𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐇

Chapter 28

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asked Hermione later when her tears had dried.

“Nothing.” Hermione pushed her hair out of her face and straightened her jumper. “He’s being an arse. I simply don’t understand why he can’t accept Malfoy now, not after all he knows.”

Harry snorted. “I’ve heard people say me and Malfoy’s rivalry is legendary, but I think they’ve missed the Malfoy/Weasley feud. It’s more in the realms of epic.”

“Pure-bloods.” Hermione shook her head in disgust. “It’s not only Draco and Ron – it’s Lucius and Mr. Weasley. It’s Narcissa and Mrs. Weasley. It’s generations of hate we’re contending with, not just a bit of bullying at school.”

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly. “I swore I wouldn’t say anything, but... I think I have to. Lucius Malfoy is dead.”

“WHAT?” Hermione stared at him, eyes widening, face paling to almost Malfoy-like whiteness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told Malfoy I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I... went to Crabbe’s funeral. Malfoy was there. And right afterwards was his father’s funeral. We were the only ones there for both of them.” Harry sighed heavily, remembering that lonely, storm-laden graveyard and Malfoy’s broken weeping. He knew Malfoy would not be happy with him if he knew he’d told Hermione, but he had rarely kept secrets from her. This was one he was sure she had to know.

“When was this?”

“Last weekend.”

“What did he die of? There was nothing mentioned in The Prophet.” Hermione started to pace.

“I don’t know. Malfoy didn’t say a thing.” Not even when Harry had held the sobbing boy in his arms and comforted him. He suppressed a shudder. He had liked holding Malfoy far too much and, as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to do it again. There was something about the  proud, arrogant pure-blood’s tears that brought out the protector in Harry. He had been held so little himself as a child – he knew what it was to never receive comfort, and how it felt to have tight arms holding and calming – how good it felt. Now that he knew about Malfoy’s own terrible experiences during the war, he wanted to hold him again, let him know that it was all over.

“He threatened to kill me if I told anyone, so keep this quiet.”

“Of course. Of course.” Hermione sat back down on Harry’s bed. “Oh, poor Draco.” She was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

“But let’s not talk about him, ‘Mione. What about you and Ron?” Harry persisted. “What can I do to help?”

“I told you – nothing. You know what he’s like. He’ll sulk, probably for a few days then he’ll find some way of coming back. He always does come back.”

“That last... sounded pretty final.” Harry sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

“So did that time in the tent.” She gave him a watery smile. “It’s just his stupid pride. I swear, Harry, he has more pride than all of the Malfoy’s put together.” She patted his knee in a comforting manner then stood up. “You have to talk to Draco.”

“Since when was he Draco?” Harry asked.

“Since I saw him as human and hurting so badly that anything we went through over the last few years pales into insignificance,” she replied softly. “Talk to him, Harry. Do what you have to. He seems to want to help – well we have to do something in return. Help him.”

Harry looked into her determined, compassionate eyes. He had always wondered why, with her brains, she had been sorted into Gryffindor – then, at times like this, he understood.

“He doesn’t seem to want help.”

She smiled at him. “I have faith in you. You always seem to be able to get what you want.”

Harry snorted derisively. “Pure luck.”

“You always say that, but it’s not true.” She hugged Harry tightly. “A long time ago, a small boy held out the hand of friendship to another, and that hand was rejected.” She drew back from him and nodded firmly. “Don’t you think it’s time you took his hand?”

***********

Harry had often wondered why he had not taken Draco Malfoy’s hand in first year. He had lain awake at night, especially recently, analysing their meetings over and over again. After all, he had never had a friend as a child – the Dursley’s had seen to that. He had had an awful childhood, trapped in his understairs cupboard, used as a servant by his aunt and uncle, underfed, neglected. As he had grown up, he had realised that it had not been him who was at fault – that the Dursley’s were cruel and selfish, only thinking of themselves and what others might think of them. When he had first met Malfoy in Madam Malkin’s he had never met another wizard his own age. He should have embraced the white-haired little wizard with open arms.

But he had not. Seeing something of the Dursley’s in Malfoy, he had disliked the proud little snot. Later, after meeting Ron, he had outright rejected Malfoy’s offer of friendship in favour of the friendlier Weasley.

But, especially when Ron was being a total git, Harry wondered what might have happened if he had played the peacekeeper. What if he had taken Malfoy’s hand, then forced Malfoy and Ron to understand that they had more in common, that blood didn’t matter? After all, hadn’t he and Ron disliked Hermione at first too? Those feelings had changed soon enough. Would he have been able to fight through Malfoy’s breeding and taught prejudice to make him a better person?

Harry smiled to himself, wishing he had some way of going back and just watching – not changing, but just watching how history might have changed with Malfoy, Ron and Hermione around him like satellites around a planet.

Then he snorted and shook his head. How arrogant was that thought? Sure, he had been the Chosen One. He had been the only one able to take Voldemort down – but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without Hermione’s brains, Ron’s rough, determined friendship...

And Malfoy.

Malfoy’s wand, Malfoy’s task. Malfoy’s hidden humanity.

Harry tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. In the bed beside him, Ron snored, having gone to bed earlier than everyone else, probably to avoid any awkward conversation. Neville and Seamus, innocent of knowledge about the varying turmoils in their dorm, also slept noisily, their usual buzzing and breathing a constant and familiar presence.

And, as usual, there was silence from Malfoy’s tightly curtained bed.