Chapter 6 of The Bubo
In which Draco acts on a very stupid impulse.
Thursday, November 26, 1994
“Potter’s staring at us again,” Pansy told Draco over dinner. They were sitting together. They had spent pretty much every free minute of the last three days together, at the cost of Draco’s precious time with Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, parading within easy sight of the Gryffindors: holding hands, whispering, laughing. An excellent start, but more was to come. Draco would kiss her, soon, and ask her to be his girlfriend. That should put a stop to any and all rumors.
He had been a bit ridiculous, reacting as he had to what he’d heard in the Champions’ tent. Of course Finnigan didn’t know. Nobody knew. Draco hadn’t told anyone and, more importantly, he hadn’t done anything. The closest he had ever come to practicing his homosexuality was that cringe-worthy moment from the guest bathroom in the Manor, when ten-years-old Theo, visiting with his parents, touched Draco’s soft little ten-years-old willie. Theo had meanwhile proceeded to snog just about every other girl in school. If he was still interested in other boys’ willies, he was very good at hiding it.
And, Draco had realized, there was no reason he couldn’t do something similar, too. Pansy was willing enough.
“He’s jealous,” Draco told her, while his toes curled in his shoes with the effort of resisting the impulse to look up and meet Potter’s gaze. He plucked his spoon out of his porridge and plunged it in again, too nervous to eat.
Pansy giggled and smoothed a strand of hair behind his ear. Her fingers were like ice.
“Oh,” she said, pressing them against his temple, and then his cheek. “Draco.”
“Hm?”
“Come here.” Pansy took him by the chin, turned his face, and kissed his forehead. Her lips were cold too. “You’re burning up.”
Draco felt his face and neck. She was right. His skin was hot and oversensitive, as if he’d been too long in the sun. Taking further stock of himself, he realized his eyes were dry and prickly, and his own breath felt too warm in his mouth.
It was the geas of the agreement he’d struck with Potter. The churning in his belly was part of it too. Their time was running out.
Pansy kept combing his fringe with her fingers and he was reminded of how she had clung to him last year when his arm had been broken. He didn’t mind. It was nice, to be fussed over. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked.
“Just a bit tired. In fact,” he said, putting his napkin down, “I think I’ll head for the dorm right away, turn in early.” They’d planned to go out for a walk. “You go ahead with the others.”
Pouting, Pansy nodded, and Draco meekly submitted to her for a smacking, wet kiss on the corner of his mouth which had the whole of Slytherin table erupt in cheers and wolf-whistles. He glanced in Potter’s direction. And sure enough, Potter was glaring back. Emboldened, Draco smirked at him and wiggled his brows for good measure. His hand lay secure on Pansy’s waist while her long nails raked through the short hair at the back of his head. A blush as red as the Gryffindor coat of arms spread over Potter’s face, and he bowed his head over his plate, scowling. Draco gloated for all he was worth. And if it felt like getting stabbed repeatedly, it was surely just the magic of the contract.
They met in a dark alcove under the grand staircase. It was a popular spot, but one glance at Draco and Potter was enough to scatter the group of second-years that had been loitering in it. Potter rummaged in his bag, his brow and mouth downcast.
“Here’s your bloody essay,” he said, sticking the rolled-up parchment out at Draco like it had been dipped in dung.
“What’s the matter, Potter?” Draco challenged. The last minutes of the three days professed by their arrangement ticked away and the geas were now wreaking havoc on his insides, but he was reluctant to let the spell end. “Your time on that was hardly wasted, seeing how you’re still in one piece, thanks to me.”
“You were in the tent, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You heard what Seamus said.” Potter finally looked up and his eyes burned so bright that, for a moment, Draco was rendered speechless.
“What tent?” he attempted. “Who’s Seamus?”
But Potter just shook his head. “You’ve had your revenge. Now leave him alone.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started,” Draco snarled. Keeping up the pretense suddenly seemed far less important than airing his anger.
On Tuesday night, he’d had Vince and Greg start a ruckus as the crowd gathered at the door of the Great Hall after dinner, pretending to get into a fight and expertly pulling half a dozen other boys from all four houses into the fray. Meanwhile, Draco had got behind Finnigan and cast a potent flatulence curse on him, hiding his wand in his sleeve and speaking the incantation so quietly it might as well have been wordless. That one had kept the Gryffindors awake all night, freezing by the open windows, if their glassy eyes, puffy faces and vacant expressions the day after had been anything to judge by. Draco had managed to hex Finnigan four more times since then: with the eye sticking curse, the feet growing curse, the lip drooping curse and that very morning, the arse itching curse, all from an old tome he’d found, among other contraband, in Filch’s office on his first night of mischief with the Invisibility Cloak. There were many more, though. Hundreds of them, and Draco was on a mission to try every single one on Finnigan.
“It’ll be a lesson for all you riffraff on what happens when you spread disgusting rumors,” he concluded.
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I only ever speak the truth, Potter.”
“So what do you care then, if it isn’t true?”
Draco laughed, though his cheeks were aflame. “Not even you could possibly be that naive. Lies can be plenty hurtful.”
“Fine. You’re right! He shouldn’t have said that. And he’s sorry, alright? No one will be ‘spreading’ anything, you have my word. Just let it go, Malfoy.”
“He could apologize till his teeth fell out, for all I care—not that he would, and you and I both know it. I will never let it go.”
Potter folded his arms clumsily, the scroll still dangling from his hand. “If you don’t stop it—”
“What? You’ll tell your Muggle guardians? I’m shaking with—”
“I’ll tell Moody.”
“Pathetic,” Draco spat out. Then he leaned in till his nose was only inches away from Potter’s. “If you want me to stop, Potter,” he said in a voice that had gone deep and husky all on its own, “why don’t you stop me yourself?”
Potter leaned in too, rising on the ball of one foot to compensate for the height difference. Now their noses were less than an inch apart. Draco picked up the stuffy, slightly smoky odor of Potter’s robes, likely the same set he’d worn when he rode against the Horntail; the golden syrup on his breath; the heady scent of sweat underneath it all.
I could kiss him.
The notion flashed through Draco’s mind out of nowhere, like lightning out of a cloudless sky.
Right now. I could kiss him, and he’d let me.
Suddenly it all made sense. Potter wasn’t upset about Finnigan. He was upset because Pansy had kissed Draco at dinner, and now Draco stood here claiming that he wasn’t, in fact, bent. Draco knew it with the crisp certainty of an oft-used spell. Potter was jealous, and Draco could kiss him—
But the opportunity only lasted a fraction of a second. Potter had taken breath to deliver some response to Draco’s challenge when their time ran out. The geas wrenched viciously at both their guts. As they doubled up, unwittingly mirroring each other’s movements, they knocked their foreheads with what felt like bone-crushing force and collapsed on the marble tiles.
“Take it,” Potter croaked, pushing the scroll weakly in Draco’s direction, while clutching his stomach. “Just fucking take it, you git!”
Draco took it. It did nothing for him, but Potter sprawled on his back, spreadeagled, and let out a long sigh of relief.
“Potter!” Draco ground through his teeth. The pain in his stomach was paralyzing. His eyes watered.
“Right, yeah.” Potter got onto his hands and knees and knelt next to Draco’s bag. “Is it in there?”
“Hurry,” Draco wheezed.
Potter lifted the flap, looked inside, then sat back on his haunches. “Swear you’ll leave Seamus alone.”
The pain was horrible, but not nearly horrible enough. Draco gritted his teeth. “Fuck you.”
Potter sat there for what felt like minutes, watching Draco cry and writhe. Draco was about to retch when Potter groaned with frustration and finally grabbed the cursed Cloak.
“Merlin’s… balls…” Draco moaned, turning on his back and gasping for air.
Potter stood up. He spread his Cloak as if to inspect it for damage, but soon realized the absurdity of it and stuffed it unceremoniously into his bag. There was a plum-sized bump on his forehead.
Draco’s arm was heavy and weak as he lifted it to feel his own matching bump. “Lovely,” he grumbled.
“Have your girlfriend kiss it better.”
Draco laughed. “Jealous, Potty?”
“Of you?” Potter laughed back. “I wouldn’t touch Parkinson with a ten-foot pole.”
“Ten feet is the closest you’ll ever get to touching your precious Chang,” Draco hissed, genuinely stung in Pansy’s stead and caught out by it. “Not even a mother would kiss your ugly mug. Not that you’ll ever know.”
Potter’s jaw tightened, but not before Draco saw the minute tremor of his chin. “Go to hell, Malfoy.” Shouldering his bag, Potter made to stomp off, but then turned back. “You know, I actually allowed myself to believe there’s a decent human being hiding behind your horseshit,” he said in a low, shaky voice. “But you’re nothing but a dirty little cockroach. Stay away from me, and stay away from my friends! I won’t warn you again.”
Draco laughed and more tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. But he was alone now, and he didn’t care. The enormity of the disaster he had so narrowly avoided was only beginning to dawn on him. He could just picture it. Forcing himself on Potter, pressing their lips together, and Potter, pushing him away, wiping his mouth, perhaps even spitting. Saying, disgusted, so it’s true, then? You are a faggot?
Yes, it’s fucking true, Draco thought, barely keeping it inside. I’m a fucking faggot, and I fucking love you!
He wiped the tears, but more welled out, and he covered his face with his hands to stifle the sobs.
* * *
The spell had been lifted, but the fever remained. Draco’s skin ached and he shivered in irregular bursts, though he felt overheated. He went out and stalked all the way to the crooked bridge, hugging his cloak around him in the freezing wind, and would have crossed it too if snow hadn’t started. It was a recipe for catching a chest cold, but he didn’t care. Part of him even wanted it. To be sequestered in the hospital wing where he wouldn’t have to face anyone or anything for a couple days, till his mind cleared. He wondered if Potter would notice and make the connection.
It wasn’t his insult that haunted Draco on his lonely walk so much as what he had said just before it. I allowed myself to think you’re a decent human being. It had sounded like… like Potter had given him a chance. The chance Draco had dreamed of all these years. And somehow, he had managed to squander it? Because of bloody Finnigan? His heart twisted and his stomach cramped. He hadn’t realized he’d been so close. Had he known… he couldn’t have cared less about Finnigan, and Chang, and Weasley getting his stupid hug. He wouldn’t have thrown himself at Pansy, making a whole production of their ill-fated courtship. But how could he have known? In the tent, Potter hadn’t said a word in his defense, washing his hand of Draco as if he were contagious. And now… now it was all over.
By the time Draco reached the dungeons, his head was pounding on top of everything else. “Legacy,” he whispered, standing in a daze by the serpent guarding the door. It blinked at him indifferently, then uncoiled slower than ever before. A hot flush burned in his face while he waited, trembling.
There was no one on the spiral staircase and he paused halfway down to press his cheek to the cold stone wall. Oh, that felt good. He turned around to cool his other cheek too. The moment he closed his eyes, memories flashed before them like a nightmare. Potter in his face. You’re nothing. A dirty little cockroach.
Pushing himself away from the wall, Draco stepped on the hem of his robes and fell forward. Dull pain spread through him: he had hit his knee on the edge of a tread and the heel of his hand on the one above. It throbbed, bruising already. He resumed his descent holding on to the wall for balance. His knee had swelled to the size of the quaffle by the time he got to the bottom.
The fountain at the foot of the stairs sprayed him and the chilly touch of water was like a balm on his heated face. He plunged his injured hand into the basin. Then, before he could think himself out of it, he splashed his face, drenching the front of his robes. He lifted the hem and laid his cool, wet hand on his knee. He was about to take his boots off and enter the basin when someone’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Malfoy,” said a gruff female voice. “Have you gone deaf or something? What on earth are you doing?”
Draco spun to face Isabella Sallow, the seventh-year prefect. “Nothing,” he said, slithering out of her grip.
She frowned. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. I fell down the stairs, but I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Did you hit your head?”
“No, just my knee.” And he lifted his robes again to show her.
“Oh, yeah? And what’s this?” She bent down to peer in his eyes, and put a brazen, but blissfully frigid hand on his forehead, over the bump Potter had given him. “I think you should go see Pomfrey.”
Draco slapped her hand away. “I think you should mind your own business.”
Isabella straightened up and folded her arms. She was a full head taller than him and likely packed twice his mass in her broad shoulders, broader hips, and heavy breasts. “What’s it worth to you?”
Draco closed his eyes, pushing back the irritation. She was a bloody pest, but he didn’t have it in him to fight with her right now. “I’ll give you a bottle of 1986 Pierre Levin Chassagne-Montrachet.” The one he’d stolen from the Beauxbatons carriage last night and meant to share with Pansy on their first official date.
“What’s that?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “White wine?” With a slight hint of vanilla and varied magical effects, from granting wish-fulfillment dreams to the temporary ability to levitate a few inches off the ground. Not that Isabella and her ilk would be interested in anything past the alcohol content.
She considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Go on, then. But if something happens to you…”
“Yeah, yeah. You never saw me, we never spoke.”
“Good boy.”
He flipped her off.
To his dismay, the dorm was full. Because, of course the dorm would be full two hours after dinner on this one evening when he desperately needed it to be empty. He stood in the doorway for too long, despairing, and one by one, his friends turned to look at him. Theo was seated at the desk, quill in hand. Vince and Greg were playing cards on the carpet by the furnace. Blaise sat in the armchair with a book.
“Draco,” Vince uttered at last. “Are you alright?”
Ah. Yes. His hair was likely a wet mess, not to mention his robes, and he had a lump on his head. He stepped inside, leaving the door open. “Weren’t you all supposed to go to the Gatehouse?”
“It’s snowing,” said Greg reasonably.
Draco had forgotten. Taking a breath, he summoned all his authority. “I need a word with Vince.”
Vince’s eyes widened in alarm. Greg put his cards down and got to his feet. Theo sat back, alert but uncertain. Blaise pretended he didn’t hear.
“Alone,” Draco added.
“You can have your words elsewhere,” Blaise drawled after flipping a page, not bothering to lift his gaze.
Draco looked at Greg, who set his jaw, ambled to the armchair and plucked the book clean out of Blaise’s hands. “C’mon, mate,” he rumbled. “You can read in the commons.”
Blaise looked up calmly, first at Greg, then at Vince, and finally at Draco. Theo had already slinked out. Blaise’s eyes glittered, dark and dangerous against the striking white of his sclera, and Draco felt a twinge of unease. Unlike the rest of the Slytherins in their cohort, Blaise was not so easily intimidated by invoking the Malfoy name and had a devious and vengeful mind of his own.
“Fine,” he said at last, but made no hurry getting up, lacing up his shoes and donning his robes. Entire minutes of tense silence passed before Greg finally closed the door behind them, his large hand on the back of Blaise’s neck.
“What is it?” said Vince in a shaky voice. He had got up too, and stood in front of Draco as if on trial.
Draco fixed him with his feverish stare. “Does it work?”
“Huh?”
“The bubo! Your potions. Is it working? Are you less inclined to…” Draco gestured impatiently.
“Oh.” It looked like it had never occurred to Vince to wonder about that. He scratched his head, frowning. “Maybe? I think so? It’s only supposed to happen when the therapy’s over.”
Draco chewed on his lower lip. “And when’s that?”
“In four weeks. One potion a week. I already had one, so it’s more like three—”
“Who does the brewing? This healer of yours?” Draco couldn’t remember the name.
“Dr. Thorn. Yeah.”
“He sent them by owl?”
Vince nodded.
“Alright.” Draco pushed on Vince’s shoulders, and Vince obediently walked backward till his calves hit his bed and he sat. Draco leaned over him. “Listen. Here’s the plan. You’ll owl your mother and say that there’s been an accident, and all your potions spilled, understand? I’ll confirm if she asks.”
Vince’s eyes grew round. “Spilled? But—”
“And she should send you another full batch,” Draco spoke over him.
“But they didn’t—” Vince stammered. “I didn’t—”
“Crabbe!”
The tone of Draco’s voice snapped Vince right out of it. He went still.
“You’ll do this for me, won’t you?” said Draco, softly, curling his fingers around the seams of the jumper on Vince’s shoulders. As much as it was a plea, it was first and foremost a threat, and for a glorious moment, he sounded just like Father.
“Yes,” Vince whispered. “I’d do anything for you. You know that. But—Draco—why?”
Satisfied, Draco patted Vince’s shoulders and turned about, looking for his schoolbag. His pulse throbbed against his temples as he leaned down to rummage for a clean parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. “Start writing,” he said, pushing it all into Vince’s hands. “Where do you keep them?”
“Huh?”
“The potions—where are they?”
“In my trunk.”
Draco knelt in front of Vince’s trunk, opened it, and started tossing things out. At the bottom, carefully padded between rolled-up long-pants, vests and—ugh—knickers, there nestled a polished wooden box with four compartments. Three held standard issue potion vials. Draco took one out with a shaking hand and turned it to the light.
The potion was a dark red, almost black, like wine, or blood. Bubbles simmered from the bottom and burst at the top, releasing tiny whiffs of reddish smoke. Draco’s sense of magic rang. There was something insidious about the potion: secret, seductive and malicious. It reeked of the Dark Arts.
“Draco, are you sure?” said Vince, who had not moved from his spot on the bed. The parchment hung limply from his hand. He looked miserable, and for a brief, lucid moment, Draco felt sorry for him. The prices of the undoubtedly illicit services this neuromancer offered were guaranteed to be exorbitant. Draco could just imagine how much Mrs. Crabbe had paid for the first batch of potions, and how much more she’d be forced to pay for the second. The Crabbe family wasn’t poor by anyone’s standards, but they were nowhere near as rich as the Malfoys, and Mr. Crabbe’s addictions had cost them a fortune in the past several years.
But it wasn’t like Draco had a choice. Things have escalated so far—so very, very far from “a little teenage angst” in the past week, the memories of his life before the greenhouse seemed to belong to someone else. He couldn’t take it anymore.
He uncapped the vial and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.
* * *
The fever would not abate. Draco turned and twisted all night as every little bump in the mattress and every wrinkle in the sheets irritated his aching muscles and oversensitive skin. He sweated under the quilt, then shivered after throwing it off. He fell in and started out of unpleasant, fitful dreams, where he was bound, or chased, or surrounded. A childhood nightmare revisited, where he was caught between the cogs of some great, unstoppable machine, about to be pulverized as its gears turned.
He rose in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet to pee, too shaky to hold himself up. Sure enough, he fell asleep like that: only for a moment, but it was enough for Father’s voice in the back of his mind (can’t you even piss like a man?) to materialize into a figure looming over him with a well-worn tawse in hand. As Draco jolted awake, his Lumos went out, and when he lit it up again at the sink, he saw through the mirror someone standing behind him for real. He yelped and turned, pointing his wand, only to find a forgotten dressing robe hanging by the door.
Author notes:
There’s an alternative beginning of this chapter, where Draco sees Madam Pomfrey about his fever, that you can read here.