Let Me Be Your Voice

Part 17

**Featuring art by Chibitoaster. Please do not alter or distribute without the artist's consent. It was created for this fic**

~*~

When they reached the door to the eighth-years’ tower, Harry noticed Malfoy had slowed his steps and was trailing behind.

“Go on ahead,” Malfoy said. “I’ll be right in; I just need a minute.”

Harry pulled the door open and stepped into the common room. It was packed with students from all houses and years. He spotted Ron playing Neville at a game of wizard’s chess at a table in the corner. Hermione was curled up in an armchair by the fire nearby reading a book, while her fluffy ginger-haired cat, Crookshanks, sat on the chair’s back and flicked her face with his tail. Ginny and Blaise were snuggled together in a loveseat on the opposite side of the fire while Seamus, Dean and Lavender laughed about a comic Dean was drawing.

The rest of the chairs and pouffes in the room were filled with students at tables studying or else chatting and playing games. Nobody seemed to notice that Harry had entered.

He walked over to the chess game, smiling at Ginny and Blaise as he passed, flushing a bit when she winked at him.

Ron was studying the board in earnest while Neville grinned on the other side, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest.

“Harry!” Neville said, when he saw Harry approach.

“Hey Nev,” Harry answered, and turned to Ron. “How’s it going, mate?”

Ron scowled, not looking up from the board. “How did you get to be this good at chess, Neville?” he muttered, then knocked his king over with a finger, finally looking up at Harry.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he demanded, taking out his anger at losing on Harry. He looked at Harry’s neck and his eyes grew wide. “Have you been fighting?”

Harry rubbed his neck, feeling the chafing marks that his tie had left on it, and shook his head quickly. “Not exactly,” he said. Suddenly he didn’t feel like here and now was the time or place he wanted to have this talk with Ron. “I’m tired,” Harry said feebly, though it wasn’t a lie. He had been running on fumes all day.

Hermione looked up from her book. “I think I saw Malfoy head upstairs, Harry.”

“Oh?” Harry answered, hoping he wasn’t being as transparent about his eagerness to talk to Malfoy as he felt. “Thanks. I’m going to turn in.”

Ron gave him a worried look. “Is Malfoy up to something again?” he asked, brow furrowed. “You’re spending an awful lot of time around the ferret.”

Hermione stood up and came to Harry’s rescue. She put her hands on Ron’s shoulders and started to massage them. “You know they have to stick together as long as Malfoy is cursed, Ron. McGonagall said so. We’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, Harry.”

He ran up the stairs two at a time after saying his goodnights.

“Malfoy?” he said, pushing the door to the dormitory open.

Malfoy was lying on his back on his bed, staring at the ring on his hand when Harry approached.

Harry stopped, and looked at it, confused. “I thought you left that in the Room. Did you go back and get it by yourself?”

Malfoy shook his head wearily and dropped his hand.

“I’m cursed,” he said flatly. “No matter how hard I try to throw the bloody thing away, it always comes back to me.”