Chapter Three

The next morning, Draco Malfoy woke up feeling quite content. He’d had great sex with Harry bloody Potter the day before – and now he was going to get to reject him. He could already imagine the idiotic, disgusting Gryffindor’s face as he told him that the night had been good, but Draco never wanted it to happen again.

He ignored the little voice that said that he wouldn’t mind another go with Potter.

When Draco opened his eyes, all of his plans were ruined at once.

He was no longer lying in the dusty classroom – instead, he was back in his bed in the Slytherin dormitories. Draco wanted to scream. He didn’t want to relive this stupid day again! He wanted to crush Potter!

Draco dressed and sat on the bed waiting when Pansy came into the room. After seeing Potter’s hard, sweaty body beneath him, the sight of Pansy was even more of a turn-off.

“Get out Pansy, I don’t care what you’re going to wear tonight,” he said. Then, before she had the time to say anything at all, he grabbed her by the arm and threw her out of the room.

He stood panting in his room, aggravated by the idea of having to live through this crap-tacular day once more. He wanted it to be tomorrow! He wanted it to be February fifteenth! He was starting to hate Valentine’s Day with a passion.

Draco stalked up the stairs to the Great Hall. As he entered, he didn’t bother to stop to look at the heart-shaped clouds in the enchanted sky, nor did he look over at the Gryffindor table where he knew the Weasel would have his tongue down Granger’s throat and where he knew Potter would sit, looking bored.

Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind him, looking witless and wondering why Draco was in such a foul mood. Goyle didn’t make a comment about how pretty the room looked; the two goons hurried to catch up with Draco as he walked over to his seat.

“Uh,” said Crabbe, looking uncertainly over at Goyle, “don’t you like Valentine’s Day?”

Draco sent him a scorching glare. “No. As of right now, I hate Valentine’s Day. And I hate the bloody stupid cards that I’m going to get, and the rose, and the chocolates and everything else that the owls will bring! And I hate Potter! I hate him!”

Crabbe looked even more uncertain, which only made Draco wanted to wring his neck all the more.

“We know you hate Potter,” Goyle said. “You always have.”

Suddenly, a thought struck Draco. “What if he’s the one behind this?”

“Behind what?” Crabbe asked. The look he shared with Goyle clearly said that he thought Draco was going mad, which did nothing to improve Draco’s mood.

“He might be the one making all of this happen! Why else would it? He wants this day to happen over and over again,” Draco said. At this point, Crabbe and Goyle shook their heads and turned their attention on their breakfasts, because nothing they could possibly say would get them anything but a hex or curse from Draco.

The owls arrived and sixteen of them landed before Draco. Draco scowled at the owls, who didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by this, and removed the cards and letters from their legs. He didn’t bother to open them – he knew what they would say and who had sent them. Instead, he pocketed the lot and sat scowling at the rest of the room. No one dared to ask him what was wrong.

While scowling at the world, Draco was busy thinking out every possible – and impossible – reason for Potter to be behind the repeating day. Perhaps Potter wanted to be humiliated every day for all eternity? Draco smiled evilly; he could grant him that wish. Or perhaps Potter liked Valentine’s Day. Or he wanted to give Draco a lot of roses. Or he wanted to get revenge on Draco for everything he’d done over the years and have him relive this pink day over and over again.

“Draco,” said Millicent, waking him from his thoughts.

The owl with the rose had landed before him and was looking annoyed at being ignored. Draco sighed loudly and took the red flower from its beak, then shooed the bird away. It didn’t look happy with him but Draco couldn’t care less.

Absentmindedly holding onto the rose, Draco stood and left the Great Hall.

If Potter was behind the repetition of this day, then Draco could come up with only two ways to make the real tomorrow come. One was asking Potter for it – but then, when had Draco Malfoy ever asked Potter for anything? It was unthinkable. No, the only option he had was—

—to kill Potter.

Draco doodled his way through Transfigurations. McGonagall did, of course, notice this and as he had expected, she came down the isle to his desk and asked him to transfigure the brown mouse into a ferret. The class giggled and Draco glared – not only did he have to live through the day over and over again, he also had to live through this humiliation over and over!

“Transeo pasco demuto,” Draco said in a bored drawl and watched as the mouse became bigger and its shape and colour changed. He was certainly getting better at this with every try he did, he thought.

McGonagall looked a bit surprised at how well Draco had done, but she still said the same words she had done twice before; “I suppose you will have to listen a bit more carefully, Mr. Malfoy.”

Malfoy scowled at her, at the situation and at the world. He glared around the room to find Potter’s eyes on him.

Suddenly, he felt strange. Those eyes on him – he’d seen them when they had been filled with ecstasy, just before Potter threw his head back in passion and heat. Draco had seen the body beneath those robes; the hard, lean muscles and soft skin; he’d felt those hands touching every part of his body. He had heard Potter beg for more and he had found himself wanting to give Potter all the more there was to give. He’d listened to Potter’s heavy breathing that matched his own and he’d actually liked it.

Draco looked away, anger building up within him again. Potter was making him feel these things! He had hexed this day to repeat itself and he had hexed Draco to actually want to fuck Potter again. Potter had cursed him, made him want to feel the touch of Potter’s hands again.

He felt sick; he wanted to feel none of these things. He hated Potter; he always had! Potter was stupid, Potter made Draco’s life at home hell, Potter always got the attention.

Potter really did deserve to die.

As the day dragged on, Draco couldn’t find it in himself to care even a little bit about what was going on around him. He’d already lived it and though he didn’t look, he knew what was going on. He walked between Crabbe and Goyle to Potions so that he wouldn’t be hauled off by the snog-willing girl into an abandoned classroom. He knew that Weasley would blow up his Juroserum in Potions. This time, he didn’t even bother turning around to watch as Snape delivered his scathing remarks about the Weasel’s reading abilities.

At lunch, Draco didn’t wish to exchange a single word with any of his classmates. They discussed the same stupid, witless subjects as they had the day before and the day before that – and they hadn’t even been interesting the first time.

Pansy, always a rather big moron, pointed out the owls flying through the windows with more Valentine cards and the red, wrapped box.

“I do have eyes to see with, Parkinson,” Draco sneered at her.

The owls landed before him; three with cards and the fourth with the box. As he’d done the day before, he pocketed all of the gifts and glared at Pansy before she had a chance to say anything. She sniffed and turned away from him. Draco was thankful.

Draco returned to his meatloaf, which tasted decidedly bad now that he’d had it three days in a row.

Draco was uncertain why he was still in Divinations, but then again, it was a rather easy subject to get a good grade in. When choosing his subjects, Draco figured that he deserved one subject that didn’t require loads and loads of reading.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Trelawney as Draco came into the room. “Ah, something is troubling you. I see that you come to this lesson with a clouded mind.”

Draco wasn’t impressed. Though Trelawney did make a true prediction every now and then, it was usually a rather stupid one that didn’t help either way. At the moment, just looking upon Draco’s face was enough to realise that the boy was ‘troubled’. Pissed off was more like it, but Trelawney didn’t like such strong words.

Draco didn’t answer her words; he simply sat down in his chair and crossed his arms with a sour look upon his face.

“Today, we will start upon a field within Divinations that is truly hard—” Trelawney began.

“Oh for— let’s just start crystal ball gazing, can we?” Draco interrupted.

Trelawney looked surprised. “That troubled mind is obviously of help to you, young Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “It is indeed crystal gazing we are to start today.”

Draco rolled his eyes. When the Professor told the group of students to get a crystal ball each, he trudged unhappily to the desk where twenty balls had been placed. He scowled at the ball; he knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything more today than he had either of the two days before. Crystal gazing was incredibly silly – but then again, the whole subject was quite dumb to start with.

“Look deep within the swirling mists of the crystal,” Trelawney instructed them. “If you have the gift, you shall be able to see your future within its depths.”

Draco glared at Trelawney. It was rather obvious to him that even if he had been able to see anything in the crystal, he wouldn’t now – because he didn’t seem to have a future. It couldn’t possibly be called a future to be forced to relive the same day over and over again.

As he sat and pretended to gaze into the crystal, he wondered if it would be an idea to tell a teacher about what was happening. But then, none of the people around him seemed to be affected – everyone else acted as though this day hadn’t happened before. Thus it was a big possibility that any teacher he talked to would laugh in his face and then send him to St Mungo’s. So no, the only option Draco had was still to kill the source of the problem.

“Do you see anything?” Trelawney asked, leaning over his shoulder and gazing at his crystal ball.

“Yes,” Draco drawled. “I foresee that before the day is over, Harry Potter shall be dead.”

Trelawney gasped and snatched the crystal ball from him. Her eyes widened behind the large glasses.

“It is true!” she said. “I see it! I see his death! Oh, I shall have to warn the poor boy – he should be allowed to make the best of his last few hours!”

Draco rolled his eyes, irritated with her dramatics. “He doesn’t take this subject anymore.”

Trelawney looked around the room as though becoming aware of this fact just then. “Oh, I will have to go to the Headmaster! Class dismissed!”

Surprised, Draco allowed himself a smile. He wouldn’t have to suffer through any more of the tedious lesson. He collected his things and left the room. Pansy, who was also taking Divinations for some reason – possibly because Draco did – grinned happily at him and placed her hand on his arm.

“That was great!” she said. “Telling her Potter is going to die! What a fabulous idea.”

“Leave me alone, Parkinson,” Draco said and pulled away from her, not caring the least about her hurt expression. Pansy Parkinson was the very last thing on his mind now. Instead, his head was all filled with one Harry Potter.

After his Arithmancy lesson, which was getting much easier now that he had been allowed to do the same numbers for three days in a row, Draco made his way back to the Slytherin dorms. He didn’t say a word to anyone in the Common room and they wisely pulled away, all afraid of his wrath. Draco smirked to himself; being a seventh year definitely had its advantages – there being no one older than him save for the teachers was one of the positives.

Draco dumped the cards and the wrapped up box on his bed. It wasn’t time to go visit Potter just yet. First, he had to mentally prepare himself for the task at hand – despite being brought up by a Death Eater, a kill was not something Draco looked upon lightly. Besides, Potter had at least nine lives considering how many times he had survived meeting the Dark Lord.

Draco shuddered at the thought of the Dark Lord. He had only met Voldemort once but it had been enough. The mere sight of the snake-like man had made Draco sick to his stomach and the way his father had crawled for him had made Draco wonder about all those speeches Lucius had given him.

“A Malfoy bows before no one,” Lucius had told him on many occasions. “A Malfoy stands up for himself and isn’t ridiculed.”

Draco had to think of these things to get his hatred for Potter flaring again. Lucius had always given those speeches after Potter or one of his friends had ridiculed him or beat him. Every game of Quidditch Potter had won over Draco, every failed plan to get Potter in detention or thrown out of school and every time Dumbledore had favoured Potter over the rest of the school – all those times, Draco had had to listen to speeches made by Lucius. On more than one occasion, those speeches had been ended with raps of his father’s cane as well.

Anger lit within Draco and he allowed it because he knew he’d need it.

He unwrapped the box of chocolates and picked up a piece, his wand already held up before him. The pull behind his navel felt familiar and he landed securely on both feet, already facing the direction in which he knew Potter would be.

“Get out of there, Potter,” Draco said.

He heard a gasp. Potter obviously didn’t expect him to know who was behind the gifts – and the first time Draco had been brought into this room, he hadn’t known.

Within a moment, Potter became visible as the Invisibility Cloak fell to his feet.

“How did you—?”

Draco stalked over to him and pointed the wand at Potter’s throat.

“What—” Potter started, his eyes wide.

“Did you think I’d come here to tell you I love you, Potter?” Draco spat. He glared at Potter and allowed the love and confusion he saw in the green eyes to only fuel his anger and his resentment towards Potter.

“I— how did you know—” Potter said, looking utterly confused.

Draco sneered. “Did you think that you were impossible to trace? Potter, you are a mediocre wizard at best. There are lots of spells to reveal who sends something.” The truth was quite different – Draco had used every tracing spell he could think of to find out who the anonymous gift sender was without success. Potter had been remarkably good at anonymity spells.

“I thought—”

“Now see, there’s a big mistake for you,” Draco said. “You shouldn’t think. It’s something that’s beyond you.”

Potter swallowed. Draco was reminded of the day before, when Potter had swallowed at the closeness of Draco’s body and the tone of his voice. Then he recalled the day before that, when Potter had swallowed back tears because Draco had so utterly crushed him.

“What are you—” Potter started quietly, but didn’t finish his question.

“What am I going to do?” Draco asked and laughed cruelly. “You’ve given me the perfect opportunity, Potter, the opportunity I’ve been looking for. We’re alone and I’m betting no one knows where you are. What do you think I’m going to do?”

He growled the last part threateningly.

“But I—” Potter started. Then he fell silent; he obviously didn’t know what to say.

“You wanted me to come here and tell you I love you,” Draco said, much the same way he had two days ago. “That’s never going to happen. You may be a good fuck, but you’ll never ever be more than that.”

At the last words, Potter looked even more puzzled. Draco didn’t care. Potter was behind the constant repetition of this day and if he was out of the way, then Draco’s world could continue turning as it should.

“And now,” Draco said, his voice no more than a whisper, “it is time.”

“You’re actually going to kill me?” Potter asked. “But— you’ll be caught.”

Draco smirked nastily. “There’s an Invisibility Cloak at your feet. You won’t be found for a long time.”

Potter’s eyes widened. Draco pulled up every ounce of anger he could find in his body – anger towards Potter, towards his father, towards Voldemort. He felt the fury fill his body and he drew upon the memories of what his father had told him of the Unforgivables. His father would be proud of him now.

He breathed in.

“I love you.”

“Avada kedavra.”

Draco sat staring on his bed.

He had never in his life felt so empty.

On the table lay the letter he had written to his father. The note was short, mechanical. He had meant to send it immediately but now his limbs felt like lead and he couldn’t make himself go up to the Owlery.

He had actually killed him.

He’d killed Harry Potter.

After years of years of the Dark Lord trying, he, Draco Malfoy, had killed Potter at last. It felt unreal and—

—sickening.

The look upon Potter’s face as the green light of the deadly curse struck him was etched before Draco’s eyes. There was a mix of terror, disbelief and sadness in his eyes. His hair, ever messy, had fallen into his face. His face had been pale. His mouth had been half open, still forming the last word he’d ever said.

Those words rang in Draco’s ears.

“I love you.”

They were like a spell, an odd sort that would forever keep its hold on him.

No one had ever said those words to him and meant them like that. His mother had said them when he was younger, but that was years ago before his father forbade her to say such things any longer – it would weaken Draco. His father had never said the words. And despite all the Valentine’s cards and gifts, no trust that Draco had engaged in, had ever had real love behind it.

Now Harry Potter, the bloody Boy Who Lived, had said the words to him – and he hadn’t just said them, he had meant them.

Draco ran to the bathroom and emptied the content of his stomach into the toilet.

Why had he done it? Why had he killed Potter? Why did he think that would solve anything? Potter had been the Light side’s hope – now Voldemort and his goons would overrun the Ministry and England and soon after that, the world. All because Draco had killed Potter with two simple words.

And why had Potter had to say those words? Draco had never asked for them.

Tears started spilling down Draco’s cheeks, though he never cried. It was one of those weaknesses that Malfoys weren’t allowed to engage in. Draco knew they wouldn’t solve anything but he couldn’t stop them.

Potter had fallen to the floor when the curse hit him. His eyes had still been open, his mouth voicelessly ending a word only Draco knew. Draco hadn’t been able to force himself to move him more than a few inches; the inches it took so that Draco could open the door.

He’d done what he’d told Potter he would – he’d hid the dead body beneath the Invisibility Cloak. No one would know it was there unless they knew about it and as of yet, he didn’t think Potter’s absence had been noted.

When Draco sent the letter to his father, Voldemort would know within minutes. The Light side would still be unaware of Potter’s disappearance, or perhaps they would just have started looking for him, while the Dark side rejoiced.

In the end, Draco fell asleep on the cold tile floor in the bathroom. His cheeks were still wet with tears and in his ears, the words still rang: “I love you.”

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