LABYRINTH of HEARTS (DRARRY Romance)

MEMORY VIAL 8: A SPARK OF LOVE (YEAR 3)

Harry hid the slight twitch in his fingers when he entered the Great Hall the next morning on Monday. His nerves had been on edge ever since the sun had peaked over the horizon and the magic tethering him to Draco began its relentless pull on his ankles. The invisible cord seemed to be tugging him in whatever direction Malfoy was located at a given moment—a veritable Red Thread of Fate which he could follow like a lead line until he found him.

Hermione and Ron sped toward the Gryffindor table and looked back at Harry as he mulled over what he should do. Finally, when the magic seemed to be cutting his circulation off the longer he delayed, Harry took a deep breath to brace himself and then went to the Slytherin table instead.

Hermione waved awkwardly as he passed, and Harry jerked a nervous smile at her, then nodded to Ron, who stared agape with owl-like eyes.

"This won't be so bad," Harry told himself, shaking his foot as the tricksy magic tried to unbalance him. "Only seven days, and it'll all be over. Not to mention, this is what I wanted after all."

Malfoy and the other Slytherins grew quiet upon noticing him. Their faces darkened the closer he got, and Harry realized he felt about as welcome at their table as he did at the Dursleys' house.

Crabbe fumbled off the seat away from Draco to make room for Harry, and Draco cast the corpulent boy a reproachful look for doing the opposite of what was expected of him.

Harry nodded sheepishly to Draco and then sat where Crabbe had been. "If we're going to do this," he said, ignoring the various sets of malevolent eyes staring at him, "we might as well make sure we do it right by sitting next to each other the whole time."

No one responded. Not even Draco, which made Harry feel extremely awkward. This is fine, he told himself. Everything's going to be fine...

Picking up a goblet filled with pumpkin juice, Harry took a nervous sip, then sputtered when it sloshed down the wrong pipe.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to strangle him, but at least the magic pinching at their ankles had relaxed now that they were sitting close together.

"So, uh..." Harry drummed his fingers on the tabletop, frowning from one sullen face to the next. "I guess we could all get to know each other."

Pansy scoffed and tugged possessively on Draco's arm from the other side of him.

"Except you lot already know enough about me, I guess."

"Too much," said Blaise. "We're tired of always hearing about the famous Harry Potter."

Draco kicked Blaise under the table to keep him silent.

Harry frowned at Draco when he did that, then glanced around at the rest of them. "Believe me, this isn't exactly my idea of a fun time, but I'm just trying to break the ice. How about you, Goyle? I don't know anything about you, except that you're a surprisingly good reader."

"Well, I'm done eating," Marcus Flint interrupted, swinging his leg out from behind his seat. "See you later, Draco. Go ahead and take the week off our Quidditch meetups. With Potter's broom smashed to pieces, you won't really need to practice as hard for the rest of the year anyway."

After Flint had left the table with two other seventh-year boys, Harry took in the remaining faces that surrounded him. Deciding that trying to talk to them was an exercise in futility, he picked up his fork and tucked into his plate of food, which had somehow survived Crabbe sitting in front of it.

After shoveling in several bites, Harry looked sideways at the food on Draco's plate. There was only porridge, an assortment of fruit, nuts, and slices of bread with a sundry gradation of colorful jams.