A/N: I'm really sorry it took so long. But I have a lot of homework as of late, so it's really hard for me to continue. Plus, this chapter ended up being difficult to write. It wouldn't write itself. Yes, I know that sounds weird, but I had to restart a few times. Well, twice, but it's still a lot! Anyway, I hope you enjoy. And I'll try to update faster, what with, you know, the way I ended this and all.
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. No money is being made off of this.
You are to kill Harry Potter.
Welcome home.
I honestly do love you.
Would you like to know, then, why I am so disappointed in you, Mr. Malfoy?
Your father won't be able to hurt you under Dumbledore's protection, under Harry's protection.
It's a flower that symbolizes protection and happiness. And love, but that's not really important.
You don't deserve my blood.
M'sorry.
I promise.
I think you're pretty.
This is war, Mr. Malfoy.
Will you think of me when you're home?
I'm not evil, Malfoy.
In all that confusion, when no one recognises you, what do you think will happen?
Are you a prince?
My brave, brave little boy.
Just let me help you.
My son will never be a murderer.
Draco Lucien Malfoy, wait up!
Your friendship with Potter is justified.
Say you love me!
Kill Harry Potter.
He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating, asphyxiating. His mouth was open, wide open, and he was gasping, inhaling, but no oxygen came. The walls were closing in tighter; his lungs ached for air, stung him with lack of the sweet substance.
Arms flailed, cries left his lips, and he was too disoriented to realise screaming would make things worse. All he knew was that his insides were constricting and that something was pushing down on him and that nothing in the world was fair. What the fuck did everyone have against him? Why the bloody hell couldn't he live normally?
Thrashing his head from side to side did nothing; the weight on his face was constant. A dizzy swirl swept his head, making him feel more nauseated than before. A sharp twist and pierce made itself known in his chest. His lungs couldn't handle much more of this. All of his insides were contracting in his being, trying to suck out the last bits of air from his veins. And without the energy to be completely infuriated, all he could think of was how annoyed he was that he wasn't dying in a poetic or charming way. His death would mean nothing.
&&&&
"He was moaning in his sleep. 'Kill Harry Potter! Kill Harry Potter!'. I couldn't just do nothing about it!"
"Are you insane?"
"I'm going to have to agree with Harry. You've completely lost it, Ron."
"I'm sure you've all heard it! It can't have been the first time he says it."
"That's not the point."
"How the hell can you say that when he's trying to kill you?"
"I've taken precautions. I'm a big boy, Ron, I can handle myself."
"Precautions? Are you kidding me? You sleep in the same bloody room as him."
"Actually, I sleep in – "
"You're completely missing the point! What I was doing was a precaution."
"What you were attempting to do was not a precaution. It was murder!"
When his eyes fluttered open, he noticed that there were three people in his room. It was dark, quite dark, and he thought maybe his eyes were still half closed. With a groan and a mumble of something unintelligible, he stirred. Had that been a dream?
"Look, he's awake."
"Stop caring!"
"I don't care about him, Ron! Stop thinking that I do! I know he wants to kill me, I know he's an evil bastard. But you know what? You were just as bad! You tried to suffocate him! In his sleep, no less! Don't you have any principles?"
"I'm helping you. I don't understand how you can be defending him."
"You just tried to kill another human being!"
"He's barely human."
Harry – and he knew it was Harry because he had the biggest frame – walked towards the bed and gave Draco a glare he was really too disoriented to deserve. "Yes?"
"You owe me. Big time. Ron tried to suffocate you in your sleep with a pillow. I stopped him."
Draco blinked, not feeling any pain at all. Had Harry not said anything, he might have simply assumed it was a continuation to his nightmare. "So?" he managed to say when he realise the other wasn't leaving. Being around Harry was making him uncomfortable.
"So? You owe me!" the ravenet said, his voice louder than was necessary, in his opinion. Or maybe it should have been louder. After all, it was the first time they had spoken in days.
"What do you want, then? A trophy of some sort? A kiss, perhaps?"
Now was no time to be sarcastic, but he couldn't help it. He wished he could, but there was so much resentment, so much frustration inside him, that the venom left his lips without hesitation.
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, saying that kind of shite to me?"
"I have every right to say whatever I want! Your mate over there tried to kill me!"
"You're trying to kill me!"
"When have I tried that? When did I ever bloody curse you? When did I put a knife to your throat? When did I ever raise a bleeding hand to you? Tell me!"
"You haven't yet, but – "
"Don't you think that if I wanted you dead that I'd have killed you by now?"
"Not if you were going to do it honourably – "
"When have I ever been honourable? Honestly! I'm a coward, don't you know that? If I was planning to killing you, I would have done it when you were bloody five, not when you were twenty nine! You're bigger than me, probably know more magic, you could get the whole sodding school to bend to your every whim – why would I kill you now?"
He felt light-headed, and Draco had to take deep breaths, afraid the black edges around his vision would consume him whole. After effects of suffocation? He wouldn't know. But now was not a good time to pass out. Of course, now was also the time he realised he wasn't feeling too great. Weak and tired, that's what he was, but he refused to pass out. This was his and Harry's first confrontation since he'd cried, since he'd apologized like a blubbering baby to the bloke who hadn't even been physically able to react. Now was the time to get all of the skeletons out of the closet.
Did he really want that, though? His father had offered him his house, his well-being, his life, his future –
"You're trying to confuse me," Harry stated, his voice low and edged with danger and frustration. "I don't trust you. Did you really expect me to?"
"You did in the past."
"Blindly. I trusted you blindly. I was stupid, foolish, reckless – "
"You still trust me now, don't you?" And he was smirking. Oh Merlin, no. Of all the times for the Malfoy instincts to kick in, why now, why when he wanted Harry to understand? But he was filled with satisfaction of knowing that fact, the fact that Harry did trust him, that he would believe him. Of course, Draco was telling the truth, and him smirking wasn't really backing up his statements. If anything, it was making him seem less trustworthy. No, scratch that. Smirking was making him look less trustworthy. "You still do."
Harry's look didn't soften. Draco couldn't blame him for the glare. At least it managed to wipe the smirk off the blond's face.
"Harry, have you read the letter?"
"What letter?" both Harry and Draco asked at the same time.
"The letter, Malfoy. Haven't you read it? The one I gave you in Snape's office?"
Draco blinked, a scathing remark poised at the tip of his tongue. On one hand, he could lash out at Weasley for suggesting he'd read anything that poor, twisted redhead had given him. (Which was something he'd been doing a lot of lately: lashing out at people.) On the second hand… he could try to remember what letter he was talking about.
"If Harry read it… he'd see I'm not a monster. I'm not the bad guy here."
"Ron, you tried to kill – "
"I'm not the bad guy here. I'm not evil," he whispered fiercely.
Draco remembered now, Ron's words sparking his memory. He crawled out of bed – feeling a tad woozy when he did so – and opened his nightstand. He rummaged through the drawers contents until his fingers touched what he was looking for. A scroll. He pulled it out and stared at it.
"You haven't read it yet? I can't believe you haven't read it."
Draco didn't direct his piercing gaze at the annoying redhead. Instead, he wondered what good would come of reading this. What could this Malfoy-crested letter tell him? What could he gain by reading it? What could he lose?
In the end, his shaky fingers pried the seal off and he unrolled the sheet. Someone murmured 'Lumos', but the blond hadn't realised that he didn't have to strain his eyes anymore.
'Dearest Draco,'So far so good.
'Ronald Weasley has told us of your plan. He's one of the few Weasleys who might ever amount to anything in life.'
Draco would have snickered, had he been his old self. As it was, he just really wanted to read the rest of the letter. He didn't even notice Harry read over his shoulder.
'Oh, my little dragon, I am very sorry. Both of us are. My brave little boy has risked so much for his future, for his cause. My pride for you has never been so great. I will be coming to meet with you in three days time, to make amends. I wish for us to speak, to clarify everything, though I'm sure I'll just stare at you for a long while; my brave soldier, how I wish I could have gone easier on you.'
This was a tad repetitive. Was there a point to this letter? Although his mind was reluctant to go on, his eyes devoured the text.
'I was enraged when Mr Weasley told me of your friendship. Betrayed. I felt like you had abandoned your principles. And, son, he kept sending reports of how close you were getting, about how he always hung around you, about how you never even tried to hurt him in any way. He told me you accepted his flowers. It was not something I enjoyed reading. But, Mr Weasley hadn't told me of your plan until after the holidays. Said you had told him to keep it a secret. I'm so very proud.'
Draco's brows furrowed together. There was still an internal struggle inside his body, his mind, his heart, his very soul. He could leave this be, accept it, and become a Death Eater. Even if he didn't manage to kill Harry, he'd still be secure. But if Harry read this, if he saw that Weasley played a part, he'd get curious, wouldn't he? He'd ask questions. And if one thing led to another… Wait. There had to be a catch.
Why had Ron wanted Harry to read this? Draco's eyes darted quickly away from the paper and they spotted the dark figure behind him, reading over his shoulder. Worrying his lip, the blond continued reading.
'Get him close and then kill him. Magnificent. Could have been a tad more elaborate, but the point is that you have the basics. I asked him how you planned to do it. For some strange reason, it really did seem that Mr Weasley enjoyed writing that reply. It was just a feeling I got upon reading it. He told me you were writing it that very first day the little Potter walked into your dorm area. Told me you gave him a copy, and he sent it to me.
Please reply to my letter soon, little dragon. I await the time where we can speak and you can forgive me for all the terrible things you wanted me to inflict upon you.
Love,
Father'
Draco blinked. That was it? This… this letter put Weasley in the dog house. Surely it was a bad sign that he had been a spy for his father, no? Surely Harry would take offence. This letter screamed that Ronald Bilius Weasley had been a part all along. If Draco had to go down, Weasley would be brought down with him, which was a slightly comforting thought. A flick of his wrist tossed the letter aside and he sighed tiredly. The room had stopped wobbling though, so he thanked his body for allowing the air back into him. Weasley was in a terrible position now. Oh yes, Harry would never trust him again. And it was exactly what that prick, what that bastard, deserved. The urge to smirk was strong, but he controlled the impulse. Turning to look at Harry to see what he thought of all that, he realised something wasn't quite right. Harry was reading something. A piece of parchment? Merlin, was there another letter? One from his mother, maybe? Harry seemed frozen on his feet, staring blankly (though Draco couldn't tell for sure, what with the darkness and all) at the paper. Draco grabbed it, a bad feeling commencing to brew in his gut, and he read it.
'How to Kill Harry Potter:
Step 1: Befriend the Boy Who Lived.
Step 2a: Make the aware that I have befriended the Boy Who Lived.
Step 2b:Convince parents that we are friends. Allow the punishment to take place.
Step 3: Everyone finds out it was a lie.
Step 4: Get him angry. Provoke him. Make sure to prod the wound I caused.
Step 5: When in an argument, kill him, and make it look like an accident. A Passionate Murder. 'Anger got the best of me'.
Step 6: Live in a world without the Boy Who Lived.'
"Explain that, then."
The Slytherin was at a loss for words. "I… I… uh…"
"Explain it!"
"I didn't write it." Finally. His voice.
"What? How can you say that? How dare you insult me that way?"
"I'm not insulting you. I'm the one being insulted! I didn't write it!"
"You think you're so great, don't you? Think that the world will just bow at your feet if you killed me, don't you?"
"They would."
"Shut up! Shut the bloody fuck up!"
"No, I didn't mean – "
"Tell me about this sodding list!"
"I didn't write it."
"It's in your bloody hand writing! I'm sick of your brainless lies, Draco! Sick of them!"
"I didn't write this bleeding letter!"
"It's Malfoy."
Draco's angry breath stuck in his throat. He had forgotten anyone else had been in the room.
All the lanterns became lit, but it didn't matter who had done that. All that mattered was Ron, who looked not furious, not murderous, not angry… but hurt. He stared at Harry.
"His name is Malfoy."
Harry glared at him, probably still riled up, before letting out a long sigh and rubbing his face. "Right, yes, Malfoy. It slipped out. His name slipped – "
"You're not even angry with him, are you?"
"Of course I'm angry with him, Ron! Did you not hear me yelling at him? Did you not see me – "
"No. You're not angry. You're sad and hurt and frustrated that he lied to you, that he betrayed you, but you don't hate him."
Draco fingered the procedure in his hand nervously. Harry stared at the floor for a long while. It was a good minute before he did anything at all. Draco strained his ears, afraid a silent conversation was going on between them that he couldn't hear. The first thing the man in the room did was not speak. He moved, shuffled towards the redhead.
"I can't really hate him."
Draco's eyes were locked on the tall and freckled boy, who looked like he wanted very well to sink to his knees in despair.
"How?" he asked breathlessly. "Harry, how could you possibly like him? Why would you possibly like him? After everything, everything he's done to you."
"He's done some good, Ron. That's why… it's just hard to hate him. I'm angry at him and I want to hit him in the face, but to say that I hated him would be wrong. I spent my entire childhood, practically my whole life, with him."
"He wants to kill you." Just whispers, but they sent shivers down the blond's spine. It was like reading an intense book; he was so drawn into their words that for a moment he forgot that it was really happening, and not being put on display for his entertainment.
"And I won't let him."
"He wrote a list of the steps needed to do it."
"I read."
"You don't think he's innocent, do you?"
"No. Obviously not."
"I didn't write it," Draco murmured, staring at the letter. "I… I didn't do it."
"Fucking liar," Harry replied, turning to glare at him. "I remember. I remember when I was five, the first day I came to the Head's living quarters. You were writing a list. Remember? A list, and you said I couldn't watch."
"You were five bleeding years old – "
"I still remember."
Draco glared back, just as fiercely. "That's not what I was writing."
"Oh no? I'm sure."
The sarcasm was so thick it bit into Draco's pale skin. He stood out of bed, determined, and began sifting his nightstand again. He'd bloody find that bloody list. He didn't want another accusation. To hell with their accusations! Draco was innocent, and he would be proven innocent.
"Here," he thrust the newly found sheet, the one with the many numbers and the scribble in the corner, to Harry. "That's the list I was working on."
"'List of things that make me sick'," Harry read from the paper. He scowled at it. "Is this for real?"
"It's what I was working on that day you came in."
"How the hell am I supposed to know that? You didn't write the date or anything."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, then. Next time I write something, I'll be sure to write the date incase I ever need it as evidence in a bloody trial."
"Fuck you." But Harry read the list, and Draco blushed a tiny bit, feeling embarrassed and childish at having written down such stupid things. The twinkle in Dumbledore's eye, the thought of Granger-Weasley love children, Harry's cuteness, Harry's laugh…
"Let me."
Draco's head shot up to the voice. Hermione was here? He hadn't registered that, or if he had, he'd forgotten about it. She took the paper and tapped it with her wand, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she mumbled something under her breath. The paper glowed.
"Sixty four days ago."
The unfamiliar voice boomed through the room, and Hermione nodded once. The glow subsided, and she handed the sheet back to the Malfoy. Draco shut his eyes and tried to do the calculations.
"But… wasn't he supposed to be thirty three in sixty days?" he asked, his brain scrambled.
"Yes. But sixty days from the day he turned nine. That's when Snape started brewing the potion."
Oh. Right. Made a tad more sense now. He looked at Harry, then at Ron, then back at Harry, to see how they were taking the news. Harry seemed lost. It was Hermione who made the next move. "Give me the list Mr Malfoy sent."
Ron's head turned so suddenly that Draco almost jumped. The panicked look on his face made Draco's chest surge with satisfaction. He knew without a doubt that it had been Ron who had written that stupid step-by-step death. It was a feeling in his entire being; it was the same as knowing that up was up and down was down. You never know why, but you know it still is. Ron would get what was due to him, he knew it, he felt it in every cell that was a part of him, and he hoped it was painful.
The spell was repeated, the glow surrounded the sheet that Lucius had sent, and the voice boomed, "Fourteen days ago."
"Well it's not the original," Ron said, rolling his eyes, though he was fiddling with his fingers, his hands trembling slightly. "He still has the original, I'm sure. He just gave me a copy."
"I thought you hated him," Harry said, his voice low and emotionless.
"I do."
"I never saw you guys talking together. I've never even seen you approach him. And yet, his father seems to think you spent a lot of time with him."
"The letter never said – "
"I understand looking out for me. I even understand owling his father. But why, Ron, would Draco give a list to someone he knows hates him? Why would he give a step-by-step description of how to kill me to my best friend?"
"I… I don't know… Ask him."
"I have. He said he didn't do it."
"And you believe him!" Ron cried, pointing his trembling finger at Harry. "Well, fuck you! Fuck you, Harry! I've tried, I've tried so hard to make things like they used to be, to make us friends again – "
"When were we ever not friends, Ron?"
"But you always liked him more than me! Always!"
"I've only liked him more for two months! Couldn't you wait? If what you told me was true, once I become sixteen again I won't want to see his face anymore. Couldn't you wait? Couldn't you leave me alone with my best friend for just two months? Didn't you realise that when I was small and unsure and scared that I liked having friends? That I enjoyed being liked?"
"Harry, he yelled at you when you were just a kid! He always told you to scram, he never listened to you when you spoke… Harry, bloody hell, he practically made you wet yourself when the first of his father's letters came to him."
"And I still went back to him! Didn't that tell you, Ron? Didn't that tell you how much he fucking meant to me?"
"I'm not the one trying to kill you, Harry! Stop yelling at me."
And Hermione, sweet Hermione, lovely Hermione, did something that Draco would never forget, and would forever be in debt for.
"Finite Incantatem."
The writing on the list she was holding morphed and swelled, until it had gone from a neat and angular writing to the chicken scratch that could only be Weasley's own writing. The room froze, but it was anything but still. Everything was sparked and charged, and the next move was sure to bring an explosion to the area. Everyone held their breaths, and Draco was sure they knew that anything could set it off. What was 'it', though? Someone's yelling, for sure. Maybe tears. No one had cried yet, Draco realised absently, and they usually did. Everyone always cried nowadays. Maybe that's what the electricity in the room was about. Tears. Or maybe –
"You wrote it? You wrote 'How to Kill Harry Potter'?"
But no answer was given. Ron ran out of the room.