Irresistible Poison DRARRY

Irresistible Poison- Chapter 3

Chapter Three: No Regrets

Love lives in sealed bottles of regret.

Much to his annoyance, Draco found that getting some solitude in the Slytherin common room or even his own dormitory was about as possible as finding a way not to think of Harry as the evening drearily wore by. It was getting increasingly hard to keep his shackled wrist concealed from the others, so Draco finally decided to go to the library for some peace and quiet.

It was almost eight in the evening when Draco stepped into the library; a sense of unfamiliarity washed over him as he glanced up at the four walls that closed in around him, his innate claustrophobia rising to the fore. He realised that he was about as at home in the library as a live flower crab sitting on a barbeque grill while tendrils of heat rose around it. That was his instinctive feeling - trapped.

The Hogwarts library, however quaint and impeccably furnished, still reminded him too starkly of his father's library, back home; the entire drawing room, filled with nothing but book cases stacked to the ceiling with shelves upon shelves of books, all of them related, in one way or another, to the Dark Arts. So much a part of their life, the life of a Malfoy. So much a part of him.

Draco remembered with no small shudder the explicit warnings his father had constantly issued to him, of the many different ways to languish in disgrace and of course, the sinister admonition never, as long as he drew a living breath with Malfoy blood running through his veins, to bring even the slightest reproach upon the family name. Or else.

Or else. It wasn't even a discreet implication, or something to be left to merciful imagination. It was definite, predetermined, a verdict passed in advance of transgression. No room for negotiation, for clemency, much less for forgiveness.

But this. Draco privately thought even his father would find it difficult to grade this level of sheer degradation he'd wreaked on the precious family name. If Lucius ever found out about this matter before he could find a way to reverse it, Draco fervently hoped the shock would finish his father off, because in the likely chance it didn't, he would probably have to implement Plan B, which was, very simply, the path of noble suicide.

This very sobering and maniacally depressing thought spurred him to action, and Draco resolutely strode toward the shelves on the far right, where to his knowledge the more advanced magic books were housed. But anything remotely useful to his problem would probably be found only in the Restricted Section, and even as Draco neared it, an irate Madam Pince came bustling up to him, demanding to see a signed note permitting him access to the books. Of course, Draco didn't have a signed note, although at that moment he would have very gladly given Madam Pince a note of his own variety, which would be brief, to-the-point, and very vulgar.

Giving up, Draco stalked out of the library. Books wouldn't help - he would just have to find his own way of explaining to Harry what happened, and an even more ingenious way to get out of this whole mess altogether.

Why was he even bothering to explain this to Harry anyway? Draco wondered. He wouldn't understand. Harry couldn't possibly, not even him, the Boy Who Made A Habit Of Frustrating Voldemort's Plans. This was a completely different struggle altogether, in many ways more sinister than facing the Dark Lord, because it was a conflict of the mind with the heart, a self-destructive fight against himself that was doomed whichever side won the battle.

No. He didn't want, didn't need Harry's help. All he asked of Harry was to stay away from him, far away from any more lip-locking skirmishes, so that Draco could figure out how to fix this, reverse the spell, and reclaim himself again.

* * * * * * *

His meeting with Malfoy lurked constantly on the fringes of his mind that night, and Harry subconsciously found himself glad as Quidditch practice drew to a close. Returning his broomstick to the shed (and noticing the patches of trampled grass lit by the bright moonlight, marking the spot of their confrontation earlier in the evening), Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower, showered and changed, then settled down to wait for midnight to arrive.