1  A theft and a shower

Albus Dumbledore awoke, suddenly, in the middle of the night. There had been no noise, no intrusion. He had been dreaming a happy dream where his students had learned how to summon their favourite historical figures, and William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer were having a lovely conversation about metaphor in the Great Hall. But something sinister had woken him. He sat up, sliding his feet into the slippers on the floor. He walked into his office, pulling a red velvet robe over his shoulders and holding his wand, glowing at the tip.

He walked over to a dusty corner of his office, hidden behind the phoenix perch and a series of stacked boxes with mismatched lids. He carefully dragged the door open. An umbrella, whose handle was shaped like a beagle's head, fell and smacked against the cold stone floor, shattering the careful silence. Inside was a small cupboard. He opened it, and picked up the umbrella, and hung the duck handle from the door.

"Thanks," it woofed.

"You're most welcome." Dumbledore whispered.

"All is not well, is it headmaster," the umbrella whined, with a touch of a howl.

"Something is amiss, unless I am very much mistaken." Dumbledore sighed. He looked into the cupboard.

Inside was a series of drawers with curved, opal pulls. Dumbledore hooked his finger around one roughly in the middle and pulled the drawer open, and took out the only object within it; a small wooden box. He tapped it with his fingers, whispered a few words, and its thick lid drew back. Dumbledore carefully removed a small piece of purple cloth from inside, and looked pensively into the box. He moved his wand closer, hoping his eyes were deceiving him in the dim light. Inside was a small, highly polished piece of amethyst, with a carefully-cut hole in the middle, shining in the glow of his wand. Dumbledore stuck his finger through the hole, feeling it resignedly hit the cloth at the bottom of the box.

"Come on, Harry," Draco complained, the tip of his epee pressed into Harry's canvas-padded chest. Draco had landed a hit twice in a row. "You can do better than that." He pulled the weapon up and held it gracefully in front of him, inviting Harry's attack.

Harry grunted, feigned and lunged, but Draco countered easily, and counter-attacked before Harry had a chance to parry.

"You're fighting like my grandmother." He had landed the point of his epee on Harry's sternum.

Harry sighed heavily, dropping his weapon on the mat beside him and pulling off his mask. "Hey, I hear your grandmother was a serious punter." Draco chuckled. The lunge had left Harry on his knee, and now he sat back on his heels, Draco's epee still pushed firmly against his chest. With his mask off, Draco saw the exhaustion written on Harry's face.

"Potter?" Draco asked, pulling off his own mask with his free hand. He dragged the epee up Harry's chest and pressed it coolly under his unprotected chin. "I know I'm good, but even I have to admit that I'm not quite this good. What's wrong?"

"I'm feeling a bit…distracted." Harry admitted, pushing the epee away from his chin. He stood and unzipped his jacket.

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays." Draco picked up Harry's epee, and slid it and his own into their sheaths against the wall. Harry was behaving as if he were having trouble remembering he was here with him at all, Draco thought as he pulled off his own jacket, and he found himself both annoyed and worried.

Harry sighed. "Let me take a shower." He pulled off his gloves and slapped them on the bench, avoiding Draco's eyes. "I'll explain over breakfast." He sounded positively morose. Draco harrumphed, but nodded. They had been fencing together a couple of times a week for the last four months, ever since Harry had come to find him at Three Broomsticks. The ritual went thus: Draco would arrive at the flat Harry shared with Ron at 7am, and together they would make for the Ministry gym, fence for about an hour, and then have breakfast together before they headed off to their respective departments.

Harry let the hot water pour over him for long moments, trying to forget, trying not to think about what was running through his head, trying to ease the pain searing him from his forehead, and twining its way through his arms and legs, wrapping tentacles around his lungs. The gymnasium was empty at this time of the morning; the early birds had already been and gone, and those coming to train for the Ministry wouldn't arrive for at least another twenty minutes. He soaped up his hair, watching the indistinct white suds swirl and disappear into the drain at his feet, trying to concentrate on them. Without his glasses he felt half in a dreamworld, and he was resisting slipping away into it. Images flashed before his eyes; he saw crowds of roaring men in black robes, demons with clawed feet, dismembered limbs, faces filled with fear, pools of blood. He tried to focus on the sensation of hot water on his skin, trickling down his thighs. He pressed his palms against the cold white tile in front of him, streams of water teasing soap out of his hair, clenching his eyes shut tight, blocking out thoughts he didn't have the energy to consider or face. It took far more energy than he had.

He felt warm hands on his back. Draco. Those hands stroked him, sliding wetly up to his shoulders, kneading them carefully, pulling some of the anxiety out of his body. They slid smoothly down his back, tracing his sore muscles, finding tension and massaging it out, slowly slipping down, resting on the back of his thighs. He felt a gentle kiss on small of his back. Those hands slid over his knees, and traced their way up his thighs, snaking around his hips. He felt Draco's thumbs firmly on either side of his spine, pushing evil thoughts out of him and sliding up to his shoulders, against the tide of the water. He felt familiar lips on his earlobe, a warm, wet chest pressed into his back. Harry sighed, leaning back into those arms, that calmingly solid body behind him, smelling of fresh soap and the musky scent that was so reassuringly familiar to Harry now. The images in his head receded as he melted into Draco, as though he were all that existed in the world. Those blurred arms encircled him comfortingly, well-groomed fingers glided over his chest and stomach, traced over his hips, small kisses landing on the nape of his neck. He felt himself relax, cradled in those arms. His fingers caressed one of Draco's biceps as his hands slid across his abdomen, shutting his eyes and leaning his wet head back against that firm shoulder. Ah, Draco. Harry turned, wet feet on the slippery tile, pressing his lips against Draco's smooth neck, moving to wrap his arms around him. He moved his head to kiss his lips, smiling apologetically (Why didn't I just tell him on the way over this morning?), when his face dropped at what he saw. Standing in front of him was Voldemort.

Harry screamed, backed away, watching Voldemort sneer at him, reaching out his blackened fingers to rip his skin. He knocked his back into the faucets against the cold wall, slipping on the wet tile, still trying to back into the wall. He heard his skull make contact with the floor, and everything went black.

Terrified, Draco watched Harry collapse in front of him. Something was terribly wrong. He pulled Harry's face out of the water, dragging him carefully out of the shower stall. There was blood dripping from his temple, and from two very ugly-looking welts in his back where he had slammed himself into the faucets. Draco felt guilty. He had finished his shower, and had seen Harry looking desperately sad, his fists clenched against the tile. He had never seen Harry so wracked with…with…what? Fear? Sadness? Dread? Partly Draco was afraid that it was him, that Harry wanted to be done with him. Perhaps that was what he wanted to tell him. Malfoy, it's too much, I can't spend time with someone I don't trust. Or perhaps it would be: Draco, it's been fun, but I'm seeing someone now. Someone who hasn't been a Death Eater. I know you'll understand. Partly he had entered Harry's shower to comfort him; partly he had entered to remind Harry what he was like when he was tender, to plead with him, to find out if Harry would rebuff him. And he hadn't, Draco was certain he hadn't. Why was Harry suddenly so frightened of him? What had he done?

"Harry?" he said, looking into his face. "Come on, Harry wake up…" He felt Harry's pulse, felt his breath against his face. He heard a door shut at far end of the change room, and shouted, "Hey! Hey, help! Get a doctor, quickly! He's…he's hurt!"

"Draco," Harry groaned. "I'm okay." He felt as if he'd just crushed his head in a vice. He was lying down, his back wet on the cold tile, burning and sore. For a moment his mind was still, but he body was aching. Draco was hovering above him, looking nervous.

"What just happened?" Draco was panting from the rush of adrenaline to his head, still kneeling on the floor beside Harry.

Harry sighed heavily, and coughed. He squinted and rubbed his nose. "I thought you were…someone else, I saw someone else, when I looked at you." He sat up, feeling blood rushing to his head, grabbing Draco's shoulder for support. He put his hand to his forehead, rubbing his scar, and then saw the blood.

Draco was afraid to touch him, but wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting the suddenly faint-looking Harry. "Who did you see?"

Harry hesitated. "I saw…I saw Voldemort."

Draco cringed. "Harry, this thing you're not telling me…" Harry turned to look at him, blood dripping down his face.

"I should have told you this morning. Last night, Draco…last night my scar started…" He gasped. Images were shooting through his mind; Voldemort's twisted face, blood, singed skin, his mother's bloodied thigh, Cedric, face down in the mud, and more, and then more, rushing before eyes until he felt as though he were spinning. "I haven't slept, I…" He stopped, not even sure what to say next. There were still horrid images flashing through his mind. I'm scared Draco. I know that he's back. I don't know how, or why, but I know that he's back, and he's angry.

Draco's face was grim. "Let's get you home. We have to speak to Dumbledore."

2 Breakfast

Harry tidied up his forehead with a bit of gauze he had found in a drawer in his bathroom, and peered at it in the mirror over the sink. His fall against the tile had merely broken the skin, but the profuse bleeding had certainly indicated otherwise. The swelling bump that was pulsing and growing rapidly purple beneath it was the more serious injury. A concussion, Harry realized. His scar was still burning and pulsing fiercely as he studied himself in the mirror; this feeling was heightened by the dull headache emanating from that bump. He felt dizzy, disoriented, and slightly nauseous. The night had been difficult, and it showed on his face. He had woken up with a start in the black of night, a searing pain rolling in waves from his scar and echoing through his entire body. And he had been haunted by dreams, visions, premonitions, memories, Harry wasn't sure what to call them. Voldemort, standing before him, laughing, reaching into him and grabbing at his entrails, pulling him apart…the regular arrival of Draco that morning had pulled him back to reality.

He sighed. He walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his scar absentmindedly and sat, exhausted, at his kitchen table. Draco was cooking. Breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes. There was some cheese and mushrooms on the counter, shredded and chopped. He could smell coffee brewing.

"I didn't know you could cook." Harry pressed the gauze to his head carefully, wincing at the pressure on his very sore concussion, and watched Draco flip a perfect omelette, then reach over and pull a pan of biscuits out of the oven.

"Ah, well, technically you still don't know. I could be whipping up a big pile of rubbish here." Draco noted, sprinkling grated cheese into the pan. "But I do tend to excel at the finer arts. I like cooking. Non-magical cooking, even. It relaxes me." Draco leaned over and poured coffee into Harry's waiting cup.

"Hmm. Good to know. I rather prefer eating." Harry sipping his coffee, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He was merely competent in the kitchen himself, and certainly didn't try anything by hand if it could be avoided. Cooking reminded him of living with the Dursleys. Draco scraped a couple of pans and filled two plates, dropping one in front of Harry. "So eat." He said. Harry ate, and promptly forgot all about the Dursleys.

"Mmm…you really can cook." Harry said between bites. "These biscuits could levitate on their own." The food was helping his mood tremendously, in spite of his somewhat iffy stomach. He wondered idly if Draco had added any magical ingredients to encourage this, but realized that he didn't mind if he had. Draco took his plate and sat across from Harry, clearing away some papers and books to do so.

"Wait 'til you try my eggplant parmigiana. After that you'll be mine forever to do with as I will." Wiggled an evil eyebrow at Harry, who snorted.

"If you can seduce me with a vegetable called 'eggplant', I will have to be. And considering what you did with what little there was in my fridge, I am already impressed. Why do we go out to eat at all? No more. We're staying in."

"Oh, your flatmate would enjoy that turn of events immensely, I’m sure." Ron had so far winced every time he had come face to face with him, which, admitedly, wasn't too often, so far. Harry had gone to some lengths to keep Draco and his other Hogwarts' friends apart, which Draco appreciated. Their 7am meetings were never interrupted by Ron, who was always running out of the shower and throwing his clothes on as his clock approached the 'You're late(again)!' sign. Draco rose, grabbed the coffee pot, and filled his own cup. "I can't believe you don't have a french press," he mumbled.

"A french what?" Harry attacked his omelette with gusto, half a biscuit in one hand. Draco shook his head at him. He was glad he had added the restorative potion to Harry's coffee; as he watched, he saw tension disappear from his shoulders, he watched his face soften, his jaw unclench, whatever evil thoughts had been haunting him seemed to have let him be. His breathing seemed much less laboured; he smiled genuinely. That lump on his forehead, however, was continuing to grow and turn a darker shade of purple. The cut seemed to have stopped bleeding. Draco wondered how his back was faring, but decided to let Harry eat in peace for now. Draco sipped at the coffee himself, feeling glad he hadn't added the potion only to Harry's cup. He needed a little restoring himself. Draco felt so unsure of himself, so unsure of Harry. It was less than an hour ago that he was imagining that Harry wanted to get rid of him (Gods, please don't let him get rid of me!), and here he was making him breakfast, pouring his coffee, mooning like a schoolgirl over his cuts and bruises, and shortly, he imagined, he would tuck him into bed, and snuggle next to him, watching him fall sleep against his shoulder. Under normal circumstances, Harry was so easy, his expression so clear, he took things as they came, and didn't worry overmuch about what came next. Of course, he could afford to feel that way. He must know I can't do without him. He sighed at himself.

Draco was not the sort of fellow who knew how to deal with a 'casual' relationship.

Harry was honestly shocked by how good everything tasted. He noticed, now, that Draco had clearly been paying close attention to how he had been ordering his meals, and had noted the fact that he liked things with cheese in them when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself. A mushroom and cheese omelette had been, he admitted, perfect for this particular occasion. He was flattered. While he projected a rather casual and self-absorbed appearance, Draco was actually very attentive, loyal, and dedicated. Why, under different circumstances, he could have been a Hufflepuff. Harry stifled a giggle. He smiled at him instead, sitting regally across the table from him, looking a little disdainfully at the mess of papers and books scattered across it. It had been a strange ride, but Harry found that he thoroughly enjoyed Draco's company. He had always imagined Draco with a vivid cruel streak; over the years it seemed to have settled into a rather dry humour and a remarkable talent for witty commentary. Harry would never have expected that Draco would be the type to talk to his supervisor, help him home, one arm wrapped around his waist, and then make him a fabulous breakfast, including a restorative potion. "When are we expected back?" Harry asked, mouth full of biscuit.

"Oh, not today. I told Bill you had a concussion. He was sympathetic, and told me he would take care of it, I could stay with you today, keep an eye on you. I suppose I could go on impressing you with my culinary abilities, but we do still need to talk about this, you reali—" Draco stopped, and dropped his fork, which landed with a clatter on his plate.

Harry looked up at him. "What is it?" Draco had an unreadable expression on his face. He stretched out his right arm, palm up, and stared at it for a moment. He wore a blue shirt, long-sleeved, as it was only March and still damp and cold. His white palms looked almost ghostly in the bright light of the kitchen. Harry looked down at his arm. "Oh no, Draco, it's not…"

Draco looked grimly at Harry, swallowed hard, and pulled up his sleeve. There was his Dark Mark, clear as the day it was pressed into his arm. "It's burning."

Harry sighed. So, it was true then, he wasn't delusional. He didn't know how or why, but Voldemort was back.

3 Delusions and Confrontations

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore nodded at them from the fireplace. He looked at each of them expectantly. "I thought I might be hearing from the two of you this morning."

Harry sighed. "So you know what's happened, what we're afraid has happened…my scar has been hurting again, and…Draco's Mark…"

"Has returned to its former clarity? Yes. Professor Snape has been in to speak with me this morning as well. I have heard you took a bit of a fall this morning at the Ministry, Harry. I hope you are recovering?" Harry nodded dumbly.

Dumbledore sighed. "The walls of any prison, even a well-fashioned one, can only hold for so long, I'm afraid. I awoke in the night to find it gone. Draco, you should know…" he looked concernedly at the blond man. "This means that your father is also abroad again." Draco nodded, and Dumbledore continued. "We do not know yet who is harbouring Voldemort, but work on that question has begun. The properties of the charm have bought us time, at the very least; whoever freed Voldemort has a considerable job on his hands. Not only is Voldemort without a body, but he is weak, tremendously weak. He was weak when Professor Quirrell played host to him; he is even weaker now. But the Mark has been reignited, his return has been heralded, and doubtless his remaining followers are abiding by the call. We, also, must prepare ourselves."

There was a moment of quiet, and Harry watched the flames crackle and dance in front of him. "Professor," he said quietly. "I'm also seeing things. Horrid things. I can't seem to control it."

Dumbledore hmmed, stroking his beard. "Yes, Harry, we feared it might be so. When a consciousness spends time in another's body, even for a short time…well, you know you've always had a connection to Voldemort, ever since you survived his curse. Now that connection is quite a lot stronger. He is angry, very angry, and the strength of that anger is reflecting into you. It may be of some use in the end, but for the moment you should take steps to lessen its effect. There is a potion that will be of some use…at least, it will stop you from seeing Voldemort in the faces of others." Draco stood nervously, pulling out a thick tome from a shelf above the mantel, sat down on the ottoman, and flipped through its pages. Dumbledore nodded. "The Aminoran potion, Draco, I believe you know it? It requires a few extra ingredients, however, under the circumstances." Harry's mind was drifting. He saw a series of images; a pale woman, clutching a knife, looking terrified; a small, bleeding child; a cold heath; he felt dread creeping up over him, his skin growing cold. He could hear Dumbledore reciting ingredients ("…Bergamot, just a pinch; half a thimble of dulse, and a quarter of a cup of wolf's milk.") He blinked, trying to focus on what Dumbledore was saying. "…do keep me informed. Harry?" He looked up. "I think you're in good hands here. Give my regards to Mr. Weasley."

Draco wandered through Diagon Alley in a bit of a daze, half-expecting to run into his father around every corner. Draco, he would spit. You traitor. As if he were one to talk. Draco was very well aware of the flipping loyalties his father had exhibited: Voldemort supporter in the early days; cleared of Death Eater charges after Harry nearly destroyed the Dark Lord; highly-placed Ministry official, trusted by the Minister himself; turncoat, sniveling back to Voldemort's side when he seemed well-placed to win. Draco knew, in the kind of half-light of knowing, that his father had definitively chosen his side of the battle at the same time as Draco had chosen his. Draco had tried to save Harry; his father had tried to save Voldemort. Both failed. What would become of them now? Draco imagined himself target the second, only after the most obvious, most stubborn, target the first.

That target Draco had left tucked into his bed, purple forehead pulsing angrily, fast asleep. Harry had been reassured by Dumbledore's words; Voldemort would not nip into his flat for a visit today, his strange visions were merely reflections, the burning in his arms and legs a kind of vestigial memory of Voldemort's venomous presence in his body. At the same time, his energy was ebbing from him with every strange vision he had, which seemed to be getting worse. He had started screaming in the bathroom when his own reflection had stared back at him bleeding and dismembered. He looked dizzy, his eyes weren't focussing properly, but he insisted on talking, wandering around his flat, casting spells. Alarms, traps, locks. He talked about Voldemort, about Ron, Hermione and the muggles associated with the ministry; he talked about scattered Death Eaters, about new spells, protections. He told Draco that they would protect him from his father.

Draco didn't want to talk about it. Lost in his own thoughts, took his wand with him into the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes, and made a point of tidying up the mass of books and papers spread liberally over the table. He poured Harry and himself a glass of pumpkin juice, Harry's spiked with a sleeping draught. As he had expected to, Draco watched Harry fall asleep against his shoulder, and didn't leave him until his breathing evened out.

Draco knew Dumbledore was right. If the prison had been lifted only last night, neither Voldemort or his father would be in any shape to make an appearance yet. Not yet. But Draco knew that burning in his arm was a silent finger pointing straight into his face; I know you can feel this, you cowardly traitors. Go running to the muggle-lovers the moment my back is turned, will you? This isn't a warning. This is a threat. Draco knew that their advantage was slight. Whoever had managed to get around Dumbledore's defenses, to lift a carefully guarded item from right under Dumbledore's nose, certainly had more of a plan than to sit and wait until a group of armed muggles arrived with their guns blazing.

Draco had collected the ingredients he would need to make up Harry's cure from that ceaseless delusion. Good thing one of us paid attention to Snape in Potions. He wandered back into muggle territory, picking over vegetables at an overflowing market stall. Potions can be wonderful things, but even at their best, they leave one feeling a bit stretched out and wanting, like a plant left too long without water. If he must exist on potions for months, at least I can feed him properly. Draco sighed at himself, again. He felt responsible. Had he not agreed to betray Harry, he wouldn't be needing these potions in the first place. He knew, wryly, that his desire to protect Harry was ill-timed at best.

When Draco pushed open the door to Harry's flat an hour later, a large paper bag filled to the top in each arm, the first thing he saw was Harry, in his underwear, holding a knife against an invisible foe, the blade bent back alarmingly toward his own neck. Draco dropped the bags and ran for Harry, speaking as calmly as he could.

"Harry, Harry, remember, it's not real. There's nothing there." Harry raised the knife in his hand, unseeing eyes seething. Draco grabbed his wrists and threw him back against the wall, trying to shake the knife out of his hand. "Harry!" He said firmly. "Come back, it's okay, it's only me."

"You bastard!" Harry was screaming, kicking, writhing against the wall. Draco pressed him against, the wall, immobilized him with his body. Just then, Draco heard the door unlatch behind him, booted feet on the hardwood floor. Harry was still screaming, struggling against Draco, and him heard another voice call out, "Get off him, you slimy traitor!" As he felt himself attacked from behind and pulled away from Harry. Ron punched him in the face, kneed him in the stomach, grabbed the edges of his shirt around his neck and pulled Draco into his face, hollering vague obscenities at him while Harry collapsed onto the floor. In one smooth move, Draco kicked out Ron knees and reached for his throat. Ron fell, with Draco firmly on top of him.

"Weasley," Draco hissed through clenched teeth. "much as I relish the idea of beating the crap out of you, will you please LET GO OF ME so we can help Harry?" He had one hand clenched around Ron's throat, the other had a firm grip on Ron's hair. Ron growled, and shot a glance toward Harry, and let go of Draco's shirt. Draco gave him a dead stare, and released him, rolling over him and moving to scoop up Harry. Ron pushed him aside.

"What did you do to him, you filthy—"

"Ron." Harry groaned. "Don't start. Sit down and I'll explain." His voice was weak and thin. Draco watched as Ron helped Harry up and moved him toward the couch.

"Bit late for not starting." He noted angrily. He turned in disgust, picking up the bags he had dropped, and stomped off to the kitchen to prepare Harry's potion.

4 Friends and family

Ron sat back against the couch when Harry had finished talking. He watched Harry take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. So. Voldemort was back and seemed to be haunting Harry. Dumbledore was apprised of the situation, and the Ministry would probably be stepping up their efforts against the Death Eaters shortly. There was a team tracing the origins of the spell that pulled Voldemort's prison out of Hogwarts. Malfoy was not trying to kill Harry. Well, not yet at least. Well, what was I supposed to think, Harry screaming with a knife in his hand and Malfoy shoving him up against a wall like that? Ron rubbed absent-mindedly at his sore scalp, trying to think of what to say. He pulled out quite a lot of my hair. I bet he's going to use it to make a polyjuice potion and trick Harry into— aw, bloody hell. I'll never get used to this.

Harry looked dreadful. Ron studied that big purple lump on his head, his blackening eyes. When he hadn't turned up at work, Ron had talked to their supervisor, who had told him the story that Draco had relayed. Harry had fallen and hurt himself, and Draco was going to keep an eye on him. He hinted that it might have something to do with Harry's scar, but didn't go into any details. Ron hadn't even talked to anyone; he had just headed straight home. And thought he had found exactly what he had expected to find; Malfoy taking another shot at destroying Harry. Ron sighed. He knew that Harry had worked a few things out with Malfoy, and was even spending time with him these days. More and more as time went on, so it seemed. He realized, with a heavy heart, that they were probably becoming an item, though he had yet to have a real conversation with Harry about it (Other than one late night discussion, when Harry's entrance had woken him, which went like this: "Where've you been?" "I was out with Draco." "Oh. Did you snog the bastard?" "What do you think?"). Ron felt sure Harry would tell him the if anything became more official. Ron cringed. Perhaps things were farther along than he thought.

He had noticed that Harry had stopped seeing Susan Goldsmith, a pretty Ravenclaw girl who had come to work in their department last year. Granted, that had never been terribly serious, though she mooned over Harry something fierce, and was still glancing over at him with that look on her face. She was too stuck up for Ron's taste (She had, after all, treated Ron as the resident server the last time she had received an invite to one of their get-togethers. "Ron, be a dear and get me another glass of the red, would you?" Ick.), but Malfoy! From the frying pan into the fire. Harry pulled his legs up onto the couch, rubbing his scar, his eyes half-closed. Ron couldn't remember the last time he had seen Harry so drained. "Have you gotten any sleep, Harry? You look really…tired."

Draco stalked over to the couch and handed a glass to Harry. It was steaming purple. Harry looked up at him and smiled weakly, bringing the glass to his lips. "Harry!" Ron jumped up and put his hand on the glass, spilling a little of it on Harry's shirt. "What the hell is that?" He looked suspiciously at Draco, whose lips curled into a snarl.

"It's a Polyjuice potion, made with your hair, you wormy little nimrod. I'm banking on Harry taking one look at himself afterwards and immediately committing suicide."

Harry winced. "Okay, enough! Ron, I told you, Dumbledore gave us a recipe for a potion to help me get some control over these…these….delusions I'm having. Remember?" He sighed loudly. "For God's sake. Can you at least give ME a little credit?" He sounded extremely annoyed. He shoved Ron's hand away and drank the potion in one gulp, clapping the glass on the coffee table, and looked up at Draco, who was trading simmering stares with Ron. "'Wormy little nimrod' was a bit weak, coming from you. How long do you think this stuff will take to start working?"

Draco snorted, and after narrowing his eyes at Ron, refocused his attentions on Harry. "Are you still…seeing things?" Draco asked. Ron was a bit surprised to hear him speak without scorn or malice in his voice. He actually sounded concerned, and it even seemed genuine. Heh. So that's the bedroom voice. Sure, sounds innocuous. I'm sure all snakes speak nicely before they strike. "It never really stops. It just gets more or less overwhelming. Which seems to happen at random."

Draco hmmed. "It shouldn't take more than about twenty or thirty minutes. If it doesn't take by then, you'll need another dose." Harry nodded. "And I suggest you drink more than you usually do. More of whatever it is you fancy. You're going to be drinking a lot of potions over the next little while, and that will really wear on you." Harry nodded, his eyes half closed. "And, since the witty Mr. Weasley is here to keep you company, I think I'll head back to work." Draco picked up his coat.

Harry sighed. "Well, fine. But look. I care about both of you. We are looking at another very tense time around here, and I'd appreciate it if we could let bygones be bygones? Can you two STOP throwing those glances of death at each other? Could you just PRETEND to be civil, for my sake?" This remark was followed by silence. A bit more silence followed that. Draco pulled on his coat.

"Fair enough, Harry. Civility it is. If Weasley can stop trying to punch me into oblivion."

Ron looked at Harry, stone-faced. "I'll do my best, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Alright. Well, I'm going to try to get some sleep then." He rose wearily, aided by Draco. Ron sat, a little stunned, watching Harry walk Draco to the door, then lean in and kiss him. Not just a peck, either, this was a full-blown, passionate, dramatic, muggle-film style smooch. It lasted long enough that Ron felt a little embarrassed watching it. But watch it he did. When they drew apart, Harry said, "Thanks for breakfast." Draco nodded, rubbed Harry's back, and walked out the door. Harry turned toward Ron and said, "Something you want to say about that?"

Ron shook his head dumbly.

"Good." Harry said. "I know what he did. You don't need to remind me. Dumbledore trusts him. I'm working on it. I have some sense of how to take care of myself. Can you just not make this so difficult for me?"

Ron nodded his head dumbly.

"Fine. I'm going to bed."

Narcissa Malfoy sat in her large, airy reception room just inside the front hall of Malfoy Manor. Though it was midnight, she wore her best afternoon dress, a knee-length pale pink shift with a smart, matching jacket, a simple string of pearls pressed against her throat, diamonds in her ears. She crossed her ankles neatly, the leather of her pumps rubbing against her toes. Her nails had been carefully manicured and painted. She drank tea out of her best bone china, the edges of the cup so thin she could see the shadow of her shaking fingers on the dull brown, milky fluid, which she tipped into her mouth. A door closed somewhere in the house. She glanced at her watch. Placing the cup and its saucer carefully on the table, she reached down to her side and pulled her handbag onto her lap. It was a lovely thing, made from the skin of a young dragon, very soft and supple. She unlatched it quietly and pulled out a long, thin, sharp knife, wrapped in a scroll covered inch after inch with strange, ugly characters. The knife was cold against her skin, cold and familiar. She lifted it, cradled it in her hands, watching it glow a little in the moonlight, and saw the characters on the scroll fade away.

Draco. What a pretty little boy you were. She closed her eyes, fingers wrapping slowly around the handle and blade of the knife. Sweet, innocent, pure little boy, I couldn’t let all that slip away. The knife shimmered a little, tingling in her hands. She smiled. Draco, come back now. Little, sweet Draco. The knife grew heavy in her hand, and she gripped it tighter, feeling a warm, thick liquid dripping between her fingers, curling around the palms of her hands, growing cool and slow as it traced wet paths down her arm, pooling in her inner elbows. Narcissa sighed, feeling safe, feeling victorious, feeling as if she were on the brink of something profound, something that would defy any attempts to destroy it. She opened her eyes, but saw nothing. Her eyes were burning and she felt wet heat dripping down her face. Her throat burned as she felt her lips speaking strange words. "Drodhtai raztbrak, uhkgrukaik zhaarghaz…" She smiled knowing that she had succeeded, that where others had failed she had triumphed.

She had always been a good wife. She entertained, she arranged the household affairs, she was supportive of her husband. She had given him a son in his own likeness, a perfect blonde replica of his father, she had given him. She had been a good mother, rocking that sobbing baby, holding him when he woke from nightmares, telling him stories of how it would be when he was big and the world was his. He was a little prince, her little prince, and he was perfect. She gripped the knife tighter, feeling the sticky heat surging into her palms. Wives and mothers aren't stupid, they prepare for things. And Narcissa had prepared. This knife was a secret weapon, a secret comfort she had been harbouring. Not even Lucius knew about how so many nights she had taken this knife, secretly, into Draco's bedroom, after hanging up her robes, kissing Lucius gently with a potion on her lips, and pressed it comfortingly against those wounds, those fresh cuts into Draco's tender flesh, sung him little songs and stroked his hair, sealing those marks into thin white scars, stealing that precious innocent blood. You will always be innocent, she had whispered to him, as he slept.

Narcissa focused her attention. She knew that this next step would be difficult, and she wasn't sure she had the strength. She was blind, and growing increasingly deaf to the strange words that poured from her mouth. She felt something scorching her hands, as her lips worked woodenly around sounds her brain couldn't comprehend. Gjekspfah, hrewjodk, tewjiek…She held out a bloodied hand, and felt her body wrenching through hurdles and powers she couldn't understand. Her head was spinning. In the midst of all this chaos, she heard a little sound, a familiar sound. It was the sound of a little boy, crying. Shhhh, she thought. Shhhh, my little Draco. You're my princeling, my perfect little princeling, darling. Shhhh, it will be over soon…

When she collapsed, she felt the hard, round, cold stone in her hand.

5 The Party

Hermione was the first to arrive, with her latest beau. He was a nice fellow, dark-haired, seemed fairly intelligent. He worked for the ministry. And he was a muggle. Harry was relieved to see that he didn't look nervous at all. He had come to dread parties with nervous muggles. They kept jumping if anyone dropped anything, and blanched when a wand came out. Hermione had been seeing this one for some time, and Harry thought he remembered him from some meetings at the Ministry a few years ago. So nothing that would happen at this party should be any surprise to him, in spite of the fact that this was his first appearance in Ron and Harry's flat.

He hugged Hermione as her friend (what was his name again?) hung up their coats while Ron eyed him pensively. It was no secret to Harry that Ron had a longstanding crush on Hermione, but he had yet to do anything about it. Her parade of 'friends' did nothing to encourage him. She hugged Harry back tightly, then looking concernedly into his face. "How are you feeling, Harry?" she asked. No one wanted to go into details, not at a social event, but she could hardly hide her concern. She had read about the potion he was taking, and the fact that it was modified, which indicated to her that it's side effects were unknown. It was as if she were watching for him to suddenly sprout wings.

Harry smiled. "I'm fine! Really, I'm just fine." He wasn't lying. The last two weeks had gone very smoothly. Draco had been right; shortly after he had left, the potion had begun easing the scissor-hold Voldemort's pain and anger seemed to have on Harry's brain. He had been drinking a cup of the stuff every morning for the past two weeks, and though he did still have to endure some vague impressions first thing in the morning (sensations of cold, painful, tingling fingers, a white, stiff-looking face whose lips moved soundlessly, bloodied limbs, water dripping) Voldemort was for the most part out of his brain.

Other than feeling a bit stretched, like too little paint scraped across too large a canvas, he was doing quite well. Draco was landing fewer hits on him in their fencing sessions, and his concentration was back to normal. He had been in almost constant contact with Dumbledore, and the Ministry was taking the evidence at hand fairly seriously, though a few felt that this was some kind of cruel joke. But all the same it had been very quiet; too quiet. No intelligence was coming in at all at about Voldemort's return, or anything else. They were working hard on building defenses, but who had taken the charm, and how it could possibly have been accomplished given the impossibly tight security around it, was still a mystery. Draco had been contacted numerous times about it, and he very keeping very tight-lipped about what he knew, which, Harry suspected, was a fair bit more than the rest of them.

Hermione smiled at him, and whispered, "So…is…HE coming?" She gave him a look that was somewhere between 'oh you naughty thing' and 'is this really a good idea?', and he grinned broadly at her.

"Well, HE has been invited, and HE has agreed to come. We'll see if he does or not." She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. Harry shook hands with Hermione's friend, who's name turned out to be Edmund. Ron greeted Hermione warmly, ignoring Edmund to the best of his ability.

Shortly after them, Seamus arrived, bearing a large bottle of his favourite Scotch. "I bought this in the Orkneys, Harry! Nothing's too good for you!"

"Does that mean you intend to share?" Ron asked, as Seamus grinned fiendishly and poured himself a shot.

A group from Ministry arrived, thankfully minus Susan Goldsmith (Too bad THAT hadn't ended better, Harry thought), followed quickly by a handful of Ron and Harry's intramural quidditch team. Ginny, Fred, and George arrived together, followed by Neville, who no one had seen in ages. The mood was light; most people had met, and those who hadn't were rapidly getting acquainted. Harry enjoyed having this particular group of people visit, because it required so little work on his part. Fred and George were constant entertainers, Seamus was happy as long as he was near the Scotch, and Hermione simply didn't tolerate men who couldn't hold their own at a party. Ron was keeping her occupied, talking to her as if he hadn't just seen her yesterday, when she came over for dinner. Harry grabbed a drink himself and fell into a crowd watching George and Fred pass out exploding candies, which most people knew well enough to avoid, but Neville seemed to be only to happy to test out for them.

When Draco arrived, he was almost an hour late. Harry felt it in the room before he turned and saw him. The details of Draco's betrayal three years ago were not widely known. It was known, certainly, that Draco had been the instrument for Voldemort to get into Hogwarts, and to get at Harry, but the messy details of how, including the year of torture Draco had endured, were not publicized. Only a precious few were in the know about it to start with. Though Draco had been working for the ministry for nearly two years, most people had had no contact with him at all. Harry hadn't known Draco was so close by himself until he read the full confession four months ago. Unlike his father, Draco had not gone out of his way to make his presence felt at the Ministry. His moment in the spotlight had been highlighted by pictures of his haughty face accompanying damning articles in the Daily Prophet, swirls of rumour and innuendo, interviews with childhood friends and rivals, as well as by a great feeling of celebration as large numbers of Death Eaters were rounded up and imprisoned. Shortly thereafter he had been largely forgotten.

Draco's work with the Ministry hadn't made front page news; in fact, most of it had been classified. Harry himself wasn't entirely sure what Draco did. The actions of Unspeakables weren't something to be discussed at all, let alone over breakfast. At Harry and Ron's flat that night, however, most people were aware that Draco was no longer officially a Death Eater, and had been useful to the Ministry in recent years. Only a handful of them knew that Harry had reconciled with him, and he could count on one hand the people who knew that he was seeing him.

Harry had not been precisely forthcoming about his relationship with Draco, though he wasn't particularly secretive about it, either. As far as he was concerned, it was still fairly casual, and up until then he had liked it that way. The fact was that he felt drawn to Draco, and had for a very long time. Years of sniping at each other hadn't diminished this fact. Three years of trying to hate him hadn't done anything to ease it either. When they had met again at Hogwarts, when Draco had been sent to seduce him, it had been too easy to succumb. Later Harry had written it off as pure physical attraction, teenage lust, possibly even just simple obsession. In reality it was far more complicated than that.

He hadn't known, when he had embraced Draco at Three Broomsticks, what would happen afterward. The truth was he was nominally involved with a girl at work at the time, and had thought that he had left this obsession with Draco Malfoy behind him. Evil can be very seductive. I'm hardly the first to fall prey to that. Besides, Harry had innocently hoped that he could rescue him, somehow; that if she showed Draco that he cared about him, gave him another option…but he had never been involved with Draco, not really. How many times can someone you've never been involved with break your heart?

Some months ago, Draco had asked him to spend an evening with him. They had already met several times for lunch, and had but never anything more than at the sandwich joint across the street from Harry's department. Harry had almost hesitated to say yes, unsure of how to really justify it to himself, ostensibly trusting Draco again, letting himself be tempted. He was attracted to Draco, wanted to forgive him, wondered if the pressure of Draco's chest against his own, lips against his own, would make it any easier. He suspected it would not. And yet, he had agreed. It was nearly Christmas time, and Draco had taken him out for an elegant dinner. He had been extremely witty, which Harry had already come to expect. From there, Draco took him to a large, comfortable concert hall. They wound their way up a series of plush stairs into a private balcony.

"You come here a lot?" Harry asked, sitting in one of the large red seats.

Draco snorted. "That sounds like a pick-up line, Potter." He handed Harry a program.

"Mmm…a Malfoy watching muggles sing? Interesting." Draco shot him a cool look, and then smiled.

"Well. First off, we don't know for a fact that they're muggles." Harry half-stifled a laugh at this, which Draco ignored. "Second, this is Handel's Messiah. Everyone knows Handel was a wizard." He paused. "You did know that, right?" Harry looked at him. Draco squinted. "Okay. Those not raised by muggles know that. Handel was a wizard. He was so good even the muggles couldn't ignore him."

Harry sank back into the deep, padded seat, momentarily fighting Draco for control of the armrest. The lights dimmed, a large choir proceeded onto the stage. The music began, and he turned, seeing Draco watching him instead of the stage. He had expected to feel anxious about this, with Draco's feelings written so plainly on his face, but he wasn't. He found it oddly comforting, and smiled, watching the choir sing below.

He was wounded for our transgressions,

The choir sang.

He was bruised for our iniquities:

The chastisement of our peace was upon Him.

And with His stripes we are healed.

Harry looked over at Draco, seeing his eyes shut now. He found it a profound experience, watching Draco listen. He looked so fierce and so vulnerable. It was ancient music, hundreds of years old, preserved from year to year, sung the same way, telling the same story, as if it were new, as if they didn't already know it already. As if they didn't know what would happen next. Harry shut his eyes too. He felt, as well as heard, the soaring sopranos, the rumbling bass.

Thy rebuke hath broken His heart;

He is full of heaviness.

Draco reached over and took Harry's hand, stroking his fingers slowly with his thumb.

He looked for some to have pity on Him,

but there was no man, neither found He any to comfort Him.

Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto His sorrow.

It was that night that Harry had first seen the inside of Draco's flat, the inside of Draco's bedroom, and, without any real hesitation, felt the texture Draco's sheets against his back. And it had been sweet, intense, tender, demanding; a challenge, a request, a reclamation, a confession, an apology, a reparation. Draco had a lot to say to Harry and no words at all in his arsenal; he relied entirely on his skin, his lips, the rhythm of his heartbeat, his hips, the play of his fingers, his tongue, his hair slipping over Harry's skin to relay a thousand different messages. He spoke to Harry with the response of his body, with shivers, jolts, with the tenor of his breathing, the sway of his thighs. He spoke with the intensity of his eyes, the cadence of his lips, caressing tingling flesh, his empathetic desire, need, to give Harry whatever he wanted, to fulfill whatever desire he considered, dreamed up, hoped for. Harry was speechless; he could only respond in kind.

His head resting on Draco's chest, feeling his lungs expand and contract, Harry felt shaken. Overwhelmed, overcome, he felt as if Draco had reached inside of him and rubbed a long untouched muscle, scratched an ancient itch, and Harry wanted that sensation. He felt at once relieved and nervous. He sat up, and sighed, rubbing one hand absently on Draco's chest. He turned, and saw Draco's stormy eyes watching him. He ran his fingers through that mussed, fine hair, leaning down to slide his tongue over his lips, kissing him gently. "I have to go." He said. Draco closed his eyes and nodded. It was 3am, and it a hard, cold rain was pelting the windows.

Now, watching Draco walk into the apartment, bottle of wine in hand, looking poised and only self-conscious if you knew what Draco looked like when he's self-conscious, Harry smiled. He acknowledged, comfortably, that he liked Draco. And that was not a meaningless acknowledgement. He walked over to him, smiling. Harry knew that Draco loved him, though he had only said so once, and then under serious duress. He knew that Draco loved him in the same way that he knew the sun would rise the next morning. But Harry also knew that loving him didn't stop Draco from betraying him, that it didn't make him something he wasn't. It didn't make Draco safe, trustworthy, decent, just, loyal, or kind. Aside from the fact that Draco's love for him was one of the more important things Harry could think of, it was also very nearly irrelevant. Loving him back at this point was a given, and Harry didn't see the point or the need for announcing it. It would only put them into a position of pretending it meant something practical.

"Draco. I'm so glad you came."

Draco smiled, and nodded. He has no idea how close I came to staying home. He took off his coat and draped it over a hanger, pressing it into an already over-full closet. He looked around, seeing face after face that looked, if not startled to see him, at least apprehensive, and his heart sank a little. Well, good thing I took a nap this afternoon. It would be a long night. He caught Neville Longbottom, back pressed against the far wall, looking at him with a shocked and frightened look on his face. Draco looked back at Harry. "I expect you're the only one who's prepared to express that sentiment, Potter."

Harry grinned at him, and draped an arm over his shoulder, his fingers very deliberately brushing the back of his neck. Draco looked at him questioningly. They had never explicitly agreed that their relationship, whatever form it was taking, was a secret, but Harry had certainly made a point of keeping the whole thing pretty low profile. Until a couple of weeks ago, Draco hadn't even been sure Harry had told Ron about how far along things actually were. Not that Draco blamed him. He hardly understood it himself, and he was fairly sure that Harry's Gryffindor friends, who knew him exclusively as their personal tormentor, and his co-workers at the ministry, who remembered him as the turncoat Death Eater who had betrayed Dumbledore and Harry to Voldemort, wouldn't be any closer to reconciling themselves to the idea. He twisted his lips, sighed, and resigned himself.

With no preliminaries, Harry leaned in and kissed him, teasing his lips with his tongue. Draco could hear the room go quiet. He wasn't sure where to put his hands. Somewhere in the room, someone dropped a glass, which shattered. Draco almost laughed. He heard Hermione clear her throat and offer to help clean up the mess. Then suddenly, everyone in the room started talking at once. When Harry released him, he was grinning wickedly. Is this his way of introducing me to his friends?

"Well, Potter. That was dramatic." Draco licked his lips.

Harry laughed. "Well, I have some dramatic flair. Besides, what would you rather, swing from my arm all evening, explaining the whole thing over and over?"

"Hmm. Perhaps you're right. Now I'm going to have the pleasure of getting lynched alone in a corner." He gave Harry a half-grin. "I need a drink, " he informed him.

George and Fred suddenly appeared on each side of Harry, smiling broadly. Fred started. "Aw, Harry!" he whined. "We didn't get a greeting like that! We're jealous!" Harry laughed, and watched Draco smirk.

"He was probably just debating which of the two of you would be the better snogger." The twins roared, clapping Draco on the back, and were rewarded with a look of mild apprehension. He moved to pour himself some wine while George offered him a chocolate as a peace offering, which he wisely declined. Harry felt himself pulled backward by Hermione, who pulled him away from the twins and the crowd they engendered. Several people were moving closer to get a better look at Draco, and to see if the twins would manage to pull any over on him.

"Gods, Harry! I would hardly have expected to you make such a scene!" She laughed. "You'll be the talk of the party now." Ron was pushing his way toward them, when Harry heard laughter erupt from the twins and their crowd of admirers. Harry looked over and saw Draco's cool, smug look, and guessed that Draco had just landed a good verbal barb.

"Harry, could you have made that any more shocking?" Ron shook his head. Hermione turned and saw Ginny sitting dejectedly in the corner. It would not be news to anyone (except perhaps The Boy Who Lived himself) that she had been hoping to swoop in and nab Harry after his tryst with Susan Goldsmith was fully over and done with. No one had ever informed her that her pool of rivals for Harry's heart were of both sexes. She took a long drink from a bottle of muggle beer. Hermione shook her head. "Well, I guess everyone needs a little shock now and again."

Draco had a very good evening. He and the Weasley twins managed to animate most of the food available, resulting in only one bowl of dip landing square on the floor, and Draco himself had managed to concoct a glass full of liquid that retracted the harder a person attempted to tip it back, which thoroughly confused Neville and delighted onlookers. At one point in the evening he noted the scowl Ron was reserving especially for Edmund the Muggle. He meandered toward him. He was standing next to the shrimp ring, after all.

"I recognize the look you're shooting at Granger's boy toy, Weasley. I believe that is the patented stare of death I perfected in third year? I hope I get my royalties by owl in the morning." He pulled out a shrimp, grimaced, and put it back.

Ron grunted. "Mind your own, Malfoy." Draco blinked.

"Ah, so I'm imagining it? You're not lusting after the whiz kid? You're perfectly okay with her getting whisked off her feet by some suave little wizard like…what's his name again?"

"Edmund. And he's NOT a wizard. He's a muggle."

Draco started. "Oh. Well. That one's a muggle? Gods. What does she see in that?" Ron shrugged. Draco stared at Edmund. "Wow, you really can't tell by looking, can you. Heh. Well, I'm sure it will be temporary."

Ron looked at Draco thoughtfully. "You think so?"

Draco shrugged. "How could it not be? He'll never understand her. He'll never be able to talk with her about those strange spells she studies. Think about it. She likes a challenge. How challenging can that be?" He looked distastefully at Edmund, and then at the shrimp, and poured himself a glass of wine.

Ron grunted, watching Hermione laugh at some story Edmund was telling her. "Is that what you're doing with Harry? Is he a challenge?"

Draco swirled the wine in his glass. He considered punching Ron in the face for that comment, but remembered his promise to Harry. "Potter is just Potter." He sipped at his wine. It was just then, when people were just starting to consider heading back home to their beds, when a white shimmer appeared in the middle of the room.

At first some people thought this was another Draco/Fred/George prank and laughed. But it quickly became apparent that this was no prank.

The figure of a man appeared in the middle of the room. He wore tattered, torn, clothing, his face was bleeding, his silver-blond hair a wild halo around his head. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his lips moved silently, he looked as though he was yelling, and then screaming, pointing fingers, pulling at his hair. They could hear nothing, as if the man were encased in glass, pounding against walls they couldn't see. His eyes trolled around blindly, and his lips formed a single word:

Draco.

The man was Lucius Malfoy.

6   A leap of faith

Draco sat on Harry's bed, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers, chewing his lip. He could still hear Ron and Hermione in the other room, gathering up glasses, sliding plates on to one another, piling cutlery in a heap on the table. The apparition of Lucius had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. For a moment he had been there, tearing at his hair, pounding invisible walls, shouting, shouting for Draco. While everyone else had heard nothing, Draco had felt, rather than heard, his screaming, his pleading, his angry and confused calls for his son.

"Draco! It's your face I should see here! You called me! Where are you? Draco! Help me!"

You called me. Draco's heart leapt into his throat. He had stared blankly into the face of the apparition, while the room full of people pulled out their wands and waited. It was rapidly clear that Lucius was not physically present, but it had all the same rather seriously ruffled the guests. Most, not having seen Harry when he was haunted by Voldemort, not having felt the burn of the Dark Mark on their own flesh, had not, until now, been struck with the kind of terror, the kind of knowing, that Draco and Harry had, that Dumbledore had. Tonight they left with sinking hearts knowing with a dead certainty that trouble was indeed brewing again.

Within about twenty minutes the group had become deadly serious, and small groups of the like-minded formed. They spoke in low voices, agreeing or disagreeing about what they had seen. ("I thought he was dead! Was that a ghost?" "He looked mad. All that darkness has driven him right batty." "Looked to me like he was aiming to Adava Kadavera all of us at once, if he could've." "Did you see his eyes? He was crying blood, can you imagine what Voldemort must have done to him?" "I’m surprised he looked that good, given where he's been." "Where has he been?" "He's looking for his son, to help him return his strength." "Maybe Malfoy conjured him to frighten us. Maybe even to kill Harry while he was unawares!" This last statement got several knowing nods in a group by the door, accompanied by shushing and "don't say that too loudly around here!") Shortly after Lucius disappeared again, Harry hauled Draco into his room and shut the door.

"Did you hear him speak, Draco?" He nodded, and sat down. So Harry had heard it to, that figured. Draco had known, on some level, that this moment would come. He had never tried to run from his past, in fact, it was all around him all the time, every day, but tonight it had stood in the living room, and pointed at him, called him, begged him.

"You know what he meant, don't you." Harry looked at him, sitting with his eyes on the floor. "You called him? What does that mean?" Harry sounded angry, but cautious.

Draco sighed. "I didn't call him, Harry. Someone did, someone…whoever stole the charm, they did it…as me."

"As you?" Harry felt stupid, and conflicted. Was this another line, fed to him to make him believe Draco was deserving of his trust? Should be believe any of this? He shook the thoughts out of his head.

"Yeah. Okay, look, I'm going to tell you some things, you probably should have been aware of this some time ago, but it was agreed that perhaps you could be kept out of it. It was classified at the department, I was forbidden to tell you. For the record, I never really thought that was a good idea." He looked guiltily up at Harry. "My work for the ministry involves studying that charm, Harry. We didn't really know a whole lot about it, it was mostly goblin magic, all keys and security. We were looking at ways to break them out of the prison, so that we could see how that could be prevented. You understand?"

Harry nodded. He knows how, and now his father arrives at my apartment, telling us that he let him loose.

They sat in silence for a while. Harry walked over to the window, half staring at his own reflection, and half looking beyond it, out into the quiet night. From this vantage point, nothing seemed wrong with the world at all. He rubbed his chin. "And?"

Draco went on. "The charm gives keys to those who touch it…by keys, I mean, the charm will recognize those who touch it, it will obey those who have touched it. Unless it's in use, then it shuts down. You see how brilliant it is? Empty, it's harmless looking and easily hidden. Once you called it that night, Harry, it boosted your energy and helped you, directed you, to use it to rid yourself of Voldemort. But after it's filled, no one else can get a key to it. Even if a Death Eater had picked it up afterwards, it wouldn't have mattered, you see? Even with it in their possession they wouldn't have been able to break him free. Do you remember when you touched the stone, Harry? The first time? It sends a kind of charge through you, it takes a kind of bloodprint, like a fingerprint, so that it will recognize only the people who touched before Voldemort was imprisoned. Those who touched it could hear it, but no one else."

Harry considered this. He did remember the stone sending a kind of jolt through him. "But Voldemort could hear it."

"Yes, but he had no blood of his own, it was all yours, and you had touched it."

"You heard it, too. Didn't you?" Harry didn't look at him.

Draco shut his eyes tight. He didn't like thinking about this, but there was no point in leaving out details at this point. He wondered if he could cushion the realization Harry was certain to have. "Yes. I heard it because of the potion. I heard it in your head. You see how important this makes you even more important than before, you and the rest. It was recognized that this was a risk, Harry. Someone could throw an Imperius curse on any one of the people who had touched the stone and bring Voldemort back in a heartbeat, it left you very vulnerable. The ministry has been keeping a close eye on you for years, a standard Imperius curse won't work on you for that reason. You could also have be abducted and tortured, objects turned to port keys dropped in your path, they could have possessed you again, you name it. It's all been tried. And it had all failed. Until now."

Harry hmmed. "But not only me, who else? Dumbledore handed it to me…"

Draco nodded. "You, Dumbledore, Hemsley, the goblin who created it, and me, Harry. I was carrying in the end." He rubbed his temples.

"…so. It had to be one of the four of us, who freed him."

"Ostensibly, yes."

"What do we know about this goblin?" Harry saw where the line of blame was pointing, but his mind refused to take that path for the moment. It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be. Not again.

"He died two years ago."

"Then…couldn't someone have…cut us, taking our blood, dropped the charm in a jar of…I mean, I've donated blood before, or, a polyjuice potion–"

"No, Harry." Draco looked up, watching Harry push his palms into the glass. "It doesn't work that way. It has to be someone whose blood, all of it, belongs one of the four of us. Looking like us wouldn't help. They would have to have no blood in their veins that didn't belong to one of us, and only one of us."

Harry turned, facing him. "So…"

Draco sighed again, heavily. "I know what it looks like. I knew all this. I'm the one whose father is in there. I'm the former Death Eater. It looks like it was me who did this. But Harry." He looked up into Harry's face, heart breaking at seeing his doubt, his uncertainty. "I didn't. I don't know who did it, but I know it wasn't me. They must have found a way…a way around the charm's limits."

Harry pursed his lips, thinking. He turned, hands and forehead against the glass, looking down at the street below. A man with a bowler and a trenchcoat was walking on the slick, wet sidewalk, turned left into an alley, and disappeared. He saw a cat walking from one stoop to the next, momentarily glowing silver in a pool of light from a lamp post. "And tonight….he wanted to know where you were."

Draco looked up at the ceiling. He knew there was no reasonable way to talk around this. He knew how guilty he looked. Dumbledore believed his claims of innocence, but how could Harry? After everything that had happened? Draco knew that were their roles reversed, he would have slaughtered himself where he sat, bloodying up the bedsheets and causing an even further commotion at the little Potter/Weasley party. "Yes. I assume it came through me somehow, but I have no idea how it could have been done. We've been working on alternate ways, ways to get around the bloodprint, but we haven't found one. Harry, you know that…" He stopped. He had been about to say, you know I would never hurt you. You know I love you. You know I would rather die. Harry knew none of this. Draco could tell him, but it made no difference. Trust wasn't knowledge, after all. There was nothing he could say to force Harry to trust him. That could only be demonstrated, and Draco knew full well he had yet to demonstrate trustworthiness. He had already played this card with Harry. No matter how hard he tried, the blood on his hands was painfully obvious.

"Oh, hell." His heart dropped into the soles of his feet. "You have no reason to believe me, and certainly no reason to trust me. I understand that you're going to be suspicious. You should be, okay? I understand that. I didn't do this, I wouldn't do this, but I don't blame you if you can't help but hate me for it. You have every right. I'm still working on finding answers. I'll talk to Dumbledore in the morning."

He sighed, and stood. "I should go, it's late." He walked toward the door and put a hand on the doorknob. Harry was still standing by the window, looking into the night. He didn't turn, keeping his eyes trained on the red lights of a car in the distance, driving slowing down a dark street. He knew to be wary. He had always known, since seeing Draco again at Three Broomsticks, that he needed to be wary. Draco could be corrupted so easily. He knew that in Draco's mind it was Harry who was the innocent, but this wasn't about innocence at all. Harry couldn't be corrupted, and Draco had been corrupted before he could spell the word. Harry knew that Draco could lead him to his death, even unwittingly, perhaps especially so. But like this? Harry had seen Draco a matter of hours after his visions began; Dumbledore trusted him. Bringing Voldemort back, along with Lucius, made Draco's life far more difficult. Draco himself was probably in just as much danger as Harry was himself. But aside from that, he had been kind to Ron tonight. Harry had seen it, and he had been touched. He didn't feel certain, not certain at all, but he realized that nothing was ever certain with Draco, not his mood, his desires, his motivations, but he felt certain enough.

"Stay." Harry said. He pressed the palm of his hand against the glass.

Draco stopped. Harry had never asked him to stay. So many nights they were laughing, stumbling home, Draco's lips on Harry's neck, Harry's hands in his hair, or flying about while he gestured madly, arguing, debating, outright fighting; or simply being, quietly drinking each other in; those still nights when he pressed Harry's wrists into his mattress, a nipple between his teeth, Harry's warm thigh against his hip, under his lips, those myopic eyes studying him, pleading passionately with him, teasing him, Harry had never asked him to stay. He waited until a quiet moment, when Draco was spent, when he himself was sated, and then he rose, almost apologetically, and gave him that boyish half-grin. He gave no excuses, ever. "I have to go," he'd say, no "I have an early morning," or "Ron will wonder," or "I forgot my toothbrush." No lies with Harry. The truth was easier. He had to go, because he couldn't stay. Draco didn't come here, Ron didn't need or want a front row seat for their escapades. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he had even stood inside Harry's bedroom.

Why now? Is this some form of Gryffindor pity? Boy sees ghost of halfdead father, gets what he has most wanted? Harry must know that he has been craving this, to have him entirely, to watch him sleep, peaceful, unharmed, unbetrayed, to never let him go. To wake up still certain that he was welcome, that he was still forgiven. To wake up and be able to see that he trusts me.

"Scared of the dark?" he sneered, and instantly regretted it. He paused, hand on the doorknob, watching Harry stare out the window, watching his own reflection sneer back at him. He hated it just then. "I'm not sure I'm very good company tonight, to be frank." He turned the doorknob and opened the door, but didn't move. Please. Please forgive me. Again.

Harry sighed, and turned from the window, arms crossed over his chest. "I'll take my chances," he said, crossing the room and closing the door.

The next morning, Ron opened Harry's bedroom door with the Daily Prophet in his hand. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Harry's got to see this. He opened his mouth to wake Harry, and nearly yelped instead. The first thing he saw, rather than Harry's messy head of hair poking out underneath his blankets, was Draco's sleeping face. Harry's familiar mop of hair was resting on Draco chest. Ron noted the way that Draco had wrapped his arms around Harry, the gentleness of it, and the severity. As though someone might pull them apart at any moment. Ron shook his head. Suddenly Draco's eyes flew open.

"Can I help you, Weasley?" He said quietly.

"I…uh…I just wanted to…uh…show Harry the paper." He dropped it quickly on the bedside table, knocking Harry's glasses off onto the floor. He scooted back and quickly and shut the door quickly.

Draco shook his head. He grabbed the paper, trying to avoid disturbing the sleeping form that covered two-thirds of his body. He didn't want anything to ever disturb that form, if he could help it. He glanced at the front page, and looked straight at an angry-looking picture of himself. The headline read, "Former Death Eater Prime Suspect in Return of YKW." He sighed, and felt Harry shift, waking slowly. He threw the paper on the floor and wrapped his arms back around Harry, praying that these slow morning moments could last forever.

7 June Rennie

When Lucius woke, he was looking up at a familiar ceiling. His mind felt remarkably clear, which was a foreign sensation. He heard no strange voices, no thoughts that weren't his own invaded his head. He did not feel disembodied, torn to shreds, confined, controlled, occupied, conquered or ravaged. He recognized that he was in Malfoy Manor, in his own bed. He could feel cool, clean sheets against his feet. His eyes were gummy, his limbs tired and sore, and he felt resolutely sure that he was not insane. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Draco? He felt his presence in an odd way, as if he could smell Draco's skin, but not see his face, as if he could almost hear his voice lingering in a room he had recently vacated, as if he had been recently touched, and the warmth of his son's fingers remained on his arm. He has been here, he has been with me. He rescued me. I knew he would find a way. Lucius felt proud, relieved. All is not lost.

He heard movement beyond his range of vision, but his body was far too weak for him to turn his head. "Draco?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. He heard crisp feet moving toward him, and saw Narcissa's face looking into his.

"Lucius. Welcome home." She caressed his cheek. The sensation was almost overwhelming. He eyes fluttered shut, and he felt his brain mercifully shutting down. "We have a great deal of work to do…"

June Rennie saw the Daily Prophet when she came into work. She often came in on the weekends, it gave her a chance to catch up on the research she didn't want to do in front of the others. She had her ambitions, after all. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing Draco's picture splayed out in the paper, positively snarling up at her. It wasn't the most flattering picture. He looked very young and very angry; a stock photo, no doubt. Everyone knew about his past, of course. It was well-known that he was a former Death Eater; truth be told, this was one of the most valuable things about him to his team. He knew things that made even the bravest of them quake to hear. Of course, given his recent history, the fact that he was one of the remaining three with a key to Voldemort's prison, he was also a subject of their various spells and counter spells of protection. That protection, of course, was for him and from him. Even in the department, few people really trusted him. June herself had at one point been responsible for finding spells to prevent Draco from using his power to conjure his father.

She had also had a crush on him from the moment he had first wandered into their department offices.

No one could blame her, of course. He was a beautiful man. Certainly, he could be an absolute jerk, he could be endlessly brutal. But it was that trace of sadness in his eyes, underscored by a hint of defiance, that appealed to her. She had been at Hogwarts, too, of course. She had been a Slytherin, she had seen him sitting angrily in the common room, fingers steepled in front of him. He had always seemed so small, so delicate, so hard and sharp at the same time. She had laughed at his jokes, when he was in the mood to be amusing. She had graduated two years before he did, though. He was young and, while noting his beauty, his graceful motion, his sheer moneyed presence, she had never thought of him the way she did now.

She had seen him once in a muggle bar, more than a year ago now, drinking like the sun might not rise in the morning. His fine hair was mussed, his silvery eyes (such strange, intense, dramatic eyes) had been unfocused. She had pulled up a stool next to him, put her hand on his knee. She did have her ambitions, after all. He had looked up at her sharply then, almost confused, but not quite. He wasn't stupid, this one. Oh no. Even if he hadn't been the top of his class (She had done her homework, and school records were the easiest to pilfer for an Unspeakable), he paid attention, he listened, he watched. He had looked at her, her hand sliding up his thigh, with a kind of incredulity, a kind of question. Almost scoffing, but not quite. He didn't look at her hand, but focused those unfocused eyes on hers, unblinking. She leaned in and kissed him. He didn't resist. Eventually he responded, slowly, as though his lips were recovering a long, cold winter.

She had taken him to her flat. She wasn't even sure where his was, and he didn't offer up any information. It had been strange, cold, but fluid, matter-of-fact. There were no secrets in his motion, he was no fumbling, confused, heart-broken drunk. He was certainly no virign, but she hadn't expected him to be, certainly, though he was still very young. He had given her what she wanted from him, he was attentive, quite skillful, in fact. She had come without calling out his name, and he without saying anything at all. He had buried his head in her shoulder, breathing softly, and she knew then, with a bit of a shock, that he was profoundly sad. Already then she had known, though she had not admitted it until some time later, that her place in his thoughts had been fleeting; even then she had the distinct sense that his hot breath against her neck, even that, belonged to someone else. When she lied to herself, which was often, she agreed that she was not hurt by this. It was, after all, only a crush. He was beautiful, indeed, but he was so distant, so cold, so coldly charming, it wasn't as if she thought she might be able to love him, if she had wanted to, if she had tried. Certainly not. She held him with the same distance and he held her, that night, in each other arms. After a short time, he rose. He sighed, and said nothing, dressed, she rolled over to face him, her hair spilling over the pillow. He nodded rather blankly, and said something trite ("That was nice, I'll see you in the morning, maybe we can have coffee.") which she barely registered, and he left. She remembered hearing the door latch, his footsteps on the wooden steps outside. And she curled herself into a ball, trying to replace the heat she had shared with that cold figure.

And now he stood accused. June had known it was coming. It had been two weeks, two weeks since word broke that the charm had been taken. Faces darkened. Draco was an expert on the charm, of course, they all were. So few people knew anything at all about it. Most wizards wouldn't know this kind of charm if it were swinging in front of their noses; it was a goblin charm, after all. Everyone in the department had had to become fluent in their strange language in order to read the sources on the charm. Draco's pronunciation was careful and quite good. He knew just how to call the charm, how to open it, how to give You-Know-Who corporeal form again. He was the only one in the department, however, who could actually do it. June shivered. Had he done it? Was there much doubt? Harry Potter certainly hadn't. Even on the basis of his reputation alone June knew this was true. Dumbledore, well, there was no question there. Draco seemed the only candidate for such a betrayal. And they knew, they knew, there was no way around that bloodprint key. They had tried everything. Hackers of magical objects, they had many brilliant minds among the Unspeakables who could do things that would make your hair curl. But this, this had been an surmountable challenge. Bloodprints were powerful keys, so simple, and yet impossible to surpass.

But why? June shook her head. This summer, when Draco had been doing research in Ukraine, his mother visited. June had been working, she had been the only person in the office that day. It had been one of those glorious summer days, the kind that artists paint pictures of, as if it were typical. The bluest sky, blue and high and deep. June had been reading old scrolls when she entered. Narcissa Malfoy. She looked older than the pictures June had seen, but very much like her son. June felt a twinge and rubbed her belly absently.

"Hello," Narcissa Malfoy had said politely. Her voice was soft and gentle, and each syllable seemed like an effort, a polite, generous offer. "I'm looking for Draco Malfoy."

Narcissa Malfoy was an enigma. She had married one the top Death Eaters; doubtless she had attended, and hosted, enough dinner parties with You-Know-Who himself as guest of honour that she could likely recite his preferences in salad dressings and cuts of meat. June imagined that she was the sort of woman who had a special set of china for the times when the Dark Lord came to dine at her Manor. Looking at her now, she clearly had a series of outfits for those occaisions. That day, she had donned a smart blue sweater set and an elegant pair of grey slacks, pearls around her neck, diamonds in her ears. Her hair was impeccable.

June had looked up just her scrolls and smiled cryptically. "Mr. Malfoy is abroad for work, I'm afraid. We are expecting him back in the next few days, however." June had never, in fact, used Draco's given name, other than in her head. She had had endless conversations with him in her head, in which she dropped the name constantly. Oh, Draco, she would say. You're so droll, Draco dear. Ds abounded in her imagination.

Narcissa had furrowed her brow. "Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that." She said sadly, wringing her hands and looking pleadingly at June. "I'm only in London for a short time. I'm his mother, you know. I wondered, if it would be alright if…" she looked pained. June worked her memory quickly, What kind of relationship does Draco have with his mother? Was Narcissa under investigation? June wasn't certain. Investigations weren't her department. She vaguely remembered something, a search, disovering that she was a beautiful, but rather dumb blonde with a penchant for difficult men. She had never been to a meeting, a gathering, a hit, or anything else the Death Eaters had ever planned, as far as Ministry was aware. Oh yes, June remembered it now. Narcissa, the engima. How can you get that close to evil, sit next to it on the chaise lounge, serve it wine and hors d'oeuvres, and not get ensnared? What does it make you?

"I wondered if I might just have a look at his office. It's been…quite some time." June considered this. Had Draco not even owled his mother? Visited her, checked to see how she was? His father disappears into a small goblin charm and he leaves her to her devices. Men. They didn't give much thought to the feelings of the women in their lives, June knew it. She smiled.

"Certainly, you can have a glance. There's nothing sensitive in there." She lead her back toward Draco's office, which was behind a thick red wood door. It unlocked with a quiet snick sound, and she stood in the doorway, letting Narcissa have a look inside. She trembled slightly. June smiled more warmly, seeing the emotions playing out on Narcissa's face. Pride, sadness, hope, desperation.

"I see he keeps his Quidditch trophies here. I'm glad. He was always so proud of them." Narcissa sniffled, opening her handbag and reaching for a hankerchief. She pulled out a delicate, lacy cloth and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and, in the confusion of her emotions, dropped her handbag into Draco's office.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she said, collapsing quickly to her knees and picking up the items that had dropped. Small squares of paper, a wallet, some photos of a young Draco sitting on her lap. She picked up a photo, smiled weakly, and passed it to June. "You see him? Wasn't he beautiful?" She began to tell June about the day the photo was taken, how pleased she had been, because she had had such a hard time getting pregnant, she rambled, how the photographer had told her that no one photorgraphed quite as well as her son, how much he looked like his mother, and June felt sorry for her. She had lost so much. She stared at the picture, watching the defiant, unhappy-looking child sneering at her. She nodded and smiled at Narcissa.

Narcissa, still talking, removed a small silver sphere from her purse. "Do you see how sharp his eyes look?" She said, watching June's eyes trained on the image. She rolled the small sphere noiselessly under Draco's desk, and continued gathering the rest of her belongings. "From the day he was born he had the most remarkable eyes. I think they come from my great-grandfather, that's what my mother told me." She wiiped her eyes and stood.

"Goodness, so many stories…thank you, my dear, for letting me see his office. I don't mean to be such a bother…" June smiled, told Narcissa that it was no bother at all, and that she should enjoy her stay in London, had she been in to Diagon Alley yet, they had some lovely new items on the Leaky Cauldron menu, chatting easily and aimlessly as lead Narcissa back out to the front entrance.

"Thank you June, dear." Narcissa had said, her weak voice matching her lukewarm but genuine smile. "You are a lovely girl." June smiled, waved, and shut the door behind the slender woman. It was an hour later, after June had re-immersed herself in the scroll, that she realized that she had never told Narcissa her name.

But that had been some time ago. June wondered at it; she had had a hint then at how cold Draco was. When he had returned from Ukraine, he had shrugged indifferently at her story about Narcissa's visit. She had been tempted to ask him to contact her, but realized, that not only was it none of her business, but he would probably tell her so in no uncertain terms. Draco was profoundly private, an unknown quantity. Their one, strange night together did not make their working together awkward in the least, as it seemed to have vanished from Draco's mind altogether.

She looked down now at the memo beside her copy of the Daily Prophet. It was from their supervisor, written with his regular terse scrawl. June, please owl Mr. Malfoy. Under the circumstances, it would be best if he stay away from the department, until this blows over. Don't be accusatory until we have firmer evidence. And June, Be prepared an emergency meeting Monday morning.So. As June expected, the back up plan was put in place. Keep Draco out of the office. Finally. The last couple of weeks they had been tiptoeing around, keeping the latest discoveries from him, feeding him a handful of lies. They were tests, and June at least knew that Draco knew it. She breathed a sigh of relief, and bit her lip with concern at the same time. She dipped her quill in ink, and wrote the letter. He would not be pleased, she surmised.

8 Morning lemon

Cold. Tingling , demanding pinprick cold, inching inwards, spiraling outwards, engulfing, overwhelming. Eyes torn out and dripping. Pleasure in small pieces, flesh, my own flesh. Fingernails, carefully manicured. Thin, strong legs, long eyelashes, soft hair. Two heartbeats, asymmetrical. One mind split in half, two minds made whole. War.

Harry woke slowly, with the now-familiar images filling his head. They burned into his brain, more terrifying than they ought to be, objectively, but less so than they had been. Along with images, sensations, vague traces of thoughts was the inexorable knowing of whom they belonged to. What haunted him most about these moments, these early morning, half-awake, moment when he still half wrestled with sleep, was the sensation that he was not Harry Potter anymore, not entirely. There was a part of him that was Voldemort, and even the long course of potions could not completely stave it off. He must be drugged in order to be himself, and this realization struck him still, morning after morning.

At the same time, over the course of the last two weeks he had managed to gain a degree of control over these visions, sensations, apprehensions. He could experience them without collapse or falling into complete delusion. It had been the potions that made this possible; Draco had mixed up variations on its original theme, with increasingly positive results. His latest alteration simply made it taste better, which he developed at Harry's request. Dumbledore had kept a close eye on Harry. When Draco had altered the potion to allow Harry call up and dismiss his portal into Voldemort's brain on command, Dumbledore had been nominally pleased, but worried. "Goblin magic is notoriously unpredictable, Draco."

"I know it, I know it. I'm not taking any risks with Harry's heath, I assure you. Of all the matrixes involved, the one I've based this on, the Uglukai, is one of the most stable, it's stability underlies most of goblin magic. Since this," here he held open his hand, eyes focussed on his palm, "Gjekspfah, Jonsig Tewjiek." A small, green stone appeared in Draco's hand. He breathed on it slowly, and said, "Hoi!" making it disappear again. "Since that invocation and dismissal will always work, its matrix being the very stable heart of Goblin magic, the–"

"Alright, Draco, alright!" Dumbledore raised his hands, laughing. He was pleased to still see the sparkle of drive in his eyes. Long ago, Draco had found that he had talents other than those in the Dark Arts. Dumbledore had decided that it would be best if he could foster those talents, and help the Ministry at the same time. It had been a struggle, of course, getting Draco into the Ministry in the first place, and Dumbledore's suggestion that he be an Unspeakable, that he work with the magic he had come to be obsessed with under Dumbledore's care, was the tallest of tall orders. In other times the suggestion might have been dismissed summarily. It had been Hemsley himself, the goblin charm-maker and master of goblin magical arts, who had vouched for Draco, and in the end, it was probably his word that forced them to fulfill Dumbledore's request.

When Voldemort had been defeated, Hemsley had remained at Hogwarts for some time, watching over the charm itself, explaining its properties, discussing the need for a team to work on its defense. He watched Draco recover with a kind of horror; long lines of scabs, punctured and torn flesh across Draco's body slowly healed and became clean again. He watched as that nearly translucent skin turned slowly opaque, coloured white as if it returned to a state of unsullied purity. When he woke, he was broken. Hemsley had shuddered seeing him then. It is a horrible thing to witness the destruction of a mind, and Hemsley himself believed that Draco would go mad. But he did not. Instead, he became obsessed, and it was at that point that Hemsley came to like and admire the boy. Draco had become obsessed with goblin magic.

After weeks turned to months of watching him in the hospital wing, poring over dusty and forgotten books brought to him from Hogwarts library, from the rare book room, helping him learn to speak Goblin, answering his near-endless questions, seeing his torment, his guilt, his regret written and rewritten by the curve of his lip, the motion of his eyes, Hemsley had felt his horror at his betrayal turn to pity.

Dumbledore had felt pity as well, pity and triumph. He had no doubts, he had always sensed it, that just beneath the surface Draco had too stout of heart to be one of Voldemort's minions. Was it Draco's ability to love, simply to love, that had convinced him? He wasn't certain. But he had been sure, even when Draco was a small, hateful boy full of spite and anger and viciousness, that there could be so much more to him. That corrupt as he was, there was still something left in him untouched, and, of all people, it had been Harry Potter who had been the one to touch it. Human hearts had keys as well, and Dumbledore knew, longer, he suspected, than Draco himself had known, that Harry would hold a special key to Draco's heart as long as it was still beating.

"Just be careful, and keep me informed." Dumbledore smiled broadly at the two boys, one acknowledged by those few in the know as the ultimate master of goblin magic in the wizarding world, the other, Harry Potter, who looked worried but healthy and happy. These would be trying times, but perhaps we are, all of us, prepared to be tested. "Perhaps we should be teaching Goblin magic at Hogwarts now."

Draco snorted. "They'd have to start with Goblin linguistics, and I'm sure no one will be terribly interested in that." But he smiled, and Harry saw a bit of colour spreading into his cheeks. This was his passion, Harry realized. How did he not know this? This was where his gifts lay. He had absorbed a whole other world of magic, he had answers to questions most wizards didn't know how to formulate.

Now, breathing evenly into Draco's chest, Harry understood. Draco was an expert in goblin magic because it was goblin magic that had saved them both. It was a realm completely outside the purview of his father, the Death Eaters, Voldemort. It was not dark magic, it was not endless, stinking potions that turned him inside out. Draco had turned his mind to goblin magic because if he believed, he hoped, that if he knew it well enough he could save Harry, save himself, though he hadn't been strong enough, wise enough, to do so before. He could cover over his guilt. Contribute. Hide. Protect Harry rather than betray him. Harry sighed.

For Harry, everything was both easier and harder. He knew Draco wrestled with his guilt, but for the most part Harry forgot about this, because it was not his to remember, and because he couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to have betrayed someone he loved. Not understanding it, it had been easy to overlook. He skidded along the surface, day to day, revealing himself completely, because he had nothing to hide, and he feared very little. He was wary of Draco's ability to betray him, but he not afraid. Harry loved him without knowing how far he could be trusted, knowing that Draco himself could not know what it would take to ensure his betrayal.

Draco had everything to hide, much to fear, and played a part dictated by his past, his ancestry, his stubbornness, his flaws and his strengths. He played the part of the reserved, suave, self-possessed, elegantly witty and refined young man. He would never crawl on his knees, begging for forgiveness, no matter how desperately he longed to. His pride was as much a part of him as his guilt. In quiet moments like these, lying here in silence, half-asleep, Harry had a glimpse of what Draco hid from him day to day. The quiet sadness, desperation, longing, the things he required from Harry that had gone so long unfulfilled that they were an almost physical characteristic, his ruffled dignity, his undying devotion; these were the things Voldemort had seen in him. It was these that marked his weaknesses, and also, Harry suspected, the location of a strength Draco didn't know he had. Harry knew that Draco loved him. Recently, he had come to suspect that this emotion ran far, far deeper inside him than Harry had understood. That his love for Harry had been with him so long that it was in his marrow, swam determinedly in his blood, underlay the structure of his skin, the pattern of his veins. Harry had never meant to be unkind, he had never meant to be cruel.

Draco felt Harry waking against his skin. He felt his eyelashes (such lovely, long, dark eyelashes) brushing against his chest. No, no, not yet. Don't let it be over just yet. He clung to Harry in a way that he would never want it known that he had clung to anything. He heard Harry sigh, and felt that warm breath against his chest. Any moment now, he will lift his head, and he will say "good morning," being the gentleman that he is. And I will smile at him, he will stir and rise, and this long embrace will end.

Draco surmised that Harry was about half awake when he started to suck on Draco's nipples. Perhaps about half awake. Draco stroked his back, lying still, enjoying the sensation of Harry moving lithely yet sleepily across his body, his increasing arousal pressed reassuringly into Draco's thigh. In the mornings, Harry's thoughts turned sexual. Draco's, on the other hand, turned philosophical. Not a bad match, Draco considered. Harry was sleepily tracing patterns across Draco's skin, working his way down his torso. Draco imagined that, in spite of the horrors brought to him by Voldemort, Harry had profoundly peaceful dreams. This gentle waking, this morning desire, spoke of a kind of peace Draco hadn't know in a very long time, if he ever had. Harry woke without ferocity, without sharpness or fear. He woke with a smile on his lips, with a desire for submission without conquest. Draco considered the idea that Harry was either simply unconcerned about his degrees of power, or he was so powerful that he had no need to wonder at it or question it. He decided the truth was very likely both.

Harry sat up on top of him, grinning lopsidedly, now entirely awake. Draco rose to meet him, pulled him into his arms, kissed him ferociously, as if he didn't need to breathe, as if he would never need to breathe again. Harry pressed his shoulders back down onto the mattress, his lips still entwined with Draco's. When their lips parted, Harry's hands against Draco's chest, their eyes locked for a moment, within the short distance of Harry's vision. Draco could read words in those eyes as easily as he could hear them from his lips. There is much to you, you are such a challenge to me. I have taken up many challenges, and I have yet to be back down from one. I will not back down from you. Harry sat up, ran one hand down the length of Draco's body, reached down an picked up something off the floor, and then wrapped his fingers around Draco's patient erection, and shuffled his body down so that his cheek rested softly against Draco's inner thigh.

Harry was ultimately gentle, Draco mused, feeling Harry's tongue teasing him, easing into him, opening him, greeting him. What Harry did not know about Draco was the multitude of ways that he could, and had, come. Not that Draco felt any particular need to tell him. Draco had come being fucked in the lubricant of his own blood, dripping down his thighs; he had come with a knife against his throat, with bruises rising across his body, bound, gagged, screaming and certain he would die afterwards. He had come in situations most people, including himself, would consider rape. He had come with knees bloodied, full of wooden shards from a rough floor, and the hilt of a fourteenth century sword embedded inside him. He had come begging for mercy, begging for his life, begging to be allowed to breathe.

Draco closed his eyes as he felt Harry press the tip of his tongue into him. Harry would not understand that kind of violence. He would not understand how Draco could climax while enduring it either, how he could be flipped on his stomach and skewered, torn and bleeding, and come lavishly. He did not crave the violence of it, per se, but knew what his body could endure. He knew that on the other side of pain, even horrific pain, was a kind of pleasure, a kind of release it is difficult to quantify. Harry would not understand it, would not participate in it. Draco found this thought neither reassuring nor disappointing. It was merely a fact.

Harry's softness, his supreme tenderness, was a kind of brutality in itself, Draco mused, feeling Harry's hot tongue moving deeply inside of him, feeling his own moans rumbling in his belly, purring like a cat. Violence forces you into a state of submission, and Gods, did Harry's tongue, his fingers still playing carefully and teasingly against his erection, ever subdue him. Here he was, quietly frenzied, splayed open, a sacrificial lamb, willing and groaning with pleasure. Whatever Harry wanted, Draco would give it to him in these moments. He felt emotionally defenseless. Harry's delicate ministrations made him feel as if he had no bones, no other desire within him. Harry needed no violence, no gags or restraints, no knives, whips, or threats to hold Draco in thrall like this. He was destroyed by that sweetness, that gentle softness, by Harry's ability to find a thousand variations of pressure in the touch of a single finger against his skin.

Draco felt Harry withdraw, slowly, his lips leaving him last, and then felt a skin-warmed fluid against him, the tip of one oily finger, then two. He felt his hips moving against Harry's fingers, pulling them inside him. He felt Harry add a third finger, and felt him shudder against his thigh. Draco had long known the difference between being a top and being a bottom. Are you butch, or are you femme? It had been a taunt once. The power was in the top, of course; topping meant you called the shots, you forced others open, they were required to receive you. You decided when, where, and how. You decided whether the other got to come or not, and when and how they did. He had learned that a smart top keeps his partners on their stomachs, where they cannot see him, reach for him, make any demands. A smart top keeps his lovers under control.

What was odd about Harry was that Draco wasn't so sure if he understood this dynamic at all, or if he was a master of it. Harry did not seem to ask for Draco's submission, but he got it more surely than if he had held his wand against his temple and screamed for it. Harry was shifting forward, slipping his fingers out of him, resting them carefully against his waist, positioning his hips. Draco loved this part. He reached down and touched Harry, hot and slickened, guiding him forward into him, stroking him, feeling Harry inching into him so slowly, so thoughtfully, that it almost moved Draco to tears. It was in those moments that Draco's careful boundaries collapsed. Bottom, yes. In control, yes. Out of control, yes. Here logic failed him.

He couldn't watch Harry in these moments, moving so slowly, entering into him, consuming him, panting with desire, with heat, with the shock of sensations moving at his agonizingly wonderful pace. He couldn't watch him. Not yet. It was too overwhelming, too shocking, too brutal. There was too much raw truth, raw emotion, raw Harry there, to look at him would be like staring into the sun. Draco couldn't entirely comprehend that he could possibly be wholly at Harry's mercy, and then watch him base his rhythms, his every motion, the pace of his breath, the very beating of his heart, entirely on him. The role reversal was too much for him; he wasn't sure who he was in this. He wasn't sure whether he was powerful or powerless.

On one hand, Draco understood that by allowing this, by letting Harry fuck him the way he did, he was offering up his jugular. I am yours, this action said. I am yours and you may kill me if you so desire. Draco meant this, of course. But Harry didn't seem to understand this simple statement of submission, written in the meek resignation, the compliant yielding of his limbs resting nestled against Harry's sheets. Or, he chose not to accept it. Instead, Harry pressed himself forward, so tenderly he made Draco mew like an infant, with such generosity, with such humility and honour and devotion, that it seemed as if he had instead read Draco's body as saying you are mine and I will receive you. You are mine and I will let you go when I am ready.

Harry came in waves, hot and sweet, crying out as he always did. Draco carried the sound of that wanton cry around with him all day after he had heard it. For hours it lingered in his ears, distracted him from his work. In the beginning, when Harry had first consented to crawl into Draco's bed with him, Draco had been next to useless the following day, though he pretended that he was having trouble deciphering a particular scroll, claimed headaches, illness, insufficient sleep. He had not been able to even momentarily erase the sight of Harry writhing beneath him, his lopsided grin, that cry, those delicious moans, the tensing and relaxing of a thousand muscles pressed against him. Those lips, that tongue, those hands, thighs, his weeping, pulsing erection, all left indelible marks on Draco's soul. For days after that first time, that first time after he had been forgiven, he saw nothing else when he shut his eyes.

And now that cry filled his ears again, and Draco felt it reverberate through him, writing messages on his sinews and tendons, stroking his ego, his soul, organizing his thoughts around itself, preparing for the siege of the day, preparing to hold dominance over all other sounds, all other sensations. It was a sound that etched itself into the matter of his brain. Harry collapsed, quivering, into Draco, who held him with his eyes shut tight. Harry breathed deeply, still shaking for several moments, enveloped in Draco's arms, enveloped in Draco. After a short respite, Harry shifted himself down again, taking Draco's throbbing erection into his mouth, pressing two careful fingers inside him, finding just the right spot, nudging him from one plane of existence into another. The gentleman that he is, Draco thought, as he felt his own orgasm surge through him, teeter for a moment on a plateau of sheer anticipation and bliss, held there by the gentleness of Harry's tongue, the firm grip of his hands, and then down, pulsating through and out of him. He heard a roaring, like seashells pressed against his ears and he lost track of his limbs, his hips bucking senselessly, his mind temporarily seizing, refusing to give him control. He heard himself speak throaty words, and hoped they weren't comprehensible. He hoped they weren't as raw and rawly pathetic as they must be, as he felt himself caught entirely open, entirely submitting, entirely in love, overcome and wholly within and outside himself at the same time. Again his arms were full of Harry. They breathed, shivered, mingled sweat.

Yes, there were a multitude of ways that Draco could, and had, come. And this way, beautifully, frighteningly, comfortingly, in the hands of such tenderness, was not the least challenging.

Harry nuzzled Draco's neck, his breath still ragged. Draco didn't want to move. Not yet, he pleaded. Don't let this be over just yet. Harry rolled over to one side, and looking at Draco with that lopsided grin, head propped up lazily on one hand, and said, "good morning." He had a lovely, gruff, beautifully sexy morning voice. Draco smiled, both pleased and sad.

9 Veritas

Hermione dropped a manila envelope on the coffee table, followed by a file folder covered in gray, inky fingerprints. "Draco," she said, settling herself down into an armchair in front of her archives and picking up her tea cup, "why don't you tell us about your mother."

"My mother?" Draco looked incredulous. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the couch. "Why on earth do you want to know about her, and why should I—"

"Alright," Hermione said sharply, looking tired and frazzled. Her hair was damp from the rain outside, her hands cold and trembling a little. She had hardly slept. She was terrified, angry, and desperate after the events of the last week. She had no patience for Draco Malfoy's pride. "Question and answer then. First: is your mother a Death Eater?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "Is this some kind of repayment for all those mudblood comments? Because I—"

"You're hardly in a position to get haughty with us, Malfoy." Ron shot Draco a dark look across the table, putting a hand on Hermione's shoulder at the use of the term 'mudblood'. "Don't you ever use that word in this flat again, do you understand? If it weren't for Dumbledore and Harry you'd be snogging a Dementor about now. Just get on with it."

Draco said nothing. Ron was, unfortunately, right. The last week and a half had been outrageously awful. That first article in the Daily Prophet had not only condemned Draco, but had also effectively announced the return of Voldemort, which until that point had been left to the realm of private knowing and general rumour. In the weeks previous there had been a series of interviews with former Death Eaters who had noted the burning in their Marks that day, which had certainly raised eyebrows. Pointing a finger at Draco was more tabloid rumour than real accusation, and probably would have blown over, had it not been for the events that followed directly thereafter. There had been four Death Eater attacks, all in the London area, killing twenty-one people. All of them but one had been Muggle-born wizards, caught on their way home to their families, at sporting events, or visiting with friends. The only non-muggle born wizard on the death toll was a thirteen year old Hogwarts student, home visiting her ailing grandmother. She had tried to stop two Death Eaters who had appeared in her grandmother's garden, presumably set to attack her neighbours. All that remained of her was a wand, broken, a torn robe, and a fair amount of blood on the grass.

Somehow classified information was being leaked to the press, without any concrete details. It was generally understood that Voldemort's tricky prison could only be unlocked by a small number of elite and trusted ministry officials, and, as if due to his own evil intentions, also by Death Eater Draco Malfoy. The word 'former' had dropped from his public appellation. Crowds had clamoured for his arrest, which had not come. Dumbledore and Harry had vouched for him in a special tribunal, and along with a search of his possessions, a dose of veritaserum, and several stern inquisitions, the ministry officials had let him go, insisting, however, that he not leave London, and that he make no attempts to prevent ministry monitoring. There had been numerous threats to Draco's life, and two actual attempts on it. His flat had been sacked, his front door ripped from its hinges, his office was torn into pieces. For the last five days he had been staying at Harry and Ron's flat in secret.

Fortunately for Ron, however, Draco hadn't actually been that troublesome, particularly after they had worked a couple of things out. He was morose, angry, and snapped at the slightest thing, of course, but Ron actually understood that. He spent most of his time sitting at Harry's desk next to the kitchen, poring over large books filled with strange writing. Occasionally Ron would hear a pop or a bang, see flashing lights from his direction, and some grumbling cursing. Day by day he looked more frustrated.

One major advantage Ron saw to having Draco stay over was the marked improvement in their meals. The first day Draco had spent alone in the flat Ron had returned home early in the afternoon to find the place smelling of yeast and frying bacon. Pulling off his coat, he saw Draco in the kitchen, wearing a plain green apron, mechanically digging the heels of his flour-covered hands into a large ball of dough. He hadn't heard Ron come in. Ron watched him for a few moments, kneading as if in a kind of trance, his eyes half-closed. Press, tuck, flip, press, tuck, flip, press, tuck, flip.

Ron watched him, and considered what he was about to do. Several nights before, Harry had quietly explained a few things to him. Draco's burden of guilt (well deserved and self-wrought); the process of torture he had endured under Death Eater care; the violence of his father, of Voldemort; Draco's struggles against the Death Eaters; Dumbledore's convictions; Harry's suspicions, and his beliefs about Draco's innocence. It had been humbling, and Ron had felt pangs of pity for that scornful, hateful man. Those pangs resurfaced as he watched Draco pounding meditatively into the dough; he had spent the morning being grilled by the ministry after an over-large dose of Veritaserum, and Ron knew it. He knew that Draco was weakened, that he was defenseless. He walked stern-faced into the kitchen.

"Baking? How domestic of you."

Draco saw him suddenly, surprised. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, the sad, peaceful look disappearing from his face. "Leave me alone, Weasley."

"No. I know the ministry let you go, but I have questions too." Draco glared at him. His arms trembled a little, his hands balling into floury fists. His face went red with anger and embarrassment. He knew he was helpless; he had nowhere to go, and he couldn't help but answer Ron's questions. He was not shocked. He figured someone would try this; hell, I wouldn't even waste time explaining myself if I were him. Harry was too good, too noble to try a stunt like this, but Ron? He was so devoted to Harry, like a good little pet dog, that he would even resort to cruelty to try and protect him.

"I see. You want to rape my brain, do you? Force me to divulge information against my will? Well. How devious. How cruel of you. Perhaps you should have been sorted into Slytherin. Enjoy yourself. Realize you're not the first to do this, and that this will give you something nicely in common with Voldemort."

Ron cringed. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Malfoy. I have to know or I won't sleep at night with you here. I care about Harry and I have to do what I can to help protect him. I'm sure you'll understand that. So you didn't have anything to do with Voldemort escaping?"

"No. Gods, do you think the Ministry didn't already ask that? What kind of an idiot are you? Too many Weasleys, you got short-changed on brains."

"Do you know who stole the charm? Do you know where Voldemort is now?"

"No, and no. Wow, what brilliantly original questions. Good to know what your peace of mind is worth."

Ron accepted that this process was going to involve a lot of insults and sarcasm. He was prepared for that, and, in fact, realized that he deserved it. "Do you love Harry?" he asked.

"Yes. You goddamn pig-faced bastard, how dare you." Draco trembled with anger. Ron was aware that Draco had also been given a series of potions to ensure that he would not erupt into violence. It was considered more humane than binding him, but Ron wondered now if it actually was. He realized this was terribly unethical, but for Harry's sake, he needed to ask.

"Does Harry know?"

"How the hell should I know what Potter knows?" He spat out. He turned around and started kneading again. The kitchen counter rumbled under his pounding.

"Did you tell him?"

"No." The pounding got louder.

"Why not?"

"Fuck you, Weasley. This is none of your goddamn business. Because I don't want to see his face when he has to tell me he doesn't love me. God, I'm going to flay you when this shit wears off. I'm going to beat into you so hard your mother won't recognize you."

Ron blinked. "Malfoy. Are you blind? Are you utterly blind?"

"I see just fine, Weasley. Twenty-twenty, in fact."

"No, you don't. You really think Harry doesn't love you?"

"Yes. You flea-ridden piece of trash."

Ron shook his head slowly in utter amazement. "Are you actually that insecure?"

Draco looked briefly over his shoulder and shot him a murderous look. "Yes." He buried his fingers into the dough in front of him.

"My God, Malfoy. Pay attention once in a while. Look at what Harry has done for you. You were a complete asshole to all of us for years. YEARS. I can't even count how many ways you hurt him, and me, and Hermione. Especially Hermione. Then you give him this hint that maybe, maybe there's more to you…and he accepts it. He gives you another chance. And you blow it. And still he doesn't give up on you. He waited a whole year for you. Do you know how disappointed he was when you didn't turn up? ("No.") You betrayed him to Voldemort and he's forgiven you. Do you have any idea how many feet of letters he wrote to you that he couldn't send? ("No.") I had to edit the papers for him for months so he wouldn't have to see all those pictures of you and fall into a blue funk. And he still went back to you, after that. Do you know how lucky you are? ("Yes.") . That he bothered to read your confession? ("Yes.") That he was willing to see you again at all? ("Yes.") Do you understand the chances his taking being anywhere near you? ("Yes.") You think he does this because it's a lark?" ("No.") Ron was shocked, angry, and confused. This was not the way he expected this conversation to go. He could hear Draco mechanically answering his rhetorical questions, but ignored him.

"And now, when it looks like you're guilty as sin, Harry is putting his reputation on the line, his LIFE on the line, he's opening OUR home to you, he's giving you yet ANOTHER chance, which you will probably muck up, and you think he doesn't love you? ("Yes.") Are you an IDIOT? ("NO.") Do you have any idea who Harry is at ALL?"

Draco mumbled something incoherent, and then he noted loudly, "I'd really rather not be talking about my personal life, Weasley, particularly not with someone who is so impossibly bad at having one himself."

"Do you intend to hurt him?"

"No." Pound, tuck, flip, pound, tuck, flip. He kneaded, back to Ron, shaking with anger and with fear, with anticipation and with disgust.

Ron sighed. He was frankly shocked. So. Harry does have some idea what he's doing. Draco loves Harry. Draco, apparently, was under the impression that he wasn't the one holding all the cards, where as far as Ron was concerned it was Harry who was being left vulnerable. Unbelievable. Ron had thought he understood this: Draco had used Harry. He had brutalized Harry at Hogwarts, and then, at the last moment, got him to imagine that Draco could be all sensitive and good, and it was all part of the plan. He would find Harry's weak spot; his willingness to forgive. And as soon as Harry forgave him, gave him a shot, trusted him at all, he betrayed him. Ron had pictured Draco with Harry ground comfortably under his heel, prepared to jump if he said so, scared to be hurt again. That's what Draco was all about. But it's not Harry who's scared. It's Draco. Well, he should have known, really. He should have known by the way Draco treated Harry. He does treat him well, after all. He practically dotes on him. I should have guessed. "Have you taken out many other lads, then?" Aw, hell. He thought. Harry doesn't have a mother or a father, someone has to ask.

Draco turned and eyed him darkly. "No. Shit, Weasley, what the hell kind of gossip-mongering question is that?"

"Okay, any other lads other than Harry?"

"No." Draco shook his head, and turned back to his dough. Pound, flip, tuck. Pound, flip, tuck. He tried to pretend this wasn't actually happening.

"Ladies, then?"

"No." Pound, flip, tuck.

"Hmm. I would have thought….well, slept with lads other than Harry? Any girls?"

"Godammit, Weasley. Yes, and yes. Fuck you."

Well, now Ron found himself just plain curious. "How old were you, the first time you, you know, had sex with a man?"

There was a painful pause. "I was eight." Draco growled, his hands squeezing the dough.

Ron's mouth dropped open. "Oh. Oh my god. I'm. Um, I'm sorry. Shit, Malfoy." Ron sat down heavily. "There are some fucking monsters in this world."

"This is not news to me."

"Shit. Malfoy, I mean, did you tell anyone at Hogwarts, or something? ("No.") Damn. I mean, if I had known…I mean, shit, that explains a hell of a lot."

Draco shook his head and laughed coldly. "It explains nothing, Weasley." Ron sat silent for a while. That smug little kid, smart mouth, always thinking he was better than everyone else, raped before Ron had ever laid eyes on him. No wonder he was so hateful. No wonder he was such a prick. No wonder he was so insecure. So, Harry was on to something. There was more to this fellow than you'd think.

"Do you think…I mean, do you think you'd aim for something…long term…with Harry? Lifelong, like?"

"Yes." He stopped pounding, his head bowed down toward the dough, fingers clenched around the edges of the counter. "Weasley. Please. Enough." His voice was sharp, but Ron realized he had pushed too far already. He was the torturer in this scenario; raw truth like this was beyond Draco's normal abilities. He might as well have stretched Draco out on a rack and prodded him with a white hot poker. He had admitted far more than he ever wanted to from the beginning. He sighed. This was all so complicated. He rose, opened the fridge, and pulled out two bottles of muggle beer. He twisted off the caps and dropped one in front of Draco. "You probably need that. It's good stuff, Wellington Porter, local brew, strong." Draco eyed him disdainfully, and reached for the bottle.

"Look," Ron said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be hurtful. I didn't mean to stir anything up, either. It's just…I'm sure you can understand. Harry's been through an awful lot lately, and I don't want to see him get hurt again. I'm sure, if the circumstances were reversed, You'd do the same?"

"Yes." He took a long pull from the bottle, drowning out his answer to the question.

"Right. Okay, so." Ron stumbled. Draco still had his back turned. It was barely mid-afternoon. He looked down at his hands and saw that his ball of dough was more than ready. He pulled out a large, stainless steel bowl, oiled the bottom, and dropped the dough into it, covering it with a damp towel. He put it in a spot of sunlight in the kitchen window and took a knife out of a drawer. Ron felt nervous, and moved to grab his wand. Draco didn't look at him. He took an onion from the counter and began dicing it while drinking liberally from the bottle.

Ron sighed. Had he done the right thing? Did he feel more likely to trust Draco? And what precisely had he been testing, Draco, or Harry's judgment? He wasn't sure. But he was surprised. Draco was not out to destroy Harry, at least, not at the moment, and not consciously. He was so easily destroyed himself. Oh, he was dangerous, yes. But in a way Ron couldn't quite put his finger on. He watched Draco pull a bowl of diced, cooked bacon out of the fridge, and drop the onion into it. He added salt and pepper, and stirred it together, covered the bowl, putting it back into the fridge. He drained the bottle. Ron reached for a second, uncapped it, and handed it to Draco, who nodded. He noted that he was close to needing a second himself, and grabbed one. He had been cruel. He had ripped Draco open and picked through his innards. He felt slightly ill.

When he turned around again, freshly-open bottle in his hand, Draco was leaning against the counter, apron now off, arms crossed over his chest, looking slyly at him. "Pay back time," he said. The corners of his lips curled up evilly.

Ron cringed. "What do you want to know?"

Draco rubbed his chin. "Well, let's see. This will be fun. Where to start? Oh, I know. Are you in love with Granger?" He knew he was the one who couldn't lie because of magical means, but Ron's guilt over what he had just done would serve the same purpose.

Ron twisted his lips. Ah. That kind of payback. "Yeah, I guess so."

"She's got no idea, has she."

"You're one to talk."

"Hey. At least I'm getting some ac—"

"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT."

Draco snickered. "Well then. So how old were you when you finally found a nice girl to take your virginity off your hands, Weasley?"

Ron blushed. "Well, ah, ehm…"

"Ah. Well, isn't that unexpected. Haven't found one yet? Saving yourself for Granger? Here I thought you had hooked up with that little Hufflepuff girl I saw you chatting up. Aha. Well, that's that Weasley charm for you."

Ron scowled.

"Defintely girls for you, then?"

"As far as I can tell. Why, are you interested?" Ron asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. Draco laughed, nearly choking on his beer. "Alright, alright it's not THAT funny. I guess you really are that serious about Harry, aren't you."

"Yes. Fuck off, Weasley, no more questions. It's my turn."

"Right, sorry. That one was rhetorical."

Draco smirked. "Well. So tell me the gossip, then, since I have my bit of blackmail information. Did Harry…date other lads? Girls?"

"Don't tell me you haven't had this conversation already."

"Just answer the question, Weasley."

"Well, yeah, sure he did. Not at first, mind you. We didn't find out about the whole lad business until after…well. There was one fellow, Devon, he was…interesting. It took a bit of getting used to. But that didn't last very long at all. I think he was just a fan, really, wanted to swing with 'The Boy who Lived' and all that." He took a swig from his bottle. "Then there was Michael. That lasted longer, he was a good guy. A muggle, you know. I think it was all too much for him in the end, he didn't understand. Well, then he started with the women. Harry's got crap taste, if you ask me. No offense. The first one, what was her name, Lydia. She was boring. Shy and boring. Ugh! Then there was Susan, I guess he broke up with her when he hooked up with you again. Can't say I was sorry to see her go, she was a smarm." Ron tipped what remained in his bottle into his mouth. "And then there's you. Don't know what the hell to make of you."

When Harry arrived home several hours later, the first thing he heard was Ron laughing. He turned and looked into the kitchen, and was shocked at the sight. Ron sat at the dining room table. His hair was entirely white with flour, he had a black eye, and he was grinning like a mad man. There was a broken bowl on the floor. Draco was stirring something in a stock pot on the stove. Harry noted that there were clearly more than a dozen empty muggle beer bottles lined up on the kitchen counter.

"Ron?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Harry! Welcome home!" He jumped up and hugged him stupidly. "Sit, sit! These are really good, try." He pointed to a plate filled with small, shiny, browned buns. "There's stuff in them. They're really good. You should try them. I've already had three. Malfoy can cook, did you know?" Harry brushed flour off his shoulders, looking at Ron, and then at Draco, and then back at Ron.

Ron took a swig from the bottle in his hand. "We made dinner!" He sounded profoundly surprised, as if he were announcing that he had grown a third arm, or that he had just discovered a colony of house elves in the living room. He brushed a bit of flour off his eyebrows.

"We did not make dinner, Weasley. I made dinner. You watched me make dinner." Draco turned from the stove and grinned at Harry with slightly unfocused eyes. "I know, Potter. You don't have to say it. We're drunk."

"So I see." He raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled, turning to his flour-coated flatmate. "Ron, what happened to your eye?" He decided to not ask about the flour just yet.

"Oh. Well, Malfoy and I had a little altercation. It's alright now. We made a deal." Harry grimaced. He figured he probably didn't want to know.

Later that week, Hermione had owled. She had some questions, she thought she might be on to something. She needed to speak to Draco. She didn't move about after dark without an escort, so Ron went to accompany her; the current Death Eater target being wizards born of muggle parents, Hermione took no chances. It was pouring rain that evening, and when they arrived, wands still drawn and at the ready, Hermione threw the dampened file folder and marked manila envelope on the coffee table.

Draco sighed. Why on earth was Granger asking about his mother? She was a gentle creature, not interested in politics, power, war, violence. She liked good food, fine jewelry, beautiful, expensive, valuable things. She doted on him, pinched his cheeks, sang him little songs, daydreamed about grandchildren, brushed his hair for him, but managed somehow to blissfully ignore the violence that pervaded his life. When he was eight, and stumbled into his bed at midnight, the smell of woodsmoke and nightshade and pine sap on his torn robes, gashes across his face, blood dripping thickly down his thighs, bawling out of his gut, certain he would die, certain the universe had collapsed, certain he was about to fall into oblivion and never return, his mother had tucked him into bed, blood-stained face, sticky robes and all. She kissed his forehead, told him that tomorrow would be a lovely day, and that he should sleep well, sang a little lullaby and closed the door behind her. She ignored his cries, the streaks of blood on the coverlet, his screaming after her. "No, my mother isn't a Death Eater. She didn't like the look of the Mark. No one ever really commented on it. It was really more of my father's thing. My mother isn't…a political creature, you see. Not terribly interested in…ah…things of consequence, shall we say."

Hermione nodded. "That's what they said in the papers three years ago, you know. That she was an innocent pawn, that she had nothing to do with your father's political ambitions. That she wasn't really...well, that she wasn't bright enough to understand what was going on." Draco rubbed his temple, and nodded. "Yes. Well, I did a little research on that topic. Your mother is not some kind of beautiful idiot. I found her academic records. She was at the top of her class, you know." Hermione pulled out some parchments, and passed them to Draco. "She wrote a particularly stellar paper on sixteenth century witchtrials in France, in fact."

Ron harumphed. "Perhaps she's mad." Draco glared at him.

"Hmm. Well, I never thought she was stupid, you know. Just…disinterested in…well, most things. I never saw her participate in anything. But she must have seen…I saw everything, I just couldn't…ignore it the way she did." Draco shrugged. "What is this all about?"

"What was she doing in North Africa?" Hermione picked up the file folder, and pulled out a magazine article. She turned to a page full of pictures, and handed it to Draco. "Don't be startled. It's a muggle magazine, the pictures don't move." Draco looked at the images, puzzled. The heading read, "An Englishwoman in Morocco: a photo interview." In it, Narcissa, beautiful, her long, blonde hair draped over her shoulders, was pictured reading letters, looking out the window sitting at an ornately carved table, standing with a suitcase on the threshold of an elegant Moroccan flat, it's rough terra cotta walls in stark contrast with her pale skin, her long, nearly-white hair. "These pictures were taken in September of last year. Do you see the knife, there, in the foreground of this picture, and here, sitting on the table?"

Draco squinted at the picture. "It hardly looks like a knife at all. It's wrapped in something. Wait…I recognize that print…that's goblin. Argh, if she would move a bit to the right I could get a better look."

"There's more. Look at this." Hermione pulled out a series of photographs. "These were taken about fifteen years ago, for an article about the homes of rich and famous wizards. These are two pictures of—"

"My mother's sitting room. Yes. Ah…" Draco pointed. "The knife. There, on the wall. Yes, I remember it now." He picked up the muggle magazine page again, looking at the knife in both pictures. "I reckon that's it." He looked closely at it.

Hermione sighed. "I thought that looked like goblin script. You read goblin, don't you. Can you make it out?" Draco squinted.

"Just barely. Belong, belong, dozens of times. Then it says, 'Your qualities belong in me.' Or 'what's in you belongs in me.' Something of that nature. And then long strings of 'belong, belong, belong. And that phrase repeated again. I can't tell if there's more…" Draco looked thoughtful. "Hold on, I know what this is." He rose, and hurried over to Harry's desk. He scanned a stack of books, pulled out one from the middle, and flipped through it quickly, running a finger down a large chunk of text. "Ah!" He said after a moment. "Yes, as I thought. This is a form of charm. A specially prepared scroll, they're monumentally expensive and very difficult to produce. Not even made in Europe anymore, which explains the north African connection." He turned toward the others again, leaning against the desk, running a knuckle thoughtfully over his lip. "These scrolls are generally wrapped around objects for several months, in order to…well, let me explain. All objects have a series of ranked characteristics in goblin magic; certain of these can be tagged, so that they can be…transferred, or copied. Let's say…if were to wrap Harry's invisibility cloak with one of these scrolls, I could tag the quality of invisibility, and use this scroll to copy that quality to another cloak, to a house, to my shoes, anything. It takes months, though, to actually tag properly and perform the transformation." He turned and returned the book to its place.

"Could it transfer qualities to a person, rather than to an object?" Hermione asked. Draco returned to the couch and sat next to Harry, Ron sat directly across from him, giving him a vaguely approving look, which Draco resolutely ignored.

He chewed his lip. "Well. Yes, in principle. It would be rather dangerous. It's…not the most stable process, really. Tagging qualities is notoriously difficult and often faulty. Even when the procedure is done properly, to the letter, occasionally the wrong quality will be tagged, and then you'll end up transferring a colour, a texture, or some magical quality other than the one you're aiming for. And the scroll can only be used once, there's no room for error. Who knows what you'd end up transferring." Hermione put her face over her mouth, her eyes widened.

"Do you know what that knife does?" Harry asked, looking at the pictures. The knife was silver, long and thin, with an intricate handle covered with elegant scrollwork. Harry found it beautiful, fluid, ancient-looking. An artifact from some age long-past.

Draco shook his head. "No. I don't think I've ever seen it come off the wall."

"I think I know." Hermione sighed. "I'm not certain, but…this is dreadful. Draco, the charm Harry used to trap Voldemort, you said it…it requires blood, is that right?"

Draco nodded, and shrugged. "Well, it requires blood in the same way that a retinal scan requires a retina. Blood is the means by which it identifies the owners of the key."

Hermione hesitated, and then said quietly, "I'm sorry to ask, but…were you…cut…as a child? Did you ever bleed a great deal?" Draco said nothing. Harry paled.

Hermione looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry to bring it up like this, Draco. I really am. But I found some information on knives that match that description. I might be wrong, but I believe it’s a sanguitoratus, a blood collector. Extremely rare. It's a knife that causes no wounds, but absorbs the blood of wounds caused by other means. Normally sanguitoratum have sister knives, and they can only absorb blood from a wound made by the sister knife."

Draco looked straight ahead, at a spot beyond the wall in front of him. Ron, sat with his elbows on his knees, reading one of the old newspaper clippings spread across the coffee table, keeping his eyes down. Hermione knew she had struck a chord. Harry looked nervous and Draco seemed absent, lost in some distant memory. She watched him carefully. Harry shuffled closer to him, his arm resting discreetly across Draco's back, his hand pressed into the couch beside Draco's hip. She watched them communicate for a moment, without looking at each other. Harry's hand caught one of Draco's, sitting idly on his thighs. Hermione watched him trace his finger tips along Draco's fingers, the palm of his hand, his wrist, back to his fingers. It was such a quiet, delicate intimacy. After a moment, Draco squeezed Harry's hand, and leaned toward him almost inperceptibly.

"Yes." He said, rather woodenly. "I was cut with one particular knife. Would it look similar? I know that it was also silver, other than that I don't know, I didn't really…look at it."

Hermione reached down into her bag, and pulled out a small vial. It was filled with a clear liquid. "Here." She said, passing it to Draco. He took it hesitatingly. "This will reveal marks created with a knife like that, with a knife with a sanguitoratus, where blood was taken from you. But…" Hermione sighed. "It still doesn't entirely make sense. In order for this to work, a lot of blood would be required, correct? The bloodprint, for the charm, requires…well, a complete transfusion, doesn't it, if…if someone managed to transfer the blood from the sanguitoratus to themselves." Draco nodded grimly.

"I suspect this will clarify that point for you, Granger. I'm afraid it makes perfect sense." He uncorked the bottle. "Do I just knock it back?"

"Yes. It will only last a few minutes." Ron and Hermione both sat straight up, eyes fixed on Draco. He looked over at Harry, then at Hermione, tilted back his head and swallowed the clear fluid. They all watched him recork the bottle, and place it on the coffee table in front of him. After a moment, his muscles seized and he winced.

"It's not supposed to hurt, are you alright?" Hermione sounded concerned. Draco smiled rather coldly. He stood, and pulled off his shirt.

Draco was glowing. His arms, chest, stomach, his neck, were covered with thin lines of light. Some were thin and long, ancient scars from his infancy, faded to nothing along the edges; some were ragged and thick, the mark of a heavy hand, glowing hotly. Some were sharp and angular, some traced figure eights, letters, scroll-like patterns across his stomach. There were several that looked like flowers, drooping in the heat of the sun. He turned, and they saw more of them, criss-crossing, waving lines, cursive letters, grid patterns written in brilliant silver ink over the crest of his shoulder blades, inching across the nape of his neck, trailing down his spine, fanning out along his hipbones, and disappearing into the thankful darkness of his trousers. There were hundreds of them.

10 The Sins of the Mother

"Again. Attack again. In London, the next portion of the list. Mudbloods. Make them vanish. Make them run away, dirty little things. You understand?" The dark-haired man nodded. He bowed low, and walked backwards out of the room. No one turned their backs to Narcissa anymore. She smiled.

They listened to her now. They listened to every word she said. They were never sure whether it was her who was speaking, or him. They assumed it was him because it was safer that way. She had had to prove it, at first. With the Voldemort's body still lying as if in state, proof had been required. She had used Lucius, she had pressed his mark and watched all their faces drop in shock and fear as their own marks sharpened, burned. Afterwards they did not question her. And thus far her orders had lead to great success; twenty mudblood deaths in a single week, no casualties on their side at all. Not a fabulously huge statistic, twenty mudbloods, but it wasn't numbers she was aiming for. It was fear. Kill just enough so that the rest fear to walk outside their front doors. Kill just enough so that mudbloods everywhere reconsider their power. So that they feel their disgrace. That they tug themselves back away into the background like the genetic mistakes they are, bastards, half-breeds, evidence of a shameful history. Force purebloods to reconsider their disgusting relationships with muggles, if only out of compassion for their future children, who would have nothing to hope for. Teach them. Sometimes the truth seems cruel. But it doesn't make it any less true, any less righteous.

Narcissa stroked her belly. She felt as though she were pregnant again. She smiled. Being pregnant was such a wonderful thing. It had been more than twenty years since she had been pregnant herself, and the boring details about the physical process had filtered to the back of her mind. She didn't need them now. No, this was a spiritual pregnancy. When her only child had filled her womb she had felt him there, sensed his rising consciousness, his thoughts that were not quite thoughts. She imagined him, small and half-formed, certain that she was the entire universe, feeling warmth and not knowing about coldness, feeling the constant pressure of her body wrapped around him, never thinking that he might one day lose that embrace.

She had known from the very beginning that Draco would be a boy. There was something in the way he took up space within her, something in his certainty that he deserved it, the he belonged inside of her, the way he moved with such unconflicted ease, with such strength, that Narcissa felt even then that she could always fully possess him. Girls, she imagined, would grow within their mothers in a more apologetic fashion, as if they asked questions rather than made demands. Girl babies were passive aggressive. They took over you, making you certain that it was your power that got them there, and not their own. Girl babies were inherently devious. With a boy, you knew they could be owned entirely; they made shows of domination because they could be dominated so easily and so completely; girls could never be wholly owned, because they were well-trained in the art of submssion. Girls were born with the knowledge that no one would offer them anything, that they would have to convince the world that offering was prudent, that it was required. Draco had not understood this, not in utero and not as a small, helpless and sweet child, as Narcissa always knew that he wouldn't. He had had to learn it, as boys often do. His learning was sharp, bloody, and painful, but it was the making of him. Draco was both aggressive and passive aggressive. Narcissa smiled. It takes a strong mother to give her son the inborn knowledge of a daughter.

And now she felt another conciousness within her again. He so reminded her of Draco as a child it nearly made her weep. He whimpered, cried, he laughed like a little fairy child. When she had first brought him inside of herself, he had been so angry. She imagined that she could feel his little fists pounding against her, his ribs were sore when she woke in the morning. He was angry like a murdered soul, residual vengence, pain, violent pangs and outrage overcoming him. He showed her ceaseless images of his anger; blood, murder, pain. He knew nothing other than that for those first days. She had had to struggle against it. He had an infant mentality in the beginning, but he was a strong, knowledgeable, angry infant. It had not overwhelmed her; she had tamed this angry little child.

He was so happy when she gave him her attention, and so disappointed when she was too busy to play with him. And Narcissa stroked him softly, cooed to him, sang little songs to him. She couldn't see him, of course, he having no physical body, but in her mind she pictured her own little princeling, her little angel, Draco, his white-blonde hair, his big, innocent, silver eyes. Her perfect little man whom she had known, even from the beginning, was entirely hers. Tom, love. She said now, whispering to her new little charge. She had reverted to calling him Tom, his given name, because mothers always have special privledges. Oh, we're going to have a fun day tomorrow, my princeling. Our friends are going to make the world prettier for us. And just you wait, when you get big, my love, this whole, pretty world will be yours. He settled down, asked no questions, slept fitfully. Perhaps he was half-mad, reverting to his own childhood; perhaps it was simply the process of being released from the beautiful diamond home he had been trapped within. There was something so sinister about it, that smooth, cold diamond. She wore it now on set in silver on a short chain around her neck. Her little Tom screamed painfully if she didn't wear it, so he kept it pressed always against her throat. Sleep now, little princeling. Have happy dreams.

Lucius was much more lucid that Voldemort, from the very beginning. He had been mad, Narcissa assumed, trapped bodily and bodiless inside a small stone, but he had woken from it simply relieved, released, and sane, with very few memories that made any kind of sense. When she had opened the prison, Lucius had returned from it much in the same way he had entered; he appeared in a puff of black and green smoke, collapsing on the floor, bleeding from the temples and from his wrists. He had very little muscle left in his limbs, his breathing was pained and restricted by a viscous green mucus that he coughed up for days. The house elves had tended him. Narcissa was disappointed, seeing him so weak, so defeated, so hopeless and entirely useless.

She had never been entirely pleased with Lucius, and he knew it. She had expected him to be strong, powerful, to take care of the petty things she was too bored to be bothered with, as well as the large shows of power that she was disinterested in undertaking. At the beginning, he did just as she had hoped, in that regard. He had risen to great power among the Death Eaters, and Narcissa had approved. She enjoyed Malfoy manor, she enjoyed entertaining there, decorating rooms, making appearances, and so on. But still, when the doors were shut, the lights out, Lucius had inner weaknesses that sickened her. He was plagued with conflicts she simply didn't have. He was like a minor dictator in the afternoon, and like a child who needed to be coddled in the evening; his desire to be touched overwhelmed almost all other desires he had, including his desire to be obeyed. In his weakest moments, he most desired to submit, the one thing he did not know how to do with any kind of self-respect. She could have him crawling on his hands and knees with at most four motions of one hand, and leave him waiting there, which she often did. He couldn't decide whether he loved her or hated her.

There had been once that he had taken it into his mind that he should beat his wife for her subtle insolence. It had been fairly early in their marriage, at the point when Lucius realized that his wife was no trophy, no innocent, no sweet and lovely young thing who would keep his house and bear his child and worship him. For, truth be told, that is what Lucius had envisioned. Certainly it had been what Narcissa had promised, with those demure looks and parochial interests. He hadn't been looking for an equal. He hadn't intended to marry a woman who could rival him, and certainly not one who would master him.

He had fallen prey to the whims of his wife, and he knew how she must despise him for this weakness. He had slapped her across the face, thrown her up against the wall, his fingernails pressing through the silk of her blouse and bruising her delicate skin. He sent his knee hard up into her stomach, feeling as well as hearing the snap of her thin ribs. He had punched her face, over and over, breaking her nose, her jaw, blackening her eyes. She said nothing, and did not resist, but watched him with a bleeding lip and cold, swelling and bleeding eyes. Finally he grabbed her arms and threw her to the ground, screaming obsenities at her, and then collapsed in grief, on his knees in front of her. He looked at her there, lying broken on the floor, blood seeping through at the elbow where her blouse (a white one he had bought her himself several months before, one he had brought home to surprise her, to please her, so that she would grace him with that lovely smile) had ripped. He was shocked at his own rage, shocked at the violence he wrought on a defenseless woman, a woman he loved, in spite of her schemes and her coldness. He sat on his heels, knees pressed against the hardwood floor. He buried his face in his hands, tasting the blood of his wife on the heels of his palms. He sobbed like a child, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh, Narcissa, I'm so sorry…"

Wrapped up in his own grief, he didn't notice her gather herself and rise carefully to her feet, pulling her wand from her sleeve, and healing her wounds. Her eyes cleared of the rising purplish colour and dripping blood, her broken jaw, nose, ribs, wrist repaired. They were still sore, but no longer broken. She was never broken, not really. She reached down and picked up her purse from the chair opposite, extracted a compact from it, and fixed her hair. It had been gathered simply in a clip at the nape of her neck, left to sway behind her when she walked, to drape luxuriously over her back. The clip had become dislodged in the tussle, and she now smoothed it back. Perfect. She then pulled a matte, neutral lipstick from her purse, which she applied carefully, pressing her lips together, and smiling prettily into the mirror, snapping the compact shut. She returned it and the lipstick to her purse, and clipped it shut smartly. She rested her hand on Lucius' head. He was still sobbing uncontrollably, whispering, breaking into pieces.

"And now who will suffer, Lucius dear." She removed her hand, and walked elegantly out of the room, swaying her hips disdainfully, walking down the corridor toward her private wing of Malfoy manor. Later that night, Draco Malfoy was conceived.

She sighed, standing alone in the great reception room in Malfoy manor. It was a hub of activity these days, always something to fret over, problems to solve, council to give. Her home had become Death Eater central, administrative heart, the home of the despot. She hated it. This was not the life she wanted for herself, but she saw the necessity of participating in it. This was the world she would relinquish to men, the games of power, the arrogant shows of dominance. Like strutting peacocks, waving their tail feathers at each other. And now, here she was, master peacock, while she would much prefer to sit quietly in the background, plotting sure courses toward success, stroking her calf-hide boots absently and watching the powerful wait on her charming smile.

She walked toward a door on her left, entering a vaulted chamber with the afternoon sun pouring in through elegant plated glass. This anteroom had always been one of her favourites; it had always been quiet and still, musty with age but filled with fresh, clean air. Now, it was a centre of milling activity, always, at every hour and through every day. Things had become complicated. She had the Death Eater intelligentsia at her fingertips, of course, but much knowledge had been lost. She opened the door and saw three tired-lookinig men and five goblins working relentlessly over the slack body of Tom Riddle, Voldemort, the Dark Lord. He hadn't moved independently in four years. Narcissa thought, idly, that lying there, peaceful-looking, cold to the touch with such white, nearly-transparent skin, that he reminded her of Lenin. Vladimir Illych, the man who came to strike down a world of suspicion and false adoration, and ended up becoming an undead, roaming deity. What a fool. But Tom Riddle was not dead, and he was a deity, of a sort. He certainly was worshipped, even now. Narcissa could feel it in the way these men groveled to her, presented her with sacrifices, they way they shuffled and scraped. She imagined that they prayed to her as well; O Great Mother, Narcissa, caretaker of the broken soul of our Lord, we beseech you. She moved closer to one of the men, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Issac, love. You've been at this for hours, you need your rest." She brushed her fingers against his cheek. "I promise to wake you if there's the slightest change." The man nodded, grateful and humbled, looking at her the way her own child used to, eyes brimming with devoted, unquestionable love, accompanied always that white noise of fear.

The body of Tom Riddle had not been prepared to accept his consciousness. An elite group of Death Eaters had extracted it in the first place, confident in their ability to move it back and forth, but something in the goblin filth that had contaminated it made its transition back to its home difficult. Though, Narcissa reasoned to herself, to be honest, the consciousness of Tom Riddle is not quite ready to accept his body, either. She touched her hands to her belly again, and imagined stroking her little charge's head, running her fingers through that baby soft, platinum hair. Shhhhh, shhhhh little one. Sleep, my little princeling. How cruel they were to do this to him. To not give him the dignity of dying, but to let him turn into this child-being, bodiless, screaming at frivolous things, demanding blood, murder, sacrifice, mayhem, and then weeping for comfort. A weaker woman might have been driven mad by it.

She looked down on the body of Tom Riddle and felt a pang of tenderness for him. Oh, my little sweeting, she thought as she stroked his cold forehead with her thumb, you'll be home soon, love. And it is so good now that you will always have me to submit to, to turn to. You will never have been stronger.

One of the goblin monsters looked up at her. "We're coming along as best we can, your Honour. Perhaps…perhaps we're on to something. In another few hours will try another compliation spell, this one seems to have solved some of the other problems we were encountering…" it's voice trailed off as it noticed that she wasn't paying any attention to it. She had taken one of Tom's lifeless hands in hers, and pressed it against her cheek, looking worriedly into his face. The goblin sighed and left her. She had been in fact paying close attention to the little creature, but had cultivated a look of serene miscomprehension which had long given her the illusion of innocence. She noted that it carried a book on elementary magic in one hand, one Narcissa remembered reading when she was eleven. She hid her smirk.

"Your best," she whispered. "Yes, indeed." One of the problems they had encountered was that while it had been proper magic that had turned Tom into pure consciousness, and goblin magic that had ensnared him, it was unclear from which side the answer lay to putting him right. Goblin master wizards had had no luck, nor had the Death Eaters experts. There had been many bitter arguments, but thus far no results. She sighed. She knew who could solve this problem, who was, perhaps, the only one who could begin to approach the multitude of complicated issues that had arisen. Someone trained in both the proper and the ugly magics. But he was too far beyond her reach. For the moment.

He had come home just once, since his father left. Just once. It had been a rainy day, and she had seen him approach from a distance, his thick grey cloak covering his head and face. He had decided not to apparate directly in front of the manor itself, in spite of the rain, the fog and the mud. He had chosen to walk up the long path from the road on foot. Narcissa had understood the ritual nature of that decision. She had, of course, heard the news. Draco Malfoy, traitor to all. He had fulfilled his duty to Voldemort, but had not returned with the Death Eaters, he had not stood accused with them. No one was sure where he was, and in spite of the accusations that flew out of the ministry like owls in the cool dawn, he had not been arrested, he had not been sent to Azkaban, he had not felt the dementor's kiss. At first, Narcissa assumed, with some degree of pride, that both her husband and her son had followed Voldemort in to his captivity, that neither of them were prepared to submit to the ministry, that they were hostages to the cause. Within a week of Voldemort's capture, a large, serious-looking owl had alighted on the windowsill of her sitting room. She untied the parchment from its leg, and it gave her a ponderous look before spreading its exceptionally large wings and beating a lazy retreat into the gray morning sky.

Narcissa,

You son is terribly ill, and we are not at present certain whether or not he will survive. Do you have any knowledge of the potions he has ingested over the last months? We have managed to counter most of them, but a complete list would be most helpful. He is unconscious most of the time, but when he wakes he asks for you. Great evil has been done to him, but there is an even greater resistance in his heart, which I believe will give him the strength to survive this ordeal. I would like to make arrangements for you to visit with him, if you would. I hope that you can come quickly, for while I am hopeful, our potions master asks me to write in haste.

Albus Dumbledore

The letter had dashed all of her hopes for her son. So. He had not stood by his father, by Voldemort. He had failed, and he had betrayed them. He had gained Dumbledore's sympathy, and he was being protected by that great fool in his fortress at Hogwarts. She had written a short note back (Albus, I'm not certain of which potions you speak. Perhaps he took a bad medicine while he was in the Wolds last year? I have heard no word my husband, perhaps Draco told him what he might have taken. I will certainly come at the soonest moment, but I have taken rather ill myself. Please give him this trinket to remind him of my love. N.) and enclosed a small ring, with the word 'fideles' engraved on it, strung on a silver chain. It was the gift she had given him the night he had become a Death Eater.

She had worried about him, well before he graduated from Hogwarts. He was not a strong boy. He believed himself to be strong, and his father never questioned it. Certainly Draco was tough, physically powerful even, lithe and fast and wiry, but he was not strong. His weakness was clear to Narcissa in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to his father, the way he so easily became frustrated with the successes of other students. She had seen it during those final school holidays; his weakness was growing, and was shaping itself into doubt. When he was small she had had great hopes for him; he had learned how to use coy looks and soft words to get what he wanted from his father, from his friends, from strangers, even from his mother. He could wheedle his way to gifts and beautiful clothes and pretty things, to political favours, positions of esteem. Narcissa knew he had persuaded several girls into begging him to allow them to wrapping their young thighs around his hips, and she was proud of the skill with which he had done so; no one every talked about Draco taking advantage, being disrespectful, using these girls. Rape was the tool of weaklings. He had had his way without anyone knowing, or even considering, that he had been in control, that he had made a demand and that demand had been met. Those girls would always think of him tenderly, as an innocent, as a gift. Indeed, he had learned some of his mother's skills.

But as he grew older, particularly in those last couple of years at Hogwarts, something had changed. He was easily distracted, his eyes had taken on an anxious, fretting appearance, he cared less about the fit of his clothes, the part of his hair, the fine joys of small triumphs, passive but intense victories, the mental challenge of perfect self control. It worried her. She had taught him, and he had learned, but he was too much like his father. Something had latched on to him in those last months, and it was clear to her that even he didn't know it. Narcissa should have seen it; he would explode in violence, rage, deminance, and pride, but he would crawl back, repentant, weakened, and needing to be comforted like a child. And who would comfort him? Who would seize control of him? At the time, it was only a small, nagging voice in the very depths of her mind. At the Christmas holidays, the voice grew louder, and Narcissa could no longer ignore it. She could no longer imagine that Draco was the daughter she would have had. No. He was a young man, and he bore all the weaknesses of powerful and haughty young men. How profoundly disappointing.

It had been then that she had begun hinting that Lucius ought to take Draco from Hogwarts in the spring, before he could graduate. When he breaks, which he inevitably will, he needs to be carefully controlled, or he will be useless, she had thought. The graduation itself was meaningless, and Narcissa was not concerned about whether or not Draco officially graduated or not. He was powerful and knowledgeable; he reminded Narcissa of a young Severus Snape, brilliant with potions, a genius in his own way. Unlike Snape, however, Draco had the manners of a prince, and the face of an angel. The Death Eaters, who were almost constantly traipsing through Malfoy manor in the last twenty-five years, had commented on Draco's ethereal beauty from the moment he was born. She knew his pretty face had bought him no easy road, however; she was well aware of several Death Eaters with a penchant for pretty little boys who had taken what they would from him, before he even knew what he had. It was no matter. Innocence was a commodity that he did not require, being perfectly able to mimic it at will. He had too many other talents, there was no need for concern over such a small thing as sexual purity. Draco had fine, steady, careful hands, a sharp eye, and the fine movements and measurements required for potion-making and other, more complicated and lesser known arts. But more than that; he had a remarkable skill for abstraction. Narcissa had watched him at age eleven or twelve consider leaps of logic that had baffled and impressed their dinner guests. He was a bright boy. But it had not saved him.

Getting him the Mark had been a struggle. He had taken to being stubborn, to resisting her will, the demands of his father. Young men will do this, they don't know their own strength, their own power, and so they make a show of independence and dominance. Three times she had insisted that Lucius bring him home, and three times Draco had evaded capture. He had insisted on graduating, even after his friends had left. Without appealing directly to Dumbledore, her options had been limited. She had decided to let it pass, and punished Lucius for his failings in controlling his son instead. This had been the wrong choice, and she winced about it, watching Draco's slow movements on the muddy track, trekking up through the pounding rain toward the manor. That decision had allowed her to lose her boy. Perhaps by then she had already lost him.

Like his father, Draco had a weakness. Narcissa knew that if someone managed to find it when he had left it exposed, to clutch on to it, to stroke it gently like a precious gift, cradle Draco's body and mind and stroke his fine hair, he would be lost to her. She had always, in some way, known that this was so, but she had forgotten. In her delight in her son, she had forgotten that he was his father's child. It had been she, in the beginning, who had fulfilled this need in him, had provided the balm to hide his weakness, even without knowing it. And then, after he had left for school, it had been his own delight in his superiority that had comforted and soothed him, made him feel powerful. She let her work drop at that point, thinking that he was complete, that he was strong and certain. She scolded herself now for her laxity and foolishness.

It was in those last years, when he became disillusioned with his own power and saw its limits, that he sought to find comfort submitting to another. When Narcissa had heard what Voldemort had said after Draco received his Mark, she understood what had happened. Draco had fallen in love with the Potter boy. It had been him, of all people, that flimsy, myopic, disaster of a child Lily Potter had fawned over to proudly, who had managed to reach inside Draco's careful, coy armour and twist his fingers through Draco's soul. She closed her eyes.

Voldemort had made his own decisions about what to do with Draco, and Narcissa had not found it wise. Don't you see? She wanted to scream. He's been corrupted. He's been touched by that boy, and he will always long for that touch again, he can't be trusted. Too late. As the months wore on and the plan unfolded, potions masters and transfigurers and experts of all kinds proposing ideas and considering alternatives, she realized that Voldemort did understand how Draco had been touched, that that touch was permanent. It was precisely that fact that he was counting on. He had no intention of trusting Draco. And so, he had not been wrong. It was a brilliant plan. Draco would follow Voldemort, or he would be sacrificed. No. He would be sacrificed anyway.

She had watched him walk up the steps, pulling his hood away from his face. How he had grown. He was a man now, she realized. His hair was damp and unkempt, his face stern and sad. He was thin, too thin, and he wore a great weariness in his limbs and on his face. He had not been expected to live. Yet he lived. She sat regally in her anteroom, ankles crossed. She adjusted the pearls at the neck, smoothed her navy skirt. She was facing him when he walked in, drops of rain beading on his neck.

"Oh, Draco love. How I've missed you. Look at you, a proper man! Come here and let me have a better look at you." He smiled sadly and walked over to his mother, taking her outstretched hand and kissing her cheek. His wet hair brushed her face. He smelled musky, spicy, scrubbed clean and tired. He sat on the ottoman in front of her.

"How are you, mother?" His voice had deepened since she had last heard it. She realized in a moment that this was not true; this was the same voice of the defiant eighteen-year-old who had threatened rebellion with every word. It was the same voice of the delusional boy she had tended so gently, locked away in a distant tower of the manor. But in her mind, Draco was always a small child, perhaps six or seven, with the tiny voice of her pliable, brilliant little boy. She still saw that little boy in there, in the slight curl of his lip, in those silver irises.

"Oh, I get along, my dear. I'm better now, with you here." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, ruffled his hair, and then took his hands in hers. "You look so different, princeling. All grown up. Your hair is so long! And what beautiful robes." She reached up and stroked the flecked, off-white woolen robes that gathered at his shoulders, attached with a silver chain across his chest. "I never put you in this colour. I'm not sure why not." She reached up and stroked his cheek. "You look good, love. You've recovered?"

He nodded. "For the most part, yes."

Narcissa shook her head. "It's best to stay out the Wolds, love. No foreign magics." She kissed him again. He had pinkish marks on his forehead from her lipstick. "Have you seen your father? Is he alright? Have you spoken to him?"

He winced. "No, mother. I can't go to him anymore."

"He's….alive?"

"Yes. He is. But…out of reach for now. He will not be harmed, mother, but he won't be coming back." He ran his fingers through his damp hair and looked at a place on the floor.

"Well, we'll see. Your father has gotten himself into a scrape and no mistake, but I'm sure he will find a way. Is he…abroad, then?"

Draco shook his head. He wasn't sure how to answer her questions, and she sensed this.

"I still wait for him. I watch for him by the window here," she motioned toward the large, low window seat in front of the plated glass window, "especially on rainy, foggy days like this. They remind me of him. He likes the rain, he likes the sound it makes. Sometimes we would go up into the attic, you know, on rainy days, we'd sip brandy and lie on the couches and just listen to the rain." She had taken his hand, and traced patterns on his palm.

He had not stayed long. He had told her that he had a job at the ministry, and she had been disappointed not to be able to hear more about this. She had guessed that he would be an Unspeakable, which made her curious. Unspeakables needed to be trustworthy; no one would ever fully trust this Malfoy. No, too much had been revealed. He told her that he had a flat in London, and she questioned him about his finances. She had delicately asked if he had met any nice girls, and he had just smiled weakly and shook his head no.

"I wish you would visit more often," she had complained as he pulled on his boots. "They wouldn't let me care for you when you were sick. You know I could have had the best doctors here for you, but they wouldn't hear of it. But you know. They treat me so well, your fathers friends, they keep a good eye on me. Sometimes they come for dinner and humour me. They could get you a better job in the ministry, love, come see me and I’ll invite them over and we'll talk about it. I don't throw parties anymore. Not without your father. But I'll invite some of them over, it will be nice." She wrung her hands together, looking worried. Then she smiled, and whispered, "you'll let me know, when you hear from him? I'm certain he'll come to you first. I'm certain of it. You know how much he loves you, don't you?" He had nodded dumbly, pulling his on his damp cloak.

She lay Tom Riddle's hand back down, adjusting the blanket over him, feeling the eyes of the goblin monsters and the Death Eaters on her. She walked over to her desk in front of the window, glancing over her papers. She had tried to work out some of the questions herself, of course. The small sphere she had left in Draco office had told her some very important things. Some months back, a well-placed spy had discovered that Draco's work was somehow related to Voldemort and his captivity. Narcissa had planned to visit Draco’s office when he was away, to sneak in and drop the useful little object. It had only given her seven days, seven short days to snoop about in Draco's papers, to listen in on his conversations. She had seen and heard much, but only small portions that were directly useful. She would not have guessed, after his initial work for the ministry rooting out Death Eaters, that he would be found, now, working within the ministry to free Voldemort. The knowledge made her feel hopeful.

The first thing she had learned from the sphere was that her son spoke fluent goblin. She hadn't recognized it at first; it had been, of all things, a house elf who had identified the language.

She had paced around her sitting room, listing to the recording of Draco's voice over and over and over. He was soft spoken, the words almost sounded familiar. Russian, Mongolian, Inuktitut? Zambian, Maori? Cree? Sechelt? It had alluded her. When her personal House Elf, Daisy, had simpered into the room with her afternoon tea, hers ears perked up.

"Is that Master Draco, ma'am? I didn't know he could speak goblin." Narcissa had smiled.

"Why, yes Daisy. Isn't it impressive? Do you understand what he’s saying?"

Daisy shook her head. "Only a word here and there, if you please, ma’am. I heard him say 'good' and 'inside', is all. The rest, well, I couldn’t rightly say, ma’am." Daisy set the tray with Narcissa’s teapot and cup on the table. "Good afternoon, ma’am!" She scurried back out of the room.

It had been enough. Within the week she had been in North Africa. There, a particularly nasty-looking goblin had helped her. What she retrieved from the sphere, before it crumbled into dust, was this: Voldemort and Lucius were inside some form of charm, which had keys. There was more, trust, secrets, a great deal about a whole collection of matrixes, their relative stabilities, combinations of wizard and goblin spells and how they interact, and so on. And one lucky diagram, that she had almost overlooked. Her nasty little goblin helper, who was called Spode, had gasped, looking at her wide-eyed.

He had told her that what she asked was impossible. Without the co-operation of someone with a key, it was simply impossible to lift and break a charm like this. The key could not be replicated. If there was one thing goblins knew well, it was locks and security, and this was one of the surest. He threw up his hands and shook his head. "In your recording, the man says, ‘Doombladoor, Herry, and myself’, Those must be the holders of the key. You must talk to them, I cannot help you." She almost gave up then, almost.

She had, as a last resort, sought out a medieval text she had discovered on the properties of this form of goblin charm. Oddly, the text was held in a muggle archive, and was written in Latin. She had sat in the airy Morroccan reading room for days, hearing the calls to prayer outside. Her Latin was rusty, and every inch of text she covered was a tremendous victory. After the third day, the man who had been sitting across from her, a husky American man, had leaned across the table and whispered, "Salve, puella bellus." She had noticed him watching her a couple of days ago, and felt certain he would make his move at some point. She was surprised it had taken so long. Now he spoke to her in Latin, and she was prepared to play his game for some assistance. She looked up, smiling broadly. He was in his late forties, with thick dark hair and sharp blue eyes. He smiled back.

His name, it turned out, was Simon. Simon Osborne. She had enlisted his help, which had been remarkably pleasant. She claimed to be a novelist doing research. He was an American photo-journalist. She had good-naturedly agreed to pose for a series of pictures for him in exchange for his help with her text, but had managed to avoid the photo shoot until they had skimmed over about half of her book. It was then that the book described the nature of the keys on this strange goblin charm.

"Cruento. Well, this is gruesome. It’s got something to do with blood. Now that will be a lovely addition to your novel, I suspect. Listen: you, who touch the charm, hold a key in your best humour. The sanguine humour, boiled and purified, holds the key you cannot lose." Isn’t that odd, though!" He sat back, reasoning aloud. "A key you can’t lose. So: a charm, that can be locked, with a key that is…your own blood? Interesting idea." Narcissa looked up sharply.

"Your own blood. So…only someone who touches the charm…touching the charm makes it recognize you by your blood." She smiled, and rose. "I’ll be right back, one moment." She had left then, apparating home. She walked up the stairs, and down the long corridor to her sitting room. The knife was dusty, but still gleamed as she took it down. She smiled.

When she had returned to that nasty little Spode, he had thought her simply persistent. But when she dropped the knife on his desk, he looked at her entirely differently, and nodded slowly. "If there enough blood in this knife, yes. Yes, it can be done. It is dangerous, mind you." He had raised an eyebrow.

She had paid an extravagant amount for the scroll. She was certain that Spode was making a tidy profit from this little transaction, but she didn’t care. The scroll had been specially prepared, under Spode’s watchful eye. A scroll designed to transfer her innocent little Draco’s blood, so carefully and meticulously stored, into her veins. It was perfect.

Simon had caught up with her as she returned to her rented flat to pick up her things. "Jane!" he called, running toward her, using the name she had handed out without thought. For a moment, she almost forgot to respond to it. Inwardly she swore. "Jane, wait, now, can we do a quick photo shoot? I know you’re about to head out of here, I can see it written on your face. A promise is a promise now," he teased.

She considered killing him on the spot, but thought better of it. She smiled. "Oh, I wouldn’t forget, I just had to pick up my prop." She tossed the knife around listlessly. "Let’s go to my flat."

While the pictures didn’t move, Narcissa had been pleased with the results. It had been a fairly even exchange; his help for four consecutive afternoons for an hour-long photo shoot. Once she was home again in England, she had managed to get a copy of the magazine in which the pictures appeared, and kept it, with some of her other trinkets and baubles that she kept for reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, in a shoebox underneath her bed. It was only a matter of time, now.

11  Fuck you, Harry Potter

To tell you the truth I prefer the worst of you
Too bad you had to have a better half
He’s not really my type, but I think you two are forever
I hate to say it, but you’re perfect together
So fuck you, and your untouchable face
Fuck you for existing in the first place
And who am I that I should be dying for your touch
Who am I? I bet you can’t even tell me that much.

-- ani difranco, Untouchable Face

Ginny Weasley sat in the coffee shop, her hands clutching her steaming mug, a cigarette burned nearly to the filter dangling between her fingers. She had been rather on the cantankerous side for nearly two weeks now, and her co-workers at Miss Mandy's Better Robes and Accessories had taken to sending her out for coffee straight away in the morning rather than trying to keep her withering glares away from the patrons. She grumbled. How many times, she wondered, can one STUPID fellow break my heart? How many times?

She had been in the north for a few years after she graduated from Hogwarts. Her mother always thought she would make a good teacher, and, having no particular goals of her own, she had found a pleasant day school in Leath that had advertised in the Daily Prophet . She had spent nearly two years hunched over desperate seven-year-olds, struggling over their primers, stuttering and squinting as if that might help them understand. It had been dreadfully boring. Even now, more than a year later, she still woke up smelling that sticky floor wax, milky children, rancid worms and chalk dust. It had taken two years in Leath for her to realize that she did not ever, ever, want children.

She managed to pull one last drag out of her cigarette and butted it out absently on the table, entirely missing the ashtray. She sighed out smoke, closing her eyes. She still couldn't believe it. When she had arrived London, depressed and angry and bitter from her stint in Leath, the only spot of brightness she had had been remembering Harry. Oh, it was no secret that she fancied him. She had been a bit of a twit in her first year when she had insisted on sending him a valentine which he clearly didn't appreciate, and ever since she had been tagged; Ginny Weasley, the Girl Who's In Love With the Boy Who Lived. Well, sure. That's easy enough, isn't it. But she wasn't the only one. And for God's sake, that wasn’t all she was.

She pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tore off the plastic wrap, her hands only ceasing their shake when she felt that first taste of smoke in her mouth. Or is it all that I am? Here I am, twenty-two years old, chain smoking and grumbling because the boy I fell in love with when I was ten still doesn’t love me. No. She thought primly. It's only chain smoking if you light the next cig off the last. I at least butt them out.

Her current bout of depression was caused by that display at Harry's party. For God's sake. When Ginny had returned from Leath, Harry had been in the denouement of a relationship with some mousy little thing (Linda? Lydia?) Seamus had introduced him too. She was just dreadful. Ginny had done her best to be pleasant on the one occasion they had met, which had been at one of those crazy parties Seamus so enjoyed throwing. Ginny had re-dyed her hair only that morning (she simply refused to walk around like a walking advertisement of her parentage, and had been dyeing it black for more than a year at that point), and bought an understated yet kicky outfit to wear. Being introduced to Harry's girlfriend had certainly put a damper on her evening and her mood, but this girl completely stole her pouty and disappointed thunder. She had been mopey and awkward, with a gin and tonic constantly attached to her hand. Ginny was fairly sure Linda was drunk before she even got to Seamus' flat, which is saying a lot, given how much everyone always drank at his parties. Even the non-alcoholic punch was spiked. Being the only two women at the party, Linda had insisted on sticking close to Ginny, but would not be entertaining, and would only woodenly accept Ginny's attempts to be charming. Within about three weeks from that party, Harry had dumped her. Ginny'd felt a revisited bout of hope.

Only to have it brutally dashed again when Harry started seeing that Susan character a few months later. Ginny had been almost certain she had been getting somewhere with Harry at that point; they had had dinner together a couple of times, swapped stories; Ginny had been funny, warm, friendly, stable. At least, she attempted to project the impression of stability; but she wouldn't even vouch for it herself at this point. She went home from those evenings feeling almost triumphant. But she did, after all, go home. There was always that nagging fact.

Susan had waltzed into Ginny's universe like a thief, like royalty, like some long lost school chum whom she was supposed to welcome with open arms. Like a distant relation. Like a sister. Makes me want to puke. It wasn't just that Ginny kept not getting Harry that made her feel so sick over the whole thing, though that was a big part of it. The rest was the way that people looked at her so sadly. The Lost Love Interest, the Girl Who Never Had a Shot. It was humiliating, and yet, she couldn't seem to get off this roller coaster. Where Harry had a lightning bolt on his head, Ginny felt as if she had a storm cloud perpetually over hers. And when Harry was occupied, in love, his eyes trained on someone else, the cloud fell down around her ears, making it difficult to see. It stuck its fingers into her eyeballs and prickled her brain, closed her ears, isolated her in her torment. No matter how far she strayed from that puppy-dog-friendly little ten-year-old who had looked blissfully up at him the first time she had seen him, Harry Potter could still reach into her, tie her heart up with a velvet ribbon, and tug it out with one lopsided grin.

It wasn’t as though she had sat still waiting for him. No, no. Not even at Hogwarts. Harry had his reputation to live up to, and Ginny had hers to run from. She had decided to buck the Weasley trend and be introspective, mysterious. She had bought her first batch of make up in her fourth year on a Hogsmeade trip. Black eyeliner, a pale foundation, mascara. A glossy red lipstick. She wore black shift dresses with silver details under her robes. When she walked, her silver pendants clanged together. With what remained of some Christmas money from Fred and George, she bought herself a pair of black platform Mary Janes. In her sixth year she bought a black corset. She wore it sometimes, with a long, shimmery red skirt that poked out the bottom of her robes, on days when she started to feel normal, when she felt like a nine-year-old hanging around the Burrow. The corset made her feel like someone other than the youngest Weasley. Her mother had found it lying on top of her trunk when she was packing to go back to school the following year and had given her a look.

She didn’t know whether she was wearing the corset that particular evening or not, but when she remembered it, she invariably was. She had been walking out along the edges of the forest, lost in her own thoughts. Harry again, of course. He had been flirting with Cho from the Gryffindor table at dinner, she had seen it. Just one more year of this, she had thought. It was the beginning of October, and it would, doubtless, be a long year. She winced and tried to hold back her tears. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him. She walked past a Quidditch practice, but didn’t notice which team it was. She didn’t care. She passed Hagrid’s hut, the Herbology garden, into a neglected field where the forest loomed large and black. She peered ahead into a small, ancient pasturage filled with tall, dying grass. She ran her arms out, brushing the palms of her hands through it, making a rustling noise. When she reached the edge of the pasturage, it was nearly dark. It was later than she had realized. She sighed, wrapped her arms around her ribcage, and turned around.

She had almost screamed when she saw someone, roughly fifteen feet down the path, and she abruptly stopped short. She peered into the growing gloom. It was Malfoy, in his Quidditch robes, his broom in one hand. He looked at her jauntily, walking the remaining few feet between them.

"I was sent to fetch you," he said curtly, hauling his broom over his shoulder. "Hooch thought you might be lost. Or something. Not that I want to get in the way of another daring, brave Gryffindor adventure, but it was this or detention."

Ginny sniffed. "Well. I was just heading back anyway." She rubbed her face and saw that her mascara was running down her cheeks. Lovely. She moved stiffly to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her.

"He’s hardly worth all those tears, Weasley." Ginny stopped and rolled her eyes. Oh, of course. She thought. Everyone knows what upsets me. Everyone knows I’m tragically, hopelessly in love with The Boy Who Lived. Even Malfoy. I am so fucking pathetic.

"Don’t call me that. My name is Ginny. Ginny, got it?" She was yelling, her fists flailing in the air. She had been angry to start with, and now Malfoy was blocking her path and subsuming her into a family name that made her feel even less distinct than she normally did. She tried to get past him, but he kept dodging left, right, not letting her go, watching her anger mount, smirking. She growled, stopped dead in front of him, and wrapped her arms across her chest. "What the hell do you want, Malfoy? Got tired of harassing the wonder boy and my brother? Feeling some sadistic need to taunt defenceless girls?"

He chuckled. "Everyone needs a hobby. And I never get tired of harassing the ‘wonder boy’ and his pet weasel. They’re just not here at the moment. You are." He looked at her, completely unphased by her anger.

Ginny was rarely looked at. Though, her rather unorthodox attire had garnered her some degree of attention at first. But now, after two years, even her dramatic gowns and variously-coloured hair went relatively unnoticed. There were no rumours of crushes on her, no awkward stares, no love notes passed onto her desk. She floated in the background, present only as an observer, not a participant. Teachers rarely called on her in class. When she decided to draw her curtains around her bed and skip dinner, her absence was rarely noted. She was invited everywhere, but her entrance was never remarkable. She retreated, unwilling to even attempt to become popular like her brothers. Ron, of course, had to do nothing to become the centre of attention; he had the ear of the amazing Harry Potter. If Harry himself wasn’t there, everyone turned to Ron. Ron wasn’t even all that interesting. At least the twins were funny. Percy was smart, and Charlie had his dragons. Bill was a financial genius. Ginny had nothing. She was the only girl, but who cared? She wasn’t particularly pretty, or smart. She wrote dark poetry that no one ever read, and she was considering piercing her nose. That made her pretty much like every other girl in her dorm. So now, with Malfoy looking at her like an exhibit, like a an object he had found hidden in a drawer, like a painting in a gallery, all watercolours and transparencies.

Malfoy was still looking at her. It made her nervous.

"What?" She insisted testily.

"Your hair. Is green."

"It’s blue." She wrapped her cloak around herself. It was getting rather cold, and she hadn’t brought much with her that would keep her warm. She stomped her feet.

"You’re wearing a lot of makeup."

Ginny sighed. "So?" There was a lengthy pause, during which Ginny felt rather than saw Malfoy’s eyes on her. She was looking distractedly toward the school.

"It’s not helping you get his attention, is it." He said matter-of-factly. In retrospect, Ginny realized that Malfoy was, at that precise moment, swooping in for the kill. She hadn’t noticed it at the time. With every word he was inching closer to her, and by the time he said this, she could feel his breath on her face. For some reason, this hadn’t struck her as odd. She was hemmed in by him, she was cold, she was helpless, and yet she felt that she was controlling the conversation. The next series of events occurred for some inane and inexplicable reason that would boggle her brain for months, no, years, afterward. In retrospect, Ginny was certain that leaning forward and kissing Malfoy just then was actually his idea, but at the time, and for some time afterwards, she had been certain that it was entirely hers.

It had been a rather nice kiss, too. At first she did it just because she could. He was right there in front of her face, after all, refusing to budge an inch. She had thought, just as she was leaning toward him, that he would pull back, shocked, appalled, and she would say, "Well. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to get someone’s attention. Now screw off."

But it didn’t happen that way. No indeed. At first he hardly moved at all. He allowed her to kiss him, and opened his mouth at her insistence, letting her stick her tongue rather inexpertly into his mouth. Just when she was about to pull away and blush, he began to kiss her back.

Well. The boy could kiss. Ginny could feel the reverberations of that kiss travel a slow line from her mouth, down her spine, through her legs and into the soles of her feet, which she could not guarantee did not leave the ground and float in a rosy, warm cloud for the duration. Being kissed by Malfoy ("MALFOY?!" Penelope Masters, one of Ginny’s incredulous roommates, had shrieked, throwing her Transfiguration textbook, open, on to her head, as if this would protect her from Ginny’s confession) was to being groped by Colin Creevey in the Astronomy tower what being drowned in a monsoon was to recognizing the chemical composition of water.

He finished off the kiss with a flourish. Ginny’s eyes were shut, she was overwhelmed. This wasn’t her first kiss, but she wished that it had been. When she did open her eyes again, she noted the wry and rather derisive look on Malfoy’s face.

"You’re wearing too much make up. You look like a whore," he said. He turned, and walked away.

To say that she had been utterly humiliated by this event was to drastically understate the intensity of her feelings. What had she been thinking? For about a week or two afterwards, she had been distracted from her constant, burning love for Harry Potter by the deep-seated lust she had developed for Malfoy, which, to be honest, had rather disgusted her. He was an absolute prick, after all. He made rude comments to her brother about their mum and dad, which annoyed her, but not nearly as much as it annoyed Ron, who had to be restrained by Harry and Hermione. Malfoy walked around as though he owned the place, smug, disdainful, haughty. Ginny was almost certain she had seen Malfoy prod one of the chasers on the Slytherin Quidditch team to send a Bludger at Harry’s head during a game. When Harry had fallen off his broom that November and had to be carted off to the hospital wing, she was sure she had seen Malfoy sneer. To his credit, however, he said nothing at all about her pathetic attempt to kiss him. No one ever teased her about it, no one ever mentioned it. As far as Ginny knew, he never told a single person, leaving the two of them (and Penelope) the only people at Hogwarts who had any knowledge of the event. She was grateful for this, though it did remind her that, even at her most scandalous, she was hardly rumour-worthy.

During those rather heart-wrenching and desperate two weeks, she had noticed a few things. Sitting unnoticed at the Gryffindor table at dinner, she saw that many girls, from all houses, were gazing affectionately at Harry. This wasn’t news. She had stared each of them down in turn before, with a look in her eye that said Mine. Do you hear me? Mine. But what surprised her, then, was how many girls, from all houses, were gazing rather affectionately and mournfully at Malfoy.

Well, nice girls are suckers for bad boys, aren’t they. It was then that Ginny realized that it was highly unlikely that she was the only girl at Hogwarts who’s feet had lifted off the ground in a passionate Malfoy liplock. Oh, sure, he had been seen about with Pansy Parkinson, but even Ginny could see that he wasn’t particularly interested in her. Other than that, there had been no rumours of Malfoy’s romantic dalliances. No gifts prominently displayed, no girls strutting around with a too-big cloak wrapped around them, the Malfoy crest prominently displayed. There were, however, many doe eyes, sad, weepy glances, hopeful, flirty smiles, and angry, lustful, bitter snarls being made in the direction of the Slytherin table, and it had not taken Ginny long to pack up her eyes and get out of the over-populated pool.

She had noticed, however, that Draco’s own eyes were normally trained on one target, and one target only, just as hers were. Harry. She had been defensive about it then, certain that he was watching for a moment of weakness, sizing up his enemy, plotting his next strike. Like You Know Who, she had thought. He never stops thinking of ways to hurt Harry, to humiliate him, to torture him. Nasty, horrible boy. Yugh. In retrospect, however, she belatedly recognized the the nature of those looks Draco had been shooting at Harry. She puffed anxiously on her cigarette, glancing at her Muggle watch (a gift from her father. "It’s Dig-it-TAL!" He had exclaimed.) and sighed. The waitress smiled sweetly at her, holding a coffee pot questioningly. Ginny nodded, and the waitress refilled her cup.

She had run into Susan in this very coffee shop, in fact. Just two tables over they had sat, a few months ago now, drinking very strong, very black coffee, while Susan cried and mourned the loss of Harry. Ginny had been sympathetic. Normally, when girlfriends came to her for this kind of post-breakup tête-à-tête, her response was to rant about what a flaming jerk Bob/Tom/Nigel/whoever had been. And women normally took great comfort in that conversation. ("Yes. You’re right. I can do better than that." "Oh, hell, of course you can, Tina/Joan/Sarah/whoever. A monkey on a unicycle could do better than him. In fact, a monkey on a unicycle would BE better than that.") But what Ginny learned from this conversation with Susan was that Harry was very, very good at breaking up with his girlfriends. Susan would not blame him, would hear no words against him at all. She couldn’t even bring herself to fault him.

"It’s hard for him to commit, you know, with his parents dead and all, and with all this war and such on his mind. He just…he doesn’t want to hurt me, you know?" Ginny nodded dumbly. Harry Potter. King of the easy let down. "I wish…well, I wish he’d let me try. I’m tougher than I look you know, I can take it. But I guess…you have to respect it when someone doesn’t think they’re able. Don’t you." Ginny reached out and rubbed Susan’s arm, watching another tear dribble down her cheek. Inwardly, Ginny shook her head. Fuck you, Harry Potter. Can’t you just be an asshole some of the time?

And she had been elated. Harry was single again. Ginny knew he was unlikely to jump into something right off, of course. She was a friend, she could stop in, chat, discuss. Sure. And she, like Susan, had a hard time faulting him. She had visited his flat when Ron was out. He had made her tea and sat lounged haplessly in an armchair. Ginny had worn a denim skirt she had made herself from a pair of raggedy old jeans, its hems spouting white threads, and a thick black sweater, cut low at the throat, patterned in delicate silver. She wore the corset underneath.

"You know," Harry had said, "about Draco, don’t you?"

Ginny looked at him. "About him? Sure. He was a Death Eater, wasn’t he? Didn’t he try to kill you? What else is there to know?"

Harry sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, his elbows on his knees, looking down at the floor. "I saw him last week. I think it’s time to forgive him." They both sat silent for a while.

"Harry." She said finally. "You’re not God, you know. You don’t have to forgive everyone. It’s not your job. Especially not people who do the sorts of things Malfoy does."

"It’s just not that simple, Ginny." His voice was cold. "What if he…I mean, you should see him, Ginny. You should see how destroyed his is. He apologised, you know. I didn’t even know what to say."

"Well, he should apologise, for God’s sake. You almost died, Harry." She leaned back against the couch.

"So did he."

"He knew what he was doing." Ginny crossed her arms over her chest.

"Yeah. I guess so." Harry sat back, hands clasped loosely on his knees. They were lovely hands, large, strong, powerful, always clean and free from the marks of the kinds of work he had done. They were not the hands of a man who had killed anyone. They were not the hands of someone who should feel compelled to forgive those who betray him, those who were born to betray him. The hands of a trusting soul who never, ever, intended to hurt anyone. Ginny could imagine Susan, sitting perhaps just where she was, a cup of tea sitting untouched on the table in front of her getting increasingly cold. She would have seen this conflicted look on his face, clasped in his gentle hands, anguish, betrayal, sadness, forgiveness. He was somewhere else now, not here, not sitting in this room with Ginny, nor with Susan. Ginny could feel it.

So she hadn’t been expecting what happened next. Not at all. She wouldn’t have conjured this scenario in her wildest dreams. She had arrived at Harry and Ron’s place with her brothers, and, thankfully, there hadn’t been a single introduction to a girlfriend. Nope. No girls there hanging off Harry’s arm, grinning like the universe was hers. The universe was thankfully still single.

She had been mingling happily with some rather good-looking Quidditch players when it happened. She had been facing the door, and saw it open, saw him walk in, all cockily assured and suave, scanning the room as if looking for alternative exits through which to drag the bodies of his victims. She knew her jaw had dropped. She also knew that he had seen her jaw drop. What on earth was he doing here? Was this Harry’s charity work? Forgive the traitor? Invite him over? Let him pick shrimp from the shrimp ring, drink the punch Seamus had been steadily spiking since he got here? She shook her head. There was a part of Harry’s brain that was definitely two sizes too small. In that spot where healthy mistrust lives. The room grew painfully quiet.

She saw Harry turn, and smile. He walked over to Malfoy, and spoke with him while he removed his coat and pushed it into the closet with a superior smirk on his face, casually placing a bottle of wine on the table. He said something in a scornful tone that Ginny couldn’t quite hear, but sounded like: "I expect you're the only one who’s prepared to live in this tenement, Potter." Harry, however, was grinning. He draped his arm on Draco’s shoulder, and put his hand on his neck, oddly toying with Draco’s hair. Oh no. She watched Draco’s eyebrow go up as he looked at Harry incredulously. Harry grinned even wider, and then, parting his lips, he leaned forward, as if it were the most natural, normal, expected thing in the world, and kissed him.

Ginny had a great view of this dramatic kiss, too, if one could call an unobstructed view of the most devastating event of one’s short life great. She watched, aghast. Draco himself looked a little shocked at first, and for a moment Ginny thought perhaps Harry had just brought Draco here to humiliate him. She would have cheered, but then she saw Draco’s hand very gently and almost inconspicuously rest against Harry’s hip in a way that made it clear to her, at least, that this was no first kiss, no prank, no wonderful, planned revenge. Not that she could picture Harry trying something like that anyway, but at that point Ginny was grasping for any, ANY, other explanation. Oh. My. God. From this vantage point, she could even see that there were tongues involved in that kiss, and that it looked practiced, familiar, and comfortable. For Harry, at least. She heard a glass drop, and realized that it had been hers. Her hand was still clutched around its absent shape. She didn’t even hear Hermione clear her throat and speak, loudly, to her. It was then that the rest of the room started speaking again, thrown back into the land of the living and breathing. Ginny was nowhere close.

She slurped at her coffee, and lit another cigarette. She was still recovering from the shock, nearly two weeks later. Not that she had a problem with folks being gay. Well, no. Hell, her best friend was gay. Sometimes she seriously wondered what she was doing trying to land men in the first place. But, that aside, Harry Potter was not supposed to be gay. He was supposed to be gloriously straight, a paragon of manhood, the hero of the story, the one girls swoon over and men long to be. Harry Potter was supposed to marry a nice girl and the nice girl was supposed to have his babies. He was supposed to come home from battling evil to a home cooked meal and then head into the back garden to put together the new swing set for little Harry and Harriet. He was supposed to be irreproachable. He was a man of the missionary position, a loving, gentle, bashful man who would never cheat on his wife, or so much as look at another woman. He would die the day after his wife’s timely death of old age, without whom he could not live. On his deathbed, he would tell his children that he had loved their mother above all else, and now the mantle had passed to them to fight evil. The audience cries, the curtain goes down. That’s how it was supposed to go.

There were a series of things that Harry Potter was certainly not supposed to be: at the top of that list were: a cross-dresser; a clown of any variety; a criminal of any stripe (up to and including child molester, rapist, embezzler, and so forth); a woman; a Muggle; gay. And the very last thing he was supposed to do was have a sordid affair with a man who had been bent on killing him since he was eleven years old. Ginny choked. If only she had known that the way to Harry’s heart was to hate him. I could have done that, she thought.

Granted, her insistence that Harry was not supposed to be gay could be coming from the fact that she pictured herself in the perfect Harry Potter scenario. Looking at herself now (nose, tongue, and nipples pierced; working in retail; hating children; chain smoker; terrible cook), she realized that she didn’t particularly fit into her own desired mould either. And then there was her little caffeine addition. She finished off her coffee and ground her cigarette into the ashtray, then gathering up her stuff and paying for her coffee. Harry Potter wasn’t supposed to be gay. And Harry Potter’s mate wasn’t supposed to be a goth Weasley, either. Reality is a bitch.

12 Metaphysical

I fear I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose here in this lonely place
Tangled up in our embrace
There's nothing I'd like better than to fall

-- Sarah Maclaughlin, Fear

Harry's eyes flew open in the middle of the night, unsure of what had woken him. Draco lay silent and unmoving against his back, his arm draped over Harry's waist, his even breathing tracing vague but familiar patterns on the back of Harry's neck. Harry stroked Draco's arm, noting that his movements in the night, even this deliberate touch, had ceased to waken him. The first time he had spent the night, Harry suspected that Draco hadn't slept at all. The first several nights, he had jumped awake every time Harry shifted, rolled over, coughed. If Harry cried out in his sleep (which he did with some regularity; partly a result of the images he still received from Voldemort, and partly from his private ghosts which still haunted him), Draco was awake before his shout ended, gripping him protectively, always unsure if some beast had crawled in through the window, a Death Eater was rapping at the door, or if he had himself done something to elicit that strangled scream. Draco would wrap his arms around him, press his lips against his neck, still half asleep. Sometimes he would whisper words that made varying degrees of sense ("Where?" "Don't go." "I'm sorry." "Shhhh.") Harry traced his fingers along the bony ridge of Draco's forearm from his wrist to his elbow, and slid his palm slowly back down to his hand, which was pressed limply against Harry's chest. I suppose he's getting used to it, Harry thought. The idea pleased him. Even in sleep, Draco knew his touch, and did not fear it.

He couldn't get the vision of Draco's glowing body out of his mind. Harry knew about the scars, of course. He had found them years ago, in a dusty office at Hogwarts in the middle of the night. They had confused him at first, but he had realized that these wounds had probably been ceremonial. His several encounters with Voldemort, and Death Eaters generally, had prepared him for the fact that the blood of some could be useful and valuable. Now, after spending years working in the field, the scars surprised him even less. Surprised him less, but horrified him more. That knife had cut Draco far deeper than the scars could ever attest; it had scratched cruelly into his soul and left it broken, it had ground twisted words onto his bones, where now, tracing his hand lightly over Draco's arm, Harry imagined he could read them like Braille. Pain, hatred, cry, destroy, ruin, break. Harry had known that there were scars, and that there were many of them. Although they were mostly invisible, a careful touch would finally reveal them all, one by one; thin seams against Harry's tongue, small outcroppings in the well-mapped geography of Draco's skin. Even now, after nearly five months of exploring this pale, wiry body, Harry still found new scars, and lavished great attention on them when he did. He had wanted to claim them, redefine them, he wanted to embrace them and accept them the same way he was trying to embrace and accept Draco himself.

He sighed, rubbing Draco's wrist, feeling the certainty, the mundane reality of those hard bones, that comfortable skin. He had seen a silver spiral on that wrist a few hours before, sitting on a stem of a long, wavy line that wound from his elbow to his thumb. He had seen glowing lines on Draco's flesh that now bore no marks at all. For a moment, he had been witness to marks that robbed Draco of his blood, his dignity, his innocence, but did not have the courage to leave an imprint on that brave skin. Marks that had bled and healed clean, as if their presence could go unnoticed. Harry could no longer distinguish between where Draco had been betrayed and where he had been let alone; his whole body was a scar.

Draco had revealed the glowing marks only momentarily. He quickly put his shirt back on, shivering a little, and sat down again next to Harry on the couch. In a casual tone, he went on to explain some details about the goblin spell, the process by which the blood would be transferred, and so forth. Ron and Hermione said nothing. He ambled forward, positively blasé. "Something like this would be dangerous on two fronts; first, because there's a possibility that the wrong characteristic was tagged, an obstacle which must have been overcome, or else would wouldn't be having this conversation. Second, the biological implications of transferring someone else's blood into your own veins…well, the possibility of rejection, I imagine, would be huge." Hermione nodded encouragingly, biting her lip. Draco sighed. "Well, in any case. I suppose we've figured out the how. And that's a great relief. I've been sweating over this goddamn question for weeks. No one was even close on this one." Harry noticed that he could see the glow of silver lines under the sleeve of Draco's shirt slowly fading. Draco did not look down. "Now," he continued. "I wonder who it was."

"Who it was?" Ron asked. "Well, isn't it clear? It must have been your mother."

Hermione shot him a glare, and Draco looked at him coldly. "We don't know that. We know that she had the knife, and that she was in Africa. She often goes abroad with Death Eaters, my father always like to have her with him. She's a good hostess and she speaks several languages. She's…useful in her own way to them. I would be surprised if she were…heavily involved." Ron looked doubtful, but said nothing.

"We should talk to Dumbledore. Now." Hermione looked stern.

Dumbledore had listened grimly to their news. It had been Hermione who had explained it, as Draco clearly looked spent. He rubbed his temples and added details to the account she gave, but for the most part looked away distractedly. Ron, feeling awkward, got up and made some tea, which everyone accepted with thanks.

"Well. At least this will help clear your name with the ministry, Draco. I'm glad to hear that, at least. Now. I will contact them immediately and work toward bringing this situation under control. You all look as though you could use some rest. I do hope you take it. You will hear from me shortly. Well done, and be safe."

Draco had indeed looked tired. And now he slept peacefully, an arm wrapped around Harry, who could not sleep at all. He felt suddenly the weight of how much he did not know and did not understand about the enigma next to him. On one hand, Draco was arguably one of the strongest people Harry knew; he could take on Death Eaters without flinching; he could face down a screaming mob clamouring for his death and not lose his dignity or his cool; he could face his own betrayal and wake up in the morning next to the man he had betrayed. Yes, even this peaceful posture had come at a high cost to Draco. Harry recognized that Draco struggled, that coming to him, and staying with him, had not been the easiest road. And this was the other side of this contradiction who shared his bed; he was so afraid. It was easy for Harry to forget this, and he usually did. Each time he remembered it was a kind of revelation, a complete surprise. Draco hid his fear well, and Harry had no idea what he was so afraid of. It was easy to pretend that Draco's relationship with him was just the same as Harry's was with Draco. But now, tracing patterns on Draco's elbow, Harry recognized that he struggled every day for simple things. He struggled over what to say, where to place his head, when to kiss him. Whether to close his eyes or open them, whether to speak at all or stay silent. Harry respected this. He respected the bravery of a man who would chose to struggle rather than run.

He felt Draco sigh heavily against his skin, felt knees brushing against the back of his thighs. Draco's hand, now thankfully free of marks, silver or otherwise, rubbed lazily up and down Harry's chest and he felt lips against his neck. Draco shifted again, and Harry felt a smooth chest pressing against his shoulder blades. Those lips had trailed up to his shoulder and Harry felt teeth quickly sink into his skin.

"Ouch!" Harry jumped. He moved to squirm away, but Draco's hand against his chest had become strong, pinning him in place. Harry rubbed the sore spot with his fingers and rolled onto his back instead, falling neatly into the curve of Draco's arm, which was now propping up his tired head.

"That was for waking me up," Draco said groggily. Harry laughed.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep." He slid a hand across Draco's bare hip and kneaded his buttocks firmly, lifting his head to take Draco's lower lip between his teeth. Draco smiled and kissed him, pressed him back against the pillow, crawling on top of him. Harry shifted his legs, rubbing his thighs against Draco's hips, teasing his calves with his toes.

Draco hmmed sleepily, looking down at Harry. "And ergo, nor can I." He buried his face in the waiting neck beneath him while Harry's hands played thoughtfully over his back. The memory of those marks burned into his brain, Harry sought them out; the curving lines at the nape of his neck, grids between his shoulder blades, long, slim lines slipping over his shoulders, a loose star in the small of his back. Harry's fingers searched for them, and found nothing. He claimed them anyway, commanding them into existence and caressing them away again. He sighed, wrapping his arms tightly around Draco's slight frame. Draco's tongue grazed his earlobe.

"Something's wrong," he said quietly. Harry wasn't sure if he meant this as a question or a statement. Draco's voice was rough with sleep, but also with something else. He thought about fear again, and wondered if that was it.

Harry sighed. "Well. A lot of things are wrong, aren't they. God, almost everything. But no, not exactly. I was thinking about you." Draco said nothing. He sighed and rested his head against Harry's chest, long eyelashes fluttering, his mouth slightly open against his skin. "There's so much I don't know about you. That's all." Harry ran his fingers through Draco's hair rhythmically.

Draco hmmed again. "Most of it you don't want to know. Believe me." His voice was muffled against Harry's skin. He felt Draco's heartbeat against his stomach. It sped rapidly and then faltered, sped again uncertainly, and slowed. His breath, pressed out against Harry's chest, was uneven. Harry touched the tense shoulders that rested against him. He shivered a little, and Harry grabbed up his blankets, along with a green and white quilt Mrs. Weasley had made for him, and wrapped it around both of them. Awake, pressed against him, Draco felt so different from the gentle, easy posture of that body that had curled, asleep, against Harry's back. He felt Draco's hands shifting slowly, one under Harry's shoulder and the other on his waist, holding on to him with increasing insistence. He's afraid. What did I do to make him feel so afraid? What is he worried that I'm going to say? His hand enveloped Harry's shoulder in an almost desperate movement, as if Harry were about to throw him out, about to reject him. As if he needed to hold tight in order to stay sane. Harry felt sad. Does he not trust that I love him? Does he not understand? Though how could Draco feel otherwise, he reasoned. There had been so much betrayal in his life. So much that Harry didn't know about, so much that he wouldn't know about. His own mother, taking a knife to her son's wounds night after night after night. He squeezed him back, trying to be reassuring, but feeling completely inadequate to the task. He had been very naïve, thinking he could redefine someone else's tragedies. Even Draco's. Especially Draco's.

"Hey." He said softly, hands slipping along the curve of Draco's spine, warm against slowly warming skin, tracing taut muscles, tensing under this unknown, incomprehensible fear. Draco hmmmed. "You know I love you, don't you?" Draco sniffed, stiffened, and Harry felt a jerky motion in Draco's fingers as they closed harder around his shoulder. He was holding his breath suddenly, and Harry could feel the tension rise in his chest. Harry felt shocked, and he froze, a wave of comprehension crashing over him. "You…didn't know, did you." Draco grunted cryptically, his eyelashes moving rapidly against Harry's chest. Harry sighed. Well. So here he was basking in certainty while Draco. Well. I have been so cruel to him, I never meant to be cruel. "Oh God. Well. I love you. I have for…well, for a very long time, really." Draco exhaled heavily, suddenly very wide awake. He grabbed Harry's wrists, pressing them into the pillow on either side of his head, rising onto his knees and leveling his face above Harry's.

"I see." He said nonchalantly. "That's interesting, Potter." He leaned forward and kissed him tentatively, as if it were a first kiss, as if he wasn't sure he would be accepted, as if he didn't already know the taste and texture of Harry's mouth. He kissed him as if he hadn't just now been woken while Harry's anxious hands had been tracing the word 'why' into his skin, over and over, as if he hadn't been sharing his bed for the past week. As if Harry hadn't just told him that he loved him. This was not unusual for Draco. Harry had thought of it has a kind of game, let's pretend. Let's pretend this is a first kiss, pretend it's all new, pretend there is no history, no drama, no tears and frustrations and holes in the walls and stacked feet of letters never sent. He had thought that these tentative kisses were simply a way to keep things interesting between them, to keep things fresh. He had thought that this was what Draco wanted, needed; that things stay new and always a little on the edge. So he played along. He could be tentative too. He could give him those virginal kisses, let him recreate those awkward, teenage moments. But suddenly, now, with his wrists still pinned against the pillow, he understood. There was something closer to the surface now, something in the quiet desperation of this motion that told him what this tentative kiss was. It was a question. Do you love me?

He needed to feel it. He had been asking for months, but Harry had not known that there had been a question. He had told him in a thousand other ways, but not in ways that Draco could understand. Harry played no games. He took that tentative kiss and answered it with an unequivocal one. Yes. Draco moaned a little, and released Harry's wrists. Harry pressed one hand against the back of Draco's neck, his tongue still answering, writing these long misunderstood words on the inside of Draco's mouth. He wrapped his other arm around Draco's waist, his thighs pressing into Draco's hips, pulling him closer. Yes.

All thought of sleep gone, his head filled with answers, Draco slowly lost control. Harry watched this happen with fascination, awe, and a twinge of fear. Much as self-control was one of the characteristics Harry had always attributed to him, he had not really known, really, truly known, how controlled Draco always was. He pulled back from that lingering kiss with his eyes shut tight, and then opened them slowly and looked into Harry's face with–what? The group of words Harry could think of to describe that look made no sense to him. Reverence, fury, fear, love, pain, hope. He breathed jaggedly, his mouth slightly open. His stomach twitched against him. Harry watched him now, his elbow pressed into the pillow, hand propping up his head, his face still within Harry's range of vision. He was entranced; body trembling against his own and his eyes wide open, looking shocked, wistful, and overwhelmed. He leaned closer, and began to trace the lines, curves, edges, textures and ridges that made up Harry's body, the geography of his life written muscle by muscle, crease by crease, beginning most tenderly with the old and faded scar on his forehead. He greeted Harry like a blind man bent on seeing him in his entirety, exploring him with his lips, his fingers, his tongue, tasting him, sketching him, compiling an atlas of his body as if now, given this new revelation, he had to relearn everything he once knew of him. Draco moved in ways that Harry did not recognize, and, most surprising to Harry, he spoke. When he reached the crook of his left arm, he ran his tongue delicately on that folded skin, and said, in a rough and broken voice, "found me." Harry didn't ask for clarification, as he wasn't sure whether Draco knew he was speaking. And the sound of that voice, that unregulated, completely unselfconscious voice was profoundly arousing.

Draco did occasionally speak while they made love. Very occasionally, and only when Draco was most fully outside, or most fully within himself. Harry treasured these moments because they seemed to him to be the most honest and most pure. He never mentioned it during the day, or even in their sweet, whispered conversations these most recent nights when they fell asleep entwined together. Those throaty exclamations were gifts, small pieces of Draco forged in orgasmic release and offered up to Harry for safe-keeping. He kept them safe, caressed them gently in his mind the following day, never spoke them aloud. Sometimes he imagined that the more of them he had, the more of them he treasured and loved and lingered over, the closer he came to that core, the essential truth that Draco hid within himself. Harry would not pry him open, he would not break him for that satisfaction. He knew that Draco would slice himself open if he could, pull his flesh apart and let Harry bathe in the light of that glorious, guttural purr that lived inside of him. But he would not demand that. These little gifts would do, each glowing a little brighter than the last. To ask for more would break him. But now, Draco was breaking.

He lingered everywhere, wrists, the space between Harry's shoulder blades, his navel, the soles of his feet, and Harry's skin became his territory, his country. He declared ownership of each inch with purrs, moans, muffled words, repeated, over and over, 'Harry', like it was his first and his last word. Harry encouraged him, shifting where required, flipping over onto his stomach, on his side, drawing his knees toward his chest so that Draco could stroke them and suck on Harry's nipple at the same time. Harry found himself speaking as well, words he had never known, groans buried so deep inside himself that only Draco would hear them, his ear pressed against his belly, measured by him like seismic shifts, tallied and organized as Draco relearned the rhythms that teased this flesh-bound empire. It was his, and he was claiming it.

Harry felt himself arching his back, his limbs jittering madly. Draco had always been a tremendous lover. From their first illicit kiss under his invisibility cloak, Draco had managed to pull responses from Harry's body that were often completely surprising. There was a time when he wondered, with a stab of jealousy, who had taught Draco that delicate touch, that delicious force that bought Harry to this insensate, violent longing. His kiss alone made Harry feel weightless. Harry himself was far from inexperienced anymore. But we are, after all, created in some sense by our lovers, freed by them, instructed and allowed to learn from them. He was an apt pupil with Draco, who touched him in ways that made his former partners seem like dim, weak stars against the heat of the sun. Perhaps, Harry thought, it's a Slytherin thing. It was only half a joke.

Gryffindors, Harry reasoned, fucked in the dark with their eyes shut. They said their 'I love yous' in broad daylight. Perhaps even across the table at dinner in the Great Hall, between bites of roast chicken and mashed potatoes. They did not tease each other, they did not tie one another up. They loved each other and never betrayed each other, got bored in bed after the first few years but would never consider mentioning it. They crawl into bed the same way every night, follow the necessary steps without particular variation. They drank cocoa and played scrabble, and held hands while they fell asleep. Slytherins, however, were a different story. Harry imagined that it didn't take them long to realize that sex and ambition are not strange bedfellows. They read books on sex and power for the pictures, experimented with auto-asphyxiation, lied about being virgins. They bought sexual tools and found out how to use them. They kissed each other for the practice, were less concerned about the sex or number of their partners. The girls preferred faking it to coming. They were passionate but devious; they would tease you within an inch of your life, but could deliver in spades, and would if they felt like it. Slytherins only said 'I love you' when they wanted something. No that they didn't feel it, mind you. Slytherins knew better than to toss around words that could change their lives forever.

Harry was not so much of an innocent to imagine that sex was some kind of inherent truth; he had had participated in sex that spoke volumes of lies. He had even heard 'I love yous' screamed out in passion and known even before the bashful look afterwards that it meant nothing. Or, that it meant nothing now. The relativity of truth could be a shocking thing.

Real love, and truthful words muttered into flesh, did not always make for wonderful sex, either. Harry had been with awkward lovers, male and female, who were both worshipful of and intimidated by his scarred body. He had had to play a role, many times. That role was of hero, leader, dominant, all-powerful, benevolent Harry Potter. They had cowed to him, even if just a little. There was a kind of barrier around his body, Harry presumed, that forced his lovers to ask permission, to beg and scrape, to lower their eyes when his honesty showed through. He was not just a boy. He was a minor deity who could not be claimed. He was to be held at a distance even when he was pressed between their thighs. They could melt into him, but he was not permitted to melt into them. They may long for it, on some level; "It's me the Famous Harry Potter wants", certainly. But they never pressed him beyond being Harry Potter. Harry moaned into the pillow, hunched over Draco on his knees, as he felt Draco's hands firmly massaging his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, his lips feathering against his aching and pulsing erection.

Not even Draco had been entirely willing to claim him. In these quiet moments where longing prevailed, however, he would. Draco would want, that possessive glaze covered him, he would curl up around Harry as though prepared to beat off any who attempted to take him. He did not pretend to be justified, but didn't care that he wasn't. He would claim Harry anyway, demi-god that he was, because he wanted him and Draco was used to getting what he wanted. Spoiled little brat, Harry thought, smiling. But the claiming made Harry feel human. But when the sun rose and beds were made, that sense of being claimed receded. Draco tucked it back in behind his eyes and smiled wryly. But now there was no part of him left unclaimed, and what was claiming him was Draco's own willingness to be exposed and vulnerable. It was the part of him that opened to accept Harry's long-absent words, long-awaited admission: I love you. Harry could still hear the singing purrs and words that had ceased to have meaning in his ears. With each sound he fell a little further into that crack that was breaking open along that scarred seam of Draco's soul. Harry would bask in it, in the sounds that came forth from him, and he would wedge himself inside so that Draco would heal around him.

Indeed, Draco had always been a tremendous lover. He gripped him by the hips now, as Harry groaned into the pillow, Draco's lips enveloping his erection, guiding Harry's frantic motions, teasing him in the agonizingly lazy way Harry had become accustomed to. Draco did not like to do anything quickly, and now was no exception. If there were one thing that could be counted on, it was that Draco paid close attention. He had learned, quickly, what pleased Harry most, what made him groan with contentment, what brought him up and over the edge of sanity. He knew the taste of Harry's skin when he was close to dissolving completely, and just how to keep him there, writhing on his tongue, crying out in bliss and desperation. How he had learned it, Harry wasn't sure.

In the same way, he was unsure how Draco seemed to know instinctively when Harry was troubled, when he was tired, when he needed to talk, when he simply wanted to sit quietly. He had noticed one evening, out of the corner of his eye, how Draco had stopped Ron from disturbing him when he sat in front of the fire, face in his hands, after a day of defending Draco. Again. How he had come to him later, just as he was about to fall asleep, took his hand and led him to his room, undressed him and put him to bed, where he fell asleep against Draco's chest. He had seen how Draco had watched him from the desk in the corner while he laughed with Ron and Hermione, gossiping idly, trying to ignore the growing darkness that threatened to consume the world. It was the same way Draco had always watched him, Harry realized. The way he had always seem to know about their various exploits at Hogwarts, tattling to Professors, or threatening to. Draco still collected information quietly, observing him, relishing every detail. Harry mumbled incomprehensibly, stroking the hand that grasped his hip.

Harry loved these moments, when he was entirely defined by the position of Draco's lips, the motion of his tongue, the careful restraint of his slim hands. Draco moved so intuitively that Harry sometimes wondered if he hadn't slipped him some kind of potion help him crawl into his veins, into his brain, to tease out every desire and every request. But half the time he read nothing from Harry's mind at all; he moved against Harry in ways he had no idea he had been longing for.

Draco stilled Harry hips for a moment, lingeringly pressing his lips against the slick tip of his erection. Harry moaned, desperate, straining against Draco's hands. He slid himself upward, and moved his hands from Harry's hips to his shoulders. Harry shifted his weight, allowing Draco to sidle up beneath him. Draco, now steeped in confidence, was serene, watching Harry stilted movements, bucking senselessly against his thigh. He smiled, kissed Harry sweetly, and nudged Harry's legs between his own with his feet, dragging his knees to Harry's waist. Harry groaned as he felt Draco's hands guiding him inside of himself.

Harry had very little restraint left. While Draco was all grace and smooth motion, Harry's eyes were damp, his breath ragged, he crowed weakly in the back of his throat. He groaned breathily as he felt Draco enveloping him in one smooth motion, and rocked against him, following Harry's frantic and needy rhythm. Draco stroked Harry's cheek gently, and said…something. As Harry felt that orgasmic rush flood his body, his brain, he felt his claimed body claimed again, he heard nothing. The world was filled with silence as he felt himself cried out. He collapsed, moaning and shivering, into Draco's arms.

As sound slowly returned, Harry heard the rain tapping against the windowpane, Draco's quiet breathing. His hands and his feet were tingling. Harry sighed, rolling to one side of Draco. He lay flat out on his back, and Draco grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"Can I sleep now?" Draco asked sarcastically. Harry laughed.

13 Decisions and Revisions

Those creatures jumped the barricades
And headed for the sea.
She began to breathe,
breathe,
at the thought of this freedom,
stood and whispered to her child,
belong.
She held the child and whispered with calm, calm,
belong.

-- R.E.M., Belong

When Draco Malfoy was particularly nervous, he adopted an elegant, lazy, demure sort of pose, his chin raised just enough to make him seem slightly taller than he actually was, as well as giving the impression that he was likely to flounce haughtily out of the room at any moment. He pressed his lips together primly, cocked an eyebrow, and, if he were standing still for a long enough time, as he had been just now, he would run his index finger along the inner hem of his robes, tucking that thin material under his fingernail. If you didn't know better, you might mistake this pose for disdain, nonchalance, or boredom. Harry Potter knew better.

They stood in the heart of Muggle London, in the foyer of a rather posh-looking bookstore called 'Waterstone's'. The highly polished counter in front of them housed a large, antique cash register, in gold, a large pile of books, mostly hard covers sans dust jackets. An elderly, balding man with white hair draped haphazardly over his ears sat perched on a stool behind the counter. He was pulling the books, one by one, from one pile to another, making note of each on a pad of yellow lined paper with a scratch-nibbed fountain pen, filling the otherwise quiet foyer with the sounds of canvas rubbing against canvas, and the soft thud of hefty tome falling one upon another, and the delicate scratch of the fountain pen, tallying the long minutes they stood there, unremarked upon, waiting.

Events had proceeded quickly. Dumbledore had informed the Ministry of Hermione's succinct summary of their latest discovery, and within a couple of days there had been several high profile raids. Malfoy manor had been all but sacked; but it had stood empty, the curtains still billowing at windows left half-open. Other than a handful of old potions bottles, there was no evidence of Voldemort, of attempts at freeing him, of bloody knives or goblin magic or anything else to be found there at all. The following day, Ministry officials had found the scene of a minor massacre. In the rear ballroom of a large manor along the coast in Wales, they found the bodies of three known Death Eaters, and those of five goblins. One other body, identified as Lewis Nelson, a wizard from Southampton and long-time suspect, was found in an abandoned upper room, dead for several months. Tucked under his robes was a long, silver knife wrapped in a blank piece of parchment. He had no blood in his body whatsoever. They found the doors to the manor thrown open toward the stony beach, as if its occupants had had to run, madly and half-blind, from the bloodied ballroom and into the ocean. The half-charred bodies of seven unidentified men lay face-first in the shallows, cold water ritually covering and uncovering the pink soles of their feet. When they turned one of them over, they found that he had tentacles protruding from his chest.

Before they finished, they made one last grisly discovery; Marjorie Bloom, a Hogwarts' student and pureblood witch, who had been thought killed in her grandmother's garden some weeks ago, had been shoved into a small closet and locked there. When they opened the door, she had screamed, and clawed out her own eyes, afraid of the men, the noise, the light.

The Daily Prophet had been again filled with accusations, outrage, shock. Horrid, appalling things were taking place, and no one at the Ministry had been prepared to give them any solid information. There were several rumours, reported in the newspaper, about a blonde man seen disappearing around a corner in Malfoy manor, picking up something from the bloodied ballroom in Wales and apparating God knows where. It was whispered in wizarding pubs and taverns across the nation that little Marjorie Bloom had screamed out 'No! Draco! No!' as she tore at her eyes. No one was sure where Draco was hiding, but the building that had formerly housed his flat had been torched, the landlord himself forced out in the middle of the night in his bathrobe to watch his home burn. He raised his fist and damned the Malfoys. "All of them." He muttered, watching his possessions go up in smoke.

There was a colourful story in one of the least reliable columns claiming that Draco was housed in a vault covered with goblin locks in the home of the Minister himself. The column noted that Draco and the Minister had tea together in the afternoons, and Draco was released for a single hour a day, only to be bound and sedated with various spells, propped into a formal and elegant position in the Minister's well-tapestried sitting room, compelled to discuss his horrible past, the evils of his actions, the workings of the mind of Voldemort. Another rumour had him still lurking in the corners of his department at the Ministry, eating rat poison and hiding in closets during the day. Most dismissed these claims, but still looked over their shoulders, walking down the wizarding streets, avoiding darker alleys and walking in groups at dusk. The streets were empty after dark. Draco Malfoy had become the bogeyman.

Aside from one murmured comment from Harry about the idea of him bound and open to suggestion which had frankly shocked Draco (A Gryffindor coming up with ideas like that! He's been spending too much time with me, he thought to himself, and then promptly told Harry, who had laughed maniacally and nibbled on Draco's earlobe), they ignored these ludicrous accusations. They had, however, cast spells on the windows so that Draco would not be seen through them, and Draco had begun using Harry's invisibility cloak in order to sit on their small balcony to get some fresh air. Ron and Draco had developed a ritual of playing a game of chess after dinner. This game was never particularly civil. Both swore like angry giants, and debated the wisdom of each other's moves loudly and with vigour. In spite of his scoffing, Ron had been relatively impressed with Draco's skill at chess, though for the most part Ron won these evening games. There had been an increasing number of stalemates, however, and he noted that Draco had already learned some of his trademark moves and had begun to anticipate them.

Harry was a fine chess player. Certainly, he was more than adequate. But Ron had spent his young years pitted against all of his older brothers in turn, and learned to beat the lot of them. It was something that came from being the youngest boy in a family of seven children that forced you to brush up on certain skills. Harry, of course, had never had a playmate as a child, and had not even learned to play chess, muggle or wizard, until his first year at Hogwarts. What he lacked in experience he had made up for in enthusiasm in the first couple of years, but his interest in the game had waned after that. Draco, however, was a worthy opponent for Ron. He was sly and conniving, a vicious and fearless attacker, with a poker face that could skewer you with its obstinate indecipherability. He considered his moves carefully and quickly, took calculated hits, and was prepared to gamble important pieces to offer Ron complex and ambiguous choices; possible loss against possible loss. Ron found it thrilling. The first time he had won a game against Ron, Draco had flashed him one of those self-delighted smiles that was not entirely scornful, and, in spite of keenly resenting the loss, Ron had seen for a moment a flicker of what Harry saw in this pale, tortured and trapped man. He twisted his lips thoughtfully.

"Good game," Ron said, proffering his hand over the chess board, from which his queen was looking at him angrily while gathering her skirts together and straightening herself up. Draco smirked and took his hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Yes, it was quite good, wasn't it. Rather better than yours, of course."

"Malfoy, you are such a twit. One win and you think you can get all cocky. I was just distracted."

"Let's make it two wins for me then, Weasel. Rematch?"

"You're on, Ferret-boy."

And then, late in the evenings, Harry and Draco would go outside for a long walk. This was very dangerous, and Harry knew it without the need for Ron's desperate reminders. But Draco could only sit around their flat staring at the walls for so long. He needed some exercise, some changing scenery. On their first ever excursion, Harry had enjoyed watching Draco's reaction when he pulled out muggle-ready attire for both of them. Over his jumper with the letter 'H' emblazoned on it and his rather faded blue jeans, Harry pulled on a navy peacoat with a thick silver zipper that Draco tugged on absently while Harry draped his Gryffindor scarf around his neck. Draco now sported a pair of runners on his feet, his own, neatly-pressed jeans, an Irish knit sweater, a brown oilcloth coat that came nearly to his knees, and a shapeless brown hat. Draco looked at himself incredulously in the mirror, still tugging on the zipper of Harry's coat.

"They consider this inconspicuous?" He asked, skeptical, poking at the hat, stroking the oddly textured coat. Harry grinned, nodded, and threw the invisibility cloak around Draco's shoulders. They started off, slipping quietly into the street, wands slid into their sleeves at the ready.

On these excursions they moved silently through the wizarding world and toward the other side. Harry pretended to be alone, avoiding people, staying to the broadest sides of the street, keeping close under the eaves of trees, which were beginning to recover from the long, cold winter. Draco breathed deeply, feeling the muscles in his legs groan and stretch pleasantly under the welcome strain of motion. They passed in silence until they arrived at a nearby park, where Draco removed the cloak under the sparse cover of shadows, and they would walk into the little meandering muggle streets together, unnoticed and unremarkable.

They moved quietly on tidy sidewalks along trimmed lawns, and occasionally dogs noses poked through fences beside them and whined, barked, or merely sniffed; they looked up at lighted windows, seeing curtains shut against the draft, with shadows cast on them of lampshades, figures walking across the room. Cars pulled into driveways and tired-looking men and women unfolded themselves, slammed doors, carried briefcases behind them as they walked without looking up toward their front doors. They saw several people walking dogs, a few cats prowling on fences, garbage cans turned upside down and left forgotten on curbs. They passed by a large, broad park, empty except for a teenaged couple sneaking kisses against a lamp post and giggling. Muggle London was like an entirely different universe. While Harry and Draco, and the rest of the wizarding world, woke up each morning from visions of untold horrors projected onto the insides of their eyelids, always slightly more on edge than the day before, clutching their coffee mugs a little tighter and glancing into the frightened eyes across the breakfast table, shaking hands holding the paper and scanning it for more word of disaster, massacre, destruction, the muggle world went on peacefully. Now, late in the evening, they saw families through windows, curled up in front of a flickering blue glow laughing; they passed children playing street hockey with tennis balls, their parents standing on stoops and calling them in to bed.

Harry and Draco watched this calmness, this sense of normalcy, and breathed it in, letting it seep into their skin. Sometimes the calmness found them speaking about evil things; questions of who, and how, and where, politics, dark motions, suspicions. Other times they walked in relative silence, simply enjoying their momentary freedom from noise, thought, concern. On that particular evening they spoke quietly about small things: some of the books Draco had been reading from Harry's rather extensive collection of muggle fiction; Quidditch captains and their various merits; the new muggle cookbook Harry had brought home for Draco, and why it was so atrociously bad; Harry's new camera, which had, he complained, the annoying tendency to autofocus when he didn't want it to, about how the instruction booklet was next to useless, but the photos were coming out rather well.

Harry had taken an interest in photography some years ago, and in calmer days he had even developed his own photographs—wizard and muggle—at home, turning his kitchen into a makeshift darkroom. Draco had eyed this hobby with some suspicion, but had had to admit that Harry certainly had an eye for it. For Christmas, Harry had given him a framed black and white muggle photograph that he had taken while they were together. Draco remembered watching Harry taking pictures that day; his face obscured behind his black and silver muggle contraption, all knobs and dials, hand cradled under the lens, twisting it this way and that. They had been participating in a fencing match at the ministry, and Draco himself was the subject of this particular photograph, unawares, foil in hand and eyes trained on his opponent. Harry had captured him fending off an attack. He had won that particular match, though one of the senior members of the fencing club had won the heat.

Seeing the photo had taken Draco by surprise. At first he wasn't sure that it was really himself in the picture; the fencing mask covered his face, the jacket and even the pants were uniform. But there was something in the curve of the shoulder, the way the jacket rested against his hip, that made him see himself all of a sudden. Having been taken by a muggle camera, it didn't move, of course. The stillness of it was oddly striking, like a flash of memory, one moment stretched into eternity, living constantly and yet halted in such a brief moment that there was no room for movement. Though the motion itself had been sharp, loud, and tense, in the photograph it looked tender, as if he held his foil delicately in a careful parry, pressing against his opponent's blade with such softness and grace that they need never move, never shift. It looked as though there were no tension at all in that hand, that arm, They stayed immutable with forever-crossed foils. Leave it to Harry to pin him down in a moment of strenuous conflict and portray him as gentle.

Draco treasured that photograph, and had hung it rather prominently in the living room of his flat. Sometimes, after Harry had left his bed to return to his own, Draco would slide into his slippers, pull on a bathrobe and pad out into the living room to look at it. It was a photograph of him, but everything about it reminded him of its photographer. Walking through the quiet and peaceful Muggle streets with Harry, who had left off talking about his camera and was instead commenting on the soup Draco had made him for dinner, Draco suddenly realized that his photograph was gone. He had seen the reports about his former residence up in flames. He breathed deeply, smelling woodsmoke, asphalt, and grass, and tried not to think about it.

When they returned to the flat, Draco hidden again under the invisibility cloak, There was an envelope waiting on the doorstep. In firm-handed black ink, it read 'Draco Malfoy.'

Harry glanced up at the clock on the wall at Waterstone's. They had stood there waiting for roughly fifteen minutes, and the man at the counter had begun to give them odd looks. Harry pulled Draco with him farther into the store, planning to give at least the semblance of being customers. Draco assented, following Harry up a set of rickety cast iron stairs to a slim aisle with bookcases along the wall. From this vantage point, they could look down off the slim rail into the rest of the bookstore. If they leaned over it slightly, they could even see the front door. Harry sighed.

"I wonder if this is a good idea," He said for the umpteenth time.

"As do I." Draco noted, pulling a slim volume (J. Alfred Prufrock and other poems, T.S. Eliot) off the shelf and glancing through it. He ran his index finger down a page, and harumphed. "There will be time to murder and create…And time for all the works and days of hands…That lift and drop a question on your plate," He read aloud. Harry leaned over and watched the door. It was resolutely still.

"I didn't know you liked poetry." Harry turned, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the rail, watching Draco. He read intently, his finger rhythmically stroking the edge of the page.

"Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea. Isn't that optimistic, though?" Draco mused.

"Keep reading, I don't think it stays optimistic." Draco read on.

"Ah, yes. I see. Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. Now that's interesting."

"Speaking of decisions and revisions…perhaps we should forget this and go home."

Draco closed the book and sighed. "No. Unless he comes in with a whole herd of Death Eaters, I need to hear what he has to say."

The letter had been an invitation, a request, a desperate plea from Lucius Malfoy. He had written that he needed to see Draco, that Narcissa was in grave danger, that there was no one left other than Draco who could help. That if he even showed his face in the wizarding world, even to get help, he would be cursed and killed before he could ask questions. Draco and Harry both knew that this was true. "I am tired," Lucius had written. "I am tired and older than my years now. I cannot walk properly and my eyesight has been severely damaged. I am no threat to anyone, and yet I am unable to stand in public. These are sad times. But we must help your mother. There are things you need to know. We need your help. Please. Meet me at a bookstore called Waterstone's on Charing Cross Road at 2pm on Wednesday."

Harry and Ron had had serious reservations. Truth be told, Draco had as well. But Draco knew from his own research on the matter that what his father had written was true; his eyesight would have been compromised by his time trapped inside the charm, as would his hearing and his concentration, and thus, his ability to cast even the simplest of spells. His limbs would be weakened by their lack of use. When Draco proved too determined to be swayed in his decision to go, Harry had insisted on joining him. Draco had not argued with him on that point, and had not even wanted to. Thank God for Gryffindor pig-headed bravery. No matter how academically certain he was that his father was in no state to cause him any real harm; no matter how concerned he was about his mother's welfare, he was still afraid to confront his father. On hearing the news, Ron's face had turned pink.

"Well, that's lovely, then, Harry. Why not just walk into a Death Eater trap WITH the silly git, and give them everything they could possibly want. Two for the price of one!"

Draco had then pulled out a series of dusty books from under Harry's desk. "Fine," he said testily. "I will bind Harry up with so many protective spells he won't be able to untie his own shoe laces. Will that suffice?"

"No, it will not." Ron was adamant. "Dumbledore will never approve."

"I'm sure he wouldn't, if he found out. But look." Draco looked at Ron seriously. "It's been, what, nearly two weeks. The Ministry is fucking useless. They have more information than they could possibly have gotten on their own, and they still can't find Voldemort. I'll bet they've stopped trying, the bastards. I expect the Ministry is hoping that I get lynched so that they can pretend that it's over. So they can have a scapegoat. My father knows something. And if he's coming to me, something's very wrong, and he's very desperate. So are we." Draco sighed. "I started this. I'll finish it too, if I have to."

And now Lucius Malfoy was thirty-five minutes late. Harry was nervous. Perhaps in an effort to ease the tension, Draco read out titles of books he thought might be interesting. "Hey, Potter, have you got this one? The History of the World in 10 1/2 chapters. I knew Muggle history wasn't very complicated, but I had no idea you could fit it all into such a slim volume." Harry leaned over the rail, and saw the doorknob turning.

"Draco." He whispered. He kept his eyes trained on the doorknob, watched the door swing open, and saw a black-booted foot press noiselessly onto the threadbare rug, followed by another. Harry felt Draco's hand press against his back and he turned and leaned over the rail.

Lucius Malfoy looked a great deal smaller than he had the last time Harry had seen him. His shoulders were hunched, his arms looked painfully thin even covered by the heavy woolen cloak he wore. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with a bluish tinge. While Draco's hair could be described as nearly white, a vibrant and ethereal halo that gleamed when he stood in the sun and glowed bluish in the moonlight, mussed against the pillow. That same hair looked simply pale, lustreless, watered-down, and without colour on his father. His face looked haggard and sad, his colourless lips were thin and pressed together grimly, as though the mere act of walking was a strenuous chore slightly beyond the abilities of his fragile body. There was a sense of the transparent to him, as though he had left a critical element of himself behind. He carried a thick cane in his right hand, which tapped rhythmically against the floor. He stopped in front of the gleaming counter, and looked around.

Draco gripped the back of Harry's coat for a moment, and then let it go. He turned and walked down the rickety steps, attracting his father's attention. "You're late." He announced.

Lucius smiled slightly, and nodded. "Yes. So I am. It, ah, took me…perhaps somewhat longer to arrive than I had, well, than I had anticipated." He did not indicate his weak legs nor the cane in his hand. He stumbled rather gracefully over his words, speaking magnanimously with an almost ridiculous drawl that Harry recognized as a Malfoy family trait. He punctuated his sentences with breathy and moist pauses, as though searching for the precise word, finding it, pouncing on it, and presenting it with aplomb in spite of his weakened and pinched appearance. "I am…quite glad to see you." He smiled wanly. His eyes suddenly darted behind Draco, seeing Harry walking purposefully down the stairs. He carried two books in his hand. Draco watched his father's eyebrow arch, following him down the stairs and across to the counter, where he dropped the books and pulled out his wallet. "I see that you have, ah, brought a friend." Draco decided to ignore this comment, and particularly the emphasis on friend, not knowing how to respond to it.

"There's a restaurant down the street. We can talk there." Draco was curt. When playing games of power, there were a few ground rules that Draco knew well. First; always act as though the advantage is yours, even when your opponent has, on occasions of profound frustration and fear, beat you nearly senseless. Perhaps especially then. Second; never let your opponent chose the location of your rendezvous. Draco and Harry had already taken the precaution of casting a variety of spells on the restaurant in question to alert them to any untoward behaviour. Draco could hear Harry paying for the books behind him, and heard the rustle of a paper bag, the quiet thump of softcover landing on softcover. Third; never assume that physical weakness requires or deserves sympathy. Sympathy, of course, being the ultimate trap.

Lucius nodded his assent, and Draco pulled open the door for him. Fourth; never turn your back to your opponent. This is why courtesy was invented; the two people you should never turn your back to are women and enemies, both of whom wear different faces when they cannot see yours.

When Ron arrived home that night, he was relieved to see Harry sitting in front of the fire. He looked pensive and smiled wanly at Ron when he opened the door and dropped his keys onto the table. For a moment he wondered if Malfoy had also returned, or if he had been seduced again into the world of death and blood and mayhem. Then he realized that the smell of something tasty was emanating from the kitchen indicated that Malfoy was in fact still in the land of the living. Ron noted that he was actually relieved by this realization. How things change, he thought wryly.

Ron pulled of his cloak and looked at Harry. "Well?"

Harry sighed. He was fiddling with a small glass box, which he put on the table in front of the fire. "It was…well, it was interesting. We met with him."

"And?"

"Well. Oh, Ron, it's just so…awful, all of it. He says it was that Nelson fellow, you remember him."

"Lewis Nelson? The one they found in…oh."

"That's the one. We know what they were doing in Wales, now. He found out about the goblin charm, which makes sense. We knew he had been searching out ways to seize power, we knew he had the greatest access to spies. It makes sense to me that he would be trying to work out what happened to Voldemort. Well. It turns out that he found out about the goblin charm, and explained to Narcissa that he could get her husband home again if she went to Africa and got that scroll on that knife. When she came back, he used the goblin spell on himself, called the charm, and released Voldemort. Only…well, the transfer of blood, it didn't…take very well. He died shortly after. All the blood in his body evaporated." Harry shuddered.

"Well, what was Narcissa doing there?" Ron was suspicious.

"She was waiting to greet my father." Draco said coldly, leaning out of the kitchen. Harry sighed, and picked up a small glass box on the table, spun it between his fingers, and put it back.

"Well, so does this mean that…You-Know-Who…is dead?" Draco harrumphed and went back into the kitchen, banging pots and rattling silverware loudly.

"No, Ron." Harry lowered his voice. "This is where it gets sticky. When Nelson died, Voldemort tried to go somewhere else. So he. Well. He chose Narcissa. She was standing closest, and…well. They're not sure if she's there anymore at all, or if she's just…gone mad. At this point Lucius is certain that Voldemort is mad as well, which is not surprising, given the circumstances of the transfer. Draco says he's probably still half-enclosed in the charm, which would explain why I can still hear him, without the potions. He's forced into some kind of…breech, a half-goblin, half-wizard breech. The result of a bad mixture of the two magics. No one knows how to fix it."

Harry rubbed his knuckles against his forehead, and whispered, "Draco is pretty upset. As you can imagine. His mother has been admitted to St. Mungo's under a false name, and…" He picked up the glass box. "He's a danger to everyone. To Narcissa, to Death Eaters, and to the rest of us, as long as he sits in that breech. Draco believes that the madness is temporary, and when he comes to…well, Narcissa will be the new Voldemort. She's simply not…strong enough to…stop his personality from dominating. And…I might not be either. With him in that breech…I'll never be without him inside my head. And it may even get worse. Voldemort might actually be able to. Well. Start to control me too, as he gets stronger. So you see, we don't have much choice." Harry was already pleading with him to accept this.

"Wait, Harry, what are you going to do?"

"We've got go help Narcissa. We've got to recapture Voldemort. We've got to…put an end to this, before someone else finds a way to free him and set him lose." Harry sighed and leaned back against his chair. Ron winced.

14 Dissolution

For the next five days, Draco slaved over the object that he hoped would release his mother from her torment. It was a small amber charm, very much like the diamond and amethyst one that had both solved Draco's problems years ago and was now causing his current dilemma. But this charm was all browns and yellows, swirls of ancient sap, bits of disintegrated wood, tiny, petrified bubbles and one tiny trapped insect, curled upon itself, its wings spread wide. Where the diamond charm was clear and elegant, the amber charm was flawed, uneven in spots, with constantly shifting colours. Harry imagined that it was smooth and light, unlike the weighty, cold sphere he had carried in his pocket years ago. Harry watched Draco whisper strange words over it, so close it nearly touched his moving lips, its shiny surface dulling with the fog of his breath. It sat on the windowsill for a time, bathing in sunlight in the mornings, projecting a small, fuzzy yellow circle on the hardwood floor.

When he wasn't working with the charm directly, Draco kept it in a small glass box, locked with charms, so that no one else would touch it. Ron was somewhat offended by this; as if his fingers could cause such havoc, such dramatic destruction, as if Draco couldn't trust either of them to leave it alone. Ron harrumphed, watching him lock it away, but Draco simply looked at him coldly and continued with his work. Harry knew better. Anyone who touched that charm would have a key to whatever would lie within it, and would be forever to linked with it. Draco was tired of dangling guilt and unintended victims.

He set it carefully on the bedside table in the evenings, between sliding off his shoes and hanging up his sweater. It glowed oddly in the light of the dull lamp above it, ethereally gleaming orange light onto the table top beneath it. Harry found it both reassuring and disturbing, but said nothing. Draco thought about the charm constantly, and their normally comforting evening walks had become more hurried, more tense; Draco spoke about formulas, incantations, pronunciations, matrixes, his hands waving in the air describing possible victory, possible failure. The tone of his voice was hitched up, he spoke more quickly, twisted his fingers around each other in his lap while he was thinking. He woke up occasionally in the night, grasping for the charm on the bedside table, knocking Harry's glasses to the floor and jolting Harry awake. On finding it still safe, Draco would turn to Harry, press his lips against that scarred forehead, curl his arms tight around him, and tremble into Harry until he fell asleep again. Harry would lay awake longer, pushed out of his fuzzy dreams into a shocking and overwhelming new reality. There was a sense of trust and fear in these small movements of Draco's that shook Harry's marrow, sent curling fingers of dread inside his belly and roped themselves around his spine, fluttering with hot need into his brain. Harry was also afraid; afraid of Draco and afraid for him. He did not feel strong. He felt small. Sometimes he felt something akin to a sob rising inside Draco's chest, and his arms would grip Harry a little tighter, a little longer, trembling travelling from Draco's body into Harry's. He would hold that quivering body, and whisper soft words into his ear ("Shhh," "Sleep now," "It's okay," "I love you.") and feel like collapsing himself. But he would not collapse, not now, not when Draco needed him so much. Harry began to need naps before dinner.

And then Draco was finished. It happened suddenly, as if it were unexpected. The deed was done, and from all accounts, it had been done properly and well. He practiced summoning the charm from one side of the apartment to another, from outside on the balcony, from underneath the invisibility cloak. He found no errors in his calculations. He sighed deeply once he realized that there was little else he could do, fidgeted on the couch for about fifteen minutes, and then headed straight into the kitchen. He still had four days to go until he could go into St. Mungo's with the paperwork Lucius had carefully prepared for him, and nothing left to do in the meantime.

That evening, Ron had brought Hermione and Ginny home with him. Hermione and various members of the Weasley clan, had become almost constant fixtures in their flat in recent days. Ron had been finding the tension simply too much, and welcomed any and all distraction from it. While Draco was entirely consumed with creating this goblin charm, snarling at attempts to engage him in conversation and generally being in a foul mood, he had stopped his usual stress-relieving activities, much to Ron's dismay. But once Draco finished work on the charm, he resumed his frantic baking and cooking. Ron had been shocked on more than one occasion to see Draco throw out entire meals worth of food for no apparent reason ("Too much salt," "Overdone", "Underdone", "Just awful."). But this meal seemed to have met Draco's expectations, fortunately for Harry, who was famished, and for Ginny and Hermione, who had spent a whirlwind afternoon with Ron, seeing a Quidditch game, buying new robes, picking up a few things here and there for Harry and Draco, and general gossiping like mad. Ginny lifted her spoon to her mouth, arched an eyebrow, and mouthed, 'Are you sure it's not poisoned?' across the table to Ron. He giggled. Harry gave Ginny a dirty look. Hermione watched the whole scene, bemused.

Draco Malfoy was not the person Hermione had come to expect him to be. Unlike Ron, she had begun to give him the benefit of the doubt while they were still at Hogwarts; certainly, even that long ago he had begun to change. But she had been reticent even then, and had had no idea Harry had gotten himself so entangled. She sighed and shook her head. Well, even if I had known, would it have made any difference? What would I have said? No, Harry, don't give him another chance? Held his coattails and refused to let him leave the building? Stopped Harry from loving him? I don't think so. It was, after all, precisely Harry's ability to see beyond their own history, to put his hesitations aside and really look at Draco in particular, and everyone else he encountered, that helped make Harry who he was. It reminded Hermione of how quickly and completely Harry had been prepared to accept Sirius as his godfather; confronted with an alternative explanation, Harry always preferred to believe the best of people. He is so beautiful, she thought. Beautiful, good, heroic, forgiving, loving, open, and emotionally in touch with himself. The perfect man. She turned at and looked at Draco, who was scowling into his soup. You lucky bastard.

Hermione's entire impression of Draco had been altered severely in recent days. When Harry decided to see Draco again, her stomach dropped into her shoes. She had shaken her head, telling Ron, "Well, they say that victims of abuse tend to seek it out ever after. Perhaps we can suggest some therapy for him." Harry had generally kept Draco away from them, to the point that he seemed almost ashamed of him, or ashamed of them. It had worried Hermione. When she asked Harry about it, he had shrugged, and flashed her that lopsided grin. "I just don't want to deal with that kind of stress, 'Mione. Not yet." She had vowed then to be supportive, no matter what, and had insisted that Ron agree.

Harry seemed happy. Genuinely happy, not some kind of manic victim-centered happiness that comes from feeling needed, feeling like a martyr. When she saw them together at their last party, Hermione had been surprised. She had somehow expected…well, she wasn't sure what she had been expecting. But there was an easiness between them, a genuine enjoyment in each other's company, a warmth in Draco and a playfulness in Harry that she had never quite seen before. It was very clear to her from that point on that Draco positively worshiped the ground beneath Harry's feet. Oh, sure, he still teased him, but those harsh looks and sneers she had watched Draco shoot at Harry millions of times were gone. Even an armchair psychologist could work this one out, Hermione reasoned. And there was something in the way he touched Harry, even in the simplest actions, that spoke volumes. Tonight, as he handed Harry a spoon, Hermione had seen it again. He loves Harry, and he's desperate to tell him so. Well, as if that was a new concept. Hermione rolled her eyes at herself.

She had accepted this idea easier than Ron had. They had agreed not to discuss their concerns with Harry, or even near Harry, but until very recently Ron had been positively livid about it. "He's going to get himself killed, I'm telling you." He turned red and clenched his fists after watching Harry leave again to meet Draco. "That bastard, I swear, I will beat him into the ground if he hurts Harry." Hermione had shaken her head, unsure of what to think. But then, suddenly, Ron seemed to have had a serious change of heart. Draco, when projected by the papers at his very worst, was being welcomed into Harry and Ron's flat. "Well," Ron had shrugged. "I see him more now. I've…gotten to know him a little better. Perhaps he's not so bad, eh?" He had not gone into any details. She had pressed for them, certainly, but the most Ron was willing to say was cryptic: "There's a lot we don't know, 'Mione. A lot of…well, a lot of dark stuff. I imagine it's pretty hard not to grow up all hateful-like when you have to deal with…well, all of that."

Then, seeing Draco covered with glowing scars, caused for ritual purposes and then taken advantage of by a clearly half-mad woman with a penchant for blood and suffering, she had felt as though she might be sick. She felt guilty, horribly guilty. Ron and Harry had hated Malfoy through their school years, but she suspected that no one had hated him quite as much as she had. He had made her feel worthless, he had demeaned her and her parents, he had longed to see her dead. He had scorned her, debased her, he had forced tears to her eyes by his mere presence, which, to her, had constantly underscored her vulnerability. She had hated him so much that she had pinned different words on it: she told herself that he wasn't terribly bright, in spite of the fact that he beat her out for the best grade in Arithmancy. She told herself, righteousnessly, that his brain was simply incapable of the reasonable thought that would bring his weak little mind line with hers, with Harry's, with Dumbledore's. She considered him the ultimate lost cause; stupid, powerful, rich, and to see anything resembling truth. He had come to personify everything she had been fighting against in these last years. When she thought about irrationality, the problems that plagued the wizarding world, she thought of him. And not with the blind, fighting rage like Ron's, but with a superior smirk, with the knowledge that lack of real thinking is what lead to him being who he was, a lack of critical thought. Her own righteousness made her ill, looking up at Draco, shirtless, his arms glowing, eyes shut. It was more than thinking, or not thinking, that made a person behave the way they did. She pictured Draco as a boy, covered with scars, bleeding and screaming alone night after night, and forgave him. In an instant, before the light on his skin had died. By the time he had put his shirt back on and sat down again, she felt as if he were a different person. She had almost wanted to greet him like a stranger. ("Hello, my name is Hermione. Welcome to our lives. I'm glad you love Harry. I love him too. Perhaps he can save all of us.")

The sound of Ginny's laughter brought her back to the present. Harry unwrapped a present from Mr. Weasley, hidden until then in one of the deep pockets of Ginny's black and silver cloak. The three of them laughed madly at the cover of the muggle video ("The Wizard of Oz? Where did he FIND this?" Harry laughed.") while Hermione turned and watched Draco carefully. He was polished of course, elegant, he smiled graciously and added a handful of witty comments to their friendly banter, but for the most part seemed distant. Hermione wasn't feeling particularly up to her normal standard of hilarity either, and the two of them sat quietly, sipping their tea, while Harry and Ron attempted to transfigure a pair of old shoes into a television and a video player.

Hermione saw Draco looking thoughtfully and distantly through the darkened windows. His lips twitched. Ron had filled him in on the current goings on. Dumbledore had reluctantly agreed to allow Draco to go into St. Mungo's to help his mother, but Hermione had hopes that he would also provide help to him once he was inside. It seemed outrageously dangerous to Hermione. Needlessly so. He looked frankly terrified, in a posh, rather blasé way. She shook her head. Why is the draw of this woman so great? Why does Draco want to help her, when she was so incessantly cruel to him? Imagine, letting your own child suffer like that. She shivered. Draco closed his eyes, and Hermione noticed for the first time that he had dramatically long eyelashes, which were dark against his pale cheeks. She sighed. "Draco," she said softly. He opened his eyes and looked at her startled out of his unpleasant reverie, startled. "that soup." She continued. "Is it difficult? Do you think an amateur like me could reproduce that?" She smiled carefully, still wondering whether Draco would sneer or snap at her.

"Oh," Draco had said, seeming a little surprised, he ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath, as if he had forgotten to breathe until she spoke. "It's very easy to make, as long as you can find miso. It was impossible to find in Hogsmede, but easy in London. Hmm, here, I'll show you…" He rose from the table. Hermione smiled, and joined him. The two of them moved into the kitchen, speaking about spinach, seaweeds, onions ("Really, you can use whichever you have on hand, or leave them out altogether,") and types of miso, where to buy it, and so on. Hermione listened, and asked him questions. ("Carrots?" "Oh, sure, yes, give it a shot. Throw in whatever you have.") Harry smiled broadly, and he and Ron watched them speak civilly as if Draco had not constantly called her 'mudblood' for years, as if everyone didn't know that Hermione had not herself at a few points wanted to see Draco in tiny little pieces scattered liberally under her feet.

"If those two bloody well become friends," Ron noted, "I have a few hats to eat." Harry laughed. Ginny looked sulkily at her black fingernails.

"Well, things have changed, haven't they." Ron watched Harry smile as they heard Hermione laugh at something Draco had said. Ron nodded sagely, fiddling with the buttons on the video player.

Ginny sighed. "Yes, things sure do change," she said, tucking a lock of black hair behind the row of silver rings in her ear. She picked up her wine glass and finished off its contents in one gulp. "Is there more of this?" she asked, shaking the glass in front on Ron's face.

In the kitchen, Draco leaned over the table to write out a quick list of ingredients for Hermione. Half way through, he looked up at her and said, "Where's your…friend, that muggle, what's his name?"

Hermione grimaced. "Edmund."

"Right. Where's Edmund tonight? I would have thought—" Draco looked up from the parchment, seeing her face contorting a little, holding back tears. "Oh. Did you two break up?" Hermione nodded glumly. "Sorry about that. I won't ask."

Hermione sighed, and coughed. "Oh, it's alright. It's just…well, with all this going on…we reached a point where…" She stopped. No matter how much she regretted her past pompous assumptions about Draco, she wasn't sure she was prepared to launch into the details of her rather painful break up with someone who, to this day, was skittish around muggles. He was looking at her rather sympathetically, and sighed.

"He just couldn't understand, could he." Draco looked back at the parchment, scribbling down ingredients and measurements. Hermione shrugged.

"It's not like you think." She said tiredly. "It's not that muggles can't understand."

Draco dropped the quill and looked at her thoughtfully. "Sure. Not that they can't, but they just won't the vast majority of the time. Right?"

Hermione said nothing.

"Well, I won't argue with you about it. The last thing I'm going to claim to be is a good judge of character. But I expect it's for the best. Anyway, I'm fairly sure there's a nice young wizard somewhere nearby just dying to show you how well he can understand."

Hermione smirked, brushing hair away from her face. "I'm sure," she noted dryly. Draco finished writing instructions on the parchment and handed it to Hermione. "Have a look around, Granger." He winked.

"What?"

"Come on. Think. Who might I be referring to."

Hermione blinked.

"Granger, my brilliant foe. You have bested me in most of our classes together. Except Arithmancy, I'll remind you. I'll never understand why you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw. Come now. This is really a very simple deduction. Who. Do you imagine. Might be holding a rather raging little torch for you?"

"…"

"Come on, now. You can guess that it's probably not me, and I would be the last person on the planet who would try to hook up you with Potter. What wizards are left in this flat?"

"Ron?"

"You didn't hear it from me."

Hermione blinked. "How do you—"

"Hey you two," Harry wandered into the kitchen, looking from Hermione to Draco. "We've got the movie all queued up. Are you coming, or what?"

"We'll be right there," Draco said, grinning rather wickedly. "Save me a spot next to you, would you?" Harry laughed and wandered back into the living room. They could hear Ron and Ginny arguing about how to insert the video into the video player. Hermione shook her head and smiled.

"You're awfully lucky, you know, having Harry." She folded the parchment and put it in her pocket.

Draco scoffed, following her out into the living room. "The bastard keeps leaving his socks lying around."

It had rained steadily all that morning, and when Draco and Harry arrived at the gates of St. Mungo's from where they had apparated down the road, they were already sopping wet. In the cover of some large, elegant and ancient trees, they had quickly knocked back a mouthful of polyjuice each. Harry was somewhat surprised that Dumbledore was allowing them to do this. They had explained the situation, and he had looked saddened, and worried. But he agreed with Draco that this was the best way. Harry had been tempted to protest;

"No," he should have said. "No, it's too much. He's too young, I'm too young, there are so many others who've been fighting Voldemort longer, who know him better, who are better equipped..." He stopped himself in his own thoughts, even. No. There was no one better equipped. Draco, and Harry, had the key to the charm itself. Draco had the skill and finesse required not only to make a new one, but to undo the damage that was done with the first. They were working in co-operation with Death Eaters, an uneasy truce for fear of a mad Voldemort and a poorly-spun set of spells. They could not haul the Ministry in; they could not risk all of the lives in St. Mungo's by announcing Voldemort's presence there. Dumbledore had taken some precautions, the lengths of which Harry had no idea. He had been told about most of their plans, but he had not paid attention. He simply concentrated on his own role in the affair; open up the flood gates, see whether Voldemort was truly inside Narcissa, whether he was truly mad, whether Narcissa was left inside her own body at all. He was there to help Draco perform the complicated spells that would release Voldemort properly from the original charm, and from his mother, and transfer him into the new one. He would walk out of St. Mungo's with a small victory in the palm of his hand that would impress no one but those with the background to understand it. How they would survive his popular reputation, Harry had no idea. Perhaps we'll emigrate to the colonies, Harry thought. I hear that Montreal is quite lovely. Draco could work on his French.

The polyjuice potion tasted sweet. Harry kept his eyes on Draco, curious, and nervous, about whom he was about to transform into. Draco grimaced at the taste of his potion ("It tastes like dandruff," he muttered) braced himself, and Harry watched his platinum hair, already dripping with rain, become dull, grow longer, and turn a rich chestnut. The contours of his face softened and thickened; his body grew slightly shorter and stockier. His shoulders swelled outwards, his hands transformed from their solid delicacy into a thick, powerful paws. When he looked up, Harry noticed that Draco was now sporting a pair of deep brown eyes. Harry wondered who on earth this man was. Some random Death Eater associate who wouldn't be recognized? Harry shook his head. Draco arched a now dark black eyebrow in a decidedly Malfoyesque manner, and Harry realized that his own transformation must be complete by now as well.

"Longbottom. Geez, Potter, this is just plain spooky. I'm afraid you're going to trip and fall on the way to the front door, or something." Draco's now rich baritone voice sounded strange in both of their ears. Neville had kindly agreed to give Harry the hairs he needed to make the polyjuice potion. As Neville, infiltrating St. Mungo's would be relatively simple for Harry. Since graduating from Hogwarts, Neville had become a regular visitor there; his parents had not improved much over the years, but Neville found that the more he visited, the less nervous they became when he approached them. Now, after several years, he could sit quietly with them without violence; sometimes, if he were particularly lucky, they would come to him and touch his face, rub his hair between their fingers, play with his hands. He loved it best when they noticed him like this. He did not move, he let them manipulate his fingers, tug on his hair, letting them see him as a plaything instead of as a person that might cause them harm. They still didn't know his name, and had no idea at all that he was their son. In fact, Neville wasn't certain they understood the concept of 'son' at all. But he returned, week after week, sitting quietly with them, no longer hoping for recognition, but praying for gentleness, praying for acceptance.

Neville had given Harry some pointers about how to move through St. Mungo's, as Neville's parents were on the third floor, and, according to what Draco had read, Narcissa was housed in a fourth floor tower. Lucius had looked ponderously at Harry across the table in their heavily-charmed restaurant, then turning his eyes back to Draco, noting dully that they had requested a garden view for Narcissa, since she so loved her own garden at home. Harry had seen that garden in the Daily Prophet; it was trampled over, broken glass scattered on the stone walkways, a statue that must at one time have been quite majestic and elegant broken into pieces, its head face down in a trampled bed of irises.

"They'll let you go where you like, if you go in as me." Neville had said. "They usually let me move about on my own. Just remember; when you get there, you'll see a pretty blonde sitting at the front desk. Greet her, I always do. I say 'Good to see you, Jane, how was your weekend?' or something like that. And she'll give you the key. Go straight up the stairs to the third floor and turn to your left. From there, just flash the key at Maureen, who works on the third floor. She'll wave you through." Neville gave Harry a map he had drawn. "You see here, the stairwell? It's not usually locked. If it is, the key they give you should open it. They won't think it's odd to see you go up there….there's a nice sitting room on the fourth floor. I go there sometimes after….well. They won't find it odd." Neville had smiled sadly.

Harry grinned at Draco. "I really owe Neville for this one. I don't know how I would have managed otherwise."

Draco entered the hospital first. He had a fistful of papers; he was Ms. Masham's nephew, and he needed to see her in order to report on her condition to the family. They had rehearsed this a dozen times, but Draco was still nervous. The plump blonde woman behind the counter smiled sympathetically, but with a disinterest that came from hearing the same story day after day. She glanced at his papers absently, noting that nothing was out of place, and gave him a key. "She's on the fourth floor, 47B. Audrey on the fourth floor will give you a hand if you need it." Draco smiled rather mournfully and walked up the large stairwell she had indicated. As he reached the landing he turned and saw Harry (still, of course, looking frighteningly like Neville Longbottom), open the heavy cherry-wood door and step, shivering and soaked, into the foyer.

"'Allo, Neville! Lovely weather, eh? Nice to see you!"

"Aye, indeed, I've nearly drowned." Harry responded. "How was your weekend, Jane?"

Draco turned and hopped the next few steps. Harry would be with him soon, and before too long this nightmare would end.

Shortly thereafter, Harry found himself standing in the doorway of the Longbottoms' room. The sight left him reeling. Maureen down the hall had warned him that they had had to be restrained today, but he wasn't prepared to see what met his shocked eyes. The Longbottoms were strapped to long, rather thin cots side by side, their heads forced upwards, looking neither right nor left. There was a soothing pattern in greens and blues swirling on the ceiling above their faces, but it was not soothing Neville's mother. She was wriggling her hands and her feet rhythmically, her face frozen into a perpetual scream. Harry could see the strain of that scream in her stomach which vibrated with it, her eyes squeezed shut and tears streaming down into her graying hair. With each breath she took, Harry saw a shimmer around her body; he realized that this was a kind of silencing spell. No wonder this place is so eerily quiet. Frank Longbottom's eyes had rolled into the back of his head; he was drooling, his arms and legs limp, but his head kept moving in a disturbingly recognizable fashion, as if someone were punching his face, left, left, right, left, right. Harry shuddered. He felt suddenly very sorry for Neville and very sickened at having asked for this tremendous favour; he felt as though he were intruding on something so private and so painful that he tread carefully on the floor, as though a misstep would cause bruises on Neville's gentle skin. He lowered his face into his hands, and backed away. Maureen looked up at him from down the hall, and smiled sympathetically. Harry headed for the stairwell.

Draco had found 47B rather easily. It was a large, airy room, facing west into a rather plebian garden. He had rapped on the door, and got no answer. Twisting the doorknob, he found it unlocked, and he opened the door gently, as if Narcissa might be hiding like a six-year-old between it and the wall, ready to jump out and surprise him. Draco wasn't sure who to expect; his mother, or Voldemort, or some strange combination of both. He remembered, suddenly, his ninth birthday, opening that heavy, white-washed door. He had woken up excited ("My Birthday!"); it was a like a day outside of time, a day outside the calendar year, a day where everything seemed different, new. The feel of his sheets against his feet felt different, the sun poured through his windows in a whole new, hopeful, refreshing way. His door opened and presents all wrapped in dazzlingly coloured paper floated into the room and danced around his bed. His mother followed, smiling broadly, sitting down on his bed and gathering him into her arms. "Happy birthday, Draco love! My darling, you're a big boy now, aren't you?" She kissed his on the top of his head and held him tight. "What a grown up boy. My, what a lot of presents you have!" He remembered the light, the feel of his pajamas against his chest, the smell lily of the valley, his father's footsteps outside, bringing in more presents for him. He remembered all of it in the instant he pushed the door open.

Narcissa seemed to be asleep. She was lying on a cot, covered with a quilt Draco recognized from home. Her arms, lying limp at her sides, were pale and filled with the pockmarks of recent intravenous needles. Her eyelids looked waxy, and Draco could barely see her chest moving up and down as she breathed. Draco scanned the room quickly, noting a loveseat against the window, a straight-backed chair next to the bed, a small bedside table with a simple lamp on it, and an oriental rug on the floor. His mother's slippers (in red, his mother's slippers, in Draco's memory, were always red) were sitting tidily just under the bed. There was a white terrycloth robe hanging from a hook on the wall; clearly St. Mungo's issue. His mother would never wear a terrycloth robe.

He moved forward into the room, moving softly, standing over Narcissa. Part of him didn't believe it; his father was notorious for his stories; Oh, the things Draco had heard him tell people in order to get what he wanted. But now, looking at his mother, Draco recognized the charm itself, pressed against Narcissa's throat in a golden casing. Yes, he thought. No wonder Harry's had such a hard time. Half of Voldemort is in that charm haunting Harry, and half in my mother, haunting her. He touched her hand gently, getting no response. After a time, he pulled the amber charm from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers, watching his mother, thinking, remembering.

This was how Harry found him, when he peeked into the room a short time later. "Draco?" He whispered. Draco looked up.

"Ready?"

"Yes." Draco held the charm for a moment, spinning it absently between his finger and his thumb. "Can you sense him?" Harry cross the room and sat down on the loveseat. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

Sleep. Mud, worms, the smell of floor wax. Pain. Blood. Pounding ears. Anger. "Yes. I do. I don't know if…"

Narcissa's eyes opened.

Harry gasped. Suddenly he saw two things at once; he saw Draco sitting on the bed beside his mother, and he saw Draco's face, looking down at him.

"Yes, he's here, Draco, careful, I…I can see you. Draco, I can…" Draco looked down at his mother.

"Mother." He whispered. Narcissa's eyes filled with tears. He took her hand, brushing the charm against her cold, thin wrist. She shuddered, and shut her eyes.

"Harry, remember how this went the last time. It will be complicated, but if I start to struggle, as he…as they…become stronger, I made have trouble controlling them." Harry nodded and rubbed his scar, noting that it was aching dully. "First I'm going to have to bring him out. Whatever happens, Harry…don't…touch him, alright?" Harry pressed his lips together and nodded.

Draco let go of Narcissa's hand and stood. He braced himself, and began to speak.

Harry had become accustomed to the sound of Draco's voice. As enemies, they had only heard each other in anger, resentment, distrust. Harry had become familiar with a range of emotions projected in Draco's voice, anger and bitterness as well as humour, embarrassment, love, pain, and sheer giddy glee. Now, looking at the face of the random and nameless Death Eater, with a voice he almost but didn't quite recognize, the sounds that came from Draco now were unlike anything he had ever heard.

He had, of course, heard some goblin spoken before. He had heard Draco whisper it over the charm, he had heard him bark out a handful of commands that made objects lock, unlock, appear and disappear, travel great distances, turn themselves inside out. Sometimes he had even heard Draco mumble goblin in his sleep. But this was quite different. What he heard now was stern, forceful, the language transfiguring the entire concept of human speech into a vague memory. He sounded like steel against crackling, burning logs, like songs sung by trees sliced in two by silver knives, a wooden, metallic and guttural sound with a strangely angelic overtone. Harry shook his head.

Something was happening. Narcissa was moving about restlessly, her eyes pressed shut. With a particularly forceful word here and there, sounding like a pinprick into Harry's ears, Narcissa would yelp. Then, shortly, she seemed to fall asleep again, her head lolling to one side. Her face was now turned in Harry's direction, and her eyelids would flutter open momentarily, but showed nothing but the whites, her eyes having rolled up into her head. Harry shuddered. A thin, smoky substance started to emanate out of Narcissa. Harry sensed it then; himself, Narcissa, and Voldemort. He felt three consciousness gathering, connected through a magic they didn't understand. Closing his eyes, Harry felt insanity. He could feel its rough texture, the pain, violent rage, the fear, like an infant, squalling, demanding. He wasn't sure then whose madness it was, and was only peripherally sure that it wasn't his own. Draco spoke on, words rubbing into his brain like scissors, cutting away the excess. The insanity was draining away. Voldemort was regaining himself. Harry, watching Draco's look of intense concentration, failed to notice at what point Narcissa had begun to watch him. When he turned to her face again, she was looking at him with triumph on her face.

"Draco..." Harry whispered, afraid.

It was then that Harry's world dissolved.

15 A House Divided

Inside you now's another,
thrashing like a fish,
swinging, fighting
for its inch already.

-- Michael Ondaatje, A House divided

You are standing on wet sand, looking into the water. It is cool and blue and big. It smells like crayfish and mud. Your mother and father are lying on towels in the sun, their calves are sandy and their shoulders are turning pink. The water rolls up toward you and washes over your feet, and you look down at them. They look very white in the water, very small. When the water pulls back out, gurgling and pulling pebbles and shells and bits of wood with it, you find your toes are half buried in thick, wet, smooth sand. It is very pretty and even. You pull your feet out and walk toward the receding wave, squeezing out water from the sand with each step, leaving small footprints behind you.

"I am going to walk to China," you say to no one in particular. You follow the wave, which rushes back around you knees. Before long the water has reached your stomach, and you pat at it with the palms of your hands. After the coolness wears off, being in water feels like being in the air, neither cool nor warm. You look behind you and see your father shifting on his towel. The next wave brings you into the water chest deep. You come to believe that you can pull the water apart, that you can make a path all the way to China if you just press hard enough against it. If you press hard enough, you will become a fish, and you will swim all the way to China.

When the undertow takes you under, it doesn't occur to you to take a breath. You believe that you can breathe underwater, that you are a mermaid, that when your head touches the sand your legs will fuse together and become a tail. You believe you are a dolphin, transfigured into a girl because your dolphin parents are king and queen of the ocean and you were stolen by a mad wizard. But under the water your lungs scream to breathe, and water does not relieve the pressure. Your head breaks the surface, but your mouth is too full of water to scream. Back under again, you try to cough the water out, but it will not move. You can see, through straining eyes, that your father is running toward you. He runs in slow motion, water splashing around him. For a moment you see the beach again, you see your mother's mouth shaped like an O. You realize that you are dying, but you are not afraid. Your father will not let you die. Fathers don't let their daughters die.

You are face down, your eyes open, seeing nothing but brownish water. You can't even see your feet anymore. The water is full of sand, like dust dancing in a beam of light. Water, air, fish, mermaids, girls. You forget the difference. You wonder what is taking your father so long to pull you out of the water, to hold you in his arms, your wet face against his neck. Your chest is aching. When your eyes see the sunlight again, you see your father's back. He is walking back to the beach slowly, leisurely, the same way he had walked along the wet sand with your hand in his that morning. His arms are moving lazily from side to side. You can't breathe, you can't stand up. And your father is leaving you here. You feel disappointed. You feel yourself loose consciousness as your body is pushed by the waves toward the shore.

You should have known better than to try to walk to China. I should have tried to fly.

You have just punched a boy in the face. He has fallen down in front of you, blood pouring from his nose. He looks up at you, angry and afraid. Your fist feels sore, but in a way you like. It feels as though you pushed your hand into the earth and pulled out something alive, something full of electricity, slipping and snapping. You rarely feel so powerful. You have never felt any kind of power outside of your own strange lucid dreams on a standard-issue cot shoved against a wall. It feels…very good. You find that you almost need to shut your eyes, the pleasure of it is so overwhelming.

You glower at the boy. He has been taunting you for weeks now, because your clothes are so funny. You are an orphan, and the state of your clothing is not your fault. You are not some kind of Charles Dickens character, but people seem to forget this. They tease you as if you made a choice to be hopeless and alone in the world. You kick at the dirt under your feet like a horse preparing to bolt. This boy has just uttered nasty words about your mother, whom you have never known. He has made comments about your father that were just as shameful in recent days, but this crack about your mother pushed you over the edge.

The boy is trying to stand now. His legs are wobbly and his hands are shaking. He moves to hit you back, but your fist him reaches him first, this time in the eye. He falls again. Someone has run to find a teacher. The boy pulls himself again, feeling oddly bolder, though his eye is swelling shut and his nose is still bleeding across his mouth and dripping off his chin.

"You filthy son of a bitch." He spits blood on you as he speaks, his voice angry and full of tears. "You disgusting, smelly, scrawny piece of–" You are so angry, your hands balled into stinging fists, you are willing him to shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. You twist your lips, your eyes trained on this bleeding, horrid boy with a blackening eye.

You hate him. You hate him and you hate the life that has allowed you to be such an easy target for him and people like him. You hate him for the looks that adults give you, for the times you have sat alone and ignored, for the number of times you had wished to be just a normal boy like everyone else.

Suddenly you realize that your enemy and target has stopped speaking because he has no choice. His tongue is swelling, he has to open his mouth now just to keep from biting it through. He tries to scream, you can see his terror rising in his eyes, but he can't make a sound.

As a last bit of vengeance, you push him back to the ground roughly and walk away, hearing him choking. You feel your power diminishing with each step. While feeling his bones crack under your fist you had forgotten that you have no real escape.

In a few hours you will still be hunched over on your cot, crying into old, smelly, cast-off foam pillow, just as you always do. You haven't moved very far from the scene of your crime when you are apprehended. Your teacher grabs you by the scruff, spins you around, and forces your chin up. He eyes you with a severe look.

"You know I'm going to have to call the Dursleys."

You nod, and he releases your chin. It was worth it.

You watch the house elves finish tidying up the drawing room, dragging the rug back over the trapdoor. You feel glad that Lucius is putting away some of the uglier remnants of his Dark Arts lessons; they do nothing for the décor and are frankly dangerous. Several of them smell quite nasty as well, like old blood. A couple of them make strange sounds, guttural hisses and gulps, and twitch when you pass them. You will not miss them, hidden under the trapdoor, covered by a very elegant and classic Oriental rug.

Though the nasty things are under the floor now, you smell something. Singed lamb, feathers? You walk into the hallway, trying to work out where the smell is coming from. It smells like something dying, something burning. You round a corner and see smoke coming from under a door on your right. It is acrid, thick and gritty, not like Lucius' nasty cigarettes. It smells like burning hair, like flesh. You hear screaming sounds, high-pitched, wailing, inhuman, and quiet, almost delicate, like light, screaming opera, all dissonance and throaty buzzing.

When you open the door, you see five cats with their tails on fire. In the middle of the room, you see your son, holding a burning stick.

You stare out the window. You think you are probably in shock. The door has slammed and you are alone. You have not been alone in a very, very long time. You don't need to turn around to see that you are standing in an empty room, with a now half-empty closet. Half of the shoes that used to sit beside the front door are gone.

You don't want to think about it. But you can't help seeing what is now missing, what will continue to be missing. You cannot feel your arms and legs, but you can feel the pulse of fear that washes over them. Your heart has burst and broken. It is raining outside, as it usually is. You want to beat your hands through the glass, throw your body through it and reach for that retreating figure walking down the drive and into the street, not looking backward, not wiping away any tears, not feeling any regret, remorse, indecision. You watch the figure until the rain, getting steadily heavier, blurs the scene beyond recognition.

This is what happens when your name is famous. You gain the love and trust of people you don't know, and lose those whose love you need. Whose love you need so much you think you might die without it. You look down at your hands and see that you are not dead. Not yet. You feel empty and full all at once. You wish you could cry but you can't. And the retreating figure is gone, and will not return.

You turn and survey the mess around you. You close your eyes and survey the mess inside yourself. You have made so many mistakes. Mistakes that you would repeat in a flash of a memory spell. It must not be. You pull out your wand and hold it against your temple. These memories are not useful. You will remove them. You will not remember dates, places, names. You will not remember being comforted, loved, cold nights kept warm, skin under the palms of your hands. You wince. You will only remember missing those things, for this fleeting moment, perhaps. You whisper all the right words, and your pain disappears. You shudder. There is an empty space in your brain, but the rest of you moves to fill it in. You feel strong.

You hate this part. Class has ended. The lunch bell has rung, and you walk with your class toward the lunchroom. You clutch at your paper bag (containing the rinds of a loaf of bread and bologna, and an apple, which your horrid cousin refuses to eat), hoping to settle outside in the corridor instead of having to walk into that noisy, smelly lunchroom again. You dodge into the bathroom, and then sneak back out when everyone has already sat down inside. You find a small space between some stacks of chairs outside the doors of the lunchroom, and wedge yourself between them.

You made a friend, once. Her name was Rosie and she was plump, with braces on her teeth and had stringy braids. She didn't care what Dudley told everyone (that you had lice, that you hate bathing, that you pick your nose and eat it). She was a devout Christian, and she sometimes spent these sweaty lunch times with you, reading her little pink bible, when boys would throw tuna fish sandwiches at you, slices of pickle, balled-up egg salad, and tease you about having a girlfriend. You told her that your parents died in a car crash. She told you that they were in heaven now, looking down at you. She said that they had tea with Jesus in the afternoons, and that they sang a lot. "Heaven is very pretty," she said. "Everyone there is nice." A few months ago she moved away. You can't remember where.

You wonder about this now. You look up at the white industrial ceiling, white fading into beige, with brown water stains seeping across it. You wonder if your parents can see you through it, through the little chinks and cracks. You wonder if they're happy, seeing you sit there, couching between stacks of chairs. You wonder when Jesus will call them for tea, and whether they will see you then as well, between bites of biscuit and sips of Earl Grey. Rosie once told you about praying, but you don't remember the formula. You hear the boys laughing loudly in the lunchroom, and you press your back harder into the wall, and try to pray. Dear Jesus, please say hello to my mum and dad for me. I miss them a whole lot, even though I don't remember them. Do they remember me? Thanks very much, Harry. You wonder if Jesus will pass the message along. Maybe Jesus thinks you pick your nose and eat it too. But it's actually Dudley who does that.

The house is filled with people. They are your husband's friends; they mill around, debating, laughing, eating. As usual, you are a perfect hostess. Your son is home for the holidays, but you have just lost track of him. The last time you noticed, he was standing just behind the crowded main dining table, a glass in his hand, leaning against the wall. He looks older, somehow, poised. He is in his third year at Hogwarts now, and is already showing signs of becoming a man. You noticed over the holiday that his voice had begun to change. You feel sad about this. With every step he takes toward his adulthood, he drifts a little farther from you. He becomes more and more like his father, you think to yourself sadly. But you look over now, past the pair of rather dirty-looking men sitting on your off-white divan, and see that he is gone, and that his glass is broken on the floor.

The holidays are always so much trouble when Draco is home and the Death Eaters visit; there was always blood on Draco's sheets afterward. He had managed to ruin four sets of new sheets this way. You find this annoying not because of the expense, but the principle of it. You love linens and satins and cottons and silks, the texture of them, running your hands over them. Knowing that under the corners, under the pretty quilts and elegant tablecloths, everything is just as fine, and sometimes more so. You feel the same sense of peace sending your son off to school with underwear that cost more than all the robes on every single Hogwarts' back put together. You don't know if he is in a position yet to be willingly exposing this elegance to anyone, but it doesn't matter. The glory of his meticulous appearance rests on a sound foundation of pride, money, and grace. It would not do to lie, to be beautiful publicly and rotting underneath. No, your child is lathered in beauty as we as being beautiful himself.

You have seen a few ripped and blooded undergarments in his room during the holidays as well as fatally stained sheets, after these little ritual get-togethers. The burly, power-starved men who are attracted to an organization like the Death Eaters also have a tendency to lust after pretty little boys whose fathers are more powerful than they are themselves, pretty little boys who aren't strong enough to fight them off. You used to witness these trysts on occasion, unseen and determinedly uninvolved. You have seen your son hauled up behind trees, in the closet behind the reception hall, once in the small rear stairwell. You have watched him cry in their hands, sob like an infant and curl up, helpless. It disappointed you each time. He should know better, he had not yet learned, you thought. In the last two years, since he started attending Hogwarts, you haven't seen any more of these encounters. But you know that they have not stopped. They have only become more discreet, as the tortured sheets and underthings that litter Draco's bedroom in the aftermath continue to plague you. You have begun to insist that the house elves use only old sheets on Draco's bed on nights when the Death Eaters gather at the manor.

You walk into the kitchen, and hear a clatter and bang from the rear servant's dining room, which is divided from the larger kitchen by a thick red curtain. You creep toward it, finding a seam, and peer around it. Keeping yourself well-hidden, you see what you expect to see; Draco, wrapped in the awkward embrace with a bulky man in his late forties, and a great terracotta bowl capsized and broken on the floor. Your child is lying on the table, his legs forced apart, pants torn. He has already been cut along his thighs from this indelicate man's greedy fingernails. Draco bites his lip until it bleeds. The man is mauling Draco's neck, pinning his arms against the table. You hear a voice from the corridor, faint, but recognizably Lucius. He has said something about the east porch. You note that Draco has heard this as well, and his posture suddenly changes.

"Hmm," Draco purrs, pressing his groin into the man's abdomen, making him gasp. He hauls up the man's chin and kisses him, his blood leaving traces of blood on the man's face. You watch as this slim, light figure forces a man of nearly fifty to stand as he pulls himself up slowly and seductively, running a hand down his own chest. "Do you want this?" he motions, unbuttoning his own pants. The man stares at him, shocked and blinking. Draco smiles seductively, unzipping his pants, exposing his young flesh. The man's eyes trail down from Draco's wanton smile and he nods, his tongue moving back and forth over his lower lip.

Draco smiles, and takes the man's hand, pulling it gently toward his groin, nestling it between layers of material already ripped away. The man groans and kneels, one hand inside Draco's pants, the other hauling him closer, his legs now dangling over the edge of the table. You hear voices coming from the other side of the dining room, from behind the door that leads to a small corridor between the east porch and the reception room. You note that the man hunched over Draco, his face pressed into the boy's groin, has heard nothing, perhaps because Draco has masked the sound with his own moaning, little humming, groaning sounds from the back of his throat, punctuated with words like 'please' 'oh', and 'yes', growing louder as the voices in the corridor approached. He lies back down on the table, arms splayed out, his ankles banging against the legs of the table with the motion of the man's body. You watch as Draco casts a quick spell, binding down his ankles and wrists, a motion that makes the man tremble. The man is grasping desperately at Draco, pulling harshly at his pants to get greater access to this pale and bleeding body.

Just at that moment, you hear footsteps and genial laughter near the door. And at the same time, Draco begins to scream. "Get off me! Help, father, help! No! No!" He bursts into tears, blood still dribbling down his chin, looking every inch of his thirteen years. You take a careful step back as you watch the door open, slamming against the wall with a crash. and see Lucius staring at the Death Eater, whose bloodied face snapped up from Draco's crotch moments too late. You smile, and walk away. Lucius will probably kill the man. He does have a terrible temper, and he is so easy to manipulate.

Sometimes, in the afternoons between class and dinner, you come out here to the edge of the forest and talk to the snakes. Your friends don't want to talk to you, and you're lonely. Hogwarts is a very cold place if your friends pretend you're not there. At night in the dorms you keep the curtains pulled tight around your bed so that you don't have to look at their disapproving faces. You think that perhaps they hate you right now. And you had such high hopes for this place. So much better than the horrible muggle world you were living in just a short year ago. When you got here, you thought you had some hope. But now, well. Deserted. Perhaps they'll come around, perhaps they won't.

They don't like that you can talk to snakes.

But you don't entirely understand it. You thought it was only muggles who were afraid of what they don't understand, and parseltongue, while an unusual gift, is not really that complicated. When I look at a snake, I can speak to it. What's the big deal?

The snakes in the Forbidden Forest have all kinds of interesting things to say. At first they were wary of him, confused as to why he could speak to them, and then as to why he would want to. You speak to them at length about human conceptions of snakes, about the Garden of Eden and the punishment of slithering. About the medical profession, about Slytherin house's crest, medusa, the basilisk. You hear about how snakes believe that humans are really just mutilated snakes, their bodied sliced by the gods and forced to move about with the perpetual wound. Humans had been a strange subset of snake, ones who refused to avert their eyes when the bodies of the gods undulated grandly before them. "I will not," the human-snakes said. "I will not serve, I will not yield." The slicing of the human-snakes had taken fifteen days (the number fifteen being sacred to snakes), and the sound of their crying could still be heard to this day, mocked in the voices of seagulls who live off their folly. The snakes believed that each step humans take is awkward, ugly, and painful, and that this is why humans move so slowly, make so much noise. "We can feel you from more than twenty slithers away, you know, just breathing," they tell you. "The Gods made you this way to be a reminder to us."

You nod. You find it interesting, and it distracts you from the fact that the entire school hates you.

There is a man dead at your feet. Your hands feel cold and stiff, though you know the spell you cast has nothing to do with that. You feel as though it did anyway, as if the spell had been a silvery fish in your belly, called up through the rumble in your chest as you spoke those famous, forbidden words, and pressed free, its tail slapping behind it against your wrists, those electric scales brushing your palms and leaving a lasting imprint of tingling silvery stiffness. You feel a surge of deadly power in your body, burning lines up your arms, legs, torso toward your heart. With such simple words you can cause a man to die, so easily, so quickly. You have never wondered why such spells were outlawed, but feeling them for the first time, the rush of heady glory and righteousness that fills you, you understand how dangerous it is.

You try not to dwell on the events that lead to this death. The man sprawled at your feet was not unknown to you, and you would have preferred to sway him to your side rather than kill him. But in the end you were left with little choice; he knew too much, and there is too much at stake. You wonder for a moment about his family, for you are fairly sure he has one. You shake your head. His robes are covering his face, so you are spared seeing his final look of surprise. Part of you longs to see it, but you will not give in to that sort of weakness. You have far, far more work to do, and this one, clean and noiseless death would not be the last.

You know that your wand remembers every spell it has cast, as though the phoenix tail feather inside is dipped in ink and scratching the words you whisper against the warm wood. Along with the Windgardium Leviosas and Alohamoras is now added this horrible, terrible and beautiful spell: Adeva Kadavera. You look down at the man again for a moment, and then walk away.

You look down at the strained face against the pillow. His face is sallow, his hair has fallen out in patches. He is rarely conscious anymore, but you can still communicate with him when you touch him. His mind is always busy, it is always thinking about one person; Harry Potter. That name races around inside that tortured head day and night. He argues with it, caresses it, longs for it, despises it. You find his struggles interesting but only partially comprehensible.

His mother is worried, and you can sense it. She does not trust him anymore. He has been touched, he cannot be trusted, his will is no longer pure. She is right.

He is so easy to sway. A few words is all he needs as an excuse to get what he wants. And what does he want? He wants everything. Money, power, respect, the love and admiration of his parents, of the men who fucked him senseless in his youth, the ones who taught him to be a slut to survive. He wants them to suffer and to see him dazzling in his glory. He wants apologies, which he then wants to reject. He wants random women (and men) to fall in love with him so that he can have his choice among them when he gets bored. He wants to feel someone's (anyone's) submission under his hands. He wants his own minions, his own manor, his own son. He wants to be a world-famous seeker, with a room full of trophies. He wants Harry Potter. He wants him willing or unwilling, and has entertained fantasies about both. Desire like this makes him an easy tool, but an uneasy ally.

Yes, his mother is right. He cannot be trusted. But he can be used.

"Draco," Harry gasped. He could see the smoky, greenish ball that was Voldemort forming in front of Narcissa. The polyjuice potion had worn off, and Draco seemed very small in his clothing, which draped over him. He was trembling with concentration. Harry found that he was also looking up into Draco face, feeling the pride that Narcissa felt in her son. Yes, darling. I knew you would come back to help me, love. My little princeling. I knew you were not lost. He could also feel Voldemort's sane and angry mind thrashing painfully in his brain. I need….I need….to breathe. I need….his bodiless mind searched for fingers and found none. He willed himself to take form.

The flood of memories washed over Harry and he had trouble remembering who he was. When he looked at Draco now he saw everything; his childhood, his defiance, felt loving arms around his neck. He felt Voldemort's distrust and longing.

Yes. He felt Voldemort reaching out to touch Draco, to possess him, to steal his body and drive him mad.

"Draco!" Harry spluttered. Narcissa's reached up to her neck and pulled the charm from her throat. She whispered a single, incomprehensible word over it and threw it to the floor, where it shattered into dust. And suddenly two things happened in quick succession. A patch of air along the floor shone and shook, glowed purlish, and turned into the body of Voldemort, white as chalk, his head lolling to one side. Harry's eyes widened. As the shock of seeing Voldemort starting to set in, the door of Narcissa's room flew open and banged against the wall. Standing in the doorway was a small child, a girl, screaming silently. She had a large, bulky bandage over her eyes. Harry stared at her and realized who she was. Marjorie Bloom.

Narcissa sat up now, pulling her hand out of her pocket and rubbing a bit of parchment rhythmically, almost cradling the grey-green ball of smoke with her free arm. As her fingers worked over the paper, she glanced around at Voldemort, at Marjorie, at Harry, and again at Draco. She smiled. "Draco, love," she said. Draco's eyes were still shut tight, he was whispering madly, furrowing his brow. "Help me, free me, my darling. I know who you are. This boy doesn't. Did you seduce him too? Good boy. That's my good boy. I knew I could count on you. Now, help me, darling. I need you. And he will not forget, you know, he will not forget your service, princeling. And nor will I." She reached out her hand. "Give me the charm."

Draco did not hesitate. He opened his eyes and handed her the amber sphere. She smiled.

16  Belong

She began to breathe, to breathe
At the thought of this freedom
Stood and whispered to her child,
Belong.
She held the child and whispered with calm, calm
Belong.

-- R.E.M., Belong

It was when the sound of Marjorie Bloom's screaming hit his eardrums, when it became audible in a crash of turbulent sounds, that he came back to himself. She was standing in the open doorway, hands over her eyes, her fingers pulling at the gauze, screaming in a high pitched, rough, bloodied wail as the silencing spell dissolved. Even in his shattered state, he recognized the danger she posed. Draco seemed to be having trouble concentrating; the thickening sphere of smoke was trembling. Harry drew his wand and cast a quick calming spell over the girl. What on earth is she doing here? He moved to press her back out of the room, but she dropped to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees toward Narcissa. She knelt now over the remains of the charm, picking up shards of it and cutting her fingers, holding them against her bandaged face. Of course. They must have used her in their attempts to transfer Voldemort. More innocent victims.

Harry was still reeling from the shock of emotion and memory. He blinked, trying to relearn the boundaries of his own consciousness as the voices and minds of the others, of Narcissa and Voldemort, receded into the background. It seemed that as the smoke seeped out of Narcissa, the more distant those voices became.

Harry trembled with memory. So now he knew where Draco had learned those seductive motions, where his experience in touching men so skillfully had come from. He shivered. He felt foolish, having presumed to make love to someone who had experienced so much horror, who must have thought him such an innocent. Draco could seduce grown men at the age of thirteen, no wonder he had been so enchanting, so perversely seductive all those years ago. He was an expert, he knew how to pull all the right strings. Harry had known all about Draco's reputation at Hogwarts; he left a cacophony of broken hearts in his wake, and could claim the virginity of a shocking number of Hogwarts students. Well, he was taught early that that was where his worth lay, wasn't he.

Cold. Where is my body, where am I? Please, my fingers are frozen, they won't move.

Harry shook his head, feeling the cool thoughts of Voldemort, still shattered and confused. It's not Narcissa who's mad, Harry realized. No no. She is completely in control. It's Voldemort who's been insane. He doesn't remember what's happened, it 's only beginning to dawn on him.

He felt a smirk curve into his brain. Lucky for me you're here, little one. Narcissa's voice was cutting. What a time my son has had keeping you occupied. You certainly underscored his 'worth', didn't you.

Harry felt ashamed. Narcissa flooded his brain with memories, his own memories. The way he had on so many occasions interrupted Draco while he read, while he listened to music, walked beside him under the snow-filled trees, working his tongue around Draco's ear, slipping a roving hand under his belt. The way he had once prevented Draco from finishing his dessert by running his fingers along Draco's trouser-clad inner thigh under the cover of an elegant tablecloth while there were eating out. He remembered the way Draco's fork had clattered onto the plate, his gray eyes turned toward him, eyebrow cocked and the beginnings of a grin on his face. I've been no better, Harry thought, horrified. No, he felt a voice whisper in his brain. No, you have been no better. And you were just as easy for him to manipulate. He felt the warm amber beneath his fingers—no, Narcissa's fingers. It tugged at him behind his eyes, he felt a rush, disappearing to nothing, like a nosebleed gushing and suddenly drying up. The charm. In Narcissa's hands.

"Draco!" Harry gasped, again. He couldn't believe it. He watched as Narcissa rolled the charm between her fingers. Draco looked completely unconcerned, looking, if anything, somewhat relieved. Perhaps it doesn't matter, Harry thought desperately. Perhaps it doesn't matter who's holding it. I wasn't holding it when I used a charm like that. He shivered, shutting his eyes. Soon after the amber sphere touched Narcissa's hands, Harry could no longer hear her acid voice, could no longer sense her venomous presence. He stopped hearing those disturbing thoughts, her horrible, damning memories, the desperate pleas of Voldemort. He felt relieved, but also smaller, weaker, and less bold. He felt very alone, sitting braced against the cushions of the loveseat, the slight draft from the window brushing against the back of his neck.

Then he felt something odd. A warm, familiar finger, a finger of consciousness, of thought, of will, pressed its way into his neck and wrapped itself gently around the stem of his brain. His breath caught in his throat as he smelled Draco, as if his face were buried at that moment in his shoulder. He almost reached out to stroke him, to whisper his apologies, to ask for reassurances, to curl up against him, when he felt a sharp tug at the base of his skull. He could taste Draco, his skin, his mouth, as if he had just been kissed, and the sensation disappeared. The loss of it was so extreme it hurt, and Harry opened his eyes.

Draco was looking at Narcissa, surprised. He was still murmuring in goblin, a rhythmic kind of heartbeat that has already wormed it way inside of Harry's consciousness. Like the click and clack of the radiator against the wall, the mark hot water trailing up and down somewhere, creaking against old pipes, Draco's murmured words had become part of the structure of the room, embedded in the plaster of the walls. His fingers moved slightly with the rhythm of his voice, as if he were painting, calculating, sketching out his matrixes on thin air. His eyes widened, and then he shot a glance at Harry, moving one hand into his coat and removing his wand. With a quick flick of his wrist, and the words "petrificus totalus", Harry felt a cold wave slammed into his brain. He tried to speak but couldn't. His arms were frozen in place, his feet felt nailed to the floor. He tried to scream but merely squeaked.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Draco said coldly between incantations. After so many strange sounds coming from him, Harry barely recognized his voice. "Trust me." He said, his eyes fixed on Narcissa. His fingers were fluttering around wildly, his lips moving non-stop, whispering constantly as he breathed in, as he breathed out. I've lost him, Harry thought. I'm going to die here, and I brought Draco back to the people who would have destroyed him years ago. Narcissa was laughing.

"He'll never trust you, darling. No, not again. Not after all of this, not after what he's seen. Not even he is that foolish. He knows about your..trysts with those Death Eaters now, you know. He's horrified. But it's alright, princeling, I have a new home for you, a new lover, a new life. You can even keep this trinket, if you like. Just help me now. We'll almost there."

Harry seethed as he watched Draco shiver a little, his face turning colder by the second. He wanted to scream, to throw himself at Draco, to keep him from doing this. Not again, no, not again. He had given in before and it nearly destroyed them. How was this different? He looked at Draco, wishing his face could convey the depth of his contrition, his compassion, his love. Not again, Draco. Don't do this again. He tried to fight off the simple spell, but found that he couldn't. He was stuck, and he watched helplessly as the cloud of vapour moved from hovering over the charm in Narcissa's toward Voldemort's prone body on the floor. Narcissa smiled.

"Ah." She said. "Yes, yes I see. Thank you, darling. I knew you would help me. I love you so much, my dearest." Harry watched, aghast, as Voldemort's ashen hands turned slightly reddish and twitched, his eyelids fluttering open and then closed again. Harry was frozen still, staring at the now woodenly breathing body of Voldemort, when wave of warmth hit him fast. He shook himself, and found that he was free. Looking up, he saw that his deliverer was the small and terrified-looking Marjorie Bloom, who had torn the bandages from her face, revealing new, startlingly blue eyes. Her hands were bleeding, there was blood smudged across her chin from her grasping, twitching fingers. She looked at Harry, unblinking, terrified.

"Stop him! She screamed at Harry, pointing at Draco, blood dripping from her palms onto the rug. "Stop him stop him stop him! He's going to bring him back!" She rolled onto the floor, and burst into tears. Narcissa laughed, reaching under her blankets, revealing her wand. Shouting, "No!" at the top of his lungs, Harry leapt to his feet and threw himself at Draco. Both of them flew into the wall, Draco's head banging dully against the plaster.

Harry tried to wrestle him to the ground, shouting, "I won't let you, I won't!" Draco had stopped speaking, his face went white. He pushed Harry off, looking murderously at him, rubbed his hands together twice, and rose from the floor, his palm pointed at Harry. Muttering one angry word, a blue flame flickered from Draco's hand and shot straight into Harry's head. He screamed and fell to the floor, his arms and legs lying at odd angles. Every breath was filled with pain, and he felt blood pooling in his knees and elbows. He would have screamed, but his throat was constricted, as if there were a heavy boot on this neck, pressing down until he couldn't breathe any longer. No, oh, Draco, no. Please. He felt like a sacrificial lamb, splayed out as a show of willingness on Draco's part. He would break Harry's arms and legs, and present him to Voldemort, a bleeding and burnt offering.

Still white with anger, Draco scanned the scene. The cloud of vapour had risen from Voldemort's twitching body and was proceeding headlong into Marjorie Bloom. She rose from the floor, her arms spread wide, a cavern of black appearing momentarily on her chest, and slowly disappearing. Narcissa, was saying something, one word, over and over, a word Harry couldn't understand. She reached over and curled the girl into her arms. Draco whispered fervently into his open palms, eyes pressed shut, his fingers moving madly, and a small, red flame drew itself out of Voldemort's still twitching body, which then collapsed and turned ashen. The flame wavered a moment in the air above Voldemort, and then leisurely traced a path to Narcissa's right hand, pressing itself inside the amber charm, which hung in the air just beyond Narcissa's fingers.

Harry, consumed with pain, felt himself losing consciousness, barely aware of what was going on. He heard Narcissa scream, saw the door burst open, Narcissa clutching at Marjorie and backing into the wall. He felt spells shooting around him, heard Narcissa muttering, and saw her disappear with Marjorie. But just as they did, he heard Draco say firmly, "Gjekspfah, Tatya Tewjiek." The last thing Harry saw, before he passed out, was the amber charm in Draco's hand.

Draco handed the charm to his mother, seeing her smile. It didn't matter where the charm was, its effect was undiminished. He wondered what it would do, if she were holding it. Would those last remaining shards of Voldemort, those fingers stubbornly clutching at her ribs, pressed there by countless wayward and incorrect spells, finally find their way out, forced out by the pounding and unwelcome request of the amber? Draco concentrated. Yes, he had been right. Holding the charm, Narcissa was wholly free. He could feel that Voldemort was no longer trapped in the broken charm, no longer clamped down, half-mad, inside Narcissa, yet he was still not whole. His body still lay empty, and somehow, Draco could sense that there was something else, something missing, something the vapour hovering over his mother was still seeking.

And suddenly there was a child in the room, and she was screaming. It nearly broke his concentration entirely. What was she doing here? Who was she? He couldn't stop to wonder.

Draco could feel the ropy sinews of this magic wrapped around these bodies, and understood the wisdom of calling forth the body of Voldemort. He realized, as he sensed the complexity of the problem at hand, that it had been fortunate that his potions had been so successful with Harry, and marveled a bit at his own success. The Death Eaters had tried all kinds of things, spells, charms, incantations, arithmanthetical formulas, potions, plasters, and transfigurations to transport Voldemort's consciousness from Narcissa into his own body, most of which had been dismal failures. But some had gone part of the way. While most of Voldemort's consciousness was floating now in a cloud of grey-green vapour hovering over his mother, there was a portion of it screaming inside Voldemort's body. There were layers upon layers of magic in this matrix; crossed patterns of goblin and wizard spells looping around each other, attacking, forcing them to cannibalize themselves. Like snakes with their tails in their mouths, angry Cerberus gnawing at his own throat. Draco had long understood how he and his class of Unspeakables were valuable to the Ministry, but only now, staring the dizzying array of miscues and horrible, disastrously placed goblin and wizard spells did he truly understand how valuable he was. Sorting through this was like walking through a minefield blindfolded, where the map constantly shifted from one language to another. He weeded through them, nullifying them, cutting out poor spells and straightening the original properties. He sorted out arrays, loops, and permissions, resetting the values. Then he saw it. Ah. There she is. The child in the room, she was that girl who had torn out her eyes. Found in the Death Eater laboratory in Wales. She had been a test case. He could sense it now because he saw the spells connecting her to Voldemort. No wonder she appeared when she did, he thought. She can't help it. It must be driving her out of her mind.

Suddenly he felt something. Something radically out of place. It was hidden in the corners of the various matrixes, hidden skillfully. There were new spells here, ones with his permissions and signatures, as if he had added them himself. He hadn't. He traced one, and found another, and another. Lining up these foreign spells and matrixes, he saw what was happening. There was a new if statement imbedded in the charm. If, the new spells indicated, if a consciousness were to be inserted inside the charm, then execute spell X. Draco traced spell X. It was also in his signature. He gasped. As he looked up he could almost see it. There was a cool white thread linking Harry to the charm. If anyone were to try to bring Voldemort into this charm, they would be taking Harry with them. He looked up at his mother. She was smiling at him sweetly, rubbing a piece of parchment in her hands.

It was her. It hadn't been that Lewis character at all, it had been her the whole time. Ron had been right. Draco seethed. His mother had his blood, still. She could hack into this charm, she could link Harry to it, knowing full well that she had rendered the charm useless. Even if he decided to sacrifice Harry for the good of the wizarding world, he would only be handing Voldemort and Harry to her on a silver platter. He was so angry he could barely concentrate, but he had to, he had to finish this. There must be another way.

He pulled out his wand. For a moment he was completely unsure of what to do next; there was nothing he could do to prevent Harry from getting drawn into the charm. He considered for a moment, and then cast the simplest of spells: "Petrificus Totalus!" he said firmly. It wouldn't stop an assault, but since Harry couldn't be drawn into the charm petrified, he would have to be released first. Releasing him was easy, but he doubted that his mother could do so and maintain her concentration on the charm at the same time. Just the few moments I need.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. For a moment he had forgotten how terrified and horrified Harry must be by all this. He didn't have time to be reassuring, he was down to mere moments and this had to be done properly. "Trust me," he said, narrowing his eyes and focusing on his mother. She laughed, sending a chill down his spine.

"He'll never trust you, darling. No, not again. Not after all of this, not after what he's seen. Not even he is that foolish. He knows about your..trysts with those Death Eaters now, you know. He's horrified. But it's alright, princeling, I have a new home for you, a new lover, a new life. You can even keep this trinket, if you like. Just help me now. We'll almost there."

Draco felt the blood draining from his face. Harry knew. Of course he did. Oh God, please. He knew how he had done the rounds with the Death Eaters? How they had come to consider him the best fuck in England, how they rode him like a cheap circus trick because he was the nearest thing and unsupervised? Because he was so available, so good when trapped in a corner, so willing to do what they asked if they promised sweetly that they'd never tell? There had been once, just once, when his father had found him tied down with a Death Eater between his legs, and he had thrown the man into the dungeons. Draco had seen him there, caged up like an animal, pacing, weeping and screaming. He had died down there from thirst, while Draco sat in front of the cage, drinking from a glass, letting water dribble down his chin. He should have been an example, he should have been able to use it as a threat. But somehow the word never got around, and no one ever saved him again. And all that time, she knew? Draco shivered. She knew. And she let it happen. Oh, of course she did. Damn, of course she did. How did I not see it? It was a lesson. And I learned. And now she's shown all that to Harry. He shuddered. There was no time for distractions. He took his horror and embarrassment and despair stored it away.

There was really no choice. Even if she hadn't tied Harry to the charm, he wouldn't trap Voldemort inside of it; she would always have the key. He would have to resurrect him now, himself. There was no way around it. He uncluttered the spells around Voldemort's body, preparing him. They were like spider webs, thin, sticky threads of magic criss-crossing him, obscuring him. As he pushed them aside, he saw the little flicker of consciousness that had already been drawn forth. It was red and rattled angrily inside Voldemort's cold chest. He sensed his mother's eyes, her hard-edged mind pressing against his, watching his movements, his spells, his rapid-fire movements. She was connected to this charm, he had already seen to that. And she understood just enough goblin and goblin magic to understand what he was doing. He could feel her mind stretching over his codes, matrixes, permissions and properties, breathing them in, running her fingers over them to secure them in her mind. While she scrutinized everything, every move, he worked quietly in the background. For every chunk of new matrix, he produced a smaller spell underneath, a series of small ifs, stuck in a collection of codes, discreet. If, he wrote with his fingers on the air, if a mind returns to a body, return the body here.If a body is returned here, return the speaker of the deliverance here. If she didn't find it, it would work, it would work so fast there would be no time for reversals. He would encapsulate them both. He would return Voldemort to his body only to trap him back into a new charm, with his mother in tow. It would be seamless.

He watched her take in the matrixes. They were extensive and complicated. He saw he boggle over parts of it, pass over the dangerous elements. Did she see it? He didn't dare guess. He was nearly finished, nearly there, and all the while he was returning Voldemort's dangerous, still-incomplete consciousness to his body.

"Ah." His mother said. "Yes, yes I see. Thank you, darling. I knew you would help me. I love you so much, my dearest." She had seen the key spell; how to return a properly coded consciousness from a charm to a body. It was deceptively simple, indeed. It hardly mattered that she knew; she would never have the opportunity to try, if he could just—

"Stop him!" The child was screaming. "Stop him stop him stop him! He's going to bring him back!" Draco understood in a moment looking into his mother's eyes. She has the child under an imperius curse. Of course. She's caught me, she knows what I'm doing. She knows Harry doesn't trust me. She's going to use him to stop me. She gave her son a cold, fierce, and disappointed look that said, 'you see? I told you he'd never trust you.'

He felt Harry on him as his head hit the wall. "I won't let you, I won't!" Draco nearly passed out for a moment, but shook himself awake. NO. His concentration broken, he saw that his mother had taken the knowledge she had just garnered from watching him, and was shifting Voldemort's diaphanous form toward the terrified girl. For God's sake. Just couldn't even give me the benefit of the doubt, Potter? Now it's ruined. My matrix was unfinished, and now it's too late. Harry was still trying to wrestle him to the ground, pin him down. Wait, maybe there's still something I can do, I can still cripple him, he won't be complete.

He growled. Harry was preventing him from doing anything, he couldn't even stand like this, he couldn't see, he couldn't concentrate. Draco churned with anger and threw Harry off him with the first spell that came to his mind. The blue flame hit him with tremendous force, and Draco watched Harry crash into the floor, arms and legs broken and bleeding. Didn't I ask you to trust me? He bristled. After all that, you still haven't bothered to find out who I am. You're no better than my mother. So fucking righteous.

A black cavern was opening on the girl's chest as his mother stroked her head, saying one word, over and over; glukukuk: belong, belong, belong. He watched her eyes open, black with Voldemort's rising sanity. So. It was done. Damn. Too late. Again. Potter, what have you done? He whispered rapidly. This is my last chance. He pulled out that errant red flame, that one last piece of Voldemort, teased it out like a loose thread on a poorly sewn seam. The door flew open, and he heard spells flying around the room. He ignored them. Dumbledore had sensed trouble, no doubt, and the Ministry had arrived, warriors and heroes all. What a bitter ending. Narcissa had won, she had forced his hand and retrieved Voldemort from her own skull, and learned to pass him into a new body. He was waking, and he was himself again, completel Draco kept tugging on the red flame, that last piece, watching it dance unhappily away from the child. He pried the charm from his mother's palm, now empty, nullifying it. She was grabbing at the child, pulling at her wand and preparing to whisk them both away when the red flame entered the charm. He felt rather than heard her scream of frustration and he spoke those simple words and called the charm into his hand. He was its only owner now. Voldemort was free, but incomplete. Such a hollow victory.

His mother and the girl were gone. He felt empty.

17 Correspondence

Dear Draco,

I woke up this afternoon in the hospital. I can't write, I have to use this damn quick quotes quill, I hate it. It reminds me of Rita Skeeter. I wish I had woken up next to you instead. I feel just awful, my arms and legs hurt very much. I don't blame you for that, I understand why you did it. Come soon, I need to see you. Ron told me about what happened, and I read the papers. I know I was wrong. I'm so sorry. Please, come soon.

Love always,

Harry xoxo

Dear Draco,

I didn't see you yesterday at all, did you come? They won't tell me, they just say that lots of people have been in. I'm sleeping most of the time. Wake me when you're here, won't you? I need to see you so much it hurts.

Much love,

Harry xoxo

p.s. Did I say how sorry I am? Please forgive me.

Draco,

Dumbledore tells me that you're very busy, that the press hound you daily and are keeping you from me. I don't believe him, of course. I know you're angry with me. You and your stubborn temper. I wish that I

Okay, I know I did the wrong thing. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I misunderstood. Look at it from my point of view, for god's sake, I didn't know that I fucked it all up at the time. I didn't know what you were trying to do. I didn't know that your mother was forcing your hand. How was I supposed to know? I didn't know. I should have guessed. I should have known better. But I didn't. I just didn't. I'm used to leaping in, it's a Gryffindor trait, jump in first, ask questions later. I know, I know. You should have left me at home. You should have just killed me and been done with it. I feel awful.

Please. Come see me. Forgive me. Please.

Harry

Draco,

I miss you terribly. I see that you are not willing to forgive me yet. That's okay. You have every right to be angry, and I can live with that. But I can't live without seeing you. Come here and yell at me. Come here and shout and stamp your feet and spit at me if you have to. Come here and refuse to speak to me at all, just come here. Please!

You didn't believe those things your mother said about me, did you? She was right when she said that I saw lots of things. I did. I was horrified, but not the way she said. Draco, I feel so guilty. I feel so guilty for wanting you the way I do. You're so much more than that to me, you know that, right? I feel guilty because people have abused you so horribly, treated you with so little respect, and then I come along and keep trying to jump you. I feel like an idiot. You must think…well, I can't imagine. I hope you understand. I hope you know that I never meant to treat you like that. I lust for you, I want you, I love the way you touch me…but I love you, too. I love you so much I feel like it's a part of me. I wish there were more that I could give you.

I knew there were things in your past, I didn't expect it would be so…so brutal. I should have guessed. Oh, Draco, I'm so sorry I saw it. I'm sorry I saw it when I know you didn't want me to. It changes nothing, nothing in me, at least. I love you, Draco, what other people have done to you is meaningless. It's horrible, it's sad, and I wish you could have told me, but it does nothing to change the way I feel about you. You do understand that, right? I hope I've never…made you feel the way those Death Ea oh god Draco. I just hope I don't force you back into memories that…I can't even write about it. I need to see you. I need to hold you. Please.

I saw things about your mother, too. Did you know she nearly drowned when she was small? Her parents loved her very much. Voldemort and I are a lot alike, and that scares me. Is that why you stay away from me? Please. Please come see me. I have so much to talk about and I want to talk about it with you. I don't think anyone else will understand, not after all this. Do you understand how I need you? Do you hate that? Please. Tell me.

All my heart,

Harry

Draco,

I read the papers yesterday, I held them with my own hands for a change too. This healing process is going very very slowly, I'm not sure when I can even go home. The headlines are good: DRACO MALFOY: HERO! They're so wrong about so many things, and yet so right about this at the same time. You are a hero, and we'd have a lot more to celebrate if it weren't for me. I can't tell you how sorry I am. You look good in the pictures, though you seem tired and annoyed with the press. That seems about right. Part of me thought you might enjoy the attention since, after all, you always hated how much of that I used to get! but it doesn't look at though you are. Surprise surprise. It's not all fun, is it. I guess this is particularly bad, since it's so hollow. I'm sorry I stole that from you too. Maybe that's why you're so mad at me. I cut out all the pictures and I look at them when I'm alone. Even your picture self scowls at me. You look much happier when Ron is looking at the pictures. I miss you. God, I miss you so much. I dream about you all the time.

Last night I dreamed that you were here, sitting in this chair next to my bed, and I just talked for a long time. You didn't say anything, you just sat there and listened. I covered everything. It took hours, in the dream. I have to lie still here, but in the dream I could walk around. I paced a lot, you just looked at me, walking back and forth. I looked in your eyes when I said the really, really tough bits. I love to look in your eyes. They're not just gray, you know, there's a little bit of all kinds of colours in there. Green, blue, brown, all of it. You have multi-coloured eyes. You're a marvel, but I already knew that. Anyway, in the dream I kept talking and talking and talking. And when I was finished you nodded and hugged me and everything was okay again. It felt so good, to have your arms around me. You have no idea how much I miss that. I don't know what I said in the dream, I wish I did. I'd write it all out now and send it and hope to see you walking into my room. I still watch for you. You know I never see you. Why? Can you at least just tell me that much? I know I fucked up. I know I ruined everything. Please, come here and let me apologize properly? Please. I need you.

Harry

p.s. I sent this once, and Hegwig brought it back. Are you refusing my letters? I'm sending it again just in case she got lost.

Draco,

I can't believe you. You fucking asshole, how dare you. Break up with me via Ron? Are you insane? I can't believe this. I can't believe YOU. After all this, after all that I forgave YOU for, you're going to pull something like this? Don't you even respect me enough to at least tell me YOURSELF? Or are you really so SCARED of a guy who can't even GET OUT OF BED? Jesus, Draco. I can't believe this. After all that. Fuck you, Draco.

H.

Draco,

Okay. I was a little angry when I sent the last letter. Hedwig nipped me hard for that. I'm sorry I got out of control there. I understand, you want this to be over. I'm sorry to hear that. I'm really, really sorry to hear it. I don't understand. I'll never understand. Ron tells me you left some things behind in our flat. From the sounds of it, it was everything I ever gave you. Do you really want to forget me? Do you want to forget all of it? I hope you took those other pictures at least, they're yours, I told you they were. I want you to have them.

I hope we can still be friends. You mean a great deal to me, and you always will.

Harry

p.s. I know you need time to get over this, but I hope I can owl you from time to time. I still feel this need to talk to you, there are things only you will understand. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but I'm doing my best here.

Harry,

Try harder.

D.

18  Breathe

This won't work as well as the way it once did
'cause I want to decide between survival and bliss
And though I know who I'm not I still don't know who I am
But I know I won't keep on playing the victim

-- Alanis Morrisette, Precious Illusions

Ginny Weasley wanted a drink. She wandered down the streets of muggle London, shuffling through the puddles of pale lamplight pooling on the sidewalks. Her head was spinning. Harry had been released from the hospital four days ago, after nearly three weeks. There had been some debate about releasing him. He was healed, by all accounts, but he still couldn't walk without support, he couldn't stand, he could barely use his hands. Even lying down, not moving a muscle, he was in constant pain. They tried spell after spell after spell to cure him, to no avail. Finally they threw up their hands and brought in a counselor. "It must be psychological," Ginny had heard them whispering. Harry listened dully to the advice of the doctors, psychologists, experts of all varieties.

Dumbledore had come to visit as well. He hadn't said very much, really, not that Ginny had overheard. He had just sat with Harry for a while, patting his hand, pouring him cups of tea, listening to what Harry wanted to say like a priest in a confessional, nodding and doling out Hail Marys, Our Fathers. But Dumbledore had no easy solution to Harry's mea culpa. Instead he patted Harry's hand, poured more tea. On Harry's lap were letters, sealed, sent and returned, organized in a shoe box according to date. Ginny guessed that there were perhaps seventeen or eighteen of them, some of them bound together with twine, some without envelopes, written on scrap paper with the hospital logo on it. A couple of them toward the end of the box were scratched rather badly by Hedwig's talons, as if she had offered them personally with her bony fists, not waiting for them to be untied. Harry ran his fingers over them. When Dumbledore left, he took the box with him.

And so they had prepared Harry and Ron's flat for his arrival. Malfoy had left no mess, only an absence. Ron fretted, piling cards and gifts and flowers on the desk in the corner, rearranging Harry's closet, stripping his bed. He gathered up what few things Malfoy had left (some pieces of clothing, two brightly painted pasta bowls, a collection of photographs, a wristwatch, a stack of books, a well-floured cookbook, a small decanter) and sealed it into a box, which he hid under the rafters at the very top of the front closet, behind discarded mittens, a Russian rabbit-fur hat, and a stack of old divination textbooks. Ginny and Hermione both helped in silence, looking, stupefied, at the forlorn objects, so casual and inoffensive, which were now forced into hiding. They added a few charms here and there to help with Harry's movement around the flat according to the instructions in the pamphlet Ron had brought back from the hospital (cushioning spells around corners and slippery surfaces, like the kitchen and bathroom; magical grips on the walls which were invisible until you reached for them; spells to automatically light or extinguish candles from a distance, and so forth). They moved slowly, not entirely believing all this was necessary. Sitting with Harry in the hospital was one thing; bringing his new, mysterious disability into the real world was another.

It had been Ron who endured the disastrous confrontation. Ginny found herself both jealous of Ron's burden of knowledge, and relieved that it wasn't hers to divulge. He had come home from the hospital, head pounding and eyes still burning from lack of sleep to find Malfoy in Harry's bedroom, packing his things. Ron had pressed him, but Malfoy said very little, other than a series of stinging insults in an over-loud voice. "Tell him it's over, he should forget about the whole thing. My mistake. Tell him I have nothing else to say."

"Tell him your damn self, Malfoy. You owe him an explanation, at the very least."

"Fine. So don't tell him. Then he'll just never know." He lifted a bag onto his shoulder and headed for the door.

"But Malfoy…" Ron spluttered. "...but you love him. Why are you doing this?" Malfoy didn't turn, and didn't stop walking. Ron was left standing in Harry's bedroom, hearing the door slam, and angry feet clomping down the hall.

Ginny rubbed her temples, feeling sore. She had a headache and the soles of her feet were burning. She had been walking for hours, staring blankly through the windows of restaurants and shops, looking at people whose lives were continuing forward just as they had the day before, and as they no doubt would the day after next. It had been a sensation in the wizarding world, of course. The pictures in the Daily Prophet were dramatic and congratulatory. Front page: Draco Malfoy, pictured walking out of St. Mungo's carrying the dead body of You Know Who splayed out like a rag doll in his arms. Ginny was almost completely certain that the picture was faked; Malfoy's lolling burden didn't move in tandem with his heavy tread down the front steps. He looked exhausted, and not in the least triumphant. If anything, Malfoy looked profoundly sad.

He was hailed a hero immediately. His supervisor at the ministry was interviewed, along with his co-workers; his talents and qualities were tabulated and published with aplomb. He was a renowned magical expert; he was a convert from the dark side; he was the unlikely saviour of future generations. Many puns and metaphors were used in headlines revolving around the word 'faith' ("Our Bad Faith led to Accusing Malfoy", "Faithful Malfoy Ain't Bad", "Malfoy's Good Faith") He was described as a lost child, humble, gentle and sensitive. It was noted that he refused to bask in the glory of his daring confrontation with He Who Must Not Be Named, where he not only stared down the beast himself, but managed to chose the right side, regardless of the personal cost to himself and his family. Witches everywhere swooned. He looked dashing and repentant, lonely, tired, and disheveled. Letters to the editor demanded to know if Malfoy was single, and if so, if he would receive marriage proposals. Apologies ran rampant, from the front pages of the Daily Prophet to the back section of the Witches Weekly. A fund was started to account for his lost belongings, and to make up for weeks of lynch mob threats. Malfoy himself said very little.

The truth had wormed its way down to Ginny in whispers. The wizarding world was rejoicing, but the truth was that Voldemort was not defeated at all, but was back; only now he took the form of a young girl. No one was sure where she had Narcissa had gone. Malfoy Manor had gone up in flames the moment she disappeared from St. Mungo's; Lucius Malfoy had barely escaped with his life. The ministry was keeping this under wraps, and they were mildly suspicious of the whole debacle. The body of Voldemort was pretty sophisticated evidence. But Harry had shaken his head, sad, feeling guilty, noting that while he had crippled Voldemort as an infant, as an adult he had set him free.

Ginny stopped walking. She had just seen something that had sent her stomach into her shoes. In the darkness she could easily see through the large street-front window into a low-lit muggle pub. Sitting at a table by himself, with a fluted pint glass nearly finished in front of him, sat Draco Malfoy. As she watched, a waiter ambled by. She saw him ask the obvious question, saw Malfoy nod his assent. Another drink arrived as Draco stared down at a piece of parchment on the table. He ran his fingers over it, shut his eyes, and opened them again, tracing words on the page, his lips moving briefly. He folded the parchment, and pulled out another. Ginny steeled herself, and walked into the pub.

He looked up as she pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked shocked, his eyes well glazed over. "Oh hell." He said, his speech rather slurred. "What do you want, Weasley?"

"Ginny." She said. "The name. Is Ginny."

He sighed and took a long gulp of his beer. The waiter hovered over the table as Malfoy realized that he had left an open letter on the table. "I'll have what he's having," Ginny said, watching him snatch at the letter and shove it back into his pocket.

"I was just leaving."

"Yes, it certainly looks that way," she noted drily. "Look, I want to talk to you."

"I gathered that."

Ginny smiled tightly as her drink arrived. They sat for a moment, drinking, not looking at each other.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"…What?"

"You don't remember? You kissed me. At Hogwarts. Your last year. In a field. Oh, come on, after a quidditch practice. Are you telling me you don't remember? You kissed me."

He hmmed. "Oh. Right. Yes. I remember now." Tracing his finger on the bottom edge of his glass, he chuckled.

"So why did you do it?"

"As I recall, you initiated that."

Ginny snorted. "Really. Why did you do it?"

He shrugged. Ginny noticed that he looked profoundly tired, tired like a man who hadn't slept in ages, like a man who had never slept. His eyes were red-rimmed, and Ginny wondered if he had been crying before she came in. "I…figured it would be the closest I would ever get."

"To Harry?"

Draco winced. "Yeah."

Ginny hmmed. "Well. As it turns out, it's as close as I ever got. Isn't that ironic."

Draco smirked rather coldly. "Well, he's free now, Weasley. Why are you sitting here with me? Go get him. Or do you want some pointers?" His tone was getting angrier by the second, but Ginny was sensitive enough to ignore it. "I would have thought you'd have scooped him up by now." He went on. She noticed his hands clenching into fists as he spoke. "Or is he out with some…some…" Ginny watched as this train of thought become altogether too painful for him, and he reached for his glass.

"As you must know, Harry is in no condition to go anywhere with anyone right now," she said quietly.

"What are you talking about?" Draco asked, clapping the glass back down on the table.

Ginny looked at him. Could he really not know? "Well, he's in constant pain. He can't walk."

"What?"

Ginny nodded. "He can't walk, he can't move around much at all. He can barely use his hands. It's been…just awful. They don't know what the problem is. He's healed, he's been healed for weeks. But—"

He was blinking at her, the shock seemed to sober him up. "Didn't they…oh no, they didn't know enough to…" He sighed heavily. "Hyssop." He said. "That's what he needs. That will take away the pain. I can't believe they didn't know that."

He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. "They didn't know. God. I'm such an idiot. Of course they didn't know." Ginny considered agreeing with the idiot part, but held her tongue. "Well, tell them…that…well, I have some books on the hyssop formula…"

Ginny shook her head. "Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Why don't you go to him yourself? Why all this drama?"

She heard him growl. He covered his face with his hands. "I don't know why you're bothering to ask. I know you want him. Why not just go take him?"

"Because he needs you. And I love him, and I want him to have what he needs."

He laughed. "Well. He won't get it. It's a farce, you of all people must know that." Ginny raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to hear me say? God. The lot of you. No one will get off my back about this. Look. He doesn't trust me. He's never going to trust me. Not that I should entirely blame him, but I will anyway. I know what I've done. I know who I've been, so do you. You still won't eat my food without wondering if I'm trying to kill you." He laughed hollowly. "It was never going to work. It was a dumb idea. Malfoy and Potter? Really. Villains and heroes don't end up together, it's just not the way it goes." He drained his glass, and motioned for another.

Ginny sighed. For a moment she wondered if this was enough. Perhaps this was it. She could get up now and tell Harry something reassuring, something to make him feel as if it were okay to move on. ("He's too weak to see his own mistakes.", "It's not you, it's him.", "He's found some easier prey, you are just too good for him.", "He's a jerk, Harry. He eats puppies for breakfast and he's screwing Millicient Bulstrode.") She could drop this conversation now and gather the broken Harry in her arms, be the instrument of his miraculous cure. She could walk into the sunset arm in arm with her hero. She could even let some of their piercings grow in, get a nice gingham dress. She rubbed her earlobe anxiously. She wasn't sure who to blame for what she was about to do, her genes or the sorting hat for making her such a noble and self-sacrificing Gryffindor. She smirked.

"God, Malfoy. You blame everyone else for essentializing you, and then you go ahead and do the same thing to yourself. And to Harry. You know what?" She pushed her glass aside and laid a fist on the table. "Harry isn't a hero. He's not perfect. Sometimes he fucks up. He doesn't know how to handle it, because it's never expected of him and he's never really done it before. There's no room for failure when you're Harry fucking Potter, you know. Even when he's in the wrong, he does just the right thing. People don't even question it. They just expect him to know what the right move is all the time. Oddly enough, Harry is human."

She was getting angry, and his eye-rolling across the table didn't help matters at all. "Oh, come off it, Malfoy. He hooked up with you against the better judgment of everyone he knows. He trusted you enough to take you in. When no one else believed you, he did. He spent weeks at the ministry defending you. Doesn't that speak of a little trust? So when it came down to it, and it looked as if you were going to deliver the Dark Lord back to his former glory, he wavered. Of course he did. Jesus. He was scared, for god's sake, he wanted to protect you, like the knight in shining fucking armour that everyone thinks he is. You run to him when you need to feel protected, and then get pissed off when you think you might need it." He was looking down at his hands now. This did not tempt Ginny to stop. "And you're hardly the villain anymore, much as some of us have a hard time coming to terms with that. Look at you. Look what you've done. You're still a right bastard, but you're not the anti-Christ. God, Malfoy, from the way you talk, you'd think you were living a fairy tale or something."

She sighed. Malfoy's face was hidden now. He was running his fingers along the packet of letters in his pocket. "He was still right, even when he was wrong. He was right to trust you, he was right that all this wasn't your fault. Are you going to be just like everyone else and act all shocked when he can't live up to all of your expectations? Isn't it enough that he lives up to most of them? Jesus. What more can you ask for?" Malfoy said nothing. "He gave you a chance. He gave you a lot of chances, I'll wager. Can you give him one? God, just let him fuck up, let him be sorry for it. Let him make it up to you. How hard is that?" Ginny shook her head. Men are so stupid, she thought. You only get so many chances at things like this and they just stare it in the face and wander off. Feh. Maybe he deserves to sit here sulking.

"I know you want to see him, Malfoy. It's very bleeding obvious. You sit here mooning over his letters, which, I'll have you know, are very VERY painful for Harry to write, PHYSICALLY painful, you sit here moaning and getting piss drunk and crying your eyes out and you think you can just walk away from this?"

"Fuck off, Weasley." Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

Hmm. Hit a chord there. Good for me, Ginny thought. She ignored the statement and softened her tone. "Well, you want him to trust you. Sure. But you can't expect him to trust you point blank, you have to give him time. You've really proved yourself, you know. You're acting as if everything just fell apart, but maybe it fell together. You proved him right, you deserved his trust, everybody sees that now."

"I shouldn't have to fucking prove myself." He hissed, looking up at her angrily, eyes glazed over and unable to hide his uncertainty.

"What, did you get that from Witches Weekly? Please. Of course you do. Trust doesn't just spontaneously appear, you know. Not even for Harry. It has to develop, particularly when you've offered someone up to the prince of fucking darkness in recent memory, Malfoy. Just like everyone else, you're expecting Harry to be superhuman. Stop it."

She told him about Harry's pain, his regret, his guilt. She told Draco about how she had found him staring blankly at a scrap of paper in his hand, clutching at it. "A scrap of your notes," She said. "A bit we didn't manage to hide away. Don't tell me he doesn't trust you. Don't tell me he doesn't need you. Geez. Men. Something scary happens and you forget every damn thing you ever knew."

Malfoy sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?" He looked defeated.

Lucky for me he was so damn drunk when I walked in. Ginny grinned.

Ron heard the knock at the door while he was washing dishes. Now, he thought. Who would be dropping by at this time of night? He draped the tea towel over his shoulder and walked toward the door. "We're popular tonight, Harry." He said jovially. He saw Harry smile. He was sitting in the armchair beside the fireplace, a blanket over his aching legs. When cures for the pain had led nowhere, they had attempted to simply stem its tide. But wizarding cures for pain seemed to be hopeless. They shifted into muggle medicine, trying acupuncture, massage, morphine, shock treatment, yoga (a disastrous idea, it turned out), hypnotherapy; nothing seemed to do the trick. For the moment they were simply trying to wait it out. Ron and Hermione had turned the chair toward the window so that Harry could look out into the night sky, pulled the swivel lamp closer beside him, made sure there was a glass of water on the table, and left him to read.

Harry was delving into the muggle classics now, for some reason. He had sent Ron out on numerous occasions with booklists: Wuthering Heights; Mutiny on the Bounty; Jude the Obscure; The Catcher in the Rye; Atlas Shrugged. He seemed to melt through these. He absorbed them and tossed them aside, as though they didn't quite give him the answers he was looking for. As I lay dying; To the Lighthouse; Waiting for Godot; Great Expectations. Ron wasn't certain whether he was actually reading them at all, or simply looking for something to distract him from the ache in his legs. Between books he was constantly restless; unable to move much, he used what strength he had in his hands to hold anything with words on it up to his face. He read the backs of cereal boxes and various packages, the instructions booklets for his quidditch equipment, for an old cauldron, for his quick quotes quill. Ron kept the newspaper at a distance, and Harry never asked for it. Fifth Business; The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz; Slaughterhouse Five; My Name is Asher Lev. Ron wondered if it was the task a book represented that soothed Harry. The weight of it against his hands, the fact that they had a beginning, and a middle. But the end of a book he started to look nervous again. Ron had never seen him like this.

They didn't talk about Draco. At least, Harry and Ron didn't. Part of Ron wanted to tell Harry what he had learned from Draco that day he moved in; the past history of abuse, for one, and more importantly, the confession. He loves you, you know, Ron wanted to say. Did Draco ever get around to telling Harry the truth? Ron had no idea, and wouldn't even hazard a guess. God, people are so dumb. Don't they realize how rare it is to love someone and have them love you back? Ron sometimes caught snippets of conversations between Harry and Hermione, between Harry and Ginny. ("Of course he does." "No, no, Harry, you couldn't have done differently. It was a completely natural reaction." "I don't know, Harry. I can't even imagine." "No, I haven't seen him either." "I'm so sorry.") Ron hovered in the background of these conversations, knowing what they were about, knowing what the response to them had to be, but not participating. He was glad Malfoy hadn't shown up. He would have strangled him with his bare hands.

Tea towel casually over his shoulder, Ron opened the door. "Ginny!" He said. "Hi, what are you–" She had her finger to her lips. Then she pointed down the hall. Draco. Ron was caught off-guard, and shot him a nasty glare. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Hiya, Ron!" she said brightly. "I know it's late, but I was hoping you could come have a drink with me. Oh…" She noted loudly, "I brought something for Harry. I thought it might make him feel better." She pressed Ron aside and walked into the flat. "Don’t say a word, Ron. Let's just let this work itself out, shall we?" she whispered, walking past Ron and dragging Draco in behind her. Ron smelled alcohol on him. He looked decidedly sheepish.

Ginny left him by the door and walked over to Harry, crouching beside the chair, half looking at Ron and Draco, half watching Harry. "Hi, Harry, how are you this evening?" She said gently. He smiled.

"Oh, I'm alright. What was this I heard? Did you bring me something?"

"I did, Harry. I think it will…keep you occupied while I get Ron out of your hair for a while. Okay?"

Harry looked puzzled, but smiled and nodded. Ginny stood, stroked Harry's hand, and leaned over, kissing him on the forehead. "I love you, Harry." She said.

"I love you too, Gin. Thanks." She smiled. "Okay!" She said, rather loudly. "Ron, got your coat? We'll be back shortly." She took walked back to the door, and took her scrambling brother by the arm, pulling him outside, closing the door behind them. She exhaled, and walked briskly outside, still latched tightly onto Ron. Once outside, she leaned against the wall, slid to a crouching position the ground, and burst into tears.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
Let the bones that you have crushed rejoice.
—Psalm 51

Draco stood nervously at the door, staring at the back of Harry's head. He sighed heavily, feeling far too tipsy and certain that when he was sober he would regret this. Potter probably will too. He walked as casually as he could toward Harry's chair, seating himself on the coffee table in front of him without making eye contact. He could hear Harry take a sharp breath, and not exhale.

After a few moments, he looked up. "Breathe, Harry," he said.

Harry looked shocked, and scared. He sighed and brought a shaky hand to his lip, rubbing it absently. He was thinking about something to say, having had thousands of things to say just moments ago, just before he looked up and saw Draco in front of him. He felt vacant. He was afraid to hope, and afraid of what variations on "I never loved you" would come from Draco's mouth. Harry wanted to know and didn't want to hear it at the same time. He wanted to shut his eyes tight, but also wanted to stare at Draco, who was there, finally, in front of him. Harry looked at his face, saw the glazed eyes, smelled the alcohol on him. He was drunk. Well, so that's what it took.

"Hi." Harry said, finally.

Draco gulped. He knew he probably looked afraid. He was, and he was in no state to hide it. Why on earth did he let that Weasley girl talk him into this? "I hear you're in a lot of pain, Harry. I can fix that." He winced a little. That came out all wrong. "I have a cure for it, I mean." He pulled out a cloth pouch from his pocket and held it up as evidence. "Can you stand?" Harry nodded stiffly. He pulled off the blanket on his lap and pressed his slippered feet against the floor. Draco intended to avoid touching him at all costs, but found that there was no option. Harry cried out as collapsed onto the floor, his body trembling in familiar pain that reached out through his limbs, snaking under his knees and elbows, ripping his sinews and tendons from his bones, dropping him, feeling bloodied, weeping and groaning into black oblivion.

Draco inwardly swore. This should never have happened.

When Harry came to it was to the sound of running water echoing all around him. For a moment he thought he was drowning. The water will rise, and cover my chest, and then my throat, and I'll feel it beneath my chin. And then it will cover my mouth and my nose and I won't struggle. But when he opened his eyes he found that he was just in his own blurry bathroom, sitting on the small, square cushioned stool the hospital had recommended, his back against the tile. Draco was on the floor in front of him, pulling off Harry's socks.

Draco held Harry's ankle carefully, dropping the sock on the floor, and for a moment, stroked his instep as if in a memory. I told him here, Harry imagined him thinking. It was in this place, among others, that I told him I was his. And he didn't believe me. He looked up, saw Harry's eyes opening blearily, saw him attempting to make sense of the unfocused world.

"You're going to have to get in there. It will get rid of your pain." He motioned with a nod toward the bathtub, which was half-filled, and spoke guiltily, which was not something Harry expected to hear in him now. He nodded, and fumbled with his shirt, feeling Draco gently drop his foot, felt his hands pulling tangled and creased material over his head. The tile was cold against his back. Exhausted, his closed his eyes as he felt Draco unzip his pants, felt arms pull him against a warm chest in order to lift him enough to free him off them. Harry's face feel by habit into Draco's shoulder, his lips pressing against the skin of his neck.

The smell of Draco reminded Harry of many things, so many that it had come to form a single thought in his head. Simply, Draco. Cold mornings; the smooth feeling of sheets against his arms; stiff fencing jackets; buttered breakfasts; night air; feeling weightless, certain, powerful, and oddly, safe. Safe. His body screaming in pleasure, and not pain; the taste of his skin; the sound of his moaning, the small words. He smelled like alcohol and cigarette smoke. Draco had a tendency to drink too much when he was nervous, depressed, afraid. Harry breathed him in. And then, fainter, Harry was reminded of other things; blood on the coverlet, the sound of Draco screaming; little arms around his neck (no, not his, hers); the sight of him, tiny, sleeping in an ornate cradle while the wolves howled outside. He shivered and was released, feeling the cold tile again, his pants slipping from his legs.

Draco stood and turned the faucets off, checked the temperature of the water, sniffed. He pulled out the pouch and sprinkled nearly a third of its contents into the water, which shimmered slightly, and then returned to normal. He turned and looked over at Harry, but, myopic and without his glasses, he couldn't see Draco's expression. A long moment passed in silence.

"Here," Draco said huskily. "I'll help you in. It will be better soon." Harry wondered for a moment if Draco was crying. He felt himself pressed into that embrace again as Draco helped him stand, and then steadied him while Harry lift one leg, and then another, into the water. He eased down, feeling the water on his hips, rising up against his chest. Draco released him as his back pressed into the cool enamel of the bathtub. His arms and legs tingled at a little, his toes pressed against metal chain looping against the rubber-stoppered drain.

"Is it…any better?" Draco asked hopefully.

Harry shut his eyes, and then opened them again, and shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "Not yet, at least. I can feel tingling, a little, though."

Draco nodded. The front of his shirt was sopping wet, his cuffs still dragging in the water.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm so sorry."

Draco bowed his head. "I know."

"Please."

Draco didn't say anything for a long time, just traced an absent finger against the surface of the water. Please. Please don't leave. Don't go home, stay with me. Don't leave me. Draco picked up the pouch, dumping a small amount of the powered substance into his hand. He reached under the water, and stroked his palm against Harry's right calf. Harry gasped. He could feel pain seeping out of his bones.

"Is that better?" Draco asked again.

"Yes. Yes it is." Draco nodded, poured more powder into his hands and massaged Harry's thighs, feet, his knees, hips, shoulders, his arms, finally, for a long time, his hands. Harry felt the pain seeping into the water leaving him curiously empty. He almost cried from its absence with an emotion he couldn't identify. Draco's hands on his skin felt electric, and sad. He touched him with certainty and finality, already knowing the breadth of him, tracing the contours of his bones, lingering with sorrow and regret over a freckle, a childhood scar, a rough patch of skin. Draco pulled Harry's right hand from the water and looked at it, tracing the lines on his palm. Heart line, head line, life line. He leaned forward and pressed it against his own cheek. His eyes were shut.

"Harry."

He could feel Draco's jaw move with the syllables, felt his heart beating rapidly under his palm. He was afraid to answer, afraid to break the stillness of this moment. "Yes."

"Would you…ever have been able to trust me?"

Harry exhaled slowly. He sensed that he was treading on very delicate ground, ground that might disappear at any moment, or might take him with it. Like quicksand, he might sprint over it or stand and sink. "I do trust you, Draco."

Draco grunted, and shook his head.

"No, I do. I just thought …that I didn't really know you. I thought I did, but then…I wasn't sure. I didn't know how much…you could take. Having just seen what I had…just seen."

"How much I could take?"

"She was so sure, you know. So sure that you would return to her, and it was hard not to be convinced. And she showed me…" Draco moved Harry's hand from his face into the water again. "She showed me things I…didn't know what to do with. I was.scared. I didn't want to see you…fall into something…I didn't want to lose you like that. I thought it was me who had to be strong enough."

"I don't always need to be rescued, you know."

"I know."

"But it's what you do best, isn't it."

"Clearly not."

"You don't think you know me?"

"I didn't think so. I was wrong. You're not your past, not anymore. I understand that now. But."

"But?"

"I wish you could have told me. I wish…"

"You would have hated me for it."

"Who doesn't trust who here?"

Silence. Harry sluiced closer, lifted his tired arms out of the water and wrapped them around Draco, who was motionless neither rejecting nor repelling him. He pressed his face into Draco's neck, kissed him softly, ran his newly nimble fingers through Draco's hair. "Please forgive me. I love you. Please. Don't leave me."

"It's too late, Harry."

"No it's not."

Silence. Harry felt wet hands on his back, sliding up to his shoulders, back down again, tracing wet skin under the water. He could feel Draco shudder.

"Can you forgive me? For what you've seen?"

"…of course. I'm not sure what you need my forgiveness for. It's me who needs forgiveness here."

"She showed you…about the…hmm. The Death Eaters."

"Yes. That wasn't your fault, Draco."

"I know."

"You're a stronger person that I've given you credit for. Than you give yourself credit for as well. I reckon. If you want my forgiveness for that, you certainly have it. If you'll forgive me for…taking the same kind of…of…"

"It's not the same kind, Harry. Not at all."

Harry sighed, tucking Draco's shoulder under his chin. "Well then."

"There's more."

"Of course there is."

"I'm not sure you'll understand."

"I probably won't. But I won't forget again. Who you are now. Please."

"Harry…"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I know."

Finis