The Pure Blood's Task

Chapter 13

"Harry?" I hear Hermione's voice echo in the corridor. "Harry, where are you?"

Ron chimes in, the two of them checking alcoves  for me. Alcoves such as the one Malfoy and I are standing in. Both he and I seem to simultaneously realise that if they catch us together it'll raise a whole host of questions neither of us know the answer to. What we're doing, for one thing.

"Quick," Malfoy hisses. "Put your invisibility cloak over us!"

I don't stop to question how he knows I have it on me, but hastily fling it over our bodies, moving myself tighter against him than I really want to be to make up for the fact that the cloak is barely big enough. We stand with bated breath, goosebumps forming, as Ron and Hermione draw closer. The thudding of my heart is surely too loud to conceal us, but we're safe, and when Ron's head peers directly at us he doesn't notice a thing.

I let out a shaky breath as we hear my two friends leave, trying to soothe my frozen muscles. I'm so relieved that it takes me a couple of seconds to register my proximity to Malfoy, and the scattering of goosebumps that remain even though my friends have gone.

I jump in shock as Malfoy speaks, a velvet hum against my ear. "If you would be so kind as to move aside, Potter, I'd like to leave."

My jump left him with enough room to wiggle out, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him before he gets too far.

"Malfoy, what-"

"This changes nothing, Potter."

But it does, and I can feel him shiver beneath my fingers. We've never interacted before, not without his cocky arrogance or some kind of malice getting in the way, and there's something real about it that entices me.

"We should talk," I say.

"I'll owl you. Until then, leave me alone."

I watch him shrug out of my grip and almost rush away, shaking slightly and running his fist across his forehead. What just happened between us? And why does the fluttering in my stomach suggest I enjoyed it?

      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

I spend two fitful nights wondering what happened, until Monday morning when Neville wakes me, whispering something about an owl outside.

It takes a few seconds, but I reach for my glasses and bring his face into focus before listening to him. Yes saying that the owl won't let Neville himself untie the scroll, so could I please see what it says and get the owl to quieten.

I comply, glancing at my watch which reads five thirty, and grumble to myself about people who send mail at such times of day. This had better be important.

I untie the note from the owls legs and step back as it soars out of the window. Neville returns to his bed with a heavy snore, immediately asleep, but I sit cross-legged against my pillow, reading the short message with growing anticipation.

Meet me in the Trophy Room.
Midnight.
Come alone.

There's no name but I know who it's from, and I scrawl back an answer on a clean sheet of parchment.

Will you show up this time?

My reply refers back to our first year when he tricked Ron and I into staying out after hours. I grimace at the memory, pulling on my school robes and heading to the owlery to send it off. I know it's early, but since I'm awake I may as well get up for the day.

Contrary to the rest of the sleeping school, the owlery is noisy with hoots and screeches. Hedwig sees me enter and swoops down from her perch, beak full with what looks like the remains of a frog. I stroke her feathers absently, but look for another owl to deliver my note - Hedwig will be too easily recognised if I use her. I spy one and coax it towards me.

"You can just deliver it with the morning post," I tell it. That way I can watch and make sure he gets it.

I wave Hedwig a brief goodbye and decide to spend the next couple of hours walking the grounds. I want to refresh my memory on what Dumbledore showed me at our last lesson, as the next one is tonight, and also rethink my coming out.

My stroll ends up being rejuvenating, and I head towards breakfast with a distinct vigour for the day. I'm able to contribute towards the morning conversation enthusiastically, as since confessing to Malfoy I don't have that severe internal need to explain myself. I know that I must still tell Ron and Hermione, but the pressure to do it soon is gone.

I'm laughing at a story Seamus is telling when the morning post arrives, and I look towards Malfoy as the school owl lands on his plate. His brow furrows as he reads my reply, and he looks up to shoot a dirty scowl at me. I take that to mean yes.

The rest of the day passes swiftly, and I soon find myself standing in the Trophy Room, waiting. When we looked into the Pensieve this evening, Professor Dumbledore showed me his memory of meeting Voldemort for the first time at the orphanage. I still don't know what Dumbledore's teaching me yet, but I hope it becomes clear soon - I've got enough uncertainty in my life at the moment. For example whatever I'm doing meeting up with Malfoy at this time of night.

Speaking of whom - I check my watch - he's two minutes late.

"You're alone?" He suddenly appears in the doorway, the question sounding too loud in the stillness of the night.

I open my arms in a shrug, waiting for him to continue. He doesn't, so I do.

"Why am I here, Malfoy?" I start.

"You suggested it."

"I didn't think you'd actually want to talk... Why do you?"

"I don't know." He looks undecided about staying.

"What do you want to say?"

"I don't know." His eyes are hesitant. "What do you want to say?"

I pause, unsure if what I want to suggest will go down well, but then say it anyway. "I call a truce, Malfoy."

He looks at me, and I see him contemplating the idea, a ghost of fear in his eyes. "Deal," he decides, holding out his hand. "But on one condition - no one knows."

"Deal." I grasp his palm and shake it.

There's an electric kind of spark where our skin touches, leaving behind an awkwardness as neither of us want to admit to feeling it. We don't know what to say next either. Aside from Saturday night, I've never really spoken to Malfoy without some kind of argument occurring - whether physical or verbal - and I don't know how to behave.

Malfoy keeps opening and closing his mouth, as though wanting to speak but thinking the better of it, so I use it as my cue and ask what it is. His face twists before he decides he can trust me, and I brace myself for whatever it is.

"Potter... I think you've figured this part out," he starts rolling up his left sleeve, exposing his arm and Mark, "so I know you won't be shocked... I've been chosen by him and I have to complete a task. And I need your help."