Sep 12 2008
Topology
Title: Topology
Author: dorrie6
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Draco, Harry
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters and universe presented in this story belong to JK Rowling.
Summary: Draco maps out what is important in his world.
Note: Originally posted 11/25/03 for marginalia.
*****
Topology
When everything else has gone from my brain–the President’s name, the state capitals, the neighborhoods where I lived, and then my own name and what it was on earth I sought, and then at length the faces of my friends, and finally the faces of my family–when all this has dissolved, what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that. – Annie Dillard, An American Childhood
Draco Malfoy liked maps. Not so much the kind made of parchment, covered in lines and scribbles of ink, a pale representation of walls and turns and feet against marble. He liked the kind that shifted and grew in his own head, that raced through his mind in the few precious minutes of almost-consciousness as he drifted to sleep each night.
His father had taught him early on that his life might one day depend on the complete and detailed knowledge of his surroundings. At the age of four, he’d left Draco deep in the center of Malfoy Manor’s tremendous garden maze, with instructions to find his way out. It was only after five hours that he returned to rescue his son, fragile and crying in soiled robes, still half a kilometer from the outer edge. He repeated this twice a week for the next month, until Draco had finally emerged late one evening at the maze’s entrance, filthy and proud, demanding supper. After that, Draco went willingly, every afternoon, determined to find the shortest way–twenty steps, turn right, eleven steps, left–until he could run through it at full speed, eyes closed, without fear. When he had conquered the maze, Draco moved on to the surrounding gardens, with their endless stretches of herbs and flowers, trick cobblestones and hidden fountains.
When he’d mapped out everything outside, he moved to the manor itself. He memorized ballrooms, bedrooms and dungeons, staircases and secret passages. His father was proud of him, at least distractedly so. His mother was oblivious, but happy he never bothered her. Only the house elves were annoyed, as he was impossible to find at bedtime.
Hogwarts had taken longer. There were rules to be followed and too many people at every turn. He’d had to start small, just the Slytherin dungeons at first, moving out slowly to the rest of the castle. In fifth year he’d got braver. As a prefect and a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, he could move more freely, even at night. He preferred learning in the dark anyway, counting quietly to himself, with only the echo of his own footsteps to disturb him. Some nights he made it back only moments before dawn, dreaming of twists and turns and the endless measuring of empty spaces.
Then everything changed. His father had broken the rules. He had ventured into uncharted territory with the enemy, unexpected, surrounding him, and it had cost him dearly. He hadn’t stayed in prison long with nothing substantial to hold him there, but the damage had been done. In sixth year, Draco decided that it wasn’t enough to know where every room and corridor led, but that he needed to learn the people too. At first he practiced spells that would tell him a person’s location, but discovered soon that his own senses were actually much more developed and useful. Twenty-nine steps between the library and the corridor where Weasley and Granger began their nightly prefect’s rounds. Seventy steps between the Herbology classroom and Neville Longbottom’s favorite stairwell hideaway. Eighty-six steps between the Great Hall and the visitor’s cloak closet where Weasley’s little sister met Dean Thomas every evening. They were easy–ordinary, they offered him no threat. It mortified him that it was the likes of these that had brought his father down. Well, the likes of these and Potter.
Potter was different–insufferable and unpredictable. Every time Draco thought he had him, he would turn up someplace unexpected, or fail to arrive according to his calculations. It was beyond frustrating, and Draco arrived home at the end of the school year, defeated. That summer, his mother had the maze closed off–infestation of spiders, she’d said. Draco kept away, but he thought he saw lights there in the evenings, just at the center, and once he was certain he’d spotted his father on the grounds. It infuriated him to think of Lucius Malfoy hiding out there, like an oversized rat. Further thought on the matter led him to dangerous and unpleasant territory. It was not lost on Draco that the Dark Lord’s right hand man was exactly that. At night he dreamt of Potter, stomping tiny, scampering Death Eaters with his shoes. After that, he’d charmed his sleep so that he wouldn’t remember his dreams.
Seventh year, he returned to Hogwarts with a purpose. He gave up mapping out the other Gryffindors and concentrated solely on Potter. It was easier than the previous year, though he wasn’t sure why. It was as if Potter had stopped moving around so much–as if he’d lost momentum. One hundred and twenty steps from the library door to Potter’s favorite hideout in the restricted section. Twenty-two steps from there to a book he couldn’t stop reading and re-reading. Three hundred and ninety-nine steps to the hidden alcove not far from Gryffindor tower. Best of all, forty-six steps (seventeen of those up a ladder) from the hallway to the roof over the owlry, where Potter waited every night for his snowy white owl to bring him some unknown message.
The greatest realization of all, perhaps, was that Potter, for all his protectors, friends and admirers, was almost always alone. He strode through the halls, blind to everyone, seeking out dark corners and empty rooms. He had no exact routine, no constant from day to day, but for the owlry roof, every night, where he stayed until dawn. After a while, the map in Draco’s head began to move. Instead of a fixed ground plan, north to south, east to west, the map began to fix itself to Potter. As Potter moved, it turned and wove with him as its center. It was easy to follow, when you knew how, and Draco felt he could have moved with it, blindfolded. He thought sometimes he might be using magic, but hadn’t any idea what kind. He was aware of it at all times. Once he wondered if his father would have been impressed, and found that he no longer cared. He started letting himself dream again.
In the dreams, Draco mapped out the distance between Potter’s forehead and chin, the length of his leg, the small of his back. With hands and mouth, he plotted and measured, finding each small secret, waking sticky and spent, Potter’s name whispered into the velvet curtains of his bed. In the daylight he collected information for his dreams–Potter’s fingers as he chopped a root in Potions, the fall of his step, the dimensions of his eyebrows. Each detail was noted and added to the map. It was, Draco knew, his most impressive work to date.
It was a surprise one early morning at breakfast, when a school owl dropped a scrap of parchment in his lap. Draco looked around the hall, but it was nearly empty. He opened the folded parchment which read, simply,
It was Potter, he knew–the curve of the “m”, the hurried fold. It seemed dangerous, yet it never occurred to him not to comply. Draco ran over all the paths in his head, and decided it was safest to arrive first. He was waiting on the roof, standing, wand in hand, when Potter’s unruly hair appeared through the small trap door out of the owlry.
Potter paused for a moment. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Draco didn’t answer.
“Well,” Potter laughed, “I suppose you’re here every night anyway.” He climbed the rest of the way up and sat down, facing into the wind with Draco behind him. “So, why are you following me, Malfoy? And how do you find me? It’s not just here, I know that much.”
Draco snorted. “I could find you in the dark, Potter.”
Potter turned his head, surprised. “Really?” When Draco didn’t respond further, Potter turned his head back. “You still didn’t say why.”
“Mapping,” Draco said, without thinking.
Potter turned his head again. “What?”
Draco flushed. “I’m… mapping. You. Your life.”
“Oh.” Potter paused. “I figured you were planning to kill me.”
“That too,” Draco admitted.
Potter laughed. “Get in line.” Draco noted that his left eyebrow lifted as he laughed. He’d have to keep a close eye out to get the measurement perfect. The opportunities were rare. Potter didn’t laugh much these days.
Potter sat in silence for a moment, closing his eyes against the wind. When he spoke again, Draco was startled.
“So why haven’t you?”
Draco stared blankly. “What?”
“Tried to kill me.”
“Oh,” Draco answered. “I don’t know.”
Potter regarded him closely and turned away again. “Well… don’t bother.”
Draco laughed. “Oh, you think it’s that easy, do you? Don’t press your luck, Potter.”
Potter shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, it’s not… it’s just. I don’t think you can.” Draco opened his mouth, but Potter continued, “I think… it has to be him. Nobody can kill me but him. Just like it has to be me. To kill him, I mean.”
Draco had no idea what he was talking about. “Oh.” He sat down.
There didn’t seem to be much to say after that. They sat in silence for a long while, maybe hours, Draco thought. At one point, Potter stretched out on his back to stare at the sky. A few moments later, Draco did the same. He traced over the stars with his fingers and considered mapping them in millimeters, as if he could touch them. Occasionally he glanced at Potter, stifling an urge to run a finger down his side, to confirm the measurements he’d made in his sleep. Eventually Potter stirred and stood. Draco sat up, questioning.
“Well, that’s enough for tonight,” Potter stated.
“You’re early,” Draco replied, forgetting to be embarrassed that he knew.
Potter moved to the trap door. “Yes. Well, I don’t think anything is coming tonight. It’s pointless.”
“It’s always been pointless, Potter,” Draco sneered.
To his surprise, Potter grinned. “True,” he said, and started down the ladder. Just before his head disappeared, he looked back up at Draco.
“If it means anything… I wish it could be you.”
Draco blinked, confused. “What?”
“To kill me. I’d rather it was you.”
Draco wasn’t sure of a proper response. He vaguely considered “Thank you” but knew that was all wrong. He settled finally on “Why?”
Potter’s eyes looked old. “At least I wouldn’t have to wait.” With that, his head disappeared. A moment later, his voice called up, “See you tomorrow night, Malfoy.”
Draco counted Potter’s steps as he walked away, as long as they were audible, and then still further in his head when they weren’t. He counted to the corridor, down the stairs, through several more halls and up several staircases to Gryffindor tower. As the sky began to pale with the morning, Draco noticed something white fluttering in the distance. As it neared, he recognized it as Potter’s owl. In the late morning, when he finally made it to breakfast, Draco found a note at his plate.
That night, in the safe confines of his bed curtains, Draco started a new map. It was more difficult than the rest. There were estimations, guesses, things he normally did not approve of. He counted the steps to Hogsmeade, and then to other, less obvious places that only his father had spoken of. He plotted a battle, the placement of each Death Eater with respect to their master. He mapped Potter’s long strides, the tilt of his head, fingers holding tightly to his wand. It was here the map became uncertain, where he lost his center. He spent the next two nights waiting on the roof of the owlry, counting all the possible steps he could think of, coming to no real conclusions. When, shortly into the third night, a head of unruly black hair poked up through the trap door, he felt a strong sense of relief. Not for Potter, he assured himself–he’d just needed to see the rest of the map–know how to complete it. It wasn’t over, he could tell that much. Potter again searched the skies for his owl, still waiting for his fate to play out. As dawn approached, and Potter stood up to leave, Draco surprised himself.
“I could help you.”
He wished with all his might to take it back. Nothing happened.
Potter squinted. “Malfoy?”
Draco stuttered, and his face felt hot. “I… the next time. I could… well. I know where things are. In my head. I could help you.” Potter was staring. “Plan something, I mean.” Draco spoke more confidently now. “I know where things are.”
Potter spoke slowly, as if to make himself understand. “You want to help me.”
“Well,” Draco looked away. “I could.”
Potter folded his arms in front of his chest, eyes still squinted, mouth half-open. Finally he asked, “Why?”
“It’s…” Draco struggled to hold himself together. “The maps. It just… helps. To know how things go. I don’t like guessing.”
“I thought you wanted to kill me.” Potter’s voice had gotten quiet, but not weak.
“Yes.”
“So why not now?”
Draco smirked. “You told me not to bother.”
At this, Potter smiled, slowly. “So I’m left to wonder, aren’t I? Whether you really want to help me, or to feed me to your Lord.”
Draco thought of his father, living like a rat in the Malfoy garden maze, and winced, but said only, “I suppose so.” He smirked again. “At the very least, Potter, you will have a better chance of getting it over with. One way or another.” He watched as Potter’s eyes glittered. “No more waiting.”
Potter nodded and lifted his eyebrow again. It was approximately half a centimeter. “We’ll see, Malfoy,” he said as he hoisted himself onto the ladder to start down. “Talk to me tomorrow night, and we’ll see.”
Draco forgot to count Potter’s steps back to his tower that morning. His mind was racing with the maps of everywhere he knew and everyplace that had ever been described to him by his father. He was scouting the defensive positions, the opportunities for ambush, the danger zones and hidden nooks. He didn’t stop to try to figure out who he was really working for, or what he wanted to accomplish. He only knew that it was what he did best, what he most enjoyed. This was where he put all his knowledge into action. All his years of counting and memorizing would make him now important. To somebody. He didn’t much care who, or if he did, he wasn’t ready to think about it. All he knew was that he too was done waiting.
When he arrived at the owlry roof that evening, Potter wasn’t there. Instead, Draco found a piece of parchment wedged underneath the open trap door, words scribbled in a hurry. A white owl perched near him, looking for a treat.
Draco sat, mapping, and waited.