Draco Malfoy and the Sleep of Fleeting Death

Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, the Philosopher's Stone, and the Elixir of Life

Potter and Granger glanced at each other. Granger looked away first; back at Draco. "Sorry, Malfoy, I can't help you there. I don't know any more than is already written in books like the Potter History book; Harry can help you, though. He knows far, far more than I do. That's all I should say here; you two should probably go somewhere more private. The reason I don't know more about the Stone is because the information is rather powerful; if it gets to the wrong person, it could be used really badly, Dumbledore said. So no, I can't help. Harry will, though." 

"What? Hermione, no! Why would I? He won't even tell me why he wants the Phil- the Stone! And he's Malfoy!"

"Malfoy is right here, and he can hear you," Draco said. The two ignored him.

"It's for a really good cause, Harry. He won't tell you because- wait, why won't you tell him? You knew I'd tell him, but you told me-"

"I needed you for the information about the stone. When I withheld from telling Potter earlier, it was because I didn't know I needed information so badly on the Stone. If I must," he added with a sigh, "I suppose I can tell Potter. Come along, then. I'll tell you what I'm doing if you tell me about the Stone." He started to walk away, but paused. "Do you know anywhere... More private? I don't really know anywhere fully secluded-"

Potter sighed and started heading off in the opposite direction to the one Draco had started going towards. "Yeah, I know just the place. C'mon, Malfoy. Do you remember the Room of Requirement?"

Draco froze. "The- the- where Crabbe- I mean, where you held DADA meetings the year we had Umbridge?"

Potter rubbed over a scar on his hand- the way rubbed at his scar he did when someone mentioned Voldemort. Remembering how he received it. "Yeah, there. Merlin, I hated that old toad. In any case, we're headed to that place.

"Um- the room that the- the fiendfyre was in is still unusable, but the rest of the Room of Requirement is perfectly fine. It's the most secluded place in Hogwarts, anyway, and really the only place I could speak about this thing."

Draco nodded. "Yeah, I get it." It still stung a little to think of Vince; especially since that lead to his memories of the leaping fire reaching for him, and then of the look on Potter's face as he came back to get Draco; the insufferable "righteous hero" look. Draco still owed Potter a life debt for that, actually. But, well, if Potter didn't bring it up, neither would he.

At this point, they'd reached the entryway to the Room. Potter stepped forwards and paced back and forth three times, muttering something under his breath. On his third passage, a door appeared in the wall. Potter stepped forwards and opened the door. "After you."

The room Potter had conjured up actually wasn't as terrible as it could've been. It was decorated with neutral colours; no specific house colours featured more than any other. Two plush purple chairs were situated around a fire- a golden, glowing fire, not the terrible orange of fiendfyre.

The floor was a thick mauve carpet, and the fire was the only source of light. It painted the room in a warm yellow glow. There was a window at the far end of the room- rather small and cosy, now Draco looked around, taking everything in- that showed the sky outside to be dark, but littered with stars. The moon wasn't visible from here, but Draco had the feeling that if he saw it, it would seem bright enough to replace the sun. Sheer white drapes billowed around the window; a warm breeze drifted in.

Draco supposed the room wasn't terrible, for a Gryffindor.

Potter had sunk into one of the chairs, his legs curled up onto the chair. He was leaning against one of the armrests, staring into the fire. Draco made his way over, and sat on the chairs as he'd been taught to- back straight, legs out in front of him, hands folded, head high. Or, well, he tried to. The chair seemed designed to make you comfortable, and Draco was embraced by the soft cushions. He felt like he was being given a warm hug. Deciding that this was Potter, who had nearly killed him, and he didn't particularly care about Potter's opinion (he told the voice of Pansy that spoke up in his mind to object to shut up) he got just as comfortable as Potter looked; lounging across the chair, head on one of the armrests, legs slung over the other. He looked into the flames as he waited for Potter to say something.