Wand Light

Wand Light
By Stacy Galore


Disclaimer: Based on the works of J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer. I do not benefit financially from the electronic distribution and archival of this story; nor do I own the rights to the characters depicted therein – I just play with them.

Warnings: This story contains material suitable for mature readers only, including strong language, explicit sex, and graphic violence. As the introduction alludes, this story is heavily laden with delicious slash (male homosexual relationships).


Chapter 2: The Prince’s Open Book

Once again, luck saved Harry’s stupid arse – he should have known by now that the gods would never let the precious Boy-Who-Lived die, not until he’d defeated Voldemort, or at least not until the end of seventh year. Harry tried to stroll inconspicuously into the tail end of the start-of-term feast, but his muggle attire caught the attention of many people, not to mention the fact that none other than The Chosen One had just entered the Great Hall. He quickly grabbed a seat by Ron and Hermione, who had graciously saved it for him. Both of them gave him inquisitively scathing looks as he sat down and began to forage through what was left of the pastries and pies.

“Harry, we’ve been worried sick about you! Where have you,” Hermione was about to ask. Ron would’ve asked as well if his mouth wasn’t full, but he furrowed his brow as he chomped on a chocolate gateau to show his concern.

Harry cut her off as he stuffed a pumpkin pasty into his mouth and mumbled. “I’ve a million things to tell you, but not now.” It was too sensitive a subject to talk about with so many people around.

He scanned the room idly as he ate, the voice of Dumbledore giving his year-opening remarks barely registering in his head. The most conspicuous head of flaxen hair stood out like a beacon above the rest, though it wasn’t much taller than the ones that surrounded it. Malfoy’s eyes shifted off of his dessert, which he was poking with a fork distractedly, not eating. An alluring platinum stare met Harry’s, causing him to flinch from the jolt of electricity which Malfoy’s glare scorched up his spine. Harry was certain Draco’s eyes were not like this before – they had always been cold and grey, not flaming and silver, and certainly NOT like two beautiful stars twinkling in the creamy perfection of his pretty face. Fuck! It happened again. Harry found himself admiring Malfoy from afar and he wanted to smack his head against the table out of shame and disgust. A self-satisfied smirk was now creasing Malfoy’s tempting (Fuck! Not again!) lips as if he had read Harry’s thoughts. God, was he that easily read, like a bloody open book? How embarrassing.

There had to be a reason for this. Why, out of the blue, would Harry find another boy attractive when he was decidedly straight? And how, of all people, could it be his sworn enemy? It had to be foul play. Maybe Malfoy had somehow slipped him a love potion. But then why were all the girls at the Slytherin table, and a few boys as well, gawking at Draco in the same fawning way? He couldn’t have dosed everybody with love potion. The Veela theory was plain ridiculous because this was clearly a new development. Whatever Malfoy had done, it wasn’t right, and Harry would get to the bottom of it and stop it. He should ask Hermione, he thought, but then immediately decided not to. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was attracted to Malfoy, no less tell another person. The smirk on Draco’s face widened and he flashed his impeccably white teeth in a full-on smile meant for Harry that looked endearingly coy. It seemed Malfoy had just realized the trespass he had made and he snapped his head down with embarrassment and forced a scowl, breaking the charm of his silver stare and releasing Harry from his bind.

Later, in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione asked Harry in a whispered tone, “Did Malfoy ever actually say he was a Death Eater?”

Harry replied, “No, he didn’t use those words, but,”

Hermione cut him off. “So don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions?”

“No, I don’t. Something isn’t right about him. I just know it.”

“We should tell The Order straight away,” suggested Ron.

Hermione explained to Ron as if it should have been obvious, “We can’t implicate Malfoy as a Death Eater unless we’re sure. In this political climate it is too dangerous. We know all too well that the Ministry is quick to make scapegoats out of innocent people.” Then she turned to Harry and suggested, “Harry, you need to gather some pretty solid evidence before we even bring this to The Order.”

“You want solid evidence?” Ron asked angrily. “Exhibit A: that ruddy ferret is a Slytherin. Exhibit B: his father is a convicted Death Eater. Exhibit C: he’s a fucking arsehole. Case closed. Throw the piece of shit in Azkaban before he has a chance to hurt anybody.”

Hermione huffed with indignation. “Ron, guilt by association is what landed Sirius in prison, remember? We need more substantial evidence.”

Ron’s last sentence sent Harry into a panic. “We need to find out soon, before somebody gets seriously hurt. Or, god forbid, killed.”

“I agree,” said Hermione, “Harry, maybe you should track Malfoy on the Marauder’s Map – see what he’s up to. And maybe you can trail him for a bit with your invisibility cloak.” Harry marveled at how times had changed, how the climate of terror set by the Ministry and The Daily Prophet could affect even Hermione. He never thought he’d ever be ordered to use illicit tools and sneaky tactics by Hermione Granger.

The next day, Harry was so engrossed in stalking Malfoy on the Marauder’s Map at lunch time that he didn’t realize at first, when he saw Draco’s dot move into Professor Sprout’s greenhouse, that he too should have been at Herbology. By the time he reached the long glass house, class had already begun and all the seats at the workbenches were taken, except one next to Draco Malfoy. Perfect. He plopped into the stool next to his without ceremony, never looking at the other boy, and fumbled in his rucksack for a quill and parchment. When he finally looked up from his bag, he almost jumped back from the hateful glare Malfoy was giving him. It was in such stark contrast to the smile he had graced him with the previous night, but not otherwise unusual, considering this was Draco Malfoy and he was Harry Potter.

It was stifling hot inside the greenhouse. Lavender Brown complained that she would faint if she didn’t get some air, and Professor Sprout swished her wand, turning on the huge overhead fans, stirring up the odorous stew that had been stagnating in the room. The feel of the sweat on the back of his neck evaporating in the breeze was soothing.

“You smell, Potter,” spat Malfoy.

Harry blushed and retorted defensively, “What are you, seven-years-old, Malfoy? Talk to me again when you’ve a better insult.” He skulked over his parchment and pretended to be too enmeshed in his work to care about what Draco said, before sneaking a sniff at his under arm. Nothing unusual there – just the powdery scent of his deodorant.

Malfoy said with a little less spite, but not much less, “No, really, Potter. You smell strange. It’s making me feel weird.” He was gripping the side of the workbench tightly, trembling slightly, as if fighting the urge to leap out of his seat.

“So switch places with Parkinson. I don’t want to be sitting next to you when you sick up,” Harry said, still insulted.

Malfoy took a suspicious whiff of the air near Harry and then suddenly dropped the hostile tone to drawl softly, almost in a sensual growl, “I never said you smelled bad, Potter, and I certainly didn’t say anything about getting sick.”

When Harry looked up from his parchment and turned to give Malfoy an inquisitively raised eyebrow, he was struck, once again, by the boy’s face. Something must have changed over the summer; perhaps he had lost some weight, or gained some. Harry never paid much mind to Malfoy’s face before, but he was certain it hadn’t always looked like this, though he couldn’t put his finger on what was different from last year. Whatever it was, it was a change for the better. Draco gazed at him, smirking that god damned shrewd smirk of his, like he knew Harry’s thoughts. And as he leered, Malfoy’s eyes seemed to be feasting on Harry hungrily. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the other boy looked like he wanted to eat him. Upon a second glance, Harry realized Malfoy’s eyes were different. Last night they were silver – a more brilliant version of the usual grey. Right now they were the color of dark slate.

The other boy’s stare was disquieting to say the least. On one hand, Harry felt creeped-out by the way Malfoy was looking at him. On the other hand, a tiny part of him felt flattered that such an Adonis would look upon him so desirously and he knew he was utterly undeserving. He swiftly faced his parchment again and said insultingly, “Take a photo, it will last longer.”

“Now who’s seven-years-old?” Malfoy chided.

Before Harry could debate that his maturity level was yards above that of Malfoy’s, Professor Sprout bellowed, “If you’ve finished copying the lines on the board, please come to me for your partner assignments. To be fair, you will draw your partner’s name from a hat. In the spirit of inter-house unity, I’ve fixed the hat so that you can not draw the name of someone from your own house.”

Malfoy sprang from his seat and was the first student at the front of the room to draw a name from the hat. Harry wasn’t done copying the lines yet, and didn’t fancy standing in the long cue anyway.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” shouted Malfoy, his indignation ringing in the glass house.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy? How dare you use such language in my class. Fifty points from Slytherin!” All the Slytherins groaned and gave Malfoy dirty looks.

“But professor, I can’t possibly work with him,” the boy complained.

“You’re in no position to negotiate, young man. If you hadn’t been so disrespectful, I may have considered it. But now, you’re stuck with him.”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” he cursed, not intending Sprout to hear it, but not trying terribly hard to conceal it either.

“Another fifty points from Slytherin, and you’ve also earned yourself some lines tonight. My office, after supper.”

The Slytherins were now grumbling angrily at Malfoy. He skulked furiously back to his seat, sat down hard on his stool, crossed his arms, and scowled. “Of course, fate would have it that I’m paired with The Boy Who Lived To Torture Me.”

“Don’t tell me - ”

“Yes, Potter. We’re partners,” Malfoy spat, annunciating his p’s in the usual spiteful way.

Last year, Harry would have felt this partnership was a curse. But today, he felt it was a blessing. If he played his cards right, he might be able to get some damning evidence about the boy to hand over to The Order. Plus he might be able to find out what strange dark magic Malfoy cast over him to make Harry as attracted to the boy as he was once repulsed. He tried to act just as disappointed by the pairing as Malfoy was. The other boy’s reaction to this assignment wasn’t surprising in the least, given their history. But after the strange looks he’d been giving Harry since last night, it was quite confusing. If Harry didn’t know better, he would have thought that his strange new attraction to Malfoy was mutual, albeit just as unlikely.

Despite the fans blowing overhead, it was still rather hot in the greenhouse. Harry had taken off his robe and loosened his tie. The heat didn’t seem to bother Malfoy in the least, who was still wearing his cloak and hadn’t broken a sweat. As they prepared their flitterbloom seeds for germination, Malfoy appeared to be holding his breath. He was chewing his bottom lip anxiously. Harry reached in front of the boy to grab a small potting spade that was resting on the other side of Malfoy and excused himself quietly. Rather than back away to give Harry room, Malfoy unexpectedly leaned forward, bringing his face uncomfortably close to the back of Harry’s neck. The boy inhaled slowly and moaned, “Fucking hell, Potter. You really smell.” Harry swiftly took the spade and then hunched over his pot of soil, discreetly inching away from Malfoy. Damn it, Harry couldn’t help that he was sweating in this stiflingly hot room – it wasn’t called a hothouse for nothing. Maybe if he took off his sweater, as many of the other students had already done, he could keep cool and stop offending (at least that’s what he thought Malfoy felt) his partner. Not that he cared much what the other boy thought – he just wanted Malfoy to stop going on about it and embarrassing him. As Harry pulled the sweater over his head, Malfoy seemed to shiver. “Oh, god, I can’t fucking stand it anymore,” he said and ran out the back of the greenhouse.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man!” Professor Sprout called after him. But Malfoy kept on going, never looking back. “Fifty more points from Slytherin,” she declared, much to the protest of several students in the room.

“Thanks a lot, Potter,” said Pansy Parkinson facetiously from the other end of the workbench. She tossed her long, dark, hair behind her shoulder and it cascaded down her back like raven-colored satin. “You just helped Slytherin lose one-hundred-and-fifty points, all before the end the hour.” She glared at him angrily, her eyes narrowed and her pug nose scrunched up with disgust. “Next time take a bath before class. I can smell you all the way from over here.” There was something oddly different about Pansy too. Maybe she had gone through a pubescent bloom over the summer – he daresay, she actually looked sexy. But there was nothing overtly different about her appearance and he’d never found her attractive before. All he could definitively determine was that she was unusually pale. Parkinson always came back from holidays with a healthy bronze hue and often bragged about her jaunts to exotic tropical resorts with her family. He vaguely remembered overhearing her talk on the train ride to school about her latest trip to Tahiti over summer hols.

At the end of class, Harry ran to Ron’s side and whispered, “Be honest with me. Do I stink?” If anyone was going to be brutally honest with him, it would be Ron.

Ron sniffed him and said, “No. You smell like soap. Why?”

“Never mind,” Harry said, and walked to his next class in perplexed silence.

Harry noticed that Malfoy wasn’t in Potions, and couldn’t help but wonder if it were he who was keeping the boy from class. If it weren’t for his sweet new find, a Potions textbook loaned to Harry by Professor Slughorn with very helpful notes scrawled in it, he would have dwelled on the fact all hour. Thanks to the so-called Halfblood Prince, the book’s previous owner, Harry brewed his potion perfectly for the first time ever and received the prize of a vial of Felix Felicis. Something like that would come in very handy in changing his luck with the ladies – perhaps he’d even get laid this year. Maybe it was going to be a better school term than he thought.

Of course not. He should have known the boon was not good enough to turn his first disastrous twenty-four hours of year six for the better. In his next class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Snape gave him detention for doing what he was supposed to be doing – it was called Defense Against the Dark Arts, right? Not Take a Beating Like a Bitch From the Dark Arts. It was total bollocks. But the professor had been riding his arse from the moment Harry stepped through the Hogwart’s gates last night and he could hardly expect less. But thank god Malfoy wasn’t there to witness it – if he had been, he probably would have taunted him all day.

Hmm. . . Malfoy missed two classes today. Could he have really offended him that badly with his mere presence? If Ron’s brutal honesty could really be trusted, it certainly wasn’t Harry’s smell that disgusted Malfoy. Unless he had an aversion to the scent of lavender French-milled soap that was stocked in the Gryffindor baths, which Harry highly doubted. Two missed classes turned into an entire day missed, which turned into two whole days of absence. This was rather unsettling – what could Harry have done to piss off Malfoy so badly that he would skip classes entirely, risking detention or expulsion? Sure, he loathed Harry with so much passion it was almost disturbing, but this hatred never kept him out of class. Harry started to get angry. It wasn’t his fucking fault that Harry’s good fortune earned him everything Malfoy’s money and beauty couldn’t buy – fame, more friends, superior Quidditch skills, the favor of the Headmaster. He didn’t have to be such an over-dramatic git about it.
Harry had been looking for his dot amongst the hundreds on the Marauder’s Map and it was also, very conspicuously, missing.


AUTHOR’S NOTE: Come on, people. You know you want to leave a review. This chapter, like the previous one, was not beta-ed because I was too excited to post it. My usual beta readers are tied up with the holidays and my other fics. If you’d like to beta for me, feel free to send me a personal message. Happy New Year.