Silver

All right, i'm going to throw my hat in the ring, too. --- Harry had several excellent reasons for being inside the Slytherin girls' washroom after midnight. None of them would have sounded nearly as good if he got caught. See, Malfoid had stolen his photograph. Technically, according to Malfoid, she had not stolen it; she had "confiscated" it. It was an old Muggle photograph of his parents, taken before he was born. His mother was laughing at something outside the frame while his father looked at her instead of the camera. Malfoid had stared at it for longer than Potter expected. Then she'd put it in her pocket. "Give that back." "No." "Malfoid." "You shouldn't carry something this important loose in your bag." "So your solution is stealing it?" "I'm teaching you a lesson about keeping your things safe." "Give it back." "I'll consider it. Later." She grinned that lopsided grin he kept thinking about. That had been six hours ago. Which explained why Potter was now creeping through the girls' washroom near the Slytherin dorms, wearing his invisibility cloak. He knew Malfoid secretly kept a little silver case in the cabinet beside the sinks. He knew this because Malfoid had once complained at considerable length that someone had moved it. Potter had called her insane. Malfoid had informed him that Gryffindors probably stored their belongings in piles on the floor like livestock. Potter had asked how she knew what his dormitory looked like. She had gone scarlet. Harry smiled at the memory. He didn't know what she kept in that case, but he remembered her reaction when it went missing. He could teach her a lesson, too. He heard someone crying. Harry stopped smiling. This wasn't ordinary crying, it was what Hermionie once called "Ugly crying." Someone was absolutely sobbing. Potter froze. The sound came from around the corner. He should leave. Every sensible part of him knew this immediately. He was invisible, after midnight, inside a girls' washroom where he absolutely did not belong. Leaving was the only remotely decent option. "Oh, stop wailing. You're making me depressed. More than usual, I mean." Potter recognized the voice. Moaning Myrtle. The crying stopped for several seconds, and another voice answered. "Shut up, Myrtle." Potter's heart stopped. Malfoid. He should absolutely leave. Immediately, if not sooner. He took one silent step backward to find the door, trying as hard as he could to insure the invisibility cloak didn't move and expose him. "I still don't see what the problem is." Myrtle said. "You wouldn't." "Of course I would. I know all about boys." "You died when you were fourteen." Malfoid said, matter of factly. "Exactly. I've had decades to study them." Despite himself, Potter almost laughed. Malfoid did not. "From the Bathroom? Please. You don't understand." "Then explain it again." Myrtle said "I've explained it three times." "And you've cried four." "Thank you, Myrtle." "You're welcome." Pregnant silence. Harry was afraid to move, in case his footsteps revealed him. Harry knew he should leave, but was also terrified of accidentally making a noise that could reveal him, so he remained exactly where he was. Malfoid sniffed. "It's Potter." Harry's stomach dropped. "What about him?" Harry heard a lonely drip from one of the washbasins. It echoed impossibly loud. Malfoid said something so quietly Potter almost didn't hear it. "I think I'm in love with him." Potter forgot how legs worked. Myrtle made a delighted squeal. "Oh, I KNEW IT!" "Shhh!" "You LOVE Harry Potter!" Myrtle said, squealing in delight. "Myrtle!" "Malfoid and Potter, sitting in a…" "If you finish that, I swear I will find out whether ghosts can be exorcised." Myrtle giggled. Potter leaned against the stone wall, desperately trying to remember how to walk. His heart was pounding so loudly he became genuinely concerned they might hear it. "You've kissed him, haven't you?" "No!" Malfoid screamed. Harry's ears rang from the shout. "You want to." Malfoid looked directly at Myrtle, and said nothing. "Ooooooh." "Myrtle." "You do!" "Of course I do!" The words exploded out of her. When she spoke again, her voice cracked. "That's the problem." Potter's smile disappeared. "I don't understand." Myrtle said. "No. You wouldn't." "You keep saying that." "You don't understand because your parents were Muggles!" Malfoid snapped. Myrtle went very still. The wounded look on her face was clear. Malfoid saw it. "Oh, for… No. Myrtle, that isn't what I meant. I said it badly." Myrtle folded her arms. "Very badly." "Yes. Fine. Very badly." Malfoid took a breath. "What I mean is... your parents didn't know about any of this. About our world. Our history. Our customs. You couldn't grow up with something they couldn't teach you." Myrtle's expression softened slightly, although her arms remained folded. "That doesn't mean there was anything wrong with them." Malfoid added quickly. "Or with you. I don't mean that." "Then what do you mean?" "I mean my mother sang wizarding songs to me when I was little. My grandfather taught me our family history before I could properly read. I knew the names of the old families before I knew half the names of the countries in Europe." Malfoid sniffed. "I grew up hearing stories about Hogwarts. About Slytherin. About people whose portraits are hanging in my house. There are things we do at Christmas because Malfoids have done them for hundreds of years. There are things Mother owns that belonged to her grandmother, and someday they'll belong to me." Her voice became quieter. "This isn't some club I joined, Myrtle." Myrtle unfolded her arms. "It's where I came from." Malfoid said, silently. "Oh." "That's what I mean when I say you wouldn't understand. Not because you're..." Malfoid waved her hand helplessly. "Not because your blood is wrong or any of that." She grimaced. "I'm trying. Myrtle. I really am. It's hard to change… something you thought your entire life." "I know." "And Potter makes it sound so easy. Just decide this tradition is stupid. Decide that one is unfair. Throw this away. Stop believing that. And sometimes he's right, which is the absolutely intolerable part." Malfoid sniffed again. "People like Potter think I'm just supposed to decide Father is wrong about everything. That my family is wrong. That everything I've been taught since I could speak is stupid and evil and I'm supposed to throw it away because Potter has those beautiful eyes and stupid hair and smiles at me like an idiot." Potter instinctively touched his hair. "And his hair is stupid." Malfoid added bitterly. Harry frowned. Myrtle said, "I like his hair." "Nobody asked you." "I think it's romantic." She said, dreamily. "It's ridiculous." "You touch it." "I do not." Malfoid said, stubbornly. "I've seen you." "When?" "I float through walls, Dracena" "That's horrifying." Myrtle giggled again. "My family matters to me." Malfoid continued. Something about her voice made Potter straighten. "My name matters to me. Our history matters. My grandfather used to tell me stories about our family when I was little. About things we've accomplished. Things we've survived. Traditions that are hundreds of years old." Her voice trembled. "Potter hears ‘tradition' and thinks it means 'I hate Granger.'" Potter looked at the floor. "Do you?" "No!" The answer came immediately. "I don't know." Potter frowned. "I don't hate her. She's irritating and smug and correct about things far too often, but I don't hate her." "So you're friends now? Great!." "Shut up." "Do you think you're better than her?" Another long silence. "Father would say yes." Potter stopped breathing. "But me? I don't know anymore." Malfoid's voice had become small. "I don't know what I think anymore. Do you have any idea how scary that is, Myrtle?" Myrtle was silent now. "I know things Potter doesn't." Malfoid continued. "He acts as though everything old is just some stupid rule somebody invented because they were bored. He doesn't understand what it's like to grow up in a magical family. He doesn't know the stories. He doesn't know the customs. He doesn't know why some things matter." Potter felt an unexpected sting, because she was right. He'd entered their world as a stranger and sometimes treated the parts he disliked as though their age alone made them ridiculous. Malfoid sniffed. "But then he asks me why. And I hate him for it." Myrtle said nothing. Potter's heart sank. "Because sometimes I don't have an answer." His heart rose again. "Father says something, and I've always believed it because Father said it. Then Potter looks at me with those stupid beautiful eyes and asks, 'Why?'" A tiny laugh escaped her through the tears. "And sometimes I want to hex him." "Sometimes?" "Most of the time." "Ah." "And sometimes I want to kiss him until he shuts up." Potter's entire face turned bright red, and boiled in heat. Myrtle sighed dreamily. "That's much more romantic." "It is NOT romantic!" "Sounds romantic." "It's horrible!" Malfoid started crying again, and suddenly Potter didn't find any of this funny. "I don't want to lose my family." Malfoid sniffled. "I don't want Father to look at me differently. I don't want Mother ashamed of me. I don't want to become some cautionary story they whisper about at Christmas." Her breathing skipped. "And I don't want to lose myself. I like being a Malfoid." She sounded apologetic, lost. "I like our stupid enormous house. I like Mother's ridiculous formal dinners. I like knowing which fork to use. I like the old songs. I like hearing Grandfather's stories. I like our Christmas traditions. I like knowing my family has been part of this world for hundreds of years. I like knowing how we fit into the world." Her voice broke. "Why does everyone act as though loving Potter means I'm supposed to hate all of that?" Potter's chest hurt. Myrtle, surprisingly, didn't answer immediately. "Does Potter ask you to?" Malfoid was silent. "Has he ever asked you to?" Myrtle repeated "No." Malfoid whispered. "Then perhaps you're arguing with a ghost" Malfoid sniffed. "You're funny." "What i mean is, perhaps you're arguing with something that isn't real. You think you know what's going to happen, but you really don't." "What?" "You keep telling me what Potter thinks you have to become." Myrtle said. Her voice had lost its usual theatrical whine. "But have you ever asked him?" The washbasin faucet dripped somewhere in the background again "No." "Why not?" "Because he'll say something noble and infuriating." Potter smiled under the cloak. "And then I'll love him more." Harry's smile disappeared again. He stood absolutely motionless, afraid to breathe. Malfoid began crying again, exhausted little sobs "I've tried not talking to him. "That lasted two days." "Thirty-seven hours." Myrtle said. "I remember. "I tried being horrible to him." "You gave him a Christmas present." "It was a book." "You wrapped it." "Mother says presentation matters." "You put a little silver ribbon on it." "I LIKE RIBBONS, MYRTLE." Potter covered his mouth. Myrtle was laughing, too. Malfoid was trying not to. "I stole his photograph." she whispered, shame dripping from her voice. Potter's eyebrows rose. "Why?" asked Myrtle. "I wanted to look at it." Harry's anger evaporated so quickly it embarrassed him. "It's his parents." "I know." "They're dead." "I know, Myrtle." "That's rather cruel." "I KNOW." Malfoid sounded miserable. "I was going to give it back tomorrow." "Why did you take it?" Malfoid was quiet. "Because I wanted to understand him." Potter's throat tightened. "He looks like his father. Everyone says so." Another sniff. "But he looks at people like his mother." Potter's hand dropped from his mouth. "I noticed it in the photograph." Malfoid's voice softened. "She looks at his father the way Potter looks at people when he thinks nobody's watching." "How?" "Like they're important." Potter stared into nothing. "He does it with Weasley. Granger. Longbottom. I never would have thought of them as important until Harry did." A pause. "Sometimes he looks at me that way, too." Myrtle said, very quietly, "Maybe you are." Malfoid broke. Harry heard her sob into her sleeves. "I don't know what to do." For several moments there was nothing but crying. "You could tell him." Myrtle said. "Absolutely not!" "Why?" "Because I'd rather die." "I did that. I don't recommend it." Despite everything, Malfoid laughed. A broken, watery little laugh. Potter looked toward the exit. He could leave. Perhaps he should. He needed to. This wasn't meant for him. He'd heard something Malfoid would rather throw herself into the Black Lake than let him hear. "What if he loves you too?" Myrtle said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Malfoid became completely silent. "He doesn't." "How do you know?" "Because I'm horrible to him." "Yes." "Thank you." "You're welcome." "And because he thinks I'm a snob." "You are a snob." "Myrtle!" "You are." "SIGH. Fine." "And because you insult his friends." "I've been trying not to." Potter blinked. He thought back. Malfoid hadn't called Ron "poor" in weeks. She had stopped calling Hermione "the Muggle-born mudblood" months ago. Harry never would have noticed. "And because." Malfoid continued, "even if he does..." She couldn't finish. Myrtle waited. Malfoid finally whispered: "What if loving each other isn't enough? WE're so different!" Potter felt that one, because for the first time that night, she had asked the question he'd been avoiding himself. Attraction was easy. Flirting was easy. Arguing in corridors and pretending not to enjoy it was easy. Even kissing her (something he had spent an increasingly unreasonable amount of time imagining) would be easy. Everything afterward was difficult. It wasn't like the movies. Their friends. Their families. Their houses. Their ideas about the world. The parts of Malfoid Harry would have actually wanted her to change. The parts he slowly realized that she shouldn't have to. And, perhaps most frighteningly, the possibility that she might ask the same of him. "Maybe it isn't." Myrtle said. Malfoid sniffed. "You're terrible at this." "I've never had a boyfriend." "Despite studying boys from the bathroom? Clearly." "But maybe..." Myrtle hesitated. "Maybe loving somebody doesn't solve the problem." Malfoid was silent. Myrtle continued, "Maybe it just makes the problem worth solving." Potter stared at the stone floor. For once in her afterlife, Moaning Myrtle had said something astonishingly wise. "That's disgustingly sentimental." Malfoid said. "I thought it was rather good." "It was awful." "You're going to remember it forever." "I hate you." "No, you don't." "No." Malfoid sighed. "I don't." Potter quietly backed toward the door. He had forgotten entirely about the photograph. He didn't want it back anymore. He had reached the doorway. "Myrtle?" "Yes?" "If you ever tell Potter any of this, I'll deny everything." "Of course." "And if he somehow happened to be standing under a cloak of invisibility, in the washroom listening to us?" Myrtle looked right at him. Harry froze. There was a terrible silence. Malfoid stopped breathing. Potter stopped breathing. Then Myrtle shrieked with laughter. "I'm joking!" "Myrtle!" Malfoid threw something. It passed directly through the ghost and shattered against the wall. Potter slipped through the doorway before his heart could explode. He made it halfway down the corridor before his head felt like it would shatter. Slowly, Harry reached beneath the cloak and touched his crooked tie. For months, he'd been trying to decide whether Malfoid was becoming someone he could love. Despite his anger, earlier. Mabe his anger came from the fact he knew the same things, and refused to face them. He had never seriously considered the other question. He suddenly realized how brave Malfoid was for admitting it to Myrtle. Could he could love Malfoid without requiring her to stop being Malfoid? Potter looked back toward the washroom. "Oh, no." he whispered. This was much worse than he'd thought. He was in love with her, too.