Topgallant : HP : What You Don't Know

So, a long time ago, like 18 months or more, I was in a bit of a writing slump and I read

hackthis's fabulous Harry/Draco fic Blowing Origami or Those Things That Really Suck. And I was inspired enough by it to write something for it, a kind of sort-of sequel. At the time I wasn't sure it worked, and my couple of betas were unconvinced also, so I shelved it. I still don't think it works, but I figured that I might as well post it here, because I no longer am invested enough in it to care whether it's any good or not, and I gather fic dumps are good for the soul. :))

This probably won't make any sense if you haven't read Blowing Origami or Those Things That Really Suck -- but then, it might not make any sense even if you have.

Also, I feel I should mention that I've never been crueler to the pairing of my heart. This isn't a characterization of Harry especially that I particularly believe in - but that didn't make the writing of this fic less fun, in a sadistic type of way. ;)

Title: What You Don't Know.
Pairing: H/D.
Rating: PG.
Notes: This is a follow-up to Zahra's fic Blowing Origami or Those Things That Really Suck. Also, if you squint, you can find a twisted homage to her fic Dear Valentine.

“Then I guess there‘s no point in continuing this conversation,” Potter says, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Draco‘s voice carries after him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

~~~~

It shouldn’t be worth a ripple of pleasure when Potter looks at Draco from the corner of his eye the next day; and it’s not, at least not after Draco’s finger’s unclench and his scowl has glanced right off Potter’s unchanging expression.

“So,” Potter says to him after everyone has left the Potions hallway, and Draco goes rigid and pretends he hasn't been purposely loitering after to see what Potter (stupid, stupid Potter) would do. "You weren't kidding then, yesterday."

Draco glares at him and stalks off. The process of Getting It Over With comes with certain rules, and one of those rules is that after you have bloody gotten it over with, it all goes away. Except he still can't keep his hands still at night for thinking about Potter, and so far the day hasn't been much different.

A couple of days later, Draco sees the Weasel's head bent over low next to Potter's, then sees his jaw go slack, sees him look up and over at Draco, first in shock, then, as Draco ducks his head, in dawning, malicious glee. Draco won't look up again, and contents himself with doodling Potter's severed head on a stick, and then animating it being eaten by crows.

It's not as if Draco's stupid. He knows mockery when he sees it. He lives it. But over the next several days Potter watches him more, and his expression clouds over: not with pity; no, if it were that Draco would have sent him an origami crane laced with poison to turn the insides out; but instead it is awareness; waning disinterest; something that makes Draco's hand move faster under his coverlet at night.

Potter's eyes, wielding that same bright look, fix Draco in place after Quidditch practice one afternoon. "We should talk," he says earnestly. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco catches the Mudblood frowning at Harry, and it's this that keeps him from walking away again. This time, first, he delivers a curt nod.

When they do talk Potter is awkward and gangly, and Draco takes pride in being taller, more composed, and haughty. "Maybe we could try it," Potter says, voice cracking on the word try. Draco isn't buying it.

Then come the beseeching looks across the classroom, the silent mouthed, "Malfoy," spoken when, for some stupid reason, Draco is the only one looking; and then the growing concerned looks from all of Potter's classmates whenever Potter winds up staring longingly at Draco from across the Great Hall. Draco has taken to kicking the furniture in the Slytherin common room, as it has the advantage of not bleeding all over his shoes or gaining him detention like Potter would. Also, Draco is sure that the cracking noises the table legs makes when he kicks them are much more satisfying than Potter's head would be.

The weeks drag into three since Draco's confession, and then four. Potter has taken to writing him notes in class. They have entirely too many classes together, and Potter sends entirely too many notes for it to be at all feasible that Potter doesn't get caught; but naturally he doesn't, so Draco winds up with a bunch of awkwardly worded requests in crude handwriting: parchment after parchment speaking of starting over and taking it slow, and a bunch of other sentimental, cautious platitudes that make Draco want to run for the nearest toilet.

Still, as they head into week five, Draco's resolve that there is more than one way out of this mess is weakening.

Potter nearly gets his hand snapped off in Care of Magical Creatures one morning by a Kneazle. He has been staring at Draco instead of listening to Hagrid. Since all Hagrid's animals have a natural Gryffindor bias, Potter doesn't get hurt, just nettled; and Draco figures it's doing him a great service to wait until after class is over, and Potter is climbing up the hill to the castle alone, before sidling up to him.

"All right, Potter," he says.

Potter's gaze sharpens. "All right?" he echoes.

"All right, we'll try it," says Draco, as benevolently as possible.

Potter looks at him blankly for a moment; then slowly he tilts his head and grins. It is a sly, smug grin that is not at all what Draco has expected.

"Wow, Malfoy," he says. They have already been walking behind the other students, but Draco feels himself coming to a complete halt anyway as Potter speaks. "You really are an idiot. Only a complete wanker wouldn't have known I was joking."

It is a good thing Draco has just stopped because at this he knows he would have stumbled. He bristles as Potter leans in closer, speaking into his ear.

"Not if you were the last boy in Britain," Potter says. He sounds almost cordial about it. Then, without another glance at Draco, he turns and runs ahead, yelling up the hill as he goes, "Ron! Seamus! He fell for it! Can you believe it? He actually fell for it!"

Despite the distressing failure of his plan, and all his strict adherence to the rules of confession, Draco Malfoy is an optimist. He knows that on occasion getting over something means doing so by any means necessary.

So the night Potter embarrasses him, he carefully and painstakingly crafts the folded-up pieces of parchment that Potter has been sending him for the last three weeks, into his most magnificent origami assembly yet: a large, fluttering heart with an elaborate rip down its center. On the inside, Draco writes a message to Potter. The message is just between Potter and Draco. It is a short one, and Draco decides that this is a good thing.

The heart sails out of his hands the next morning like a bird on the wing, and straight into Potter's breakfast plate. Potter's expression turns frosty, and he looks at Draco before opening the figure. The heart breaks cleanly into two halves in his hands, but he can still read what Malfoy has to say.

The distrust on Potter's place is replaced with something new--not pity or scorn, and not even regret.

He looks over at Draco for a moment. "Malfoy," he says, eyes wide.

But by then, of course, it is too late.