1  Nightswimming

You: I thought I knew you.
You: I cannot judge.
You: I thought you knew me
This one laughing quietly
Underneath my breath…
–R.E.M., Nightswimming

It started as a rumour on the Hogwarts Express. Billy Huggins, a sixth year Ravenclaw, had been visiting with his great-uncle Benny, one of the most renowned pranksters in Ravenclaw history (and, incidentally, the only wizard to date to swim across the English Channel), and over the summer he had learned one of the legendary and wholly illegal Hogwarts' student capers; Balineum Abnocto, popularly known as the Swimming Hole spell. The lake that the first years ritually traveled across by boat every year was not the most inviting place to swim at the best of times; it was filled with all kinds of nasties with tentacles, poisoned spines, exploding glands, spiked tongues, iron fangs, and other, darker things that upper years whispered into the ears of new students on the train. "Don't fall in!" They snickered. It was generally agreed that there were fish in that lake that could saw your legs off with a single glance, and if you stayed in the water for any length of time, you would sprout gills and have to serve the mer-king who reigned in its depths. It was not prized as a place for a quick dip. However, the infamous Balineum Abnocto was believed to create a safe, quiet bubble around a portion of it, keeping aquatic life at bay and muffling all sound within its radius. So rumour had it that that Billy Huggins intended cast the spell on the lake by the docks that night after dark, allowing a few lucky students the chance to enjoy a couple of hours of fun in the otherwise inaccessible water.

Under normal conditions this would only be moderately appealing, and it was mostly the lake's forbiddenness that made the prank interesting at all. Most evenings at Hogwarts were tinged with cold, from September right through June, with long months in the middle filled with snow, draughts, and cold feet. But that summer had been a scorcher, and everyone on the train to Hogwarts spent the afternoon wiping beads of sweat off their foreheads and dreading the moment when they had to don their shirts and ties and their (God forbid!) black school robes and make the sweaty, stuffy, dusty trip from Hogsmede. The upper years found themselves silently envying the newcomers; they, at least, would take the cooler route by boat.

It started as a rumour, and Draco Malfoy never actually got close enough to its source to confirm it. He was intrigued. He loathed being so uncomfortably hot, and he was already shifting stickily in his seat, damning his poor judgment in choosing a compartment on the west side of the train. Pansy was positively drooping in the seat next to him. She was too warm to even say much; she was half-heartedly reading Witches Weekly, leaving wet marks on the cover from the sweat of her palms. Goyle sat across from him, staring rather blankly at a space above Draco's head. His hands were on his knees, palms up. Crabbe had half-curled onto a duffle bag in the seat next to him, and was snoring wetly. Draco kicked his foot at intervals, just for the entertainment value of watching him half-wake, drool, cough, wince at the heat and curl up again. Draco was hot and bored.

Finally, he rose, rousing Pansy from her absent reading and Goyle from his vacant staring. "I'm going to walk about a bit. I can't take this heat anymore." Pansy nodded lazily, but didn't move.

"Let us know if you find somewhere cooler. I expect you won't, though." She moved into Draco's seat, which was out of the direct spears of light that were poking through the shade against the window. "Ugh," she said, sinking into the seat. "Prewarmed." Draco smirked and opened the door.

Pansy was right. It was no cooler in the small hallway, but walking through it made him feel as if there was a breeze. He pushed damp hair off his forehead and fanned the newer air against his stomach with his shirt.

He occupied himself with a running internal commentary about the returning students he saw from compartment to compartment. Oh look. Little Sissy McKracken has sprouted breasts over the summer. Goody for her. Colin Creevey looks to have found himself a girlfriend…yuck, why do they want to do that in this heat? Libby Green looks as cross as ever, pompous thing. I hope she's gotten over me by now. I couldn't bear another minute of her moaning and sighing. Oh, Patty Prentice. Still a beanpole. She could pass through a harp and not make a sound. And, of course, Harry Potter with his little friends. How very nice. He peered into the compartment, seeing Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Neville chatting amiably and sharing a package of Icy Delights™ candies. He watched as Harry smiled broadly across the compartment at Hermione, and brushed his own sweat-damp hair off his forehead, revealing, again, that famous scar. Draco growled a little. Smarmy bastard. He pushed the door open.

"Enjoying the heat, little ones?" He said. He watched their happy faces turn sour.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione spat out.

"Oh, nothing you can give me, mudblood. I take it we all had a wonderful summer with our muggle friends and family?" Draco felt cooler already. There was something infinitely comforting about making these little jabs. He smiled thinly, watching Ron's face turn red and his lips curling.

"Ron, it's not worth it." Hermione noted easily. "It's best to just ignore the words of the ignorant." She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and sat up jauntily. "I read an interesting book about bloodlines this summer, Malfoy. Perhaps you might be interested to learn about some of the rather colourful squib Malfoys in the nineteenth century, who–"

"Nice try, Granger. No relation." He flashed her a wicked smirk.

"I'm sure." She said coldly. Point to Granger, Malfoy thought. Not half bad, either. Best work on better mudblood insults if she's going to go researching for comebacks.

"Malfoy." Until this point, Potter had been keeping well away from this exchange. He had sat with his head pressed against the window, watching, looking unimpressed. Seeing Ron's face getting increasingly red, Harry rose from his seat. "What are you doing in here?" Draco noted appraisingly that Harry seemed to have had a good summer; he was taller, thicker around the chest, and nut-brown from the sun, freckles dotting his cheeks and nose under his glasses. For a moment he considered, seeing Harry's sweat-damp bare arms draped casually across his chest, whether he would be bested by Harry in a fight, if taken by surprise. The nasty look Potter shot him was familiar and almost welcome, in a strange kind of way. Ah, another wonderful year at Hogwarts.

"Oh, just looking for some entertainment, Potter. That's what you celebrities are for." He looked over at Longbottom, who was looking nervously at his fingernails his toes pointing slightly inward. "Ready to fail potions again this year, chubby?" He snickered, watched Longbottom blush crimson. Draco pulled on his shirt and fanned at his stomach. "Weasel, are you dragon-spawn? I swear the colour of your hair makes it hotter in your compartment."

"Easily fixed." Harry took three long strides, brushed past him and pressing his hand against the open door, turning to look him straight in the face again. "How about you go find your fun elsewhere."

Draco hmmphed. "Well, then. Perhaps we'll continue this little conversation this evening at lakeside. I do hope you can swim, Potty." He stepped out of the compartment, it's door slamming shut behind him.

"Did he say swim?" He heard Ron say.

Inside Hogwarts wasn't much better. Even Professor McGonagall was drooping at the sorting ceremony. Though the feast afterwards was as glorious as it always was, few of the students had much of an appetite. There was something about the close, tight heat that made even Dumbledore push back his plate before he had finished.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Draco pulled off his socks and slipped his bare feet into an old pair of tennis shoes. He had a towel draped over one shoulder

"Are you really going to go?" Goyle asked him, looking vaguely nervous and entirely stunned.

"What does it look like? Of course I am." Goyle, Draco knew, was terrified of water. He might have been teased and shamed into going down to the lake if Crabbe had been coming as well, but as it was, with the other seventh years taking cold showers and opening up the latches along the ceiling to release the draught, Draco realized he had little chance of getting any company. There was, admittedly, a fairly constant stream of cool air drifting down from the now breathing and pockmarked ceiling; the polished wooden trap doors left strange shadows on the floor, their heavy golden hinges glinting in the candlelight. Being in the depths of Hogwarts, alongside miles of long stone passages, hidden doors, secret rooms filled with strange, indescribable objects that told the future, the past, read your mind, ate your tears, soothed a headache, granted you extra limbs, and so forth, where, it was rumoured, that strange creatures tread through the halls, swishing their forked/feathered/multicoloured tails and breathing fire, ice, or both, Draco didn't question the fact that cool air that radiated down from the ceiling, didn't wonder where it came from. Though mildly pleasant, it just highlighted the heat Draco felt hovering around his body, the lingering sweat that would not ever quite leave the back of his neck. Crabbe, sitting on the edge of his bed sorting through his trunk, was sweating like a cold bottle of butterbeer, but Draco knew enough not to try to bully him into going to the lake. No one at Hogwarts had swim trunks, and, with an undescended testicle and a six year history of being relentlessly teased, Crabbe was horrified enough at the concept of shared bathrooms let alone skinny dipping. Draco had heard the rumour of a few hours of cool bliss in the lake, and now, having seen a couple of Ravenclaws sneaking down the steps, he was determined to take advantage of it. He opened the door into the hall, turned back, and said, with a sarcastic smirk, "Sleep well." Crabbe grunted; Goyle looked slightly jealous.

By the time he arrived at the docks, the Ravenclaws were already in the water, splashing each other, hooting like barn owls, slapping their stomachs against the surface of the water as they dove under. Someone had brought a red beach ball, which Terry Boot and Kevin Entwhistle were batting back and forth with wet hands, skidding it across the surface of the water. It chose its own direction midway between Boot and Entwhistle, picking up speed and sliding headlong into Stephen Cornfoot's lower back with a slap. Cornfoot, thinking it had come from Huggins, prompted attacked, and Huggins reemerged from the water moments later, spluttering, "You oaf! What was that for?" There were three lanterns sitting on the dock, illuminating a pale circle of water. No one noted his approach, which Draco appreciated. There was a vaguely pinkish glowing line in a half moon in the water around the docks, a boundary line that glowed brighter as the boys swam closer to it. It marked off a good one hundred feet from end to end at the very least, Draco estimated. More than enough room. He pressed one heel into the side of his foot and pulled off a tennis shoe has he heard whispers approaching. Justin Finch-Fletchley and his buddies were giggling madly, towels wrapped around their heads like idiots. Draco dragged his shirt off and dropped his pants, balling them up loosely beside his shoes, and walked leisurely into the water alongside the dock on the opposite side, away from the noisy Ravenclaws and the approaching Hufflepuffs.

The water felt like heaven against his skin. He felt his eyelids drooping from the pleasure of it. It lapped coolly at him as he moved deeper into the water, his bare feet sinking into sand, pebbles getting trapped between his toes, knocked lose by water, more sand, motion. But the time the water reached his chest he had begun to float rather than walk, with only a stray kick of his feet and the motion of his arms keeping him pressing forward in to a dark patch of water. The Hufflepuffs had brought lanterns as well, and now the edge of the docks were bright, glowing softly over the water, illuminating pale faces and dripping arms. Draco took a deep breath and dove under the water, feeling the cool fingers of water caress is hot scalp, pulling his hair off his face, teasing the back of his neck. He felt it pressing against his eyelids, sinking into his ears, cooling him from the inside out. He swam a distance underwater until he sensed that he would be out of the greenish halo of light. Breaking the surface, he treaded water in the dark, stretching his legs. With his arms moving back and forth under the surface, he made no sound at all.

Draco turned back toward the light and saw that the Gryffindors had arrived, Potter first, followed by Weasley, Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom, who was wheezing loudly. They ran down the short hill and halted at the shore, pulling their clothes off as fast as they could and laughing madly, shoving and elbowing each other, leaving an mess of discarded clothing on the sand. Howling like a pack of rabid dogs, they made a mad, naked dash down the dock and leapt off the edge, clutching their knees to their chests in mid-air, and landing in the water with a crash, splashing the others and causing a great ruckus of cheering and shouts of, "Potter won!" "Good on you, lad!" Longbottom, who had been too bashful to remove his underpants, still stood on the edge of the dock, afraid at the last moment, his toes gripping the wet wood, thoroughly soaked. "Come on in, Nev!" Potter shouted. Draco laughed quietly to himself, watching Longbottom walk self-consciously off the dock, hopping off at the shore, and walking into the water slowly, his hands clutched in front of his wet underpants the entire time.

The Gryffindors had brought lanterns with them as well, and there was by this time a rather large collection of them sitting on the edge of the dock. Draco swam further away from the crowd back towards the light, floating on his own, somersaulting under the water, pressing his hands against the sand, feeling the cool water sliding against his skin. He watched the others goofing around, laughing, jumping up and down, playing games. Some of them were moving steadily closer to him, a group kicking their legs against the surface and plowing through the water, running through other games, into each other, jumping up and dunking each other's heads under, laughing. Eyes open even underwater he could see them roughhousing, their legs moving in slow motion, breaking the surface in an explosion of bubbles and white rushing water, ripples undulating until they disappeared into darkness.

Draco stood by the dock, water just covering his navel at this depth, weeds caressing his calves. The moon was high in the sky now, large and bright and full. It made the wet skin of the boys glow silver, water sparkling as it dripped off their bodies. Weasley was tossing the ball to Terry Boot, who was promptly tackled in a great splash of tangled bodies. Potter was leaning back into the water, half-submerged, tracing lazy patterns just under the water, which rode up and down his chest rhythmically as he turned in slow circles, watching the ball pass from boy to boy. Draco saw the stark tan lines on Potter's arms, cutting sharply to a lighter tan on his upper arms and shoulders, a half moon of brown on the back of his neck. With his hair wet and plastered against his forehead, Draco couldn't see the scar anymore. Somehow he looked different this way.

Draco dunked his head and rose from the water again, pressing his hair back off his face, getting one last cool touch of the lake against his head when he saw Potter looking at him. They studied each other for a moment, all silver and shadow black, glistening wetly in the light, barely recognizable. The beach ball, heading for Thomas but finding a distracted target more interesting, hit Harry in the face with a wet slap, and he turned, spluttered, and pounced on Neville, who had thrown it. Draco laughed under his breath and walked slowly to shore, dragging his feet against the pull of the water. The sand stuck to his feet, but he didn't care. His skin felt cold in the night air and he relished it. He grabbed his towel and dried himself off. His tennis shoes felt uncomfortably dry against his feet, the sand grinding against his damp skin. The pink boundary was still firmly in place around their pocket of water, and the other boys weren't close to leaving. He caught sight of two dancing feet in the air, cut off at the knees by black water, steady momentarily and then tipping sideways, replaced by splash and a white torso and a head shaking drops like a dog coming in from the rain. He laughed. Potter.

Draco gathered his things, towel wrapped across his hips, and headed back to the school.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
—T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

That night Draco dreamed. Doubtless he usually dreamed, but because he so rarely remembered dreams, he imagined that he didn't. But that night he dreamed of water, a tangle of bodies, light streaming down through the depths, clear to the bottom. He dreamed of sand, of his own arms, veined by strange shadows, light and dark with the motion above him. In the dream he lay on the bottom of the lake. He did not need to breathe. He could feel sun-warm sand beneath his back as if he were laying on the beach, as if at the bottom of the lake there were no water at all. Above him the boys swam unaware, a subtle dance along the surface, legs moving slowly, shouts indiscernible, echoing wetly down. The boys wove around each other, through each other. Their feet kicked down and Draco felt that if he could move, he could almost reach out and touch them, cradle their heels in the palm of his hand. He couldn't move, and he knew this without trying. It did not frighten him.

In the dream he watched the boys collapsing into water, a white rush plunging down with them, droplets hitting the surface and rippling outwards in a wavering pattern, but no one touched him, back pressed against the sand, looking up. He could feel the water against his skin, the warm progress of it from his knees, up across his thighs, dissipating into nothing as it brushed across his abdomen, whispered delicately against his face. He shifted slightly like a plant in the depths, undulating softly with their motion, the ripples of water caressing him as if it were their hands. With each flip, each kick, he felt the water move across him, shifting him back and then forward, back, and then forward in the water. He could smell them on the deep underwater waves they pressed toward him as it smoothed across his body like the warmth of the sun. He watched their faces as they somersaulted, eyes squeezed shut, smiling, bubbles streaming from their noses.

One of the boys dove down, pushing the water behind him with open hands with each stroke, pulling himself downward. He kicked and pushed his body toward the sand, reaching the bottom and grabbing handfuls of bluish-green plants. In his hands, the plants were flowers, white petals breaking off and floating away. He pressed his hands into the sand on either side of Draco's head and looked down at him, his feet up in the air, barely visible. He swayed from side to side, his body reflecting the ripples on the surface, his body reflecting the motion of his own feet. He looked at Draco, seeing him and not seeing him. The boy smiled, and Draco knew who he was, for an instant, at then didn't know again. An instant of familiarity that made him feel terrified, and then disappeared.

When the boy turned his head, and then removed his hands, Draco could smell him in the water, could taste him, could feel that undulating wave from his retreating shoulder against his lips as though it were sun-warm skin. The boy turned and rose up through the water, his eyes blinking, sending more ripples of water down to Draco, to touch him, fingers of water dragging slowly over him. He broke the surface and disappeared. At that same moment, Draco realized that he was under water, and that couldn't breathe. He gasped, and woke.

It was raining that morning. Draco could hear the water sluicing down the stone walls outside the window. The gray light was inching its way into their dorm, the heat wave broken. Draco remembered suddenly that he had left his shirt by the lake.

2  Cave Dwellers

And even though the moment passed me by
I still can't turn away
— Goo Goo Dolls, Name

The Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs were in the herbology garden, which Draco could see quite clearly outside the window of the history classroom. The lot of them were down on their knees with their hands in the dirt. How poetic. Draco ran the soft edge of his quill against his bottom lip, looking outside, tuning out the droning professor Binns. Longbottom, Potter, weasel, Granger, Finnigan, all in a tidy little row, their robes discarded for the moment in a pile on a bench. Potter and weasel were nattering to each other, laughing. They wore no gloves, just pressed their bare hands into the tilled earth, piles of new plants of all varieties scattered around them. The mudblood was shooting them disapproving looks. Weasel leaned toward Potter and whispered something into his ear; Potter crouched still for a moment, listening, and then pushed Weasel's shoulder, and laughed loudly, the echo of it audible in the history classroom.

Draco suddenly felt the tip of a wand pressed against the back of his neck, drawn up to under his clipped hair, then felt it scrape down to the edge of his robe on the smooth of his back. It began to trail back up his neck again when he reached around and grabbed it without turning, finding no real resistance.

He whispered, "Can I help you, Parkinson?"

"Pay attention, Draco darling. Neither of us are taking notes." She hissed.

"I don't care."

He held Pansy's wand in front of him, balanced between his index fingers, tip to handle. Her wand was surprisingly delicate for someone so indelicate, small and light for someone with such heavy hands. It was nearly white, her wand, such a pale wood. His own wand was so dark it was very nearly black, with a slight wave to it, thicker and heavier than Pansy's. He felt as through he could so easily snap it in two. He held it in his palms, handle and tip, and put a small amount of pressure on either side. It bent slightly. Draco cocked an eyebrow. Light, but stronger than you'd think. He wondered idly what was inside it as he dropped it on the window ledge beside him and leaned back, looking back out the open window again.

The Gryffindors had hardly moved. Draco watched as Potter lifted his dirty hand to his face and shove his glasses up his nose, leaving a brown smudge on his cheek. He was smiling, still talking to the others, making the mudblood laugh. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked behind him at the others, planting just as he was, elbow deep in earth. He looked as though he might be speaking to someone just behind him. Draco watched as weasel dropped his trowel and stared at the ground, eyes so wide that even at this distance Draco thought he could see the whites of them. He grabbed Potter's arm, pointing at the ground, his mouth gaping open.

It was just then that Longbottom started to scream. The sound of it echoed through the courtyard and up into the classroom. It made the Slytherins and Ravenclaws turn and look out the windows, though Professor Binns didn't seem to notice. Draco learned closer to the window. Neville, white and frozen in place, was pointing into the dirt, still on his knees. Professor Sprout had turned from the furthest row away, getting to her feet to bolt toward the raving crybaby.

Potter (always the hero) was suddenly standing, pulling Longbottom to his feet and shielding him with his own body from whatever was frightening him, pressing him back. Draco could see Longbottom's terrified fingers clutched around Potter's right bicep, his forehead pressed against Potter's dirt-smudged shoulder. Though the herbology garden wasn't far, Draco couldn't hear very much, but he could see that Potter shouted something, the palm of his hand open and facing the ground. Just then a monstrously large snake, all reds and blacks, slithered off and disappeared toward the forest, waving the tip of its bright red tail angrily as it went. Potter exhaled, stuck out his tongue in an expression of relief, surprise, and outright silliness, and turned, his back toward Draco now. He stood there a moment, and Draco stared at the white T-shirt that clung to his back, his tan forearms, his dark, messy hair cut short and revealing his sun-browned neck. He leaned forward then, reaching out, and Draco saw Neville's fat little arms wrap around Potter's back. Isn't that touching. Draco thought, smirking. He realized, without being prepared to think about it, that he felt jealous. He noted it and decided to think more about it later.

Parvati Patil slumped in her chair. Double potions was always such a chore. To be stuck down here in the dungeons when was such a nice day outside, she felt it was almost sacrilege. How the Slytherins managed to live down here was beyond her. She had no friends who were Slytherins, and had never seen the Slytherin dorms. But she imagined that their common room was filled to stalactites reaching down from a dark and cobwebbed ceiling coated with mineral deposits, where the floor eased into the walls slowly, no warm wood or soft rugs. If they had furniture, it would be hard and straight-backed, medieval and ornate, the complete antithesis of comfortable. There would be no cushions, no blankets or tapestries. They would sit, looking lazy as their posture was uncompromised in these harsh perches, arms hanging askew off the thin, bare armrests. She always pictured caves when she was down in the depths of Hogwarts; caves and the dripping sounds that accompanied them, strange and inhuman scratching and echoes. When she pictured the Slytherin common room, she imagined that the students had to bring lanterns in with them, with hard hats recommended.

Millicent Bulstrode sat down heavily next to her, looking positively morose. Snape had paired them again specifically, which Parvati was certain he did just to see what kinds of tensions he could encourage. Parvati didn't care. Class was class, and she wasn't prepared to make a big deal out of it. Besides, it serves him right to have to deal with the results. After a moment, Millicent buried her head in her arms on the desk and shook.

Parvati blinked. Well. She shuffled her chair forward to put a hand on the girl's back.

"Millicent, are you okay? Is there…is there anything I can do to help?" She whispered, noting Snape's narrowing eyes pointed in her direction. Millicent said nothing, but snuffled wetly and didn't move. Parvati reached into her pocket and pulled out a clean hanky, and pressed it into Millicent's hand. Snape was speaking, but she had tuned him out. Millicent's uneven breathing, and her pathetic pose, had completely disarmed and distracted her. Millicent was a proud girl, proud and haughty and rather vain; would would throw her down to this state? What could have undone her so completely? After a few moments Millicent shifted and pressed the hankerchief to her nose. She sighed brokenly. Suddenly chairs everywhere were shifting back from desks, and students were standing up and moving toward the back of the class.

Parvati sighed, patting Millicent's back. "I'll go get the ingredients, you just…um, just stay here and relax." How very odd. Millicent was awfully dramatic at the best of times, but she really wasn't the type to lose it in class. Particularly not in Potions. Snape wasn't well known for his warmth, and he hadn't shown himself to be any more understanding with his own house, as far as she could tell.

She rose and walked over to the supplies cupboard. Hermione had been paired with Pansy, and the two were eyeing each other distrustfully. Neville, who still looked distinctly white from this morning's escapade with the snake, had been paired with Goyle, which, Parvati reasoned, could have been worse. Goyle was a bully, but on his own he was fairly harmless and mostly left well enough alone unless he was goaded by his friends. Today of all days Neville needed a break.

Parvati had been glad that it had been Neville had found the thing in his plot of earth and not her; she wasn't terribly keen on reptiles in general, and snakes in particular. Though, she reasoned, there was nothing wrong with being rescued by Harry. He was such a sweet boy, so honourable and kind and adorable in a rumpled and nonchalant kind of way, it was hard not think a little wistfully about screaming like a helpless maiden and having him swoop in and envelop her in his arms while banishing the beast. And the requisite 'oh thank you my hero' smooch. Mmmmm indeed. Now, Parvati was not officially one of the ranks of girls with crushes on the Boy Who Lived, but she wasn't opposed to the idea and finding herself in those well-tanned and Quidditch-muscular arms. In fact, she was hard pressed to think of any girl who would be opposed to the idea. She had even seen Hermione blush a little when Harry kissed her on the cheek after they won the house cup last year.

Harry, of course, had been paired with Malfoy for this little potions exercise. It was positively sick, really. Parvati was fairly certain that Snape only did Slytherin-Gryffindor pairings just to see how sparks would fly when he sat those two next to each other. And fly they did. Even now she could hear them arguing about which root to chose from the tray. She winced. It did not bode well.

Parvati picked up the various items she and Millicent would need according to the list on the blackboard, nodding sympathetically to her fellow Gryffindors. Hermione cornered her by the concentrates rack and grabbed her arm.

"What's up with Millicent?" She whispered. She looked over, seeing Millicent sitting up and wiping her face with the hankerchief.

"I have no idea." She answered, and sighed. "What potion are we making again? I wasn't paying attention."

"It's a lingua potion, lets you understand other languages." Hermione measured out a cream-coloured power into two jars, one for herself and one for Parvati. She felt a stab of fear.

"Do you think he's going to make me speak Hindi to test it?"

"Oh. Maybe, unless he gets us to read some Greek or something. It would be more interesting to hear you speak Hindi." Hermione pulled her hair back and knotted it hastily. "Just leave off the insults, in case Snape has tested the potion on himself before we started class."

Parvati giggled. "Right. Insults are about all I know, along with 'Mum, can I have a cookie.'" They laughed. "Good luck with Pansy." Hermione made a face, and they gathered their things and wandered back to their desks.

She returned to Millicent with her arms full of roots, bottles, herbs, and one greasy half of a giant slug. They avoided mentioning her tears and split up the slicing. The cauldron between them bubbled. By the time they had added the ingredients to the potion and were stirring it cautiously, she looked almost back to normal, except for being still a little puffy around the eyes.

"What does this potion do?" Millicent asked.

"It lets you understand other languages." Parvati was glad she had bothered to ask that question herself.

"Hmm. Well, that will be interesting. You speak Indian, don't you?"

Parvati rolled her eyes. "Hindi, yes. I do. A little."

"How long does it last?"

Parvati hmmed. "I'm not sure."

It was just then that the fight broke out a few tables over. Parvati did really need to look over to know who it was, but look over she did. Harry was flat on his back, Malfoy's robes at the shoulders balled in his fists, and Malfoy was crouched on top of him, two hands wrapped around his throat. Millicent whimpered.

It was then that Parvati understood it. It was Malfoy. Now that she thought of it, she had seen Millicent shooting little looks at him, giggling like a twelve-year-old, gossiping happily with her friends. She had been positively bouncy a few days ago, nearly dancing around behind him. He, however, looked cool and collected, as ever. Now, seeing Malfoy rolling around on the floor with Harry, shouting incoherently, knocking cauldrons over and causing Snape to turn positively pink with anger as he shouted at them and tried to haul them apart, which, of course, had been easier when they were eleven then it was now, it all fell into place. Harry had pulled away Malfoy's robes just enough that Parvati caught sight of a string of bruises along his collarbone. No question. Those were hickeys. Parvati glanced over at Millicent again.

Had she had a fling with Malfoy? Well, it was hardly unheard of. She just wouldn't have paired him with her of all people. So. Millicent managed to get a sniff of Malfoy after hours and thought maybe there might be more, thought she might get to don the Malfoy cloak in the evenings, and has just been informed that she was sadly mistaken? Parvati sighed. Stupid as that idea was on Millicent's part, she had a hard time not feeling sympathetic. It hadn't been that long ago since Michael Corner had bashfully broken it off with her, after a whole summer of owling back and forth. Little Hufflepuff worm. So she was, if anything, sympathetic. There's no rhyme or reason in love, is there.

"What idiots," she noted to Millicent. "Don't mind them. Let's finish the potion, shall we?"

Millicent nodded, wiping her eyes. Her hands trembled a little on the ladle as she stirred.

"Boys. Can't live with them, can't kill them." She ticked off the ingredients in her notebook and checked the colour of the potion.

Millicent snorted. "Speak for yourself. I have no problem with justifiable homicide." Parvati laughed, and, after a moment, so did Millicent.

Harry felt very, very stupid. He shouldn't have attacked Malfoy in potions. Not that Malfoy didn't deserve it, of course. He had deserved it. He had deserved a hell of a lot worse, as far as Harry was concerned. That crack about his mother had been one thing; he was so used to Malfoy's insults that that one in particular just made him grunt. But the ensuing commentary about Neville's parents had sent him over the edge. In retrospect Harry knew that Malfoy had been aiming for a fight, and wanted Harry to land the first punch. Perhaps he understood that at the time, too. Malfoy seemed to know exactly what would get a rise out of him, and it was profoundly annoying.

So he did realize that he shouldn't have done it. But he certainly didn't deserve this, as far as he was concerned. The trophy room. No one had touched it in months, maybe even years, and everything, every little dent, every curl and decorative little flower in those Quidditch trophies and Best Student award and History Student of the Year, Highest Arithmancy mark, the Divination award, Student Most Likely to Become an Auror plaques and so forth all needed dusting and polishing. So he sat there, polish under his fingernails, a cloth shoved into his palm, scrubbing. And Malfoy wasn't much help. He just sat on a desk on the other side of the room, glaring, a trophy between his legs. He scowled.

"This is your fault, you know."

"Mmm."

"You started it. You could have just insulted me back. You didn't have to attack me."

"Sure."

"You're so easy to goad, you know that? You really need to learn some self-control."

"Less talk. More polishing."

Malfoy grunted. They polished in silence. After about forty-five minutes, Malfoy looked up again.

"Potter."

"What now?"

"Your father."

Harry sighed. "Don't start."

"No, your father, he won this. The–" He held the plaque in the light and read, "Transfiguration award, 1978." Harry dropped the Most Improved Student of the Year trophy and walked across the room perched himself on the desk next to Malfoy. He followed Malfoy's polish-stained finger to the inscription: "James Potter, 1978." Malfoy had tilted it into the light. Harry stared at it. He wasn't sure why these things hit him the way they did; it was only an inscription, it was only a piece of metal shoved onto a piece of wood. It wasn't as though his father were sitting there, smiling at him, a seventeen year old like himself, certain about his future, happy, maybe even in love. He wanted to just reach over and touch him, shake him, scream, "Don't go" until he understood. The plaque was still sitting on Malfoy's thigh, he had turned it in his hands so that it faced both of them. Harry leaned in a little closer to get a better look, reached out and ran the tips of his fingers over his father's name. He sighed. It wasn't, after all, his father. But something that his father had touched, something that he would have been proud of. Harry felt a tug on his heart. His hand dropped to the edge of the plaque as he thought of it. James Potter, hero, betrayed to his death, had been good at transfiguration. He must have gotten the highest grade in his year. Why did no one tell him these things? Did they not think he would want to know? Had they forgotten? He sighed and slipped off the table. He stood for a moment, still looking at the plaque.

"Hmmm." He grunted. "Yeah. Thanks." Malfoy nodded, and put the plaque back in its case.

As Harry fell asleep that night, he was thinking about his mother, sitting in the great hall, applauding for James Potter, Quidditch star, with the best grade in Transfiguration. As Draco fell asleep, he thought about Harry's breath on his neck, those fingers accidentally brushing against his thigh, and the smell of polish.

3 Riddle Me This

How far apart are we supposed to stand
Before we're too uncomfortable to breathe?
–John Voorhees Riddle Me This

Draco sat in an armchair next to the fire in the Slytherin common room and stared at the now folded and creased sheet of parchment on his lap. He wasn't sure who was responsible for this one, and he didn't really care. A couple of days before, there had been a stack of sheets outside the Transfiguration classroom, and almost everyone took one. What was written on it was a list of riddles. (You heard me before, Yet you hear me again. Then I die, 'Til you call me again. What am I?) There was nothing particularly miraculous about this exercise; when you wrote the correct answer beside the riddle, it made a rather satisfying pop sound. When the sheets had first appeared, the Transfiguration classroom had sounded like a pan of popping corn; everyone was scrawling down the most obvious answers. Even Goyle got the first couple (Late afternoons I often bathe. I'll soak in water piping hot. My essence goes through my transparent clothes. Used up am I; I've gone to pot. What am I?) Draco was fairly certain that some of the Ravenclaws had gotten about halfway through the list before class started, and then forgot about them. By dinner time, only a handful of students were still clutching at their popping parchments, shoving them into the faces of others, reciting the riddles aloud. (Only one color, but not one size, Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain, Doing no harm, and feeling no pain. What is it?) There was some random popping during dinner, followed by laughter, but after that the parchments fell quiet. Perhaps there just wasn't enough gain. Perhaps it was just too silly. (Until I am measured, I am not known. Yet how you miss me, When I have flown. What am I?)

Draco looked around. Crabbe was asleep on the chesterfield; Millicent, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table doing her Divination homework, was still avoiding his eyes. Baddock and Pritchard were giggling over some photographs in the corner (more from Sexy Witch of the Week, no doubt), and Pansy, sitting sideways in the armchair opposite him, legs draped over the arm, her back to the fire, was whispering, touching her wand to her fingernails, turning them glossy red, pink, black, purple, long and then short again.

"Are you still playing with that? How boring." She sighed, and dropped her wand on the table, upsetting Millicent's bowl of scrying water.

Draco ignored her. Dies half its life, lives the rest. Dances without music, breathes without breath. What is it? Dies half its life. Dies half its life. Everythingi dies half its life. Draco sighed. He was certain that he was the only person left at Hogwarts determined to finish the parchment. There were forty riddles on it; he was almost finished. He was just a handful short now. He pulled his quill out of his pocket and wrote 'tree' nex t to the riddle. The parchment popped, and Pansy started, pushed her hair out of her face, and then shot him a 'damn you!' look. He smirked at her, and looked down at his parchment again. When I am filled I can point the way. When I am empty, nothing moves me. I have two skins - One without and one within. What am I? He tucked his quill between his teeth and stood, walking from one end of the room to another. No one, of course, considered nicking his chair. As he was pacing his third lap,(I have two skins, I have two skins) Goyle stumbled in from the stairwell to the dorms above. He scanned the room, noted Millicent, scribbling so hard into her notebook that it the page would transfer fully onto the page below. The motion of her arm was causing her scrying water to lap against the edge of the bowl, a slow trickle making its way to the redwood surface of the coffee table.

"Uh…" he stammered, collapsing onto his knees beside her and sitting back on his heels. "Millicent, can you give me a hand with this?" He held a scroll, raggedy on the edge, in his hands.

Millicent looked up. She turned toward Draco for a moment, shot him a nasty look, and then looked back at Goyle, smiled, and purred, "Sure Greg. What's the problem?" Watching Goyle's thick hands, and Millicent's smaller ones, tracing over the words he had scrawled on the scroll, it struck him. He pulled the quill from his mouth and pressed the parchment down against his thigh, scrawling 'glove' beside the riddle. Pop. Goyle looked up.

"Is he still working on that thing?" He asked quietly.

"Yes, the boring, annoying bastard." Millicent hissed. "Now," she said loudly and over-sweetly, "I think we need to fix up your tenses, Greg. Professor Binns is particular about that sort of thing."

I can sizzle like bacon, I am made with an egg, I have plenty of backbone, but lack a good leg, I peel layers like onions, but still remain whole, I can be long, like a flagpole, yet fit in a hole.What am I? Draco folded the parchment and slipped it and the quill into his pocket. He wanted to walk, breathe, be alone for a while. These people, they made him feel small and enclosed. It wasn't that he didn't like them. He did, they were here friends. When he needed something, he knew they would do what they could. When his father threw elaborate Christmas parties, they always brought nice gifts. But he knew they would never really understand him. I am made with an egg. They were good allies, certainly, and even good associates, but they didn't really think the way he did. What they had in common was far, far outweighed by their differences, and there had been more than one occasion when Draco had wished he had been sorted into Ravenclaw just so that he might have someone to talk to.

Slytherins were a different breed. Unlike, say, the Hufflepuffs, who were all uniformly snuggly and faithful, ambition as a major characteristic allowed for a shockingly diverse population. Millicent, for instance, seemed to have as a prime ambition a marriage to a wealthy, powerful, and good looking fellow, one who would impress her parents, her neighbours, her older sister, and, of course, the press. Namely, Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, aimed to be the most feared people in any room. Those people who you knew, given the chance, would smash your skull to bits. There is a certain power in fear after all, physical fear. Draco also knew that Crabbe has a serious longing to increase his family's fortunes. He wanted to have enough money to afford a trophy wife of his own, and Draco had seen him on more than one occaison eyeing some of those delicate little Ravenclaw girls. Draco would never understand Crabbe's penchant for tiny women, women whose waists he could encircle between his large and powerful hands, women whose arms would snap he if weren't careful with them. Draco found it bizarre. For many of the Slytherins, ambition meant creating a world for yourself where you could, in a moment, break anyone who's important to you. For Crabbe and Goyle, that meant a very literal break, one with the crunching sound effects and ooze of blood. Point made and written on her bones. There was a certain logic to it. I have plenty of backbone, but lack a good leg. Draco knew other ways to break people. They were in entirely different worlds, really. His closest friend, the one whom he expected understood him best, was Pansy, and this was mostly because she was the only person he could think of who wasn't afraid of him. There was, he considered, a level of intimacy in that. He pulled his robes off the back of his chair.

"Parkinson." He said. She looked up. "If anyone asks, I went up to bed early." She nodded, and yawned.

"Not a bad idea. I might join you." She smiled, and stuck out her tongue. He wondered how he could summarize Pansy's ambition. Or his own, for that matter. I peel layers like onions, but still remain whole. Some of them were less easy to categorize. They had ambitions that shifted with the day, with their moods, with their surroundings, their circumstances. They wanted everything. They wanted the best chairs, the best grades, the most adoring fans. They wanted to be entertained, to be respected, obeyed. They wanted to be right. They want to be noticed. They, too, wanted the ability to break people. Yes, Pansy certainly wanted to break Draco, and he knew it. He also knew that she couldn't do it, she didn't have the skills, the stamina, the power. Few people did anymore. But what he knew, what no one else could or should know, is that Draco greatly desired the company of someone he couldn't break, someone strong enough to take him on, someone who, when confronted with Draco's temper, his violence, his power to dismember syllable by syllable, would lay a hand against his throat, raise his chin and say, "Try me." But right now, in this space and time, Draco prime ambition was to finish this parchment of riddles.

As he walked out into the corridor and headed up the stairs toward the front hall, he pulled out the parchment. He read over the riddle again, and realized this was the most obvious of them all. Pulling out his quill, he scrawled 'snake' next to it. Pop.

There was a quiet little spot, a large window with a deep alcove on a landing along a back stair, where Draco would to open a window, breathe real air, look out over the night. This landing was nearly at the top of Hogwarts, in one of the taller towers. Once in a while Draco got it into his head that what he wanted, what he needed, was to perch up high, to look down on the place, to share a bird's eye view of the gardens, the Quidditch field, the lake, the fields, the rough edge of the Forbidden Forest snaking away into the night. He took a deep breath. Millicent's little antics in the common room were getting profoundly annoying. Had he known how childish she was going to be about this, he wouldn't have bothered with her. But he had been lonely, bone-chillingly so, and she had offered herself up so desperately. His judgment, clearly, had been impaired.

Walk on them living, they don't even mumble. Walk on them dead, they mutter and grumble. What are they? At least his trysts with Ravenclaws, and the occasional Gryffindor, tended not to interfere with his day to day activities. He simply wouldn't stand for that. If there was anything he truly hated, it was having his private life interfere in his regular affairs. He didn't swear anyone to secrecy, but they generally knew better than to blab about what had gone between them. Even when he had them splayed out naked before him, his name on their lips, his fingers embedded in their flesh, pressed inside them, wrapped around them and grasping, tugging them gently (or not to gently) into and then out of his own private universe, they knew well enough not to scream so loudly. They knew enough to feel certain that their names were not etched into his skull anymore than the names of the ones who came before them, nor the ones who would inevitably come after them. They knew it sometimes without really noticing it, without thinking about it. He was too good for them, and this fact was mutually acknowledged. Millicent, however, was confused. She had forgotten. She had delusions of grandeur, she had, after all, a tremendous ambition.

Draco had overheard a weepy conversation between her and Pansy afterward. He had been walking past a half-closed door and hear the barely-stifled whimper.

"Well," he heard Pansy sigh. "You should have known better. You know how he is." Millicent simply snuffled wetly. "What were you thinking? Did you really thing you would catch him like that? Draco is not about to be caught, Mil, and you of all people know it."

"But–"

"No buts. What are you, a Hufflepuff? For God's sake. Pull yourself together, we're going to be late for Potions. Be glad you got what you did from him, Pansy. There aren't that many girls in this place Draco is even willing to touch, you know." Draco noted the slight but still detectable emphasis on girls and snickered. Pansy knew more than she let on, clearly. They mutter and grumble. He scratched 'leaves' next to the riddle. Pop.

He was down to one. One last riddle. He had read it two days ago when he'd first laid hands on the parchment, and it boggled him no less now. It was one of the very first, as if it were one the easier ones. He puzzled over it. It was far too vague for his taste. There were some that were tricky, but this one was beyond him.

I am just two and two. I am hot. I am cold.
I am the parent of numbers that cannot be told.
I am a gift beyond measure, a matter of course.
I am given with pleasure, or taken by force.
What am I?

He was stumped. A digit, a sensation, something that spawns others. A gift, something tangible? Intangible. A matter of course? What on earth does that mean? Given with pleasure. Taken by force. A body? Is this sexual? Would McGonagall have looked so self-satisfied about us poring over these things if the last riddle was sexual in nature? I think not. He rubbed the quill along his eyebrows. I just don't know. He scratched the word 'innocence' next to the riddle. The ink glowed for a moment, and then disappeared. He sighed.

Pansy sighed. She was stuck in the rather uncomfortable position of sitting between Draco and Millicent. Again. When would this end? Millicent could be such an idiot at times. Big stupid lug of an idiot. This is what comes of having a relatively decent home life, perhaps. She actually things that physical affection means something. Pansy felt like her own mother, sitting Millicent down, explaining what sex is about, and how boys will take whatever they can get, however they can get it. Of all people. Couldn't she have had some fumblings in the front closet in the common room with Goyle, or something? Someone dull and slow who isn't sought after by most of the student body?

Draco looked exhausted. She wondered when he had come in last night. She knew that Millicent was getting up his nose, but it was that damn parchment that was keeping him up. He just would not let it go. Pansy was not surprised by this, to be honest. Draco was obsessive, he always had been. Once he gets a thought in his head about what he wants, there is no stopping him. He will steal, slash, pillage, cheat, scheme and plunder to get what he wants. Then, when he gets it, he will be profoundly disappointed and throw it away, of course. But that's neither here nor there.

What Pansy hesitated to mention to Millicent was that she was not the only one who had been confused by Draco's attentions. She was just the most obvious about her feelings. Pansy would never admit that she was in love with Draco. Never. Not on pain of death. She wasn't stupid, after all. She could just imagine his reaction to a profession like that. Actually, no, she couldn't, because she wouldn't imagine it. She would not even let herself think about it. She realized that at some point his father would get tired of Draco's dalliances on both sides for the gender boundary and insist that Draco marry a nice, respectable girl. She was also profoundly aware of the fact that so far she was the most likely candidate.

They had a strange relationship. Their desperate groping in empty classrooms after hours were in the fairly distant past now, and since she had never pressured him over it, he had treated her no differently before, during, and after their escapades had ended. She had never shown the slightest bit of distress over Draco's further romps, not even the morning after she had caught sight of Draco and Blaize Zabini in a rather compromising position behind the coat rack in the mudroom. She had been rewarded for her indifference to Draco's sexual activity by remaining within his inner circle, which she valued. But the truth was that it had torn her apart. Unlike Millicent, she knew better than to make a public display. She had wandered off to a disused room at a far end of the school, one coated with dust and surrounded by portraits who had never seen her before, shut the door, sat down, and burst into tears. She screamed, she wailed, she stamped her feet and threw things. She was in love with him, that was that. She felt as if their fates had been tied together when her umbilical cord was cut, and each time she discovered another dalliance it tugged on her, her stomach pulled out of alignment, reminding her. She couldn't explain this love business. It hadn't been intentional, and it had disarmed her. But there it was. And, like Millicent, she would take him any way she could.

Millicent was getting a little better. At least she wasn't flouncing quite as much. Draco was oblivious, but studiously so. He was staring absently across the room, drinking his juice, nibbling at a piece of toast. He put the glass down sharply, spilling a bit of juice on the table. He held still a moment, thinking, and then pulled out that damn parchment again. He scribbled something, and Pansy waited for the pop. No pop. Draco sighed.

"Stuck?" She asked. He twisted his lips a bit, and then nodded. "Let's see." Draco allowed her to tug his hand over so she could see what was written on the parchment. She was keenly aware of his skin, cool and warm at the same time, soft like a girl's. He smelled like something gentle, something clean and buttery and spicy and cool. She felt something tug at her stomach again.

" I am just two and two. I am hot. I am cold. I am the parent of numbers that cannot be told.I am a gift beyond measure, a matter of course. I am given with pleasure, or taken by force. What am I? Hmm. Well." Riddles weren't really Pansy's forte at the best of times. "Could it be love?"

"Hmm." Draco drew out his quill and wrote love beside it. The link glowed a little, and then disappeared.

"I take it that's a bad sign."

"Yes. It means it's the wrong answer. It would have–"

"Popped. Right. Hmmm. Well, let's see…what else. Did you try…" Pansy was at a loss. She had no idea, and she didn't really want to make room in her brain to bother with trying. She was already bored. "I don't know." She picked up her juice.

Draco sighed and tucked the parchment back in his pocket. Pansy was still thinking about the way Draco smelled as they walked into double potions with the Gryffindors. Strangely, Potter was sitting by himself; his little friends were congregated at a different table, nattering as they always did. Potter was huddled over something in front of him, deep in concentration. His hand darted out and he wrote something quickly.

Suddenly the room was showered in light; a minor fireworks display. Pop pop pop BANG! Bright blues and reds and pinks and greens swirled around Potter's head. He was grinning like a madman. Draco had turned as well, staring at the little show of lights around Potter. Pansy shook her head. Aiming to get more attention, Potter? Lord. His red-headed sidekick came running up behind him.

"Harry! You did it, did you? Figured it out? What was it?"

Potter laughed. "It was so obvious, I can't believe I didn't see it sooner. It was 'kiss', Ron. Kiss!"

Pansy shook her head, about to make a nasty crack to Draco about attention-hogging Potter and his little red pet, but as she turned to look at him, he had a rather odd look on his face. It was shock, almost panic. It was as though he had never seen Potter before. As if he had just realized what that scar on his forehead meant, as if he had, until this moment, never really realized who he was. As if he had just seen him, all of a sudden, and it hit him like a slap in the face. He looked pale.

"Draco? Are you alright?" She put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice. He dragged his eyes away from Potter with great reluctance, and looked down at his own parchment. "Kiss." He said. He shook his head. "I can't believe it."

"What, that he got it? You know that nasty mudblood girl probably helped him. It was a stupid riddle anyway."

Draco looked at her sharply. "It's not that, it's…Oh, forget it." He shoved the parchment back in his pocket and buried his face in his hands for a moment. Pansy still had her hand on his shoulder. Something was dreadfully wrong. She looked over at Potter again. He looked gleeful. His friends were clapping him on the back. "That's some persistence, Harry!" they were saying. Draco was sinking lower into his seat. When he looked up again, Pansy felt her stomach tug sharply. The look on his face made her feel so jealous, and she couldn't explain it. She twirled her hair and sighed.

"God, I’m bored," she said.

You heard me before, Yet you hear me again. Then I die, 'Til you call me again. What am I? An echo!

Late afternoons I often bathe. I'll soak in water piping hot. My essence goes through my transparent clothes. Used up am I; I've gone to pot. What am I? A teabag!

Only one colour, but not one size, Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain, Doing no harm, and feeling no pain. What is it? A shadow!

Until I am measured, I am not known. Yet how you miss me, When I have flown. What am I? Time!

4 One of Us Falls

Oh, that I knew where I might find him,
That I might come even to his dwelling!
I would lay my case before him, and fill my mouth with arguments.
I would learn what he would answer me,
and understand what he would say to me.
Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power?
Job 23:3-6

They had learned to just accept that he was in a foul mood. Draco flew back and forth across the pitch, calling out the occasional not particularly helpful bit of advice to the chasers below him ("Hey! What are you playing, exploding snap, or Quidditch? Pay attention!" "God, is that best you can do? I could beat that with an elastic band and a toothpick!"), half-heartedly looking for the snitch, but mostly just being morose. He had been thinking altogether too much in the last few days. He felt collapsed upon himself; three walls still standing, and nothing but rubble inside. This is all Potter's fault.

It had hit him in potions, and had just not stopped hitting him. He had stared at that parchment, sitting in his chair by the fire, until even Pansy had given up on trying to distract him and gone up to bed. 'Kiss.' It wasn't that he was angry, that he was upset that Potter had beat him to finishing the riddles. It wasn't a contest, after all, and Draco wasn't interested in the silly thing because he wanted to be the only one to get them right. (One of us falls but never breaks. The other breaks but never falls. What are we?) He had done it because he had enjoyed it. And enjoying it had underscored for him, yet again, how very different he was from his Slytherin compatriots, how very unique he was among his peers; it had reminded him why he was lonely, why he always felt so broken.

There was a part of him the others could not reach, and would never reach. Not only because he was smarter than them, though he was certain that he was, but because there were things about him that would simply not interest them. For instance: Draco had already read this year's history textbook from cover to cover, and could discuss in some detail the period from the Black Death to the Salem witch trials. Over the summer he had found other, better books on the subject, some of them even written by muggles. He had, in fact, already done serious work on his final paper (about the very thin line between being accused of being a witch and being heralded a saint in the 1600s), which was not due for another eight months. While they all ritually complained about Arithmancy, he quite enjoyed it. He loved to knit numbers together and see how they could change the course of completely ordinary spells. In the last few years, he had been learning French, because when he was abroad one summer with his father, he had been ashamed to only speak one language. He had genuinely enjoyed the riddles; he loved the metaphors, he loved the inevitability of them. There was no contest. But why, of all people, did Potter have to be equally interested?

They call me a man, but I'll never have a wife. I was given a body, but not given life. They made me a mouth, but didn't give me breath. Water gives me life and sun brings me death. What am I? Potter had done the same thing; they had lingered over these same riddles, working them out, flipping them upside down and backwards, ignored their friends to concentrate on it. Draco could not help but wonder. What would it have been like, had Potter been a Slytherin, if they could have sit in front of the fire together, their feet sharing an ottoman, reading these riddles aloud, debating them, free-associating, scratching down answers, claiming victories where there were none. He would watch Potter shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and trace a long, slim finger along the page, reading aloud, "A wee wee man in a red coat. Staff in my hand, stone in my throat. What am I? Other than your uncle Brutus, of course." And Draco would laugh, kick his leg lightly, throw him a vicious smile and say, "I worked that one out while you were struggling with the last one." And Potter would roll his eyes, throw a cushion, threaten to fight him for it, if he wasn't prepared to be cooperative. And then Draco's mind drifted a little, and they were no longer in the Slytherin common room, but they were up in the seventh year dorm, curtains drawn, parchments discarded at the foot of Draco's bed, his tongue in Potter's mouth and his fingers dancing on the back of Potter's tanned thigh. Oh, this was where things got complicated. What force and strength cannot get through, I with a gentle touch can do. And many in the street would stand, were I not a friend at hand. What am I?

And so he had sat after hours, the fire burning lower, staring at the parchment and not seeing it, but seeing through it to what could have been, his eyes drooping shut with desire as he thought about where his roving hands would travel next along that hidden skin, and what it would sound like to hear Potter speak to him with that gruff voice that comes form being touched in all the right places, with the right hands, how he could play that body like an instrument and hear it sing to him. You can see me. You can feel me. If you touch me, you will die. What am I? He didn't finish it, he didn't hear the pops and bangs and see the sparkling bright colours dance around his head. He did not write that one last word on it, 'kiss'. He couldn't, not now. He threw the parchment in the fire and watched it burn green. It was profoundly unfair, he thought, and, all at once profoundly right, to discover that you are not only evenly matched with your archenemy, but that he might be the only one who can challenge you the way you want, no, the way you need to be challenged. That he is the only one you're not certain you can break. How can I not have seen this before? And what am I supposed to do, now that I have seen it?

He considered performing a memory charm on himself. Wasn't he better off not knowing this? Not knowing, with that sick kind of finality, that the person best suited for him was someone he hated, someone who hated him in return? How he would have to grovel and beg, how he would have to curl himself under, tame himself, cut back his talons and swallow his pride in order to press even one fingertip against that famous skin? Would he be forgiven? Did he want to be forgiven?

He shot haphazardly across the pitch, taking a leisurely turn around the goal post and zipping back, hovering high above the other players, almost out of earshot. Doubtless they were relieved by this; his remarks bit meaner and meaner until he was fairly certain he saw a threatening look from Goyle, his fist gripped tightly on his bat. He wondered for a moment if Goyle would be even slightly sympathetic to his plight. "Greg, I think I may be falling for the wrong person." "So stop falling." No, this wasn't something he could discuss. The mere weight of its truth, its inevitability, pressed his lips shut. It made him angry, so angry he thought he would burst. Do Gooder, muggle lover, son of a mudblood, enemy of lord Voldemort, my father hates him. I hate him. He slammed his fist into his broom, dipping himself forward a little, and then righting himself.

Maybe it was just a phase, maybe it was just something to keep him entertained in his last year. There was always something appealing about the unattainable. Harry Potter was a challenge, a trinket, a possible notch on his bedpost, a foreign land on the horizon, ripe for conquest. And while Draco never, ever bragged about his conquests, this one would indeed make an impressive one. "Why yes, I did fuck The Boy Who Lived. It was surprisingly disappointing, really. You'd expect something special, wouldn't you; perhaps a bit of a death curse tingle to him. But no. He's just flesh and blood, just like every one else. What? No, no, I don't miss him. I certainly didn't love him. I almost regret it, really, it was so silly, so awkward." He sighed. If only this were so easy, if only he were so nonchalant.

He had received an owl from his father that morning. Along with the customary greetings, questions, and complaints from his mother, he had inserted a rather curious line: "Keep alert, be ready. I expect to collect you in a couple of weeks. It is time." Draco knew very well what this meant, and had been expecting something like it for some time. It's time for politics, time to make statements and be claimed. Time to make a decision about his future, a decision that really took no deciding at all.

It was really all worked out somewhere else, which Draco resented. Didn't they want people who came to them of their own will? Perhaps his assent was just assumed. Even though his loyalty was fairly secure, it riled him that no one had really bothered to give him the opportunity to voice it on his own. Why didn't they want to woo him, come to him in secret, try to convince him to join them? Tell him how much his brains would be valued, commend him for his clear superiority over his enemies and his friends. Look how the others bowed and scraped at the wave of his hand, look how his control over them was complete. His facial expressions alone conveyed his desires to his compatriots, and they always complied. Did he not deserve better than a curt summons from his father?

Crabbe and Goyle were vicious players, simply vicious. They were busy batting bludgers with mad abandon while the chasers, including the entire second string team, were fighting each other for goals. The snitch, of course, was no where in sight. Draco had not actually released it. He didn’t feel like playing today, he felt like shouting and whining and complaining loudly. He zipped lazily around the field, and then started taking quick spins around the towers, practicing sharp corners, diving down, curling around the tips of pointed cupolas and breezing along gargoyle noses. It was on one of these passes that he caught sight of something through a window. It was a tassel, a red tassel, dangling from a four poster bed, upon which was…well, something else. Draco spun upside down, retracing his flight, landing square opposite the window, stopping almost dead in the air. He peered.

It wasn't really that dramatic, what he saw. It was a dorm room, clearly. From the colours, Draco could tell that it was a Gryffindor dorm room, at that. Beds, all made, trunks along the foot of each, covered with various bits of clothing, scraps of paper and books. The bed directly in his line of sight was rumpled, as though someone had not only sat on it, but had twisted and jumped on it as well. The trunk before it had a pile of books on one side of it rather than on top, topped with a dumpy pair of socks. On the nightstand, Draco saw a rough-looking wooden instrument, possibly a flute of some variety; a photo album getting worn around the edges; a broomstick servicing kit; a small Quidditch figurine; a half-empty box of Bertie Botts beans; an old pair of glasses. But what had caught his eye was a jumper tossed haphazardly on the mussed-up bed. It was red, with a single letter on the front: H.

Potter's bed, Potter's things. Draco marveled a little at the simplicity of it, his ease at finding this perch, the serendipitous placement of Harry's bed, angled so perfectly for the hungry eyes of a hovering visitor. If Harry were there now, asleep, Draco would be able to watch his chest rise and fall, he would be able to note whether he slept on his stomach, his back, or his side; whether he opened his mouth a little, had dreams or nightmares, snored, or tossed around; he would know what he wore to bed, and whether or not he talked in his sleep, and if he did, he would be able to hear what he said, all with a completely unobstructed view. So here they were, way up here in the sky. Nice view, probably draughty as hell in the winter. Good light, though. East-facing. So. Potter wakes up every morning with the sun in his eyes. I wonder if he likes that.

Draco realized he had probably hovered too long, looking like a peeping tom, and swooped down, somersaulted, sailed back up again, checking to see if he could find the window again. Yes, right beside the grinning gargoyle with the big ears. He wasn't prepared to leave, but realized, looking over at the pitch and seeing Madam Hooch scanning the sky, that he didn't have much choice. He glanced over at the dorm room again, a piece of stillness and silence while the wind was rushing in his ears.

"Accio glasses!" He said firmly, and felt the cool, smooth lenses against his palm, the arms, curled and tooth-marked on the ends, tucked behind his fingertips. One hand on his broom, the other clutching his treasure against his hip, he shot up into the air, circled twice around herbology garden, and zipped back to the game.

He saw Madam Hooch in the growing darkness standing on the pitch, her robes swirling around her in the wind, holding Pritchard back with one hand and hollering at Crabbe. Draco didn't really wonder what had happened, but was glad for the distraction. He slipped the glasses into his pocket, feeling one of the lenses slip back and forth, a little wobbly in its frame. One of the arms was hanging slightly lower than the other, digging lightly into his thigh; a broken spring made it bounce back and forth as he moved. By the time he was within earshot, Madam Hooch was ordering them all down.

"That's it." She spat. "I think your practice has gone on quite long enough. Mr. Goyle, please escort Mr. Pritchard to the hospital wing, and Mr. Crabbe." She snarled. Draco was always oddly impressed with Madam Hooch. She could snarl like no woman he'd ever seen. She was glaring meaningfully Crabbe, who was twisting his lips and cracking his knuckles. "You will come with me. I believe we need to have a discussion about what kinds of behaviour are appropriate on the Quidditch pitch. If you want to behave like a first year, you shall be treated like one."

She turned to walk off the pitch, and the rest of the team hurriedly collected their equipment and headed for the locker room has he touched down, smoothing back his hair, looking bored. It was getting dark anyway. "Mr. Malfoy." She said, over her shoulder. "Since you're less than interested in Quidditch today, I would like you to go find Ms. Weasley. She's walking out past the pasturage, please tell her it's past time to come in."

"…You want me to—"

"You heard me, Mr. Malfoy. Unless," she said, her robes billowing around her as she turned sharply, "you'd like to join your friend Mr. Crabbe." She raised an eyebrow.

"Weasley. In the pasturage. I've got it." He said smoothly. He rolled his eyes and hopped back on his broom, leaving the rest to lug this equipment back inside.

He didn't go straight to the pasturage, but slipped back up, high in the growing blackness, gliding along the edge of the forest with one hand in his pocket. He didn't dare pull the glasses out (what if he dropped them?) but just ran his hand over them, sliding his index finger between the lenses, feeling the warming metal under his skin, stroking one thin arm with a searching fingertip, feeling it spring back and forth against him.

Why had he done it? It was profoundly stupid, really, stealing a pair of glasses. Well, Potter didn't need them, did he. He had had new ones for some time, a better pair. Draco hadn't known that these broken, but it didn't matter. It made it that much less likely that Potter would miss them. He didn't know what he was going to do with them, but for the moment they felt so good in his hand, cool, smooth, flawed and solid, brushing against his leg through the thin material of his robe as he shifted on his broom. He wondered how easy it would be snap them in half. Pressing the thin metal between the lenses against his knuckle, the part that would have sat on the bridge of Harry's nose, he decided not to find out. He would keep them intact. He thumbed one of the ear pieces, rife with Harry's teethmarks, until the skin started to numb.

He spotted Weasley, but just barely. She was nearly to the edge of the pasturage now. He dipped down and landed just a few yards from her. She seemed to decide to return on her own, and turned. She nearly jumped when she saw him, and then her expression soured.

"I was sent to fetch you," he said curtly, hauling his broom over his shoulder. This was so tiresome. Weasley was looking very strange lately. She had dyed her hair some random colour which looked like a murky green. She had packed on some kind of fleshy coloured cream on her face, which was now streaked with black mascara rivulets that streamed down her face and under her chin. She barely looked like a Weasley at all anymore, without the red hair. She looked like a right mess. "Hooch thought you might be lost. Or something." He noted. "Not that I want to get in the way of another daring, brave Gryffindor adventure, but it was this or detention."

Weasley sighed. "Well. I was just heading back anyway." She looked heartbroken. Again. In fact, this Weasley always looked heartbroken. He knew what it was about this time, and it annoyed him to no end to know that he had suffered right along with her.

At dinner, Potter had carried on a very irresistibly public and painful conversation that batted back and forth across the room, all with his hands, mouthed words, smiles, and flirty facial expressions, with Anna Phoenix at the Ravenclaw table. She tittered with her friends, pointing at his antics, whispering into ear others ears. Anna turned red and hid her face. Potter waggled his eyebrows, and tossed a dinner roll in the air, catching it behind his back. Anna's friends hooted loudly. Some kind of inside joke, no doubt. Draco had scowled and narrowed his eyes, watching Potter smile more and more widely, as the weasel, hanging on his shoulder, whispered something. Potter nodded to him, looked back over to Anna, stuck out his tongue and winked at her. Draco pulled his eyes away and stared into his potatoes. This was simply unbearable, unbearable because he couldn't not watch. In that moment, he was aware of two things: how much he hated Potter, and how much he wanted Potter to smile like that in his direction.

When he looked up again, the first thing he saw was the younger Weasley, her oddly coloured hair hanging loosely around her shoulders. She was looking into her potatoes as well, her lip curled under her teeth, apparently on the brink of tears. She sat farther down the table, the girls around her chatting amiably, not paying any attention to the giggling girls at the Ravenclaw table, to Potter's antics, or to the profoundly morose Weasley. Granted, she always looked morose, so there wasn't much difference there. She looked up then, flashing her black fingernails as she rubbed her temple. She said something to the girl next to her, who nodded, smiled, and patted her arm, and then she stood. She paused a moment, and Draco knew what she was thinking. Will he notice me leaving? Will he come after me, wonder what's wrong? Will he gather me up in his arms and comfort me over this unknown upset? The overlong moment passed without even a glance from Potter. She sighed and walked stiffly out of the Great Hall. Potter really has no idea what an asshole he is. No idea at all.

Draco understood why she was crying, and why she was wandering around in the dark with her fists clenched, not even noticing that night had fallen it she was out after hours. He hated to admit just how well he understood it, and refused to.

"He’s hardly worth all those tears, Weasley." He said easily, even a little scornfully. He was fingering a lens in his pocket as he said it. The irony of this was not lost on him. He felt something growing in the pit of his stomach, something that was not anger, but was a profound sadness. Looking at her, mascara streaming down her face, her eyes puffy, her odd-coloured hair, he realized that it wasn't that pretty little Anna Phoenix who was going to get that beautiful, lopsided Potter grin in the end. No, it was far, far more likely to be this one, his best friend's sister, the sad, loyal, giving soul who Potter had never even noticed at school. It would be a storybook wedding, with the biggest cake, the most guests, the best weather. The sun would hover a moment before setting that day, there would be nothing ordinary about it from start to finish. Potter would pay for everything, of course. Potter was a hero, he would rescue poor little Ginny Weasley from her poverty, he would pay back the Weasley clan for their kindnesses to him over the years, for those funny sweaters he got for Christmas every year, for those big hugs they gave him every year at the train station. He would sweep that once redheaded girl off her feet and her brother would be his best man. Draco wouldn't even be invited to the wedding, and for that he would actually be glad. He could never watch Potter vow himself to this girl. He would be sick in the punch bowl. She looked at him angrily, and rolled her eyes.

"Don’t call me that. My name is Ginny. Ginny, got it?" She was yelling, her fists flailing in the air. Draco was hardly surprised by her anger. He was angry himself. Somehow, watching her lose her temper calmed him. Yes, this was a recognizable emotion. For a moment, as long as she threw her arms around and yelled at him, he didn't feel a need to do so anymore. He felt in control, and decided to keep controlling. He wanted to shove himself into that fantasy world she would one day inhabit. A self-insert that would matter to no one but him. 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 defenseless 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 calmly, planning his next move. Women were profoundly easy for Draco to understand. They liked attention more than anything. Undivided attention, quiet scrutiny, as if they are all that exists in the world, as if they are fascinating. This was the easiest thing in the world to do. You needed to simply wait, and watch. The engaged in some random banter, which Draco used to get himself closer. The future Mrs. Potter would always have this on her conscience, he considered. To her dying day, it would be him that she had kissed first. Perhaps her husband would hate her for it. Perhaps it would be the secret she would take her to her grave.

When she leaned in and kissed him, finally, he nearly laughed. Oh, yes. This was indeed the future Mrs. Potter. All innocence and inexperience. He let her presume control for a moment or two, letting her try to entice him. Would this work on Potter? This limp, powerless, uncertain and sloppy performance? Would the bareness of it, the presumed honesty of it, make Potter tremble with pleasure? He sensed embarrassment wash over her at his non-reaction, and with a split-second decision, he showed her what a kiss should be. Both soft and powerful, speaking without words, he poured out a series of statements: you are very, very lucky to get Potter, and you should be thankful every single day you wake up with him beside you. Because inevitably you will, and inevitably you will never really understand what kind of a gift you've been given. And when you want to show him how you feel, you do it like this. And you should know, above all, that this is what he could have had. This is what he gave up in order to pay back your parents for their trifling kindnesses, kindnesses I should have been wise enough to offer him. And now that you've tasted it, at least this much will go into that world with you. He pulled back, having said his piece, and saw the dreamy look on her face.

"You’re wearing too much make up." He noted. "You look like a whore." He didn't wait for a reaction. He turned and walked away, and within a few moments hopped back on his broom and shot back up into the night sky.

More than anything, he was conscious of the object in his pocket, which he pulled out now, convinced by his inability to see the forest below that he would not drop anything into it, and pressed the warm glass against his lips. He thought about those brown arms emerging from the water, ending in almost comically white shoulders; his lopsided grin; his voice speaking in hisses (could he be prompted to say dirty things parseltongue?); that determined look, when they sized each other up in duels, in class, in the hallway, across the Great Hall, on the Quidditch pitch, the way he never, never backed down. The thought of it made his blood burn. He had a flash of memory of seeing Harry on his knees, his hands caressing loose earth in the herbology garden. But as the thought hit him now, Draco saw him not to smoothing away weeds and making way for a new nightshade bulb, but stroking him, not kneeling in the dirt with his friends but straddling him in the garden, alone, the dirty crescents of his fingernails leaving smudges on his desperate, naked skin, his hands leaving long trails of damp earth across him. And when the snake slithered past, it wrapped itself around Draco's neck and strangled him.

"I hate you, Potter," he whispered, slipping lower in the sky. He circled the tower twice, peering at the gargoyles, but most of them seemed to have overly large ears, and all of them were grinning.

One of us falls but never breaks.
The other breaks but never falls.
What are we? Night and day!

They call me a man, but I'll never have a wife.
I was given a body, but not given life.
They made me a mouth, but didn't give me breath.
Water gives me life and sun brings me death.
What am I? A snowman!

A wee wee man in a red coat.
Staff in my hand, stone in my throat.
What am I? A cherry!

What force and strength cannot get through,
I with a gentle touch can do.
And many in the street would stand,
were I not a friend at hand.
What am I? A key!

You can see me. You can feel me.
If you touch me, you will die.
What am I? The sun!

5 Scratch

Make a small glow.
Make it to move
the heart, that has sat down
in the road,

and waits for something
to turn it over...

The roomy heart,
willing to be surprised.
–Robyn Sarah, Scratch

When Draco woke, it was because there was light hitting him in the face with an almost physically brutal force. It pried at the edges of his consciousness, demanding audience. He refused, squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to find a dark refuge which no longer seemed to exist. The fact that there was light at all seemed profoundly wrong to him, as though the sun had risen in the middle of the night. He felt sore. Turning over was painful; his arms, legs, his back, chest, stomach, and even his face were itchy, burning. When he went to bed the night before, he had felt nauseated and dizzy. And now everything felt wrong. When he opened his eyes, Crabbe and Goyle were standing on either side of his bed, curtains held back by their thick hands, letting the light beam straight into his eyes. He groaned.

"What are you dolts staring at?" He grunted. His voice was raw and even his throat itched.

"You're…" Crabbe started. "You're…"

Draco blinked tiredly and pressed his hand against his forehead. "I'm burning up, I'm sick. Leave me alone."

"You're…" Goyle said, his lips twisting.

"…Covered in spots, Draco."

Draco sat up, feeling as though he might pass out, throw up, or both, and lay back down again. "I'm what?" He touched his cheek, feeling bumps, and cringed. No wonder he felt so itchy. He rolled his eyes and groaned. Suddenly they heard footsteps from the hall, and laughter.

"Er…" Crabbe mumbled something under his breath, and was interrupted by the door slamming open, and Millicent's thick form pounding into the room, talking over her shoulder. "I hear he's looking very spotty, I want to see." She pushed Goyle aside, hopped up on the edge of Draco bed and peered down at him.

"Oh would you LOOK at him!" Millicent laughed loudly. "Oh my God, he looks like a six-year-old! Draco, you've got chicken pox, you baby." Draco glared, a look which normally would frighten Millicent a little, but now, which his face covered with red spots, it just made her laugh more. "Aww, look at the ickle boy!" She leaned over and ruffled his hair roughly, laughing.

Unfortunately for Millicent, Draco had several rather raw bumps on his scalp, which she managed to tweak quite painfully. In spite of being draggy and nauseated and feeling utterly wretched, it took Draco absolutely no time at all to form a fist and throw it fast and hard into Millicent's jaw. She screamed and fell to the floor.

Draco turned, carefully, onto his side, back to the now crying and howling Millicent. "Get her out of here." Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other. Millicent whimpered, hauling herself to her feet.

"You'll pay for that, you scabby, digusting little—" Goyle clamped a hand over her mouth and escorted her out of their room.

Harry sneezed. The incense in Divination class was thicker than usual, and his eyes were stinging. He got up from the his seat and moved over toward the window, opening it up and taking a deep breath, leaning his elbows against the window frame. While annoying and pointless, this class did offer one of the best views Hogwarts had to offer. Nestled high up in one of the towers, in what was little more than a renovated attic, The small rounded windows of the classroom offered a view of the Quidditch pitch, the herbology garden, and the lake, stretching out long and blueish-black into the line of trees in the distance. Harry pressed his hands against the sun-warmed slate shingles of the roof, inching his hands down and leaning forward to catch a bit of the breeze against his face. He could even see Hogsmeade from here, the little brown and red roofs, tan spires and the white clock tower reaching into the near-cloudless sky. From this distance, too far to see people, movement, or signs of life at all, Harry imagined that the village was empty, as if its inhabitants had left in a panic moments before, leaving fires burning in their hearths, smoke inching in thin streams from the chimneys, laundry pegged on lines flapping in the breeze, doors left open and banging in the wind. He sneezed again.

"Harry, dear," Professor Trelawney said mournfully, patting him on the shoulder. He half-turned, face still angled toward the window, one hand rubbing his eyes and the other still pressed against the warm roof. "You're ill. This doesn't bode well at all, would you like to go have a talk with Madam Pomfrey? Perhaps she can give you something to ease the suffering, as you…well, yes, something to make these last— er, something to make you more comfortable. Perhaps…" She trailed off into a moaning ramble as Harry shook his head, and turned to look out the window again, squinting and pressing his glasses against the bridge of his nose. He was feeling particularly pensive, thinking about Voldemort, thinking about his godfather, about his parents, the mass destruction that seemed poised to rain down on the world. He felt as though he were at the centre of it, again. The rest of the students were working studiously on their divination, and he had left his tea and charms on the table next to Ron. While this class was annoying and usually just silly, one of the benefits was it's laxness; Harry found he could stop and start, wander the halls, stare out the window, get down on the floor and stretch his legs, all in the name of some form of divination or other. Rolling a bit of dust between his fingers and eyes trained out the window to the farthest point west, he thought he could just make up the train in the distance, red and snaking its way through the hills toward Hogsmeade. Professor Trelawney had stopped pestering Harry, and had instead pulled on Millicent's scrying bowl and peered into it.

"Very nice work, my dear." She whispered. "I see something similar in my crystals. Something is afoot, yes indeed…" Millicent smiled, shot a quick glance at Harry, smirked, and then looked back into her bowl of water.

"Professor Trelawney, I think Potter should go to the hospital wing. I think I see him throwing himself out of that window and falling to a bloody death. I think I—" she gasped, as if in pain, "I can see his suffering so terribly, professor, it's awful!" Right on cue, Millicent burst into a torrent of tears which spilled unchecked across her cheeks and dripped onto the collar of her robe. She choked and sniffled and screwed up her face, looking sadly at professor Trelawney, and motioning to her scrying bowl. Harry shot her a dry glare. He was mildly in awe with Millicent's acting abilities. Hermione was less than impressed, and snorted loudly when marks were posted and Millicent was declared the top divination student. "Judged purely on the basis of the volume of her howl, no doubt," she scoffed, still sore over her second place finish in Arithmancy.

Millicent was daubing at her eyes with her fingers now, trembling violently and erupting in random fitful statements ("Blood! Playgrounds and…mazes, rats, and mazes. Cheese! Floating wands! Hippogryffs! Oh, help, Hippogryffs, everywhere!") and collapsed in a well-executed faint into the arms of Justin Finch-Fletchley, who looked profoundly concerned.

"Maybe you should get to the hospital wing, Harry," he said tightly. He handed Millicent a hankerchief from his pocket as Professor Trelawney fanned with her an elegant Chinese fan.

"Yes, Harry, perhaps you should." Professor Trelawney's forehead was a mass of furrows. She checked Millicent's pulse and looked up. "Ms. Phoenix, would you kindly escort Mr. Potter to the hospital wing?" Anna Phoenix had been scribbling notes on a thick pad of paper with a old blue ballpoint pen, chewed to fraying on the end, and looked up sharply as her name was called. She was one of the few students at Hogwarts to completely eschew quills in favour of these cheap, slim plastic instruments. Harry respected this; she got a few odd looks from her classmates, but she didn't care.

Anna flashed a quick grin at Harry, and stood. "Yes, certainly Professor." Harry smiled back.

"Now, straight to the hospital wing, I will check in with Madam Pomfrey shortly, so no dawdling. I do hope—" she gave Harry a sad look, patted his arm, and looked back toward Millicent. "Well, I think I can handle poor dear Millicent, but do watch yourself, Mr. Potter." Harry nodded seriously, but chuckled as they shuffled down the ladder and out into the hallway below.

"That woman," Harry noted, sliding his hand along the smooth wood of the banister as they walked downstairs, "is barking mad."

Anna smiled. "Well, she does have her moments, doesn't she." She looked down at the hem on her sweater, pulling a bit of fluff and dust from it; a reminder of the rather untidy classroom she had just left. "At least when she gets it right, she's really right."

"What," Harry stopped on the stair and turned on his heel. "Do you believe in that stuff?"

She shrugged. "Well, if I've learned one thing in the last seven years, it's not to rule anything out." Anna, like Hermione, was muggle-born, and while quiet and non-intrusive, was probably one of the more bold muggle-born students at Hogwarts. She had been sorely disappointed in her first year that the school had no electricity, and therefore her heavy synthesizer, which she had lugged up on her own from the train, afraid it might get battered around, was useless. So she had instead insisted on access to a piano, which had been granted to her. She was perhaps the only first year student with permission to be traipsing around the school after hours, but only, Professor Flitwick had insisted, until nine o'clock.

"Though sometimes," Anna had admitted to Harry as they sat side by side on her piano bench several evenings prior, "I stay until nine-thirty. No one seems to mind. Professor McGonagall likes Mozart best, so if I'm really late I play Mozart."

"Play me some Mozart, Anna." Harry had moved then to push her long, dark hair back off her shoulder, and it hung loosely down her back. ("Definitely wear your hair down," Mandy Brocklehurst had said, running a brush through Anna's hair. "Your hair is so pretty down. Harry will like that, I'm sure.") She smiled, blushed a little, and played, with perhaps a few more mistakes than normal, since the weight of Harry's arm around her waist distracted her. She was glad she chose to play a piece she knew well, or she might have just stopped playing altogether and embarrassed herself completely.

"Well, I suppose there's that. But Trelawney, she…well, she can't even distinguish between lies like Millicent's and…well, whatever else." They turned a corner, heading south down a sloping corridor.

Anna nodded. "Yes, I know, she does tend to get a little enthusiastic about what students see. It's in her best interests to believe, rather than not. It's in her to have faith, I think. I like her for that." Harry hmmed non-commitally. "You don't believe it? Let me see your hands." Harry raised an eyebrow. "No, really, let me see. I did my term project on palmistry last year. Let's have a look."

Harry sighed and held out his hands. Anna took them, cradled them in her own, and looked. "You have artist hands," She said.

"I'm supposed to be an artist?" Harry was incredulous.

"Well, it doesn't mean that you're an artist, it's a kind of hand. Let's see…it does mean that…well, that you give the people around you a tremendous amount of love. It also means you tend to daydream a fair bit. Your hands aren't really long or short, so I'd say you have good health, and are dilligent and adaptable." She stroked his palm. "You have a firm hand, which indicates that you have views that are important to you, but you aren't inflexible. And…" she peering into his hands. "You don't have an angry disposition."

"You can tell all this from looking at my hands?"

"I’m not finished yet." She inspected his thumbs and fingers. "You tend to act before you think. You are a natural leader, with a tremendous amount of sympathy for others. That also indicates, um. Well." She blushed. "Indicates a…substantial sexual appetite." He snorted. She cleared her throat and kept searching his fingers. "You don't like to take risks, and you're not very eloquent. Sorry, Harry, but that's dead on. You are, of course, very courageous. Wouldn't be in Gryffindor without that, no doubt. You will stay healthy and strong, and be surrounded by people who love you in the future. And it seems that you will get your heart's desire. Very strong sun line. And you will fall in love…wow, three times, Harry. That's quite a lot, really." She smiled. "Some people don't even fall in love once, you know. Lucky you." She pushed his right hand into a fist, and frowned. "Only two people, though. That doesn't make sense."

Harry shook his head and laughed. "Well, either my hands are mathematically confused, or palmistry might not hold all truths about my future." Anna let go of his hands and sniffed.

"Well, believe what you will." She said, and turned, walking southwards down the corridor toward the hospital wing. "Come on then, silly. Trelawney will be sick with dread if we don't make it to the hospital wing shortly. I swear she has a sixth sense about these sorts of things."

Anna took him as far as the entrance to the hospital wing. "I'd better get back, " she said, glancing at her watch. "I left all my things, and I'll have to nip off to Transfiguration shortly. She smiled, leaned toward him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Have fun!" She said, and ran off down the hall again. Harry chuckled and shook his head.

The hospital wing was, as usual, breezy, cool, and quiet. He walked in and looked around. Madam Pomfrey wasn't in her office. He looked around one corner, seeing an unbroken line of empty beds, and then around another.

Suddenly Harry understood why Millicent had made such a scene. Sitting on a cot by the window was Malfoy, attended by Madam Pomfrey. He was wearing only a loose pair of flannel pants, and these were slipping off his hips. His back, facing Harry, was covered with a mass of ugly red spots, inching up along the nape of his neck and shoulders, sprouting in clusters down along his arms. He sat with his hands lying open on the wool blanket, and Harry could see that even the palms of his hands were covered with these angry bumps. Madam Pomfrey sat on a stool in front of him, daubing at him with a cotton ball, a blue bottle in her other hand.

"I know it hurts, love," she was saying. "Just be patient. You'll be fine in a couple of days." Malfoy grunted and lowered his head.

Harry remembered the chicken pox. He had come down with a horrible case of it when he was ten, and Dudley had teased him relentlessly, even though his mother had forbade him going anywhere near Harry's closet under the stairs.

"Look at you, you crusty crybaby!" Dudley had giggled. "You're going to be red and pimply and ugly for the rest of your life!"

Harry had believed it. He looked at himself in the mirror, red and bleeding and itchy, and remembered what he had heard about lepers, living on the edge of town, their ears falling off, people dropping the occasional coin in their tin cups. They never looked up at you, because they feared that if they did, their eyelids might fall off, and they would never have any rest from the glares of the world.

Shortly thereafter Dudley had come down with a case of it himself, quickly followed by Uncle Vernon. They had not known, until then, that Uncle Vernon had not been exposed to the chicken pox before. While Harry and Dudley suffered in their separate rooms, Harry realized that Uncle Vernon suffered far more than either of them; it seemed that the chicken pox was far, far worse for adults than it was for children. Uncle Vernon had moaned and groaned, vomiting and sweating and wincing, unable to eat or sleep properly, unable to sit or lie down comfortably, and he was too weak to stand. It had taken a good month for him to return to his normal hateful self. At the time Harry felt that this was just retribution, and he watched his own pustules heal over and disappear. Now all he was left with was the memory of that itchy week, and three scars; one on his shoulder, one on his right hip, and another behind his knee.

Harry thought it was quite cruel of Millicent to make Malfoy's suffering public. Certainly that was the goal, sending Harry here. She must image that Harry would laugh, perhaps get pictures, pass them around. Draco Malfoy, so proud of his appearance, so carefully put together, covered with welts and bumps, itchy, green with nausea and half-naked, looking utterly wretched. I thought those two were friends, Harry thought. Some friend.

"Oh, Mr. Potter! Professor Trelawney informed me that I should be expecting you. I see you made it here in one piece." She said rather sarcastically, rolling her eyes, not noticing that Malfoy had stiffened. Harry, however, noticed. He was caught between feeling some sense of justice (it had only been a couple of weeks ago that he had made those horrible comments about Neville's parents, after all, and wasn't he always the worst kind of prick imaginable?) and feeling rather sorry for him.

"Yes, indeed I did. I'm really fine, though. The incense was making me sneeze, that's all."

Madam Pomfrey hmmed. "I'm sure it was. Could you give me a hand, love? Do you see that blue bottle on my desk? No the…yes, that one. Could you bring it to me? Mr. Malfoy here needs more of it than I anticipated." She hesitiated. "You have had the chicken pox before, haven't you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry grabbed the bottle. "Yes, I have. When I was ten." He walked hesitatingly over to Madam Pomfrey. Malfoy was looking down, avoiding Harry's eyes. It was hard not to notice the mess his face had become; Malfoy had gotten a horrible strain. His cheeks were covered with bumps, his skin was red and puffy and irritated by whatever it was inside that blue bottle. Harry couldn't tell if he was blushing or not. His chest and stomach were even worse; he looked as if he had just in a brawl and come out on the losing end. At least the liquid in the bottle was helping; the pustules were shrinking rapidly. "Chicken pox is awful." Harry noted, "I'm glad I can't get it twice." He handed her the bottle. He watched Malfoy bite his lip, and then wince, finding another bump there as well. Harry remembered what that felt like.

"Millicent sends her love, Malfoy," he said wryly, less impressed with her by the moment. What a horrible thing to do. Malfoy grunted, and shot Harry a dirty look. Harry just grinned wickedly. "Madam Pomfrey, I think it really should have been Millicent who was sent down here instead of me. She asked me if you could prescribe a laxative for her. She's nearly doubled over in Diviniation class, poor thing." Malfoy chuckled quietly.

"I didn't think she looked well when I saw her this morning," he added. His voice sounded raw and wet; Harry remembered what it was like, having those ugly spots on your throat, your tongue, the insides of your cheeks. But the thought of Millicent getting a large dose of laxative unawares was still too funny to forget.

"Oh my. Yes indeed, I'll see to that shortly." She was wrestling with the cap on the bottle. "Thank you, dear. You're quite alright then?"

"Yes, quite alright." Harry was trying very hard not to laugh, and Malfoy was grinning madly himself, head down, looking sideways at Harry.

"You can go then." She unscrewed the cap, spilling a little of the white fluid on the floor, where it sizzled.

"Thanks." Harry turned. "Get well soon, Malfoy. I'm going to beat you fair and square at Quidditch on Friday."

"You hope you will, Potter." They both smiled.

6  Most Beautiful

I've found a way to make you
I've found a way
A way to make you smile.
At my most beautiful
I count your eyelashes secretly.
–R.E.M., At My Most Beautiful

Harry pulled his socks on quickly and pushed his tired feet into his shoes. Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were doing the same. There was a single candle burning, casting odd shadows as they hurriedly pulled their heavy woolen cloaks over their pajamas. They moved in relative silence, confused and apprehensive but also oddly excited. Harry had woken as the door opened; the quiet shuffle of slippered feet, the soft click of metal unlatching from an ancient groove, the sigh of an old hinge. He sat up quickly, peering into the darkness, seeing only light, colour, a shapeless brown and yellow glow that grew larger as the door opened wide.

"Harry! Oh, You're awake." It was Professor McGonagall. He blinked, trying to understand this. For a moment he was embarrassed, as if he had just woken up in the middle of Transfiguration class, a broken crease in the shape of the fold of his robes pressed into his cheek. Professor McGonagall. With a candle. In his dorm room. She was speaking in a hushed voice, and Harry registered that she was speaking as he realized that he was in his bed, that it was well past midnight, and that he ought to pay attention. "Wake the others, Harry, would you? All the students are gathering in the Great Hall." She was lighting a candle at his bedside, and smiled. "Don't worry, Harry. Nothing's wrong."

The others had been confused and groggy, and try as he might, Harry could not entirely convince Seamus that Voldemort had not returned, and was not waiting to slaughter him in the Great Hall. Seamus chewed his lip and slipped his wand into the arm of his cloak. Ron grumbled, clumsily tying his shoelaces. "What did McGonagall say this was about, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "I told you, She didn't say."

In the common room they met the other Gryffindors looking pale, confused, and bleary-eyed. Hermione looked slightly frightened, but helped lead the younger students out through the portrait hole and then took up the rear guard with Harry and Ron as they all marched down the hall in a kind of daze. There were scattered whispers back and forth, some confused banter, a wet cough or two, but for the most part the crowd of Gryffindors proceeded in relative silence. It seemed that no one had been informed more fully than Harry had been, which was cause for curiosity as well as some alarm.

Before long Hermione and Harry found themselves playing nursemaid; Hermione had a weepy first year on either arm, clutching at her as if they might get lost in the familiar hallway without her. Harry fell in step with the second year boys, who were terrifying each other with phantom sightings around corners and whispers no one else could hear. With Harry reassuringly in their midst, they stopped searching down dark stairwells for their doom and destruction, but kept glancing at him instead, as if he were a crystal ball, as if the scar on his forehead might glow in warning should any monster think to leap out at them, as if it might give Harry some special words to speak to banish evil and keep them safe. Harry sighed. Ron kept himself occupied by walking with his sister and her friends. Ginny, her bedraggled hair a mass of colours, looked forlorn without all her makeup, with her pink flannel nightie poking out underneath her robes. She kept her eyes down, her arms wrapped around herself.

They reached the Great Hall shortly after the Ravenclaws; the Hufflepuffs were on their heels. The students exchanged glances and whispers as they gathered between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, a few of them pulling out chairs and sitting down, or perching on tables, gathering in groups. In this large, familiar room, their whispers grew louder and more confident; they felt safer. Some of the Hufflepuffs were laughing outright, showing off their pajamas, teasing the girls, poking each other awake. But no one seemed to know precisely what they were doing there in the first place.

"It's a new moon," Terry Boot hissed. "It's black as pitch out there. You-Know-Who might be using the cover of darkness to sneak in to Hogwarts!" Faces around him darkened.

"I hardly think," Hermione retorted, with terrified first years still clutching on either arm, "that darkness will make Hogwarts any less safe than it usually is, Terry. Good lord. Maybe it's a surprise party."

"At nearly one o'clock in the morning?" Anna Phoenix pointed to her wristwatch. She tapped a foot, the laces of her running shoes dragging on the smooth stone floor. Hermione shrugged. It was just then that the Slytherins arrived.

Professor Snape was leading them. Unlike the others, the Slytherins all seemed to be at least partially dressed; other than the odd flannel pajama top visible beneath cloaks, all of them wore proper clothes, but they were just as bleary-eyed and confused-looking as the rest. Crabbe and Goyle were stumbling sleepily into each other, a couple of the first years looked as though they had just had a good cry, and Malcolm Baddock was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. But Draco Malfoy looked as though he had just been interrupted in the middle of class, hauled out into the corridor perfectly pressed. His hair was immaculate, his shoes polished. He wore his school shirt, tie, and sweater. Harry watched him breeze into the Great Hall with Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, both of whom looked peaked and puffy. Malfoy only looked bored.

For a moment, Harry imagined that Malfoy didn't sleep at all; he was vampiric, wandering around in the shadows at night in his school tie, never laying his head against a pillow for fear of mussing that perfect hair. But then Harry remembered seeing Malfoy in the hospital wing, shivering and red and blistered. His hair had fallen over his face then, his eyes looked bloodshot, his lips thick with pox and dry. Seeing him this way did not have the desired effect; if anything, it made Harry's eyes linger a little longer on him now, wondering a little at the façade, at the effort that clearly went into maintaining it. Malfoy was well healed now, more than a week later, and though Millicent still looked both smug and annoyed, the chicken pox incident seemed to have passed generally unnoticed. Millicent, however, had taken mysteriously ill a couple of days afterward, and had had to miss the Hallowe'en feast. Harry shook his head.

"Students!" Dumbledore had entered the room, flanked by the other teachers, and his soft voice brought conversations to a halt. "I am sorry to have woken you all so abruptly. We have just had word of a very special event that will take place tonight, and I knew that you would all want to be present to witness it." He moved toward the centre of the room. "This year, our house ghosts were honoured as finalists in a symphony of light competition; it has been nearly two hundred years since their last performance, and it will take place tonight, in roughly fifteen minutes." There was some whispering among the students. "Muggles call these lights created by ghosts 'Aurora Borealis'. They believe it to a natural phenomenon. It is best that they think this. Now," he turned, gesturing toward the door. "We will proceed outdoors. But I will warn you; once we are all settled, all light within the school will be extinguished. It will be quite dark indeed, as there is no moonlight tonight. So: do stay close to your friends, and keep track of each other. If you are nervous, you may use a lumos spell to find a teacher. Professor McGonagall, if you are ready?" The doors opened, and the teachers and students began to file out.

It was profoundly dark outside, and Harry understood why tonight was the chosen night. Hermione was chattering excitedly beside him. "They're going to use the house colours, you know, so we'll know Nick's work by the red and gold light. And I heard that peeves hasn't been seen tonight either, perhaps he's involved as well!"

"I wonder if Moaning Myrtle was invited to participate," Ron mused. Ginny sniffed. "You're not still afraid of the dark, are you, Gin?"

"No. Of course not." She said. Ron giggled. "Do you remember when–"

"Shut up, Ron."

Hermione giggled. "This is so exciting, don't you think? I've seen Aurora Borealis before, and I read that they had ghostly origins, but I didn't realize that Hogwarts ghosts had ever worked together to create them. How wonderful! Penny?" She still had a first year clutching her hand. "Are you alright? Don't be scared, it will be beautiful."

Once they arrived and got settled, the lights behind them disappeared, leaving them fully in thick darkness. There was some scattered gasping, and one tearful sob, but the rest watched the sky in silence. And suddenly, it began.

The Griffindors cheered as a spike of red undulated across the sky in slow motion, flicking its tail in crimson and dipping behind the horizon. The green that followed in its wake was like lightning, but softer; it moved like a snake across the darkness, leaving a blurry gray line in its wake that twitched and faded slowly. An astonishing pale blue erupted from behind the trees and spread like water into the sky above their heads, turned upside down, swiveled and bent upon itself. It was quickly joined by a yellow reflection that danced with it, with tentacles like arms that reached out and embraced it before drifting like smoke and melting into the night. The sniffles in the crowd stopped as the houses cheered for their respective ghosts. Red met green and yellow and blue in the sky, spinning, twirling and blending into each other. In a mass of green fingers caressing their way across the night sky, a spitfire white line began to draw itself within in, winding around the fingers and nestling, finally, in a blurred glow, in its palm.

"Peeves!" Hermione whispered. There was great laughter now, and students were moving about, running into each other in the dark, pointing to new elements of the show above, left right, behind the dark spires of the school. The teachers were gathered together whispering to each other, nodding and gazing up with the same kind of joy and awe as the students. A group of first years had begun a game of hide and seek, running and hiding among groups of other students. Harry felt calm, his sleepiness segueing comfortably into this quiet watching, the reds and blues leaving only the vaguest reflection on the upturned faces around him. He felt strangely safe in this darkness, his arms wrapped around his shoulders invisibly. He wasn't sure where Ron had got to.

Suddenly he felt warm fingers slip along the back of his neck, grab his cloak and the back of his pajama top underneath, and tug.

"Wh–" he began, as he was dragged backwards. He tried to turn, but couldn't without losing his balance. The grip on his collar was insistent. Within a few footsteps he was away from the crowd where he had been standing, still in the thick of it, voices all around, small points of light flickering on and off when nervous students whispered spells to calm themselves. The hand released him, but slid along his neck and rested on his flannel-covered chest, fingertips resting against his collarbone for a moment, and then disappeared. His skin felt cooler, more naked and exposed, without those fingers. Anna? Harry wondered.

"Who is this?" Harry laughed. "I can't see you." He peered into the darkness, seeing only a shadowy shape, the cool blue in the sky revealing nothing but the possibility of a human shape in front of him. Its head was covered in the hood of a thick Hogwarts cloak. Before Harry could think to move, he felt hands on his wrists, moving them gently behind his back as the figure loomed closer. For an instant he felt breath on his face, the edge of the woolen hood brushing roughly against his cheek, and then he felt lips against his own.

This was not Harry's first kiss. His first had been an awkward, tight and somewhat uncomfortable meeting of flesh and clashing of teeth, accompanied by the smell of warm milk. Harry's glasses had pressed uncomfortably against his face, and dug painfully into hers. Their tongues met briefly, a strange, vaguely unpleasant sensation that made Harry think of flobberworms. Harry had wiped saliva that was not his own off his lip afterwards, and they sat in silence, looking out of the window at the owlry, at the Quidditch practice outside. After a short time, and several more less-than-stellar kisses and some damp hand-holding, they agreed that they were better off being just friends. Harry realized in retrospect that it had been disappointment he had seen on her face , but after a week or two they were back to being friends again, the way they had been before. Once in a while they did look at each other a little wistfully, but they knew the truth. It would have been nice, really, for them to end up together. There had been a part of him that had been almost expecting it in the last couple of years. Harry trusted Hermione completely, but somehow. No. Something was missing there, something was wrong with them charging through kinds of boundaries with each other. Theirs was a comfortable closeness, the intimacy of sharing notes and pencils and quick, friendly embraces. Their tentative, hopeful, but essentially vacant kisses had proved this.

This kiss, however, was quite different. At first there was only the slightest pressure against his lips, just the lightest brush of lip against lip, the tentative caress of nervous, warm breath against his face. Harry hadn't given lips a tremendous amount of thought before. They were expressive, certainly; from the firm, downturned line he was accustomed to seeing on the faces of his teachers in frustration, on his friends during exams, the sour frown of each of the Dursleys when Harry arrived in their house in the summer. There was also the pale, chapped, wide open smile on Ron's face when he played Quidditch, the charming pout Cho Chang had always sported, Malfoy's curled scowl, Ginny's well-bitten lower lip that often slipped under her teeth when she looked at him. He had never considered how soft lips were, how delicate, how the slightest movement and pressure could convey a thousand different words, a thousand different expressions. Fingers would be too rough, too clumsy and monstrous against these lips that brushed and curled against his own. Fingers would spoil these small words, wouldn't sense them at all. They would miss the delicate shift in pressure, slowly increasing, becoming more certain, more demanding, more desperately passionate, tracing less and less quiet words against the canvas of his skin.

Harry leaned closer, pressing tighter into the embrace of these lips, dragging his own, inexperienced and awkward, against them. He took a deep breath and smelled warm things, ginger, pumpkin juice, soap, cedar, and a buttery, smooth smell that reminded Harry of almonds, warm nut bread, and holidays. As he opened his mouth a little more, he could breathe in that smell, and a vaguely familiar warmth filled him, forced him with quiet insistence to think of nothing else but these unknown lips pressed gently into his own, slipping between them, grazing against his teeth.

He felt the hands restraining his wrists shift, and at same time felt a hot tongue slide slowly against his upper lip. Harry started to tremble a little, his heartbeat racing madly in his chest. He had not known, not really known, why people always broke out of kisses panting, why they trembled and moaned and made such a fuss. He had seen it on television when he was at the Dursleys in the summers ("Oh Miranda!" "Oh, Clyde, more, more!"); he had seen it in the street sometimes even, couples pressed up against a wall, a shop window, a lamp post, clutching each other with a kind of desperation that made Harry giggle into his hand as he walked past. What kind of a display was this? What kind of adult charade? No charade at all. He silently apologized to Clyde and Miranda for doubting the power that drove them to pant and exclaim. He was lost in the heat of that tongue on his lip, grateful for the wet trail it left behind on his skin, which could not bear the shock of pure absence.

The hands behind him brought his wrists together and crossed them, pinning both against his lower back with a one-handed grip, two slim fingers sliding over the palm of his left hand. Harry guessed that a deal had been silently offered in the quiet pause before their lips met: keep your hands to yourself, and I'll kiss you. Move your hands, and I'll disappear. For the moment, Harry agreed wholeheartedly with any arrangement that would keep these lips pressed close to his own, keep that tongue, slipping from one lip to the other, sliding along the slopes and curves of his shocked, hapless and willing mouth.

Harry wondered if this stranger could feel him trembling; he wondered if that was alright. He wondered if it was alright that he barely responded; he didn't know what to do. The most he could offer was himself in this moment, succumbing to this tenderness, to open his lips and melt into the warm breath on his face. He hoped it was enough. He wrapped his fingers around the two cool ones resting firmly against his palm, and squeezed a little. With the smell of pumpkin juice and soap and cedar rising through his brain, feeling the slick interior of this foreign lower lip against his own, it was the most he could offer, the most he could think of to give.

He felt a sigh pass between those lips, drawing a complex and unreadable pattern against his own, evaporating into the stillness of the darkness that surrounded them. Gryffindor red glowed hotly in the sky, still revealing no clues about the mystery standing in front of him. This small sign, this gentle exhalation against his damp skin, felt so profound, so expressive, Harry longed to reach around and gather this passionate and gentle and completely baffling figure in his arms, run his hands along that cloak-covered back, to press his hands into skin and leave an imprint that would describe him, a vague, shadow in the darkness wishing the sun would rise and expose them both. He was tempted to draw his wand, whisper "lumos", pull back that hood and see who stood before him, whose breath was hot against his face, whose lips were tracing the outline of themselves softly against his own.

Who could it be? Lavender? Parvati? Not Hermione, certainly. Su Li? Morag? Lisa Turpin? Sally-Ann or Padma? Anna? No. There was something more here, there was a desperation and sadness, a kind of knowledge that didn't seem to fit any of them. Could it possibly be, Harry wondered. Could it be a boy? He couldn't tell, and at this moment, he didn't really care. He wanted to speak, but knew he shouldn't; speech would separate his mouth from these lips, and he couldn't bear the thought. Speech might shatter the still moment and send this odd character running away into the night. He pressed the idea into the back of his mind and concentrated on the luxurious feel of this damp, soft mouth against his, the smell of utterly foreign and familiar skin, so close but increasingly feeling too distant. Harry was overwhelmed by this tender intimacy and yet found himself craving it, and the space between them felt too great for his sanity.

The edge of the cloak rubbed against Harry's face as a cool hand pressed on his neck, fingers stroking his cheek. Harry moaned a little at the contact, hoping the sound was not enough to frighten his admirer away. He leaned into the palm of that hand, shifting his cheek against it, a delicious friction that made his lower stomach spin. He was glad for a moment that his body was draped in his cloak, that there was a gulf of space between them; his reaction to these small touches was becoming increasingly obvious to him. As the hand on his cheek slipped down and stroked his neck, his throat, his collarbone, and slid coolly and firmly into his pajama top to stoke his shoulder and chest, he realized that that space and that cloak were no gift to him at all.

He stood almost entirely still, cold, damp grass under his feet, the prickly tendrils of the sedge next to him brushing wetly against his shin in the night breeze, transfixed, mouth open, being kissed with such nimble intense lips, with an agile tongue dipping gently and questioningly into his mouth; Harry felt a sudden rush of desire for motion, for movement, for an end to his passivity. That curious tongue sought out Harry's lower lip again and Harry, scared and trembling with something quite unlike fear, reached out his own tongue for a taste of this entirely fascinating stranger. He discovered first the soft upper lip, warm and moist now from its travels against him and within him, tasting of himself, of buttery nut bread, holidays, of marzipan and comfort and gingersnaps. He felt rather than heard an almost imperceptible groan, and while the fingers delicately restraining his hand began stroking his palm, the other hand curled, cradling his cheek and directing his jaw, Harry's tongue met the other.

He wondered now how he had ever understood beauty, or joy, or hatred, or love, or desire, or any intense feeling, any great, overwhelming surge of emotion before he had felt the small movements of this tongue against his own. How could he have lived without knowing what this could be like, without imagining distilling himself into this particular moment, in this span of time that existed only as a shared place between himself and this stranger, a space that could only exist between these two open mouths, these two parted lips. He felt dizzy, he clutched the fingers behind him, the hand on his cheek shifting into his hair, sliding down to the nape of his neck, holding him as if terrified to let him go.

Harry slid his tongue over these lips, teeth, soft palate; returning to stroke that hungry tongue again, to do its bidding, follow its lead. He pelted those lips with small kisses, drawing that quivering bottom lip between his own. He heard a sharp gasp, and felt the grip around his wrists falter, and the lips disappeared from his. He was breathing hard now, chest heaving, feeling equally desperate breaths against his face as the hand clutching around the back of his neck tightened, and a forehead pressed hotly against his own. Harry leaned forward, kissing a cool cheek, jaw, his tongue sliding over a warm neck. It tasted like night, like wind, cool and smooth and dry. The figured stepped back, a hand pulling his chin up. As quickly as they had disappeared, those lips, damp and cooled against the night air, reappeared, and two hands now cupped his face as lips danced lightly across his own.

Harry didn't realize what he was doing until after he had done it. His hands, free now, hung loosely at his sides for a moment, and then rose unbidden, responding to the gentle teasing against his lips. He wanted more, he wanted that tongue deep inside his mouth again, he wanted to feel flesh hot under his hands. His arms draped thoughtlessly across the wool-coated shoulders in front of him, finding a perfect perch. His hands touched the back of the hood, which pressed against his face, bending inwards. In an instant, those lips vanished, he felt the figure before him duck out of his awkward embrace and disappear. Harry gasped. What had he done? He stared blindly down at his hands, open in front of him but invisible in the darkness. He peered into the gloom before him, green light playing in the sky, and saw nothing, no hood, no vague form. His hands, traitorous, hung loosely at his sides. He stood still a moment, his head bowed, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach, feeling as though he might burst into tears. Gone. He closed his eyes, unwilling to move now, unwilling to look up, knowing there would be no evidence, no hints, no welcoming arms around him, no hot and desperate mouth suddenly seeking out his own again.

When Harry rejoined Hermione, she was pointing out stars among the white glow in the sky to Penelope Carter and Emma Bartleby, two first year Gryffindors. Ron, Neville, and Ginny were standing next to her, laughing at a group of Hufflepuffs who were attempting to play tag in the pitch darkness. No one seemed to have noted Harry's absence at all.

"Light travels at three hundred thousand kilometres per second, and yet, it still takes centuries to reach us." Hermione was saying to the two young girls. "That star there, Altair, it's a long, long ways away, you see? It might have gone supernova yesterday, or a hundred years ago, and we wouldn't know it. It might just be a lump of cold rock for all we know. It's like looking back in time, looking at stars. Messages in bottles, really. Oooh, look at that deep blue. The Gray Lady is really quite an artist, isn't she!" Harry looked up at the sky, rubbing the back of his neck, imaging that it wasn't his own fingers he felt against his skin.

Pansy had gone shopping in Hogsmeade the week before, and the week before that. She had spent hours browsing through shops, looking for just the right gift. Every year she gave Draco something for this birthday, and every year she knew she managed to find something better than the year before. It was always something small, something thoughtful. It was not a matter of 'what do you get the wizard who has everything'. Draco didn't have everything; he just had the most obvious things. His parents made sure that he had fine clothes, an excellent broom, top quality quills and parchments; he had everything a Hogwarts' student could conceivably need and keep within in the confines of a shared dorm room.

He had a signet ring, a delicate silver chain with only a tiny, ornate clasp as decoration that he wore around his neck, he had fine leather shoes that he kept well-polished. At Christmas time the year before she had seen his suite of rooms in his parents' home and had been surprised by their relative sparseness. She had expected that Draco Malfoy would sleep between silk sheets on a monstrously large bed, that he would have a small golden bell at his bedside to request attention. She had pictured large elegant paintings, chaises scattered about with tiger skins on the floor. She imaged that every doorknob would have a thick tassel hanging from it; every window would drip with cream sheers and velvet curtains; every corner decorated with an ivory bust and elegant end table. She expected pearls to roll down the stairs, dipped in gold, gathering prettily along the edges of every threshold. Pansy realized that she had an over-active imagination.

Draco's room, or, rather, rooms, were not anything like what she anticipated. He studied a great deal more than she had imagined; he had a room entirely dedicated to books, with a large desk covered with notebooks in front of the window. She had sat in a deep red leather wingback chair then, watching him pace back and forth, fingers sliding over the bindings until he found what he was looking for. He had a small potions laboratory, his own private store of ingredients that frankly rivaled Snape's. He had a cabinet filled with curiosities: an ancient cup made from a curled tusk; a large, opalesque shell that looked as if the figure of a woman had been etched into it by thousands of years of waves; a medieval reliquary ("It's still got the finger of St. Ambroise in it, would you like to see?"), a large, heavy bottle of water from the dead sea; a palm-sized piece of amber with a prehistoric scorpion inside which Pansy had held in her hand, feeling its odd warmth, its lightness. His sheets were cotton; straight and smooth and crisp.

She had been surprised in second year at how utterly delighted Draco had been when she presented him with a small music box, which, when opened, would play any of a small number of classical pieces; Water Music, Serenade for Strings, Canon in D, Für Elise. It was a small thing, a trinket with a slightly tinny sound, something she had picked up offhand in a shop in Diagon Alley before school started. Until then she hadn't known he like music at all. He had seemed too hateful for music somehow, as if he would never be able to quite hear it. The following year she had given him a creamy-paged and compact diary with a silver clasp and an old-fashioned key. It was these small things that pleased him best, the sorts of things that everyone had, the quiet pleasures of ordinary people.

They were all still a little sleepy after the strange awakening in the middle of the night. In the cold light of mid-afternoon the entire thing seemed mysterious and strange, the colours and electric shapes in the sky felt like a kind of vague dream peopled by the faceless and nameless. Pansy had never been one for crawling around in the dark; she was a morning person. She did her best work, her best thinking, and was in the best mood within the hours of eight and eleven in the morning. Now, as it approached three o'clock in the after noon, with dinner still at least three hours away and her eyelids feeling heavy, she finally managed to find Draco. He had slept late, and then had cloistered himself away with his letters and packages from his parents. He was sitting now in his chair by the fire, his eyes half-closed, wearing a pair of (new) linen slacks and a dark purple silk shirt. His mother's gifts, no doubt. She adored seeing her son in the best, nicest fabrics. The sliver chain tightened against his throat as he tensed, and then relaxed.

"Happy Birthday, Draco!" She said, laying a small box on the table beside him and sitting down in the chair opposite. He smiled.

"Thank you, Pansy." He lifted the box and shook it gently, waggling his eyebrows. She giggled at him.

"Oh! Just open it, silly!" she curled her legs up onto the chair. "I wondered if I would see you today at all. I'm exhausted after that odd outing last night. What do you make of that?" Pansy had been mildly impressed with the aurora borealis, but she rapidly got bored and tired and cold, and they stayed outdoors for an entire forty-five minutes before they trooped back up to bed. And even then she had had trouble falling asleep, still feeling damp and cold and shivery with exhaustion.

Draco merely grunted, and pulled at the ribbon on the box. He laid it delicately on his lap and removed the lid, pulling out the silvery contraption. He grinned. "I love these!"

"Oh, I thought you might. I have no idea what you see in those things." It was a puzzle, a trick. There were two silver pieces, one straight, and one a mess of curls and twists. There was a way to separate the two manually, apparently, though Pansy couldn't imagine what it would be, or why anyone would care to do something like this without magic. Yet she had watched Draco wrestle with delicate puzzles like it before, sitting with his lip in his teeth, thinking, his fingers stroking its surface. Pansy had forgotten about them altogether until she saw him obsessing over the riddles several weeks ago. At least, she thought, Potter won't beat him at this.

Draco put the box on the table and studied the puzzle carefully. Pansy watched his mouth, waiting for the telltale biting of his lip that announced his concentration. She placed her palms flat against the cold green armrests, feeling a warm glow in her belly as she watched. There was something erotic in watching Draco touch something that she had given him. This had always been true. For a moment she imagined that that small, delicate bit of silver that had rested so coolly in her hands not long before was really her, a piece of her, fascinating to Draco and worthy of such scrutiny. As he twisted it around, memorizing it, his fingers sliding over it, she imagined that should could feel him, his gaze heavy as his fingertips against her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She watched his bottom lip roll back behind his front teeth and emerge again slightly dampened and red. His mouth opened, and then he smiled. Clink. With the sound of metal against metal, Draco pulled the two pieces apart.

7  The Dream Eater

All the world turns to his will--
he does not know worse--
but then arrogance grows;
the guardian of his soul
sleeps. That sleep is
too heavy, bound with affliction,
and the killer very near
who shoots his bow
with evil intent.
Then he is hit
in the heart,
beneath his armor,
with a bitter arrow--
he cannot guard himself
against the perverse commands
of his accursed spirit.
–Beowulf

There is a story about Hogwarts that floats around from student to student. It's one of those stories that no one ever asks adults about, and so is never confirmed or denied. No one seeks confirmation of it; it is too mythical-sounding to be taken seriously. It begins at the beginning of time, with a creature. In some stories the creature is red and breathes fire; in some it is transparent, and its tears fill oceans. In all of them, the creature wakes when the earth is still burning, next to its mate. Together the enjoy the new world, shaping mountains, laying their feet in lava and digging out valleys and plains. They picnic on firey flowers, and forests spring up from the remains of their lunch. They scratch at the earth and bring forth the first spring of water, they marvel at it and drink. It tastes like nothing they've ever imagined before. It tastes like dreams. They are happy.

Then one day the creature's mate dies. There are a variety of stories about how this happens; the mate is thrown from a mountain, bitten by a poisonous beast, drinks too much water and is converted into a new kind of creature. The mate becomes air; earth; fire. In any case, the mate of the creature is gone, and there is wailing over the earth for two hundred years. And when the mourning song is finished, the creature curls upon itself and decides to sleep. The earth is still hot, and softens underneath the creature, making a space for it. And the creature decides that it has had enough of this world, and will sleep until it the earth is cool and then it will drift away. The new earth moves around it; mountains rise and fall over the sleeping form. And millennia go by.

There is a reason, they say, why there were no muggles on the spot where Hogwarts is built; there is a reason why Hogsmeade is free from them. For thousands of years muggles would discovers this spot, beautiful, perched on a cool, clear lake; next to a mountain; a clean, fertile plain, swamp, meadowland. They would attempt to claim it, and the spot with throw them off. They would stick a spade into the ground and the ground would grow angry and send them away. It would push them into water, face first; it would turn to quicksand and swallow them whole. It throw up trees around them; destroy their crops. It would fill in any holes they dug with mud and stones and clay. There were many stories of men being driven mad by the spot, found crawling through the forest with pebbles in their ears, rabbit's blood on their chins, babbling about the creature under the earth. Eventually the muggles decided to stay away. "It's a haunted place," they muttered to each other. "The earth doesn't want us there."

When Hogwarts was erected on this spot, there was no argument with the creature. They say that it was Salazar Slytherin who managed to talk to it, to soothe it, to determine its demands, to come to an agreement. The creature had not spoken in millennia; it had forgotten that there was such a thing as speech. They agreed not to disturb it, they explained that here they would teach their magical young. The creature was pleased with communication, it was pleased with the delicate and fragile minds of these new creatures. It agreed to let them stay, perched on its back. And after a time the creature developed a taste for the dreams of children.

It is not voyeurism, per se. The creature does not understand the cares and concerns of mortals. But there is a quality of the dreams of children that tastes to the creature the way that that first drink of water did; a cool freshness against it's black tongue that was reassuring and calming. And so the dreams of children help keep the creature under Hogwarts content.

"The creature eats your dreams," the upper years tell the firsties. "You won't remember them anymore, because the creature eats them. And if you do remember them, the creature will come to get you, because you stole its dinner!" The laugh and go back to eating their chicken pasties and green beans and pumpkin soup.

There are many stories about Hogwarts. It is true that the students rarely remember their dreams; but then, so few people do.

In the dream he is lying in bed in the darkness. He is aware of a faint chitter, a squeaking along the floorboards somewhere nearby, the soft groan of a castle centuries old settling into the night. The chittering is growing louder, footsteps approaching him, and then running away. He knows, somehow, that the footsteps belong to the person who kissed him in the darkness, whom he now knows with complete certainty is a boy, a beautiful, soft, gentle boy with haunting black eyes and long curling tendrils of dark hair wrapping around his nude body like vines. Harry feels that he has just woken, that moments before the gentle boy was lying in bed next to him, that this noisy waking has just frightened him away. He can still feel his warmth next to him against the blankets, and as he reaches out an exploring hand, his fingers curl around the stem of a stray leaf.

Harry rises, his feet uncertain and weak against the cold stone floor. He must find the boy again, and he's not sure if he needs to protect him or be protected by him. Harry finds that he is dressed in his Quiddtich robes, his broom brushes against his leg with each step, dropping twigs as he walks, leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel as he moves to the door, opens it, and finds himself in the Forbidden Forest. Suddenly he is very afraid. He searches for the boy, but every time he thinks he has found him, he touches a wet tree covered with leaves; a delicate statue draped in vines; a ghost who smiles seductively at him and then disappears. He hears footsteps again, bare feet slapping against stone. A splash.

He can see something moving in the darkness, something floating just above the ground. He wants to run, run back out of the forest, back to school, he wants to hide under his bed. He turns and he finds that he is standing against a wall that reaches up into the sky, dripping with moisture and covered with moss. He hears a hiss behind him. Suddenly remembering his broom, he hops on and floats slowly and haltingly up, inch by inch. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to move any faster. He hears the hissing growing louder, and hears words in a strange language. He pulls against the moss on the walls, trying to speed his ascent. The moss comes off in his hands like the dry, dead skin of a corpse, and his hand is full of worms. He feels something soft against his face, and realizes that it's the long, vine-like hair of the boy.

He is no longer in the forest. He is back in his bed, with warm arms wrapped around him. He feels naked breasts against his back, lips on his shoulder, a hot thigh curling over his hip. The boy, it turns out, is a girl, and her long hair is draped across his waist. Overwhelmed with curiosity he turns to see her, a tight longing for her growing in his lower stomach. But there is no one there. He smells leaves, and cries.

She is sitting in history class, and she isn't wearing any clothes. She can't believe it. How did she get to Professor Binn's class like this? How did she walk out of her dorm room without noticing that she didn't have clothes on? Why didn't anyone stop her? She clutches her knees together and pretends everything is perfectly normal. Somehow she knows that if she stays very still, no one will notice. It is as if there are clothes painted on the air for her, and as long as she stays in this precise spot, no one will know that she is actually naked. She is so embarrassed, but she is not cold. She is making plans. I will wait until the others leave, I will make an excuse. I'm looking for something, or my foot is asleep. No no, you go on ahead.

Draco is sitting in front of her, staring out the window, her wand between his fingers. She wants it back, but secretly enjoys seeing it in his hands. He twists it around taps the glass with it, scrapes it against the stone wall. He bends it between his hands and breaks it with a sharp snap, but it knits back together instantly, as somehow she knows it would. He turns around and stares at her. She still has not moved, and hopes that he will not see her without clothes, her arms lying nonchalantly across her chest. He looks bored, and drops the wand on her desk. It rolls down and drops on her bare lap, feeling like his fingers. It clatters to the floor, and she cannot lean to and pick it up.

He turns around again, and looks out the window. She can hear people screaming outside suddenly, crowds of people. She knows, somehow, that they are muggles, that they are storming the school. They hate wizards and witches and want to kill them all. Their hands are plying at the windows, and Draco is watching them. Pansy knows that he doesn't understand who they are, what they want. Fingers curl around the glass, pulling the window apart, reaching for Draco. When she tries to scream, to warn him, to tell him to move away from the window, she finds that she has no voice. Draco is staring at them, confused, and then suddenly he is gone. The fingers have pulled him through the window, and the voices are gone. Professor Binns is still speaking, and she still hasn't moved. Goyle is dooding in his notebook; Crabbe has fallen asleep on his desk. Millicent is twirling her hair between her fingers.

Before she knows it class is over and the room is empty. She rises, walks to the front of the class, and wraps herself in a stray piece of drapery. Now, she thinks, how shall I get back to the dorm without being noticed?

Before Ron fell sleep, he saw Harry sitting at the window, looking out into the night. He sighed. Harry had been a little absent lately, looking thoughtful. They had had a difficult day; Snape had yelled at Harry, Malfoy had teased him in the corridor; Lavender had accidentally stepped on his ankle when she rushed out of divination class on her way to the girl's room. He walked with a bit of a limp for a good hour after that. They had served roast beef with gravy for dinner, one of Ron's favourites; Harry had spilled gravy on his sweater and Seamus and Dean had laughed at him. Professor McGonagall had been unimpressed when Harry had transfigured a paperclip into a pencil instead of a picture frame.

"Harry?" He mumbled. Harry turned and looked at him. "Aren't you going to sleep?"

"Yeah, soon." He said. He opened the window and looked out. Ron heard the rush of the wind whipping around the tower, the soft hooting of owls, and drifted off to sleep.

He finds himself in a damp corridor. What he knows is that he needs to get back to school; he has left Hogwarts without permission, he his mortified. Why did he do that? Why on earth did he come to this place? He's going to be in so much trouble. He knows he can just turn and leave, the exit is behind him, but he's left his potions homework sitting on the table in the middle of the room on his left. He thinks that he can just duck in there, grab his homework, and nip off outside. He wonders if he's left his broom there, he had no memory of getting here.

Before he can think more about this, he notices that the room is jam packed with people. He has no idea who they are; they are all standing in the room, quiet, shoulder to shoulder. They are carrying weapons; knives, wands, stones, crossbows; various medieval-looking instruments with chains, spikes and metal balls. He can see his homework sitting there on the small table in the middle of the room (it's due in seven minutes), but getting it will be a struggle. Suddenly, looking into the room, seeing the cloaked and he is overwhelmed with a sense of power. He is fast; he is smooth and slick; he is strong. He pulls off his robes and realizes that he has wings.

His wings are thick and brown, like an owl's. He stretches them out and it feels very good; as though he's kept them tucked up behind him for far too long. He runs into the room, dodging left and right, rolling on the ground, grabbing for his homework and jumping into the air. But it's not his homework in his hands at all; it's Hermione, unconscious, and the people in the room are shouting furiously. He flights up into the air and heads for a tall, window glinting in the moonlight. He clutches Hermione to his chest, protecting her head with his arm, and breaks through the glass effortlessly, shards of paperly glass floating around him. The voices behind him cease; he is stronger than them, and faster than them. He flies back to Hogwarts, his legs kicking vaguely as though he's underwater. He flies so high that houses look tiny down below him; little streams and rivers, smoke rising, lights flickering on and off. Hermione feels nearly weightless in his arms. She is carrying his homework.

He wakes up suddenly. He is panting, and scared, but doesn't remember why anymore. He feels nervous about his foot dangling over the edge of the bed and pulls in back under his blankets, tucking it under his knee. What had he been dreaming about? He can hear Crabbe's snoring; Draco's even breathing. Everything else is shrouded in darkness and silence.

There had been a baby. Yes, that was it. A baby, and it was his own. He had given birth to it himself in the dream. He came out of his stomach painlessly, this bundle of pink, covered with blood and squalling. He didn't know where it had came from, and oddly, no one had laughed at him. His friends were there, as he lay on a cot in the hospital wing. Draco had smiled, the baby squeezing his finger with its tiny hands. It was wrapped in a cloak, and Goyle worried that the material was too rough for a newborn.

He went to class with his baby, who gurgled and giggled and smelled like power and lotion and warmth. Everyone was very jealous of him, because with the baby he could do things no one else could do; he got the best grades, everyone wanted to be his friend, he could be invisible when he wanted to. He could overhear conversations, read people's minds, make money appear out of thin air. He was on the front page of the Daily Prophet every day. He became a Quidditch star, his baby kept safe under his arm.

That was when the dream got terribly scary. It was Harry Potter who lost it. Goyle had just caught the snitch. The rules had changed, even the beaters could catch it and win. And catch it he had. Everyone was cheering, even the baby, tucked against his chest in a white blanket. And then it happened.

Harry Potter swooped in on his fancy broom and gave him a look. Goyle knew he was jealous, knew that Harry Potter was secretly evil and wanted to destroy him in any way possible. Need to win this Quidditch match or else he would be a nobody. But Goyle had beat him, and now he was angry. He grabbed the baby with one hand, pulling it easily from Goyle's chest, it's white blanket flapping in the breeze. Goyle reached to grab it back when Harry Potter dropped it.

Goyle froze, watching the baby fall through the air, not flipping around, just falling straight down, its eyes looking straight into his the whole time. No matter how far away it got, Goyle could still see its eyes; calm, peaceful, sad, and knowing.

Goyle woke up before the baby hit the ground. He shook his head. Baby? By the time he rubbed his eyes and turned over, the dream was gone.

She is sitting in a large auditorium filled with well-dressed people. They are all whispering excitedly. They have come to see a play; it is supposed to be the best play in the world. The Minister of Magic himself is there, wearing an elegant silver cloak. He is sitting next to a beautiful witch with bright red lips, a woman who Millicent notes is not his wife. There is a large, slimy green frog sitting next to her, wearing a suit. No one thinks this is odd, and neither does Millicent. The frog looks friendly, so she leans over and asks, "What's the name of this play again?"

"What," the frog says, aghast. "You don't know? You of all people—"

Just then the lights went out and the curtain went up. The frog was quiet, and a Professor Spout stepped on to the stage. She was wearing a pink tutu and a long red cape. She cleared her throat. "We have a slight problem," she began. "We seem to have— Oh! Millicent! There you are!"

Suddenly everyone turned and looked at her. She could see light glinting off a monacle here and there, off opera glasses and diamonds.

"Millicent!" Professor Sprout was saying. "Come up on stage! We need you, darling!" The frog pulls her to her feet. She doesn't understand what's going on. Soon she is standing on the stage. She is also wearing a tutu. There are lights on her, and she realizes suddenly that she is the star of this show, that it is all her and only her. She has no idea what the play is about. She looks into the audience, looking for a program with the name of the play on it. It's too dark to see much, and whenever she almost sees a bit of the title, someone puts the hand over it. She only knows that it starts with an M.

At a loss for what to do, she starts to dance. Suddenly the stage is covered with water; she is slipping and falling, standing back up and dancing again. Now that she's started she can't stop. The crowd is laughing, and the water on the stage gets deeper and deeper. Soon she is up to her knees in water, spinning around dancing, jumping up and down. There is no music. Professor Sprout is watching her unhappily from the wings.

"If you can't do better, Millicent, I'll have to give you a poor grade in herbology."

After the others have fallen asleep, Neville is still lying awake. He isn't crying anymore, just staring up into the darkness. He received an owl from his grandmother today. She told him something that was not meant to upset him, but did nonetheless. They were able to take your mother out of restraints today. The details of his mother's confinement are profoundly disturbing to Neville. When he was small they prettied his mother and father up for him; they put them in armchairs, sedated them slightly, put flowers in their hands. He would sit on their laps, under close observation, and cuddle into their chests like a puppy, watching his mother chew on a flower petal. As an adult, ostensibly, his grandmother had let him in on some of the details, perhaps to make him feel more connected. He listens to it dutifully, and he even requests news when it's not immediately offered. He has come to understand this part of his life as a kind of punishment. When he hears the stories of restraints and medication and violence and words mumbled and the impact of diet of their mental state, he thinks about the potions he has ruined that day, spells he muffed up, passwords forgotten, the times he didn't pay attention in class. It is right that he suffer like this. It is his job to endure.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of gray. He is in a gray box, with gray walls, gray ceiling. He is wearing striped gray clothes; the room is filled with books, all illegible because the ink is the same gray as the page. When he looks at his hands, he sees that his skin is gray too.

The dream begins in the usual way. She is lying on a couch, leaning back against Harry, who is playing with her long black hair. It is draped over his lap, and tucked over the arm of the couch, the tips of it dragging along the floor. In this dream he takes a pair of scissors and cuts her hair in chunks. She is not worried about this; in fact, each cut feels wonderful. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the feeling of the scissors slicing thickly and audibly through her hair. The gentle tug against her scalp feels like fingers lightly stroking her. For every cut, Harry leans over kisses her lightly on her lips, the scissors behind her head closing with a firm, metallic snip as he does. She is wearing her new corset, a long red dress, and fishnet stockings. She has shiny black shoes as well, but they are sitting on the floor beside the couch; her ankles are crossed delicately on the arm of the couch. There is a growing pile of extraordinarily long hair on the floor, which moves around like dying fish, or like snakes.

The door opens. (Snip. Kiss.) She watches black-booted feet walk into the room, sinking into the thick Persian carpet. She hears wind, and a door closes somewhere else in the house. The figure now standing in front of her is wearing Quidditch robes, in green and gray. Ginny feels something in the pit of her stomach and her eyes travel up the body standing there. (Snip. Kiss.) She sees his chest heaving, the snake on his patch just under his left shoulder is slithering around the silvery borders. His mouth is open, as if he is about to speak, or he is about to kiss someone.

Suddenly she's not lying on the couch anymore. She's standing in a field, still wearing her corset and long red skirt. She has not been crying. She is radiant, and her hair is still long and is brushing on the ground. She is standing face to face with Draco Malfoy. He grabs her by the neck and kisses her hard and passionately. She moans and wonders where Harry is. Ginny hasn't noticed that Draco has pulled out his own pair of scissors, which are more like gardening shears. She knows that he is doing this, pulling them out from behind them, the varnish wearing thing on the old wooden handles, before her dream self knows. She feels a deep regret at not being able to warn her dream self. When she finally does notices the shears in Draco hands, she sees that there are pieces of grass stuck the blades, as if Draco had just trimmed the edge of the lawn. She smells grass, and pumpkin juice, leaves. Her lips still pressed against his, which are oddly cold, she feels him cutting off her hair. (Snip. Snip. Snip.)

This time she is afraid. With Harry she knew her hair would come back; somehow no matter how much he cut off, she never lost any hair. But Draco cut it all off. He stepped back from her, and she could feel a cool breeze against the back of her neck, and something dripping. Her hair was bleeding, the cutting was too violent. She started to cry. Draco grinned, and, holding the shears in two hands, shoved the point into her chest.

He can walk through walls. That's how he knows that it's a dream. Draco often has lucid dreams, and he doesn't think that this is strange or unusual, even when he's awake. In this dream, he runs through the halls and into strange rooms through portraits, who look confused as they see him pass through them. He sees McGonagall sitting quietly at her desk, he peers over her shoulder to see his grades. Professor Binns still lecturing as if there are students in his class room long after everyone has gone to bed; he lectures about sex, cruelty, and the relationship between cats and historical change when he is alone. Next he runs through the Ravenclaw sixth year dorms and sees a naked shoulder poking out from a blanket, a foot, a mess of curly hair against a pillow. There is a large tree growing in the centre of the Ravenclaw common room, with a dead Raven tied against its trunk. He runs through the dungeons and sees Snape sniffing at a potions bottle, his left leg a thick, green tentacle.

The more he runs the better he feels. The walls pass over and around him like water, like air rushing through his hair during a Quidditch game. When he finds himself at the foot of Harry's bed, he stops. He watches Harry's chest rise and fall gently, his eyes only half shut. He is wearing his glasses; his arms are spread wide against the blankets. Draco forgets that he is dreaming, forgets that he has dreamed of running through walls to get here. He forgets that it is at least strange, if not impossible, for him to be standing in the Gryffindor dorm room in the middle of the night. He presses his forehead against the post of Harry's bed.

For the moment Draco isn't sure if Harry is awake or asleep. His eyes are fluttering behind his glasses. Draco feels certain he is being watched. He knows all of a sudden that Harry is awake, and that when Draco kissed him on his birthday Harry knew exactly who it was. He knew that it as him and he was disappointed that it had ended so abruptly. He was disappointed that Draco had not been brave enough to come to him. Draco stands still in the moonlight, gripping the bedpost tightly with one hand, running his fingers through his hair with the other. He climbs on to the foot of Harry's bed and waits for a reaction. He is terrified. Harry is naked and gleams in the moonlight; his scar is glowing, but Draco doesn't find this out of place.

Suddenly Harry starts to speak. Draco can see his mouth moving, but hears nothing. He sits up, blankets falling around him, looking confused, anxious, and then angry as he speaks. He seems to be asking questions, but Draco can't hear him. Harry's hands ball into fists against his blankets. Draco looks at him in confusion. He tries to answer, to explain, but as he opens his mouth, bits of paper fall out instead of sounds. Without looking at them Draco knows what the paper is; it is pieces of his letters, his diaries, the ones he went through on his birthday and tore to shreds and burned. He knows that the bits of paper say terribly damning things; about Death Eaters, mudbloods, his fathers secrets, old curses he has memorized, fantasies he's had about Harry. Fantasies about killing him, fantasies about fucking him. Draco is embarrassed, he tries to grab the pieces up, but Harry is too fast. He is reading something out loud, he is laughing.

Harry stands up, no longer naked, but wearing his school robes. He picks Draco up as if he's a ragdoll and walks over to the window. Draco looks up and sees himself, another version of himself, hovering on his broomstick, transparent, smirking. His transparent self curls into smoke, and then turns into his father, his signet ring pressed against his cheek, a quill in his hand. He is writing an obituary. Harry opens the window and drops Draco out. Suddenly he is no longer at Hogwarts, but is at the top of a deep cavern, red with blood and silent. As he falls, Draco does not know that this is a dream. When he wakes he is screaming.

8 Mano e Mano

She watched from the sidelines, for the most part. Rolanda Hooch was keeping an eye on the combatants, and Minerva McGonagall was able to watch the proceedings relatively undisturbed from her inelegant perch on the bench seats along the wall of the boys gymnasium. It was an old and rarely-used space, with oiled, knotted ropes hanging from the ceiling against the wall, a dank-smelling leather pommel horse and a springboard in one cobwebby corner, a series of ancient mats (now khaki coloured, but God knows what colour they started out) piled up sideways against the wall behind her.

There had been a time when too much air was thought to be a bad thing. Quidditch had not been quite a poplar as it now was, and the Hogwarts students found themselves thrice weekly in this godforsaken hole in the wall to stretch and bounce and climb. It was conveniently placed directly opposite the Hogwarts damp and rather moldy-smelling dungeons, far from that inappropriate fresh air. High up on the walls the windows were open, and the night air danced hesitatingly across the ceiling, rarely travelling down to meet her sweating palms.

Ever since the Tri-Wizard tournament had begun a couple of years before, they had been holding small, informal fencing matches for groups of interested students at intervals during the year down here in the old gymnasium. The chose the boys gym because it was larger; it was also the one that had windows, which at least gave Minerva the respite of looking up, so that she didn't feel as though the dungeons were about to swallow her. She was not a fan of the dungeons, but it was too cold and too dark to hold these tournaments outside at this time of year, and the Great Hall was already spoken for. The current series of matches had generated quite a following, however, and she was far from the only observer. They had a healthy number of combatants from each house, and a rough set of heats had been sketched out. Rolanda Hooch had a wonderful mind for scores and tallies and heats and determining who played who played who. The list was posted against the far wall, just over a large Victorian scale, in bright red ink, and results were added in blue as soon as each match ended.

The competition this time around had been surprisingly fierce; the Hufflepuffs and beaten the Ravenclaws already, but had met their match with the Slytherins. She glanced at her watch. By nine-thirty the Hufflepuff contenders were settling in to watch the last of the battles, and the a group of Ravenclaws had pulled down some of the mats and were curling up on the them, gossiping, giggling, pointing, placing bets. This would be a late night. Fortunately the following day was Saturday, and they had already ordered a prolonged and informal breakfast in anticipation. She suspected it would be close to eleven before all the equipment was returned and eldest students were trotting off to bed.

What was nice about fencing, Minerva noted, as that it was almost impossible to cheat. The foils, sharp as they were, were not able to cause actual damage; even if a student attempted to ram one through the chest of another, the spells on them would simply shorten the blade on impact. Of course, that trick was wildly popular, and she had given more than a few stern looks to students happily stabbing each other silly instead of fencing. Those younger students had already been trundled off to bed.

Holding intramural fencing matches had been her suggestion this time around, in fact. When the Hogwarts champion turned out to be the unlikely team of a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff a couple of years ago at the Tri-Wizard tournament, the Slytherins in particular had rapidly lost interest. Most of them weren't particularly enthusiastic about routing for either of the foreigners, nor for Harry or Cedric (that poor, poor dear, rest his soul), and when a couple of sixth years were caught trying to dig up the Whomping Willow (apparently planning to replant it in the middle of the herbology garden, or in the courtyard, or, God forbid, in the Gryffindor common room), she knew something had to be done to keep them occupied. It was then that she remembered the old fencing equipment.

Fencing went in and out of style at Hogwarts over the years. In her own fourth year, Minerva remembered it being wildly popular; not quite as popular as Quidditch, of course, but at the time there was a host of madly competitive fifth years who had used fencing as the grounds for their personal grudge match. Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor, from her fourth to her sixth year, was where the non-Quidditch action was. She remembered William Hathaway and Avery Peterson clashing foils madly in the last battle in her sixth year, scores equal, blue sparks indicating hits, while the students, sitting in newly-conjured stands in the boys' gymnasium, held their breaths. The two boys had just turned eighteen, within a week of each other. They battled for the top grades in all of their classes, and were always within a point or two of each other. She remembered the look of fierce determination on Avery's freckled face as William bit his lips and narrowed his eyes, foil at the ready. Avery had won. Back in the Gryffindor common room, it had felt as though they had won the House Cup.

She was a more Quidditch player, really; the only girl on the Gryffindor team. It was unusual at the time for a girl to be selected first string. There were still no women at all on the professional teams, and many parents frowned on girls flying around like that, fast, competitively, at all hours of the day or night. There was an old witches' tale that too much fast flying stretched out the womb and made women give birth to deformed babies.

Her own grandmother had turned white when she learned that Minerva had been chosen for the Gryffindor team. Her mother had been proud, though, taking her to the shops, thoroughly appalled when they discovered that they carried no Quidditch clothes for girls.

"Well then." Her mother had announced haughtily. "Show me what you have for the boys." Her mother had stared pointedly at the salesgirl, whose mouth was hanging open. She repeated herself, loudly.

Minerva tried on sixteen sets of Quidditch robes before her mother found one she approved of, and even then she complained about the frankly appalling "sexist decision not to stock Quidditch-wear for women. What century do you think this is? Goodness gracious." She remembered that it was sixteen sets of robes she tried on because she had turned sixteen two weeks before. The symmetry of the numbers had seemed profound at the time, fateful and promising. She stood in front of the mirror in the shop, the salesgirl bustling about trying not to stare, the outfit, too long in the arms and low at the hip, making her look boyish and childish at the same time. She looked into the mirror and saw a Quidditch player. She was thrilled. Her mother paid for the robes brusquely and then took her home, where she altered the robes to fit Minerva's small frame. In the pictures she looks like a poster girl; there's an aura of newness around her always, even in the team pictures, her robes splattered with mud and her hair disheveled. She, like her robes, was altered, somehow.

Minerva hadn't really understood the appeal of fencing until Avery explained it to her. "I don't like to fly," he said. He ran is fingers through his hair. "Not even on areoplanes. Do you know about areoplanes?" Avery was muggle-born. He was the only person Minerva knew who came from a strictly muggle family, and she was frankly fascinated by it. Not that Avery needed to be muggle-born to be fascinating; the freckles on his cheeks, his large, strong hands, the curve of his shoulder, everything about him was fascinating to Minerva. He skipped stones across the lake while she watched, and she couldn't believe he did it without any magic at all. He said that being with her was electric; she liked that word. Electric.

He told her about the precision; the way the weight of the foil vanished when you held it just right. Like chess, but faster and without the pieces; looking into your opponent's eyes and seeing yourself. Pretending not to be only you for a moment, but him as well. Your body tensed like the strings of a violin; the sweet music of foil against foil. The utter lack of magic. It was this that confused Minerva, and appealed to Avery.

"It's like…well. Magic is wonderful and all that, but this is just your body, Min. Do you know what I mean? Just your body, against another, no magic, just thought, and skill, and strength, and the will to win. Anticipating. It's mind and body, no magic, no tricks. No glamour. And I get to keep my feet on the floor." How she adored him.

That fall, with the Tri-Wizard Tournament in full swing, she couldn't even remember where they kept the fencing equipment anymore. She looked at the glum Slytherins and the bored Ravenclaws, and even at the restless Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and decided that a little fencing might be just what was needed here. Side competition, something to distract the others. Maybe, if they were lucky, they might get another house rivalry started, to keep the troublemakers from causing trouble in unexpected directions. She had approached Rolanda on the green as the first years filed into the broomshed, returning equipment with shaky hands after a lesson.

"Oh, Minerva. What a great idea!" She had said, yellow eyes widening. "I used to fence a bit in my school days." She modeled a fencing stance, hand on her hip, a long, stray twig from a boom in her hand.

For about two weeks prior to the current competition, they had run instructional sessions for all interested students, handing out rather the battered-looking foils while Minerva helped some of the younger and smaller students transfigure their old sweaters into proper fencing jackets, wool hats into masks. This year there had been considerable interest, and Minerva found herself reminiscing. She watched as Harry battled Terry Boot in a fierce but decidedly good-natured fashion, the two of them avoiding final blows that would end their face-off too quickly. They shouted encouragement at each other through their masks. But the real drama seemed to be brewing across the room, where Draco Malfoy stood with his mask under one arm, a piece of parchment in his hand, and his eyes firmly trained on Harry.

She had seen the Malfoy owl careen into the gym, drop the letter in front of Draco and perch fitfully on a rail beside him Draco had just finished neatly and quickly defeating his Hufflepuff challenger (she had not known that Malfoys were fencers, but Draco had come equipped with his own foil and even a proper pair of fencing trainers) and he bit his lip as he read the parchment. Lucius Malfoy appeared to have words for his boy, and clearly they were no simple parental encouragements. She shook her head. He looked over at Harry, who was clumsily fending off an attack, and looked back at the parchment. He sighed. Taking a quill from the bench beside Rolanda, Draco scrawled something quickly on the back on the parchment, folded it, and tied it to the owl's leg. While the last Ravenclaw-Slytherin match ended in a burst of cheers from the Slytherin side, Minerva watched the Malfoy owl rise in lazy circles through the gymnasium up to the windows, and disappear into the darkness.

Harry had finished his match victorious, and was pulling off his mask, unzipping his jacket, fanning his face with his gloves. Draco raised his foil from across the room and pointed at Harry. "Mano e mano, Potty, " he shouted. The Slytherins laughed. Harry rolled his eyes.

Those two were nothing but trouble, it was true. From the night six years ago when she had found Draco out of bed, whining and complaining about Harry and Ron out after curfew to yesterday at their Care of Magical Creatures class, when she had watched from her window as Draco pointed at Ron Weasley, laughing, clearly making some kind of derogatory comment, and seeing Harry's explosion of righteous indignation, it had been clear that these two boys did nothing if not cause stir one another into a fury. She was fairly certain that they were honestly out to destroy the other, and wondered how close they could come to it, once they left this place. It as good versus evil, the decent, upright hero versus the villain, the unicorn versus the ogre. They fought like wet cats in a barrel, is what it came down to.

As a teacher she was horrified by their behaviour. She knew where it led, she knew what kind of injury and destruction the unfettered rage (righteous or otherwise) of teenaged boys could lead to. As a witch with a sense of humour, however, she was madly amused by them. She was entirely certain that their strange and extremely intense rivalry had actually been rather good for the other students over the last six years; like the Ravenclaw/Gryffindor rivalry that grew up around Avery and William when she was a student, Harry and Draco's odd little drama distracted the students (and very often the staff as well) from the dark tidings that wafted in from the world at large. The story of Draco turning into a ferret still got a chuckle in the staff lounge from everyone but Severus, who instead raised a rather dour eyebrow.

She kept an eye on Draco, wondering if his current plan would land him a detention or not, and how severe the punishment would have to be. These things did take some forethought, after all. She could already tell from the hoots and hollers from the adjacent boys locker room that there would be a right mess in there. Perhaps if the infraction were not too severe, she could have them tidy up in there without magic…or, there was always waxing the floor on the fifth floor ballroom if it was much worse. From the buzz in the room, she guessed that the cards of fate had planned just what everyone was secretly hoping to see; a Harry/Draco match in the face of a Gryffindor/Slytherin tie. Mano e mano indeed.

Draco,

Please meet me by the lake at 11:30pm tonight. I have had an urgent summons from Lord V. and your presence would be prudent. Be punctual.

L.

Father,

I’m afraid I've been given a detention tonight. I beat Potter in a fencing match, and McGonagall decided to punish me for it. I will try my hardest to meet you, but if I'm not there in time, I have not evaded capture.

I'm sorry.

D.

They stood facing each other on the mat while Madam Hooch attempted to convince some of the younger and grumpily-tired Gryffindors to head off to bed, as it was nearly eleven and the match had not yet even begun. Draco was holding his own foil, not one of the grubby school ones, its tip pressed into the suede of his shoe, stifling a yawn. His foil was silver, inlaid with gold, and had been a Christmas gift. It came in a long, thin, cedar box lined with velvet, and was brighter, shinier, and more comfortable to hold than those dreadful standard issue two-hundred year old pieces of vaguely rusted metal Potter seemed more than happy to use. It had his name engraved along the side of the hilt, as if anyone could possibly mistake it for anyone else's. He pressed down on the foil, its grip still warm in his hand from his last victory, feeling the pressure of the tip against his toes, feeling it bend against his weight.

He had taken an interest in fencing a couple of years before, but since there had never been more than a handful of students at Hogwarts prepared to take it seriously after that first year, he hadn't had too much real practice. Last Christmas, rather than hang around at his parents' deadly dull parties being eyed by husky-looking Death Eaters, he would often go down in to the sub basements of Malfoy Manor looking for the ghost of his great-great-great uncle Luis, who enjoyed a decent round or two. The only drawback was that Draco had to imagine the feeling of foil hitting foil, the pressure of an opponent's will against his own, the sound it made. His father had hired him a fencing instructor for a few months while he was home that summer, which had been great fun. There was something appealing to him about this game; highly structured and elegant, yet brutal, physical, and calculating. He slept better after a fierce series of rounds, as if the motions of fighting and fighting back sated his inner demons for a while.

Now the certainty of that solid grip in his hand fought something both more and less demonic inside him.

"Care to make this interesting, Potter?" He still held his mask under one arm, watching Harry awkwardly attempt to zip up his jacket.

"Interesting? I'm sure beating you will be interesting enough for my taste, Malfoy." So cocky. So confident. Had he not been watching? Draco was disappointed. Was he not nervous about meeting him like this, finally? Had he not seen his effortless parries and feints? How there had not been one of these little duels that had even been a remote challenge to him? His lips twitched. Ah, it was all a show with Potter. The game of confidence. He could play that game too.

"Let me see…" He narrowed his eyes. "If you win…Ah yes. I know." He took two rapid steps forward, grabbed his mask and foil in one hand, reached up and grabbing Harry behind the neck and hauling him closer. Potter struggled for a moment, suddenly off-balance, about to pull away, to drop his equipment and get a stranglehold on him until Draco leaned forward, his lips barely an inch from Potter's ear and whispered, "if you win, I won't tell McGonagall about the mudblood stealing books out of the restricted section." Potter stopped struggling, his eyes going wider for a moment. He was clutching at his foil in one hand, mask in the other, his jacket still half unzipped in the back and hanging loosely off his shoulder. Draco reminded himself not to move his fingers along that overwarm neck, that this was a motion of violence and domination, not desire. Not desire.

"Oh yes," he said. "I know about that. I also know that you've been trying to become an animagus without permission, isn't that right?" Whatever Potter was about to say froze on his half-parted lips.

Draco was so close he could feel Harry's breath quicken against his cheek. For a moment he forgot where he was, he forgot that Madam Hooch was turning around, having shooed some students to bed, and would be coming over to him in a matter of moments to prepare for their duel.

He forgot that Professor McGonagall was sitting at the benches across the room, no doubt watching him. He even forgot about the response he had just sent to his father, and the consternation it would no doubt cause. He forgot how conflicted he was about lying to his father about this; why was he here? Why was he doing this? Why didn't he just beat Potter and move on?

In the time it took to shut his eyes and then open them again, to shift his finger against the rough mesh of his mask, he relived the sensation of these lips against his neck, the surprised and unselfconscious and desperate groan that escaped from between them, those stray arms on his shoulders. In the flash of a memory he smelled cool November air, damp skin, wet grass and wool and a sweet smell, like cantaloupe and strawberries and cream, like marzipan and cotton balls, fresh sheets, industrial soap, and something else, something richer, like chocolate and rain and pussy willows. When he opened his eyes again he was relieved to find that he had not moved, he had not betrayed himself. Potter was nearly shaking with anger and confusion. His lips were slightly chapped.

"Well," he whispered, gripping Potter by the neck a little tighter. "Don't act so surprised. So. If you win, I'll keep your little secrets. For the moment." Draco released him and stepped back, seeing madam Hooch raising her eyebrow and looking impatiently at them.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, are we ready? It's awfully late, and you should really be in bed," she noted primly. Potter's little friends were drooping against each other on the benches, though the mudblood's eyes were pinned firmly on Draco. She must have seen his little exchange with Potter, and seemed suspicious. Perfect.

Madam Hooch tut-tutted at Potter. "Your jacket's undone, Harry, turn around and let me—" There was a giant bang,, and a muffled groan, followed by a scream from one of the remaining fifth year Hufflepuff girls. One of the younger boys had shoved his friend off the fourth level of a riser, and he was now lying on his face on the stone floor. "Oh dear." Madam Hooch sighed, pushing her hair off her face and watching Professor McGonagall, who was standing over the fallen boy within an instant.

"I'll help Potter with his jacket, Madam Hooch," he said smoothly. Potter glared, biting his lip, still looking a little thrown, but turned his back to Draco, exposing the mess of zips and ties on the ancient jacket that he had pulled undone after his victory over Terry Boot.

"Oh dear," Madam Hooch sighed. She was not keen on activities that went this late into the night, and the tone of her voice was proof enough. "Yes, do, Mr. Malfoy. We need to get this over with. I must send the fifth years off, I'll be right back. Quickly now!" She stormed over to the risers, shouting, "Now then, fifth years, off you get. That's quite enough injury for one night," to a chorus of "awww," and "but that's not our fault!"

Potter ran his fingers over his neck, as if he could feel Draco's eyes on his skin. He had, Draco considered, aesthetically perfect hands. Even, smooth, with slim knuckles, rounded fingernails. Aristocratic hands, he would have said, hands that should move gracefully and not do any dirty work, hands that should be all softness and skill, without grime or stains. He watched Potter press his fingers into his neck, and rub his muscles hard, and observed. Aristocratic hands should not, he considered, have hangnails, papercuts, calluses, or cracked cuticles. Potter would have aristocratic hands in spite of all this if he could simply refrain from chewing his fingernails. His nails were bitten nearly to the quick and uneven, with cool white crescents on a deep purple that faded to pink, flecked with white. His fingernails were even slightly dirty. Draco shook his head.

"And if you win?" Harry whispered over his shoulder and Draco tucked his foil under his arm and his mask between his knees. He zipped up Potter's jacket slowly, tied two soft leather thongs together at the waist and one across his shoulder blades, and smoothed out the thick canvas with the palm of his hand.

"If you win? Oh, Potter, you're so hopeful. I'll ask something simple." He sniggered. "If I win, we will have a rematch."

"Rematch?"

"Yes. Rematch at my discretion. I decide when and where."

"What's the catch?" Potter sounded relieved, but cautious. Draco wondered what he was expecting to hear, Give me your firstborn, lop off a leg, kiss me? He rolled his eyes at himself. Maybe I can amend that.

"No catches. Rematch, that's all." He pulled on a vertical zip that trailed from Potter's hip to his armpit, holding down on the canvas at his waist as he did so. He felt the T-shirt underneath against his fingers; it was slightly damp from sweat and warm, and he imagined that he could feel the skin behind it. He blinked.

"You'll tell if I lose?" Potter stretched out his arms to make sure he still had a full range of motion. Draco moved his hands to the base of Potter's neck and neatly tied the last of the stiff leather thongs together. The jacket smelled musty and old, like attics or cellars or like the restricted section, and his fingers felt slightly dusty from the leather.

"I might. I might not. I'll tell if you don't agree to a rematch."

"Oh, alright."

"So then. Deal? We have stakes."

"Fine." Harry turned and eyed him as he walked over to his mark and lifted his foil, shaking it and causing the hilt to snap out of place. It was, admittedly, a terrible tool. On the basis of that alone Draco knew he was assured victory. Madam Hooch swept in rubbing at her eyes. Pockets of students were gathering to watch this last match; they had been here most of the evening and even the seventh years were yawning. Draco saw Anna Phoenix wave to Potter, give him the thumbs up, and grin. He smiled back, winked at the Mudblood, and then pulled his mask over his face.

"Alight!" Madam Hooch sighed, keeping an eye on the two boys glaring at each other on the benches, and gave Harry and Draco a stern look. "Let's play clean now, salute!" Draco pulled his foil up, his gloved fist pressed into his mask at the chin, watching Harry, bundled in white canvas and almost looking like a stranger with his face hidden in black mesh, do the same. They pressed their hands into their hips and assumed a ready pose. "Fight!"

Potter struck first with a direct blow, leaping forward and lunging. Draco parried easily, adding a rapid assault that got him points. He heard the scoreboard tally it up, and reminded himself to pace this match better. It did need to last at least until eleven-fifteen, to be certain that he would miss his appointment. He wished, as he lunged, watching Potter parry and catch his foil in a quick bind, that he could see his opponent's face. Pressed foil to foil, he could feel the old metal of Potter's foil creak against his new one, he could even feel the hilt of Potter's rattle a little as he pressed down. That wasn't helping him any; it was uneven and the weight probably unbalanced. He threw off Harry's attack and landed a swift cut that sang through the air and landed against Potter's unsteady foil. He isn't bad, Draco thought. Yes, he could be made interesting. He could become challenging. He could beat me, if he knew what I know. He caught Potter's blade coming in at him in another direct attack, feinted, and scored a deceptive hit, earning another point.

There was something about Potter's stance that appealed to Draco. He found himself fixating on Harry's calves poking out under a light pair of cotton slacks, rolled half-way to the knee. He looks like a clam digger, he thought, but realized that he couldn't stop watching the muscles working back and forth under that fine sheen of hair. It was true that it was terribly hot in the gymnasium. Potter wore a thin pair of gray socks that coagulated in a messy heap at his ankles, dripping over his ancient-looking trainers with broken laces. For the first time, Draco wondered if Potter's muggle family took decent care of him. Animals, he thought. He probably eats from a trough when he's with them. Having gotten used to Potter's rather direct approach in their match, he was startled when he lunged to counter him and found that he had feinted, and had scored a touch against his left arm. Draco smiled to himself.

He was close to winning, before long. Potter was starting to strike more and more accurately, with more subtlety and caution, but also, somehow, more desperately. For a moment or two Draco thought about and the number of times that the person in his place, the opponent to the bundled and sweating Harry Potter, was Lord Voldemort. Was that part of the attraction? Was it the power that Potter exuded? He was lucky, he had fate on his side, he was brave and stupid enough to take chances the rest of them knew better than to take. He was strong, in his way, and he didn't back down. He had faced off with Voldemort and won, but only barely. He was bound to die at Voldemort's hands one day, it was inevitable. He could dodge that blast of superior power only so many times before it bashed him up against the wall and nibbled on his neck. Draco knew this to be true. Was that what it was? The ephemeral nature of him? He was like a leaf in the wind, pinned against a window for a brief moment. Like a proverbial butterfly, released from a cocoon for a short time until the rain falls and its powdery wings are drenched and beaten into the ground. There was something beautiful about things that die so fast.

Draco watched him clutching at his hip, his hand slipping off onto his thigh and back up again. Potter might beat Lord Voldemort, but he would not beat him. Not today, at least. Draco parried again, their foils making a crashing sound that caused some applause from the Gryffindors. Draco tuned the crowd out, though he could half-hear Crabbe's thick voice hooting, and Goyle laughing. They had known about his interest in fencing for some time now, and had made him their de facto fencing champion from the start. He knew that Blaise had a bet running on this particular encounter, double or nothing odds on Draco, and Thomas and Finnigan had been fool enough to pool their meagre allowances in support of Potter. Draco was set to get cut in on the profits. But the thrill of that moment to come faded now as he stared at Potter's wrists, his damp skin peeking out from between his gloves and his jacket, twisting with his foil, and heard the clang of metal against metal again. Draco felt stifled, claustrophobic, and altogether too warm.

He could hear Potter breathing rather heavily through his mask as the intensity of their hits increased. He must have known by then that he was about to lose. Draco thought about Voldemort again, staring Potter down as he would the final time, and how a cornered animal reacts. Potter lunged hard, a powerful thrust that left Draco slightly off balance to parry, and one last touch that glanced off Potter's shoulder finished it. Madam Hooch shouted, "Slytherin wins!" A great whoop went up from the Slytherins; most of the Gryffindors applauded politely, but sour-looking group growled, digging into their pockets.

"Well done, Harry!" Professor McGonagall glided toward the mat, smiling at Madam Hooch, and patted Potter on the shoulder. "You've got a real talent for fencing. It's too bad our foils are so old. Perhaps we can look into getting some new ones after the break." She smiled tenderly, and then looked over at Draco. "Congratulations on your win, Mr. Malfoy." He bowed his head and gave her a half-smile.

Weasel and the mudblood were grinning sleepily at Potter and ambled up toward the mat, the mudblood giving Potter a quick hug, as Weasley noted, "If you'd had a better foil, you'd have won, I expect."

Potter sighed and rattled the hilt around with his hand. "It probably didn't help." He looked defeated, tired, and slightly annoyed, but smiled at his friends.

"I think my dad has one from when he was in school, Harry." The mudblood was prattling on. "I'll ask him if I can borrow it, I think it's a nice one. Perhaps Sirius could find one…"

Draco pulled off his mask and smirked, watching Blaise collecting profits by the risers. "Sure," he drawled toward the Gryffindors. "Blame the equipment." Crabbe and Goyle were clapping him on the back, hooting like fools.

The remaining students were enlisted to help put away equipment and tidy up the gymnasium as the last two duelers headed for the showers. The noise that had come from this large, tiled and bright room had been a warning; the Hufflepuff boys had left a dreadful mess. There were puddles of water everywhere, nearly half a foot deep in places, as the cool stone floor dipped in places. The drains were stopped with paper towel.

"Looks as if Terry Boot and his buddies were aiming to make a swimming pool of this place," Harry shook his head, and Draco smirked. They headed for benches opposite each other and Potter studiously ignore Draco, apparently trying to get out of there as quickly as possible. He pulled off his T-shirt and balled it up, shoving it into a rucksack beside him. He looked down at his feet. He had pulled off his trainers in the gymnasium, perhaps for the heat, and now his socks were sopping wet. He peeled them off, hopping on one foot to do so. Draco sat on the bench half-transfixed and half pretending not to be. Potter was so ungraceful, and so appealing at the same time. He was charmed, staring at the smooth slope of Potter's spine, curved to the right as he leaned over to yank on his dripping sock.

Draco pulled off his own shirt, which smelled rank. It had been a long series of matches, in spite of not being particularly challenging in terms of skill level, they had taken quite a bit out of him. Those thick canvas jackets had done a good job of sealing in his body heat and shirt was uncomfortably damp and embarrassingly stained. He could hear McGonagall thanking students outside already and sending them to bed. It was now or never. He wondered what was the worst thing he could say to Potter, but didn't have time to rank and evaluate each option.

"I'm sure Sirius Black will buy you a fancy new foil if you ask nicely, Potter. He does owe you that much, since you got him exonerated for killing all those mudbloods like he did." Draco folded his shirt and put it in his rucksack. "Some nice work, that."

Potter stopped and turned. "He didn't kill anyone, Malfoy," he said quietly.

"I'd be careful, if I were you," he continued, watching Harry's anger rising to a boil. "I know how fond you are of that mudblood friend of yours. I'm sure he's been eyeing her. I'm shocked she's not dead yet. Perhaps you've told him a few things she's good for."

Potter gaped. "…come again?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I heard, Potter."

"Get stuffed, Malfoy." He pulled a clean towel from a shelf to his right.

"Stuffed? I hear that's what they did to your parents. They stuffed them and put them on display as a Death Eater tourist attraction. Come! See the dead parents of the Boy Who Lived! They cast spells on them to make them look like their still screaming, with their arms in front of their faces, and—"

Potter dropped the towel and launched himself at Draco, throwing him into the lockers behind him with a loud bang and a crash, as his rapid motion upset a bench and sent it teetering onto its side.

By the time she found them, Harry was straddling Draco, attempting, it seemed, to pound head against the floor in the puddle of water the found themselves in, Draco hair dripping as he reached up to secure his stranglehold on Harry's neck. Given the state of the boys' locker room, she decided that cleaning that rat hole up without magic might just be punishment enough. She briefly considered shoving both of them under the showers and letting cold water douse those angry faces and clenched fists until the repented, but her professional side won over.

"I expect to that this place will be spotless before either of you go to bed," she said fiercely. She looked at the two of them for a moment, both of them red-faced and breathing hard, wet hair and dripping clothes, Harry barefoot, Draco with a bloody lip and a rip in the knee of his khakis. She shook her head. "I'm very disappointed. Ten points each from Slytherin and Gryffindor. As she walked back to the staff quarters, she laughed quietly to herself. At least Harry's got a good right hook, she thought.

Draco mopped up the floor in the showers, pushing the standing water toward the now unclogged drains, and watched Potter. He had rolled his pants up over his knees, the wet fabric clinging to his skin. They were large pants, too large for him by a long shot. He wondered why on earth so much of Potter's clothing was miles too large. He had heard a rumour somewhere about a cousin, a muggle, whose handmedowns Potter was forced to wear. Perhaps he was very large. Very large indeed, from the size of those pants, and they looked rather old and worn. Without his shirt or jacket to cover it, Draco could see that these pants had been taken in a fair amount, and even then Harry wore an old leather belt to hold them up. It was disgusting, really, the way muggles treat wizards. Like a lower form of life. Why didn't Harry see this? Why didn't he understand? Lord Voldemort understood it. Lord Voldemort would pay back even Potter's debts, if he let him. A few mumbled words and those muggles would be only a faint memory, a memory which could be easily disposed of. It's just a matter of time, Draco thought, watching Potter crouch over and pick up bits of soggy paper towel, just a matter of time before he realizes the truth. They didn't call them Death Eaters at first. They called them Liberators.

Potter turned off a faucet left running at the far end of the locker room, unplugged the drain and moved over to the boys toilets.

"Ugh," he said, his voice echoing off the tile. Draco didn't ask. He just moved toward another row of sinks, plugged up a drain with some paper towel, and turned on the water. He turned and went back to the showers as the water rose and spilled over the edge.

Finally they had mopped up most of the water, the sinks were unstopped and empty, the garbage bin full of wet paper towel, ripped shirts and a stray pair of underpants. They hadn't spoken a word to each other until Draco said, "Time for that rematch, Potter."

"What?" Potter sounded annoyed, and tired.

"Rematch. We had a deal." Draco pulled his cedar box out from a locker and dropped it on the bench in front of him.

"It's nearly midnight."

"Deal is a deal, Potter. I said it would be at my discretion. My discretion says we duel now. Here." He pulled out his foil and swung it through the air, listening to it sing.

Potter sighed. He looked down at himself, wet and half-naked, his pants drooping onto his hips from the weight of the water he had been slogging through. He had a nasty bump on his head from where Draco had managed to slam him against the lockers, and he rubbed it, wincing. He was still angry, and Draco felt a vague pang of guilt over what he'd said.

Draco hmmed. "Here." He turned his grabbed his foil by the blade, carefully, and proffered the hilt to Potter. "You want to blame the foil? Use mine."

For a moment or two Draco wasn't certain Potter would take it. He stood there, his feet damp in his shoes, bare-chested with the wet edges of his pants tickling his calves as he moved, the foil bending down with the weight of the hilt and bobbing, its sharp tip scratching slowly against his forearm in a semi-circle. Potter was staring down at it, hands hanging at his sides. For a moment Draco remembered that this was how he looked, nearly a month ago now, when Draco had run from him in the night, lips still warm from his tongue. He hadn't gone far. Potter's poor eyesight was a blessing and a curse; there were parts of Draco that wished Potter had seen, seen everything. Draco's own vision was perfect. Better than perfect. It was dark, certainly, but he could see enough. He had been able to see him, a dark shape with the ghostly colours in the sky glinting off the lenses of his glasses, not more than fifteen feet away, standing still and mournful, looking down at his hands and then dropping them helplessly to his sides. He had wanted to gather him up then, wrap his arms around him slip his hands under that thick woolen cloak, scold him and apologize.

But if his hands had strayed any farther, if those fingers had run through his characteristic fine hair, if they had slipped across his chest and found the Slytherin crest, over his heart, he would remember. He would remember that he hated Draco, that he wasn't interested in boys, that this was his archenemy. He would wonder what the trick was. He would push him back in disgust, punch him in the face, kick him in the teeth. He would rain shame down on him as he lay in the mud of the herbology garden, wiping blood from his chin. And what would he have said? And so instead he watched, and read the loss written in that posture of Potter's, written in the hopeless drape of his arms, and mourned with him. Mourned while giddy with the rush of what he'd done.

Potter reached out and wrapped his aristocratic fingers around the hilt of the foil, and Draco released it. He swung it forward with a hiss, hilt at eye level.

"I'll go get another foil. Stay here," Draco said quickly, watching Harry shift his grip on the weapon and swing it back and forth slowly. His anger seemed to be dissipating.

"What about masks and jackets and gloves?"

"No masks, no jackets, no gloves," Draco shouted as he walked back into the gymnasium. It was dark now, and a cool breeze wafted down from the ceiling, brushing against his chest. He shivered and breathed it in deeply, feeling a sudden need for some outside calmness and peace. He reached into the box of foils and pulled on out, tested it quickly, and snorted in disgust.

When he returned to the locker room, Potter was still testing out Draco's foil. It was a beautiful thing, to be sure, and holding the school foil made Draco realize just what an advantage he had. Well, he thought. Fair enough that I should have a handicap. This should make things interesting. Potter tested a few mock attacks, and then looked up at him.

"Ready when you are." He had a mischievous look on his face that made Draco's insides melt and head toward his shoes. For an instant Draco felt unstoppably tempted to reach over and kiss him, hard, pressing him back against the wet tile wall and try to meld himself into him as many ways as humanly possible. He felt irresistibly tempted to run his hands over Harry's chest, across Harry's stomach, though his famous mop of hair. Looking at the expression on his face in that instant Draco could imagine that the feeling was returned in spades. But that look was a desire for victory, a look that bears a remarkable resemblance to lust. He shut his eyes and remembered who he was.

They went through the ritual of saluting, which looked almost comical in their wet pants, Potter's bare feet, and their semi-nakedness. When the first attack came Draco met it quickly, but felt the lack of his new weapon. It clanked loudly and rattled uncomfortably in his hand. Without a mask, Draco could watch the expression of Harry's face change with each move; he bit his lip as he feinted, parried, attacked, and the released it as he followed through. When he scored the first touch, against Draco's waist, just above his hip, he smiled widely. Draco reminded himself to pay attention to the game, and engaged a series of quick attacks and scored a touch against Harry's left shoulder.

Why had he done it? He parried smoothly and counter-attacked, caught in a quick bind of foils that ended in a feint by Potter and a near miss against his chest. Why had he pulled Harry aside then, and kissed him like that? What did he think he would gain from it?

Draco wasn't entirely sure. At the time he had not even had the temptation dangling in front of him that he did now; the current object of his insatiable lust half-naked before him, so pure and innocent that he didn't have thoughts like these, caught after midnight with his pants barely managing to hang on to his thin hips by the weight of their wet hems, biting his lip and concentrating entirely on Draco, observing his every move with the relish of a lover. He was half-shocked he hadn't given in to temptation yet. Why had he kissed him? Because he could, and because he wanted to.

He had spent that evening roaming around the dungeons, moping. It was his birthday, he had just turned eighteen. His birthday always made him inexplicably sad, and this one most of all. Never had he felt so confused. He was pining so achingly for something he simply could not have and it annoyed him. So when he saw Potter in the crowd, only distinguishable by the faint glint of light reflecting off those glasses, a matching pair still hidden in the pocket of his robes, warm between his fingers and his thumb, he realized that this might be his only chance. One kiss, even stolen, sloppy, fast, and confused, would be enough to quell this horror rising inside of him. Perhaps it would even kill it.

He dodged Potter's attack and scored a sharp hit against his right shoulder, feeling the tip of his foil press into his flesh and retract. Draco felt his eyes shutting from the sheer pleasure of the sound Potter emitted; a low growl, a sharp breath, followed by a rapid counter-attack the clanged in his ear and returned him to the present. Draco ran him down, nearly pressing his back against the wall, and scored the final touch softly against his stomach, scraping the foil gently up to his chest.

"Beat you again." He smiled, feeling warmth spreading out through his body from his lower stomach. He felt himself flush.

Potter growled again, and twisted his lips in frustration. He doesn't like to loose, no more than I do. But he does it so much less. Not that practice helps. He lifted the foil from Potter's chest pretended not to watch the muscles under his skin tense and relax and he swung the foil.

"One more go," he said. Draco laughed.

"But I'm tired now, Potter," he teased, shaking the foil in his hand testily. "What do I get if I go another round?"

Potter grunted. "Another chance to beat me."

"You drive a hard bargain." Draco grinned, and so did Potter. The lifted their foils and began again.

After Draco scored the first touch, Potter got creative. He dodged and dove, driving Draco back until they were almost again the opposite wall. Now, Draco thought. Here is a real challenger. For a moment they got confused with the timing and the order of action; perhaps it was the late hour, or perhaps Draco was too fixated on the slope of Harry's abdomen, the sheer sight of his navel, and got confused. As Draco moved forward, Potter aimed a violent thrust of his foil into what he thought would be the general direction of Draco's predictable counter-attack, but landed the tip of the blade right into Draco's chest. In one rapid motion, the foil made contact , slipped beneath the skin, and kept sliding effortlessly into Draco's chest until the point protruded sickeningly from his back. Draco yelped, and a thin trail of blood dripped from the wound, a hole an inch across and filled with the blade nearly a foot from the hilt. Potter screamed.

He released the foil but it remained there, lodged in Draco's chest, still moving slightly from the violence of the strike. Potter went white, began jittering like mad, and immediately wrapped an arm around Draco's waist to support him, pressed his hand across the small dribble of blood that trickled past his left nipple.

"Oh my God, oh my God, Draco, I'm so sorry, it's okay, I won't let you die, I'll take you to the hospital wing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" he babbled at high speed, his eyes growing damp. "Are you okay? Can you speak? I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Draco smiled, overwhelmed by the closeness of Harry's body, feeling the vibration of the foil through this body. For a moment he considered that he had been blessed; not only to get the forbidden kiss, but now even a forbidden embrace, the feeling of hot, damp skin against his own. He knees grew a little weak, and he leaned a little into Potter, his arm draping casually against Harry's back. He looked up into Harry's face, seeing such horror, such regret written there, such fear. They looked at each other for a moment, both unsure of what to do next. After a moment or two, Draco chuckled.

"Harry," he said softly. He reached up to the blade at his chest and slowly pulled.

"Draco, don't, don't do that, it makes it worse!" Harry's hand moved against Draco's chest and he felt the nipple growing hard with the friction. The bleeding had stopped, and the blood that had emerged was now sticky on Harry's hand. The arm around his waist tightened as if Harry was afraid Draco might collapse at any minute. Harry mumbled anxiously, his breath rapid against Draco's face. "Please, stop, don't hurt yourself anymore…"

Draco pulled the foil out of his chest slowly, in several motions, grabbed it by the grip and swung the blade in a quick half circle.

"Harry," he said, still softly, but with a touch of humour in his voice. "This is a very expensive foil. The school foils use a cheap retracting spell. This one," he swung the blade around again for emphasis, and it sang sharply in the air. "This one is designed to be much more dramatic. It goes through things after a certain amount of pressure." Harry was blinking at him. "Really, Harry. I'm fine. This is just a scratch. Really. Look." He pointed to his chest where, as he said, there was just a slight puncture wound. "I'm okay."

Harry stood a moment longer, looking at the wound, a hand still against Draco's chest, an arm still wrapped around his waist, looking at him. It was just then that Draco noticed that they were both trembling a little. They were breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through their veins. After a few moments, Harry dropped his arms and stepped back, turning bright red.

After a short and uncomfortable silence, he said, "I think I won, finally."

Draco laughed.

9 Untouchable

I recognize the way you make me feel
It's hard to think that you might not be real
I sense it now, the water's getting deep
I try to wash the pain away from me
'Cause you're everywhere to me
And when I catch my breath it's you I breathe
You're everything I know that makes me believe
–Michelle Branch, Everywhere

Draco stared down at the long, slim box on the desk in front of him. It had arrived rather later than he expected, a whole week later, in fact. It had cost him nearly all of his holiday pocket money, which was no small sum. Every Christmas, when he arrived home, his father would slip a wad of cash into his jacket pocket, his 'play money', so that he could have a good time around town while he was home. Draco, however, still thought it rather quaint to show up at outrageously expensive locations without a drop of cash. Carrying money struck him as so pedestrian, so common. And there was always someone there to take care of a bill or two for him when he looked disdainfully at people asking him for payment. The older he got, the more he noted that people jumping to cover his bills for him; at the same time, his allowance from his father increased steadily, and his yearly Christmas bonus was an almost shockingly high figure. So his store of cash would sit on his dresser, or in his coat, or jammed finally into a thick stone jar on his desk which had once carried the white-hot coals that housed his pet salamander, and was now slowly filling to the brim with coins.

Draco rarely spent money these days. His mother was careful and watchful of him and knew what he enjoyed and what he needed; she kept him well-dressed and well-tended. She had noted his love of books early on and bought him consecutively larger and more impressive collections; the already vaulted ceiling of his library got progressively higher and higher. She had equipped him with a vast array of musical selections when he had shown an appreciation for music at an early age. As a testament to his motivation, the cello she had bought him for his twelfth birthday, on which he could play a grand total of three tunes, sat in one corner collecting dust and house elf dandruff. His skills in potions had been rewarded with a private potions laboratory, which mostly just reminded him of school, drudgery, nick wounds from slicing bergamot too close to the nub, and Harry Potter. Draco noted that while his dignified interests were catered to boundlessly by his parents, his clear preference for alcoholic beverages and extremely loud pop music, as well as his rapt fascination with muggle situation comedy, and, on occasion, muggle literature, were not.

When he was younger he spent his allowance frivolously on elegant, outrageous, impressive, ludicrous or merely expensive trinkets. He would buy on a whim, or he would be driven by an obsession, a hobby, a desire for a hobby, or merely to punish his parents, his friends, or himself. He bought strange and often bizarre things: sound recordings with titles like Women with Steak Knives, which he would then play at full volume and rattle the crystal from three floors away for weeks on end; muggle technology, such as televisions, HAM radios, computers, and the complete Monty Python's Flying Circus on DVD; portraits of infamous wizards who had eaten their own hands or boiled babies or fallen in love with too many women, too many men; vials of sand from the sites of massacres, blackened with blood; a collection of objects whose express purpose was purely sexual (everything from common plastic devices to the most extreme sadomasochistic equipment, including nipple-clamps, a branding iron, and, oddly, a self-circumcision kit), which Draco displayed in a 600 year old china cabinet next to another collection of weapons, from Asian sabers and African knives to finely-crafted American handguns and one carefully contained dose of anthrax.("Sex and death," he had said. "What more is there?") Over the years he had also purchased the occasional rare, exotic and befuddled-looking animal, bird, or reptile, which inevitably ended up in the hands of house elves designated as his personal zoo keepers. But recently the thrill of buying things had waned. He had hidden most of these things away.

This time he had bought something as a gift, and a secret gift at that. He had spent his first days home leafing through catalogues, and had finally found the ideal model. Slim, silver, simple and elegant, sharp and beautiful. This foil had the same charms on it that his own did; a small amount of pressure and it would slip right through a body, a wall, an armoured chest or a beating heart. He smiled at the thought, and rubbed at the now faded mark just above his left nipple. He had hoped to have the foil arrive at Hogwarts as a Christmas gift, but Christmas day had come and gone. Now he was preparing to send it with just two days to go before he returned to school himself. Had the gift been for anyone else, he would have just brought it with him given it in person. "Yes," he would have said, "it's late. I ordered in plenty of time, but they shipped it just the other day. It's fabulously expensive. Open it." But not this one. He could hardly waltz up to Harry Potter and present him with a gift. That would simply not do.

He pulled the elegant foil out of the box and gripped it tightly in his right hand. Swinging in one full turn and hearing it sing, he held open his left hand drove it through.

Draco had tried to push thoughts of Harry out of his mind over dinner, concentrating on smiling and trying to be as charming as possible. As usual, the dinner table was not populated only by his father and mother, but also by their assorted guests. On that particular night, these included three Death Eaters and their wives, four children under the age of ten, and two winsome girls who were roughly his age, visiting from some Scandinavian country (Sweden? Norway? He couldn't remember) with their even more winsome older brother. Finding himself locked into an intense game of seductive motions and glances, a pair of deep blue eyes across the table looking into his face and then trailing slowly down, an eyebrow cocked and a half-smile growing lopsidedly across that clear, Scandinavian face, Draco wondered whether he simply attracted more men than women, or if he honestly preferred men to women. He couldn't be sure. The lopsided grin reminded him of Harry. He smiled back.

His mother had come into his bedroom that night, while he lay sprawled out on his back in flannel pants and an old T-shirt still leafing through fencing catalogues. Already he had narrowed down his desired options to six foils, but remained undecided. He flipped idly through the glossy pages, playing with the elastic waistband on his pants. He found himself picturing Harry, ridiculously half-naked with that old belt hauling up his pants, that look on his face, that half-grin, that determination. He remembered the feeling of Harry's arm around his waist, fingers against his chest, those lips, that tongue against his own. He dropped the catalogue when his mother entered, flipping it face downwards, feeling guilty before remembering that, as yet, he had done nothing worth hiding.

"Oh, Draco! It's so good to see your room occupied again, I can't tell you." She smiled and wandered towards him, running her fingers along his dresser, bare feet sinking into the carpet. She released the tight bun that held up her long, still dazzlingly blonde hair, and sat on his bed, looking down at him. She gave him a small, vaguely sad smile, and stroked his hair.

"My beautiful boy," she said. "What's become of you! All grown up so fast, hidden away at that dusty school where I haven't been able to see you." He chuckled, and then smiled at her. His real crime was not in a catalogue, but was in his head, both more and less easy to hide. He left his waistband alone and draped his hand across his stomach.

"I missed you too, mum," he said, smiling at her. There was a part of him that was happy. Strangely, frighteningly happy. He smiled a little broader, he felt lighter. He had nearly outdone himself, he thought. He had bagged difficult prey before, of course; it had only been a year or so before that he had been obsessed with finding his way into that little Ravenclaw's bed; she had been resistant. His reputation was double-edged, after all. He was charming, wealthy, amusing and elegant, but also ruthless, sometimes cruel, and often insensitive. But he had found his way between her thighs eventually. It was then that he realized that conquest did not make him happy. It made him feel vaguely satisfied, momentarily. It made him feel powerful, persuasive, and attractive. He imagined that he was happy, he tried bragging and showing the little tart off. It didn't help. After a couple of days, he grew angry with his own reaction. Why was he not happy? He had a bright, beautiful girl on his arm who would do anything for him, someone his mother would approve of. Her parents were Death Eaters, she was subtle but politically interested. Pansy merely cocked an eyebrow at him and went on with her reading. His interest in the little Ravenclaw skirt waned and then disappeared altogether within two and a half weeks, and the last time he had looked into her eyes he had seen tears and felt nothing but a general sense of boredom and discomfort. The concept of love had not troubled him before. But now.

Did he love Harry? How would he know if he did?

Harry had stepped away from him, blood on his hand, shaking, staring at his chest, looking frightened, apologetic, concerned, and something else. Draco wasn't certain he didn't imagine it, but he thought he saw something else there, something that had kept that bloodied hand against his chest after he knew Draco wouldn't collapse or bleed to death. Draco wasn't so sure Harry recognized it himself. There was no question that, as a rule, Harry did not swing with blokes like Draco, in more ways than one. Draco sometimes wondered what went on between Harry and Ron, but realized, after fits of jealous rage poured into abuse laid against a few first years turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time, that they were both too innocent for the scenarios in his mind.

For Gryffindors, lust was all about love, devotion, admiration, and making babies. It didn't take much to imagine the masturbatory fantasies of Harry Potter; missionary position, a pretty girl, a sweet smile, lots of 'I love yous', roses on the bedside table, a quilt-covered bed, a sunset and Pachabel's Canon playing in the background. Lust for him would be all about soft touches, closed eyes, angelic moans and coming in unison. He would be gentle, his hair curling down into his eyes, lips slightly parted, teeth tucked away and never making an appearance. There would be no marks of this lust on the body of his lover, no bruising, no bite marks, no tearing. This would be love-making, not sweaty, sticky sex. Draco was prepared for this. He was prepared and willing to engage in all of it, if Harry could conceive of replacing 'girl' with 'boy'. And for an moment or two in the boy's locker room, Draco saw that maybe Harry could. And this made Draco very, very happy.

His mother looked at him, lying on his back with a catalogue face down at his hip, running her fingers running through his hair, looking as if she wasn't quite sure she recognized him, or something in him. This made Draco nervous. He sometimes wondered if his mother had a bit of telepath in her, or at least empath. She could often tell how he felt as easily as touching his wrist and feeling his pulse. There was a small part of him that wanted to tell her, wanted advice, wanted her to wrap her arms around him the way she always had and tell her that it was okay, that she would fix everything.

"Mother," he would say. "I think something's happened. I think I've fallen in love. Or I've come as close as I'll ever get. Does it happen that fast? Can you honestly be in love with someone who hates you? What do I do? Shall I kill him, or drag him home and lock him up in my closet so I can ravish him whenever I want to? What do I do if I can't let him go?" But he said nothing.

She had never expressed any opinions at all about his sexual liaisons, and he was uncertain whether or not she knew about them. There were times when he felt sure that she did, and imagined that she would tolerate his fetish for boys as long as he married an appropriate girl. This, he thought, was a fair trade. And then there were other times, like these, when he wondered if she would be ashamed by his dalliances. If she would be horrified that he felt his heart being taken over by someone his father hated so much, by someone so revered by the reigning idiots in power, the one had once who destroyed the Dark Lord. Someone who would never be a Death Eater, who would never stop fighting against him.

His mother was not interested in politics. She was not a Death Eater, but merely entertained them in her home. She organized the parties, the dinners; she spoke to the wives of the powerful and arranged apprenticeships and jobs for their children by proxy. She spoke to Lord Voldemort himself the way she spoke to Bill Parkinson or Rufus Goyle. Draco could not remember her ever having uttered the words 'Harry Potter' at all let alone with scorn. Perhaps she would like him. Perhaps she would take him under her wing, be a mother figure to him. Perhaps he would love her, let her help him. She would take him into her elegant bathroom and trim his hair they way she had so often trimmed Draco's. She would make him beautiful, dress him in comfortable and well-fitting clothes, indulge him. She would rub his back and kiss his cheek and tell him to go to Draco, to go have a good time.

"Mother," Draco would say, finally, after she had discovered a second son in Harry, "Mother, I think I'm in love with him. What should I do?"

He imagined that she would answer, "Oh, Draco! That's wonderful, love is a tremendous thing. He is a sweet, sweet boy and I'm certain he loves you too. He will stay here, with you, no matter what your father says. I want you to have everything you need, my dearest." It was a wonderful fantasy.

But he did not ask, and she did not answer. She ran her fingers through his hair and looked at him. "Something's changed, hasn't it," she said instead. "What's gone on at school, Draco darling?"

He closed his eyes. "Gone on? Hmmm. Well, I won a fencing tournament last week. I'm at the top of my class in Arithmancy, and my potions grade is still good." She stroked his cheek gently, then resting the palm of her hand against his chest.

"Hmmm," she said. "There's something you're not telling me. Is it a girl? Have you fallen of that silly Pansy creature finally? Goodness, she was mooning over you so desperately when she was here last."

He laughed. "Oh mum! She's not silly. Pansy is a great friend. But she is a friend. Do you want me to fall for her?"

"I just want you to be careful. Oh, her mother owled last week, she wondered if they could visit with us boxing day. I'm sure you'll enjoy that." He smiled and shook his head, as she sighed dramatically and curled up next to him, laying her head against his chest. "I guess you can't be my little boy forever, can you."

"I can't?" He deadpanned mock anxiety as he wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders. "I didn't read that anywhere." She raised her head and looked up at him, smiling, and then kissed his forehead. "So who are these Scandinavians?" He asked.

"Oh, Jan and his sisters? They're they children of one of your father's friends. They're from Norway. Your father has developed a lot of friendships with Norwegians lately, seems they have some political connections here, I don't know. They'll stay with us through Christmas. You like them? They're quite charming."

"Yes, very charming. I'm sure they'll be most entertaining." She looked at him seriously again, tracing one finger along his jaw. He felt as if she were boring into his soul with her eyes. She smiled at him again, sadly, as if seeing him as almost an adult were breaking her heart just a little bit.

From the time he was small she had never wanted to be without him. She took him with her everywhere from the time he could toddle along behind her; tea parties and soirées filled with idle chit-chat, long walks along the Thames, the Seine, in the gardens of beaurocrats and the petty bourgeois. He had tagged along with her on her long afternoons with the wives of politicians and minor, half-forgotten royalty from distant countries with strange names, while touring historical sites, at house elf auctions, charity events, and leisurely shopping trips to the elegant cobblestone streets that housed the best fabrics, bone china, potions, scrolls, and fine magical items. Draco adored his mother, and she fawned over him and petted him, dressed him up in pretty things and stroked the palms of his hands when he was supposed to be sitting still. She cradled him when he felt sleepy and sang him little songs. When she had to leave him, she never returned to him without presents, as if he needed to be appeased. His father watched this with a distracted eye.

Draco had been known to throw tantrums, terrible, terrible tantrums. His father had once been forced to leave an important meeting in his office to tend to his screaming first born, who had been so distraught at being left alone in his nursery that he had forced his shoes to spontaneously combust. He had nearly throttled a house elf when it told him that his mother had other business when he had run out of finger paint; he had thrown a calico kitten off the second floor balcony when his father had insisted that he go to bed instead of standing in the garden with his mother catching fireflies. His father had not allowed him to attend a party for teenagers when he was twelve; Draco had stayed home and peeled the wallpaper off all the walls in the spare bedrooms on the third floor. When his mother had been too busy to escort him the train after Christmas break in his second year, he had climbed to the top of the highest, straightest stairwell at Hogwarts with his prized collection of antique glass snow-globes. He then proceeded to drop them one by one between the gap in the railing, hearing them burst and shatter against the stone steps, bouncing off the shifting arches, with each its own unique harmonic, and then crashing wetly below. He bristled; he growled; he cried. He was spoiled, and he missed his mother.

She looked into his eyes as if she missed that angry and difficult little boy, one who needed her attention like oxygen, whose face lit up when she walked into a room. His lip was no longer sticking out in a childish pout; he ached, but it was no longer for her. Looking at her, Draco knew that she sensed this. He felt mildly guilty, his hand still straying to the glossy catalogue against his hip. "I miss you, you know, when you're gone," she said, playfully mussing his hair.

"I miss you too, mum."

When he slept, he dreamed of silence that swallowed him; he dreamed of towers and cold wind; raping and being raped, thick hands covered by aristocratic ones; the smell of the old oak desks in Professor Binns' classroom; the feeling of his own blood hot against his skin. He woke once, noted that his cheeks were wet, and drifted off again into dreams filled with dust.

"Great brutes, aren't they." The voice was Jan's, and was soft, very posh, vaguely foreign but clear and unencumbered. He whispered this with a vicious edge that made Draco smile as he started at hearing someone speak so near his ear yet out of his range of vision.

Draco was standing in the door jam of the spacious sitting room where his mother entertained, the nail of his index finger pressed against his teeth. There were nearly fifty guests tonight, many of whom Draco knew and hated. A few of them were startlingly attractive; thick gray hair, long, slim legs, dressed in elegant suits and looking idly bored. These were the men who could wheedle and flatter; they tickled the back of his neck with their lips, they licked his knee and told him he was beautiful. These were the ones he had sought out; the ones whose guest beds he had slipped into. There had been a time when he was hungry for what they could give him, trades that he was willing to make, but he had hated himself for it afterwards. They eyed him suggestively now, one arm wrapped around their chubby wives and a cocktail dangling from the other hand. He glared, then looked away.

It was the largest and the stupidest of them who had mauled him as a child; Draco watched their thick red hands clutch at their plates, bits of smoked salmon in their mustaches, laughing over-loudly. They were indeed brutes, all strength and lust, bullies and hitmen and the ones who will take the fall in the end, if a fall is required. It was these men the ministry tended to catch fingering their Dark Marks while sitting in muggle playgrounds, getting drunk in the streets, threatening mudbloods and throwing bricks through windows. They were indelicate, pointlessly mean, and stout followers of more intelligent men. Draco felt that there was poetic justice in the fact that it was these men who held such ultimate power over him in their adulthood who were exactly the sort of people Draco managed to dominate at school. They did not look over at him; he saw them eyeing the two boys giggling over their pumpkin juice in the corner and felt sick.

"Yes," he said, turning to face Jan, leaning back against the door jam, "they are."

"You English seem to revel in your bullies. It is so…inelegant." Jan had stepped slightly closer, his hands linked behind his back. "You hide your real talents. You know," Draco could feel his breath against his cheek. "In Norge your people are known for your strange magics, your wand tricks. Some very, very powerful hexes and curses, you know."

Draco stuck out his chin a little, running his tongue lightly along the inside of his lower lip. "Is that so."

"Indeed," Jan said, his eyes straying to the open button at Draco's throat, which was casually exposing his collarbone.

They walked through the manor slowly, the backs of their hands brushing once in a while, their voices echoing down deep stone stairwells, alerting serious-looking portraits of Malfoys from ages past. Jan spends the evening making Draco laugh, and then managing to touch him while he does; he would stroke Draco's wrist, his shoulder, drags his index finger along his thigh to his knee. Draco found himself wondering, with a curious detachment, what it was that he represented to Jan, what a successful conquest would mean for him. One does not go to such lengths merely for sexual gratification, he considered; there had been so many opportunities to press him against a wall, slide his fingers into Draco's trousers, latch on to the pale skin of his neck and suck, leave a mark. Jan did not do these things. He waited, he danced circles around seduction, he stroked it and retreated, stroked it again, paused.

Draco knew this negotiation well, from both sides. He fell into it with a kind of comfortable familiarity, feeling powerful, desirable. But at the same time

he felt oddly distracted, oddly disinterested.

Jan was lovely, funny, exotic in a familiar kind of way, articulate, and knowledgeable, but Draco wondered now what Harry would think of him. He compared the span of Jan's shoulders to Harry's; he wondered if Jan could fence. He wondered what it would take to anger him, to raise his righteous ire.Jan, it seemed, did not have righteous ire. He spoke about strange magic, lies that turn into injuries, binding spells, forms of torture; it was all interesting, but cold, ambitious, underhanded, sly. He understood it very well, perhaps too well. It was not even slightly mysterious, it was nothing that impressed him. Jan reminded Draco of himself. He never thought of himself as monogamous, he never thought of himself as loyal, faithful, devoted, trustworthy. And yet, as he felt a cool palm brush against the back of his neck, he knew with an almost sick kind of certainty that he would not invite this boy into his bed, that he did not want to, that he would not rest, he could not properly enjoy those hands on his body, those hands that reminded him of Harry's hands but were unavoidably not.

He felt oddly detached. He had tasted an ultimate challenge and could not turn away now. Why could he not simply fuck this boy, enjoy that Scandinavian skin and fall asleep, thinking about a scar, the smell of wet cotton and blood, tentative lips, a purity and gentleness that awaited him and that he did not even begin to understand? No. It wouldn't work that way. Draco had given something over. He felt troubled.

Jan seemed to know this, to sense Draco's hesitation. In an effort to impress him, to get his attention, he told him about strange, brutal, beautiful, and amusing spells. He took Draco's wand and played with it, conjuring balls of light, sounds, making the floor rumble, and then said, "I will show you what you can do, without this." He told him how to whisper a single word make objects weightless, levitating above the polished wood floor; to make the walls drip with water, blood, or gin, and then return to normal; the word to break all the bones in a man's body; to cause pain, to drive men mad.

He whispered strange words that made his hands shrink, and then grow; made Draco speak in foreign languages that he could not understand; let him see, for a moment or two, through the clothing of some departing guests, which had them laughing loudly from the stairwell above.

They had wandered back into the now empty sitting room, watching the house elves gather up plates and clean up spills, making piles of crusts and crumbs on the table. Jan pulled an ornate silver knife off the wall, whispered over it, and made it hover over the head of an oblivious house elf. Its partner screamed, shattering a plate on the floor, and the knife darted rapidly toward its face, then flew back to its perch on the wall. Draco laughed, rubbed his neck. He watched Jan observe him, watched him making requests of him and waiting for assent, for desire, for a demonstration of need, and it occurred to Draco how powerful it was, being in love. It made him untouchable.

Boxing Day brunch, the Parkinsons sat at the Malfoy table and ate roast duck. Pansy was not particularly fond of duck. She had been considering the possibility of becoming a vegetarian just to avoid taking a mouthful of fowl and feeling the squish of cartilage between her teeth, the stubborn, chewy bits of fat and crunch of a tiny bones that she held on the tip of her tongue and carefully slipped into a napkin at the soonest appropriate moment. There was something safe about vegetables, cheese, bread. She liked vegetables, even Brussels sprouts and spinach. There were no surprises there, nothing unexpected with strange textures and bits that got stuck in her throat. She smiled sweetly and nodded toward Mrs. Malfoy, who was speaking with her mother, something about school, NEWTS, uniforms, graduation. Her mother touched her hair, holding up her ponytail, curling a bit of hair around her finger, and then dropping again against her back.

"If I'd had another," Mrs. Malfoy was saying, "Well, it would have been fun to play with a girl's hair. Draco always keeps his too short for all that!" She grinned, leaned over, and mussed her hand through his fine hair, pulling it out of his eyes. It stayed up for a moment in a severe uptwist, revealing his eyes, his broad forehead, elegant brows, one arched up and aimed at his mother. He shook his head and his hair fell back down against his forehead, and he smiled. He looked so happy, Pansy thought. Strangely, unsettlingly happy.

Draco rarely looked happy, even when he was pleased. Pansy was used to seeing him looking pleased, victorious, and even relieved. She had seen him telling jokes, making fun of the younger boys, getting good grades, winning arguments, even beating Potter at Quidditch. But looking at him as she was just then, she realized that this was the first time she had seen him look happy. She looked over at the Scandinavian girls and wondered. Is it one of them? She pouted a little into her plate. She felt a foot kick at her leg and looked up. Draco was smiling into his salad, spearing lettuce with his fork. He glanced up at her and winked.

Pansy was floored. Draco was practically giddy. She looked up at the girls again. They were chatting softly with each other in some other language. Then she looked over at the boy. Perhaps it's him. He was lovely, certainly. Deep blue eyes, open, clear face, white-blond hair. The look he shot Draco was clearly one of desire, of hunter stalking prey. Pansy had seen it a million times. But Draco was oblivious, or was choosing to ignore it. Pansy wondered what on earth was going on.

If it had been only this meal, only these looks, only this one smile, she would have chalked it up to him being home and relaxed, to the clear light pouring through the windows, to his mother's excellent mood and his father's pleasure at seeing him doing so well in school. But it was not just this. On the way home from school on the train, Pansy had watched this same expression on his face, curled up in the seat across from her, reading. It was a kind of wistful, hopeful, giddily pleased look, as if he had just been promised a new broom, as if they were poised to finally win the house cup. Even then she might have attributed it simply to the end of a difficult term, to the beginning of the hols. But even then was not the first time she had recognized this look on his face.

The first time she noticed it was in potions, a couple of weeks before the end of class. He was gazing almost soulfully across the room, paying no attention whatsoever to Snape and not even bothering to hide it. He had had a very late detention the night before, and Pansy had found him up early and staring into the fire that morning, that look of– look of what? Clarity? Happiness? Relaxation? Peace? Yes. It was like peace. She had found him that morning with a look of peace on his face that she almost mistook for sleepiness at the time. Later, in the common room, some first years jostled his seat and he didn't even light into them properly. He merely glanced up at them, grunted, "Hey, watch yourselves, there!" and then went back to his homework. It was simply unheard of. Pansy had kept on eye on all of it.

After brunch, Draco, Pansy, and the Scandinavians went into the garden. The girls pulled out notebooks and laughed with the boy, who beckoned Draco over. "Look at this one," he said. "I told you about this one last night, you remember? Now, the girls are going to practice on that Gnome." He pointed into the barren-looking shrub against a thick stone wall.

One of the girls rose, notebook in one hand. She pursed her lips and said a single word, so softly that if she hadn't been paying attention she would have mistook it for the wind, for a dropped branch in the distance. The word burned through her brain and made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Her finger was pointed toward the unknowing Gnome, who screamed and collapsed. The girl laughed.

"Well, there!" She said. Pansy was surprised at how clear and clean her English was, having heard her only speak some other language up until now. "That was easy. Would you like to try it?" She was smiling toward Pansy.

"What is it you did? And where is your wand?"

The girl laughed. "You English and your wands. Wands are powerful, yes, but they are not the only way. This is a very powerful spell, very secret, nearly forgotten. We have been taking some lessons from an ancient wizard in Stavanger, he specializes in the spells people have forgotten. Look!" She held out the notebook, and Pansy took it. In crisp, clear script, Pansy read the word, and understood what she it was she had heard. She pressed against it with the tip of her finger, moved her lips. It was an evil-sounding word, like death, like pain, like something inhuman. And yet when she heard it, it almost sounded beautiful. It sounded like a word before there were words, the language of wind and trees. She mouthed it again.

"It is useful, this one, but quite terrible," the girl was saying. Draco and the boy had become distracted, and were having a tête-a-tête near a patch of cedars, the boy's hand nearly but not entirely touching Draco's back. Draco looked amused, and waggled his eyebrows at Pansy. She smiled. "What it actually does it quite simple. It merely breaks the major bones in the body. Depending on the person casting the spell, of course, it can break all of them, or only, say, those in the legs and arms, or legs, arms, and ribs, or merely the bones in the spine, ankles, wrists. It is variable."

Pansy considered this. "And why do you do this? It seems very…well, muggle. Not very magical, really. What's the point?"

"Well, to stop an enemy, to keep them from hurting you first. It can keep a person away for the rest of their lives."

Pansy shook her head. "No no. The person will heal, even if they're alone they can cast a quick spell on themselves. The spell to repair broken bones is easy, I read about it for mid-terms. I even remember how to do it, I think."

The girl looked amused. "Oh yes," she said. "Yes, it is not a difficult spell, not with your wands. You try!" She motioned toward the Gnome. "You fix him!"

Pansy looked defiant. She walked over to the shrub and pulled the groaning Gnome away from the wall and out into the open. He was panting and drooling helplessly. Pansy thought for a moment, pulled out her wand, and cast the spell. As she watched, the Gnome's legs realigned, his arms regained a firm, normal look. She was pleased that she had not fumbled in front for these girls, in front of Draco and the boy. But still the Gnome did not stand, did not run away. It groaned, drooled, and did not move at all.

"You see?" The girl was laughing. "It is more complicated than that. Even though the injury is fixed, the body still believes itself to be wounded. The pain in unchanged. Eventually, it would drive him mad." The girl moved next to it nonchalantly and pressed the heel of her boot against the Gnome's skull. It cracked with a wet sound and the Gnome stopped moving altogether. "No point in being cruel," she said, smiling.

Pansy looked at the word again, and then up at the girls, who were looking smug. She smiled at them.

Harry sat on his bed with the box opened. It smelled of cedar, and the red velvet inside felt luxurious against his fingertips. He was still in shock. The rest of the school would be returning to school tomorrow, and in his one calm day before the storm, this late present had arrived. He had taken it from the utterly exhausted owl, who seemed to have gone altogether too far with a hopelessly heavy gift. Owls were more used to delivering letters, books, packages of parchment and quills, not large, heavy boxes with fencing foils in them. Harry had given it a large chunk of sausage, for which it seemed mildly grateful, and sent it off. "I'll send a reply later, you go rest," he had told it. It raised a tired eyebrow, winked sleepily, and beat a slow retreat to the Owlry below.

It was a lovely thing. At first he didn't wonder who it was from; Harry often received anonymous gifts. They usually ended up being from Sirius, or one of the Weasleys (Fred and George in particular had become quite keen on sending him the oddest and most frightening of gifts to show their appreciation for the prize money he had given them after his fifth year), Dumbledore, professor McGonagall, and even, on one occasion, from professor Snape, though Harry had swore he would never publicly acknowledge this. At first all he did was stare at it. It was absolutely beautiful. The hilt was well shaped, with a flared, blunt end; it was entirely made of a silver metal, and trimmed with an even shinier silver. When he touched it, Harry was certain that it hummed. It felt comfortable in his hand, beautifully weighted, it reminded him of Draco's foil.

Draco.

Harry felt a twinge of something in his stomach and stared at the foil again. He had been thinking about what happened in the boy's locker room throughout the hols, and didn't know what to make of it. He had not spoken about it, not even to Ron or Hermione.

He thought that he had stabbed Malfoy; the saw the point of the blade emerge from his shoulder blade. He saw the blood drip from the wound, the look of shock on Malfoy's face. And he had been so horrified, he had felt so terrible. Why?

What good was he going to be, Harry wondered, what good could he be in a war if he couldn't handle killing an enemy? Surely he would be required to do far worse things in the future. It wasn't simply that he was afraid of being expelled; he knew that the thought didn't occur to him at the time. It wasn't that, it was something else, something more sinister. He had not wanted Draco dead, he had not wanted to be the one who killed him. He had felt…

No, He wasn't certain.

Malfoy had never been an innocent. He had wished Hermione dead more times than Harry could think of. He had said and done horrible things to Harry, Ron, Hagrid, almost everyone Harry cared about. He was surely a Death Eater by now, possibly working as a spy now in Hogwarts. Though, Harry reasoned, he had seen Draco without his shirt, and had seen no marks on his arms. But all the same. Harry knew that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, and he knew how his son wanted to emulate him. He knew that Malfoy would just as soon throw him in Azkaban, and it disturbed him to no end that he was so concerned, so positively maternal, over an accident.

He rationalized it to himself that Malfoy was not an innocent, but he had been an innocent then. Yes, had the circumstances been different, had Malfoy been holding a knife under Hermione's throat, had he been about to cast a host of death curses against his friends, his teachers, the ministry, Harry would have sliced him through with that foil and never have thought twice about it. He would be the hero, and he would have no doubts.

But is war that simple? Is it that clean cut? Will he have to kill and live with the consequences? Was he strong enough for this fight?

He wondered then who sent this gift. While he knew that Ron had told Sirius about the fencing tournament, and he saw how disappointed McGonagall was, knowing that the school equipment was faulty, somehow he knew that it was likely not from any of them. This gift bore the weight of luxury, elegance, wealth, and challenge, and that had Malfoy stamped all over it. I dare you, it said. I dare you to meet me on my own terms. I dare you to be chivalrous and fight me for your own honour. I dare you to enter into this form of friendship with me, even though you don't trust me, even though you hate me, even though we have no topics on which we are likely to agree. I dare you to challenge me. I dare you to win.

Harry was intrigued.

10 This is How

This is how it could be.

I can feel your hand against my chest, it's moving so slowly it almost, but not quite, hurts. My legs are starting to fail me, and your arm around my waist only makes it worse. I have never been this close to you before. It feels strange and frightening and warm, your wet skin against mine, it feels foreign and perfect. We are looking at each other, and I recognize that expression on your face, the tension in your arms, the provocation in your eyes, though I've never seen it in you before. That look is making this hard not to accept.

My heart is beating so fast, blood rushing in my ears like I'm sinking into a pool of it, like it's going to fill my mouth and close over my head. I'm not sure that I'm breathing, except that I can feel my chest rising closer to you, itching to fall into you, my veins pressing me forward to get more of you, and I can see a few of the hairs on your forehead swaying a little, your face is so close to my mouth.

My mouth. Your face, downy hair on your cheeks, your lips parted, you are panting some, exertion and something else. I can see your desire written all over you, like prophecy. I can see it coming, the rhythm of the muscles in your jaw tensing are a warning, a demand. I want to kiss you. You don't know that I have kissed you before. How can you not know?

Maybe you do know. Maybe you know and have been waiting for me to do it again.

Have I failed you?

I feel a growl rise in you, your eyes narrow, the look you give me when you are about to throw a punch in my face. At this point I would almost welcome it; any more contact with your skin might send me over the edge, I would have a reason to collapse. But you don't hit me.

You shove me backwards against the wall, the foil in my hand scraping against the floor, my head slamming into the tile. You have me pinned with your chest, your hand squeezing mine, the hot metal of my foil pressing painfully into my skin until I release it and it clatters to the ground. You are larger than I am, though normally I pretend that I don't notice this. Your strength has overpowered me. Your desire keeps me standing, facing you, staring into the shadows of it dancing behind your eyes; my own makes my breath stick in my throat.

Your other hand is sliding up my torso and wraps firmly around my neck. I am trembling, but so are you. I swallow, hard. You're still looking at me. I don't blink.

When you kiss me, it is strangely sweet, tentative, like the one before. You are moaning slightly, you are inviting me inside you. Refusal is not an option; you push your fingers into my throat and drag your lips over mine. All I feel is fingers, pressed into my hand, wrapped around my throat, and lips, breath, your damp, hot chest against mine and cold tile against my shoulder blades. You pull back, release my fist and press the palm of your hand against the tile beside my head. You look me and whisper, "suck me." I am defiant, in spite of the hand wrapped around my throat that just squeezes harder. I glare at you, and then eye the foil lying idle on the floor next to you.

You throw me to the ground, my knees cracking wetly against the concrete floor, your hand shoving my head down. My lips graze your body as you pull me towards you push me downwards at the same time; the soft hair on your chest, the dip of your navel, the buckle of your belt scraping against my cheek. You undo your trousers with one hand while I watch you, your fingers still clutching at my hair, holding my face inches from your body. My knees are aching and I want to touch you, but I can't let you see how much. When your ridiculously oversized clothes are pooled around your feet you kick them away, standing naked in front of me, pulling on my hair. You pry my jaw open with your thumb, fingers clawing at the soft indent under my jaw, and say, "suck me," as you shove your cock into my mouth, nearly making me gag. I suck you as you tear at my hair and groan prettily.

No. This isn't right.

We are in the trophy room; I have just insulted your mother. There must be a part of you that knows I do this so that you'll touch me, but I'm not sure I want you to know this. You throw the first punch and it crunches into my jaw. I wince and taste blood. I pull a small knife out of my pocket and wave it in front of you. "Try me, Potter. I'm not afraid to kill you," I say lazily. You swear, your face turns red, and I make a swipe at you, which you dodge. Your reflexes have always been better than mine, this is why you're the better seeker, though I refuse to acknowledge this. You lunge at me, knocking me to the floor, grabbing the knife out of my hand and slicing at me. The metal zings through the air and makes contact. My head slams into the flagstones on the floor and I pass out, feeling my own knife cutting into the skin of my chest.

When I come to, I feel your tongue on my stomach. I am burning, you have cut me, a thin, shallow flesh wound only, but in a long, straight slice from mid-chest down to my navel, like a gutted fish. You are licking up the blood that seeps up through it, lick, stop, stare, lick. Your lips touch me and disappear, touch, lick. I pretend that I am still unconscious.

You want to damage me. You are still angry, I was extremely harsh in my insults. Your mother, your father, your godfather, your friends, your lover. You. You want me dead, you want to taste me bleeding, weak, helpless and at your mercy. You have no mercy. You have sliced off my clothing, I am naked, I can feel the rough wool of your robes against my stomach. Lips on my chest, lick, burn, lick, disappear. I don't move, not even my eyes hidden behind my eyelids. I breathe evenly, which is a struggle. Lick. I can feel your face press against my left nipple, your hands absently touching my waist. Breathe. Lick.

You reach the upper end of the cut and then slide your tongue back down its length, and then up again. Breathe, breathe, don't move.

I feel the knife against my skin again, pressing into the hollow between my hip and my stomach until it gives, slicing me in a slow curl down into my inner thigh. It hurts, but I don't wince, I cannot wince. A pause, your hands gripping my thigh. Lick, stare, burn, touch, lick. Your face moving down my body, between my legs, don't move. Lick.

No no. That isn't it. That's not you, is it, Harry.

You have won the Gryffindors yet another Quidditch victory, and we are sour at you. As punishment, Crabbe and Goyle have stripped you, tied your arms down and spread wide against the bench in the herbology garden, bent at the waist, your cheek pressed into the rough wood, a thick, oiled rope around your neck. Your glasses are smashed to pieces beside you. There is a broken practice snitch in your hand. You are supposed to learn something from this, something of the humiliation we always feel every time you beat us. Your legs are spread and are tied down. You are struggling. You're not very good at being humiliated.

I am carrying my broom, walking back to school through the garden, and find you like this. Crabbe and Goyle know better than to try to touch you, though you worried that they might. They have left you here to remind you about what happens when you displease us, they have hidden you away from your friends, given them false leads, they are searching the dungeons for you, probably. You have been left here as a kind of gift to me. Seeker to seeker.

You can't see me. I stroke your ass gently, watching you squirm. "Fuck off." You try to say it firmly, but it comes out as a squeal, as pleading. I would laugh, but then you would that its me. I stroke your thighs, your back, and your ass again, first with one hand, and then with two. When I reach around you I can feel that you are excited, and you sob when I grab hold of you. "No." I squeeze, shift my hand up, down, and then trace just my finger tips on the tip of you. I feel dampness, and smile. You growl, you groan, you swallow and hiss warnings that mean nothing, helpless as you are. You are still struggling. I stroke your stomach with one hand, your ass with the other, listening to your laboured breath and feeling the texture of your skin. I bring my fingers to my face and inhale. You smell like desire, like fear.

I get down on my knees behind you, tracing my tongue along the cleft of your ass, my fingers tracing your ribs, your stomach, your damp cock jumping in my hand. You wince and cringe, you cry. You are terrified and I can feel it the ring of muscle tensed and angry under my tongue. I stroke you and probe you and your own fear must hurt you more than this. You smell like sweat and like you, there's a golden edge to it. You are pleading with me, you want me to untie you and let you go. I am infinitely gentle with you, but this doesn't seem to help you to relax. The more gentle I am, the more you tremble, the more you fall apart. My tongue is inside you, my fingers massaging your cock, you weep and curse and pull at your bonds and press yourself back into me, pushing me further inside you. I have no boundary with you. There is nowhere I will not go.

Your grip on the broken snitch becomes so tight that it collapses in your hand, the pieces of it falling on the bench, tinged with your blood. The sound of you cursing, groaning, pleading, struggling against me and toward me, makes me want you more.

I didn't think I could want you more.

You are shaking and crying, defeated now, you have lost hope that I will let you go before you have come, before I have come. I'm not sure which you are dreading more. I kiss the insides of your thighs gently, I want you to feel my benevolence. You are still straining against your bonds, even without hope, as if this straining will remind me of your unwillingness. You are afraid I will hurt you. My precious one, I won't hurt you. Not yet.

No no no. Definitely not. This isn't right either. It can't be like that.

I tripped the weasel down the stairs, I dumped brown paint into his sister's hair. I threw Longbottom into a garbage bin and set the mudblood's wand on fire. I am behaving like a six-year-old to get your attention. It works. You got caught picking a fight with me and now we are here, in the Defense against the Dark Arts classroom, together, alone. You are very angry with me, and normally you would just punch me and hiss and spit, but not today.

Today you have decided to test out your Imperius skills. While you are very good at shaking this one off, I am not. Believe me, I've tried. You've seen me in class, you know it's true.

The first thing you do is tell me to strip, which I do. I snarl and swear at you the entire time, it's allowed. I'm not supposed to enjoy this, this is supposed to be a punishment. You stand in front of me, nose to nose. I feel compelled to kiss you, but I'm not sure if you've asked me to do this or not. I grab you by the wrists and move your arms behind your back, like I did outside that once, and I lean forward and kiss you lightly, exactly the same way I did before. You allow me to do this for a while, you kiss me back sweetly, you move your tongue along my lips and into my mouth so gently I start to relax. When I move my hands away from your wrists and up along your back, into your hair, cupping your face, you take my lower lip between your teeth and bite down, so hard I bleed. You step back and look at me, licking your lips, and smile.

"It was you," you say, smug. "How disappointing." I'm swearing under my breath, my hands falling against my naked thighs. I narrow my eyes at you, I feel cheated. "Didn't want me to know? Well, secret's out now, Malfoy. Now, what shall I do with you?" I grumble and stare at you defiantly. You instruct me not to move, and slide your hands across my chest, down my back. You stare at me, our eyes are locked, your hands travel over every inch of me within your reach, sometimes roughly, sometimes gently, but always with your hard eyes trained on mine, watching for reactions. A cupping palm, a tug, a stroke, a butterfly touch, fingernails digging into me, drawing blood, drawing light pictures against the small of my back. The tip of your index finger prodding inside of me. Eventually I cannot bear the weight of your watching, and I close my eyes.

After that your tongue takes up where your fingers left off, gentle where they were harsh with me, almost apologetic. And then you bite into my stomach, my hip, my calves, the soft spot behind my knee, and laugh when I wince, when I cry out in pain, surprise. You lick at the thick muscles on my neck, you rub the insides of my thighs. You seem to find the whole thing outrageously funny. You grab my cock roughly and tug at it, laughing even more when you find me getting even harder, when you find that fluid is seeping from me. "Does this turn you on, Malfoy? You sick little fuck." I open my eyes and sneer at you.

You have instructed me to get bend over, to grab my ankles, which I do. I am panting and swearing and telling you what a whore's son you are. You just laugh. You are standing behind me now, I can hear you pulling at your trousers, I hear the zip, the clank of your belt. My head between my knees I watch see the cuffs of your trousers fall, slipping lower at your ankles, hiding your grubby old trainers two sizes too large. You grab me by the hips. I can feel you teasing my ass with the head of your cock and I moan.

"You really are a sick fuck, Malfoy." You shove yourself inside of me and I scream, because you want me to.

Oh, god no. Definitely not you. Where are you in all this, Harry? How do you want me?

You come to me while I'm sleeping, you sneak into the Slytherin dorms. Perhaps you do this often, passing a sleeping draught off as pumpkin juice, putting all the Slytherins to sleep so that you can have your way with me. You must sit facing me in the Great Hall each evening just to watch me tip the juice into my glass and drink up my own fate. But one night I don't drink.

I wake up when you pull back my curtains, but I don't say anything. I can see that it's you and I'm intrigued. You look very beautiful in the moonlight, which seems to appear here in the dungeons just to glint off your naked chest like that, just to entice me. You pull off your shoes, your trousers, you run your fingers through your hair and then pull my blankets off me, folding them on one side, and I lie still, on my back, my eyes only half-closed in the dark. You stand there for a few moments, just observing me, waiting. I wonder what comes next, I wonder if there is something I normally do at this point. Should I scream? Should I sit up and ask what he's doing here? Should I feign sleep?

The weight of your stare is heavy against me, I feel my skin growing flush with fear, confusion, exhilaration, embarrassment, excitement. I wonder which parts of me are most interesting to you, if any parts of me are beautiful. I feel a warmth close but not touching me, as if your hands are hovering over my skin. I feel my lower stomach spin and realize that you can't miss my reaction to you, staring at me as you are. I wonder if I disgust you.

You kneel on my bed and sit back on your heels. I can feel your knees against my hip as you press one warm palm over my navel, fingers stroking my belly. I start slightly at the feeling, so intense and sweet and serious. Your other hand falls lightly against my chest, and your fingers explore me gently, inching along my ribs, playing at my waist, pausing to feel the dip at my collarbone. You pull the tips of your fingers over my body like a hot wind. After so long left unattended, you ghost your fingers over my cock and I nearly come just then, my body lunging forward. I shiver and moan, and you smile. You whisper, "Are you dreaming yet?"

"Yes," I whisper back. "I think I'm dreaming."

"Good," you say. You lie down next to me and kiss me, and I roll onto my side. You kiss me the way you did outside on my birthday, like you mean something by it. You kiss me the way I would have kissed you after that, deeper, longer, your tongue flicking against mine, rolling over me. Your hand is pressed against me, sliding up and down my back, fluttering at the base of my spine and then caressing up against my shoulders, my neck into my hair. You tease my lips with your tongue, smile warmly into me, you kiss the tip of my nose, my chin, my cheekbones, my eyes, my lips again, gently, less gently, deeply, softly, with firm determination. You kiss me and I kiss you back. You lift my knee and slide your thigh between my legs. "I like it when you're dreaming," you say, shifting your thigh against me slowly, letting me give you a pace with the movement of my hips against you.

"So do I," I whisper. I nuzzle my face into your shoulder and breathe you in. You curl your arms around me and kiss my neck.

I want. I want to stroke you, I want you inside of me, around me, I want you beneath my hands and my tongue; I want to be so close to you I forget where I stop and you begin. I want to be everything you ever wanted. What do you want?

The large, soft bed, the quilt, roses on the bedside table, the sun setting in the windows, music playing somewhere nearby. You smile, you take my hand, and we curl up into each other on the bed like children, like innocents. You hug me but I'm wearing a thick sweater, I have gloves on, my feet are buried in my winter boots. You kiss me sweetly, you tell me you love me. For this moment I believe it. But I'm not sure where I am in here, I'm not sure you can see me.

11   Trying to Fight Gravity

We didn't know, we didn't even try
One minute there was road beneath us
And the next just sky
–ani difranco, Falling is like This

Pansy looked up. The owls were flying down from the rafters, hidden far above, over the lie of the blazing blue sky over their heads, its positively joyous clouds scudding happily from one end of the Great Hall to the other, disappearing in a misted, dusty gray that sifted into black. Pansy hated that ceiling. She had hated it from the first moment she saw it. Once when she was small she and her best friend Miranda Marsden had been taken to a planetarium. It was mid-summer, she was staying with the Marsdens for a week in their small cottage in the north, and the planetarium was a cool respite from a particularly scathing heat wave. Muggles didn't have much going for them, it was generally agreed, but their air conditioning was hard to beat on a hot day when confronted with two seven year old girls screaming together, balanced on a teeter-totter, just to hear the harmonic of their voices at such high pitches. They went inside the planetarium and were told, "Now. Look up and be quiet." They looked up.

It was as though the sky had opened up in front of them, the sky on a dark night with no buildings, no light, no fires burning, nothing at all. Pure darkness, with the bright sky not even casting a glow down into the auditorium with its reclined seats below. And then the scene shifted backwards, as though she were somehow out of time and place altogether, as if she did not have a mandated relationship with the sky. It fell backwards, away from planets, stars, comets, clouds of dust and ice, zooming back and back and back until the galaxy sat in front of her, pristine and perfect like a snowflake. She watched the milky way swirling above her, a great, rotating spider moving so slowly, sparkling. And then they fell back inside it again. They oohed and aahed along with the other children in the sticky seats around them, transfixed by the show of light, sometimes entirely realistic, other times taking them to places they couldn't even imagine. And while Miranda pointed and gasped as the scenes shifted and changed, Pansy sat still, terrified, as the teenager sitting next to her shoved his hand up her skirt. When the show was over and the lights came up, she saw that the ceiling was just an ordinary one after all, it was all lights and shadow and trickery. The teenagers filed out first. The reclined seats were a dull brownish orange, not even the colour of grass you would lie on to watch the sky. Ever since Pansy had hated false ceilings; even more so if there were pretty.

She watched the owls swoop in and drop letters and parcels, just a handful of them this time, the first day back after the Christmas hols. A forgotten sweater, sweet cards from grandmothers and younger siblings, a scarf, a pair of mittens. She kept her eye on them, looking for a purple scroll.

It would never have occurred to her, had she not seen a series of events in just the order she saw them. First, it was the wink across the table at Boxing Day brunch. That in itself was unusual, but didn't point in any particular directions. It was only indicative of a mood, a certain lightness of spirit.

On the way back to school after the hols, Pansy had sat across from Draco on the train, watching him look dreamily out the window. Draco did not do anything dreamily. Pansy knew for a fact that Draco had positively monstrous dreams. There had been a time when she had visited with the Malfoys over the summer and had slept in Draco's bed with him. He had insisted on sleeping without being touched.

"I punch people sometimes," he said, as an excuse. "I see things in my dreams, and if you touch me, I might mistake you for something else, while I'm asleep. It's better this way."

She had been suspicious at the time, read too much into this, felt the great gulf between them after he had curled so tenderly on top of her but then rolled away, and she cried silently as she heard him fall asleep. She was naked and wondered what would happen if his mother burst in, or his father. This never happened. But he did punch her, in the face, once. Each night she was there she woke to his restless dreams, shouting in the back of his throat, arms thrashing around. He growled, his pounded his fist into his thigh, into the mattress. She watched him once, lying on his back, the bedclothes pulled down to his thighs and his body shaking like mad, his arms arrested as his sides. At first she thought he was having a seizure. She woke up and felt him trembling, felt the cold air against his bare skin, turned and saw him. He slept with his curtains open, always. He liked the moonlight, he liked to feel that he had somewhere to run to, in case of an emergency. He did not like to feel trapped. It took her a few moments to register what was happening. Draco, shaking violently, his breath coming in fits and starts as if someone were choking him, limbs immobile, eyes open. He looked terrified, blue in the moonlight, but in Pansy's mind he was blue because he couldn't breathe. She moved closer to him and touched him.

And all hell broke lose. He punched her in the face, hard, and she cried out and fell off the bed. She landed in a heap of blankets with a bloodied lip, one leg still tangled in a sheet and tucked against the edge of the mattress. She propped herself up on her knees and looked over at him, lying uncovered and naked on his white sheets glowing blue, his arms jittering but lying as if pinned at his sides, his cock fully erect, and decided to spend the night on the floor. Draco did not remember this incident in the morning, and Pansy did not ask what he was dreaming about. If he guessed what had happened, he did not apologize for it.

On her last night there, Draco had punched himself, and woke with a bloody nose. This, also, prompted no commentary from either of them, though she went into the bathroom and brought Draco a box of tissues at three o'clock in the morning. She wondered what it was that haunted him. His mother was a dream, his father, distant, cold, perhaps, but not unkind. She wondered what family secrets were buried away in Draco's brain, and couldn't help but hope that one day, with time and patience and love, she would hold Draco through the night and he would know that it was her. Even in his sleep, he would feel her touch and know.

She watched him on the train, looking dreamily out the window at nothing, and felt a stab of jealousy. Had someone managed to touch Draco while he slept? Had someone gotten inside? No. It could not be. I simply could not be. Who was he thinking about? Draco thought he was so closed-lipped, he thought he was inscrutable. She had heard him say as much to his enemies, his friends. She had heard him say things he didn't mean, watched his face as he lied. He didn't think anyone could tell, but she could. She knew, for instance, that Draco had a profound respect for Professor McGonagall, in spite of her clear Gryffindor leanings. She knew that he enjoyed History class, and Arithmancy, though he rolled his eyes and complained loudly about both. She knew that he didn't hate mudbloods as much as he claimed to. She had noticed that he made a show of hating them only in front of the other boys, Vincent, Gregory, Professor Snape, even. She knew that it wasn't so much hatred; she knew that mudbloods made him uncomfortable. He didn't trust them, he didn't understand how they could sit on the fence the way they did, one foot in both worlds, no loyalty to either. He didn't understand how they could cast spells and enjoy all these benefits and then walk back into their families and pretend they were muggles, deny everyone they knew, as if they could forget their wands, their training, their deep-seated love of Quidditch. The idea made him nauseous. Pansy knew this. Draco thought he was so complicated, but really he was not. And watching his face on the train, Pansy knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that someone had wormed their way Draco's field of vision. Someone was making him daydream, distracting him from his usual bitter, tortured thoughts.

Hell hath no fury, after all. Pansy wondered, and didn't stop wondering. All she knew for certain was that it wasn't her Draco was thinking of.

Even then she might have just let it be. She had seen something like this happen to Draco before; the Jill Newbury affair had looked a little bit like this. He had wanted her so badly, so completely. He was obsessed. He knew everything about her daily affairs, he could recite the names of the members of her family. He knew her results from class, knew that charms was her weakest subject. He listened to the sound of her voice on playback, knew her tone so well that he could distinguish her coughing in a room full of noisy students. He knew what size clothing she wore, her favourite colours, what time she went to bed and woke up. It was then she had seen a look like this, distracted, thinking through the plot, how to get her, how to charm her, how to convince her. When she finally relented, he possessed her completely. But the possession had only lasted a week or two. Once he had won his prize, he realized she was no real prize; she was bright but was unwilling to challenge him; pretty but a prude. The entire thing was wholly unsatisfying. She was exactly what he knew she was, but in the end it wasn't what he wanted. Draco never seemed to know what he wanted.

Pansy had known even then what Draco had not known. He wasn't in love with Jill Newbury, the beautiful, elegant Ravenclaw whose name Draco may have even forgotten by now. Pansy was certain he didn't even particularly like her, and she had heard enough in the locker rooms to know that Jill was no where near what Draco wanted. Pansy knew that Draco wanted to want things, and sometimes he believed his own hype.

So she might have ignored the dreamy look, even though 'dreamy' was never a term she would have used for Draco, even when he was obsessed. She might have chalked all of this up to good grades, a whole series of beautiful, foreign strangers eyeing him seductively, the last term in school, the start of another Quidditch season. And part of her did, for a little while. Perhaps it was just the air, maturity, Draco thinking about something other than himself. Perhaps.

She had wanted to send a letter to her mother. She had written it on the train ("Dear mum, I know we talked about further education abroad for next year, but can we talk about it more later? I'm just not certain I'm ready yet, and there are people I'm not ready to leave…"), and was making her way toward the Owlery after dinner to commission one of the school owls when she saw them.

Well, she saw Draco first. He was lying in the snow, wearing a long wool cloak that was near white itself. With is pale skin and white-blond hair she barely saw him lying there, arms wrapped around his torso. He was lying beside a shrub in the herbology garden, and she really only saw him because she had glanced over to see how the Ogre roses were doing. Ogre roses were incredibly beautiful; large, red and luscious, like paintings of roses, not the sorry excuse that the real thing usually was. Orgre roses only bloomed in the winter, and Pansy had gotten into the habit of cutting a few flowers here and there through the long Hogwarts' winters and placing them in a vase on her bedside table. The smell of even one flower filled the seventh year girls dormitory with a smooth, dense fragrance, powdery and rich and lovely. She glanced over to see the roses and saw a hand moving on the ground, in the near-dark. Draco, lying on the ground, looking up.

At first, naturally, she thought he was hurt. Perhaps he had fallen, perhaps he needed attention. But when she followed his eyes up into the sky, she saw something unexpected; a single boy, flying. The boy swooped around in the sky, turned somersaults, spun through a series of sharp corners, obstacles, dipping down and arching back up again. It was too dark to see who it was, and the boy was wearing black school robes, not Quidditch robes. Pansy couldn't even be certain what house the boy belonged to; it was too dark to see his tie, and he wore no scarf. He must be mad, Pansy thought. It's freezing. Both of them will catch a cold. Pansy twisted her lips and pressed on toward the owlery. Whoever it was in the sky was her most likely suspect. Perhaps Draco fancied himself in love with the mad flyer in the sky. Why else would he lie there, on his back in the snow getting cold and wet and dirty?

She was muttering to herself when she walked into the owlery. She pulled out her stationary box from her shoulder bag and pulled out the letter she had written to her mother. The owls tittered, and she pulled out her wand.

"Lumos," she whispered, and the owlery was illuminated. It took Pansy perhaps fifteen seconds to spot the Malfoy owl.

The Malfoys were not always ostentatious. No, Narcissa Malfoy had a sense of subtlety as well. Draco, for instance, was rarely clad in outrageous clothing. His mother insisted on nothing but the best, but opted for the casual, laissez-faire approach; she made it all look so easy, so nonchalant and effortless. Draco appeared quite normally clad until you were up close; it was then that you'd notice the fine cut of his trousers, the gleam of his calf-skin shoes, the thread count of the material that went into his robes, his shirts, his boiled wool sweaters and even the smooth, well-groomed sheen of his skin pointing to the money his mother spent preparing him for the world, the care and delicacy of it, the pride. The Malfoy owls shared this subtlety, and it was one Pansy had appreciated. They were fowl of an ordinary breed (eagle owls, all), but they were special birds. They had unique patterns on their backs, their faces were particularly bright, they had an oddly large wingspan, strangely hypnotic eyes, elegant claws or particularly glossy feathers. Some of them were just unusually bright or well-trained, but these, Pansy knew, were reserved for terribly urgent or important affairs. Malfoy owls were the pick of the hatchlings, the best, the most objectively beautiful. It was a subtle thing, but one Pansy noticed. And there, right in front of her, was a Malfoy owl.

"Well, my dear," Pansy cooed, stroking the soft feathers at the birds' neck. "it's just you I was looking for. You've been delivering from Malfoy Manor, haven't you." She knew it in an instant, and in an instant she had a plan. She pushed the letter to her mother into the box and pulled out a clean sheet of purple parchment, rolling it into a long, tight scroll. "Here," she said, offering the parchment to the owl. "This was forgotten. It's a note that goes with it, the last item you delivered. It got forgotten and I don't want anyone to be embarrassed. Be a dear and just drop this off, to the person you sent the item to?" The owl winked first one eye, and then the other at her, and accepted the parchment. "Wonderful," she said, and smiled.

That night as she fell asleep she worried, worried and planned and hoped. Who did she fear it was? Who did she hope? The mad flyer? Some busty Ravenclaw with a chip on her shoulder? Crabbe or Goyle, getting a late Christmas present? Or just Draco himself. Perhaps his mother had shipped him some cookies and fudge and cake the moment he left, the day before. She was like that, she loved to feed him sweets and send him little tokens. As it turned out Draco had had his full of sweets before age twelve and just passed along these packages, leaving them open in the Slytherin common room for the others to devour, which they invariably did. Perhaps that's all it was. This thought soothed her as she fell asleep, thinking about Draco's arms around her, his lips, his hair brushing against her stomach.

That morning she watched the owls enter the Great Hall and descend from the rafters, dropping newspapers and letters and packages. She spotted the elegant Malfoy owl while Draco poked at his scrambled eggs. It circled the room broadly and them dropped the purple parchment above the Gryffindor table. It seemed to fall unusually slowly as Pansy watched it, her fingers gripping the edges of her seat. She watched it leave the owl's grasp and fall from perhaps twenty or thirty feet above, spinning in the air and landing, finally, on the white table cloth, between a fork and a soup spoon, directly in front of Harry Potter.

Harry had decided to fly that night to calm his nerves. He had had a wonderful holiday, minus Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley. He had spent his time off school with Sirius, laughing at his stories and jokes, feeling like a regular kid. He had eaten good food, stayed up late, woken Christmas morning and run into the living room, the Christmas tree hiding presents for him beneath its bows. He had nearly cried with joy. Sirius had brought him back to Hogwarts the day before the others, and then spent the day closeted away with Dumbledore. Grave discussions, no doubt. Strategy, political movements, alliances. Death tolls, names, lists of possible suspects, questions. Harry didn't want to think about it just yet. He had spent the last week imagining that this wasn't happening. He and Sirius had agreed when his holiday started that they would do their best to pretend that there was no war, that Azkaban did not exist, that his parents were not killed by a raving lunatic who was out to kill Harry, that Sirius had not taken a break from gravely dangerous work to spend this time with him. That Harry himself would not be joining him shortly, to prevent further bloodshed, to stop Voldemort from destroying the world. For a while, they imagined that they were just family, enjoying a holiday, eating plum pudding and turkey and mashed potatoes, playing exploding snap. If he stayed in the air, he thought, clutching at his broom and swooping through the cold January air in the dark, he might be able to prolong it. When he touched the ground he would have to admit the truth; he was in grave danger, there was a war going on, people were dying. People would continue to die.

And yet there were these bright spots in his immediate future. Sirius had given him a beautiful new broom, top of the line. Ron and Hermione had returned on the train with the others that afternoon, bearing gifts and chocolates. Harry had lost his spare pair of glasses last term, but Sirius had given him a new pair, and these made the world sink into sharp focus. While he was dreading sitting through advanced Divination again, Harry was looking forward to this final term in Defense against the Dark Arts, Charms, and even Potions looked interesting. NEWTs were fast approaching, but Harry felt prepared, or at least, he felt that he would be prepared. Hermione would not let him feel otherwise. His results had been quite good last term and he felt that he was hitting his stride. He had started to feel that he really did have something to offer the wizarding world, something beyond just the scar on his forehead. He had learned in class last term that he was a much stronger wizard than he would have imagined; he could resist curses and cast spells that painted a look of shock on his teachers' faces. This pleased him a great deal. He wanted to be as special as they all hoped he was, he hoped there was something in him that could be the difference between victory and defeat. And in the middle of all of this, he had received this anonymous gift, a fencing foil. From who? Professor McGonagall? Dumbledore? Sirius? Could it really be Malfoy?

He had come to be quite used to their regular sparring. There had been days when he had needed it more than almost anything; Harry was not good at dealing with his own frustration, and Malfoy's constant teasing gave him the perfect excuse to lose his temper. When he felt uncertain about his place, when he felt confused and angry with his family and frustrated in History of Magic when they read, yet again, about the horrors muggles had inflicted on wizards and witches. Sometimes he felt less than certain, sometimes he worried that he was less than prepared. And then Malfoy would hurl some mudblood comment toward Hermione, he would look the Hufflepuffs up and down and laugh at them with his cronies, he would narrow his eyes at Harry and lift his chin in defiance and Harry would know. Yes, he knew what was right. No matter how horrible the history was, no matter what the Dursleys had done to him, it did not justify what Voldemort wanted, what he did. And Voldemort was no saint for the cause; he killed wizards and witches too, he killed anyone who stood up to him. There was no truth in there, there was no salvation. Draco was a living reminder, he pushed Harry back into his role. When Draco flashed him that challenging glare across the potions dungeon, Harry knew who he was. He was a hero. And he would be that hero.

So he could throw that punch, hurl insults, stand between Hermione or Seamus or Justin and a sneering, angry Malfoy, adopt a challenging stance and lift his own chin. You want to? Go ahead. Try me. And so they would fight. Aside from Professor McGonagall, no one ever really blamed him for it, not even when he lost house points. Malfoy was certainly poised to be a Death Eater; he hated people because of their heritage and worshipped the monster that killed Harry's parents. He was the perfect cardboard cutout of an enemy for Harry, and, strangely, Harry found this reassuring. There were so few constants in Harry's life; Ron and the Weasleys, Hermione and her good advice, the mundane day to day of the school year, and Draco Malfoy. Hating him, fighting with him, challenging him and being challenged by him. It made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, sometimes it made his heart pound harder in his chest, made his breath come faster, made his blood boil. He hadn't thought about how much this actually meant to him until he opened that gift, thinking about Draco with a foil through his chest. Yes, he was a villain. A coward, a tattle-tale, a failure of the education system.

But he was consistent, at least. Even this gift, which Harry suspected probably did come from Malfoy, was a mark of the obscure form of respect that they offered each other. It showed Harry that Malfoy seemed to value their strange, antagonistic relationship as much as Harry did himself. Valued? Was that the right word? Certainly, in a strange kind of way. He was glad that Malfoy acknowledged it as well; fencing could be just one more way they could continue to define each other, defy each other, push each other farther, attempt to destroy each other. He wondered, with his new broomstick cold and slick against his palms, if Malfoy entertained the same fantasies he did; winning the argument, drawing Malfoy to his side, seeing him apologize to Hermione, holding him up as a kind of prize. If I leave Hogwarts having convinced him, having pulled him toward the right side of this battle, I will really have accomplished something. Yes, Harry imagined that Malfoy did think the same way, and that this was precisely why he was such a good opponent.

And so he had flown through the evening sky, trying to fight gravity, feeling powerful and powerless, afraid and brave, hot and anxious and cold in the hard, sharp January air. He had talked to Sirius about what he would do after he graduated, and it seemed that there were many different routes he could take, all important, all challenging, all working to destroy the Death Eaters. Harry was anxious and afraid to begin. He felt helpless here at Hogwarts, he felt restless. By the time he was ready to go inside again it was dark and his fingers were numb.

Ever since Harry had discovered that Malfoy had found out about their attempts at becoming animagi they had moved their activities onto an even lower gear. Hermione researched quietly, and only during regular hours, hiding books within books. Ron had overheard a few things from his brother and was convinced that Voldemort was aiming to break into Hogwarts this term; the three of them thought their best defence, if Voldemort had them near cornered, to transform themselves and scatter. They had even decided on a rendezvous point, should the moment arrive. Ron had brought up an old tent from his parents' basement, and Hermione had made a matchbox hold as much as a large refrigerator. Harry had convinced Dobby to help them, and managed to gather up several weeks worth of food. These items, as well as a change of clothes for the three of them, were hidden away in the hollow of a tree on the edges of the forbidden forest. All that remained was working out how to transform themselves safely and without being detected. From there, they figured, they would plan the counter-offensive.

When the purple letter had dropped next to Harry's plate at breakfast the next morning, Hermione had looked at it, confused. "Who's that from, Harry?" she asked. Harry had shrugged, pulled it open, and found it blank, just a blank sheet of parchment in a pale shade of lavender. "That's odd." She took it and sniffed at it, stroked it, waved her wand over it and whispered a few spells. "Hmmm."

"Do you think it's from You Know Who?" Ron whispered, his fingers clutched around his goblet of juice.

Hermione giggled. "Well, if it is, he certainly has lovely taste in stationary. It looks like a love letter someone didn't just forget to sign, but forgot to write entirely." Harry laughed, and wondered who would send him love letters. He looked around the room, seeing some smiling Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws arguing pointedly, a small food fight erupting at the Slytherin table. He noticed that Draco was playing with his food, and that Pansy was staring straight at him. They're eyes locked for a moment, and Harry furrowed his brows in confusion. Pansy had never given him a second glance. She looked absolutely furious.

"Something's in the works," he said, sighing, leaning back in his chair and breaking eye contact with Pansy.

"What do you mean?" Hermione said, between bites of toast, still looking worriedly at the purple sheet of parchment.

"I don't know. I just suspect that something is brewing." He lifted his goblet toward the Slytherins. "Double potions. Again. Fabulous. I suppose we'll find out then." He drained his glass, eyeing Malfoy, who was running his fingers through his damp hair, smiling, talking to Pansy.

Professor Snape had, as usual, paired Harry with Draco, which both had come to expect. Harry sat on his stool and stretched out his spine, throwing his head back, groaning a little in the back of his throat. The air had been far too cold out last night and he had over-exerted himself. His back and his legs were sore and cramped. He had done no flying at all over the holidays, and flew too hard and too long last night. He felt his back crack satisfyingly.

Draco chuckled. "All that flying last night throw your back out, Potter?" Hermione, sitting directly behind Harry, partnered up with Pansy, shot Draco a look, and then raised an eyebrow. Pansy glared at both of them and grabbed the knife out of Hermione's hand, slicing furiously into the pitcherplant roots. She mumbled something under her breath, but Hermione ignored her, watching Draco.

Harry sat up and stared. "How did you know I was flying last night?"

"Ah, you underestimate me. I know everything." He looked up at the blackboard, and down at the table full of roots and vials in front of him, picking up the knife.

"Hmmm." Harry sat up properly and grabbed his cauldron, setting it over the flame. "I've got a new broom, you know." He say quickly, noting that Snape was making his rounds across the room. "Flies like a dream. You'll have no chance at all against us this season, I'm afraid."

"Ah! A gift from another fan? I hear you get a lot of those." Draco looked down at the root he was chopping, very aware of the closeness of Harry's body, his arm nearly pressed against his own.

"I do indeed. Some very fine ones this year." Harry grinned lopsidedly, and whispered, "Thanks for the foil, by the way. It's really lovely. What is it, poisoned? Non-retractable? Will it stab me in my sleep?"

Draco laughed. "No no no. Though, I was tempted by the one that promised to give you a matching scar on your arse, but…" he gestured with the knife toward Harry forehead, and Harry grinned widely. Draco smiled back, and added, "That foil is very much like mine, in fact. I don't want to hear any more complaints about the equipment. I prefer to win clearly and without question." Draco turned and rifled through his bag for his wand, hoping to hide his sudden attack of nerves. As he grabbed his wand, he swore under his breath, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks.

Harry smiled and shook his head. "So it really was you." Draco retrieved his wand and set it on the table, turning and raising an eyebrow at Harry as if to say, well, who else would it be? While Hermione rose to pick up some tincture of bergamot, Pansy watched Draco's face, pink in the cheeks, his movements uncertain. She fumed.

Draco hmphed and went back to slicing the root in front of him. "Make yourself useful, Potter. Slice the flobberworm, I hate those things."

"Ugh!" Harry reached across the table and grabbed the flobberworm tail, still damp and slimy from the jar they had pulled it from. He took the knife, wrinkled his nose, and sliced. "Ouch!" Harry jerked back, cradling his thumb. "Dammit!"

Draco looked over and saw blood on Harry's hand. "Good Lord, Potter, let me see." It wasn't a serious cut, but the blood was still running profusely down Harry's thumb, pooling in the palm of his hand. Snape was looking into cauldrons across the room as Draco picked up his wand.

"Malfoy, don't, I–"

"Let me just–"

It was just then that Draco heard it. He was holding his wand, pointing it toward Harry's hand, about to utter a spell to stop the bleeding. He heard it the way you hear a wind in the trees on a rainy day, the way you hear the swish of robes when you're in the stacks at the library, someone brushing past in the aisle. The way you hear a storm coming in the distance, the slow step of a predator in the underbrush. A word, but barely, more like the ghost of a word, a word in a language you don't have the senses to comprehend. He heard it and it made him shiver, as if it were spoken against the skin at the back of his neck.

As if in slow motion, Harry's eyes rolled back into his head, his limbs in spasm, he fell, his head crashing into the stool on the way to the floor. Draco's mouth hung open, he was in shock. Harry lay before him, arms and legs lying brokenly on the floor, bent at horrifying angles, his skull pressed inward along the left side, his chest heaving fitfully and impossibly, collapsed in parts as if he had just been sat on by a troll. He heard a bottle drop against the stone floor and shatter just before Hermione started to scream.

12 See Them Break

What do you when your best friend goes one day
Somebody takes his life away?
I don't think that I can go to school today
Without you.
Prozzak, Monday Morning

Ron remembered just as awoke, before he opened his eyes. The realization rolled over him anew every morning just like this, just before he opened his eyes. Harry. He had been fine at breakfast, they had gone to potions class. He had been paired with Malfoy, as usual, with Hermione and Pansy at the table behind them. Ron had been opposite, paired with Blaise Zabini, and Neville was in front of him, with Millicent. They were all relatively subdued, this being their first morning back to class after the Hols. Ron had been just in the middle of measuring his flobberworm tail when he heard a bang, and heard Hermione start screaming.

Harry. On the floor. His skull bashed in, his chest collapsed. Broken arms, legs, his face, his cheekbones, his jaw. He was entirely broken, drool beginning to drip from his slightly parted lips. Ron hardly recognized him. The image of his scar, floating serenely above the mess of disjointed limbs and misshapen face, torso, seemed like the one thing reminding them of who this was. It was Malfoy who knelt down in front of him first, touched him, but Ron threw him off quickly and rushed to Harry's side, cradling broken fingers in the palm of his hand. Hermione was white and looked like she might be sick. Before anyone managed to say anything, Snape was on top of them.

"What–" he started, and then stopped, looking down at Harry. He blinked once, twice, and then turned to Crabbe. "Hospital wing. Run. Tell Madam Pomfrey to prepared for…an extreme injury. Multiple broken bones. Quickly. Now." Crabbe nodded and ran like a terrified dog of the classroom. Hermione was crying, Ron was still staring into Harry's face, willing his eyes to open.

"Who did this?" Snape hissed, as he whispered a variety of spells over Harry and conjuring a floating gurney.

"M-Malfoy." Hermione stuttered, her hands shaking and pressed against her cheeks. "Malfoy had his wand. Pointed at. Harry." She was breathing far too fast. Ron stood and turned, his face red and his hands balling into fists. He could still feel the echo of those broken fingers. Malfoy stood in front of him, looking stonily at Snape as he began to move Harry toward the door, his expression largely unreadable. They knew You Know Who was attempting to get at Harry another way, they should have guessed something like this.

Malfoy would not get away with it. Ron didn't even remember what he said, what he screamed at the top of his lungs as his fists flew at Malfoy. They hit their target and Malfoy fell to the ground, as if he expected it, as if he knew how much he deserved it. Hermione had pulled Ron off him eventually, after she caught her breath, after the rest of the class watched as Snape quickly moved Harry out of the room and toward the hospital wing. Pansy gathered Draco up and they sat at a desk at the far end of the room, saying nothing. Malfoy just looked down at his guilty hands, probably smirking and feeling proud of himself. He was at least smart enough not to say anything; they would have torn him apart if he had. They had all sat and cried afterward in near silence, or just breathed, thankful for every breath, afraid they might be next, the Gryffindors and the Slytherins both. And that was how Dumbledore found them.

Ron turned onto his side, the curtain open facing Harry's bed. He still did not open his eyes. He knew the bed was empty, but for a moment or two before he remembered it, he felt that reassuring, mundane normalcy that told him that Harry was on one side of him, Neville on the other; today they had double potions first thing; breakfast would probably be eggs and sausages; Hermione would make sure he didn't forget his homework; Harry would probably need to be woken twice, and they would rush downstairs, late again. Even after he remembered, he tried to pretend he hadn't. There was a deep pit in his stomach, he felt as though he were incased in a well, looking up, seeing no light. He woke and remembered with painful clarity that Harry was still not well, that no one expected him to be well any time soon, that it was raining, and it was Monday morning.

Dumbledore had asked them, quietly, what had happened. Parvati had begun. She explained that they were preparing a potion, that Harry had cut his finger ("Where, precisely?" Dumbledore asked. "His thumb," Hermione answered shakily. "His thumb, it was bleeding badly. That knife," she pointed. "See, there, the blood is sill there."). That Malfoy had pointed his wand at him, and he collapsed. ("Did anyone hear Mr. Malfoy use any particular spell?" Silence. No one heard anything.) Dumbledore sat down rather heavily on a desk and sighed.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked, quietly. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Malfoy looked up. He blinked rapidly, then looked at his hands again. "It's just as they say. Potter cut himself. I got my wand to get rid of the blood, and before I could do anything, he collapsed."

"Did you curse him, Draco?"

"No."

Dumbledore sighed again. Ron banged his fist against the table. "Sir, of course he did, we all know he did. He was the one with the wand POINTED AT HARRY! He's the one who wants to KILL HIM! He's the one who's a DEATH EATER!" Ron was standing by the end of his speech, Hermione holding on to his arm.

"Mr. Weasley, please." Dumbledore held out his hand. Ron wondered in retrospect if Dumbledore had put some kind of spell on him, because he immediately sat, blanched, and felt a strange calm, a deadly kind of peace. Dumbledore didn't seem to believe any of them, including Malfoy. When Snape returned they whispered to each other earnestly, Snape shook his head. Dumbledore turned and asked them all to hold out their wands, and not to move. He whispered something, shut his eyes, and all of their wands rose into the air. They hovered there for some long minutes, one by one glowing slightly blue, Malfoy's wand glowing rather longer than the rest. Finally they all sank back down again and fell into each of their hands.

They had been excused from classes for the day after that because all the teachers had been summoned to the hospital wing. Chaos ensued, and only Flitch and Hagrid were left to deal with the entire student body. The Gryffindor common room was packed; there was a group of Hufflepuffs hanging around the portrait hole, agog; some sixth year Gryffindors had met up with a group of Ravenclaws in the library, looking up curses in the restricted section, whispering, looking suspicious. The Great Hall was one solid mad gab, with students of all years and all houses gossiping loudly with each other. What was wrong with Harry? What had happened? Had anyone heard the curse? Would he be alright? Who did it? Was it You Know Who? Is Draco Malfoy a Death Eater, and did he try to kill Harry? If not him, then who?

Something was dreadfully wrong, that much was clear. Whatever had happened to Harry was more than just a simple beating, more than just a bit dueling out of turn. The rumours were flying that the teachers, even Dumbledore, had no idea how to cure Harry, and that he might die. The first thing Dumbledore had asked, when he had come to the Gryffindor commons that afternoon, was that Ron look over Harry's things. Was there anything out of place? Anything missing? Anything unusual? He and Neville looked through Harry's trunk, his drawers, pulled out his sheets and tossed the mattress onto the floor. It was then that they found the cedar box under the bed. Ron had pulled it out slowly, as though it might explode, as though You Know Who might spring forth from it. Neville eyed him nervously as he opened it, and looked down at the fencing foil.

"Bet this is it," Ron said, nodding seriously to Neville. "Bet it's charmed or something. Best bring it to Dumbledore." He closed the lid again and tucked it under his arm, heading to the common room where Dumbledore waited, sitting heavily in a chair by the fire. He nodded solemnly at Ron and patted his shoulder, taking the foil back to the hospital wing with him. He smiled sadly as he left, and conjured some chocolates on the large table in the centre of the common room. At dinner that night, Ron heard rumours that there was blood on the foil, and that the blood was Malfoy's. Some kind of voodoo hex, the Ravenclaws were saying. Blood, hair, and a weapon, under the bed. One night sleeping over it and Harry was doomed. Malfoy was most certainly a Death Eater, and the Death Eaters were getting more and more creative. Mandy Brocklehurst had done a term project on voodoo and bit her lip after explaining it, leaning across the Gryffindor table, her school tie dragged across a basket of thick-sliced bread.

"Rather difficult to cure, really, not knowing how the thing was prepared," she said. "I wonder where they're getting the hexes from. Not even the restricted section had much on the topic. I had to get my mum to get some books from America." Hermione looked at her hands, saying nothing.

"So if they took the sword away, and…fiddle with it some, dance around it maybe, Harry'll come on back?" Seamus had asked. Mandy had only shrugged, looking grim.

That night in the boys dorm there was a kind of haunted silence. Ron, Dean, Neville, and Seamus sat for a while on their beds in their pajamas, their curtains open, Harry's empty bed the focus of their attention if not their eyes.

"Do you think he'll be alright, then?" Dean asked.

"Yes, yes, of course he will." Neville said, lying back against his pillows. "He'll be fine. Madam Pomfrey can fix–"

"–pretty much anything," Seamus finished. Ron was grateful for that. The last thing he wanted to hear was another description of Harry's injuries. Broken bones. Madam Pomfrey can fix broken bones, no matter how many of them there are. He had heard it over and over all day. The voices now sounded like a chorus in his head, a chorus he was directing. Broken bones, they sang. Malfoy's a murderer, Harry will die.

"Yes, I would think so," Ron said. They didn't look at each other.

"I heard that there was something else," Neville said. No one answered. They had all heard it, yet no one felt strong enough to stop him from saying so yet again. Perhaps they even hoped this rumour might be different. "I heard that they have healed him, but he's still not okay."

"Don't believe everything you hear, Longbottom," Dean said.

"He'll be alright," Ron closed his curtains, and avoided looking at that empty bed.

It wasn't until the following evening that Hermione and Ron's request to see Harry was finally acknowledged and they were permitted into the hospital wing. They had placed Harry in an airy private room at the end of a long corridor Ron and Hermione had never seen. As they walked behind a very serious-looking Madam Pomfrey, they saw Snape standing in front of a large stone table in a small potions room talking with Dumbledore; two men Ron didn't recognize were mixing something in cauldrons beside them. Madam Pomfrey's lips were pressed into a thin line as she ushered them in to Harry's room.

The first thing they saw was white. The walls, the floor, the curtains framing the large window, the bedding on the cot, whose headboard was pressed against the wall. Ron eyes were at first drawn to the window, which dominated the wall directly across from the door. It was dark and Ron couldn't tell what direction they were facing, whether they were looking out over the lake, the herbology garden, the Quidditch pitch, or the vast forest behind the school. The curtains were thin and did not look as though they were ever drawn; and even if they were, they were so gauzy and insubstantial the sun would just pour through in the mornings, in the afternoons, whenever the sun did manage to find this forsaken little corner of Hogwarts. He hoped it did. He hoped the sun inched into this room in the mornings the way it did in the seventh year dorm, prying Harry's eyes open here the same way it did every morning, every other day.

Harry was lying on the bed, white bedclothes pulled neatly up to his chest, folded over at the top, showing crisp, clean sheets. His blue and white flannel pajamas were buttoned up properly, the collar lying neatly flat against his shoulders. An attempt had been made to comb his hair, but it remained a bit of a mess, sticking straight up in the front, pressed against the smooth white cotton pillow case, a black halo around his head. His arms lay at his sides, fingers loosely curled, his fingernails (clean) neatly trimmed, the palms of his hands strangely red and speckled. He had an tube running from one arm up to a bag filled with a clear fluid hanging from a metal stand rolled against the wall. His chest rose fitfully and fell, with no rhythm, as though he were still struggling. Otherwise, he didn't move.

Madam Pomfrey closed the door and walked toward the bed. "Harry?" she said softly. "Come on now, Harry. Your friends are here!"

Hermione was blinking back tears. "Is he alright?" she asked, as if they didn't already know the answer. She walked toward the bed and sat, carefully taking Harry's hand in hers. Ron remembered seeing the broken fingers, the limbs askew, his skull bashed inward, his eyes open and nothing but white. He shook his head, looking at Harry, seeing him whole and unbroken, his cheekbones perfect, his chin, in the right place, his arms and legs straight, as though he could sit up and laugh at any moment. Ron breathed a sigh of relief and circled the bed, looking at Harry from all angles. His collarbone was righted, his ribs looked normal again; there were no marks even, no bruises or signs that yesterday he looked as though his entire body had been mashed and broken into bits. His glasses were sitting on a small table beside the bed, his long eyelashes looking dark against his over-pale skin. Ron sat down across from Hermione and patted Harry's hand, afraid to touch him, afraid he might break.

"Come on, Harry! Wake up now! We've been waiting for two days to see you, you sod," Ron said, attempting to sound jovial, but worry and fear seeped through his voice. There were a few moments of tense silence when all of them watched Harry's face. He didn't move, didn't blink.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "I'm so sorry loves, it's not your fault. I expected that this would be the case. Just a moment, please." She walked out of the room and called for Professor Snape, who entered the room shortly afterward, followed by a very grim-looking Dumbledore.

"No response." Dumbledore said sadly. He smiled weakly at Ron and Hermione. "We had hoped…well, yes, you should know. We had hoped that your presence might help Harry to regain consciousness, but. No. Apparently not." Snape walked toward the bed and exchanged the bag of clear fluid with another, this one pale green. He hooked up the tube while Ron watched, terrified, hopeful, confused, on the brink of bursting into tears.

"What's wrong with him, sir?" Hermione asked. "Why doesn't he wake up?"

"We don't know," Dumbledore said crossing the room and standing between Ron and Hermione at the foot of Harry's bed. "His wounds were serious, quite dreadful. Most of his bones were broken, and Madam Pomfrey managed to heal them all quite quickly, before any more damage could be done, but Mr. Potter continues to evade recovery." He touched Harry's foot gently. "We are…looking into what can be done."

"Is he in a coma?" Hermione had started crying and made no effort to hide it this time. Ron shut his eyes, his fingers finding Harry's hand. He took it and held it lightly, listening to Dumbledore explain. Coma. Breathing spells. Brain damage. Possibilities. Hexes, curses, spells. Snape interrupting to check the tube in Harry's arm. More talk. Hermione nodding, speaking. The words blurred together for Ron. He was angry and afraid, he wanted to punch the wall, the scream, to shake Harry and pinch his ears and pour water into his face. He wanted to wake Harry the way he always did; pull open the curtain around his bed, watch the light beam directly into Harry's face and say, "Good morning, sleepy!" or "Oy! Late again! Come on, Harry!" or "You bag of bones, wake up!"

"I'll kill that Malfoy for this. I'll kill him," Ron growled. Dumbledore looked at him, startled. He had interrupted Hermione asking about potions, charms, hexes, cures. The nature of this curse, the kinds of curses that could do this, general families of magic.

"Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said. "You know that if you were to kill Mr. Malfoy, you would end up in Azkaban with whoever it was who was responsible for this." Ron grumbled. "We know that this curse did not come from Malfoy's wand, nor from any stray bit of purple parchment, nor from the foil you found under Harry's bed, that much is clear. It is completely possible that it was cast upon him while he was away from school over the holidays, and was timed to beset him just when it did. It's possible that the flagstone upon which Harry stood was the culprit. I assure you that Mr. Malfoy is as surprised by this turn of events as the rest of us." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow as Ron twisted his lips and lowered his eyes.

"Sir," Hermione asked. "Will Harry die?"

Dumbledore sighed deeply. "That I do not know, Ms. Granger. I do not know."

They had been permitted to sit with him as long as they liked, but they couldn’t bear to stay long, no more than they could bear to leave Harry like this. Ron whispered, "Buck up, chum! They'll cure you soon and you'll be up and around in no time!" while Hermione leaned forward and kissed Harry's cheek.

After a couple of days, everything returned to an eerie kind of normal. They woke, dressed, had breakfast. Went to class. They gossiped about what had been done to Harry. Malfoy, Death Eaters, curses that didn't require wands. In some circles, they mourned. Seamus was convinced that Harry would die.

"I knew it was coming," he said, shaking his head. "I knew Dumbledore couldn't protect him forever. You Know Who finally found a way to get to him, and now he's done it." Neville looked around nervously, shuffled his feet. Ron pretended not to hear this and shut his eyes tight.

Accusing stares from all tables were directed at the Slytherins. Ron knew that two of the larger sixth year Gryffindors has roughed Malfoy up rather badly shortly after word got out that Harry really might die, that he really wasn't coming back to class after a few days, and he had had to spend one night in the hospital wing with a fat lip and a broken arm. Ron checked to see where he was staying that night (at the opposite end of the hospital wing), and sat with Harry rather later that night than usual, keeping watch. Malfoy had remained remarkably quiet through all of this, and Pansy had stopped associating with him. The two sat at nearly opposite ends of the Slytherin table at meals, and opposite ends of the potions classroom. It seemed that Snape was taking the Gryffindors' side in this at least. Even he didn't seem to trust Malfoy; while everyone else was partnered for potions, Malfoy was left to do his work alone. He didn't complain, and he didn't even look at the Gryffindors. He measured his ingredients, drank his potions, look victorious in his own quiet way. Ron seethed.

Each day that went by, the rumours got worse. Madam Pomfrey looked more and more grim, and Snape had taken his potions back to his dungeon. The decision had been that they should wait. They didn't seem to know what the spell was, what curse could have done this, and his and Hermione's efforts at searching through restricted books, even with the help of a couple of whizbang Ravenclaws, hadn't helped. There had been rather more owls delivering letters from anxious parents in the last few days, and the Daily Prophet had blared the news far and wide: The Boy Who Lived: Dead? Ron had thrown the paper away without looking at the cheery-looking picture of Harry on the front page.

Time would tell, they were saying. Perhaps he's like sleeping beauty, Ron thought. Perhaps he's waiting for his Princess to kiss him and wake him up. He looked drearily around the Great Hall at dinner, eating his chicken and mashed potatoes, and realized there were no Princesses here to cure him, only a ragtag group of well-wishers with books and potions and charms and hope, which was fading fast. After a week, Ron himself began to wonder if Voldemort had won after all. He glared across the room at Malfoy, who defiantly refused to look up.

I want to be the girl with the most cake.
I love him so much it just turns to hate.
He only loves those things because he loves to see them break.
I fake it so real I am beyond fake.
Someday you will ache like I ache.
Hole, Doll Parts

Draco sat with his fingers steepled, looking into the fire. It was nearly midnight, but he wasn't ready to climb the stairs up to his dorm and crawl into bed again. Sleeping made him dream, and lately all he dreamed about was Harry, face destroyed, collapsing in front of him, turning into dust when he touched him. Falling from a great height, being raped, tortured, beaten. He woke up crying, he beat his fists into the pillow.

His father had asked him if he had done it. Had he killed Harry Potter? Did he not know better than to use Dark magic in public? Did he have any idea how dangerous this was? Was he likely to get caught? A letter had been send to Dumbledore; Draco's presence was required tomorrow night, a family engagement. A dying uncle, the importance of this gathering. Dumbledore had sighed and agreed. There would be no dodging this time; the Death Eaters were calling. Was it because of Harry? Draco doubted it. Harry's health was no doubt just of passing interest to Voldemort. Besides, certainly he would recover.

Certainly he would.

("Even though the injury is fixed, the Norwegian girl had said, the body still believes itself to be wounded. The pain in unchanged. Eventually, it would drive him mad." Eventually. Madness. Pain and madness. Draco tried to pretend he had misheard this.)

Draco had heard the rumours as well. Harry was dying, he couldn't breathe without the help of spells. He was in a coma, he convulsed and drooled and would be a vegetable for the rest of his life. And Draco had done this, of course. A foil found under Harry's bed, what else was that? A gift? Traces of Draco's blood found near the hilt, a curse? Something his father had taught him? The Gryffindors beat on him, threw him down the stairs, glared at him. The Slytherins were terrified of him, the things that he could and would do, with no provocation. Blaise had absently glanced as his arms while he changed his shirt, looking for the Dark Mark, no doubt.

He had been called to the hospital wing that night, and sat in a small room opposite Dumbledore. He rested his hands on his knees and jutted out his chin, thinking about his father and the cold sneer he adopted when the Ministry came to call. I am innocent, that look said. I am innocent and I dare you to prove otherwise. While his father looked down his nose like this and lied, Draco did the same, telling the truth, and felt like a fake.

"Mr. Malfoy, you sent Harry a foil?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes, sir." Draco had never been so mortified. His silly gift, now the subject of an inquiry.

"It had your blood on it."

"Did it? I had a…bit of an accident with it when I was inspecting it, before I sent it. I expect some blood might have…well. It was entirely accidental." Draco avoided fidgeting as best he could.

"Draco, why did you send Harry a weapon with blood on it? Was this a kind of threat?"

Draco closed his eyes. "No, sir. It was just a gift."

"A gift?"

"Yes."

"You sent Harry Potter a gift?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why would you do that, Draco?"

There was a pause. Draco looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I thought we could be friends, sir."

It was such a farce. It wasn't until this moment that Draco realized he had even been considering not being a Death Eater, that he had ever considered standing behind this man, the ancient headmaster. What a bubbling fool.

They didn't even have a clue. They were trailing along after pointless traces that could be clues but weren't; they didn't even know where to look. Clearly they had never heard of the Norwegian curse Pansy had used; no one seemed to suspect Pansy at all. Draco could hear Jan in his head, You English and your wands! He was right. All these years depending on one form of magic, teaching it, pretending there were no others, had left them profoundly vulnerable. What fools they all were, these muggle-lovers. Draco could already see the end of this war; Voldemort, winning with a simple curse, the army of the Ministry trampled with one chilling word no one would even think to defend against. It was madness. It was pathetic.

Draco had been shocked. Pansy. Betraying him so fully, he would never have expected it. Oh, he should have known that Pansy would see that he had a bit of a crush, but he would never have guessed that she would work out on whom. He thought he had been so discrete. So. She had found out, and, since her parents and his parents desire to see them married was not enough to make her feel secure, she decided to blot out the competition. He felt so foolish; He should have known. And now Harry would die for it. Draco felt sick to his stomach.

He hadn't spoken to Pansy at all since Harry was whisked off to the hospital wing. When she had helped him up after Ron's distracted beating, they had sat together at a table, and he avoided her eyes. He was so scared, so furious, and so shocked he didn't trust himself.

Finally he whispered, "What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

She only replied, "It's for the best, Draco."

Within five days he was in the hospital wing himself with a broken arm. After everyone else had gone to bed he had tiptoed down the hallway and pushed open the door to Harry's room. It was bluish gray in the moonlight, the white room looking ethereal. Harry looked so pale and so forlorn, tubes coming from his arms, unmoving. It was as though he were dead already. He heard movement down the hall and quickly closed the door again, running back to his own bed. That night he dreamed about Harry, broken and in his bed with him, begging Draco to kill him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the common room fire against his skin. He heard the light tap of shoes against the stairs coming from the girls dorms and looked up. Pansy. He looked away again. She sighed and walked toward him, curled herself up in the chair opposite and rolled her wand between her fingers.

"Draco."

He didn't answer. He looked into the fire, pretended she wasn't there.

"Draco, you know it was for the best. Stop sulking." He raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. "Yes, I found out about your little infatuation. Do you know what would have happened? I'll tell you. You would have wooed him, and he would falter and give in, and then he would turn around and destroy you. He would use it against you, he would tell everyone and tell them you seduced and raped him. He would convince you that you were in love with him and make you betray your father. He would insult you in front of his friends and make you fuck him in the dark. He would fuck you and then leave you for the Weasley boy or his sister or that hellion mudblood Granger. And make it all feel like your fault. He would make sure you paid for it. This isn't some Ravenclaw no one cares about, Draco. It's Harry Potter. You look at him wrong you'll be in the Daily Prophet. There would be pictures of you half-naked with him splashed all over Witches Weekly. I know you had a crush on him, I do understand it," she stopped and sighed. "But it's not worth throwing your life away for, Draco. Our life."

Draco looked at her coldly. "Our life?"

"Yes, our life. Mine is bound up with yours, in case you hadn't noticed. Unless you think that you can evade both my parents' and your parents' wishes for us to marry. Do you think your mother would ever give up the chance for a grandson? An heir to the Malfoy name? Who else do you imagine they're going to try to pair you up with? You know there's a reason why we celebrate Christmas together, you know what our future is. You must be barking mad. If you need to have male concubines on the side, keep them as dense and harmless as Blaise, don't go messing around with pseudo-heroes like Harry Potter."

She softened her tone then, leaning closer to Draco and smiling. "I promise not to tell how I did it, or that I did it. You can take the credit for it. You can tell Lord Voldemort that you killed Harry, I'm sure he'll be most pleased."

Draco shut his eyes, his fingers on his wand. He had always liked Pansy, it was true. He knew he was expected to marry her, and until recently that hadn't seemed like a bad lot.

He pointed his wand at Pansy and whispered, "Imperio." He saw her face freeze in shock.

"What are you doing, Draco?" She said. Draco was through talking. He didn't want to hear any more.

Pansy's hands were shaking as she gripped her wand in two hands and pulled its tip back toward herself. "Draco," she said, unable to speak above a whisper. The tip of her wand was pointed at her stomach, hovering, still shaking, a foot from her body. She made a squeaking noise, unable to say anything more, until she found herself hissing words, curses, destruction. She whispered those hateful words and felt her insides implode, shrivel, burn. Her head was reeling with pain, his mouth still whispering without her permission, her hands, wrapped tightly and mechanically around her wand, grew more and more still as her body trembled. Blood began streaming down her thighs.

When he let her go, she was still staring at him, unbelieving, the remains of her tortured and destroyed uterus slipping down her legs.

He rose from his chair, pushed his wand into his pocket, and said, with a deadly calm, "I don't think even your parents will expect me to marry you now, do you?" He turned walked up the stairs to the boys dorm.

13  Both Hands

I'm writing graffiti on your body
I'm drawing the story of how hard we tried
-ani difranco, Both Hands

Finally, in the end, he had given up. Harry would die, there seemed very little question about it. Draco didn't hear a single word from anyone about the possibility that Pansy might have done this, that it was an ancient magic, that it was a kind of incantation. They had no idea. Every day that passed without someone announcing the culprit, without someone stopping classes and insisting that they all change subjects and learn a thing or two about wandless magic, about the dangers that are lurking beyond the walls of Hogwarts, and within it, the curses beyond the borders of what they deemed appropriate. Oh, they thought they were wise, teaching students how to control themselves under Imperius, showing them how the Cruciatus curse works. Those were just the beginning, and somehow the muggle-lovers seemed to believe that this was it, end of story. No wonder they were so confident. No wonder they believed as they did, that honesty and hope and trust would win this war. They had no idea what they were up against, for no other reason than they're own unwillingness to even look. And now Harry would die because of it, and there was nothing Draco could do.

Draco wondered if this was the nature of love. Touch it, and it dies. He had read about flowers from Brazil made with coloured sand, balanced just so, without magic even. Just sand, water, and a steady hand. If you touched them, even if you came close, they would disintegrate into a formless dune. He had dreamed once about being in a forest of sand. Tall trees with smoky black trunks, large, shiny green leaves, thick underbrush, flowers in every colour. In the dream he couldn't resist it, he reached out and touched it all spun in circles and destroyed it while crying and screaming and wishing he could stop. Perhaps it wasn't the nature of love. Perhaps it was the nature of Draco Malfoy.

He haunted the hospital wing, always with excuses. Sleeping draughts, his arm being stiff, questions for Madam Pomfrey, invented during Arithmancy. When he ran into Weasley and Granger walking back from his latest visit, on the pretense of having his arm inspected (again), Weasley snarled at him and shoved him up against the wall, knocking a sleeping portrait askew.

"You bastard, you'll pay for this." Weasley's angrily red face very nearly matched his hair.

"Pay for it? Weasel, do you pay any attention at all? My wand was tested, don't you remember? I didn't do it." He looked meaningfully at Granger and said, "Could have been someone in Scandinavia, for all we know."

Weasley punched him hard in the face and kneed him in the groin before Granger pulled him off and watched Draco to fall to the floor, blood dripping from his lip. "Show a little respect, Malfoy." Weasley was crying, and it shocked Draco into silence. He fiddled a lose tooth with his tongue. "Harry is worth more than you. He's worth more than your whole family. He's worth more than all of your whole rich bloody bastard Death Eater bloody trash!" Granger whispered to him, pulled him away. Weasley was sobbing, and Draco shut his eyes.

Again, Draco tried to draw attention to his plight in the library. Granger was looking worn and tired after hours spent pouring over books long after the Ravenclaws had deserted her; she was reading about various Dark Arts, wand magic, wand magic, and more wand magic. Draco felt like throttling her then and there. It was when they were both in the stacks one morning, looking at various books, that Draco 'accidentally' dropped a heavy tome of ancient Norse magical history on Hermione's toe. She glared at him and pushed the book aside with her foot. When he walked away, it was Pansy who put the book back on the shelf.

At first he held out some vague hope, particularly when he saw Dumbledore walking toward the hospital wing with a book on ancient Russian curses. Russian was of course incorrect, and Draco did not know whether the book covered wand or wand-less curses, but the fact that the text wasn't in Latin or English heartened him.

"Sir," Draco said, getting the headmaster's attention as he shuffled toward the hospital wing. "Are there such things as wandless curses?" This was as close as he thought he could safely get to a hint, a warning.

"Wandless?" Dumbledore tucked the book under his arm and looked gravely at Draco. "Well, there are a handful, certainly. There are things that haven't been disturbed in many, many years. Things that are best forgotten."

"Ah, I see," Draco nodded, his heart sinking.

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said softly. "Is there something you'd like to talk about?" A pause. Draco looked down. "You know that everything you say to me is in complete confidence."

"There's nothing I have to say, sir." He looked up, sadly, a little pleadingly.

Dumbledore gave him a look that said, if you know, please, please tell me. He said, "You know we will protect you if you wish to tell us…what happened to Mr. Potter?"

"Yes sir, I know all about your protection." It was so easy to let the sarcasm slip in, and so dangerous. Draco bit his lip, kept his face impassive, tried to even out that emphasis, tried to dry it out, make it sound innocent.

"And there's nothing you want to say?" Dumbledore sounded tired, disheartened. Draco knew that everyone was certain that he was the key to this, and he knew they were too good to ask properly. He wished sometimes, as he curled up into his bed at night, that they would just force it out of him. Tie him into a chair, put a knife to his neck, ask him, "Do you know?" Force veritaserum in an eyedropper through his lips. But even then, would it help? What could he tell him? An ancient Norwegian curse. A word and not a word. It sounds like wind, it sounds like trees. He will feel the pain forever and he will go mad.

"No, sir." In his dreams, sometimes it was up to Draco to step on Harry's head and crack it open.

Finally, as a last, desperate plea, Draco drew the word as he remembered it and left it in an envelope on the floor in front of the hospital wing. He did not know what happened to that envelope, but Harry did not improve, and there was no word of new developments. By the time Pansy confronted him in the Slytherin common room, he given up all hope.

It was a cool evening as he stepped out to meet his father. He was terrified, he was resigned. Dumbledore had nodded to him gravely as he left after dinner, as if he knew. Of course he knew. There was no death in the family, no sick Uncle. The excuses were insults, and they all knew it. Draco wondered if Dumbledore hated him now, and felt oddly conflicted about this. Why shouldn't he? Why should Draco care?

He had never felt so uncomfortable at the prospect of meeting his father, knowing what he knew, feeling like a traitor. He opened the small box, feeling around for the portkey, which was, almost ironically, an old-fashioned, sterling silver key. His escape route, useable from anywhere, that took him straight home, with a matching solid gold key that brought him back to the Slytherin dorm. He wondered if Dumbledore knew how often he used these, how many nights he had spent in his own bed rather than the one he was meant to occupy at Hogwarts. Recently, he had used them less, but his first year, it had been an almost bi-weekly occurrence. He sighed, gripping the silver key and turning around, finding himself in his empty bedroom. He was about to walk out into the hall, down the stairs, into the front sitting room where his father and mother would be waiting, drinking tea or vodka tonics. He rubbed his forearm in anticipation of the Mark, he wondered what the ceremony would be like.

He heard a noise, hard shoes against the floor of his library, echoing a little against the books, spiraling upwards toward the impossibly high ceiling. He turned for a moment, listened. Footsteps, moving from one end of the room to the other, approaching. For a split-second he considered hiding, but remembered where he was, in his own bedroom, and waited instead. A slim, elegantly-clad body appeared in the door frame, pale hands, a shock of white-blond hair. Scandinavian eyes, a light smile growing broader, white teeth.

"Draco. Welcome home. Your father told me I might expect you, he told me to meet you, to keep you entertained until he returned."

"Jan," Draco said, nodding, running his fingers through his hair. "I didn't realize you were still in England."

"Oh, yes, indeed. Your father has been kind enough to let me stay and study with him a bit longer than expected. My sisters have gone home, but," he moved toward Draco, motions fluid and silky, stopping slightly too close to Draco. "I was hoping to see you again."

"Were you," Draco murmured. Jan nodded and took another step closer, his face so close Draco could feel him breathing. Draco considered for a moment, and then placed his hand on Jan's hip. Pawn to King's four. It was insanely simple, these movements, these motions toward intimacy. And what was intimacy, anyway? What felt intimate were the fleeting glances he caught of Harry, lying in the hospital wing. The two times he had managed to sit on Harry's bed, touch his hand, brush his hair out of his eyes, run his finger along that famous scar. He had never felt so close to anyone in his life, not even when he had his cheek pressed between their shoulder blades, or hips between their thighs. Nothing had felt as intimate as feeling the rough texture of the hospital wing blanket under his knuckles, his fingers stroking Harry's palm. And he had whispered things, knowing no one would ever hear them. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He should have known better. Jan's lips against his hair, queen to queen's bishop four. Draco knew how to win this game in four moves.

Draco slid his arms around Jan, twined his fingers into his hair, ran his lips along his neck, listening to his moan lightly, his fingers desperately pushing back Draco's pale wool cloak. Bishop to King's Bishop four. It was so easy Draco could do this thinking about something else, someone else. He mourned and hope started to burn again inside him, making him hurt, making him feel a stinging behind his eyes. When Draco kissed Jan he thought about dark words, the strength of evil, the sweetness of his mouth, his own hunger for just these physical sensations, his ease at falling into this game, and felt sad, felt unworthy, felt determined. Queen to king's bishop seven. Jan's tongue, his lips trembling a little, his eyes shut. Checkmate. So easy.

"They don't teach you Dark Arts at school, do they." Jan was stroking Draco's chest as they lay on his bed. Draco wondered how much time was left until he would be expected downstairs.

"No, nothing like that. Just how to make cakes and roses and how to keep your hair curled." Jan laughed, and Draco smiled, leaning over and kissing him slowly, stroking his bare thigh. He pulled back and watched Jan's face, watching him recover himself, his eyes opening. It was so, so easy, this game. He considered that sincerity must the biggest hoax of all time.

"Tell me. You remember my friend Pansy? She visited over Christmas. We've had a bit of a…falling out, and I'm worried she'll try to curse me with that spell, the one your sister used on the gnome."

Jan thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Oh yes, that one. That's alright, if she does. There's a simple cure."

"Is there?" Draco tensed, his heart beating suddenly far too fast, his arms and legs feeling numb. "What is it?"

Jan rolled onto his back, pulling Draco on top of him, biting his shoulder. "It's insanely simple. That's the beauty of it. No one ever guesses. It's hyssop. Hyssop sprinkled in water. Sometimes you need to massage it into the skin. So easy, it's like a bath. Isn't it genius?"

Draco closed his eyes. "Yes," he said. "Pure genius." He counted down in his head. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. He had to get out of here. His father would be furious. This would be the second time he had ducked out of this ceremony. What would be his excuse this time? Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. Tell Jan…tell him what? He's forgotten something? Perhaps tell him nothing at all. Just go into the bathroom and portkey out. Just dress, casually, check the portkey box in his pocket. Make certain that it's there. He could portkey back, and walk directly into the Potions dungeon. Fourteen, thirteen, twelve. Should he check his own potions laboratory for hyssop? It didn't sound familiar. No, it would be too damning. Jan might guess. Had he heard what happened to Harry? Did he know? He seemed to flippant about English affairs, Draco presumed that he didn't even pay any attention to it. Perhaps Draco could peruse for some, as a store against…no. He had to play it cool, there could be no guessing, there could be no rumours about this. This should be a conversation that should slip out of Jan's mind. He was certain he wouldn't tell his father about this quick romp on Draco's bed, nor their conversation directly afterward, if he was lucky. Intimacy, the small rules people do and don't keep.

He wondered how he would manage this. Would he get caught attempting it? Should he just tell someone? Eleven, ten, nine. No one would believe him. He tried to slow down his breathing. Jan clutched at him, stroked him, he was still talking, something about dinner, visiting, his father, "wonderful, Draco, you're such a treat," he was saying. Draco smiled and kissed him again, letting his body move as it knew how, ignoring his hands sliding against Jan's pale skin while his brain raced. It was amazing how you could be present and thoroughly elsewhere at the same time. Eight, seven six. Hyssop. Hyssop. What is hyssop? It sounded familiar, but Draco didn't know what it was. A jar, he'd seen a jar of it somewhere once, he remembered seeing the letters in script, in blue script on white. Whose potions room was that in? Not his own, certainly. School? Snape did not write in that rolling script. But it must be there, it must, at Hogwarts of all places. Five, four, three. Potions Dungeon, yes, it would be there, somewhere. Draco could picture the row of bottles and jars on Snape's old apothecary cabinet, as if he could find it just by remembering. In his mind he pushed past the concentrates and toward the powers. Then he remembered the hospital wing, with it's own set of ingredients. Perhaps he ought to go straight there; Draco knew that when Snape ran out of ingredients he sometimes borrowed form the hospital wing. Perhaps yes, just straight there. That would be faster. Two. And this Scandinavian. He smells like mountains, like snow. Like come. One.

"I'd better get ready," Draco said, sitting up.

It was nearly eleven-thirty when Draco finally managed sneak into the potions room in the Hogwarts hospital wing. After using his golden portkey to take him directly into the Hogwarts dungeons, he had started with Snape's private store, and had realized within about ten minutes that what he wanted wasn't there. This was easy to tell; Snape was obsessive with organizing his ingredients, and kept them in strict alphabetical order. When he found the bottle of Hyacinth bulbs sitting next to Ice orchids, crumbled, and tubes of hydra blood and hyrax bile followed by Ibis oil, he felt his heart sink. No hyssop in Snape's collection, powdered or concentrate, whole, dried, or in his herb garden. He stormed out of the potions dungeon quickly without looking around him and ran to the hospital wing.

He had become adept at sneaking around Hogwarts of late, and particularly the strange ins and outs of the hospital wing. It was filled with odd hidden corridors, kitchens, potions labs, examination rooms, and, finally, he thought as he rounded the corner and came upon it, a potions store, four doors over from Harry's quiet room. He had managed to cast a sleeping spell over Madam Pomfrey, already asleep on her couch, before hunkering down over her stores of powders and elixirs and dusty, colourful bottles.

"Hyssop, hyssop, hyssop," Draco hissed under his breath, his fingers moving from jar to jar. Madame Pomfrey's collection seemed to follow entirely different rules. Octopus hearts beside shire horse hairs, dried gulfweed, parsnip shavings, fiddleheads, pickled. Draco slammed his fist against the table and kept searching. He pulled open drawers and cabinets. "Hyssop, hyssop, GODDAMIT!" He kicked a cabinet door shut, took a jar of dried bean sprouts and launched it against the wall. It exploded into a shower of glass and powder. He stamped his foot and threw his back against the wall, sliding to the floor, his face in his hands. He was trying to calm himself down when he heard a quietly sarcastic voice.

"Looking for something to poison him with, are you?" Granger. Draco glanced up, seeing her standing with her hands on her hips, her gray school kilt creased and swaying around her knees. He wondered how long she had been standing there, how much she had heard. His shirt was untucked, his cloak rumpled, his throat marked red with bite marks and exposed from his hasty dressing in the bathroom afterwards, his hair tousled. He still smelled like the Scandinavian. He had thought that he could affect this cure quickly and return before anyone noticed; his father wasn't due to leave the manor until midnight, but at this rate Draco was aware that he was running rapidly out of time. And still, nothing. No Hyssop. And now he was caught.

Draco had forgotten that Weasley and Granger had been granted some kind special dispensation from Dumbledore; there was some idea that possibly the presence of these two might help Harry's spirits, might make him feel better, might encourage him to wake up. Draco had seen them once or twice, sitting on Harry's bed, talking to him about class, about their friends, the weather. Weasley had hesitated, looking down at the floor while Granger yammered on. "…we'll help you with the new Transfiguration material, don't worry, Harry. It's not so difficult. You'll probably enjoy it. Ron says he wants to see you turn your cloak in to a muggle tuxedo, he doesn't believe me that they look sharp!" She laughed then, hollowly. These two were permitted to sit with Harry at odd times, take meals in his room, do their homework, miss curfew. Draco was mildly disgusted that Granger was allowed to be with him here so late at night while he had to sneak around and allow himself to be injured in order to catch a glimpse of Harry. No, not disgusted. Jealous.

"Fuck off, Granger," he said, pressing his head against the wall and wincing. There was still a cabinet to rifle through. He sighed, rubbed his fingers along his forehead, made a quick decision to ignore Granger's presence and continue his search. He had no idea what kind of trouble he was getting himself into, but he couldn't think about the consequences. Hyssop. He had to find it, and try, and watch Harry's eyes open and see him move again, and then they could drag him away and do what they would to him. He didn't care anymore. He rose to his feet and crossed the room, opening the cabinet doors and searching. He moved the jars around roughly, glass grinding against glass. grindylowe skins, shrivelfigs, speckled gopher struma. Dusty jars, no hyssop. Draco kicked the cabinet door and fell onto his knees, swearing.

Granger had walked up behind him, he could see her out of the corner of his eyes, her gray skirt, the red and yellow tie. "Did you try the kitchens?" Her voice had softened, his hands clasped loosely behind her.

"Kitchens?"

"Didn't you say hyssop? Hardly a poison."

Draco looked up at her warily.

She raised an eyebrow. "Hyssop is a spice."

By the time Draco found the Hogwarts kitchens, managed to convince a house elf that he wasn't there to punish anyone, was led to the spice pantry, found the dusty jar at the back of a shelf marked with a large, flowery label with 'hyssop' written on it in large script, tucked it hastily under his arm and ran back to the hospital wing, it was well past midnight. His breath was ragged as his knees were trembling. He had found it, finally, He had the cure, Harry would be himself shortly. No doubt he would hate Draco the way all of his friends did; no doubt Harry would imagine that Draco had tried to kill him. Pansy would spread rumours, knowing better than to be honest. Harry would look at him askance, throw out the foil he had received from him, forget that they had been on the brink of being friends. Draco tried not to think about it.

Hermione was gone by the time he returned, back to her own bed, no doubt, tired of waiting to see what evils he had planned. Did she understand that he wouldn't hurt Harry? Did she see guilt, regret, horror written all over him, on his face, in his posture? For whatever reason, she had done him the courtesy of letting him have a quiet moment with Harry alone, and for that he was grateful. He walked into Harry's room, the moonlight making the white floor, walls, bedding, and Harry's pale face look blue and unreal. He went straight into the small adjoining bathroom and turned on the taps at the large, clawfoot bathtub. Water, he thought. Water and hyssop. I will draw him a bath, and I will wash the pain and the madness from him, if it's not too late. He opened the jar and sniffed the contents; it smelled grassy and sweet. A handful of the stuff into the water, green herbs floating, making the steamy air smell dense, honeyed, like spring, like undergrowth. He pulled off his woolen cloak and his boots and dumped them into the corner, rolling up his sleeves and testing the water. Comfortable, not too hot. He left the water running, put the jar of hyssop on the small table beside the tub, and went back to collect Harry.

Draco wondered what it would have been like to be allowed to do this. He unbuttoned Harry's flannel shirt, not touching his skin, just slipping his fingers along the worn fabric, releasing small white button after button. He would have done this in haste, kissing Harry's neck, perhaps with his tongue against Harry's earlobe, on his lips, in his mouth. He would have torn this flannel shirt off in passion, desperate for the feel of the skin underneath. And how gently he would kiss him here, at this small ridge of bone and muscle at his ribs, on the freckle on his stomach, at the dip of his navel. How he would have cherished it. Draco pushed the shirt off Harry's shoulders and leaned forward, Gathering the broken Harry into his arms and lifting his torso so that he could untangle him from the material. He dropped the shirt on the floor but stayed still a moment, with Harry in his arms, feeling the texture of Harry's naked spine under his fingers, the smell of Harry's skin. Draco laid him down again carefully, pushed the blankets aside, and tugged off his flannel pants. This, too, would have been hasty and beautiful in another life. Harry might have been just as anxious to rid himself of these, he might have pulled them down his legs with his heel and kick them off the side of the bed, might have pressed himself, gloriously naked, against Draco's skin and moan in the back of his throat. Harry, naked now and motionless as if dead, glowed blue in the moonlight through the thin curtains and said nothing. Draco braced his legs against the bed and lifted Harry into his arms, cradling his head against his chest, his eyelashes brushing against his collarbone.

He realized as he got to the bathtub that he could not simply drop Harry in by himself. The water was deep now and the reclined back of the top would only ensure that Harry would slide into the water and drown. He considered for a moment pulling off his trousers, but the logistics of it baffled him and at this point he no longer cared. He stepped into the tub fully clothed with Harry a heavy deadweight in his arms crouching down into the water. As he released Harry's legs they slid forward against the porcelain, his arms draped along the sides of the tub. Draco gripped him around the waist. He shifted Harry in the water, his hips between Draco's thighs, his back against Draco's chest, watching him, waiting for some kind of sign. His breathing was still random and jagged, he didn't move. Draco reached over carefully and shut off the water, which was reaching the top of the thankfully large tub, and then dipped his hand into to the jar of hyssop.

He began with Harry's chest, arms, stomach, his collarbone, neck, arms, as they were closest. He pressed the slight grit of the spice between his fingers and Harry's elbows, his fingers, wrists, feeling it dissolve into the water. He was anxious but moved slowly, half still imagining what this would have been like if he had been allowed, half entirely clinical, watching for responses, for success, for signs that he was returning Harry to himself. He wet his hands and dipped them in the hyssop, drawing his fingers across Harry's face, his cheek bones, his nose, his head. He slid himself down into the tub, watching the waterline rise again and water begin to drip over the sides as he bathed Harry's head, let the hyssop water seep into his ears. Harry flinched.

"That's it, Potter," Draco whispered, using his body to prop Harry back up again. He kissed Harry's neck, feeling, hot, damp, sweet skin under his lips. He stroked Harry's chest now, feeling a relaxed breath, a more rhythmic rise and fall. He dipped his hand in the jar again and stroked Harry's hips, his thighs. He grabbed Harry's knees and hauled him forward to reach his calves, his feet, his toes. He rolled Harry to one side carefully and ran his hand slowly down his back, touching each vertebrae, watching Harry's body quiver a little with each one. He rubbed Harry's tailbone carefully with two fingers, closing his eyes and feeling a deep-seated warmth within him. He wasn't sure where his joy stemmed from; the sheer fact that Harry might not die, that he might not have been driven mad, that he might wake up in the morning, or now, in Draco's arms, delivered from his iniquities and ready to go back to class, to mix potions and raise his eyebrow when Draco smirked at him. Or was it simply the feeling of Harry's skin against his palms, the taste of his neck on his tongue again. He stroked Harry's stomach and buried his face in Harry's neck as saw Harry's leg move slightly under the water.

Draco could almost feel the pain drifting into the water, evaporating off its surface like steam. He couldn't be absolutely certain, of course, that this had worked, that he had done everything right, that the near two weeks that had passed had not been too long, but Harry's weight felt new against him now, changed. His body was less tense, his breath more normal and even. The way his forehead pressed against Draco's neck felt different, safer. He brushed Harry's wet hair out of his face and touched his scar. Harry shivered, but his eyes remained closed.

There were puddles left on the floor where Draco had stood, shifting Harry's wet weight in his tired arms. He dropped him on the bed and tucked him in, feeling nervous, trembling, tired. He wanted to shake Harry now, wake him, ask him if he was alright, apologize, explain, cry. Instead he covered Harry's pillow with a towel and ran his fingers through Harry's wet hair, and then looked around for another to sponge himself off. When the tub was emptied and the most obvious puddles mopped up, his own clothes rung out and hanging over the rim of the tub for the moment, he returned to Harry to find him shivering violently.

Draco sighed. He had reached a point at some time in the evening where he stopped caring who found out, what anyone thought, what would happen if he got caught. His father would be furious, Jan would be suspicious, Granger had enough evidence now to seriously suspect him, Pansy was likely planning her revenge at that very moment. His mother would be disappointed. Dumbledore, Snape, Madam Pomfrey (in spite of the sleeping charm he had cast on her) could conceivably burst in at any moment to check on their darling Potter and Draco just didn't care anymore. He stroked Harry's face, and then slipped under the blankets with him, curled his arms around him and felt his cold skin, wrapped his leg around Harry's shivering limbs, cupped his head inward toward his chest, felt Harry's even breath on his neck. He ran his hands along Harry's damp back as he shivered. He felt Harry moving closer to him, his arms nestling against his hot stomach, like a moth to flame. After a few minutes like this with Draco's heart beating wildly in his chest, his hands softly exploring Harry's body on the pretense of delivering warmth, Harry slowly stopped shaking, but moved still closer to Draco.

He didn't even care anymore what this meant, the fact that he had done what he had done. He knew he loved Harry, and if he didn't know it properly before, if lying in the snow, his skin growing wet and cold and numb, watching Harry fly alone against the blue-black evening sky wasn't proof enough, he knew it now. He knew that even if Harry could never love him back, if Harry could never trust him, could never be his friend, Draco had to curl up against him right then, he had to slide his hands along that damp flesh, offer up his own heat, tremble a little at the sensation of that even breathing against his skin. It was a great weakness, this hole in him, this space that only filled just now, in this place, with this body so close. He even knew, with Harry curled up against him, Harry's lips brushing against neck, that this love was terribly unrequited. He was so disappointed. Even if there had been a chance, it was all dashed now. He was still glad he had done what he had done to Pansy, even though he had conceived of that plan in a moment of anger. She hadn't killed Harry, she had killed Draco.

There were only so many chances left. Perhaps this was the last. Draco held Harry's face in his hands, kissed his eyes, his cheeks, trailed his lips over Harry's mouth. If he had been allowed to kiss Harry, he would have no qualms about doing so often and fiercely. He had never been one for public displays, but these lips demanded public display. He simply could not have permission to kiss Harry and not do so, regardless of who would see. If he had permission, Draco would wake Harry with kisses in the morning and then lull him to sleep with his hands at night. He would kiss Harry with the weight of all the things Harry's needed to know; I love you, I would slay dragons for you, I would humiliate myself, I would infuriate my father, incriminate myself, give up my future, my friends, my life for you. Draco felt Harry's lips part beneath his own, his breath hot against Draco's skin. He shut his eyes, imagining that this motion, these lips parted in sleep, were a form of permission. Draco kissed him.

Draco had never forgotten what it felt like to kiss Harry. He had kissed more people than he cared to remember, and at first he didn't think Harry would be any different. And really, he wasn't. Harry moved his lips, his tongue, with just as much passion as others he'd known, he wanted it just as much. Harry kissed as though it were all new to him; perhaps it was. He kissed both shyly and demandingly, he moaned beautifully, he was tentative and aggressive by turns. Draco had dreamed afterward, on the strength of that kiss, about what it must be like to fuck him, to be fucked by him. Tentative and aggressive, careful, then demanding. Intoxicating. But lips, a tongue, these were not unique, and a kiss can only be so individual, so different from person to person. And yet. How was it possible, that so much of a person can be distilled into this, a few minutes, soft skin, muscle, saliva. Draco knew that some people were natural telepaths, they could tell from the shape of a thought who it belonged to. Perhaps kissing was a form of telepathy. Because Draco did remember what it felt like to kiss Harry, the taste of him, the shape of Harry's lips against his tongue, the way his skin smelled, felt under his fingers, the way his lips caressed him, his tongue.

Harry was asleep. Draco knew this, and he knew the sleep was somewhat unnatural. He had been unconscious and silently writhing in pain unable to move for nearly two weeks. His body was no doubt fully exhausted, his brain confused and unable to process everything that was going on. He knew that even if Harry woke, he probably wouldn't be fully aware, that no matter what he did, it would probably be perceived in a haze of groggy midnight confusion, a dream, a coma-induced delusion. He would be a blue intruder in the moonlight, a gentle kiss in a dream, his hand stroking Harry in places that would naturally grow harder in such a dream. And Harry responded to him as he would in the half-consciousness of a dream. Sleep-heavy, Harry opened his mouth to Draco, slowly caressed his tongue with his own, his hands resting limply against Draco's chest, still cold but warming up. Draco didn't care if Harry noticed that he was a boy anymore; the most obvious evidence was pressed hotly against Harry's thigh, and he had shown no sleepy objections. He only pressed closer, sighed. Draco moved slightly, kissed his nose, the scar on his forehead, watched his face, and suddenly Harry's eyes opened.

For a moment, Draco froze. Caught in the act again, Harry's cock hardening in his hand, his face inches away from Harry's. He held his breath.

Harry looked blearily into Draco's face and closed his eyes again. Not awake yet, not really. He was fighting sleepiness, confusion, he would wake soon and realize where he was. Draco felt a stab of guilt, he felt silly. He ran his fingers through Harry's damp hair, kissed his forehead lightly, and then rolled out of the bed. Harry rolled over against the spot where Draco had been, curled up against the warmth that remained.

When Harry woke, he was in a strange room. The sun was starting to rise, just barely, making the room pinkish black. He sat up. He was naked, his pajamas were on the floor. He felt cold.

After quickly pulling his pajamas on, he tiptoed out of the room and looked around at the hallway. It was dark, but after walking a short distance, he began to recognize the hospital wing. He wondered how long he had been there. The last thing he remembered was being in Potions class, sitting with Malfoy. He had cut his finger, and there had been a sound, and then pain. As he returned to his room, he remembered something else; a blue face, warmth. A boy, definitely a boy, he could feel it against his thigh. A dream? A very nice dream, a sweet dream kiss. The more Harry thought about it the more it disappeared, like a dream does, details evading his grasp as he sought them out. He wrapped his arms around himself, still cold.

He tidied up the room quickly, made the bed, looked around for his shoes. He found them, with his school robes and tie, in the closet. Feeling a little odd with his robes over his pajamas, he shoved his feet haphazardly into his shoes and wandered out of the hospital wing. He felt fuzzy, cold, and confused, but he knew that he really should be in his own bed. What would Ron think if he woke up and found him missing? Harry wondered if he'd been in the hospital wing for very long. He felt a strange kind of dreamy guilty, as if he had accidentally fallen asleep in the hospital wing, and he should return to the Gryffindor tower before anyone noticed.

He woke the fat lady, who looked extremely surprised to see him. "Oh, Harry, darling. So glad you're well! Your friends will be so glad to see you!" He smiled and whispered the password, and she let him through, grinning at him.

When he reached the seventh year dorms, he felt tired. He pulled down the blankets on his bed and thought, well, it's barely dawn. I could nap for a hour or so. He curled up under the covers in his school robes, shoes still clinging to his feet; this was how Ron found him when he woke.

14 Tomorrow

And I want to believe you,
When you tell me that it'll be okay.
I try to believe you,
But I don't.
–Avril Lavigne, Tomorrow

It was as if the entire school breathed a huge sigh of relief. Most of them didn't even know they were holding their breaths until word got out that Harry was awake, that he was fine, that he would probably be back in class by mid-week. But Ginny Weasley knew. She had had near-constant nightmares, her eyes were bloodshot and heavily shadowed, her lips were dry and pale. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and her roots were showing. She had been wandering into the hospital wing as often as she could manage, she stopped paying attention in class. She cried, often.

Everyone believed that Harry would die. Those hours she had spent in the hospital wing, he looked so innocent there, so vulnerable. She had smoothed the blankets along his chest, feeling his strange breath, regular but not normal. It was too perfect. His flannel shirt was untwisted, the collar flat against his shoulders, the small, pearly buttons lined up properly, his legs straight and unmoving. His sheets were tucked into the mattress, like he was packaged up, like he was dead or nearly. His sheets should be kicked off, they should be mussed and a mess. There should a pile of socks and pants and t-shirts on the floor next to the bed, his shoes pulled off and left, the toe of one still propped against the heel of the other, shoelaces still tied. But he lay on his back, silent, breathing strangely, eyes shut. His clothes were tucked away in the closet, and nothing at all was right in the world. She tugged on the blankets a bit, loosened them up, giving herself the illusion of life in this bed, of living.

She had heard the news when she walked back into the sixth year girl's dorm after her shower. Parvati was there, in tears, talking to Penelope Masters, one of Ginny's roommates. Harry. In Gryffindor tower. Asleep. In his own bed. Neville had come to alert Hermione, and now the whole place was buzzing. Harry had woken up, Harry was not going to die after all.

She had pulled on her clothes and run to the boy's dorm, bursting into Harry's room. Ron was sitting on Harry's bed next to him, still in his pajamas, grinning like an idiot, mussing Harry's hair and laughing; Hermione was sitting opposite them, her eyes wet, smiling, holding Harry's hand. She was talking, something about school, about professor McGonagall and NEWTs; Harry himself was in his robes, with his flannel pajamas underneath, looking tired but happy. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked toward them in a daze.

"Heya, Gin!" Harry said as she crept up beside him, moving to stand beside his bed. His voice sounded sleepy and hoarse, confused, as though he had fallen asleep on a July evening and woke to find it Christmas day. Strangely normal with a sense of misplaced time. He looked as though he wasn't sure if his most recent dream had really ended yet, or if this were merely an extension of it. Ginny could almost still feel that strange rhythm of his breathing under her fingers, the absolute stillness of his body, the texture of his flannel shirt against the palms of her hands. The feeling had haunted her while she slept, while she propped up her head in history class; now it flooded her senses as she reached forward and touched his face. He smiled, leaned forward as she sat down on the mattress and he hugged her, a big bear hug. He felt strong, healthy, his breathing was normal. She pressed her cheek against his neck and breathed him in. He smelled soapy, like the sterility of hospital cleaners, like dry grass, chocolate, wool.

"Good to see you, Harry," she said softly. She thought she might cry. He hugged her a little tighter.

"Sorry to have worried you, Gin. It's okay now. I'm fine, I really am." She closed her eyes and promptly burst into tears.

Seamus had been the smart one and had run off to see Madam Pomfrey before breakfast, tears still streaming down his face, letting her know that her wayward patient had turned up in Gryffindor tower. When she arrived, looking around at them all suspiciously, as if they had collaborated and broke Harry out of her clutches, whammed him on the head with a cast iron frying pan until he woke up. She sighed and tut-tutted over Harry, touched his forehead, peered into his eyes, tapped his stomach, asked him how he felt.

"Tired," he said, grinning sleepily. Bed rest was recommended, and Madam Pomfrey almost insisted that he come back with her to the hospital wing. But Dumbledore, who ambled in shortly after Madam Pomfrey, put his hand on Harry's shoulder and smiled, suggesting that he would sleep just fine where he was, and that it certainly wouldn't do him any harm to be surrounded by his friends, his things, to sleep in his own bed. She relented, breakfast was brought to his room for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and the rest of them filed out. Ginny felt profoundly jealous as Penelope tugged her along toward the Great Hall.

"I can't believe he's still alive," she whispered.

"I know," Ginny said, smoothing her hair out of her face. She didn't feel like talking, but Penelope clearly did.

"Well, perhaps it was a timed sort of thing, two weeks of unconsciousness and then the curse ends, and the victim wakes up. What a horrible thing. You'd think we'd have heard about it in Defense Against the Dark Arts." Ginny said nothing. "Perhaps this is the sort of thing they used to do in the olden days, when people would collapse like that and would get buried alive, waking up a few days later in a box. In the ground." She shivered.

Ginny twisted her lips, thinking about Death Eaters, Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy. She thought about the Chamber of Secrets, the depths of evil, how far they would and could go. Harry had told her about how he had watched them kill Cedric, how they had tied him to a gravestone and cut him, resurrecting You Know Who. She pictured what had happened to Neville's parents. It was not widely known, that story. Neville had told her once, on a cold night last year when she had found him sitting in a stairwell with his face in his hands. The depths of evil. It was scary, what they were prepared to do to people who could stand up to them. Harry was better then all of them, in the end. Harry was a survivor.

"Do you think it was You Know Who?" Penelope hissed as they turned a corner. One of the portraits raised an eyebrow at them.

"It was probably Malfoy." Ginny tugged on a pleat of her kilt.

"Dumbledore says it's not though."

Ginny merely gave her a look that said, do you really think Dumbledore would tell us if it were?

"He ought to be expelled," Penelope said, holdingthe door as they passed through in the Great Hall, which was already buzzing with the news. All eyes turned to them expectantly, and Ginny sighed.

"Yes." She saw Malfoy sitting in his usual place at the Slytherin table eating his breakfast, not looking up. Crabbe and Goyle were talking quietly to themselves, watching the Gryffindors. Ginny sent Malfoy a cold look that she hoped would translate into icy fingers against his spine. You lost again, Malfoy, she would say, if she could push thoughts into his head, if she were brave enough to shout it out across the room. Harry survived. You're a complete failure when it comes to destroying him. You will kill him over my dead body. She felt strong, tugging her hair back into a loose ponytail. Over my dead body. Malfoy didn't look up.

She saw Harry again after supper, sitting in the common room, a blanket around his legs. Ron was perched on the arm of his chair, chattering with Harry amiably, and Hermione sat on the floor, head resting against Harry's knee, reading. It had been a busy evening; the fat lady had been given instructions to allow students from other houses to enter in order to visit with Harry, since Harry couldn't leave and everyone was asking to see him. It was a bit hush hush, and for the most part only the sixth and seventh year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs arrived to pay their respects. It was rather like a wake, Ginny thought. A wake in reverse. Harry was all laid out, a blanket around him, wrapped in a sweater Ginny's mother had knitted for him, a pair of tattered slippers on his feet, his face pale, his eyes nearly shut; there were weeping women hovering around Harry and pumpkin juice and sweets on the table, left over from dinner. They came to touch him and see if the rumours were true. Yes. Harry Potter was still the Boy who Lived. The miraculous recovery, cursed to death again (as it was popularly believed) and come back to life with his sense of humour and goodwill intact. They wondered where the new scar was, peered at his forehead, his hands.

The Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs had left, and even most of the Gryffindors had begun to calm down and head up to bed when portrait opened again and the least likely person of all ambled through; Pansy Parkinson. Hermione narrowed her eyes and put her book aside. Ron stood.

"Can we help you?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Well, I didn't come for your help," Pansy responded smoothly. "I came to see how Mr. Potter was doing. Hello, Harry." She smiled with a broken kind of warmth, half-genuine, half-lost in a sea of false poise and decorum. She was pale and walked slowly; she wore her sweaters and skirts a bit looser than Ginny was used to seeing. Pansy was slim and attractive, her honey-blonde hair hung in perfect ringlets around her face. Her only unattractive feature, Ginny had noted long ago, were her hands; they were larger than they ought to be, long and thick, with wide fingernails and heavy knuckles. Perhaps objectively, held up against Hermione's hands, or Ginny's, Penelope's, Millicent's, Pansy's hands would seem small, or at least not large by any means; but when pressed against her own tiny body, propping up her delicate chin, fixing her elegant hair in the girl's washroom between classes, Pansy's hands seemed out of place, a mismatched element on an otherwise perfectly proportioned whole. When she dressed up, she often wore gloves. She was still wearing her school kilt and sweater, tie loosened. All of her clothing looked a little too big, as if she were wearing Millicent's shrunken things; slightly too loose and draping just a little off her body. Ginny wondered for a moment if she were pregnant and was trying to hide it.

Harry nodded. "Pansy," he said. He was already beginning to doze off again, but opened his eyes, laid his hands flat on the arms of the chair. "How nice of you to stop by."

Smooth as silk, Pansy slid forward and sat in the chair across from Harry, crossing her slim ankles delicately. "You look well, Harry, considering." She looked at him, from his feet to his face, slowly. Ginny felt a strange pang of jealousy before she remembered that this was Pansy Parkinson, daughter of Death Eaters, girlfriend of Draco Malfoy. Ginny huffed and hugged her knees, leaving her homework forgotten on the carpet. Pansy looked defiantly into Harry's face what seemed like a long time. Ginny was heartened to see Harry return her steely glare. "What happened to you?" she asked.

Ron scowled; Hermione was watchful, her legs tensed, ready to jump up. Harry chuckled. "Well, isn't that the question of the hour. I have no idea, I'm sure."

Ginny smirked. "Why don't you tell us, Pansy?" Pansy turned, her cold blue eyes locked with Ginny's. She had read in her history book that there was a time when people believed that in order to see, the eye needed to project feelers onto the object upon which it rested; that looking at someone's face was actually a matter of caressing them with these invisible fingers that translated the sense of touch into vision. Ginny had laughed about this fact when she read it, but now she understood where the idea originated. She imagined that she could feel the tentacles of Pansy's eyes on her, curling across her cheekbones, delving inside her mouth, around her ears, pressing wetly against her own eyes and she longed to blink and turn away. They had never spoken before, being in different houses, different years. Ginny wondered if Pansy even knew who she was. She closed her mouth, felt slightly nauseous.

"Tell you what, Weasley? Why do you imagine I would waste my time coming up into this godforsaken cupola if I knew the answer to my own question?" She touched her stomach and winced slightly, so slightly Ginny might have missed it if she weren't watching so carefully, if she hadn't been so unwilling to turn away. Suddenly Pansy's eyes softened a little, and she smiled coldly. Ginny did not relax. "Your roots are showing, Weasley. And your fingernails are a mess." Pansy turned away. Ginny felt defeated.

"Leave her alone." Harry was sitting up a little higher, his chest puffed out, his eyes narrowed, voice calm. Ginny smiled. Oh, Harry, she thought. Such a hero. "What do you want, Pansy?"

"Oh, I just thought you could tell me what happened to you, that's all," Pansy said smoothly. "After all, you can avoid Draco up here in the rafters. I can't. I'm a Slytherin. I want to know what he did to you, and how you managed to get better."

"Dumbledore says Malfoy didn't do this," Hermione said quickly. "You of all people should know that."

Pansy harrumphed. "Believe that old fool if you want to. I say, if you need to be around Draco Malfoy, keep your wand at the ready. I do." She pulled her blond wood wand out of her sleeve and Ron leapt in front of Harry.

"Get out of here, Pansy," he said loudly, fumbling with his own wand.

She laughed. "Jumpy, aren't we." She rose, tucked her wand back into her sleeve, and turned to look at Ginny. "You could be pretty without all that black stuff around your eyes." She walked swiftly to the portrait hole and disappeared.

Hermione exhaled slowly, and said, "Harry, we need to talk. Come on, you should get up to bed anyway." She helped Harry up, gave Ron a look, and took his arm as he walked slowly up the stairs to the seventh year boy's dorm. Ron sighed and gathered up the remains of the sweets and juice. Ginny sulked. Why did she have to get left out of everything?

Pansy was angry. How could Potter have recovered from her curse? She had seen the gnome, lying in the dirt, drooling. The Scandinavian girl had promised her that recovery was impossible. Constant pain, madness. Potter seemed to be neither in pain nor mad. She was baffled. It made no sense. The pain in her lower abdomen grew worse; she pushed her wand into her clothing, made them bigger in small degrees. She brought up her lunch in the girl's toilet outside Arithmancy class.

She wondered if this was what the Dark Lord had felt when he tried to kill him all those years ago. A simple curse, thrown just right. Destruction, the initial sense of power, of success. And then this sudden, dawning realization that he had failed somehow, without having made a single error, that the object of his curse had not succumbed. How frustrating, how endlessly disappointing.

She had aimed to destroy Potter and remind Draco of his responsibilities, of his future. She had been slightly rash, she had been angry. And she had clearly underestimated Draco's anger, his feelings about the Potter boy. But no matter now, on that score. Potter would never consider Draco a friend now, no matter what that foolish headmaster said. The rumours were more convincing anyway. And as for herself, she believed that she had solved that problem as well. She had made some inquiries, privately. Regeneration, medical attention, timing, cost, side effects. There was a witch in Lyon who promised her that her 'condition' was almost certainly reversible. She cooed reassuringly through the fire and looked at her sympathetically. "I've heard a lot of that complaint, darling. Men are such pigs. Let me see…how's mid-April?" Pansy agreed, sent the galleons by post. She wrote to her mother and mentioned her boredom with school, her growing desire to travel, wanting a bit of a vacation somewhere warm and lovely. The draughts, a pain in her legs. An invitation to stay for a time in the south of France, and would she mind terribly if Pansy didn't write her NEWTs? Her mother didn't seem surprised. "Darling," she wrote, "I'm impressed you've stayed as long as you did. How much would you like me to send? And, dearheart, please do write to me more often."

She had heard Draco's terse exchange with his mother several days later. He had sat in front of the small, private fire just off the Slytherin common room, cross-legged. He looked like a little boy, his hair mussed and scattered wildly around his face. There was something to be said for moving quietly, the sly motion of a woman who suspects something, who suspects everyone. She stood at the slightly open door, listening.

"Good evening, Mother." Draco said. The tone of voice made Pansy shiver. She had been in Draco arms many times, she had heard his bedroom voice, his sweet voice, the voice he used when he wanted something, needed something, when he was feeling affectionate. All of this paled in comparison to the tone of voice he used with his mother. Pansy knew that Draco loved almost nothing at all, and of the small number of things that he did have feelings about, he loved nothing more than he loved his mother. She grimaced. Matching up with Narcissa Malfoy would be a lifetime of challenge.

"Draco, darling, I'm so disappointed, I thought we were going to see you on Monday night. I had the house elves prepare all your favourite pastries, where on earth were you?"

"I'm so sorry, Mother."

"Well. Be that as it may. You father is somewhat angry with you. He wanted to introduce you to some of his friends. It's good for your career, you know, sweetness, I know how boring that can be, but can't you just do this for him? He worries about you so much."

"I know, Mother, I'm so sorry. It was…well, I arrived early, and Jan and I had an argument."

"Oh, I see." There was a pause. "Did you flounce off, darling?"

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Well." Another pause. "I understand, sweetling, I do. You always were good at flouncing off. " She laughed. "You didn't throw anything, did you? I haven't seen that gray cat of yours today."

Draco laughed. "No, Mother. I didn't throw Amelia. I didn't throw anything, I just needed to get away from there. I should have just come straight to you."

"Well, I'm sorry too, darling. I shouldn't have let Jan into your library. That's your space and it should be yours alone. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes of course. Has he gone now?"

"Oh, yes, he left early this morning. His father needed him home. I'm sure his mother missed him too, though not nearly as much as I miss you."

"Oh Mother! I miss you too."

"Will you come home? You know you don't need to suffer through all those nasty examinations. Your father has secured several possible positions for you….oh, I'd love to tell you all about them, but I forget the details. It sounds dreadfully boring to me, but I think you might enjoy it. Really, If you could just talk to your father's friends, make a bit of an appearance?"

"I promise I will, Mother. It's been such a strange term. I'm working hard on my studies. I'm keen to do well. It's important to me."

"Oh, I know it is, sweetheart, but I can't imagine why! You really don't need to! I would so love to see you at home. Promise me you'll think about it?"

"I'll think about it, Mother, I will."

"Good. What shall I tell your father?"

"That I'm sorry, and that I'll make it up to him. I promise. I'm just…quite distracted with school, and perhaps…well, certainly I'll be at his disposal as soon as the NEWTs are finished. I promise I'll not disappoint."

"Good. That's good, darling, he'll be happy to hear that. Yes, well, I suppose you always have been high strung, haven't you, like your father. My goodness. Where would you boys be without me? Sweetheart, you look awfully tired, have you been sleeping well?" The rest of the conversation went on about his health, his clothing, the draughts, meals. Pansy moved carefully away from the door and went up to her dorm, careful to avoid straining her stomach.

She did not go to the hospital wing, she did not tell Millicent what Draco had done. She told no one, other than the strange women in beaded gowns and strange, muslin turbans through the fireplace. No one would ever need to know, and Draco did not need hints that his misplaced attempt at revenge would come to nothing. She would be able to use it against him one day, she would make him collapse in a heap and beg for her forgiveness. The woman in Lyon told her to bathe in lavender and bergamot, to drink silkworm bile in the mornings to keep her wounds fresh and ready for healing. She snuck into Draco's room and stole money to pay for this, which seemed entirely just to her.

On one of her sly missions to find Draco's money pouch, she came across the strangest thing. A rectangular bottle, filled with a clear liquid. It had a clear cap and a thick bottom. When she looked through it, everything looked slightly transparent; Draco's bed, the trapdoors on the ceiling, the trunks. She could almost see through them. When she looked through the bottle, she saw Draco's folded sweaters, his socks balled up in the truck. Through the velvety curtains of Draco's bed she saw the ornate headboard, blankets carefully folded, a dent in the pillow as though someone had lain there after the bed was made. The small black label along the cap of the bottle read, "Veritaserum, 1 pint." She tucked it into her pocket along with the galleons, and imagined how useful such a treasure could be, if she planned everything just right.

Harry couldn't believe how exhausted he was. His limbs felt leaden, it took all of his energy just to keep his eyes open, to smile at the well-wishers. Two weeks unconscious, and he remembered none of it. As he slept in the afternoon, he had terrible dreams. He found himself bound and gagged, paralyzed, terrified, locked into his own skull, in a dark room, with a constant droning sound in his ears like screaming, like howling, like crying. At some point in the dream he realized that the sound was coming from his own lips and he jolted half awake, and then fell into another dream. Voldemort, standing in front of him while he was bound, his eyes taped open, a tongue like a snake slithering out of Voldemort's mouth, through the air between them and brushing across Harry's chest, his throat, the snake's tongue darting out against his chin, on his lips. Hearing Ron's voice, talking, laughing with someone, walking past along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, not looking, not knowing Harry standing there, bound, gagged, unable to scream. Ron was walking into a nest of Death Eaters, Hermione hanging from a tree by her hair. His last dream, before Ron woke him for dinner, was of warmth, of water, hands on his skin, a sense of peace. A warm, wet chest against his back, lips on his neck. He dreamed that he was in an endless ocean of warm, salty water that embraced him, kissed him, soothed him. The sun was high in the sky and hot, his limbs tingled. He was standing, looking at the water that lapped at his thighs, he felt lips again on his earlobe and turned. There was no one there, just a lush forest, and sand.

Ron and Hermione explained what had happened. He remembered cutting himself, he remembered Malfoy grabbing his wand. He didn't know more than that, but he hadn't been looking at Malfoy, he was looking at his thumb, looking for his handkerchief to sop up the blood, to press the wound closed. Hermione and Ron didn't want to talk about what happened directly after, but they told him that he had broken a lot of bones somehow. They had tried to contact Sirius, but he was working and unreachable. Harry was somehow glad of this. His godfather would have worried, he would have felt responsible. They told him how Dumbledore had tested their wands, how he had tested Malfoy's extra carefully. Two weeks of lying still. Harry tensed the muscles in his legs, testing them as if asking them if it was true. Two weeks immobile? Can I feel that, now, would my body tell me? His legs felt slightly stiff, leaden, tired.

Dumbledore had talked to him later, while he lay drowsing in his bed. Over the holidays, where had he been? Had he seen anyone odd? Did he eat anything or touch anything unusual? Harry explained what he could, but there were no leads that he was aware of. He felt sorry, he felt impossibly useless. He had no better idea than they had. Dumbledore did not ask him about Malfoy, but did say, gently, before he left him to sleep, "I'm sorry about your new fencing foil, Harry. The Ministry thought it best to test it thoroughly, they've taken it. I don't believe they will come up with anything, however. Quite unfortunate." This confused Harry, but the next morning Ron explained.

"They thought it might be cursed, you see," Ron said, a bit bashfully. Harry just frowned and chewed on a croissant from his breakfast tray.

Hermione had pulled him aside privately later, after Pansy had come asking for clues. She tucked him into bed while the others were still down in the common room, discussing Pansy's odd appearance and then rapid exit through the portrait hole. Harry was a bit surprised to discover that Pansy and Malfoy had had a falling out; as far as he knew, Draco and Pansy were a bit of an item, or, at least, they had been, off and on. Though, the doings of Slytherins were a bit mystifying to Harry, and he didn't dare make any guesses about who was paired with whom. On second thought, he wondered if they mightn't still be a pair, and Pansy just didn't trust him. Well, neither would I.

Hermione told him about what happened the night before. She had fallen asleep beside his bed, she had heard noises down the hall. In the potions room, she had found Draco Malfoy, frantically searching through bottles, looking for something. "Hyssop. I'm pretty sure it was hyssop. Completely innocuous." The broken glass, the powered bean sprouts that she swept into a pan and disposed of. She waited up as long as she could, looked up the herb in a medical book and confirmed that it was harmless, and then went to bed. "The next thing we knew, Harry, you were okay."

"You think there's a connection?"

"I don't know. It seems like a rather odd coincidence. Perhaps he did curse you and then felt guilty about it, maybe the hyssop was part of the cure. Though, that seems unlikely."

"I'd say. Guilty? Malfoy?"

"It was just a thought. I honestly don't know, Harry, really I don't."

"Could hyssop possibly be the cure?" Harry was fading, his eyes drifting shut.

"I've been looking into it," Hermione sighed. "It's hard to tell, not knowing what happened. But I mentioned it to Madam Pomfrey today, and she assures me that while hyssop is known as an anti-inflammatory and an emmenagogue, it could not possibly bring someone out of a coma."

"Emmenagogue?"

"Don't ask. She figures you just came out of it on your own, they can't work out what might have pushed you into a coma in the first place, what might have forced all your bones to break at once."

Harry winced, and was glad he didn't remember all of this. "So what does this mean about Malfoy?"

"I don't know. I just…well, Harry, you know I have no warm feelings toward him, but I wouldn't want him to be unfairly demonized if…well, I just don't know. He was very upset when I saw him, and if that counts for anything, we know that that foil had nothing to do with this. I can't believe he sent you a present. I mean, a present! From Malfoy! When I first heard about it I was suspicious, and I still am, but when I saw him last night…I suppose…well, perhaps we should just reserve judgment on Malfoy altogether for a while. Could be a red herring, it's just too easy. Ron won't be easy to convince. I'm not convinced myself." She sighed. "As far as I can tell, Malfoy may or may not have cursed you, and he may or may not have cured you. You're falling asleep, aren't you."

"Yes, I think so."

"Well. Alright then."

The following day he felt better, but still terribly tired. He managed to stay awake until just after lunchtime, and then collapsed into bed again. He dreamed about flying, about cold air on his skin, gray sky and mist. He dreamed about looking down into water, seeing Hermione there, asleep, her arms hanging at her sides, her legs dangling downward into a gloomy and muddy lake bottom. He dreamed of Malfoy with a bouquet of marigolds, hovering over his bed. In the dream he looked at the marigolds and knew that it was hyssop, and that it was harmless. He watched Malfoy take a thick, ugly black knife and slice open Harry's stomach. He looked very serious, very absorbed, the way he did when he was slicing roots in Potions class. When Harry's stomach was entirely sliced open and laid bare, Malfoy began to shove the flowers inside of him. Harry watched and thought, "Hyssop. Harmless. I'll be fine." It felt like new skin rubbed against cloth; sore, but necessary. He wondered how deeply Malfoy would slice into him, how deadly he could be. He wondered if he should be afraid.

At dinner he was joined for a lavish meal in the Gryffindor common room by the other seventh years, who all toasted his health. No one mentioned Malfoy, and Harry was glad for that. He hoped that the following day he would have enough energy to work out what to do next.

15 To Prepare a Face

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
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;
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.
—T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

It had been the longest of all days, Draco was sure of it. God, if God existed, seemed to have planted extra hours within the already agonizingly long one hundred and twenty minutes that made up advanced potions. Harry Potter had returned to class, and it seemed that no one could stop staring at him.

Granger and the weasel found a thousand reasons to touch his arm, his hand, wrap a kindly arm around his shoulders, as if they were testing to see if he was really there. The Slytherins stared at him more or less openly, some shooting him glances when they thought he wouldn't see, others, like Millicent, walking straight up in front of him and peering into his face. When he looked up at her, arched an eyebrow, she said, "No new scars?" After a sharp look from Granger, and a chuckle from Potter, Millicent huffed and turned on her heel. "I told you so," she said to her little girlfriends, dropping herself heavily on her stool at the table.

Snape seemed to speak more quietly, somehow, as if the tone of his voice would betray them, could turn Potter into dust. He lectured for a few minutes about the tincture of bilberry and its effects on night vision potions before leaving them to gather their ingredients from the table at the rear of the classroom. He didn't force pairings, didn't sneer at Potter, didn't even so much as flinch when Potter turned around too quickly and pushed a beaker of distilled whiskey off the table, which crashed and shattered against the smooth stone floor. Snape just looked at him blankly and waved his wand over the shards of glass, which quickly rose back up to the table and gathered together in their original shape. "Try to be more careful, Mr. Potter," he said, in a tone so moderate Draco almost didn't recognize him.

Even Pansy was staring at Potter. She watched him from near the back of the room, observing his back, his elbows moving slowly as he sliced, measured, stirred his cauldron, the edges of his robes shifting around his calves, his gray school trousers and scuffed black shoes half hidden in the shadow of the table, by the weasel's ungainly figure. Pansy let Blaise do the potions work for her, making fast notes in her pink notebook with a short quill. She didn't look at Draco, who tried to make his gaze as heavy as possible.

Potter pretended not to notice this strange tension, this delicate balance, and just went on with his regular routine, ignoring the hoards watching him slice his indigo seeds, frogs lungs, his strips of dried grindylowe, push his hair out of his eyes, scratch his cheek and press his glasses against the bridge of his nose with his ink-stained index finger. At one point, looking fatigued, he sat down and sighed heavily, causing an almost complete halt of all student activity. Snape looked up from his parchments and narrowed his eyes. Potter rubbed his temple and smiled, stood up again, stirred his cauldron.

At lunch Draco had gotten stuck between William Lestrange, a stocky fifth year boy, and his friend, Michael Fischer, a large, rather flabby redhead with scabbed-over knuckles and uneven teeth. Draco was immediately reminded of Crabbe and Goyle, though neither of them were as large or as menacing-looking at that age. Though, Draco mused, Crabbe and Goyle had never seemed menacing enough to him.

"Hey, Malfoy," Lestrange whispered, jabbing Draco's arm with a thick finger. "Look!" He leaned slightly away from the table and pulled up his sleeve. The mark on his arm was fresh and black, a little red along the edges. "Fischer got his too!" The red-haired boy nodded, grinning, his crooked teeth pushing into his lower lip, pulling his arm off the table and haphazardly tugging up his sleeve.

"Stop," Draco said, hovering a hand over Fischer's arm. "Now is not the time or the place." He dropped his hand and lowered his eyes, catching one strained glimpse of Potter, sitting at the Gryffindor table, looking exhausted, a glass of milk in his hand.

The boys grumbled a little, looking crestfallen. Draco realized that they looked up to him. He had been a kind of role model for most of the young Death Eaters, for reasons Draco attributed to sheer speculation and rumour. Draco didn't know they were allowing such young boys into the ranks of the Death Eaters these days. Well, they were at war, and war did tend to call for extreme measures. Only that morning Draco had read about the deaths of four mudblood families in the London area, one of whom, God forbid, had been in the habit of taking in muggle foster children.

The plan, as Draco understood it, was to weed out the prominent mudbloods and muggle-lovers and frighten away the rest. In the middle ages, England had expelled the Jews; there had been a proclamation, and a mass exodus of undesirables. Sure, it did not seem fair, it did not seem even entirely prudent to rid yourselves of a class of people who did the sorts of things you wouldn't want to have to do yourself. But it was necessary, it was a kind of cleansing. It would force people to wake up and pay attention. It would force the wizarding world to acknowledge that there was no in between; there was wizard, and there was muggle, and if you couldn't tell which you were, you were some form of ghastly abomination. Now they would expel the mudbloods, shackle down the muggles until learned their place. Draco was unsure about what that place was, precisely, but he knew it would benefit the wizarding population, it would benefit their general standard of living. It would let them be free. The war was important, the guerilla tactics were making a point, and one whose meaning echoed through the wizarding world. We will not be silenced. These two boys, thick and thicker, would no doubt come in handy when it came time to squeeze people's throats shut.

"Who cares what they think?" Fischer whispered gruffly, waving a thick hand toward the Hufflepuffs, the Gryffindors, the other end of the Slytherin table. He narrowed his eyes a little as he turned his red face back toward Draco. "What will they do, tattle to Dumbledore? Lord Voldemort can take him down any time he wants."

Draco shook his head slowly and sighed, as though he were disciplining a child. He picked up his spoon and dipped it into his soup, and then raised an eyebrow at Fischer. "So. Tell me. What did your father say about that nice new mark of yours?"

The boy's face became even redder. The elder Michael Fischer was well-known for his counter-Death Eater work with the Ministry. Only that morning Draco had read an article in the Daily Prophet where Fischer's father was quoted as saying, "We will not allow them to do this. We will simply not allow it." The stern face in the photograph, much like Fischer's but older and smudged black and white in the newspaper, look serious and determined and completely unaware that his only son had decided to become a Death Eater.

Draco was glad they didn't ask him to show off his own mark, though he was prepared with a witty and cutting retort if they had. He knew it was widely believed that he had been inducted years ago, and in spite of the counter rumours otherwise, coming from more authoritative sources like Blaise Zabini who swore up and down, having seen Draco naked in the shower countless times, that he had no mark on him, the general Hogwarts population believed what they would. Particularly since Potter collapsed in potions, there was very little doubt left that Draco was a high-ranking agent for Voldemort, perhaps his father's right hand man, privy to the most secret and private of Death Eater affairs. His dogged followers, anxious to be of use, looked to Draco as a leader. There was a small group of sixth year Ravenclaws, and one sharp-eyed seventh year Hufflepuff, who glanced at Potter in the hallways and then grinned wickedly at Draco. He merely raised an eyebrow, looked bored, and assumed an air of gentile and sophisticated disdain.

Lestrange and Fischer pushed their sleeves back down sheepishly and looked over their shoulders to see if anyone had noticed. Draco merely stared into his soup and glanced again over to the Gryffindor table to watch Potter spread butter on a thick slice of bread. Noise in the Great Hall seemed muted, restrained, thoughtful, and somewhat sad. The reality of the war had finally struck home, here, of all places, students were collapsing, students were no longer safe. Security had been increased, no one other than students, faculty, and a few selected officials were allowed into Hogwarts anymore. There had been significantly more mail these days than was typical.

In the afternoon he found himself unable to concentrate in Arithmancy. He watched professor Vector pacing back and forth across the room, two wooden practice cubes hanging in mid-air while he prodded them with questions. "And to force them rectangles, you would…good, good, Miss Granger," he said, nodding. "And triangles? Come on now. Anyone one? Mr. Malfoy? Ah yes. Good. That was an interesting use of that formula, Mr. Malfoy, certainly effective. But the standard answer is…? Yes. Correct. Well done." They held out their wands and stared down at their textbooks. Draco avoiding looking at Granger, and instead he doodled in his notebook and stared out the door into the hallway.

Draco wondered how Vector could stand to praise Granger without letting on. Oh, he was a Death Eater all right, no question there. A smart one, if not an elegant one. He was a scholar, a purist, he wore rough wool and tweed under his faculty robes, he had ancient silver reading glasses draped over his bulbous nose. When he was at Hogwarts as a student he had been in Ravenclaw, he had studied the history, the ethics, he understood what was at stake. Draco had first met him when he was nine years old and watching the bulky Death Eaters playing rugby behind Malfoy manor. They were watching from a bit of a distance, with Draco's mother and father, some talkative teenagers and a group of blushing girls. It was summertime and everyone wore white, pastels, cotton dresses pressed against legs in the breeze, khaki pants, loose shirts. Except for Vector, who wore nothing but brown. Brown corduroys, a brown vest, a beige shirt, sleeves rolled up.

Draco was lying on his back in the grass, looking up at the sky, at the crowd shading their eyes and watching the large men play. He squeezed his eyes almost shut, turning the pastel people blurry and impressionistic.

"What do you see there, little man?" Vector had asked him, crouching down, one hand on the grass, lowering himself down next to Draco.

Draco open his eyes and looked at him curiously, sun-drowsy and feeling beautifully lazy. "Colours," he said, as if it were obvious.

He knew how Vector felt about mudbloods. And yet he also knew that Vector was a fair man, fair to a fault, and the Granger's successes in this class were honest and unmediated by Vector's political leanings. Draco had fought tooth and nail over the years to keep in the top three of this class, and Granger had often bested him, much to his frustration. He wasn't sure who both frustrated and impressed him more; Vector for being just enough to grant grades like that to a mudblood without managing to favour the Death Eater children, or Granger, for being able to challenge him in the first place. Draco often wondered how Vector felt, a Death Eater with staunch beliefs about the divisions of society, having to contend with such a mudblood prodigy in his class. Did it make him question himself? Did he ever want to protect her, to hide her from Voldemort of train her to best him? Did he ever want to kill her? He gave no indication that he felt anything inappropriate, nothing the headmaster could fault him for, nothing a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor parent could possibly complain about. With his ratty brown sweaters, his ink-stained handlebar moustache, is unmistakably correct grading, Vector could never be accused, would never be suspected. Ravenclaws made such perfect spies.

Vector was leaning against the window sill, nodding at a group of students who were experimenting with imaginary numbers and compound matrixes. Even without Potter in the room, Draco could still feel him. When he shut his eyes he could feel wet skin, Potter's breath ragged and hungry against his face, cold fingers pressed against his chest. When he stared into his hands he imagined he could see the outline of him, a crease born from the impression of that shivering body held there. Professor Vector altered the trajectory of the cubes, now octagons, hovering above their heads, and Draco could still feel the weight of Potter's presence in the quietness of the students, the slump of their shoulders in their desks, the bored seriousness of their answers. Was it in them, were they feeling the unbearable curiosity, the same unswerving desire to watch Potter, to touch him, to see that he was alright, or was it only Draco, reading Potter in everything, in everyone? He dug his wand into the palm of his hand and bit his lip.

Between Arithmancy and charms, Draco happened on a little gathering of possibly lovesick, definitely gossip-crazed girls. Three of the Hufflepuffs and a few more Ravenclaws stood in a loose circle at the foot of the stairwell leading up to Draco's charms class, discussing (what else?) Harry Potter.

"He looks so pale!"

"He's so brave!"

"Looks to me like he's exhausted. I hear he's up all night with Dumbledore trying to work out how it happened."

"Wasn't it voodoo?"

"Something like that, I'm sure."

"Hermione has been in the library every night for two weeks!"

"She's looking a bit peaked herself, isn't she. Poor Harry, though. I hope it doesn’t, you know…come back."

"Come back?"

"Well, it came out of nowhere, who knows what will happen next."

"He looks awfully weak."

"he lost all his colour."

"The poor thing."

"I wonder if he'll still want to be Seeker."

"I wonder who did it."

"I don't."

Silence. It must have been just then that someone noticed Draco's presence behind them and the conversation stopped. They moved away from the stairs in silence and he smirked at them, and then hopped the stairs two at a time, saying nothing. No one had any doubts about who suspect number one was. Not those silly girls, not Dumbledore, and certainly not Harry Potter himself.

At dinner, he found himself next to Crabbe and Goyle again, which was an immense relief. Having known each other so long, they knew enough not to disturb each other, nor did they feel the need to entertain each other. From his spot at the table, he had a nearly direct view of Potter, sitting flanked by Granger and the weasel. They were talking earnestly.

Crabbe reached for a roll, Goyle's knife screeched against his plate as he sliced into his lasagna, and Draco watched Anna Phoenix amble over to Potter from the Ravenclaw table and wrap her arms around him. Potter smiled, dropped his fork, and hugged her back.

Draco felt something squirm in his stomach, something nasty and evil and slimy, something with claws and teeth that grew larger with every motion Potter made, every slow movement of Phoenix's hair sliding across her shoulder and pooling against Potter's chest, every second that passed with those arms wrapped around that body, that familiar body, that body which smelled like grass, like vanilla, like soap. It threatened to overcome Draco when he watched Potter turn in his seat and kiss Anna Phoenix. If not on her lips, pretty damn close to it. The thing in his stomach oozed acid, it clawed his horned tentacles up into his lungs, swelling into his throat until he felt certain the next breath would be the last. He touched his hand to his stomach to contain it, to calm it, but it reached its teeth into his brain and latched on tight.

Finally, what seemed like ages, Goyle put down his knife and speared his lasagna with his fork balled into his fist, his elbow resting on the table. Across the room, the Ravenclaw girl let Potter go. She played with his hair for a moment while Potter said something which must have been amusing, because everyone around him laughed. He patted Phoenix's hand, smiled a worn and tired smile, and she went away, back to her seat.

It was true, Potter did look pale. And exhausted. He sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat, eyes shut. Seamus Finnigan whispered something to the weasel, who touched Potter's arm. When his eyes opened again, Draco was torn between feeling glad to see him awake and moving, and convinced that his Gryffindor friends simply couldn't bear to let him rest. If it were up to Draco, Potter would still be in his bed. Or, rather, in Draco's bed, draped naked on top on him, so that Draco could feel his heart beating alive and whole against his skin, so that he could lay wake and count each breath.

At the end of the day, exhausted from spending hours on the edge of his seat, waiting for the inevitable confrontation, Draco dropped his books on his bed and pulled off his robes. He opened the door to his wardrobe, letting its heavy door hide him from the rest of the room, which stood empty. He sat down, wrapped his arms around his legs and pushed his chin into his knees. He sat and looked at himself.

His hair was a mess. Bits of it were sticking straight up, probably from the way his hands had been worrying through it. It needed a cut, and more bits of it hung almost in front of his eyes, hiding his immaculate, light brown eyebrows.

He used to look at himself a great deal. When he was younger he had worried that he would never grow up. Crabbe and Goyle had hit puberty before they had even arrived at Hogwarts; at age twelve Draco had watched Goyle drag a silver razor across his face each morning and had noted, at age thirteen, that Crabbe developed a shadow across his cheeks late in the afternoons, some time between the end of charms class and right before dinner. He had sat in this same spot then, hidden between the wall and the mirrored wardrobe door, a tiny, small-boned speck of a boy with a clear, high voice and the smoothest cheeks in his dorm. He would look at himself and will his bones to grow, will his shoulders to broaden, will his voice to break and deepen. He appreciated that Crabbe and Goyle would rough people up for him, that they would drag his heavy trunk across the floor for him, that they would reach up, perched on a rickety old chair, to undo the trap doors above his bed when he was too warm, tug the thick extra blankets down from the top shelf against the wall when the draughts became too cold. But he did wish that he didn't look like such a little boy, that he didn't look as though he needed all that protection, all this masculine, grown-up kind of help. At night he prayed for height, strength, whiskers.

When it had hit him (finally!) his progress into manhood was rapid but not particularly satisfactory. He stared into the mirror, evaluating himself, moving his head a little to get more of the dim light on his face. He had a light fuzz on his jaw which barely required a razor at all, and only the tiniest bit of stubble on his chin. His father said that beards were barbaric, and Draco realized that regular shaving would probably only result in red, irritated skin, a chafed and sore neck, nasty red bumps, and occasional cuts from half-conscious drags of a razor across his face, his neck, under his nose. But still. Not a particularly masculine face, in that regard. No sexy stubble, no relaxed, casual I-didn't-feel-like-shaving look for him. No. He had a smooth face like a girl, a perpetually childish look. He looked even younger when he smiled.

His father was the same way, blond and light-skinned, his face harder than Draco's but no gruffer. A different kind of masculinity, he reasoned. An elite, more refined sort of manhood, not the lumbering heft of bullying weight and thick legs, large feet. His shoulders had broadened, and continued to do so, giving him an elegant frame, strong but still slight. When he was fourteen he lost the last of that infantile fat in his cheeks, letting him feel, at last, that he was no longer a child. His face might be hairless, but at least it didn't round out like a girl's anymore. His profile was, Draco admitted, definitely masculine.

But if anything defined his face, it was his eyes. Much had been made about Draco's eyes in the past. He remembered one Death Eater slapping him repeatedly across the face when he was small, laughing, telling him how pretty his eyes got when he was angry, when he cried. "So dark, they turn almost black," he said, as he pulled at Draco's trousers. Draco had shut his eyes then, less to reclaim them than to pretend he was somewhere else. But Pansy, Millicent, his pale and weak friends at home could all be stopped dead in their tracks by just the right kind of glare. Crabbe and Goyle knew Draco's moods by looking into his face, Potter, even, knew what to expect when he looked up, if he looked up, and locked his wide, constantly innocent and constantly surprised green eyes with Draco's darkening ones.

His father told him once, when they were walking along the edge of a lake far from the city, far from anyone else's ears, that when the lake turns black you know you're in for a storm. Draco had thought it magical at first; lakes, in tune to the harmonies of the sky, would pull up the murky water from below, the water filled with moss and sand and dirt and the smoke of decomposed fish and rotting plants to protect it's blue green clarity, it's hapless inhabitants, from the onslaught. Later he realized the truth; the lake didn't have that kind of power. The water merely reflected the darkness of the sky.

Draco looked at his eyes. Tonight, in the library, his eyes had been this misty, silvery-gray. He looked at himself, his cheekbones, his slightly stubbled chin, his messy hair, his silvery eyes slightly bloodshot, and imagined looking at himself, as Potter had done.

He came across Potter just before the library shut. He was sitting on a thick, cushioned window ledge, both feet up, facing the wall. He was alone, with a pile of books teetering next to him. His robes were discarded on a chair next to him, his arms were draped over his knees, forehead pressed against them, his face hidden. His breath was slow and regular. It was quiet at this end of the library, a small corner facing west, with branches scratching at the plate-glass window. For a moment, Draco thought Potter had fallen asleep there.

Draco had been avoiding direct contact all day. He imagined, for a moment, saying what he really wanted to say, doing what he wanted to do. He could glide over, sit across from him on the wide cushion on the window ledge, touch his leg. "Harry," he would say. "How are you feeling? I've been thinking about nothing but you." He had come to find a book on the Knights Templar, and realized that the best thing he could do would be to find the book and get out of there. The idea of this confrontation terrified him. It could go one of two ways; Potter could accuse him, and they might fight, which could be a kind of relief; Potter could accuse him, and Draco might break down. He was terrified of what he would say, if he just broke. He knew there was a strong likelihood that Potter would hate him again, would narrow his eyes and spit at him. He imagined that, given the chance, Potter would claw his way through Draco's chest and leave him to bleed. Draco doubted that he would stop him, if he tried. He paused for a moment, watching Potter, his hair a tousled mess, his hand draped over his elbow, limp, motionless. When Draco turned, his rubber sole squeaked against the floor.

Potter's head shot up, eyes blinking rapidly. Draco watched a look of fear cross his face and then harden into a kind of suspicion, ending finally in an exasperated kind of confusion.

"Malfoy," he said. His voice was rough, and he coughed. Draco felt a twinge. He should never have climbed into his hospital bed that night. It seemed harmless at the time, but he hadn't counted on the pull he would feel, how he would long to curl up against Potter again afterward, how he would want to pull that defenceless body into him stroke his hair. How he would watch those lips move in conversation and see nothing but the imprint of his own lips against them. He swallowed.

"Potter," he replied. He nodded slightly as he said it, and noted that his attempt at a casual, conversational tone had degenerated into a uneven whisper.

Potter was watching him. Draco could feel it, he could feel Potter's eyes on him, considering. "It wasn't you, was it?" Draco merely raised an eyebrow. It was half a question, half a statement. How did he guess? Why did he sound so certain? Granger? Was Granger vouching for him? Dumbledore? The strangest people were advocating his innocence these days. Whoever it was had been more successful that Draco had bargained for. "You didn't try to kill me, did you?" Draco watched in a daze as Potter tugged on his shoelace, dropped it, and then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"No." Draco didn't know what else to say. He knew 'It was Pansy,' would not take him very far. He knew that he had no proof, really, other than whatever Potter already knew. But Potter's eyes were not asking for an explanation. He looked relieved, tired. Draco was starting to prepare a statement, something, anything, he was considering what to say next, when Potter leaned his head back against the wall behind him, his throat exposed, eyes shut.

Draco wondered if he could really do this. He had no idea it would be this difficult. His body remembered too well what it felt like to be close to him, to touch him. That exposed neck was such a terrible temptation and Draco found he needed to steady himself. He leaned back against the stacks as casually as he could, folded his arms across his chest, and watched. His brain felt swelled with the pleasure of it, that slim neck, so innocent and vulnerable in the face of possible danger. Potter opened his eyes again, set his chin on his arm, still folded over his knees.

"Go on," he said. Draco gave him a quizzical look. "Go on, tease me. Tell me what an idiot I am. Tell me that you wish I were dead. Tell me that my mother was a mudblood whore and my father was a muggle-lover."

Draco exhaled. "Potter, I–"

"No. Look. I believe you. I don't think you did this. I've talked to Hermione. I've talked to Dumbledore. I don't know who did it, or how, but I know someone wants me to believe it's you. I don't. But I can't live like this. Everyone, pussy-footing around me. Snape being nice. It's so strange. So don't you go giving me any of that. Just." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Just pretend it didn't happen. Okay? Just be…yourself." He chuckled quietly. It was indeed an ironic request.

"Well." Draco was flummoxed. He pressed his fingers against his forehead, and then looked up, arching an eyebrow. "You know it couldn't have been me, Potter. I wouldn't have failed so miserably."

Potter smiled. "Ah. When you try to kill me, there won't be any of this lingering, is that it?"

"Yes. Precisely." Draco paused, took a few of steps closer and picked up the top book from Potter's over-stacked pile. "It was probably that mangy godfather of yours." He flipped open the book, hoping his shaky hands wouldn't be too obvious. Potter laughed, a genuine, relaxed laugh. Draco felt a slow warmth, tasting like Potter and slipping in through his ears, drifting over his body and humming with pleasure.

Draco looked at himself now in the mirror, with his chin on his knees, and wondered what this meant. For years, he had teased Potter. He had been relentless. He had forced Potter to punch him, he had made a mockery of his friends, his parents, of him. He had tried to make him cry, make him fall off his broom, make him fail tests and assignments. He had tried to make sure Potter got more detentions than anyone else. He turned his entire house against Potter and his friends, not that that took a lot of effort. At some point, Potter had realized that it was a game. A dance, and it had never been clear who was leading. Step left, right, dip, spin. There was a routine to it, it followed a pattern. Draco didn't realize that Harry Potter was perceptive enough to recognize it, to recognize that their fighting was ritualistic. It hadn't occurred to him that Harry Potter might find him comforting in any way.

So this was how he looked. Silvery-gray eyes, slightly bloodshot. Fingernails neatly trimmed, hair askew and drooping into his eyes. The top three buttons of his shirt undone, tie hanging across his shoulders. The smallest bit of stubble on his chin. His lips were slightly chapped and redder than usual. His skin was clear. He wondered what his expression had looked like, flummoxed, shaky. Eyebrow arched, half-smirk. He sat in front of the mirror and wondered how much of how he felt he accidentally gave away.

16  Glass Houses

I gave you the benefit of the doubt, it's true
But keep in mind, my darling
Not every saint is a fool.
-Poe, Control

Neville came storming through the portrait hole and into the common room grumbling under his breath and clearly so terrified he was beyond words. His fists were balled up at his sides, his face was red, his mouth was pressed into a tense line. His robes were falling off one shoulder, his shirt was untucked, his tie askew and ill-proportioned (as his grandmother always said, while he was perfectly adept at tying a Windsor knot, he was incapable of judging the lengths of one end versus the other, and always ended up with the presentable end far too short, and the long thin end dangling somewhere inside his shirt and haphazardly tucked into his pants), and one of his shoelaces was untied. If it weren't for the fact that his pants weren't ripped, his eyes weren't black and blue and swelling shut, and his cheeks were dry, Harry would have guessed that Neville had been beaten up again.

Hermione looked up from her book and frowned at him, seeing the expression of sheer terror on his face and growing increasingly alarmed. "Neville? What on earth's wrong?"

"Malfoy," Neville grunted, kicking off his shoes and collapsing into a chair in a shivering heap. Harry sighed. It was almost as if he could feel it coming, sometimes. His scar burned to warn him when Voldemort was near; but there was something else that told him Malfoy was plotting something, harassing someone he loved, or preparing to rain a torrent of unanswerable slurs at him. A kind of muscle inside of him that that grew tense and still, like a rabbit in the middle of a field, stalked by a fox or an owl or a hound. He felt like the prey itself, as if he mimicked how it would pause, stand completely immobile for a moment, one paw hanging in the air in front of it, waiting for the sign that would tell it to scamper off, huddle down, or play dead, its legs twitching to bolt.

In the last couple of weeks, Harry's confrontations with Malfoy had been tempered by a kind of peace. The impossible had occurred; they had admitted to a kind of mutual admiration, they had forged a kind of truce. It was not an admission of actually enjoying one another's company, per se, but a sort of acknowledgement that they served a purpose for each other. This truce did not stop Malfoy from playing extremely dirty Quidditch (getting Crabbe to drop his beater on Harry's broom in an attempt to skew his flight path), from tripping Hermione in the corridor outside Transfiguration class, or from pushing Ron into a puddle of slush and ice after Care of Magical Creatures. Already twice since their almost tender moment in the library, when Harry very nearly jumped up and hugged the git for having the decency to treat him like himself again, they had stood nose to nose hissing obscenities at each other, and they had each landed a punch, or in Harry's case, two.

"Potter," Malfoy had said, eyeing Harry's Divination paper onto the table in the library on Harry's first day back to class, "my infallible crystal ball tells me that you will fail Divination this year. Your spelling is atrocious." He raised an eyebrow, siding the parchment along the table just out of Harry's reach. "Were you raised by wolves? Oh, right, I forgot. Muggles." Harry rolled his eyes, and stifled a chuckle.

"Stuff it, Malfoy."

"That's it, Potty, keep to simple words."

It was as if the resumption of their rivalry put the rest of the student body at ease. Yes, Harry Potter was back and he was no less strong, no less sturdy than he was before. The two weeks he lay unconscious drifted into the minds of the students as the way the future might look; trapped in a white prison, teachers tut tutting and more muggle-borns dying every couple of weeks. It frightened them, but his resurrection, so complete and unambiguous, gave them hope.

"My dad says it was You Know Who cursing Harry from a distance," Terry Boot whispered in Charms. "They say the more distance there is between curser and cursee makes a spell less strong. Woulda killed him close up, I reckon." Harry turned, raised an eyebrow, and Terry blushed a little. When he turned back to his work, he heard Terry whisper again, "The Ministry'll be ready for it now. Lucky thing, really."

Harry was called into the Headmaster's office nearly a week after his return to class to be reunited with a pale-looking Sirius Black. "My god, Harry!" Sirius said, clutching him in a bear hug. Word had reached him late, and he was worried and relieved all at the same time, alternating between gripping Harry in his arms and patting his back gently, half-expecting him to break into pieces. Harry grinned, answered all of Sirius' questions ("Yes, I’m fine! Really, I am!"), promised to write more, and after hearing a few fantastic stories about dodging Death Eaters, his fateful encounter with a half-conscious dragon, and how he discovered the startling fact that pixies can be kept at bay with a flask of whiskey and a completely ordinary fire, Harry was shooed back to class.

A couple of days later, Harry got his History of Magic paper on nineteenth century spiritualism back from Professor Binns, with a note at the top that indicated that his was the best in the class. Hermione looked pleased.

Of course they still whispered about it. Late in the evenings, while Ron was attempting to stifle his yawns in front of the fire, Hermione sat with her chin on her knees and considered. "I'm telling you," she said. "There's something we don't know here, Harry. Malfoy knows what it is, I'm certain, he knows who did it, if he didn't do it himself, and he had a reason to reverse it."

"Hmm. Sirius says it happens, sometimes, in topical places, stings, bites, that sort of thing. Magical insects, viruses, you know." Harry's eyes were drifting shut.

"He thinks you got a virus?" Hermione's voice became shrill.

"Well, he says it's possible. Time delay, all of that."

"Hmmm."

"My bet's still on Malfoy," Ron piped up, grumpy now and half-asleep. "It's so obvious no one will ever guess."

"Dumbledore is pretty certain it's not though," Harry said thoughtfully. Malfoy had become something as of an enigma of late. The library, the look in his eyes just before he returned to normal. Fear, almost. Regret? Concern? Hard to tell, but something. Something else. He requested normal, and Malfoy gave him normal, down to the fistfights, the mudblood commentary and the smirks across the potions dungeon. There was, at least, something honourable in that, in a backhanded kind of way. Wasn't there?

Harry had begun to forget about any honourable intentions Malfoy might have had by the time Neville stormed into the common room and slumped into the nearest available chair as though he hoped it could protect him from whatever had sent him running full-throttle through the portrait hole. Only that morning Malfoy had upended a jar full of spiders into Ron's bookbag and proceeded to spend the entire day mimicking Ron's terrified scream. "Afwaid of a widdle spider, are we, Weasel?" Crabbe and Goyle laughed dangled the insects by the legs in front of Ron's nose, then dropped them and squashed their writhing bodies with the heels of their oversized shoes. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances over their homework, and watched Neville kick the edge of the rug.

Hermione laid her pencil down against the top edge of her textbook and folded up her notepad. "What has he done now?" Hermione had become very gentle with Neville. Everyone knew that Neville was a kindly sort; he was sweet, jovial, shy, nervous, and no one had ever entirely worked out what he was doing in Gryffindor house. He had a good heart, if not good nerves or a good sense of timing, direction, or judgment. During his six and a half years at Hogwarts, Neville had managed to try Hermione's patience to its limits at regular intervals. One night that September she had turned positively pink when Neville broke a bust of Godric Gryffindor on the stone hearth in front of her feet, filling her discarded shoes with shards of plaster and bits of metal wiring. Her eyes went wide, her lips curled into a snarl, and her voice rose to volumes she generally only used when cheering Harry on during a Quidditch game. Neville had bowed his head, shrunk back into the mantle, and awaited the end of Hermione's fury. Harry had been about to step in when Ginny, Neville's least likely hero of all, rose from her pile of homework on the floor and pulled Hermione aside before she had even begun to reach her crescendo. She gave Hermione a look, mumbled, "How dare you," and stormed out of the room, robes flying dramatically behind her. The wind dropped out of Hermione's sails. She sighed, picked up her shoes, and followed Ginny upstairs to the girls dorm.

Ginny must have given her a serious talking to, because after that, Hermione never lost her temper with Neville again; in fact, she seemed to have gained a unknown patience and real tenderness for him. Harry noticed that she hadn't so much as given his a heavy glance ever since. She hadn't scolded him, nagged him to try harder in potions, she hadn't even shoved his robes off the large, central table when he threw them beside her notebooks disgust after Goyle had ripped them (again) on the edges of a dustbin. Harry guessed that Ginny had let on about Neville's tragic past, his parents driven mad, his guilt, his fear, his nightmares, but didn't ask.

"What happened, Nev?" She asked gently.

Neville shook his head. " I saw something. Something bad." He wiped his nose with his fist and continued. "I was walking along the south wing by the potions dungeon, looking for my pencil box, and I heard something in the courtyard. I went over to a window and I saw them, just under me, just under the window. There were…I don't know, seven or eight of them, mostly Slytherins, you know, Lestrange, Crabbe, Goyle, Fischer, a few others, I don't remember, they were standing in the courtyard by the gutters for the potions windows. They were standing all huddled together with their wands out, trying to transfigure a rat." Hermione was about to speak, but Neville stopped her. "That wasn't even the worst part. Then Malfoy stepped up in front of them and started talking."

"What did he say?" Harry rose from the table and pulled his chair closer to Neville. He was glad, for the moment, that the common room was otherwise empty.

"He told them to drop their wands, told them how stupid they were, that kind of thing. A few of them protested, and hesitated, and he laughed, and said, 'Let me show you how Death Eaters get things done,' or something along those lines. And they moved aside, sort of sniggering, and he stepped closer to the rat in front of them."

Hermione gave Harry a hard look and then nodded to Neville. "Go on."

Neville took a breath and gulped. "Malfoy held out his hand, and said something I couldn't quite hear, and the rat stopped dead, you know, frozen where it stood, and started to waver like…well, like it wasn't quite real. That's the only way I can describe it. Like a flame, it flickered. And Malfoy lifted his hand, the rat, turned into a glass, and then the glass filled up with greenish stuff, bubbling around, as though it were being…poured in, from the bottom, and then it stopped just before overflowing."

Harry and Hermione both gaped. They had, of course, been trained to transfigure objects; object for object, not so much accounting for size but type. But a rat, into a potion? Without a wand? Potions were extremely complicated, and they had been told over and over by Professor Snape, potions couldn't simply be conjured by the wave of a wand. They couldn't even be made properly with conjured ingredients. Harry blinked, and leaned closer. He felt a vague kind of panic, the kind of panic he felt in dreams when he approached an exam naked and unprepared in a subject he had never taken. That deep-seated feeling that everything you felt you knew had just been discovered to be a lie, that terrible certainty that you have put your hand up with enthusiasm to answer a question which you have now forgotten, that you are sitting in the wrong classroom, that you suddenly no longer speak the language, and everyone has turned to stare at you. He felt his mouth go dry. Neville paused, looking terrified, and then went on.

"And then he drank it." Neville shivered. "He drank a little of it, and then said, 'Now watch this,' and he stepped backward. And suddenly…I know this doesn't make sense, but he was in the wall. His back was coming out of the wall, and not like the way ghosts do, he was there in the flesh, not ghostly, I could, I mean, he was so close I could smell the potion on him, and I jumped back so that he didn't run right into me. His face stayed outside, I think, watching the others."

"Oh my God." Hermione pushed her palm into her forehead.

"I was so scared he was going to catch me, I ran to the potions classroom and hid, and I could hear them come back inside, all laughing. And just when I thought I would be safe, Lestrange jumped through the potions classroom wall and then jumped back into the corridor. Fortunately he didn't see me." Neville was shaking.

Hermione stared, and sat down heavily on the couch. "I've never even read about anything like that. You know what this means. My God, Harry. Perhaps it was Malfoy after all. Words, no wands. God! Maybe that was it. You were cursed without a wand at all. And Malfoy…he's got to be a Death Eater. He's teaching the others now. Nasty, horrible things his father teaches him. We have to speak to Dumbledore." She pushed her chair back and stood, as if she were about to dash out the portrait hole and run all the way to the headmaster's office.

"Hold on a minute, Hermione." Harry looked seriously at Neville. "Was that it, Nev? Did you hear anything? Did they say anything?" Harry worried his fingers together tightly, elbows on his knees, leaning in as Neville's voice grew fainter and fainter.

"Well, I heard them saying…that it tasted awful, and it was disgusting, drinking a rat, and about how they could…well, how they couldn't be imprisoned, not even in Azkaban, knowing this, and, uh, I heard Fischer, I think, talking to Malfoy, asking him to show them more."

"And did you hear his answer?"

"Mm. Yes. He was a bit reluctant, really. He said, 'You have to know the right people', or something like that. It was Malfoy, he was very huffy and stuck up about it. And someone else pleaded with him, and promised him things, and he relented. He said he didn't want Snape finding out…and then something about a faculty meeting. I'm sorry, Harry, I was so scared, that's really all I remember."

Harry smiled and clapped Neville on the shoulder. "Sounds like you heard enough to me."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Faculty meeting? That's Tuesday after dinner. Of course, that would be the time when they would be least likely to be caught by a teacher, at least. But what about Filtch, or another student? How idiotic."

"Well, really, who else hangs around that little scrap of grass? And, if you think about it, Herm, aside from that one little window in the stairwell, which hardly anyone ever uses even since the stink bomb affair, there's no other way to see into that courtyard." Harry pressed his index finger to his temple and watched Hermione sink back down into the couch. "And during a faculty meeting Filtch stays up closer to where the students usually are, and not around the place they're trying to stay away from."

"Hmmm, I believe I can guess what you're thinking, Harry." Hermione picked up a cushion next to her and hugged it. "I'm not sure it's a good idea, given…" She let that sentence peter out into nothing as all three of them tensed. They all knew how that sentence ended. Given that you're lucky enough to be alive as it is. They all felt the black cloud of danger rise out of their darkest fantasies of what could happen, casting a shadow down on them.

Harry nodded, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Nice work, Neville. We'll make a grade-A spy out of you yet," he said, grinning.

Neville bit his lips and trembled, his face twisting in frustration. "I'm not joking, Harry, really. It was terrible. I'm certain now that Malfoy did that horrible thing to you. Please don't get involved. It's too horrible to imagine what might happen."

"But Nev," Harry said softly, "if we don't see what he's up to, we won't be prepared for it. If we blow the whistle on them now, they'll clam up and say nothing. We need to know." Hermione nodded sagely. Neville shook his head.

When Draco dreamed, he dreamed of weaving. He dreamed that he was made entirely of thread, and that Harry was weaving him into something new. His fingers pushed and pulled, threaded and dragged long, white pieces of him through his heart, through his stomach, through his brain, his groin. He tugged, knotted, threaded another piece around Draco's ribs and pulled. He watched Harry's face and felt the texture of his fingers, his now loose and light body pressing against Harry legs in the wind. He wondered what it was he was about to become.

Harry dreamed of glass. People, objects, everything made of clear glass, except for Draco, who was flesh and blood and dressed in white. And everywhere Harry looked, he could see through everything, everyone. In every surface, in every clear, molded face, Harry could see only Draco; his reflection, the swirl of his white robes behind him as he moved, his hair slipping to cover his face as his bend over his work. He had a glass sledgehammer in one hand, and was slamming it into the faces of the glass people.

Harry stood just behind the small group of boys, all in their winter cloaks with the laces of their boots dragging in the snow. He studied the backs of their heads. Lestrange, as Neville had said; Fischer; Crabbe; Goyle; George Parker; Oliver Whitmore; Bill Cochrane. All Slytherins, from fifth- to seventh-year, except for Martin Weston, a rather mousy-looking sixth-year Ravenclaw, who stood slightly apart from the rest. He was rubbing anxiously at his arm. Malfoy stood in front of them, looking into the window Neville had been peering through, looking luminescent in his grey wool cloak with sliver clasps that reflected the moonlight.

At dinner that evening Harry had been distracted from the idle banter around him. He pushed his fork into his mashed potatoes and skidded them around his plate, his feet tucked around the rungs of his chair. Ginny was gesturing wildly with a dinner roll in one hand, a butter knife in the other, and managed to almost poke Neville in the eye with it with each emphatic swing. Hermione twisted her lips, and read a book on her lap while she ate, nodding a little when Ron would prod her, whisper something, and prod her again. Seamus was worrying out loud about his potions exam ("Do you think Snape'll put viscosity ratios on? We only talked about it that once, but he did imply that it was important.") but Harry tuned most of this out, it just drifted like dust along the edge of his consciousness. He was watching Malfoy.

Harry watched him pace regally into the Great Hall, pull out a chair and sit, his chin set high as though he knew were on display, as though he knew Harry, among others, were watching him. He looked disdainfully over everything and everyone, his glance passing over some distant point above Harry's head, his eyes focussing on nothing in particular. He served himself, bowed his head and closed his eyes over his food. Harry wondered for a moment if he was praying, saying a silent grace in his head, and this struck him as monstrously strange and out of place. What would a Death Eater grace sound like? We give Thee thanks, our Dark Lord, for the Resurrection which Thou hast manifested to us through the blood of Harry Potter, Thy mortal enemy; may we ingest the deaths of our enemies the way we slip this soup. Thine is the power and glory for ever and ever. Amen. Harry watched Malfoy's bowed head, his closed eyes, his lips, motionless. In a moment he sat up straight and opened his eyes, not looking up to see who was watching him, picked up his fork, and ate.

Malfoy's table manners were impeccable, as, Harry reasoned, they ought to be; he imagined Draco as a young boy sitting at a table being instructed by his mother on how to chose the right fork, now to sit properly, where to put his elbows. He rested his knife properly against his plate, chewed with his mouth closed, he looked elegant, refined, as though he were dining with royalty and not his bulky cronies. He looked calm and relaxed and not even slightly worried that someone might catch him teaching illegal magic to his friends. Harry shook his head. So bloody cocky.

As the rose after dinner and filed out of the Great Hall, Hermione looked back over her shoulder and watched the teachers wander away from them toward the room behind the teacher's table. They were chatting amiably; professor Vector was carrying a notebook and had a pencil stuck into the pocket of his tweed jacket. She caught Harry's eye and they exchanged a determined look. Hermione nodded curtly and strode purposefully off toward the dorms as Harry ducked into an cold, empty stair well, pulled his invisibility cloak out of his robes, pulled it quickly around him, and followed the Slytherins back down toward the potions classroom.

It was so easy to remain hidden. The larger Death Eater boys were breathing noisily, and the snow in the small courtyard was so packed down and trod on that his left no footprints. Harry walked carefully behind the boys, praying he wouldn't slip and fall, and found a spot for himself between the boys and the wall. He shivered. It was cold, and he was only wearing his school robes under the rather thin cloak.

"Now, let's see," Malfoy said dramatically, stroking his lips.

"Show us how to knock a man dead without a wand!" the Ravenclaw boy said, sneering.

"Now now, Weston. Mustn't give away all my secrets at once," Malfoy smiled a little maliciously. "Hmmm…" He reached into his cloak and pulled out his wand.

"What, nothing wandless this time, Malfoy?" Martin Weston was a cockily, weedy little fellow, and the other boys said nothing in support of him. Harry saw that they were all a little afraid of Malfoy; he knew as well as anyone else that they all believed Malfoy was the caught of Harry temporary demise, and it seemed that, while it garnered him great scorn from the rest of the school, the Death Eater youth seemed to look up to him as some kind of perverted hero.

Malfoy said nothing, but crouched down and traced an S in the snow in front of him. He tucked his wand away, held out his hand palm down, and whispered something over the ground hovering his hand over it about a foot in the air.

At first Harry saw nothing. The boys whispered to each other, and Martin Weston crossed his arms over his chest. But suddenly, Harry saw the line glow red, and then purple, and then brown, until is suddenly burst into a whitish snake, hissing and slithering around Draco's feet. Crabbe stifled a scream, the rest jumped backward. Goyle shouted, "Well done!" with a bit of a quiver in his voice. The snake rose up, growing a thick hood, and danced menacingly at the boys. Harry was fascinated. The snake appeared entirely real, but as it moved and slid across the ground, Harry realized that it was in fact made of snow. The more it curled and twisted around, the larger it got, like a snowball growing thicker and thicker as it rolls along. Each snap of it's body made a vague crunching sound, like boots pressing into new snow.

"Well, that's all fine and good, Malfoy," Weston scoffed. "You made a play snow-snake. How perfectly lovely." Malfoy turned his eyes back to Weston again and narrowed them, bringing his hand to his chin and stroking it. He contemplated Weston for a moment before the snake's head snapped toward him, and it's entire now-four-foot length darted at the Ravenclaw boy. Before he could even scream, the snake had coiled itself around his body, it's thick, cold throat pressed across Weston's mouth.

"You were saying?" Malfoy tapped his lips with his finger as though he were somewhat bored, and Crabbe guffawed.

Weston collapsed on the snow, his screaming still audible in spite of the thick, wet body wrapped around his head while Malfoy explained how he created the snake from the snow, and how he was able to control it. "It's like your arm, or your leg, you just will it to do something, and it does," he explained. He noted that in other seasons the snake could be created from any substance, including dirt, mud, dead leaves, paper, or water. Martin moaned helplessly, his legs trying to kick free of the snake while it's body tightened around him.

Lestrange laughed. "I want to try that one on Potter!" Fischer laughed with him. "I could turn a broomstick into a snake he can't talk to and wrap it around his neck until The Boy Who Lived becomes the Boy I Killed!" Fischer wrapped his hands around his own throat, mimicking, Harry presumed, the death thoes would endure at the hands of the sweaty, red-faced Lestrange. Harry felt his lips curl up into a snarl, his hands turning into fists at his sides. "I bet I could get him to stay good and dead." Harry watched Malfoy bristle at that remark.

As Harry watched him, Malfoy swung around to face Lestrange. In a voice more lethal than any he'd ever heard Malfoy use, he hissed, "Potter is none of your concern. I suggest you keep to your business." Lestrange shrunk back; Fischer's hands dropped to his sides and he averted his eyes. Harry was horrified and impressed; Malfoy's hold over these large, stupid boys was complete in spite of the fact that they could snap all of his ribs with a well-directed punch. He remember the look of regret, of concern, of something inexplicable on Malfoy's face in the library, the quiet admission of innocence, the resumption of business-as-usual between them, the almost but not entirely mock aggression in their daily interactions, and wondered what upset Malfoy more; the idea that Lestrange might try to kill Harry, or the assumption that Malfoy had tried to do the same and had failed.

Malfoy completed his explanation and suggested they move inside before they were seen. He was about to go inside when he caught sight of Weston again, still writhing on the ground in the clutches of the snow-snake. He watched for a moment or two, prolonging Weston's agony, and then nodded toward the snake. Suddenly Weston's desperate struggling had an effect, and the snake crumbled into chunks of snow and he gasped, shivering. Malfoy said nothing to him at all. He turned on his heel and ambled lightly back in into the school, flanked by a very pleased-looking Crabbe and Goyle.

"Malfoy!" Weston called out, shivering and wet and rising to his shaky feet. Malfoy stopped and turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Can we…," Weston panted, "can we have another demonstration then?" All the rancour was gone from his voice. Malfoy had won that battle.

"Yes yes, let's!" Lestrange said eagerly. "Tomorrow night!"

Malfoy sighed. "Don't be idiots. We can't risk being caught."

"What about Friday night then?" Weston asked. They were filing back into the school, and Harry tip-toed closer to catch what they said. "Fridays Snape always has a drink with Filtch in the faculty wing." Westoned panted again, leaning over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Malfoy hmmed a vague assent.

So, Harry thought. Friday night. Harry made note of it. He would have to fake an illness to get out of his Quidditch practice, but he would do it. He had to know what else Malfoy knew, what else he was capable of. Harry was horrified and intrigued.

When they had all disappeared again back into the school, Harry went to inspect the remains of Malfoy's snow-snake. It was broken now, hard-packed snow lying in pieces in a slow S, bits of grass and dirt and pebbles as innards. It had perfectly imprinted scales, perfect still eyes, and it's flickering tongue was lazing motionless out of it's mouth.

"Where did you come from?" Harry asked, in parseltongue.

17 Pansy's Revenge

While you were looking the other way,
While you had your eyes closed,
While you were licking your lips cause I was miserable,
While you were selling your soul,
While you were tearing a hole in me
I was taking control.
–Poe, Control

At first she intended do this delicately, just enough to make things fall into place. Just enough to wreak her vengeance and damn Draco beyond all doubt, beyond all hope. She would break him into little pieces and laugh as he tried to put them back together. One day she would stand with her arms crossed in front of her chest as he begged her on his knees for a scrap of respect, for help, for forgiveness. She was angry, she was in pain, but she wanted everything to happen just so, just right, with only just enough force. All she needed to do, really, was nudge everything in the right direction, and it would happen all by itself. She didn't mean to be so heavy-handed about it, but once she began, she found that she couldn't stop herself.

Pansy was leaving the following evening for the south of France. She wouldn't write her exams. She had been sitting in class for weeks without paying attention, only staring at the back of Draco's neck and willing his head to explode. She wished she were the kind of witch would could do that; will things to happen. She wished she could cause lightning to snap out of the sky and turn Draco into a little pile of charred bones, make heavy objects spontaneously drop out of the ancient stone walls and crush his skull while he walked along the paths outside the school, turn his pumpkin juice to poison while he sat in the Great Hall, fork in one hand. She had considered simply cursing him the way the Norwegian girls had taught her; but clearly there was a cure. There was a chance, of course, that no one knew the cure but Draco, but she couldn't bet on that. She wanted her revenge to be complete and irreversible, even if his strike against her was temporary.

Madame Montsouris in Lyon had already confirmed that she had a room set up for her; she had sent some powers and creams and vials of pretty-smelling oils to prepare Pansy for her healing. she sat on her bed, rubbing lavender essential oil into her belly, wincing. She was still in pain, still so angry she could barely focus her eyes on anything. It was as if there was a muscle in her chest withering and dying and sending bitter ash into her veins. The only way she could calm down enough to sleep at night was to picture Draco swinging from the rafters by his neck in vivid detail, blood dripping from his bare toes, or to work over and over and the formulaic plans of her revenge.

She had started by sneaking into the boys dorm while everyone was in class and in the middle of the afternoon simply dipping his toothbrush in the veritaserum. That would be enough, she knew, for nearly six hours of delicious torment, but then realized that only the boys would have access to him at that time, and most of it would be while Draco was asleep. Vertiaserum was powerful, and even a tiny amount of it would make Draco completely unable to lie; but with an nine hour lapse between Draco's evening teeth-cleaning and his appearance in public again the next morning, she simply had to get more creative if she wanted to ensure his downfall. She poured about a cup of it into the decanter of water sitting next to Draco's bed. She knew that he normally drank from this decanter first thing in the morning, so a good mouthful of the stuff should mean that she had at least the rest of the day to torment him.

But she didn't stop there. She dipped the ends of his quills in it, sprinkled it over his hand towels, his pillows, the cuffs of his pajamas. She poured a small amount of it into the jar hand lotion on his bedside table, and into the bottle of shampoo in his shower kit. She dampened his washcloth with it, sprinkled it into a box of tissues.

After dinner, she wandered down into the kitchens and bought an assurance from a House Elf with a dozen pairs of thick, mismatched socks that one glass, one in particular, slightly chipped along the bottom, already full of veritaserum, would appear in front of Draco's plate at lunchtime the following day. One full glass. If this works, Pansy thought, I might get him spewing random truth into next week.

Pansy of all people knew how much Draco's world was held together by lies. He lied to everyone. He lied to the girls he bedded to ensure their silence, their loyalty; he lied to the boys he groped in closets to keep them worshipful and half-afraid. He lied to teachers, to his friends, to his father. Pansy knew Draco had been only half-certain about his future career. He supported the Dark Lord to an extent. He agreed that their existence on the fringes of the muggle world was offensive at best and downright humiliating at worst; he agreed that mudbloods were problematic, and their entrance into Hogwarts without first cutting their ties to their muggle families was monstrous. He objected to intermarriage, to mixed communities, and had said that it would probably be more merciful to shoot squibs and put them out of their misery rather than allow them to go on living a half-existence. For everything that Death Eaters stood for, Draco was on board.

His issues, Pansy knew, came in their methods. He had begun to express his dissatisfaction years ago. When the stupidest Death Eaters gathered together and harassed muggles in public, Draco had shuddered and shook his head. He wanted to be dignified, he wanted to be rational. He agreed that sometimes violence was necessary and even just, the antics of the more prominent Death Eaters made him laugh. The Norwegians had said the more or less same thing; you English and your bullies and brutes. Draco had a strong distaste for the very same people who protected him, the same people Pansy knew he was instructing after hours with the silly party tricks Jan had taught him over the holidays. The large, stupid men who joined the Death Eaters because it gave them power over others; people too stupid and too hungry for physical control to live ordinary lives. When Draco had recently had conversations with his father, he was more sympathetic to the Dark Lord's need for these bulky, brainless types, but the longer he spent on his own the more critical he became.

There was always Professor Vector, whom Pansy knew Draco respected a great deal. There was always those few Ravenclaws, a pretty, elegant Slytherin girl or two who wanted to remake society the way that Draco did. A debate with these sorts of people fired Draco up and encouraged his convictions about his future, but there were few such people at Hogwarts anymore, and any that did exist certainly didn't trust Draco.

Pansy knew that Draco wasn't a Death Eater, and that he wouldn't take the mark until he had graduated. She knew few people knew this, or even questioned Draco's loyalty anymore. The latest rumour she had heard, probably directly related to the elegant and fantastic magical tricks he had been showing off, was that Draco was already a high-ranking Death Eater who had been present in elite meetings with the Dark Lord himself, and had special responsibilities all his own which may or may not have anything to do with Harry Potter. Pansy fumed.

Draco lied to everyone, and he was safe only as long as he kept lying. He even lied to his mother, though Pansy suspected he only kept things from her that he believed would hurt or upset her. Narcissa Malfoy was cold, far colder than anyone knew. Pansy had run into her once in the middle of the night one holiday while she was slipping from Draco's room back to her own guest bedroom down the hall, her nightgown barely concealing her naked body underneath. Draco was spoiled by his mother, it was true, but Pansy was still terrified when those icy eyes spotted her pinned her back against the wall. Would she object to Draco smuggling girls into his bed, girls visiting on the pretense of needing a place to stay while her parents visited Africa? Would she feel warmly toward Draco's girlfriend, or critical? In public Narcissa was nothing if not collected, welcoming, and open; she smiled warmly and looked at you encouragingly while you spoke, offered little sandwiches and never let your glass be emptied. She didn't even use charmed glasses; she made sure to fill each glass herself, nodding and smiling and boring into your with those icy eyes filled with casual nonchalance, with boredom, with genial acceptance. Pansy had witnessed the other side of those too sweet eyes, and she never forgot it.

She had given Pansy a small locket with a tiny miniature rose inside as a birthday gift that year, with a card that read, "I'm so glad that Draco has such nice friends." Pansy had puzzled over it, confused, until she realized that Draco had not told his mother that they had a non-platonic relationship. He had explained to Pansy that his mother was very protective, that she would feel jealous if he were in a relationship with a woman. At the time she hadn't thought to note an emphasis on the word woman.

Pansy had stood in the corridor at Malfoy manor at two o'clock in the morning face to face with Narcissa Malfoy. Of all the times to be caught, Pansy thought, this could not be worse. She smelled like sex and like Draco, with marks in the shape of his lips and his teeth on her neck and her hair disheveled, bare feet sinking into the carpet in the half-light, her arms not able to hide enough of her nearly naked body. Pansy had left her housecoat in the guest room several hours before, she had tiptoed into Draco's room with the moonlight casting the shadows of her hips, her calves, her breasts against her flimsy nightie, watching Draco's bare torso shift, his arm pull open his bedclothes in an invitation. She had not considered the possibility of running into Draco's mother in the middle of the night, her purple silk housedress finely embroidered around the neck, with a newspaper tucked under her arm. Narcissa had raised one perfect eyebrow at Pansy (just like Draco), lifted her chin, and said, "Goodnight, Pansy dear," in a tone so cold she nearly shivered. Draco even lied to his mother when it suited him.

She wondered what Draco was doing with the bottle of veritaserum in the first place, what he had intended to use it for, and wondered if he had discovered that it was missing yet or not.

She had managed to toy with it a bit, with some help from Madame Montsouris, who understood her dilemma. One pubic hair, dissolved in a teaspoon of veritaserum over the period of three weeks; one drop of flax oil, the dying breath of a horned toad. She added this thimbleful of liquid to the bottle and let that sit for a week. Really quite simple, as these things go, and she had read enough to know that it was fairly reliable. Veritaserum, with a difference. Veritaserum with motivation.

Now all that was left was the simplest spell. It was one her father had taught her on Hallowe'en when she was nine as a joke; you can cast it from a bit of a distance, and if you can even do it such a way to make it look as if you're just brushing a bit of dust off your wand. Her father used this spell in muggle bars to watch the beefy, stupid muggles get themselves outrageously drunk and then beat each other senseless; he used it at parties where he was bored just to watch the women sip nervously at their coffee, their wine, their little tiny glasses, and go wander nervously looking for more. It was a spell that made people dreadfully thirsty.

Draco's stomach was upset by Arithmancy class. He was feeling strangely, as though he had been pulled apart and then slammed back together somewhat askew; he felt as though he'd eaten far too much. He had been wrestling with a terrible thirst through the night and all morning; he wondered if he was coming down with something. He woke up twice during the night reaching for a glass of water after dreams of deserts, of acrid air, of drowning in a sea of sand with a scratchy dry throat and a screaming thirst. He drank a large glass of water at lunch, and then followed it with another, and then another. He was careful to sit up properly so as not to press against his already straining bladder. Finally by mid-afternoon his strange thirst was sated, but he still felt parched, gasping for water like a fish, drying and crumbling along the edges. He rubbed a fingernail across his front teeth, wondering whether he should go to the hospital wing.

That morning Crabbe had asked him, quietly, if he had slept alright. This was Crabbe's way of letting Draco know that he had been screaming again, and that he may have been heard somewhere beyond the small sanctuary of their dorm room. On the way to the shower, Draco mumbled an absent "no" through a yawn and wondered at his sudden honestly. As the water hit his body, dripping off his shoulders, he shut his eyes and imagined that it was Potter's hands on him, Potter's tongue on his throat.

Professor Vector paced in front of the class, pointing at the practice cubes in the air. He was reviewing the weeks' lessons, which were not as difficult as Draco had expected them to be. He glanced over at Granger and noted that she was just averting her eyes, as though she was watching him. He sighed. What now? He had wondered what she had done with that tidbit of information, seeing him collapsed against the wall in the hospital wing. She had told Potter, clearly. But they didn't understand, not really, not the whole sick charade. He had been worried about what she might say, what she might figure out, but finally dismissed it. Even if she did hit on something in her studying and fumbling, at least his father would never believe the logic of a mudblood.

Draco leaned back in his seat, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. He didn't seem to be feverish, but he really wasn't feeling well at all. His skin felt different, lighter, as if he were disappearing, becoming transparent. He was staring into the palm of his hand, and beginning to wonder if he was going to going to throw up in the middle of class or not when he realized that Professor Vector was speaking to him.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you paying attention?" Vector was saying.

Before he could even think about a reply, he found himself saying, "No." He dropped his hands against his desk, startled.

"What was that, Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, Professor Vector. I was not paying attention. May I be excused? I'm not feeling well." Granger gave him an odd look as he gathered his things. Draco shook his head. He felt odd, very odd.

"I see. Do head straight for the hospital wing, Mr. Malfoy. No loitering in the corridors if you are unwell." Vector coughed. Suddenly Draco was overcome with a strong urge to get out of that classroom, prompted mostly by the sensation that he was about to throw up. He rose from his desk and felt faint, and steadied himself with one hand on the wall and one on the desk, breathing deeply. "Mr. Malfoy," Vector was saying, holding an envelope toward him, the skepticism in his voice fading somewhat as he watched Draco attempt to compose himself, "could you take this to the Headmaster's office on the way?"

He stopped at the nearest boys bathroom and brought up his lunch, which was mostly water. He pressed his forehead against the tile and tried to will his stomach to settle down.

Draco was nearly in front of the Headmaster's office when he ran into Pansy. She was wearing a loose dress, in pink, with her hair undone and draped over her shoulders. She was carrying a bottle, dangling from her fingers, and she tapped it against her thigh. She smiled widely. Draco first tried to simply charge past her, but she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, hooking her fingers into the folds of his robes. He stopped, turned, and narrowed his eyes.

"Hello Draco darling," she said, almost singing.

Draco opened his mouth to spit out, "Parkinson," but found that he couldn't. His throat constricted, his lungs felt as though they were collapsing. He clutched at his chest and spluttered.

Pansy laughed. The feeling dissipated and Draco took a deep breath. He looked at the bottle in Pansy's fingers and suddenly recognized it; veritaserum. His own bottle, filched and used against him. So, that was it. Revenge set in place, Draco was unable to lie, and it seemed, unable to speak the name of his tormentor. She eyed him, his chest moving rapidly, trying to replace lost air. She stepped closer to him, and ran her fingers along his neck.

"Have you figured it out yet?"

"Yes." Draco said, sneering. "Yes, I have. You've overdosed me with veritaserum, and made it impossible for me to say your name. How cute."

"I'm sure everyone will find it cute, Draco," Pansy said, smiling. "Maybe your new friend Potter will find it cute as well. Or Professor Snape. How about Crabbe and Goyle? Or your little Death Eater protegees, hmmm? I'm sure they’ll all enjoy it." He was reaching for his wand when she dropped the bottle, which shattered against the floor. "How about Dumbledore, Draco, love?" she whispered. Draco had the sinking suspicion that he had vastly underestimated Pansy's ability to enact revenge.

Draco sat on his bed with his face in his hands. This simply could not be worse. There was light tapping on the door outside, almost constant, but not quite; tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap. No rhythm, just a reminder of who was sitting out there, watching, waiting, guarding him. Draco realized that he had been wrong to forget about Pansy all these weeks; he was wrong to have assumed she wouldn't know how destroy him. The sound of that bottle shattering against the stone floor was still ringing in his ears, the sound of Pansy's too-sweet voice and the look on Dumbledore's face when she explained that Draco needed to confess haunted him. The way she pushed him toward the door Dumbledore held open for him, the way she made sure to mention 'Death Eaters', to prompt the old man in every possible way to ensure that he would ask all the right questions.

Draco knew what he had done. He had betrayed his father. He had betrayed the Dark Lord even before entering his service. He had told Dumbledore about professor Vector, about professor Snape, about Lestrange and Fischer and Crabbe and Goyle. He had told him about his mother, his childhood, his first experiences with Death Eaters, and even, for a few horrifying moments that Draco pretended were not happening, he told Dumbledore about the time when he was eight years old, when some unnamed and unknowable brute of a man had lured him out of his bed and onto the terrace. Draco didn't tell Dumbledore about the way the man's face was shrouded in his thick Death Eater hood, the way his breath smelled bloody and metallic, the way the flannel of Draco's pajamas had torn as he yanked them down to his ankles. He didn't have any reason to explain about his shame, his confusion, his pathetic misunderstanding of what was about to happen to him. The way he had knocked his head against the marble railing the entire time, the way he could hear the man's breath, his throat squeezing out almost-words with every thrust. He didn’t tell Dumbledore about blood, and pain, and crying, and screaming, and silence, the silence beyond the terrace, in the darkness in between the rungs of the railing, the silence beyond the closed door behind him. He said, "When I was eight, a Death Eater told me my mother was looking for me on the terrace. I followed him outside. He raped me."

He told Dumbledore about Norwegians, about wandless magic. He told him about the curse that nearly killed Harry, but stopped short in his explanation has he accidentally attempted to say Pansy's name. He choked, grabbed his throat. Dumbledore handed him a glass of water and changed the subject.

"Are you a Death Eater, Draco?" Dumbledore asked him. He sounded tired and sad.

Draco sipped at the water, and tried to relax his throat. "No."

"Are you planning to become one?"

"Yes."

It wasn't until afterward, when he received an urgent owl from his father, that he realized his portkeys were missing. Draco, his father wrote in his stern hand, Ms. Parkinson has informed us that you have been speaking inappropriately. If she is lying, you need to keep better control over your friends. I simply cannot imagine that she is telling the truth, but if so, you and I need to have words. I will be arriving at Hogwarts tonight. Draco shut his eyes and crumpled the paper into the palm of his hand.

Lestrange and Fischer had received corresponding letters, and while his father admitted that he didn't believe what Pansy had told him, he had taken the precaution of hiring the two to watch Draco. And watch they did. Tap tap, tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Lestrange's wand tapping against the door, a reminder. You are trapped, you are trapped. There was nothing he could do. His father would arrive, and he would have admit it. Yes. He had told Dumbledore about the spies. Yes, he had admitted to the Malfoy Death Eater connections. He had told Dumbledore that his mother was not involved, that his father was, that there were students who were Death Eaters already. That he was not, as yet. There was no denying it, not under the influence of the veritaserum. Pansy had been thorough. She could not be accused, and Draco could not stop confessing.

Draco looked up. Perhaps there was one last hope. He clambered up on his bed and reached for the latch on the ceiling. There were trapdoors over all of the beds, trapdoors they generally only opened to allow for a breeze in the hot evenings in September, when they had them. Normally it was Crabbe who did this small service for him, but, since his roommates had been relocated because of the guard order, he would have to do it himself.

The latch came open on the third try. He tugged down the ancient and fraying rope ladder stapled against the inside of the door and looked at it. Yes, it looked as if it would hold him, at least for one leap into oblivion. Listening to the uneven tapping on his door, he pulled off his robes, his tie, and his school shirt and trousers and tugged on a pair of black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black sweater. He found an old pair of trainers and tied them too tight against his feet. He might not be able to cast an invisibility spell on himself just yet, but he could certainly blend into the shadows if he tried. He took one last look around his room, clenched his jaw, grabbed onto the old rope and pulled himself up into the ceiling. He could hide here, at least, until they discovered him missing. Then he could run for it. He breathed hard, pulling up the trapdoor and hearing it close with a snap. The odd echo he heard, completely out of place, made him look up.

Draco was shocked. He had climbed up here before, once, when he was in his second year. At that time he had found himself in a small, cramped, attic with a couple of old broomsticks and an ancient remembral stuck between two old, moldy books. But now, he was standing in a large, airy, open, very dark space. He couldn't see very far into the blackness, but the sound of his feet against the floor and his breath echoing made him certain that he was in a monstrously large room, like a concert hall. He wondered what on earth this place was, and how it had appeared over his bed within the last few years. He knew that the stairways shifted regularly; perhaps the rooms played games with each other as well. Was it an old gymnasium? A cage for dragons?

Dumbledore. Well, the old man was merciful, there was that. He must have known what would happen next, perhaps he even guessed at why Draco was being so open and honest with him. Yes, he was in grave danger; perhaps this was Dumbledore's way of trying to sway his loyalties. Let him escape this time, and let him think about who is more powerful than whom. Thanks, old man, Draco thought, look around into the blackness. But even with my betrayals today, you're still no further ahead.

He shivered, wondering what horrors he would run into in these forbidden and secret Hogwarts rooms. He had heard that there were hidden corners of Hogwarts that would transport you halfway across the world, into last week, or three centuries back. Rooms that would transform you into an insect, shrink you to microscopic size, expand you into giant proportions. Of course it was all lies, all rumours, all little children's tales to keep first years from wandering around too much. But he had never suspected that he he could have been looking up from his bed into an eternal room, another world locked away behind brass latches and porcelain knobs.

There wasn't a sound, other than his feet, as he stepped cautiously away from the trap door. He walked roughly east, knowing that that would take him toward the Great Hall. The sound of his shoes against the wooden floor sounded as though it was multiplied by thousands; thousands of boys, like himself, escaping from the hired thugs of their fathers. Thousand of boys clenching their fist and trying to breathe, trying to find a way out.

He must have been walking for twenty minutes before he felt as though he had moved at all. He could see, barely, through slits in the floor and the walls, which were narrowing around him, the ceiling dropping closer and closer until Draco was walking in what was becoming a tunnel. He had long ago lost any sense of where he was, what direction he was heading. So when he saw a dim light ahead of him, his heart leapt and he felt afraid; where would he end up? The teacher's lounge? The Hufflepuff common room? Dumbledore's office? Right back where he started?

The light was coming from another tunnel. He had to choose, at this point, whether he would turn right, or left. On the right the tunnel curled off into darkness; the light was coming from the left. It seemed so bright, like sunlight at midday, but blocked but something that looked like a body, a heavyset man guarding the entrance, the exit. He didn't move at all. Draco tiptoed quickly toward the light, trying to focus on what he was seeing.

As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he realized that it wasn't sunlight at all. It was moonlight, pouring through the tall windows in the large open corridor. It wasn't a man he was looking at, either, a menacing figure waiting for him to emerge. It was the statue of the humpbacked witch.

It would have all worked so perfectly if he hadn't run into Filtch. He had nearly been free when he was nabbed, almost out the front doors of Hogwarts. But even if he had escaped, he had no idea what he would have done. Wait in the Forbidden Forest, chewing on leaves and bark? Go to Hogsmeade, get a room at an inn, bide his time until this stuff wore off and he would feel safe contacting his father? He knew he could explain himself, if he could speak properly. He could explain about the veritaserum, that he had been forced to tell Dumbledore his secrets. He wouldn't explain why, though, it would take some work. But he knew he could do it. Not, however, if his father caught him like this, babbling answers out like a fool and unable to control himself.

Filtch had hauled him back to his dorm, all the way back to his door, right back into the faces of Fischer and Lestrange, had been playing exploding snap, their backs pressed up against the wall beside the locked and barred door. They looked up, shocked. It wasn't until then that Draco understood, understood how completely and utterly foolish he had been, how blind. The squib didn't like mudbloods any better than Voldemort did; he blamed them for his unfortunate condition. There was a reason why he and the others had never gotten caught, with all these secret meetings and after hours showing off. Filtch pushed him down on the floor in front of the boys and said, "Now. He almost escaped! Keep a better watch on him, will you, boys? Or his father will have my head. Take him to the broom closet beside the potions room, he'll be quieter in there." Filtch grinned wickedly at him.

The had beaten him first, out of frustration and anger. The squib had caught their prey under their noses, they hadn't even noticed that Draco was gone. Even a squib was a better soldier for Voldemort than they were. Draco's left eye was already swelling shut when they grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out into the corridor.

"This way," Lestrange hissed. They pushed him into the broom closet, an old, musty place filled with the broken ends of wands, old potions casks, some gym equipment, ancient robes, a stray pair of socks, and old school banners balled up and collecting dust.

Tonight, Draco considered, as they pushed him against the wall and pounded their fists into him, tonight he had planned to show them how to walk over bodies of water. He felt one of his ribs crack under Fischer's knuckles, but he said nothing. He had been planning to lead them to the lake, cast the spell on his feet and shock them. More party tricks. These stupid children were so easy to impress, and Draco admitted that he had gotten somewhat carried away. But it was so amusing, so fun, to show off these little tricks, these impressive and unthinkable games, to encourage their perception of him as more important than them, more powerful than they would ever be. He dangled his power in front of them and laughed in their faces; even the Ravenclaw boy had been swayed. When Draco held them under his sway like this, he imagined this was how his father felt. Lestrange kneed him in the groin and he collapsed on the floor.

"You're not even a Death Eater, are you, Malfoy?"

"No," he groaned, spitting dust and blood out of his mouth.

Lestrange was winding up for a powerful kick to Draco's head when they heard Filtch's voice speaking sharply just outside the door. "You two! Quickly! Follow me into the potions room!" They spun around, and then looked at each other.

"Lock the door, then!" Fischer panted, giving Draco a half-hearted kick to the stomach as Lestrange pulled out his wand. "Not like he can get too far like that!" He snorted.

"You stay put this time, Malfoy," Lestrange spat haughtily. "We'll be right back for you." The shut the door firmly, and Draco could hear their heavy footsteps pounding off down the hall.

Draco sobbed, attempting to get a breath. Some of his ribs were broken, as was one of his ankles, his face was cut and bleeding, his brain was still sparking with the force of that knee to the groin. There was no more hope for escape. His father would be arriving shortly; he would confront him like this, a bleeding mess babbling everything he didn't want to say. His father would be furious. He curled up against the floor and wheezed. He hoped for a moment that one of the pieces of his ribs might press against his heart and stop it from ever beating again.

Draco thought he was hallucinating when he saw a patch of air draw back like a curtain to reveal Harry Potter with his wand in his hand.

18  Achilles

Now I see your face before me; I would launch a thousand ships
to bring your heart back to my island as the sand beneath me slips.
I burn up in your presence, and I know now how it feels
to be weakened like Achilles with you always at my heels.
–Indigo Girls, Ghost

Draco collapsed against a couch in the southwest common room, his ankle fiery with pain, his ribs aching, the echo of Potter's fingers against his forearm still fresh and resonating through him, Potter's fingers trailing over his ribs, touching his knees, caressing his face, reaching down to his ankles. He leaned back and closed his eyes, relinquishing himself to this careful stroking, considering his hopelessness, his utter lack of power, his profound failure to maintain the upper hand with the stupidest of Death Eater children, and now thoroughly shaken by his unexpected rescue, by the gentleness of these fingers, wet with his own tears, hovering over his skin, touching him sweetly where he hurt. As though they were both underwater, their bodies seemed to slow to a leisurely pace, each touch, breath, accompanied by a chorus of echoes rippling over them. Harry touched his calf and Draco felt the reverberation of those fingertips undulate languidly over his chest, his jaw, ruffle softly through his hair.

Harry Potter, appearing out of thin air. The smell of his skin was still strong in Draco's nose. Pain, and pleasure. This gentle petting, erotic and innocent. It was all too confusing, there was too much going on at once. His father, hiring boys to beat him to a thin pulp; Filch, a Death Eater sympathizer; Dumbledore not only aware of Draco's struggles but bending to help him escape the inevitable punishment; his secrets revealed in (almost) all quarters; the sudden appearance of Harry Potter, with an invisibility cloak, offering sanctuary; fingers, Harry's fingers, against him. Unexpected, impossible bliss. It was all like a fantasy, a dream, wonderful and horrible.

"Come here," Potter had whispered, glancing over at the door slammed shut and locked from the outside moments before, the sound of fast footfalls still loud against the cold stone floor outside. "Quickly." He raised an invisible arm, only his hand, palm open, visible, an invitation, and Draco saw the cloak Harry was wearing from the inside. It looked burnished, like dusty gold or tarnished brass. It reminded him of Gryffindor, of tassels hanging from red and yellow banners in the Great Hall, of the gold leaf edging around the portrait that guarded the Gryffindor common room. It had a faint pattern, vines and leaves, fruit.

Draco had seen an invisibility cloak before, once, long ago. His great uncle had one, and kept it in a locked box at the foot of his bed. But one night when his uncle was very drunk and very bored he pulled out a half-broken, rusted key and unlocked it.

"Look here, little man," he said to Draco. "Look!" He unfolded the cloak, all silver gray and shimmering, holding it up so that Draco could see the candlelight through it. Rather than burnished, it looked cold and gray like stormy afternoon, with silvery threads woven through it. He pulled Draco's arm a little too roughly toward him and Draco squeaked, his toes ramming against the rusted edge of the box.

"It's pretty, is it?" His uncle said, his whiskey-rank breath making Draco wrinkle his nose. He didn't care what his uncle had, or how pretty it was, he wanted to go back into the sitting room with his mother, he wanted to play with his toy broom, once broken and now fixed by his father, but his arm was gripped between his uncle's thumb and forefinger.

"Now watch this," his uncle said, draping the silvery cloak over Draco's wrist. Draco watched his hand disappear. His forearm suddenly ended with a sharp edge, a stump. Draco laughed nervously and moved his fingers to test that they were still there; he was unimpressed and already bored with this game. This was the same uncle who claimed to steal his nose, who pretended he could snip off the tip of his thumb and hold it in his fingers. All sleight-of-hand, attempts to frighten Draco. He would not be frightened.

And so Potter had saved him, when there was no other means of escape. After some terrified and pointless banter, he had accepted the invitation of this invisible embrace, he had walked into those open arms, felt Potter's elbows on his shoulders, Potter's breath on his face. For a moment there was nothing, as if, hidden inside an invisibility cloak, he could see nothing, he was nothing, he ceased to exist at all, like a flame snuffed out. But when the door banged open and two sets of heavy feet tromped into the tiny room, his senses returned; the taste of blood in his mouth, the pounding pain in his ankle, the angry tears dripping from his swollen eye, the smell of Harry, of soap, wool, cantaloupe, strawberries, the sweet undertone of cream and the sweet-saltiness of sweat. He breathed in and smelled his rainy, rich smell, like chocolate and pussy willows, spring fog. He closed his eyes.

They stood there, in the shadow of the door flung open, while Fischer and Lestrange pounded their thick feet against the floor and moaned about having lost him again.

"A rat," Fischer said. "I bet he found one." Leaping through walls, they must have imagined. Party tricks that come in handy, the wizard that could not be contained.

"He can't have gotten far," Lestrange grunted. When they left the door was ajar and creaking in the draught.

But this series of events had become secondary in Draco's mind, the pantomime that went on in the background. Elbows on his shoulders, the smell of cream and cantaloupe and pussy willows, breath on his face; Draco had one hand pressed against his chest, his elbow nudged against Harry's stomach, his other hand touching the wall through the cloak just against Harry's hip. They were both trying to still their breathing, make themselves as silent, quiet as thin air, and each breath, in a syncopated rhythm, drew their bodies temporarily closer, and then farther apart. Draco could feel Harry's breath rather than hear it; it was hot against his cheek, trembling in Harry's stomach against his elbow.

There was a point when Lestrange was so close he almost touched Draco's back; he leaned over to throw the armchair to the floor in frustration and Draco pressed himself closer to Harry, his head curling under, his lips grazing Harry's shoulder. He felt the elbows resting on his shoulders shift, the cloak tighter around them both, Draco felt Harry take a deep breath and hold it in his lungs as Lestrange's body passed in front of them, and then moved farther away to the right. Draco was aware of this, aware of his danger, but was less afraid, somehow. He felt that he was safe, that he could hide here, in this body, against this skin, in the smell of strawberries and rain. In Draco's mind it wasn't the cloak at all that conferred this immunity; it was Harry Potter, the weight of his arms on Draco's shoulders, his seam of his jeans rubbing against the inside of Draco's wrist. Harry exhaled slowly and quietly into Draco's neck.

When Lestrange and Fischer had left again, stomping like wild elephants down the corridor, swearing and huffing, Potter let him go, arms dropped to his sides, the cloak hiding him again partially, and Draco stepped back. He felt cold and shivered a little, looked down at his ankle, squeezed his hands into fists. Potter chewed his lip for a moment, and glanced around the room.

"We need to get out of here. It's not safe."

Draco nodded, unwilling to argue. Potter looked at his face, and then his eyes trailed down his body. "You don't look too well." Draco blushed and twisted his lips. "Do you think you can walk?"

Draco huffed. "I expect so," he said coldly. He was uncomfortable, his face red and hot, and still in a great deal of pain. He took one careful step toward the door and winced.

Before long, and without really knowing how, Draco found himself under the invisibility cloak again, his arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders for support, hobbling down the hallway. It was a familiar body now, familiar in forbidden ways, in memories open only in those half-conscious moments between sleep and waking, in weak moments under the shower, or while flying, between formulas in Arithmancy, while trudging alone down the stairs toward the Slytherin dorm. His thumb stroked Harry's collarbone, his lips brushed across the back of Harry's neck.

He was mesmerized. Potter. Rescuing him. Potter, letting him touch. His ribs were stoking him with red pain, his ankle was pounding and sending jolts of agony through him with each motion, every step, but he grasped at Harry like a lover, and somehow this made it worth all the suffering. He embraced Harry as though it were okay, as though it were the most normal thing in the world for him to do. And Harry did not object. When they stopped at a corner with two sets of stairs before them (one angling up and to the right, the other curling down into the belly of dungeons), Harry reached up an absent hand and stroked Draco's forearm, grasped his wrist comfortingly and squeezed.

"Left or right here?" he whispered. Draco had suggested an abandoned common room close by. At some point the Slytherin dorms had not been in the dungeons; they had been two floors up and in a sunny, western wing of Hogwarts. The low-lying rooms, curled around a bushy courtyard with an elaborate fountain in the middle, had been deemed to open and too accessible when the Chamber of Secrets opened and all hell broke loose, and the dorms had been moved further down into the recesses of Hogwarts. Draco knew this because professor Vector had told him the story, one day long ago, when he was homesick.

"When Tom Riddle was a student here, Draco," he had said. "This was where the Slytherins would meet and talk. This is the best place to see a sunset in the entire school, but everyone has forgotten. Now sometimes they use the study spaces on the floor above, but they leave the common room alone. They don't like to remember, you know. That's the trouble. They don't want to remember." Draco would sit there alone sometimes, when he was sad or frustrated, and take a nap on one of the overstuffed couches, thinking of Tom Riddle, snakes, and gossip.

"Left," Draco said, cringing a little, looking at the stairs.

"It's okay," Harry said, his thumb sliding over Draco's wrist. "I'll help." And he did. He turned and gripped Draco around the waist, helping him shift his weight off of his broken ankle with each step. It seemed to take years. Hold Potter, shift weight, hop, wince, breathe. Hold Potter. "Almost there," Harry whispered, his lips so close to Draco's ear that he shivered.

Does he know? He must know. He must guess, now, of all moments, that it had been Draco who had kissed him last term, in the dark. That it had been Draco who had saved him in the hospital wing. He must remember the sleepy kisses they had shared, the way his eyes opened, then closed again. He must guess that Draco had purposely gotten them detentions together, that he had challenged him to a fencing rematch because he liked him, because he wanted to be close to him. He must remember that moment, when Draco had pulled the foil out of his chest, when he had steadied Draco, pressed his hand against his wound and looked at him with that deep concern, when they had looked at each other, shocked, startled, confused. He must remember it all. He must know. Potter had turned again, pulled Draco's arms over his shoulders, his hands rubbing back and forth across them.

"Left or right?"

"First door on the right," Draco whispered. He rested his forehead against the back of Potter's neck, and they trekked onward.

He had collapsed onto the nearest couch when they arrived, and Potter was all hands. It was as if their journey to this place, entwined as they were, bodies tangled against each other, hands on chests, arms, backs against stomachs, faces on necks, lips, skin on skin, was a barrier broken. Harry leaned over and touched Draco's cheek where Fischer had punched him; he brushed his hand against Draco's fingers pressed against his ribs. It was as though Potter touched him because it was not only required, but expected, because somehow violence witnessed, and unjust violence at that, made Draco's body open for inspection, made his wounds belong to someone other than only him, made him touchable.

Perhaps, Draco mused, Potter felt guilty in a way, for having witnessed it. Maybe he felt some part in those wounds, that swollen eye, his aching ribs, his purple ankle thickening in his shoe. Though, even when Potter had done the damage himself, he had never touched him, not like this. He had never shown such interest, such beautiful, rapt attention. Draco said nothing, but threw his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, half from pain and half from shock, pleasure, joy at the not-so-subtle erotic nature Harry's hands against him, Harry's hands on him. Being touched, inspected, being looked at. By Harry Potter.

Millicent, who was not very tactful at the best of times, had said it once out loud, in front of him. She had tried to pull something out of his hair, some dust or a bit of paper. He had caught her arm before she had so much as touched a hair on his head and twisted it away from him.

"Ouch!" she squeaked, and exclaimed, "Well, aren't we the untouchable one."

She was not normally particularly insightful, but in this she was right. Draco had spent a great deal of time and effort establishing this precise thing; an air of untouchability. Clearly he could be touched, but only at his behest, only when it was requested, demanded. No one touched Draco, no one dared. Except for Potter. Potter slugged him, pushed him, Potter had wrestled him to the ground on more than one occasion. It had frustrated Draco, at first, that Potter would not acknowledge his boundaries. You may touch me now, you may not. Harry touched everyone as he pleased, up to and including Draco.

Draco vacillated on any given day between believing that this quality in Potter was a profound obliviousness, or that it was a form of seizing power over others. For the moment, he didn't care what it was. Harry's hands. He was holding Draco's ankle, one hand on his calf, the other under his heel. Draco winced.

For the first time he remembered that he was still in grave danger, perhaps among the gravest of all. Regardless of Potter's rather elegant and timely rescue, the real danger remained and intensified; what if Potter asked him something Draco did not want to answer? The veritaserum was still running strong in his veins. He gave in to exhaustion and sat still, losing himself in the sensation of those hands a moment longer. They moved down his calf and onto his swollen ankle, and Draco yelped.

"What are you doing?"

Potter was on the floor, sitting on his heels, removing Draco's shoe. "Your ankle," he said simply. "You should elevate it. Move your legs up onto the couch. I need a better look, but it's too dark. Do you think it's broken?"

Draco blinked, sighed, and shifted his legs onto the couch. "Yes, I think it is." He watched Potter remove his shoe and his sock, and trace his fingers lightly over his ankle. Draco pulled out his wand, whispered lumos and shielded his eyes, holding the wand at his hip and giving Potter some the light of it. He swore as Potter's fingers touched his rapidly swelling ankle more firmly.

"Sorry about that. Let me see if I can fix this." He pulled out his wand and paused a moment, collecting himself. He was still sitting on his heels, his face looking pale and tired in the sharp white glow from Draco's wand. He whispered a healing spell, and Draco was suddenly grateful that the healing of bones was a required skill on their Christmas exams. He could feel the cool wave emanating from Potter's wand enveloping his ankle, feeling it snap back into place, and then travel up his body, readjusting his ribs. He trembled a little, and Potter rested the palm of his hand against his forearm. As the wave tipped over his face, he felt Potter rather thoughtfully attempting to use a complicated painkilling spell they had learned several weeks prior, which Draco appreciated; it was partially successful and he breathed a sigh of relief. "I presume it will be a bit tender. It still looks pretty ugly."

Draco hmmed, and stuffed some pillows behind his head. "Better than it was. Thank you."

Potter half-smiled and then nodded, and sat down on the couch, his back pressed against Draco's knee. "Do you think they've gone then? Will they keep looking for you, do you imagine?"

"Yes, I expect so. My father will be here shortly."

"Your father?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." He rose and walked toward the door they had passed through, and looked out. Draco extinguished his wand and sighed. The moon was rising in the south windows in front of them. He closed the doors firmly and quietly, and walked back to the couch where Draco lay, arriving sooner than he expected and kicking the edge, swearing under his breath. Draco chuckled. He sat down carefully on the edge of the couch and picked up the invisibility cloak, weaving it between his fingers.

Potter, Draco realized, was a very visceral person; he relied on touching things, on thought with his fingers and examined textures as closely as other people looked at things. He imagined, if Potter were to chose his own clothing, he would chose it entirely with his hands instead of his eyes. Suddenly it occurred to Draco that Harry was not necessarily oblivious or attempting to control people by touching them; it was simply the way he communicated, the way he understood things. Also: Harry Potter was an obsessive fidgeter. As Draco watched him, he saw him play with the cloak, bounce his knee, and run his fingers through his fringe four times. How interesting, Draco thought. He could only see the barest outline of him, golden-silver cloak shimmering in his hands, the gentle thumpthump of his foot bouncing against the floor.

Potter hmmed again, and turned toward Draco. "Why is your father coming here?"

"He wants to talk to me about some things I told Dumbledore today."

"What did you tell Dumbledore?"

"Everything." They were silent. Potter's leg continued to bounce, vibrating through his body and into Draco, who's knee was still pressed against Potter's lower back.

Suddenly they heard footsteps against the stairs; hard shoes, thumping, whispered voices. Potter froze, and then whirled the cloak around him and dove on top of Draco.

Draco realized that he had probably intended to land beside him, but he managed to end up half on top of him, half wedged between him and the old cushions, his face buried in the pillow Draco had shoved over to prop up his head. He had managed to avoid Draco's sore ankle by landing one leg between Draco's knees, one hand flung out over his head to cover them with the cloak, the other against Draco's opposite shoulder. He had landed squarely on Draco's open palm, which was now resting on Harry's waist where his shirt had ridden up. He quickly arranged the cloak over them, and turned his head and took a breath.

Suddenly there Harry was, his lips just barely touching Draco's. Draco should not have been facing this way, with his father in the corridor, the cloak over them, Potter flinging himself under it. Potter trying to protect him. But ever since he had first appeared in front of him, Draco could not stop looking at him, could not turn away. Potter was like the sun, low and orange in the sky as it sets, the kind of sun that blinds you but with colour so rich and so lovely that you simply can not bring yourself to turn away.

Draco was entranced by all of him; the gentle hands, the soft voice, his kind-hearted, single-minded heroism; the way he moved across the room, the slope of his shoulder, the soft heat of his breath, his fidgeting hands. Harry turned his head and brushed his lips against Draco's, and then stopped; lips against lips, mingled breath; darkness. Footsteps approaching. Harry didn't move. Draco felt like this was the most intimate and most erotic kiss of all time. So close, so restrained, so endlessly innocent. Still, he didn't move. Draco closed his eyes, thought about soft fingers against his calf, his ribs, his ankle, opened his mouth and pulled Harry's lower lip between his own, tracing a slow line across it with his tongue, and then let it go.

Draco had terrified himself. What am I doing? Was this the effect of the veritaserum? Doing what was truthful, what was real and burning and driving him mad? His heart beat double time, his fingers flexed involuntarily against Harry's waist. Please, please don't be angry. Draco didn't have the energy for this. He cursed himself and peered into the darkness, trying to see Harry's face. He could feel his breath, he still hadn't moved. Was this a good sign?

Outside he could hear his father's voice; he was scolding the boys for having lost Draco again, no doubt. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was angry. Hard shoes slapped against the floor, and suddenly he saw light, he saw Harry's face, looking at him. He had bitten his lip forward, as if he were tasting it, as if he were tasting Draco. He felt a surge of pleasure, a surge of strange, strangled hope. Yes.

The door opened, and light filled the room. Draco cringed in the light, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable. His father's presence was palpable, looking into the empty room and seeing nothing. Draco could feel the cool air from the hallway, could fell those steely eyes looking over the old common room, tallying the nothingness and processing it. His son, disappearing again when he was required. Such a disappointment. Draco cringed over this just as he registered the eyes, the face in front of him; Harry was looking at him. From the time Draco had first met Harry Potter, he had made no secrets about how he felt. Harry's face was very expressive; if he liked you, it showed; if he disliked you, or distrusted you, or was impressed with what you had said, or wanted to slug you hard, or was intrigued, it showed. The look on Harry's face now was shock, confusion, a question, and a tenderness that melted Draco's heart and sent fire into his groin.

The door shut, and left them in darkness again. There was a stillness, anticipation, between them for a few moments. Draco could feel Harry's heart beating just as fast as his own. He felt nervous, as if he had just walked into a thin tightrope and realized there was no net beneath him, no broom under his arm. What will you do, now that you know, Harry? What will you do?

Harry's hand shifted over from Draco's shoulder to his face, cupping his cheek, fingers stroking his jaw. He touched him the way he had touched him before; testing, comforting, finding injury and repairing it. What injury was this now, what repair did this hand offer? He turned his head and felt the heel of Harry's palm against his lips.

It's now or never, Draco thought, leaning forward, shifting his hand under the cloak and sliding his palm onto the back of Harry's neck at the same time as his lips pressed against Harry's.

He had kissed Harry unawares before; he had kissed Harry while he was unconscious and semi-conscious. Neither of these really compared to the strange tentativeness, the fire, the certainty and the confusion of kissing Harry when he was fully knowing, when he was apprised of all the details. There was no cloak of darkness hiding his identity, no sleepy dream-state; there could be no confusion in the very real pressure of Draco's mouth, his tongue sliding against Harry's half-parted lips. This was Draco Malfoy, the same Draco Malfoy whose fists had struck this face more times than he dared to count, the same Draco Malfoy who had teased, insulted, and threatened him over the years. This was Draco Malfoy, heir to Malfoy manor, son of Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater, soon to be servant of the Dark Lord, lying on his back, a sore ankle propped up on a cushion, his eye swollen shut, accidental tears running down his face, with his hand buried in Harry Potter's hair, with his mouth caressing Harry Potter's lips.

And nothing could stop him now, not this time. No politics, no intrusions, no sudden waking, because this was not a dream. No women with plans for revenge would spoil this, and neither would self-doubt, self-hatred, or confusion, because Harry Potter was kissing him back.

Finis