Rating: Pg13 (for now)
Background: takes place over the last three years at Hogwarts. This chapter currently takes place at the beginning of the fifth year.
Blown by the Winds of Chance
Chapter 1: Unspoken Agreement
A figure stood in the shade of a great storm cloud as it washed across the moor. Large luminous clouds spurned over the horizon, alleviating the once cheerful mood. Their color was dark, a gray almost boarding on a murky black—yet dimly, basking in the sun above was the purest of bleached whites, only visible through the occasional portals that were sanctioned by some higher being.
As the storm swept over England, the figure's eyes moved across the vista in a lazy fashion, noting the paved road some one-hundred meters away, its color almost rivaling that of the clouds which billowed above his head.
The figure was a vision, that of cream, black, and a green bordering on emeralds. This glorious color could only be found in his eyes, which continued to survey the lay of the land. A sudden gust challenged the authority of the cloak he wore, and it billowed for a moment in the wind.
And the figure, which stood there, was quite striking…if not lonely in the surrealistic mount of terrain.
Large drops of water began to plummet from the sky—yet the person was unaware, and instead his lips moved slowly forming words, as though the world had stopped for this single moment…
Harry blinked slowly, the wan light of the morning splattering across the guest bedroom and onto worn floorboards, colored in a faded tapestry. Trying to figure out what had awoken him he found that there was a steady knocking on his door, accompanied by a voice. There was an urgent tone, and tossing aside the heavy blankets, Harry unlocked the brass lock, and poked his head out into the rather cool hallway of the house.
"Harry," Ron breathed, "Mum forgot to set the clocks last night. Its nearly eight thirty— we need to hurry if we are going to make it to the station on time."
Digesting the information, Harry nodded, and quickly made his way to tile enclosed rest room.
If a word needed to be bestowed to 'this' summer, it would be the summer between Harry's fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts.
For Harry it had been a summer of many things—not just a space, or moment in time.
Stepping onto the familiar platform, he loaded his luggage onto the train, and stood waiting amiably for Ron to say goodbye to his parents, and Hermione undoubtedly doing the same thing. He did not feel a pang of guilt, although he wished he could. Somehow…the fact that his parents were dead no longer seemed to bother him. He had gotten over the fact, along with many other things this summer. Of course, there were possessions that remained on his conscious…those that still haunted him…
Harry had only come to live with the Weasely's during the last four weeks of the summer. Although he usually would have jumped at the opportunity to spend the entire vacation with the wizarding family (as he had been asked to) Harry could not help feeling he needed some time alone. He needed to sort things out, rearrange them…hope that when he did, the world would make since.
In addition, when he had finally completed this task, he had found the world, although making sense was much darker.
Glancing about the platform, he could not help notice the glimpses he was getting—by both old and young a like. Some, by the girls, were appraising as they walked past him—yet it was not those that he cared about. The only female at the moment, which meant anything to him was Hermione—and that was on an extremely…non-romantic level. Cho had disappeared with the death of Cedric…and he had an acute feeling that the emotions he held towards her would never re-appear.
He found that he could feel their glances, the adults. Harry was finally able to see the fear which lay in their eyes, and their almost obsessive hope that he, he simple old Harry Potter, could be their savior from the darkness which once again threatened their life.
And this was what had happened over the summer…
…he had realized that on one hand he would be known as the 'boy who lived', yet on another level would also be expected to be 'the boy who killed you-know-who'…
No one admitted this of course. Everyone had said that a fifteen-year-old boy was no match for he-who-must-not-be-named! They did not expect that of him!
It was lies. It still was lies.
Of course, they expected it of him. And it was only then that Harry realized this that the world had finally laughed in his face and spat maliciously. During that first month, Harry would look at himself in the mirror, and see a boy who had lived (by some miraculous chance)—yet he would also see a boy who had escaped the Dark Lord so many times by 'pure dumb luck'.
The skills in magic, that he did have, were nothing (even Hermione knew more than him), and his grades were shambles (he should have been working harder on them, he told himself over the summer. Think of how much he had to be grateful for…he could have been stuck with those Muggles until he was eighteen). And how, Harry asked frantically, did they expect him to save their kind? He could not even save one person…
Desperately, Harry pulled himself out of this train of thought, and continued his search. It would not do good to dig himself this cave at the beginning of the year. He did not want to worry his best friends.
Harry grinned lazily as Ron and Hermione approached him, for some reason their cheeks oddly flushed. Harry decided it was not one of those moments in which not to ask.
"There you are." Hermione breathed, adjusting her satchel on her shoulder that, Harry noticed, seemed to be slightly bulky filled with the year's books, which had been increasing in size steadily over the years.
"Yes, here I am." Harry smiled warmly, as he helped Hermione load her luggage onto the compartments, "How are you? How was France?"
"It was wonderful!" she flushed, the memories obviously still dear. "And, next year my parents say I can invite you two."
"Really??" Ron flushed, stealing a glance at Hermione who stood by his side.
Harry laughed, and replied, "I will try my best to come. I am sure France has much better summer than England. And…I am sure they have some fascinating information on wizardry, am I right, Hermione?"
Not knowing whether to take him seriously or not, Hermione laughed, a gay musical laugh, and admitted, "They do. But that's not the only reason why I would invite you two!"
As Harry gazed at Hermione, he suddenly realized how much she had matured over the summer. She was becoming a woman, her figure developing curves in all the right area's, her face maturing, her voice becoming more musical, her complexion altered. (It was not until the year before that Harry realized how much Hermione not having her rather buck teeth did for her appearance.) Harry could never think of Hermione in a romantic way at all—and there was no attraction whatsoever, and Hermione held the same belief about Harry. Ron, on the other hand, had noticed indeed how much Hermione had grown up over the summer.
Truth be told, everything had changed.
"I am surprised your parents would allow two hormone-charged boys within twenty meters of you!" Harry chuckled, noticing a flush that came to Ron's cheeks. His red haired friend just coughed, and began to load his luggage.
When Draco Malfoy had been seen unperturbedly walking onto the platform on September the 1st, people were slightly shocked. They conspicuously tried not to gawk, but it was rather difficult. Not only had Draco (dare they use the word "blossomed"?) into a most handsome man, his features profound, yet delicate in a classical sense; yet, although the man was beautiful, he was feared…and most people would have presumed him to be privately taught in the ways of the Dark Arts…now that…certain things had happened…
These people had misjudged him, indeed.
Yet, never the less, the wizard strolled calmly, with an almost dancers grace, onto the platform, where he stood for some moments, a slight familiar smirk on the edge of his lips. His tempest eyes glanced hungrily about the platform, as though searching desperately for something, someone…
A transformation had taken place over the people during summer in which Voldemort had been brought back to power. There was something in the air; a heavy feeling that bore down on ones soul. Even the temperature seemed abnormally cool for it just beginning to whisper autumn in the foliage. There had been rain before, actually, numerous occasions on the day in which people headed towards the wizarding school; but never had it been quite so bone chillingly cold. The affects of the dark lord's rebirth were felt with a terrible shudder throughout all of their kind. Wizards and witches alike now gazed at Hogwarts in a pensive hope, for two great wizards resided there, the two great wizards that could bring the destruction of this evil for the last time. There was one with untapped prospect, and one with restrained confidence.
Yet, now, as if it had been some fifteen years before, people's eyes darted back and forth; people walked with a quicker step; people spoke in hushed voices…
And every wizard, whether they were friend or foe to the Malfoy family knew that Voldemort could not have been brought back to power with the help of this group of individuals. The Malfoy's were famous for their dark, pulsating alliance with his Lord, although few would publicly admit this.
Yet, there was fear, and anxiety as people and children hurriedly walked past the calm man who seemed so amused at the site which lay before him, despite the deep dark longing that no one seemed to be able to trace in his eyes.
Scowling, Draco swung his suitcase over the top of the shelf and sat swiftly down on a red velvet cushion that smelled dimly of honey and leather shoes. Glaring out the window at the crowd below he found his eyes searching for one-person in particular.
His eyes clung to the familiar form, and he found himself breathing a sigh of relief as he sunk into the chair.
Thinking darkly, he grumbled, At least that hasn't changed.
Potter had returned, and perchance the world was in order once again. Things would be simple, and almost in hindsight rather humorous. His anger and hatred to him would continue, like the currents of the ocean. There would be no stopping it, and there could never be a change.
He was grateful for this. He was grateful that one thing in his life had remained stable.
He still is Mr. Perfect to everyone, and loved by all. That is how it will always be.
And maybe, this was the way he wanted it to be….
Moreover, that was what he expected. Sneering in repugnance he found himself bitterly closing the blinds and staring down at the empty car, which would soon be full of chattering students, talking of nothing, blabbering humorless jokes and rumors. And perhaps that too, had not changed. He would talk with Crabbe and Goyle about things that they could not comprehend, and then, he would finally give up in disgust and just make veiled threats about a variety of people.
Yes, he though bitterly, the whole god damn world hasn't turned upside-down yet.
Harry's emerald eyes glinted in diluted sunlight that fell through the glass ceiling above their heads. A few tawny owls swooped through the air, giving their wings one last stretch before the four-hour train ride to Hogwarts. Adjusting his scarf around his neck, he found it was rather cold for this being the first of September. A sudden snap of winter had begun in mid august, cutting the holiday season short—and by the end of august Harry was required to wear an extra large sweater, generously donated by Dudley, for most of the day.
His lips formed a slight, almost sad smile as he gazed at the first years clutching their parent's arms, and he could only wish for the innocence that they possessed. Their world was still painted in bright colors…not yet tainted….
Stop, Harry snapped at himself suddenly. It was rather startling how this depressing attitude had become so natural for him. Hadn't he resolved to stop thinking in this manner? For really, thinking about the past brought nothing except for regret and frustration. Even being nostalgic had its downsides…
Things changed. This was the way of the world. He had to get over it eventually—and if things did have to change, he might as well rise to the challenge, and surprise even those regarded him in the highest light.
Nodding in resolution, Harry turned back to his friends, in time to hear the news that Neville's toad, Trevor, had been unfortunately lost for the entire summer, and so upon his departure, his grandma had taken him to Diagon Alley, where he had proceeded to pick out a gray owl with flecks of black on his wings.
"What's his name, Neville?" Harry questioned, eyeing the great bird in appreciation.
"Fortuna." Neville blushed slightly, pleased with all the attention he was receiving.
"Fotune??" Ron questioned curiously, peering closely at the bird that was now dozing off.
"No, Fortuna, Ron. The Roman God of Chance." Hermione said primly, and then murmuring to herself, she questioned, "Or was it Greek…?"
Ron grinned and chuckled, "Good name. Maybe Fortuna will grant you the luck you have been missing out on."
Neville, being the good sport that he was, grinned goofily, and added, "Yeah, particularly with Proffessor Snape."
The four of them groaned, and then promptly began to laugh.
The sunshine became rather brighter as the bit of fog finally burnt off overhead.
Perhaps…some things would remain the same after all….
Draco watched Potter through the window. Was that a new cloak? His eyes narrowed, it must be, considering how tall he had become. Over the summer Draco had rather hoped that Potter would stay a midget and then he would have one more thing to tease him about…unfortunately, as he observed him chatting amiably with his 'friends' on the platform, he found that he would have to resort back to his old standby's.
People hated him; Draco knew that all too well; that was the curse of being a success…even if success came at any price. Yet, people hated the famous Harry Potter…and so, if he brought pain to the golden boy…perhaps…
Nevertheless, now he realized, that was all rubbish. Most of the people in his house were not worth the time of day to talk to.
Most had no idea of how much the world had changed.
Draco found that he had gotten his reality check a week into his summer holiday.
His father had changed somehow…Of course; Draco knew that his father and the dark lord were once very close. He knew his father had faith for the renewal of the wizard—and it was as though something in him had snapped. There was no control anymore. There was the obsession to be stronger, more powerful, and darker. Power was one thing, Draco contemplated—darkness was another…
Realistically he was not sure where his allegiance lay. He was related by blood to his father, and it was expected of him to follow like a 'good boy' in the footsteps. And there was no denying there was a zeal in the mysterious workings of the darkness…
Yet, there was always a hesitating feeling…something pulling him gently away from the embers.
Something misty, and not yet definable…yet over the summer, he could feel the presence becoming stronger, and more tangible day by day by day…
Upon returning to the Manor he hardly had time to enjoy the pleasant weather, and inspect the 500 acre estate when his father had locked him in the dungeon, giving him books to read, spells to learn…potions to brew.
And, he had done so…
Yet, he had really only expected the schedule to be for so long—yet as the summer had slowly melted away through his fingers his patience had wore thin. And although his father was in no mood to be trifled with, he had done so just the same. And he would have continued doing so if September first hadn't rolled around.
Draco was mildly disgusted when he had looked at himself in the mirror that morning. How sallow his skin looked, how vacant was his expression in the eye…how thin he had become. He was revolted when he examined the scars on his back—being able to look at his reflection for the first time in weeks. Dungeons were not equipped with mirrors.
He had been thankful today was particularly bitter. No one would dare question about why his coat was so thick and heavy…
Tugging his silver and emerald scarf about his neck he found his eyes once again falling to Harry Potter as he now boarded the train. Although he still despised him, he was thankful…thankful that despite changes of the summer Harry Potter had remained somewhat the same. Cheery, obnoxiously ignorant, and (even though he hated to admit it) loved by all.
Harry, Draco noticed, looked startlingly different this year. It seemed that his hormones had finally kicked in, and some forms of muscles were being fashioned. He had grown, probably, Draco thought, in more than one place.
There was no doubt that Harry Potter was maturing into a man—there was something different in his stance this year, something more mature, there was also something deeper, darker, yet strangely brighter in his eyes, there was a quiet soft seriousness around the edges of his still boyish attitude.
Draco's lips had twitched slightly as he watched the figure walk through the train, his loyal friends trailing after him, like some bitch. Even though the summer had evidently brought many changes to Harry, Draco noted that their disposition towards one another remained somewhat the same—that was to say there was the underlying violence and hatred.
Yet, now, the pulse, although still steady and strong, did not seem to be accentuated as much as it had been in past years. It was overlooked, and almost unobserved. And really, Draco didn't know if he disapproved—that was to say, although his father in the beginning of all this 'newness' of the famous Harry Potter, he had been instructed to 'become friends'. Not only would it strengthen the families supposed alliance to those against Voldemort, but it would also been a very good thing to mention to in society.
Draco grinned, picturing his father holding a glass of an amber colored liquor, saying smoothly, "Oh, yes, sorry that Draco could not join us tonight….him and Harry Potter decided to go to Hogsmeade together."
And….in the beginning he would have wished these things to be true.
That was the beginning---before Harry proved to make a complete ass out of himself.
Now, such a relationship was long dead---and although his father had been displeased of their lack of camaraderie, he has shrugged, and said composedly, "It is of no matter, in the end he will still have the same fate."
His father had then sneered in a cold manner, and promptly told him to leave the library.
That was the end of the 'non-existent' friendship….or, so he had thought.
Draco admitted secretly that having 'Potter' as a friend would have made things so much easier…and perhaps there would have been hope for Potter….and himself….
That was to say, perhaps his life would no longer be so defined….not so set to these invisible boundaries…he would not have had to suffer as greatly. Perchance, he might not have been so confused as he was now. Perhaps Gryffindor's chivalrous ways would have (to his horror) rubbed off on him—and instead of joining his father, as he now would have to do, his life would have been different. Hope would have remained.
Draco blinked as Crabbe nudged him gently and offered him a 'frog'. Sneering slightly he spat, "What the hell do I want that for?"
He was not unaware that Crabbe and Goyle exchanged looks, but at the moment his didn't really care, damn it. Draco's silver eyes narrowed as he watched Harry stride through the nearby isle---talking with the walking carrot stick behind him about something. He managed to catch a few words as they passed….
"---Harry, I dunno what has come over you….!"
"---Ron, look, I'm fine. I just don't really want to think about all the homework we are going to have this year…and think about potions, and Snape!"
He was avoiding the subject, Draco noted slightly.
Dimly he noticed that their robes had brushed one another. Was Potter's cloak a different weave than his?
He would have to get it washed now…
Something shiny and dark caught his eye for a second, and leaning forward, he picked up piece of smoothed wood, tapering off to a rather dull point. Someone had lost a wand. It was a rather nice wand though, as far as a piece of wood went. It was smooth, extremely dark wood, slightly grainy, but not rough to the touch. It could not have been the weasels because he had been firmly grasping it in his hand…and that only left Harry, Hermione (who could never forget her wand) or else Longbottom (and he was sure that Longbottom did not own such a dignified wand as this. It was probably something foolish—such as birch, infused with a strand of unicorn hair. Something frightfully common.) . Laughing madly to himself, he fingered the rod. It was indeed unique—and exceptionally powerful. Even Draco could feel its influence pulsating from within….
….as uncertainty Harry's power pulsed within his body…
Harry might be completely idiotic most of the time, Draco admitted, but he was a powerful wizard…and everyone bloody well knew this.
Draco fingered it for a moment longer, toying with the thought of just keeping it until Harry became down right panicked---he would have loved to see the anger, and hatred, but most of all fear which would be painted carefully onto his beautiful features. He could have smashed it….tossed it out the window, flushed it down a toilet….
Yet, strangely, this was not appealing….
Moreover, Draco realized he had gone soft during the summer. That must have been the opposite affect his father had wished for (what with all the regular beatings and lack of food) Against his better will—the appearance and attitude he had worked five years to maintain---against his logic he hoisted himself from his seat and stalked off angrily towards the compartment Harry had just entered. What had come over him, he silently screamed. Why was he acting this way? Why was he actually being…nice….?!
Things were still the same between them, weren't they? He could still feel the passionate hate that was brought to a climax every time the two resided in the same room. The anger and hatred remained. There was no change in that, thank the Gods.
Yet, somehow weakened, in words he could not quite describe. It was almost as though….
Bitterly, Draco tossed these feelings aside, as he wrenched open the compartment door. The glass panel had seemed as impenetrable as fortress…and now he felt strangely…subdue, in front of all these Gryffindors. He did not fear them, because everyone knew that although this house had courage---courage did not make up for skills when it came to actual spells. Harry Potter was a walking example of this truth.
Harry's emerald eyes strayed from Ron, and casting a side glance he found himself rather startled at the person who had entered the compartment. His eyes flicked to Ron's apprehensive figure, and then down to his hands, where his knuckles had turned rather white from the grip on his wand. Hermione had also turned an unattractive pallid color, while Seamus on the other hand just seemed very stern as he glared at the silver haired boy who had disturbed their privacy. Harry was thankful Neville was not around—at least the four of them could handle Malfoy…Neville would just go to pieces.
"Well, well, well…." Draco breathed, his gray eyes glinting maliciously in the light, "What do we have here?"
Harry stood up suddenly, almost in a blink of an eye. His movements were graceful, elegant, and yet forceful. Draco, Harry noted, knew his limitations…and although the boy required elements of the…classical, his form was not wholly made up of this criteria.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" The words were deep, rumbling, trembling with cleverly restrained anger, annoyance, hatred.
"Actually…I came here to ask what you want?" He chose his words carefully, and was amused beyond belief as a momentary look of bewilderment flooded across his maturing features. It was not unattractive.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Draco smirked, and once again, his eyes drank in the image that was surrounding him. Ah, it was all so quaint. The two loyal best friends, loyal comrades…and the handsome hero.
He almost felt a pang of jealousy. Almost.
Slowly, in deliberate movements, Draco withdrew the dark gleaming wand from insides the shadows of his robes. The polished wood caught the daylight, and flickered….
"How the hell---" the dark haired boy began, stepping forward.
Yet, Draco was in control. He would enjoy it—at least as much as he could…he did have to remember he was rather outnumbered….
Yet, it was only by a Mudblood and a poor wizarding family's last wretched son. Potter was the only one who he really had to feel a little apprehensive towards. Shrugging, Draco gazed up at him, and smirked, "Really, you should be more careful with your possessions." He paused, his eyes running up and down the length of Potter's body, "After all, you don't know who might get a hold of them."
"How did you get it?" Potter asked again.
Really, Draco thought irritably, at times he could be so predictable.
"I always thought you would go as low as to steal." Said Ron, his eyes strangely alive with hatred.
Draco said flatly, "We Malfoy's don't have to steal. We actually have money, unlike some wizarding families."
Turning his attention back to the green eyed man, Draco once again shrugged and hissed, "I would advise you to be more careful. Next time I will not be so nice…and truth be told, I do not know why I am doing this in the first place. It would have been better if I broke it---it would save everyone a lot of annoyance…"
Gingerly he tossed the wand in the general direction of Potter, and then, giving the walking carrot one last sneer, he turned on his heals and walked out.
That, he swore, had been extremely bad. Not only had he actually done something somewhat decent for the bastard….but he hadn't even made any somewhat decent repartees. It had almost been embarrassing how terrible they had been….really, he should have just broken that damn piece of wood.
Scowling, and angry with himself, Draco stomped back to his seat, and said nothing for the remainder of the trip.
Meanwhile, back in the compartment, the four of them received confused looks. Finally, Ron questioned, his voice incredulous, "What the hell was up with him? Did he actually return your wand??"
Harry's eyebrows furrowed together. Yes, Malfoy had actually been decent about it….
And strangely, Harry found himself wishing that perhaps harsh words would have been spoken. Hotheaded actions should have happened…instead of whatever that scene was. Things would have remained the same then…things would have been the same…
And he would not have this fear in his stomach…
AN: okay, in hopes that one day I will actually write a stylish, sleek, and sexy story I figure that usually things are …provocative when they are more serious. Henceforth: depression. And realistically, I can see this entire interlude happening. This is a re-write of 'The Cloak', under a better sounding name. My idea is spurned from about 5 wonderful H/D fics I have read, but it is *so* hard to think of plots for HP! So, I will try my best. Please, R + R, ne?
Note: sorry if I got any spelling wrong, number one: I am known for my bad spelling and grammar, number two: my HP books are in storage, so I was too lazy to go look up all the correct spellings (hopefully there are none)
Thanks to: the Demon Violinist/Kai for forcing me to read Harry and Draco fan fiction, and making me such a fan as to write this! You always find a way to totally change my viewpoint, and this isn't the first time!