was just tired, worn down. But he's been pulling away from people. He's starting to get a funny look in his eyes, like he thinks he knows a way to make everything better, but he can't quite work up the nerve to do anything. Whenever I catch him looking like that, he'll smile and ask how I'm doing, and how everyone else is doing. Except he's not really listening. He doesn't hear me when I say that we're worried about him. He's just thinking that he's the one who can defeat Voldemort -- who can kill Voldemort -- and how if he's just a weapon, we don't really need him."
She tucked her arms closer to her body, as if suddenly cold. "I think he's decided we'll be better off without him. I think he's almost ready to do something suicidal, like attacking Voldemort alone."
There was another long pause, more uncomfortable than the first.
"Why tell me?" Draco asked eventually. Late morning sunshine slanted through the window, warm and golden against his back. The warmth felt tenuous, unreal.
"Because I can't get through to him -- he's so busy thinking I'll be safer without him that he won't listen to me, not even when I screamed at him last night," said Weasley. "But you... Harry doesn't care if you're safe. He argued in favor of giving you sanctuary, but he doesn't like you at all. Sometimes, he even hates you. And he pays attention to you." Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to point a hand at Draco. "You're going to help me talk sense into him."
"Fine," said Draco, before he could stop himself.
He spent the next ten minutes belatedly trying to wring some favors in return for his help, but Weasley knocked down all his attempts. She was practically Slytherin in her focus, Draco thought sourly, as he followed her down the corridor to the room Potter shared with Ron Weasley. If she weren't working against him, he'd almost admire her.
"This is insane, and it'll never work," he said in a last-ditch protest.
"Stop stalling," said Weasley, and leaned past him to knock on the door. "Harry! I know you're in there -- open up!"
Bedsprings creaked, and footsteps moved toward the door, which swung open to reveal a rather rumpled and irritated Harry Potter. "If you know I'm in here, you know--" He broke off and glared at Draco. "Ginny. What the bloody fuck is he doing here?"
"That's for us to know and you to figure out," said Weasley, shoving Draco forward. Potter stepped aside to avoid contact, which had the convenient side effect of opening a space for Draco and Weasley to slip into the room.
Draco looked around in genuine interest, disguised, of course, as disdain. It was obvious which half of the room belonged to Weasley's brother -- it was papered with orange posters for the Chudley Cannons, and a royal mess to boot. Potter's half was tidy and plain, with all the displayed personality of a clod of dirt... except for a photo album on the night table, and a thick, fusty book laid open on his pillow. He'd been researching something, then, and probably something bordering on Dark Arts -- the book had that sort of air.
Weasley walked over, grabbed the book, and slammed it shut.
"Hey!" said Potter. "I was reading that -- it's important."
"I've seen what you're reading these days. It's never important, because you're going at this the wrong way," said Weasley, tossing the book to Draco. Even surprised, he caught it perfectly. Potter tried not to react, but he turned just a fraction toward the book.
Draco looked at the title and winced theatrically. "Tearing the Veil, is it? My father had a copy of this -- do you know what sort of spells are in here? Maybe one of them could destroy the Dark Lord and his last Horcrux in one shot, but only if you're willing to shred your own soul in the process and wind up a worse madman than he is."
"Madness? The introduction only mentioned death--" Potter clamped his mouth shut and looked like he wished he hadn't said anything.
Draco exchanged a long look with Weasley. "You were right," he said.
"I wouldn't have said a word to you if I hadn't been sure," said Weasley, hands on her hips. "I have some pride, you know."
"Unjustified, I'm sure," said Draco, with a sneer. Weasley just grinned, giving Draco a sinking suspicion that she might be learning to read him.
"Excuse me, but we were talking about the book?" said Potter. "And I thought you said your father kept you out of his library, Malfoy -- when did you have a chance to read Tearing the Veil?"
Draco gave Potter one of his better disparaging looks, the one that implied its recipient was less intelligent and interesting than a flobberworm. "That's none of your business, Potter. And to answer the question you didn't ask, yes, the spells in here can be fatal, but more often they leave people afflicted with various degrees of madness -- loss of conscience, shredded memory, frothing paranoia, hallucinations, berserker rage -- little things like that. I'm sure your friends would be more than happy to see you in that state, and put you down like a rabid dog if it became necessary."
Potter flinched.
"You see, Harry?" said Weasley, laying a hand on Potter's shoulder. "You're not a weapon. You're a person, a human being. And you matter to us. We don't want you to throw your life away -- this war isn't your fault, and we don't blame you for anything Voldemort does. Why is it so hard for you to understand that?"
"Because he's a Gryffindor, you idiot," said Draco as Potter failed miserably to slide out of Weasley's grip. "All you lot are idiots -- the kind of idiots who get a bloody ridiculous notion into your heads and charge right off for glory, without ever stopping to think. Except Granger, I suppose, but she's twice as hard to stop once she starts charging, because she's so sure she's figured all the angles. And let me tell you, nobody ever gets all the angles figured. Life's a rotten bitch that way."
Weasley and Potter both spared him a furious glare, and then Weasley turned back to her not-quite-boyfriend. "See? You can't be sure any plan you come up with will work, so you're absolutely not allowed to go off on your own. What if your spells don't work, or if you get captured? What do you think we'd do then?"
"So I am a weapon," said Potter, in tones of cynical satisfaction.
"No! Well, maybe a little. But that's not the point," said Weasley, grabbing Potter's hair and turning his face toward hers. "The point is that everybody in the Order and the DA cares about you -- you're our friend -- and if you're in danger, we're going to rescue you. Just like you rescue us. Friendship works both directions, Harry."
Potter stared helplessly into Weasley's eyes; his mouth opened once or twice, but he seemed incapable of forming any coherent answer.
Draco took pity on him. "That's the Gryffindor reason you shouldn't commit suicide," he drawled. "Here's another one to consider: if you die, you'll never get to say 'I told you so,' to all the cowards in hiding, and you won't have any way of influencing the rebuilding. If you live, you'll be the single most important figure in wizarding Britain, and this time you're old enough to make that count. If you want to help your precious Muggle-born followers, or push through werewolf-friendly laws, or anything like that, you'll have to live. Dead heroes belong to whoever grabs their image and shouts the loudest. Living heroes have to deal with that too, but at least they can talk back."
Halfway through his little speech, Potter started frowning thoughtfully. Weasley let go of Potter's hair and stepped back, as if waiting for him to reach a conclusion.
"I never asked to be a hero," Potter said eventually.
"You didn't ask to be born, either," Draco pointed out. "Life is full of unexpected turns." Like betraying the Dark Lord and ending up as a tentative ally of the Order of the bloody Phoenix -- he certainly hadn't anticipated that. The plan had simply sprung full-blown into his head when he was assigned to bring that sodding cup to the Dark Lord, and he'd found himself escaping the Death Eaters without ever consciously deciding to switch sides. Or like suddenly seeing Potter and Weasley as people instead of irritating obstacles or abstract factors to work around. That sort of personalization was always a nuisance, especially when he found himself liking people, the way he thought he might be able to like Weasley.
"I don't feel like a hero, either," continued Potter, ignoring Draco's comment. "I just want all this to be over. You know," he said, sitting abruptly on his bed, "I can sort of remember when I was just Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived. Do you think if I live through the war, I might be able to be just Harry again?"
"Yes," said Weasley, and glared so fiercely at Draco that he bit his tongue rather than give Potter the more realistic answer. "Probably not all the time," Weasley added, "not when everyone knows you're the only one who can kill Voldemort for good, but at least sometimes, you can just be you. Hermione and Ron and I will make sure of it."
"Oh, I suppose I'll help too," Draco found himself saying. "Heroes are so boring, after all, and I'd like to see if 'just Harry' is worth knowing." That was, oddly enough, the truth.
"I'm not shaking your hand, Malfoy," said Potter.
"I'm not asking," said Draco. "For one thing, my hands are full" -- he flourished Potter's book -- "and for another, I don't need anyone attacking me for corrupting you with my foul, treacherous Slytherin presence. Besides, I've changed my mind a bit about which families are the right sort. With age comes wisdom and all that."
"You? Wise?" Potter laughed.
"If you can be a hero, I don't see why he can't be wise," said Weasley, grinning. "I certainly think he gives good advice."
"You're both idiots," said Draco, "and I'm leaving before you infect me." He shut the door on their mingled laughter, and headed back to his sitting room. He had a new Dark Arts book to read -- his little spiel about madness had been nothing but invention, designed to shake Potter's focus -- and by this time, the DA and the Order knew better than to interrupt him while he was in there. He'd probably have until evening before Weasley remembered to collect Tearing the Veil, which was more than enough to count this day a success.
Still. He tossed the book from hand to hand and admitted the truth, to himself if no one else. He would have done that for nothing. Necessary weapon to defeat the Dark Lord or not, he didn't want Potter to die.
"And that," Draco said to himself, "is definitely not what I expected."
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End
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter, Ginny/Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Theme: #20 - Far away
Warnings: none
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Unexpected Turns
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"Malfoy. Come with me."
Draco counted to ten -- he'd thought he'd made it quite clear that one price of his defection was a bit of privacy when he wanted it -- before he looked up from his study of the fire. Weasley's sister was trying to look calm and decisive, but he was an old hand at reading poses; she was nervous, a little embarrassed, furious -- probably about being nervous and embarrassed, which would explain why she was trying to smother her anger -- and, underneath all that, scared to death.
That was interesting. He hadn't seen her really scared since the whole mess with the Heir and the Basilisk back in second year, not even when she'd faced down his Aunt Bellatrix in a formal duel last winter. What had yanked her strings?
Draco leaned back in the sagging armchair and smirked. "Make me."
"Look, you're not a prisoner," she said, resting one hand on her hip. "You brought Hufflepuff's cup as proof of your good faith when you defected, and we believed you. You're only in Grimmauld Place for your own protection, so would you stop acting like we're going to chain you up and start casting Unforgiveables at you? If you at least tried acting like a human being, we'd be a lot more inclined to let you out of the house occasionally. Also, come with me."
Draco sighed elaborately and followed her out of the small sitting room.
He was expecting Weasley's sister to take him to another interminable Order meeting, or maybe to the library to quiz him on some part of his piecemeal knowledge of Dark Arts, but she led him up to the third floor, to where the DA members had set up their rooms once it became clear the war wasn't ending as soon as they'd hoped. She pulled him into one of the bedrooms, locked the door, and then folded her arms and stared at him.
Draco glanced around the room -- two beds, nothing terribly frilly, but the flowered comforters and the nightdress on the closet door said that girls lived here, and the books on one night table and dresser practically screamed that one of those girls was Granger. Draco sauntered over to the window seat, folded his arms, and stared at Ginny Weasley.
She sighed, short and frustrated, and sat on the bed with pink flowers. "There isn't a way to say this that doesn't make me sound like an idiot or worse. So I'm just going to tell you."
There was a long pause.
"I don't feel like I'm being informed," Draco said, while Weasley fidgeted.
"Shut it, Malfoy. This is embarrassing." She scowled, and began talking to the floor. "You know -- you must've heard Hermione say it at least once -- that Harry has a saving-people thing. A martyr complex. He thinks that if anybody gets hurt, it's his fault -- even if there's nothing he could've done -- and he thinks it's what he deserves if he gets hurt instead. It gets worse the longer any bit of trouble goes on, and it gets really bad when Voldemort's involved."
Draco made a noncommittal noise to show he was listening. This was old news, but Weasley wouldn't have dragged him up here just to tell him things he already knew.
"I didn't notice at first," continued Weasley. "I thought he was just tired, worn down. But he's been pulling away from people. He's starting to get a funny look in his eyes, like he thinks he knows a way to make everything better, but he can't quite work up the nerve to do anything. Whenever I catch him looking like that, he'll smile and ask how I'm doing, and how everyone else is doing. Except he's not really listening. He doesn't hear me when I say that we're worried about him. He's just thinking that he's the one who can defeat Voldemort -- who can kill Voldemort -- and how if he's just a weapon, we don't really need him."
She tucked her arms closer to her body, as if suddenly cold. "I think he's decided we'll be better off without him. I think he's almost ready to do something suicidal, like attacking Voldemort alone."
There was another long pause, more uncomfortable than the first.
"Why tell me?" Draco asked eventually. Late morning sunshine slanted through the window, warm and golden against his back. The warmth felt tenuous, unreal.
"Because I can't get through to him -- he's so busy thinking I'll be safer without him that he won't listen to me, not even when I screamed at him last night," said Weasley. "But you... Harry doesn't care if you're safe. He argued in favor of giving you sanctuary, but he doesn't like you at all. Sometimes, he even hates you. And he pays attention to you." Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to point a hand at Draco. "You're going to help me talk sense into him."
"Fine," said Draco, before he could stop himself.
He spent the next ten minutes belatedly trying to wring some favors in return for his help, but Weasley knocked down all his attempts. She was practically Slytherin in her focus, Draco thought sourly, as he followed her down the corridor to the room Potter shared with Ron Weasley. If she weren't working against him, he'd almost admire her.
"This is insane, and it'll never work," he said in a last-ditch protest.
"Stop stalling," said Weasley, and leaned past him to knock on the door. "Harry! I know you're in there -- open up!"
Bedsprings creaked, and footsteps moved toward the door, which swung open to reveal a rather rumpled and irritated Harry Potter. "If you know I'm in here, you know--" He broke off and glared at Draco. "Ginny. What the bloody fuck is he doing here?"
"That's for us to know and you to figure out," said Weasley, shoving Draco forward. Potter stepped aside to avoid contact, which had the convenient side effect of opening a space for Draco and Weasley to slip into the room.
Draco looked around in genuine interest, disguised, of course, as disdain. It was obvious which half of the room belonged to Weasley's brother -- it was papered with orange posters for the Chudley Cannons, and a royal mess to boot. Potter's half was tidy and plain, with all the displayed personality of a clod of dirt... except for a photo album on the night table, and a thick, fusty book laid open on his pillow. He'd been researching something, then, and probably something bordering on Dark Arts -- the book had that sort of air.
Weasley walked over, grabbed the book, and slammed it shut.
"Hey!" said Potter. "I was reading that -- it's important."
"I've seen what you're reading these days. It's never important, because you're going at this the wrong way," said Weasley, tossing the book to Draco. Even surprised, he caught it perfectly. Potter tried not to react, but he turned just a fraction toward the book.
Draco looked at the title and winced theatrically. "Tearing the Veil, is it? My father had a copy of this -- do you know what sort of spells are in here? Maybe one of them could destroy the Dark Lord and his last Horcrux in one shot, but only if you're willing to shred your own soul in the process and wind up a worse madman than he is."
"Madness? The introduction only mentioned death--" Potter clamped his mouth shut and looked like he wished he hadn't said anything.
Draco exchanged a long look with Weasley. "You were right," he said.
"I wouldn't have said a word to you if I hadn't been sure," said Weasley, hands on her hips. "I have some pride, you know."
"Unjustified, I'm sure," said Draco, with a sneer. Weasley just grinned, giving Draco a sinking suspicion that she might be learning to read him.
"Excuse me, but we were talking about the book?" said Potter. "And I thought you said your father kept you out of his library, Malfoy -- when did you have a chance to read Tearing the Veil?"
Draco gave Potter one of his better disparaging looks, the one that implied its recipient was less intelligent and interesting than a flobberworm. "That's none of your business, Potter. And to answer the question you didn't ask, yes, the spells in here can be fatal, but more often they leave people afflicted with various degrees of madness -- loss of conscience, shredded memory, frothing paranoia, hallucinations, berserker rage -- little things like that. I'm sure your friends would be more than happy to see you in that state, and put you down like a rabid dog if it became necessary."
Potter flinched.
"You see, Harry?" said Weasley, laying a hand on Potter's shoulder. "You're not a weapon. You're a person, a human being. And you matter to us. We don't want you to throw your life away -- this war isn't your fault, and we don't blame you for anything Voldemort does. Why is it so hard for you to understand that?"
"Because he's a Gryffindor, you idiot," said Draco as Potter failed miserably to slide out of Weasley's grip. "All you lot are idiots -- the kind of idiots who get a bloody ridiculous notion into your heads and charge right off for glory, without ever stopping to think. Except Granger, I suppose, but she's twice as hard to stop once she starts charging, because she's so sure she's figured all the angles. And let me tell you, nobody ever gets all the angles figured. Life's a rotten bitch that way."
Weasley and Potter both spared him a furious glare, and then Weasley turned back to her not-quite-boyfriend. "See? You can't be sure any plan you come up with will work, so you're absolutely not allowed to go off on your own. What if your spells don't work, or if you get captured? What do you think we'd do then?"
"So I am a weapon," said Potter, in tones of cynical satisfaction.
"No! Well, maybe a little. But that's not the point," said Weasley, grabbing Potter's hair and turning his face toward hers. "The point is that everybody in the Order and the DA cares about you -- you're our friend -- and if you're in danger, we're going to rescue you. Just like you rescue us. Friendship works both directions, Harry."
Potter stared helplessly into Weasley's eyes; his mouth opened once or twice, but he seemed incapable of forming any coherent answer.
Draco took pity on him. "That's the Gryffindor reason you shouldn't commit suicide," he drawled. "Here's another one to consider: if you die, you'll never get to say 'I told you so,' to all the cowards in hiding, and you won't have any way of influencing the rebuilding. If you live, you'll be the single most important figure in wizarding Britain, and this time you're old enough to make that count. If you want to help your precious Muggle-born followers, or push through werewolf-friendly laws, or anything like that, you'll have to live. Dead heroes belong to whoever grabs their image and shouts the loudest. Living heroes have to deal with that too, but at least they can talk back."
Halfway through his little speech, Potter started frowning thoughtfully. Weasley let go of Potter's hair and stepped back, as if waiting for him to reach a conclusion.
"I never asked to be a hero," Potter said eventually.
"You didn't ask to be born, either," Draco pointed out. "Life is full of unexpected turns." Like betraying the Dark Lord and ending up as a tentative ally of the Order of the bloody Phoenix -- he certainly hadn't anticipated that. The plan had simply sprung full-blown into his head when he was assigned to bring that sodding cup to the Dark Lord, and he'd found himself escaping the Death Eaters without ever consciously deciding to switch sides. Or like suddenly seeing Potter and Weasley as people instead of irritating obstacles or abstract factors to work around. That sort of personalization was always a nuisance, especially when he found himself liking people, the way he thought he might be able to like Weasley.
"I don't feel like a hero, either," continued Potter, ignoring Draco's comment. "I just want all this to be over. You know," he said, sitting abruptly on his bed, "I can sort of remember when I was just Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived. Do you think if I live through the war, I might be able to be just Harry again?"
"Yes," said Weasley, and glared so fiercely at Draco that he bit his tongue rather than give Potter the more realistic answer. "Probably not all the time," Weasley added, "not when everyone knows you're the only one who can kill Voldemort for good, but at least sometimes, you can just be you. Hermione and Ron and I will make sure of it."
"Oh, I suppose I'll help too," Draco found himself saying. "Heroes are so boring, after all, and I'd like to see if 'just Harry' is worth knowing." That was, oddly enough, the truth.
"I'm not shaking your hand, Malfoy," said Potter.
"I'm not asking," said Draco. "For one thing, my hands are full" -- he flourished Potter's book -- "and for another, I don't need anyone attacking me for corrupting you with my foul, treacherous Slytherin presence. Besides, I've changed my mind a bit about which families are the right sort. With age comes wisdom and all that."
"You? Wise?" Potter laughed.
"If you can be a hero, I don't see why he can't be wise," said Weasley, grinning. "I certainly think he gives good advice."
"You're both idiots," said Draco, "and I'm leaving before you infect me." He shut the door on their mingled laughter, and headed back to his sitting room. He had a new Dark Arts book to read -- his little spiel about madness had been nothing but invention, designed to shake Potter's focus -- and by this time, the DA and the Order knew better than to interrupt him while he was in there. He'd probably have until evening before Weasley remembered to collect Tearing the Veil, which was more than enough to count this day a success.
Still. He tossed the book from hand to hand and admitted the truth, to himself if no one else. He would have done that for nothing. Necessary weapon to defeat the Dark Lord or not, he didn't want Potter to die.
"And that," Draco said to himself, "is definitely not what I expected."
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End