Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 3

When Draco snaps to again, on his feet in front of the vilely-glowing time-turner, he's so tired he feels ill. He feels like he's been surviving on strong coffee, strong potions and snatched naps for about a hundred years, and it seems as good an excuse as any to go straight back to bed – although it's not back to bed, exactly, as he didn't sleep at all last night. It seems that even now, even without being there, Potter still has the power to fuck him up.

And if forcing him to spend the whole night awake, tying himself up in moral knots – does he need forgiveness, didn't he save Potter from the Dark Lord, didn't his mother save Potter too, isn't it all sodding ENOUGH? – isn't fucking him up, Draco has no idea what is.

Potter, he thinks, trying not to split his face with an almighty yawn, can just bugger off today, with his black and white morals and his sanctimonious grasp on what is right and wrong. He, Draco, has had enough.

He crawls into bed and falls asleep almost immediately, and dreams of absolutely nothing. Which makes it all the more distressing when he wakes up with a start, his heart pounding, with his mother – white faced – leaning over him and shaking his arm.

"What's the matter?" he asks, on his feet in an instant, his wand in his hand. "Where's Father?"

His mother blinks at him, and Draco realises he's being very dim. "At the Houses of Parliament," she says, "where you should have been ten minutes ago!"

He can't think of a way of telling her that no, it's OK, if he's missed it, he'll just fucking do it again tomorrow – because there's no point in giving his speech if he hasn't worked out a way of keeping Potter in his seat throughout it, and it's too late now, surely? So he stands there, as if he's three again, while his mother's workmanlike magic whips around him, cleaning, grooming and dressing him in under thirty seconds. She finishes with a kiss to his forehead. "Good luck, darling," she says fondly, and gives him a little shove, and it seems churlish not to Disapparate immediately.

He stumbles into the Royal Gallery, nearly colliding with Potter, who's just ahead of him, and it seems it's not too late, after all. "Potter," he calls, out of breath. "Harry!"

And Potter turns, at the sound of his name, and Draco can't process the look on his face, he's too tired and fed up and he wants this all over with. "You are going to hate my speech," he says, simply, because it's the truth. "But please – please – don't walk out during it. I'll explain everything afterwards. Please." And he doesn't have time to wait and argue with Potter, if he's going to actually give the arsing speech, so he darts past Potter and his friends – by some miracle, Weasley doesn't try to trip him up – and half-runs to the Chamber, halting just outside to give himself a chance to calm down before he enters.

A few deep breaths later, he does just that, and his father – already seated – gives him a sharp look, but doesn't say anything, and squeezes his shoulder, as if to say It's OK, son, even if his actual thoughts, Draco suspects, are more along the lines of: WHERE THE EVERLOVING FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?

By the time Draco rises to give his speech, he's already convinced that Potter's more likely to walk out this time, now he's been pre-warned. He'll be sitting there, twitching, ready to leap up and off at the slightest hint of anything unpleasant. The fact that Draco said 'please' – and more than once – has surely indicated to him that the contents of the speech will be vile indeed. Draco can't bear to look over at him, so he fixes his attention firmly on the prior speakers, and then, when it's his turn, he tries to relax into the safety of a well practised, well worn routine, making sure not to look in Potter's direction in case it puts him off.