Chapter 188 - I Stood Up for You

Chirp-cheep-cheep—

A robin hopped and bounced across the windowsill.

Class had just ended, and Praeris had come straight to Draco's bedside again.

Balen found a spare moment between his rounds and came over to tell her, "Malfoy didn't wake yesterday because he was exhausted. In other words, he simply fell asleep."

Balen was too gentle a healer. Far too gentle.

Madam Pomfrey had told Praeris privately, "My teacher at St. Mungo's once said she hoped I would suffer setbacks sooner rather than learn my lessons later. But in my heart, I've always hoped Balen could keep believing in his ideals."

Praeris remembered what she had said back: "Madam Pomfrey, you've suffered setbacks too, haven't you? And your heart is still soft."

Madam Pomfrey had gone still at that. Then she smiled, warm and fond, and reached over to ruffle Praeris's hair.

"When will he wake up?" Praeris asked Balen quietly.

Praeris was strong with potions, but as a healer she was barely half-trained. For questions like this, she had to rely on Balen.

"Today should be fine," he said.

Praeris gave him a grateful smile. Balen shook his hands quickly, as if warding the thanks away. "It's what I'm here for. Without you, there wouldn't be a me standing here today."

Toward evening, Draco's eyelids moved. He opened his eyes slowly. His gaze drifted across the ceiling of the Hospital Wing, unfocused, and it took a long moment before any alertness came back into it.

He turned his head slightly to look beside him.

Praeris had one hand propped on the bedside table, head drooping in little bobs, dozing off.

"Huh?" She shook her head, blinking. "You're awake? I'll go get Madam Pomfrey!"

Balen had gone to dinner. Only Madam Pomfrey was left in the Hospital Wing now.

Draco's gaze followed Praeris as she moved, tracking her all the way until she disappeared from view.

Pansy Parkinson had once asked Draco why Praeris liked him.

In the past, Draco had always assumed the answer was obvious: they were both the best, so they belonged together. But now he had been drifting along the edge between good and evil for so long, the shadow of fear a permanent weight at his back.

And Praeris? She was still the best.

Forget all that rubbish about pure-bloods and half-bloods.

He couldn't even say anymore how much of it he believed. These theories had been woven into his entire life, into every lesson his family had ever taught him. And now he doubted all of it.

What had pure blood ever actually given him?

What had it given his family?

What had it given his parents?

Even Voldemort himself was, in all likelihood, a half-blood. They had very likely been used. All of them, deceived.

Ha. Pure blood.

It was a swindle. A complete and utter swindle from the very beginning.

Draco lay there, powerless, and laughed at himself. There was no point thinking about any of this now. It was already too late. From before he was even born, it had been too late.

Voldemort had given his ultimatum. If Draco failed to complete his mission, his life was forfeit.

He didn't want to die. He didn't want his father locked in Azkaban forever. And he absolutely did not want his mother, or Praeris, to grieve for him.

At first, he had kept himself going with visions of a brilliant future and the hunger for revenge, giving himself reasons to go through with murdering Dumbledore. Then he had hidden behind love and delay, lying to himself. Until he could no longer avoid it. Until he had been forced to choose between his life and his soul, until he had thrown everything to the wind and charged forward.

Madam Pomfrey came back with Praeris. She ran through her examination with her usual thoroughness, then said dryly, "How unusual. No howling this time?"

Praeris laughed.

Back at the convent, whenever people from the children's aid society came, everyone would crane their necks to see whether Dr. Edmond had come along.

Dr. Edmond was a Muggle doctor with a passion for charity work. He treated the convent children for free, regularly and without complaint. The trouble was, he also loved to tease them, and he had accumulated an impressive archive of embarrassing childhood stories that he would recount with the satisfaction of a collector showing off his finest pieces.

Praeris was not part of that archive. She had no childhood memories worth a knowing smile.

Madam Pomfrey was clearly referring to third year, teasing Draco about how he had wailed at full volume long after his injury was nearly healed, disturbing everyone else's rest.

Draco didn't flush or bristle at the teasing. His expression didn't change at all. His mind had already drifted somewhere else entirely. Even after Madam Pomfrey finished explaining his condition and left the room, he stayed that way.

"What's wrong?" Praeris asked. "Is something else hurting?"

Draco didn't answer right away. A long moment passed.

"Praeris," he said at last. "It was this same bed, back then. The same spot."

Praeris went quiet. She understood. Same bed, same people, same room. But everything else had long since become something else entirely.

Draco's lips were pale. When he spoke, it was barely above a murmur. "This time, my father can't stand up for me."

"Don't." Praeris felt as if someone had a fist clenched around her heart. "Don't say that. I stood up for you, Draco. Listen to me. I stood up for you."

She had known all along that Harry Potter wouldn't have attacked Draco without reason. But she hadn't given Harry a chance to explain before she made her move. In the bathroom, Harry hadn't reacted in time. On the lawn, she hadn't let him react in time.

Because Praeris had done it on purpose. Every bit of it.

She wanted revenge on Harry for hurting Draco. She also wanted revenge on him for using the Half-Blood Prince's spells after she had already made him hand over the textbook.

And she didn't regret a single second of it.

"I used magic to send Harry Potter flying into the air," she told Draco. "Tumbled him in the water for several minutes. Then I used Despair Potion on him. Made him suffer. I—"

She didn't finish the sentence.

Draco had sat up and pulled her into his arms.

The sudden movement hit him like a wave. He hadn't eaten in a full day and night, and for a moment the room tilted. He ended up with nearly his full weight leaning against her.

Praeris startled, then immediately wrapped her arms around him, her voice tight. "Don't get worked up, be careful—"

She stopped.

Because she felt it. Draco's lips against her neck. Light. Soft.

He murmured close to her ear, "If, after all of this, you're still willing. I'm yours. Forever yours."

"No," Praeris said, calm and clear. "I don't agree to that."

Draco went still. But he didn't let go.

"You are your own," Praeris said. "And I am my own. But I am willing to love you."

Well. That was Praeris.

Still sick, still fragile, Draco pressed his face into her school robes and said, very quietly, "Mm. Me too."

The news of Draco waking spread through Slytherin quickly. Pansy Parkinson, Theodore, and the others all came to see him.

None of them got to see him in that state.

There had been a time when Draco couldn't say three words without "my father" or "my mother" coming out of his mouth. Lately, the former had grown rare. More often now it was "my mother" and "Praeris."

And so the story of Praeris giving Harry Potter a thorough beating spread across all of Hogwarts within the day.

Harper slapped his thigh. "I knew it! I told everyone, you do not mess with that woman! Last time, with me, that had to be her!"

"That's your own narcissism talking," Astoria said, with withering contempt. "You actually thought someone would confess their feelings to you? Sincerely? The trap wasn't even disguised, and you walked straight into it."

That day was Saturday.

Gryffindor was playing Ravenclaw. The Slytherins went to watch, ostensibly to cheer for Ravenclaw. In reality, they were there to mock Gryffindor.

Ron and Ginny hadn't even reached the preparation tent when the Slytherins descended on them, asking loudly whether Harry had been sorted out by the Prince.

"Hey! Weasley!" Pansy Parkinson called, laughing. "Why doesn't Potter go to the Hospital Wing for a check-up? Wouldn't want any lingering issues, that'd be terrible!"

"What kind of terrible?" Millicent asked, with great deliberate care.

Pansy Parkinson covered her mouth. "If he skips the check-up now and decides to blame our Prae for it later, what then?"

"Oh, Pansy Parkinson, what are you saying!" Millicent grinned. "Prae's in the Hospital Wing herself! How frightening that would be!"

Ginny drew a slow breath, clenched her fists, and stared at them with barely contained fury.

Millicent shifted one step to the side, smooth and unhurried, putting herself between Pansy Parkinson and Ginny. She rolled up her sleeve, baring firm, wheat-toned muscle. "What, thinking of hitting the commentator before the match?"

Ginny's temper was legendary. Could she actually hold it together?

Seeing her standing there like a powder keg with the fuse already lit, Dean, Jimmy, Ritchie, and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch players all grabbed at her from different directions. "Ginny, they're doing this on purpose! We don't have a replacement Seeker!"

Ron muttered from the side, "Really not a great time for this."

Any other day, Ron would have fully backed his sister in a fight with Millicent Bulstrode. But Ginny was already covering for Harry as Seeker, and there was no one else to put in her place at this point. It was genuinely inconvenient.

And so Millicent and Pansy Parkinson walked away with their chins up, Pansy Parkinson's laughter high and sharp, leaving every Gryffindor with a slow burn in their chest.

Ginny shook off the hands holding her, her expression dark. "What's there to be afraid of? I'm perfectly calm."

"You look more like a storm front rolling in off the sea," Ron said.

Ginny turned the full force of her glare on him. "Whatever we lost off the pitch, I'll win back on it. You'd better not be the one dragging us down."

"But we're playing Ravenclaw!" Ron watched her wrench the tent flap open and disappear inside, then scratched his head in genuine confusion.

He didn't understand until the match was over.

Ginny had told Jimmy to send a Bludger straight into the commentator's podium in the final moments. On purpose.

No one had seen it coming.

One second earlier, Millicent had still been thinking, with sincere reluctance: Millicent Bulstrode, very much against her will, at your service. May this match go terribly.

Then she finished announcing Gryffindor's victory, and looked up, and saw the Bludger screaming toward her.

The commentator's podium sat inside the pitch. The only cover between Millicent and the Bludger was a wooden desk. A wooden desk would not stop a Bludger.

There is a widely acknowledged truth about Slytherins: when one of them decides that survival is the only goal, they become extraordinarily difficult to kill.

Millicent proved the rule. She launched herself sideways in a full-body dive and landed squarely behind Deputy Headmistress Professor McGonagall, who also happened to be the Head of Gryffindor House.

Professor McGonagall stared as the Bludger cratered the desk.

"Mr. Peakes!" she shouted. "I have never, in all my years, seen such outrageous behavior!"

Millicent poked her head out from behind the professor's robes. "Exactly! Unbelievable!"

"You won the match," Professor McGonagall said furiously, "and lost every shred of sportsmanship!"

"Quite right!" Millicent agreed warmly. "And for what it's worth, Professor, I was completely unbiased in my commentary."

"Professor, I didn't do it on purpose." Jimmy jogged over with his broom and shrugged. "You know how it is sometimes. We can't always control where a Bludger ends up."

When Millicent had used Harry's situation to mock them before the match, Jimmy had been one of the people holding Ginny back. The match was over now. Time to settle accounts.

"Oh, that is absolutely not true!" Millicent said loudly. "A Beater who doesn't know where his own Bludger is going has no business being a Beater! Why didn't you aim for one of the Weasleys instead!"

"Mr. Peakes," Professor McGonagall said, visibly suppressing her temper, "I'm giving you a chance to explain. I would very much prefer not to ruin the joy of your victory."

Demelza stepped in to speak for Jimmy, but neither of them had any intention of giving Ginny up. Honestly, they both thought the plan had been brilliant. The only flaw was that Millicent Bulstrode was far too quick.

"Professor McGonagall," Demelza said, "it's because Bulstrode provoked us before the match. She mocked Harry."

"I don't believe I was provoking anyone." Millicent had a certain facility with language when she needed it. "Professor McGonagall, surely you wouldn't stop me from saying a few words in defense of an injured friend?"

"Twenty points from Gryffindor!" Professor McGonagall made her decision immediately. "Mr. Peakes, you should be very grateful that Miss Bulstrode has quick reflexes. Otherwise, that number would be considerably higher."

Millicent climbed down from the podium in excellent spirits and held her hand out to Pansy Parkinson, who slapped it.

"How did you even manage that!" Pansy Parkinson was laughing too hard to stand straight.

Millicent shrugged. "Whenever I want to do something really impressive, I ask myself: what would Praeris do?"

"Including the muscle display?" Pansy Parkinson asked.

Millicent raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. "My muscles are what Prae's wand and potions are to her. Aunt Becky always said, having a weapon isn't enough. You have to have the brains to use it."

In truth, Millicent knew perfectly well that the two of them had provoked the Gryffindors. That could have shifted how Professor McGonagall measured the punishment.

But Millicent had thought it through carefully.

Praeris had said what Draco had done was serious, the kind of serious that came with a label: using Dark magic on a fellow student. She had also said to Millicent: "Potter's punishment was far too lenient. When Grindelwald was a student here, conducting Dark magic experiments got him expelled."

Something clicked into place in Millicent. A kind of political instinct that came with growing up in a pure-blood family, suddenly awake.

The professors and the Headmaster had protected Potter. Which meant they would not want the story of Potter hurting another student to resurface or spread any further.

And so Millicent had made one small, quiet adjustment. She reframed what had happened between them: not "Praeris beat Potter up," but "a dispute that started over Draco."

➤ Next: Before the Storm