Rivals Not Enemies (Drarry Slowburn)

A SLYTHERIN'S SECRET

Thursday started early with Defense Against the Dark Arts at 9 am. While on a ten minute break, Harry confided in his friends about what happened the previous evening. He showed Hermione and Ron the pendant, much to Hermione's dismay and Ron's intrigue.

"Cool!" Ron exclaimed.

"Not cool," Hermione corrected, "With everything Harry's been through, you'd think he'd be more cautious."

"I am!" he defended himself, "That's why I avoided using it—even after seeing Malfoy was okay after."

"Who are you gonna talk to?" Ron asked, ignoring Hermione's aversion towards the object.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore."

Hermione suggested talking to one of his portraits instead, but that didn't convince Harry. He explained how it wasn't the same—it didn't feel like talking to the real Dumbledore.

"I just need someone to keep watch and cover for me while I'm Petrified‭,"‭ ‬Harry said‭, ‬hoping either of his closest friends would be available to help him‭.‬

Hermione shook her head disapprovingly, "I have ghoul studies after this, so I can't."

Harry half expected that, so he turned to Ron, who grinned, "I have a free period until lunch."

Hermione was less enthused, returning to her desk in a huff of exasperation.

After class, Ron and Harry headed back to the Gryffindor boys dormitory. Harry unpinned the red drapes from his four-poster bed and sat down on the edge of it.

"Just don't let anyone see me. The pendant has a . . . disturbing effect," Harry warned.

"What happens?"

Harry tried to relay the truth in the smoothest way possible, "Well, my eyes are going to roll back into my head. . ."

"Freaky."

"Oh, and it might sound like I'm being strangled—prepare for that."

Ron nodded tensely, looking a little pale. He took a deep breath as Harry closed the curtains of his canopy all around him. He sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, making sure he wouldn't hit his head on the wooden bed rail when he knocked out. He took the pendant out of his hoodie pocket and unraveled the braided chain. It was the perfect length to fit freely around his head without snagging on his glasses.

It was only a second before the sand in the glass orb jumped and the pendant tightened dangerously around his neck. He pried at the gold chain links for fear of it snapping his windpipe. The room started to spin as he fought for his life.

Draco didn't mention how much it really felt like dying.

His vision went black as—he could only imagine—his irises disappeared behind his eyelids and darkness enveloped him.

Then there was light—a white light like hope at the end of a tunnel. It was King's Cross.

A figure in silver robes waited by the train tracks. Harry walked forward, noticing how his steps felt weightless, free, and made no sound. He announced his presence by voice, "Hello, Professor."

Dumbledore turned around and stared into the eyes of the Boy Who Lived, now seemingly dead. There was a sadness in his acknowledgement.

He had planned on seeing Harry again, but not like this. Dumbledore often imagined their reunion—a wizened Harry returning to his side with endless stories of his travels and valiant endeavors.
But he was still so young. Dumbledore could not bear the sight.