Eyes of Phthalo Green - DRARRY

Chapter 7 - The Message

The next week was strange. Draco could think of nothing but that class. The concern in Potter's voice, the way he had talked to him, the infamous shared scent; it had marked him. The chocolate may have been a coincidence, but that could not explain why the golden boy would have any concern for his lack of appetite, or why he had spoken to Draco so freely, as though he saw right through Malfoy's mask. It had left him confused as to his feelings. They were no longer petty hatred, but Draco did not want Potter as a friend. Were they to fall in some no-man's-land, an equator of acquaintance? What were they now, or worse still, what would they become? 

Lost for answers, Draco threw himself into the science of it all. Amortentia, he well knew, presented a different odor to whoever smelt it. The smell was supposed to be the combined effect of whatever the person loved, or was infatuated with. His own was easy enough to decode: Draco's favorite fruit, his preferred paint thinner, and the smell of his common room were all to be expected from the Amortentia. Dark chocolate, though he liked it, was far from a love. But he had not said dark chocolate, rather, bitter chocolate, like the taste of his morning coffee. A ritual Draco had refused to continue because of its connection with...Potter. But even if his assumption about his own aroma was correct, that did not explain why the Gryffindor had also gotten chocolate. Treacle tart and broomstick polish were almost comically obvious examples of things Potter loved, but the chocolate. The boy was notorious for his sweet tooth, and bitterness was not usually his domain. Draco doubted that he'd had chocolate-coffee before that day in the kitchens, what if Potter associated the taste with him? Even as questions were answered, more arose. Draco needed confirmation of the truth, and he had a way to get it.

It didn't take long to find the perfect drawing. Once Draco had found the sketch from the train he turned it over, scrawling a quick missive. "You were right. Black Lake, 9 tonight. -M." He rolled the parchment and secured with an unassuming length of twine. The less interesting the scroll looked, the safer for it's contents. Now, to the Owlery. Unluckily for him, the quickest route to the Owlery was nearly a 20 minute trek up to the Entrance Hall, around the Quad, over the suspension bridge, out through the Middle Courtyard, and finally across the green. Draco didn't usually frequent the building for this reason, and though it would have been quicker to simply deliver the scroll himself, Harmen would attract less suspicion. 

Harmen was Draco's Eurasian eagle owl, a huge, though harmless, gift from his parents for his eleventh birthday. He had named the bird "Harmen" after his favorite of the late Dutch masters, Harmen Steenwijck; it had been a more clandestine choice than "Vermeer", and, as the owl had grown, suited him better. His striped feathers and umber pigmentation were more apt of the artist's famous vanitas than Vermeer's colourful domestic scenes. Draco loved his pet, but given the long walk and his lack of interpersonal connections, it had been a long time since he had visited. 

The Owlery was surprisingly warm for November, heated by the many birds that filled it. From the inside, the structure looked like a circular honey comb, its walls consisting of hexagonal cubicles. The divisions varied in size to accomodate different breeds, growing progressively larger higher up. The Owlery had no roof, so as to allow the birds leave on deliveries at their convenience. Draco adjusted the gauntlet on his hand, then whistled and called for Harmen. There was a great rustling of feathers, before a pair of massive wings blocked out the sun. Draco chuckled, Harmen had always had a flair for the dramatic. Even as a nestling, he had begged his owner for affection, pecking incessantly at his fingers through all of first year. While he was still small enough, Draco would hide Harmen in his satchel during the day, afraid to take him out. Malfoy would never have allowed tiny owl to sit on his head and nip his ear while he studied; Harmen had needed to remain a secret. By second year, his owl was no longer travel-size, and by now had a wingspan of nearly 2 meters. Harmon flew down towards the gauntlet, but instead chose to perch on Draco's head, his preferred seat. The Slytherin lifted a hand to stroke the glossy feathers, then spoke. "I need you to leave this in Harry Potter's room, 'kay? No! Don't give me that look; I swear it's not something mean." Harmen turned his head, yellow eyes radiating not-mad-just-dissapointment. Draco sighed, thrusting up the scroll. "Just do it, please? I'll give you a rabbit..." Bargaining with an owl was normal for 10 a.m. on a Saturday, but he was desperate. Plus, Draco had endured worse. At long last, Harmen hooted in defeat and took the scroll from his hand. Now all he could do was wait.

----

It was a long wait, too. Draco ate his dinner distractedly, making a point of avoiding eye contact with Potter. His friends suspected nothing, but still had the paranoid sensation of a thousand accusatory eyes tearing into his back. Every flicker of the candles above condemned him, spitting in his face. The glint off the Headmaster's goblet was the flash of his father's wand, Crucio-ing his son without a backwards glance. The golden varnish of the tables was a taper, blackening his name on an ancient tapestry, burning him from existence. Once safely in his room again, Draco paced his closet, unable to decide what to wear. Turtlenecks were warm, but made him look like a Death Eater. He owned only one pullover; the obvious choice were it not for the huge "SLYTHERIN" embroidered along the chest. It was too cold for a shirt alone, yet much to cold for a coat. In the end, Draco unearthed a rather musty green hoodie from his closet. It looked too big on him, almost certainly a result of his extreme weight loss, but otherwise seemed to fit the brief. A quick cleaning spell revealed that the fabric was at least two shades darker than initially suspected; Draco opted not to think about how long the sweater had been ruminating. He threw on a pair of black jeans and shoes, outfit then complete. 

The Slytherin sat for a while after, debating whether he should make an attempt at looking presentable. He had made no effort for months, was it too late to try. Draco certainly didn't want to look as though he'd put hours of thought into his appearance, even if that was the truth. The whole purpose of the meeting was to tell the truth, he decided, and besides, Potter would almost certainly not notice. Draco picked up his comb, almost hesitant to use it. Tentatively, he pushed the spines through his hair. Draco had always liked his hair. It was different, unique. Whiter than most of his family's platinum blonde locks, it was a running joke that the youngest Malfoy was an albino grizzly in a field of polar bears. His grey eyes didn't exactly back theory, but Draco didn't care. Slightly different was better than the same. He had started gelling his hair as more a survival technique than fashion statement. Draco's hair was an unfortunate cross of fine strands and thick coverage; brushing equated to trying to untangle spiderwebs. But he did try, pushing the comb along his scalp resolutely, watching his progress in the mirror. 

It took a good quarter hour, but at long last he finished. Draco grabbed one of the many rings he'd nicked from his mother over the years. It was a sort of finger-glove made of several metal plates that extended like armour over half his hand, ending in a knife-like point over the nail. He needed strength for whatever was about to happen, and sharp object just in case was always a good idea. A glance at the common room clock showed only 20 minutes until Draco needed to meet Potter. With any luck the hallways would be deserted, though Filch and his fiendish cat Mrs. Norris were unpredictable. Slytherins being Slytherins however, the inhabitants of the Hogwarts dungeons had long escaped detection in their nighttime escapades. Draco slipped towards the glass section of floor in the middle of the room. Casting a bubble charm around himself, he folded one of the panes up revealing the water below. Bracing for the cold, Draco jumped. 

The lake was freezing, but not enough to deter him from his mission. Draco felt along the underside of the glass before locating a tiny latch, concealed in the metal frame. He closed the window, and swam towards the nearest shore. Draco didn't bother going up for air, it would only slow his pace. Besides, the charm provided him ample oxygen, and it might break if he went up to the surface. Finally, Draco reached the lake edge nearest the Forbidden Forest. A look at his surroundings, however, presented an issue: in a forest of green and black trees, how was Blind-as-a-basilisk Potter going to spot him? Reluctantly, Draco lowered his hood, his head now a floating white beacon, reflecting over the dark lake. It was only a few minutes before a figure approached out of the shadows, glasses shining like sickels in the moonlight. Potter had received his message, and he had heeded it.

AN: Hello!! And in case anyone cared, I'm not dead. On that cheery note, how have you been? Did anyone compliment you today? Because let me just say you are even more beautiful than you were last chapter. ;) I can't remember if I left a note on my last chapter so if I didn't I'm so sorry. Don't let the world get you down, kay? This life -- your life -- is precious and you are by no means beholden to the hatred of others. Eat, sleep, drink water, take you meds and try to love yourself, even when it's hard. God this sounds sappy but I mean it. Love you all,

-Ophelia