Let Me Be Your Voice

Part 16

As Harry strode away from Flitwick’s office, the Snitch began to flutter actively again, though it couldn’t have come at a worse time. His mind was not in the mood after his talk with Mrs. Weasley, though his body begged to differ.

When he reached the tapestry of the trolls learning to dance ballet, he stopped, wondering if the Room would still work after the fire. He decided to give it a go, needing a place to take care of his problem and retrieve the Snitch; having been on the edge of coming all day made him desperate. He quickly walked to and fro before the stretch of wall, thinking of a private place to wank.

To his relief, the door sprang into being but, before he could enter, the sound of shoes clacking angrily against the flagstone floor made him look up to see who was coming.

Draco Malfoy looked as if he were about to explode with fury. He rushed at Harry, making Harry draw his wand, ready to defend himself, but was surprised when Malfoy moved right past him to the door, throwing it open and storming inside.

Harry cautiously followed, hearing the door click behind him and turn back into a wall.

He looked around. The room was small and dark, lit by a solitary oil lamp on a table standing beside a standard dormitory four-poster bed. The bed was draped with a clean white sheet, free of curtains, and the scent of stale smoke hung in the air.

Malfoy had flung himself onto the bed and was staring up at the ceiling, his face contorted in anger.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, approaching cautiously. He wanted Malfoy to go away and let him get the Snitch out of his arse, but at the same time found he was genuinely concerned by what was troubling Malfoy. “Er … What did Slughorn want to talk to you about?” he asked, knowing he sounded feeble.

Malfoy let out a hoarse laugh. He started spitting his words out, full of vitriol.

“Wanted to know what my plans were for the future. Told me he could put in a good word for me with some Ministry people if I’d like. It was all lip-service. I know he’s only fussed because he’s been forced into it. And then he tried to talk to me about …” Malfoy stopped talking, his face colouring slightly, more than the anger had already coloured it.

Harry felt his embarrassment rise up like a heatwave. It was bad enough having had to talk with Ron’s mum about sex; he couldn’t imagine how unbearable it would be to have Slughorn do it.

He grimaced. “Um, yeah. Mrs. Weasley tried to talk to me about it too.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, suddenly bleakly serious. He sat up on the bed, his knees bent, and forearms resting on them. “I can’t be this transparent.”

Harry looked at him, confused. “Transparent about what?”

Malfoy’s face paled. He closed his eyes, trying to find his words.

He opened them again, looking helpless and worried. “Look. It’s not an … acceptable lifestyle in my parents’ eyes.”

Harry noticed the pleading lilt to Malfoy’s voice.

“Is this more pure-blood claptrap?” Harry demanded suddenly. “I would think, considering where that line of thinking has got them …”

“No,” Malfoy interjected. “It’s more than that.” He paused a moment. “I’m expected to carry on the family name and to … attempt to salvage some sense of dignity.” He stopped again and squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Fuck. I can’t even talk to people any more. There’s no way to pull myself out of this hole.” He sounded desperate and ready to give up. “And that’s… It’s part of why they beat me up.” He opened his eyes again and fixed them on Harry, pleading with him to understand. “I know it was because of this Mark.” He shook his left sleeve absently. “But I think the final straw for them was when I kissed you at the party.”