Eyes of Phthalo Green - DRARRY

Chapter 6 - The Confirmation

Draco awoke engulfed in pain. His eyes flicked open, only to meet themselves in the reflective surface of his still-dark windows. The walls and draperies of Draco's room were dark enough in contrast to his skin and shirtsleeves that the windows showed only his body, suspended among the seaweed of the Black Lake. It was a strange experience, to see himself floating, corpse-like, in the water. His limbs were bent at grotesque angles, with both the stiffness and flexibility of the long-dead. Draco's exposed flesh was covered in blueish bruises from where he'd fallen the night before, but the finger-like marks on his feet were unexplained. Perhaps, though he could not see them, his dreams continued, and that particular sequence had seen him switch roles with the drowning boy, the marks a painful reminder of the mermaid who had tried so hard to kill him. Draco wished she had succeeded. 

Groping blindly on his covers for his wand before finally locating it, the Slytherin cast a Tempus. It was 5:18 in the morning; Draco's alarm may have failed him, but the potions had not overstayed their welcome. Stretching out his legs with an ominous chorus of cracks, he got to his feet and shuffled, muscles still rigid with sleep, towards his closet. Once inside, Draco quickly stripped off his old robes before grabbing new ones, making sure not to look in the direction of the cupboards where his paintings were hidden. Fresh clothes acquired, he shut the closet door and locked it, throwing his dirty pair into the laundry hatch next to his bed. Draco didn't bother with his hair anymore, the occasional, distracted running of his hand across his scalp may not have been all the brushing it needed, but that was what it got. He spelled his teeth clean half-heartedly and picked up his satchel from it's slump against the nightstand. A new day had begun, and Draco was far from happy to see it. 

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"Amortentia," Professor Snape's voice drawled. "You are mere months from your OWLs and the vast majority you have yet to understand the basics behind the world's best known potions." His voice was quiet as ever, but something about the potions master commanded attention. Perhaps it was the sinister swirl of his black robes over the tight, bottoned sleeves that struck fear into his student's hearts, or maybe the sarcastic monotone that resounded in the acoustics of his dungeon classroom. Draco was the man's godson and devoted student, and yet he hoped to never have occasion to fall out of favor with the professor. Potions had been his second passion since his first class in the cold, dark room. He remembered Snape's first words of greeting in vivid detail: "There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few who possess, the predisposition...I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death." Draco had lapped up the words like butterbeer, and since that day Potions had been his domain and his alone. The professor had been right, none of his classmates had ever attempted to master "the subtle science", all, except Draco. And he had repaid his mentor by putting that deadly skill to the task of driving himself to an early grave.

Draco returned to the present. "It is for these reasons," Snape was saying, "That I have chosen to accelerate this course, slightly. Amortentia is so complex that it is often only brewed by sixth year students and above. Consider yourselves...lucky. You will be set in pairs, and whatever pairs produce the best specimen will receive credit for the assignment, as well as 10 house points per partner." The professor sneered the last remark, surely not relishing the idea of rewarding Gryffindors. "Your groups have been picked randomly. If you argue, you will work alone, and be provided half the brewing time. Do not dispute me." Draco half-listened as the pairs were read aloud, waiting for his name. Finally, he heard it. "...Mr. Malfoy you will be working with Mr. Potter. You have two hours." 

Draco had never, in all his 15 years of life, been so terrified. His stomach was filled with a strange lightness, as though it had stolen the air from his very lungs, which had ceased to breathe. A flush threatened his pale complexion; teasing him from just beneath his shirt collar. Draco's tie seemed to constrict like a green and silver noose, prepared to strangle him if the lump in his throat got any bigger. But for now, he was alive, and Malfoy's thirst for competition was eager to begin. 

Work was quiet for the two boys, Potter seemed neither upset nor pleased to be paired with his nemesis, and the latter could live with that. The work distribution was decidedly unequal; Draco would prep, portion, and brew the ingredients, sending Potter to fetch supplies and powder the occasional moonstone. Draco didn't mind taking on the brunt of the work, and his partner was more than happy to be exempt from it. Though perhaps not quite as incompetent as his classmate Seamus Finnegan, Potter had an extensive reputation as a horrid potioneer; if house points were to be acquired, the Gryffindor should stay as far from the cauldron as possible. 

"I know you're hiding something." The words, spoken barely above a whisper, nearly stopped Draco's heart. Even Malfoy could not retort quickly to such a remark, so it simmered, gathering weight. Finally, the Slytherin found his words, "Why so suspicious, Potter? The thief is always the first to point fingers." But Potter was unperturbed. "That day...in the kitchens; that wasn't you. Well, it certainly wasn't Malfoy. Usually I'd assume you were acting, that you'd placed some sort of trap on me. But no, you were definitely sincere. I could tell, I could just feel it." The raven-haired boy paused for a moment, assessing his prey's reaction. "There's something different about you, apart from the fact you look like shit all the time now. You don't eat, you clearly don't sleep, you don't put any of that foul gel in your hair, and you haven't insulted me in a month." Draco cocked an eyebrow at Potter's vehemence; so he had noticed. "Very kind of you to take an interest in my health, Potter, I'm sure, but what does this have to do with my sincerity? You can crush the mother-of-pearl while you answer." The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, tossing the shells into his pestle. "People expect you to be the villain, and you hate it. You'd rather be the boy from the kitchens. I know how you feel, the whole wizarding world wants me to be their savior, but at the same time they hate me when I try to warn them. They would hate me more, though, if I was just myself. Sometimes we all need to hide a little bit. But just understand that I know you conceal more than most." 

Potter stopped talking as abruptly as he had started. In spite of himself, Draco missed the sound. He whispered, just to fill the silence. To fill the silence, and to show Potter that "the boy from the kitchens" was real, but did not wish to be found. "You're right." Potter didn't even look up. Draco sighed, hen, in a louder, colder voice, "The potion is done, we can test it now. Just try not to spill it all." Potter leant over the the cauldron, inhaling. "I smell treacle tart, broomstick polish, and..." The boy paused and stared straight into Draco's widened eyes, "...bitter chocolate." The Slytherin held his gaze as he lowered his head to smell. He hadn't meant for the words to spill, but the fates had other designs. "I smell green apples, turpentine, seaweed, and bitter chocolate." Potter's words had boosted his confidence, and Draco looked right back into the green eyes. This wasn't like the staring contest of the Great Hall. They competitors let their emotions show: a cacophony of confusion, pain, fear, anger, and something else neither could name but which was by far most powerful. The swirling steam from the cauldron rose between them, a new secret to be hidden, a fateful confirmation. 

Draco filled two vials with potion and walked toward the front of the classroom. His pair was the first completed, with almost half and hour to spare. Snape nodded a silent congratulations in the direction of his favourite student; the boys were free to leave, house points in tow. Draco left in silence, a scream of elation and rage brewing in his throat. He imagined the Mirror of Erised, beautiful and tempting, but with a penchant of driving men mad. Clear as the reflection had been in his window that morning, Draco did not fear death. Clear as the reflection had been in Potter's deep, emerald eyes, Draco wanted more.