Author: mildlunacy (aka Reena)

Rating: R for violence and sexual content.

Disclaimer: universe not mine. shocking, I know.

Author's notes: I don't know what to say about this. It had been my baby for a long, long time; started right after OoTP. It means the world to me that you're reading it, and that I finished it, and I hope you enjoy reading it even a fraction of how much I enjoyed writing it.

This novella may utilize some facts and elements from HBP and DH, but overall it occurs on an entirely separate timeline after OoTP and is definitely AU.

Dedication: to Aja and Amalin, who believe. Love.

Summary: Harry and Draco both have ghosts to face in the crucible of their sixth year. Rings of power, strange dreams, confusing feelings, midnight assignations and dark revelations abound. In the end, nothing will ever be the same as both of them learn the worth of their promises.



PROLOGUE // the fall.


Oh night thou was my guide
oh night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other

- St. John of the Cross
~~

- June 19th 1996, Malfoy Manor.


When they'd come to take his father away, Draco was asleep.

He had Portkeyed in for the weekend just the evening prior, acting on a summons that brooked no argument. The school was still in a mild state of disorder and no one would bat an eyelash to see the younger Malfoy gone once again for the weekend. Every Slytherin knew Draco had special lessons, supplementary lessons, that he had needed to attend since Hogwarts was such a pathetic excuse for an education.

Draco woke up with the sense of burning in his mind, shaking, panicking, not knowing why. He remembered a dream, barely, and he knew he was almost about to realize something vital. If he only knew it, he could win. He didn't know what he needed to know, but he knew he needed it.

In a single-minded daze, he got out of bed and slipped down the hall barefoot, uncaring he was still in his pajamas. The Manor was always kept at the ideal temperature, but Draco couldn't stop shivering. He knew the house was secure. No one would get past the wards at the gates unless Lucius Malfoy willed them to. The house was safe. Draco had always been safe here.

At the first step of the grand staircase, Draco froze in place.

The marble felt icy to his bare skin, but he no longer felt the cold. The scene was a little too surreal to take in all at once; for a second, Draco was certain he was still dreaming, and he would have pinched himself-- wake up, wake UP!-- if his father's cool grey gaze hadn't kept him still.

Lucius stood right by the door, completely composed, as calm and stern-faced as he always appeared before him. He wore the plain cloak and black leather shoes customary for travel. Draco wasn't sure what was going on, but his heart hammered madly, a tiny frightened bird.

Draco knew showing any fear would be unforgivable. He held himself up stiff and ramrod straight. To the side, there were three men Draco didn't recognize; they were in the sitting room, casting long shadows into the moonlit foyer. Aurors.

Clenching his fists, Draco looked past his father to glare at the men, who ignored him. They didn't speak, didn't even glance at him. His father appeared to be waiting for something. Draco opened his mouth to say something to them-- he didn't know what, but it would be good-- when his father preempted him.

"Draco."

His attention snapped like a rubber band.

He could barely speak past the dryness in his throat. "Father," he whispered.

"Come down now," he said calmly.

Draco jerked slightly, the back of his neck prickling. Suddenly, there was a flash of heat down his spine, and he itched all over. His mind was curiously blank as he came down the steps, knowing his father noted his appearance and disapproved, though he said nothing.

He stood at the last step, unmoving, his lips pressed tight. That moment of silence felt like a cut along his shoulder blades, quiet but deep.

"Good," his father said. "You will listen to your aunt Bellatrix. She will be here to take care of things shortly."

He gave a jerky nod, but his father wasn't paying attention. Bellatrix had been coming for a visit all along. It's why Draco was here, and he'd been looking forward to it. The Dark Lord may come, too, Draco knew; it would be an honor.

"I'm going to give this to you now. Never take it off, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father," Draco said numbly.

With no further ceremony, his father slipped the large golden ring onto Draco's index finger. He had to bite his lip to stifle a cry.

It burned!

The ring felt blistering hot, and it seemed to tighten to fit itself so tightly as to cause continuous throbbing pain. The pain did gradually recede into the background, but there was a constant telltale buzzing. Draco concentrated on not flinching, and he saw his father give a tight smile. He could try to get the ring off later, he thought. He didn't understand what was going on yet, anyway.

The next few minutes passed in a haze, and when Draco's mind cleared and the burning subsided, both his father and the men were gone. He hadn't heard the door shut, nor seen the Aurors pass. He stood there for a few seconds, dumbfounded, and was almost at the point of yelling and reaching for the door handle when he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. It startled him so much he jumped, gasping a little.

"Shhh... shhh, darling." Narcissa turned him around gently, but Draco turned his face away as his mother moved to wrap her arms around him. "Let me...."

He couldn't quite manage to pull away; she needed this more than he did. She was shaking, he could tell. Even so, he didn't want to be coddled right now. He needed to act, and immediately. They took his father! This was unforgivable. Unacceptable.

"No! I have to--" The ring was pulsating hotly, and Draco was a bit dizzy. He leaned against his mother's shoulder, feeling like he'd be pulled under into dreams if he let go. Maybe he'd wake up and his dad would still be home.

"It's all right. We have to be strong now, both of us. My darling boy," she murmured. She smelled dizzyingly of moonflowers and jasmine. "That's right, we'll be fine, won't we?"

"Yeah." He pulled back a bit and immediately regretted it. Somehow, he couldn't quite maintain the proper level of cold anger or determination when she looked at him like that. He just felt lost. What was he supposed to do?

The tears burned at his nose and the corner of his eyes, but that was all. Draco broke away entirely and stepped back; he took one step, then another, until he was backed up against the door. He tightened his fists and straightened his posture, but the strange burning tightness of the ring grounded him the most. He couldn't look his mum in the eyes, even so.

She waited for him, and didn't attempt to hug him forcefully again. Things really had changed.

"You should go back to bed, Draco," she said finally. "It's not quite morning yet."

He shook his head mutely, not paying attention. He couldn't sleep. He had to act.

"No," he said, and then more strongly: "No, Mother. You go back. Go back to sleep. I'll take care of things." He glanced up from her white slippers, eyes flickering past her equally white face to settle on the moonlit trees visible through the main windows.

She wrung her hands uncertainly. "If you think that's for the best, darling."

His whole body felt still and sharp as a needle as he looked calmly at his mother and smiled. "I do," he said.

He knew she wanted to hold him once again. Maybe his mother wished Draco was four years old again, and all this amounted to no more than a scraped knee. Then everything could be fixed with a cuddle and a few whispered words from mummy. But no, of course this wasn't about him or any of his stupid old problems. He knew that. She must wish Draco was a grown up. Then he could have known what to do to prevent this whole... mistake, to protect his parents.

Both of them.

The idea left a hole in his stomach, both fear and some weird sense of yearning.

They'd only taken his dad for now, but this meant none of them were safe. This meant-- Draco's mind couldn't quite complete any train of thought entirely, and he gritted his teeth. Bloody hell, he needed to think, but he couldn't! Not here. Everything was swirling around hotly in his head, in time with the pounding pulse in Draco's ring finger. If not for the rush of adrenaline, he'd probably be trembling or nauseous; he barely held it back.

He realized that once again, there'd been a long, empty silence as both of them hovered next to each other. It seemed his mother sensed something in him that told her to stay clear of further attempts at comfort. This left them at an impasse, apparently.

"Don't-- don't stay up too long," Narcissa whispered. "It's not-- it's not good for you." She lingered a moment, waiting until Draco nodded, and then she hurried nimbly back up the stairs, lifting the hem of her robe with clenched fingers.

After his mother had gone, Draco climbed slowly back up the smooth, gleaming staircase. The impossible state of focused calm returned when his mum had finally left.

His fists clenched so tightly it hurt, but his face was set, almost frozen. Slowly, his mind cleared. His emotions were damped down, raging somewhere far away, as if there was a river behind a great stone dam but all he could see was the stillness of a pond.

He walked blindly forward, trying to look at the situation like a puzzle to be solved. The situation. What was it?

Firstly, Draco now had a brand new ring to show for bothering to get out of bed.

Secondly, it was Potter's fault. He was going back to Hogwarts tomorrow evening, in time for school on Monday. It was a bit absurd, really, that school-- and O.W.L.s., no less-- were still a concern. He had to do well, though. And he had to get Potter for this.

Distantly, he realized that this meant it was up to him, now. There were no excuses for failure. Potter had to pay. This was really what his father's departure meant. It meant Draco had to be the one to make the Malfoy name proud. There were going to be no excuses; no more time to waste. He had to be prepared for Aunt Bellatrix, and for everything else, and he had to start immediately.

Draco stopped and looked down; the ring winked at him.

"Huh," he breathed.

The strangely cold black stone set inside it glittered with tiny embers of red. No natural mineral that dark should be glowing like that, but it was obvious that his new possession had a serious enchantment upon it. Physically speaking, the ring was interesting as well; there was an inscription on the stone, something that looked like a coat of arms, an almost but not quite familiar design.

Still. If not for the effects it had on him, it looked ordinary enough. Draco had seen his father wearing fancier jewels to weekday breakfasts.

And now, it seemed, he'd wandered into his father's study. This was a place he was normally forbidden to enter. He would have expected to encounter some ward spell, but before he realized it, he was inside. The huge desk faced him, its chair emptiness accusing Draco somehow, as if it was his fault that Father was gone. Taken.

"It's not!" Draco yelled, then flinched, backing up a step.

Only silence greeted him, but it set his teeth on edge. There were deep shadows in this room, and they pooled all around him as he stood alone in the center. This was the same spot he'd stand in when he'd done something to displease his father. The realization was a jolt of electric current up his spine; he couldn't stand still.

In a few halting steps, Draco stood at the other side of the desk, next to the empty chair. His father's absence was palpable here, a screaming void. He had to remind himself to calm down; he was alive. He'd be back. He'd be back, since there was no way they could keep him there when they had the Dark Lord on their side. The winning side. Of course this was temporary; Draco had to bear with it, and act in his father's place. He'd left his instructions, hadn't he?

Right.

Draco looked out the huge bay window, though all he saw were only shadows and the stars. The moon hid behind a cloud for now, so that Draco's attention was helplessly drawn to all the constellations. The Dragon was bright from mid-March to mid-June, and the Hunter was gradually growing brighter every night. Draco could just about make out the Lady and the Wizard in their eternal dance.

This was the exact spot where his father had taught him the stories when Draco had been a child, but the memories only brought a sharp twinge to his chest. Besides, he had no time to waste on this sort of childish stuff anymore.

He turned his back to the dark sky and gripped the edge of the chair. The leather didn't squeak or otherwise protest, simply giving way beneath his fingers. For some reason, this made him angry.

With a huff, Draco wheeled the chair to the side and sat, breathing hard.

After a moment, he realized no lightning was going to burst through the window to strike him down, as he always secretly suspected it would. At any other time, he might even have been disappointed; right then, he hissed and had to grit his teeth not to start sobbing for real.

"Fuck!" he cried, knocking his head back against the headrest, but it only cushioned him. He swallowed hard, gripping his knees. He had to think.

Draco groaned. It didn't matter, now. He could sit in his father's study, on his father's chair, looking out his father's window upon his father's favorite view as dawn broke. Who needed to go back to his room to sleep, anyway?

He stared at the stone again and strained to remember more, trying to focus on his endless childhood lessons of wizarding family emblems. All that resulted was a pounding headache. The more he stared at it, the more he was certain he'd seen that coat of arms before; it couldn't be an active wizarding family, nor a very large one. Otherwise, Draco was certain he'd have gotten it easily. The harder he tried to remember, the more it felt like there was a vise squeezing tighter around his forehead.

"Oww!" he cried, whining slightly. He rubbed his forehead, trying to stop the room from spinning. "Bugger! That burns!" He could almost smell something burnt and electric, like the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

Draco snorted under his breath. He was really an idiot. He just needed to look it up, that was all. Draco closed his eyes, wishing he could do this in the morning. He wished he could go to sleep here, where his father seemed to be both most present and most absent.

He breathed in and out, letting himself be lulled by the soft chair and the silence. As long as he didn't open his eyes, he wouldn't see the shadows. He could pretend his father had just stepped out, and Draco was simply pushing his luck in the worst way. His father might punish him, but at the moment he almost welcomed the idea.

God, he didn't want to open his eyes. This was unfortunate, because he definitely had to. He had to go look at some of those private books his father kept on the shelves. He had to turn the light on. He had to get up, he told himself, but somewhere around that point Draco lost his train of thought.

He woke up with a start. Slowly, Draco turned the chair around, staring outside.

The trees outside the Manor glowed with a faint peachy pink aura, their new green suffused with a golden dawn shimmer. Shadows of birds could be seen sweeping above them, only specks in the distance. Draco thought of how often his father would've sat here at this time, planning something new and brilliant and secret, and he wished he could Incendio the whole forest right then.

Potter would have to die, Draco thought almost dreamily.

As this crossed his mind, Draco's eyes moved downwards again, and he noticed with faint surprise that father's ring possessed a crimson glow.

There was the answer. He would bet anything on it. At that moment, Draco was filled with a pure conviction: right there was the key to Potter's death. The ring was definitely the key.

He wasn't as good at Charms and stone-work (though it was part of Runes) as he should be, but he knew he wouldn't rest until he knew exactly what his father intended. And, of course, what he could do to use it to suit his own needs. Draco was under no delusions that his father meant to help him with any of his personal desires here, but if it helped his father, there was yet hope. Knowing Dark artifacts, the task ahead of him would most probably involve some kind of pain and suffering, yes, but Draco was prepared. He had been ever since second year, when his father had finally taken him to Nocturne Alley.

In better circumstances, Draco could've fully appreciated all this, since Dark artifacts were... well, really cool. He was lucky to finally acquire one of such obvious merit. As it was, he knew he'd be pleased later.

He definitely wouldn't waver; Bellatrix was coming, and she'd like to see Draco fail. She'll have to be disappointed.

Leaning back in his father's leather armchair, Draco found himself drifting back to sleep with a faint smile.

~~

- Late August 1996, Malfoy Manor

School started in a few days: Draco's sixth year. It was about time. It was about time for the House of Slytherin to get what it was due, he thought. This had crossed his mind with weakening enthusiasm the longer the summer wore on. With every day spent either alone or drilled by Bellatrix, all his father's so-called friends on high alert about associating with him now that the Malfoys were 'exposed', he got angrier.

He had enough on his hands just keeping up with the sporadic Legilimency training, Dark Arts lessons and divination and other things Draco was pretty sure he'd never need. Bellatrix didn't exactly follow a rational plan for his instruction; it was more like which way her mood swung that day. That, and how much she wanted to torture him for her own amusement. House spirit wasn't exactly a priority for Draco. In the end, it wasn't just Potter: it was all of them. Traitors, all of them, he thought, though he knew better than to say it.

It didn't matter; Draco hated them all equally. Now that the Malfoys' fortunes fell, since his father 'allowed' himself to be captured, they would have to fight their way back into the Dark Lord's good graces. Once the school term began, Draco could only hope to do some damage control among the Slytherins who had been his to start with. This meant avoiding Nott and Zabini as much as possible. He had important work to do, after all. Once he figured out what it was.

Though Draco didn't have much time entirely to himself this summer, it still galled him that he hadn't made any real progress in his research. He didn't even discover the source of the family crest on the stone. He could only think that his father had hidden the really valuable volumes cleverly enough so that Draco couldn't find them. It was probably even true.

Sitting on his father's chair with ten musty volumes laid open on his desk at night, when Bellatrix was less likely to find him there, Draco didn't think much of his own excuses. His time, once so plentiful, was running out, and the frustration was driving him mad, inch by painful inch.

"Gah!" He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I need a drink." It would be laughable if it wasn't so fucking serious.

He wished he could throw things, but he couldn't risk making noise. Nor the chance that the books might be charmed to retaliate. Draco sighed and knocked his forehead wearily against the desk.

He may as well have spent the summer getting into Parkinson's pants. It would have been more enjoyable, not to mention productive. It would give him a sense of achievement, for one thing. Some self-satisfaction would be nice. And it would settle the stupid bet Draco heard was going around in Slytherin about his preferences. Ugh. It was like everyone needed to be bloody Zabini to get some respect these days.

"Sorry for not being a slut, Zabini," Draco said nastily, sneering at his imaginary opponent. "Some of us have a little discrimination and taste. Not that you'd know anything about that."

Great. He was talking to imaginary Housemates. It couldn't be long before he'd become a tasteful nutter. It was all a matter of time, wasn't it? Either he'd lose it first or he'd figure things out before that happened; one or the other.

At least the tutoring in obscure divination techniques hadn't been a total waste; Draco eliminated that as one of his many talents.

His relatively weak scrying spell had told Draco little about the artifact except that it had tremendous power-- or more precisely, powers. Definitely multiple. What those powers were seemed to be anybody's guess, and probably required more research. No further clues where to start looking, of course. That would be altogether too easy.

To begin with, Draco had holed up in the Manor library, barely leaving to eat on the weekends since the house-elves brought him everything he required. The Malfoy collections were quite impressive, which is to say he could read through dozens of Dark Arts texts without making a dent. And without discernable progress, needless to say. Some of the scrolls seemed ridiculously ancient, but half the time they were pioneering Lumos charms or something.

In the end, he was left with pure speculations. Draco's instincts told him the ring was about making some sort of link or connection, since some of its properties reminded Draco of blood-stones. Those were largely legendary objects which allowed one contact with a dead person whose blood infused the stone. There hadn't been one at that shop in Nocturne Alley; Draco had looked. They were pretty rare.

Assuming that were true, then a link to whom? And what about the rest of the puzzle? Something about this ring both fascinated and repelled him, more than he would have expected in both directions. He would have wanted answers for his own peace of mind and nothing else.

Certain basic questions stood out in his mind: why did Father give this to him with no explanation, and then only at the last minute? Was he supposed to wait dutifully for Aunt Bellatrix to explain it all? Was he waiting for some other sign? Was he supposed to do anything at all, or was his willing participation unnecessary?

Throughout the summer, Draco had pondered this fruitlessly from many angles until dawn, and sometimes into late morning. Surrounded by scattered books and parchments, opened and left carelessly on the floor, he grew used to falling asleep in his father's armchair. He also grew used to never getting anywhere.

Regardless, the ring wasn't coming off. Frustrating, not to mention inconvenient if it raised any questions. He could always make up a story, though. Stick with what works, he always said.

On the practical front, Draco decided that as soon as he got back to Hogwarts, he'd talk to Snape about beginning work on a potion to dull the probable effects of the ring. Of course, so far there was nothing concrete to link the dizzy spells, nausea and overall lack of appetite to the ring. It just became difficult to stay optimistic when one counted Draco's strange dreams.

Speaking practically, yes, he should have taken the ring off by now. Being practical wasn't likely to get him what he wanted the most though, even if Draco stuck with revenge. No, he had to be smart about this.

Once he got to school, Draco knew he needed to wait. He couldn't do anything too extreme too soon. Not too difficult, since he wasn't too sure what his plans were at this point, but it paid to be extra careful. He ought to stay low-profile before he had a concrete plan, at least.

This could most easily be accomplished by avoiding Potter. It shouldn't be too hard. Potter was no harder to avoid than a shade, going by the way things were at the end of last term. No problem.

Draco found some small pleasure in the thought that the Dark Lord was taking his toll on Potter's health, at least. He merely got to enjoy the rightful benefits. It was all in the perspective. And Draco had all the perspective he needed now.

~~

- Late August 1996, 12 Grimmauld Place


Back in Grimmauld Place, Harry only wanted to leave. Hogwarts didn't seem much like an escape these days. However, the house was almost more oppressive than Privet Drive; not that Harry welcomed the Dursleys, but they were a minor annoyance now. Funny how one's perspective changes after one's godfather dies in front of your eyes, Harry thought. Funny.

Ron and Hermione edged around him, which only drove him mental all the faster. It felt wrong, that he didn't feel much better surrounded with his friends than he had at the Dursleys. Half the time, Harry wished he was back there, in his old room, tucked in by familiar misery. Some of the time, he even wished he'd never met them, any of them, though he was always the next time he saw either Ron or Hermione. Sure, he'd be miserable at the Dursleys if he'd never gotten that letter at eleven, assuming that wasn't actually inevitable, but then Sirius might still be safe in Azkaban. Of course, 'safe' was a relative term when you're in Azkaban, as was 'sane' or 'alive'.

Harry tried to decide if he'd rather be alive in Azkaban or dead behind the Veil, himself, but sighed and gave up before he got very far. Maybe Sirius would have come to break Harry out of Surrey as well, and they'd have run away together. Harry would have liked that. Maybe Lupin could have come to visit.

Harry chuckled. And maybe the tooth fairy would have brought him news of Hermione, whom he'd have never met, let alone Lupin. Well, he'd have met Lupin as Sirius's mate. It was funny, thinking about everything that never would have happened if not for Harry being there. It was possible Ron and Hermione would never have talked, and maybe Lupin would've never been outed as a werewolf except that Professor Quirrell might never have gotten exposed, and Voldemort would still be around at Hogwarts. Then there was Riddle in second year on top of that....

Harry groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It was hopeless.

Well, he'd already known very well he was being selfish and ungrateful and possibly even spiteful, but he didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything, except maybe Sirius being dead and Voldemort being alive. That wasn't bloody fair.

As things were, Harry thought he'd be happy if he never dreamt again.

"Bad dreams?" Lupin asked him one morning.

Harry stared at him. Then he looked at the toast. Then at Lupin's haggard expression and the rumpled shirt collar sticking out of his house-robe. Then he noted Lupin's hands were shaking ever so subtly around his mug. Then he left the kitchen.

The next morning, Harry stayed, cloaked in obstinate silence which was his main way of communicating lately. Rather than feeling the burn, everyone probably thought it was a nice change after all the shouting he did last year. It seemed clear there was no winning at anything once you turned fifteen, Harry decided.

Rather than any desire for company, of which he had little to none-- and which didn't extend beyond Ron and Hermione lately regardless-- he found himself actually worried about Lupin.

After a minute of standing around and not doing much, Harry stood up awkwardly and got himself some oatmeal kept warm on the stove. He sprinkled some walnuts and brown sugar and then poured milk over it. It seemed like the thing to do. Or something.

Lupin smiled and inclined his head. "That's how Sirius would have had it, up till third year. Then James had told him it was a girly way to eat oatmeal."

Harry flushed, then scowled. He didn't know what to make of this revelation about his dad, exactly. "Um. Do you want some, then?" Harry asked politely.

"I've already had breakfast, you see. Now I'm enjoying some time before I have to wake up."

"I see."

Lupin nodded. "I think maybe you do."

"Why didn't we have a wake?" Harry said suddenly, surprising himself.

There was a pause, during which Harry felt quite stupid. It appeared Lupin was only considering what to tell him, though. "We can't afford one right now," he said quietly. "We can't risk a gathering for him outside this house, and he's not that popular--"

"He is! Everyone here loves Sirius!" Harry burst out, slamming his palms down on the table.

Lupin wasn't fazed, apparently. "Albus remains unable to come as of yet, I'm mostly away on Order business, you know that. Most of the current Aurors don't know him like we do, even Tonks. And then there's Snape," he added with some humor. "It wouldn't surprise me if old Severus put a wrench in the works should something like that be in danger of occurring."

Harry glared at him. Lupin sighed.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

"That's not good enough and you know it!" yelled Harry.

"I'm sorry," Lupin said, more quietly, his face becoming very still.

Harry refused to feel guilty, lapsing into a sullen silence. At least the oatmeal was good.

"I dreamed of him, too," Lupin said, apparently out of nowhere. "The first time. Not much use for bad dreams anymore. It--"

"You're not about to say it gets better, are you?" Harry said incredulously.

The lines around Lupin's mouth seemed to deepen. "No. Of course not." He wound his fingers together on the table. "You can tell me, if--"

"No. Er, but thanks."

"-- if you liked," Lupin finished, then sighed. It seemed to be a pent-up sigh.

Harry had to make an effort not to scream. This was way too... polite. It grated on his nerves, though he'd have to admit that if he let it, the soothing atmosphere would get to him.

Instead of making a ruckus, Harry got up to pour some hot milk into a mug. Then he sat down without a word. He could leave, but he wouldn't run away.

The problem was that Lupin said everything in that calm, quiet tone that sounded as if it was supposed to be understanding. Somehow, that was the worst part. No one understood; not Lupin, not Dumbledore, not his friends. No one did, but most of them pretended to. That's what Harry couldn't take.

No matter if they loved Sirius too; no matter if they missed him. Maybe they knew what it was like to have someone they cared about die in front of them, but not because of them. What it was like when it was the person who had let you hope you could have a happy life, a real life and a family and a place where you belonged, after all this was over.

Harry felt a bit guilty for thinking of it that way, because he knew he had Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same. That was his godfather, not his friends. Harry couldn't imagine always depending on them; they had their own lives, and he couldn't keep dragging them into his problems forever.

Even Lupin didn't know what that felt like, even though now it was only him and Pettigrew, who didn't really count. He'd given up on having anything for himself, that much was obvious. With every day, Lupin looked more hollow-eyed and wrinkled and weary, as if someone was rubbing him out with an eraser, bit by bit, and at the end there would be no Lupin left, only shadows. He probably wouldn't know how to depend on Sirius for anything even if he was here, still alive. That made Harry angry. He knew Sirius had wanted to help.

For various reasons, Harry was surprised by Lupin's next attempt to reach him.

"Sometimes one needs a connection. It helps to keep it together." Lupin smiled wanly. "Especially for young people, it's--"

"Like you're keeping it together? You're going to teach me how to suffer well, or what?"

Harry really did feel the intense urge to run away this time. It was too bloody surreal; all of this. Lupin's appearance, their conversation, that flat tone in Lupin's voice.

He frowned, showing a bit more of that worn, weary emotion. "Harry--"

Harry got up with a clatter, fist clenched around the edge of the table. "Sorry. I have to go."

He ran to his room so fast he rattled the portrait of Mrs. Black, who started screaming. No matter how many times they'd closed the curtains on her, something went wrong. Usually Kreacher. It never stopped, not really.

He knew how Sirius felt in this house, that was for sure. He had to get out.

The problem was, he couldn't go anywhere; not in London, not right now. And Sirius wasn't about to accompany him to Platform 9¾ this year, rules be damned. Sirius wasn't about to follow him anywhere anymore; where he went, Harry couldn't follow, though he did make and discard a thousand crazy plans. It had tapered off since his talk with Luna before he'd left last term, but it hadn't stopped. He still thought about it. There wasn't much to think about except what ifs, anyway.

Oh, Harry could tell that they all knew how he felt, and they were all sorry, but it only served to drive him mad. He could tell by the worried looks and the hushed whispers just out of his hearing, not that Harry needed or wanted to know what they were saying.

There was no escape at night, either. Harry hated dreams for awhile now. He wished that they lied; he could handle knowing that. What he couldn't handle was not knowing; never knowing for sure, since his major fuck-up last year. He knew that his dreams were his responsibility, that if he didn't control them, they would control him. Easier said than done, naturally.

He saw Snape looking at him with extra venom (or was that satisfaction?) when he'd come by on 'Order business', which only confirmed Harry's conviction that he'd have nothing to do with any of it if he could help it. He'd manage without help in the future, at least as much as he could. He certainly didn't need any help from him; one encounter with gray underpants was more than enough for anyone.

He did wish he could get a grip on the dreams he did have soon. Never to dream again: that would do the trick.

In the dream, Harry would always be falling; it was the same every time. He would fall deeper and deeper into darkness, forgetting the ground still existed beneath his feet, forgetting that he could fly, forgetting the spell that'd saved him during the First Task.

Something was holding him back though, something he couldn't name. Something that had nothing to do with flying or with the shadows moving across the moon. Something important, and he would never remember it when he'd need to, Harry knew that much.

He would be falling backwards with a sense of mute, betrayed horror, the night sky a curtain of glittering black behind him. Not this. Not this.

He saw the moon behind his eyelids, and it burned him. It was silver and huge, the shadows still moving across it, turning into shapes. In the dream, he recognized them with a distant sense of pleasure, though there was nothing there that he could've put a name to.

Sirius was there, in the darkness, waiting for him. Sirius needed him. Harry knew that better than he knew his own name.

He couldn't be afraid. Falling was the most natural thing in the world, next to flying. Falling was flying, for Harry.

Even so, there was fear, all the more intense for its incongruity. He felt like screaming himself deaf with rage, but he was silent. He could almost have been drifting, except he wasn't: he was falling.

There was no pain, except the sheer acid of helplessness. He knew exactly what he should've done, in that moment, and at the same time, he knew it was too late.

When he'd wake up, he'd forget everything but the knowledge that he could've saved Sirius, and he'd failed.

~~

ONE // moonshine.

Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

- Soul Asylum
~~

At his first glimpse of Hogwarts, Harry had to blink a few times. Something was different. It was as if another veil had lifted, though nothing as dramatic as coming back fifth year and seeing thestrals. This was more subtle, more insiduous somehow. This made Hogwarts itself seem... different, except it wasn't.

He wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, but no. He was the one who was different, yet again. The world was the same as it had always been: castle, thestrals, laughing and chattering nervous first-years, Ron and Hermione walking beside him, Luna hurrying to catch up before getting distracted by something and falling behind. The owls streaked and screeched above his head, and he could see Hagrid running to greet them. Ron and Hermione took off to greet him, but Harry hung back.

All of them seemed to be back to the beginning again; everything he saw around him could almost fool him into thinking it was normal, if Harry himself wasn't the furthest thing from it. Everything was the same and nothing would be the same ever again. He had to put on a smile somehow; he didn't want more questions, more well-meaning talks.

Dumbledore had 'The Talk' with him before they left the Dursleys, and Harry smirked to recall it. He wasn't angry at Dumbledore anymore, certainly not the way he was. He didn't really care that he'd been left out of the loop. What he realized is that his own expectations were the problem, not the actions of the adults. They would treat him a certain way until he put a stop to it. It was up to him to prove himself worth listening to.

No, he wasn't angry at Dumbledore. He'd even seen Malfoy dart around suspiciously in Diagon Alley when they'd been out for their annual pilgrimage for supplies, but that didn't make Harry angry either. He did wonder what Malfoy was up to, but all in all it was too much trouble to get too excited about it, whatever it was.

All the same, Harry couldn't even remember the time when he didn't walk around with a churning ball of rage in his stomach. He could barely eat for the bile in him. Too fucking bad, eh?

Life goes on whether or not you want it to. That much, Harry learned by now.

Harry called a D.A. meeting the day after they returned, and everyone had showed up. None of them looked bored, or unsure, or even as frightened as Harry did. They just looked determined to win. It was Zacharias Smith who'd asked him what was the most difficult spell they were going to be learning this year, right off the bat. Was Harry going to make them learn how to resist the Imperius? Was he going to teach them how to cast it?

So this was it: another year to try to inspire everyone to keep believing in every single lie he could think of: it would be all right. They could do it. They were getting better; getting closer; almost there. Harry didn't know where, but he found himself saying it anyway, because now people were listening and they weren't just his two close friends anymore. He couldn't let all of them down.

"We are ready," Smith said, brimming with self-assurance. Maybe he should teach them.

"Yeah!" Neville said, looking at Luna. Ginny beamed. Hermione smiled at Harry fondly. God, what a mess.

The problem was, Harry wasn't. Harry wasn't ready for any of it, and he couldn't stop, because it wasn't a choice for him, not for him. If he thought about it too much, he felt sick to his stomach. Every day was one day closer to the Prophecy. Every day was another step towards the endgame, and whoever wound up dead the next time. Peachy.

"And what if you fail?" Harry said.

Zacharias just stared at him, blinking mutely. "Fail?" he echoed. "How?"

Harry felt a bitter smirk take possession of his mouth. "What if you can't do it? What if this is all for nothing?"

The blond just raised a single eyebrow. "Then at least we would've tried, wouldn't we. Isn't that all we can do?"

Harry thought that was ironic, considering that he had no such luxury. Harry Potter couldn't try. Harry Potter had to win, or die trying.

Hermione leaned over, putting a hand tentatively over Harry's. "What's wrong, Harry?" she whispered against his ear. "Is your scar bothering you...?"

Harry fought the incongruous urge to laugh. "It never stops, Hermione. It just-- never stops."

And now Zacharias was looking at him speculatively, as if he were sizing up just how unhinged Potter had become. Let him figure it out, Harry thought. Maybe then he could tell me.

"You're right," Harry said finally. "That was just a test."

"Oh," Zacharias said, but he didn't look like he believed him. Everyone looked slightly uncomfortable and out of place. Cho studiously avoiding looking at him, which was just fine with Harry. Ginny looked troubled. Hermione was staring at his profile, biting her lower lip, and then she seemed to have come to some sort of decision.

"Harry told me that he wanted to use this first meeting to get your opinions on what we should go over this year. So who has ideas?" she said, smiling like it was the most natural thing. And everyone started talking all at once, almost as if they'd been waiting for just such a cue. As if they didn't need Harry there at all. It made him smile and relax onto his cushion. They were good, and capable, and it was almost possible to believe that they could win. Even though they weren't good enough; they could never be good enough.

~~

Harry never actually thought he'd miss the days when he'd felt helpless and trapped in his ignorance, when he just thought he needed to know, to get out there and make things happen. Maybe he was supposed to have learned his lesson and went on to claim his consolation prize, although Harry didn't know what that was supposed to be. If it was meant to be his life, someone out there ought to start coming up with better incentives.

He'd filched a few of Dudley's fags over the summer, just to see what it was like. It didn't matter if he started something else he wouldn't want to finish, did it. He hated it. It burned his throat and made his vision go dim and forced him to throw up quietly in the dirt by his favorite playground swing to get away from Dudders. If Harry thought one was there to watch him make a fool out of himself it would've made it a little better, but no such luck, of course. They couldn't let the boy hero out without surveillance in these dangerous times.

Not that Mundungus Fletcher had said anything. Not that he could, since the bloke seemed to live and breathe and sleep tobacco, every minute of every day. But Harry didn't go out of his way to shut him up, and so word got around. Harry had heard enough about it to wish he'd started some interesting, fulfilling habit, just so it would have been worth the headache by the time he'd gotten to Grimmauld Place.

Ever since Mrs. Black had figured out Sirius was dead she'd taken every tiny opportunity to rail against them for besmirching her house while she was in mourning and for mocking her son's memory, along with everything else. She'd scream, "He's dead! He's dead! Have you filthy-arsed rotten scoundrels no shame??! My son is dead and you dare set foot in his mother's house?! Killers! Murderers! Rabid mongrels!!" and on and on. The fact that she'd berated her own son when he'd been present with the same venom meant nothing; the venom was the important part.

Harry could almost hear the echo of her screech right before he went to sleep: He's dead! He's dead!

Instead of yelling back at Mrs. Black and letting her have it for being a horrid mother, he'd just punched the wall repeatedly, breaking loose chunks of plaster and old paint only to Reparo it again when it was over. Ron hadn't said anything, of course.

Back at Hogwarts, he was still seething with it. If only he had a target. Something to kick and punch and abuse that wasn't made of solid stone like the walls of Hogwarts. Harry was wide awake for the third night in a row, suddenly incoherent with the need to hurt something when he'd woken up after a brief doze. Especially since the stupid dreams had started at the end of August, what he'd wanted was a target....

Harry punched the pillow, biting down on his sheet in frustration. If this went on, he really would do something he'd regret.

"So what're you looking at, Hermione?" he said the next morning, surprised at his own rather normal tone. He even sounded somewhat bored.

"Nothing, it's just--" Hermione sounded distracted as she switched her attention back and forth between the thick textbook sprawled on her lap, her breakfast, and her two objects of observation.

"Just what?" Harry silently dared her to say something about the circles under his eyes or the fact that he wasn't eating something. If she mentioned Madam Pomfrey, he'd laugh outright.

"It's just strange, don't you think? The way he won't look at us anymore. Do you think he--"

"Oh, him." Malfoy. The git that Hermione had been stealing puzzled glances at in between her other projects. Harry's face twisted into a sour scowl, mouth curling in distaste. "Just don't think about it. Maybe if we pretend he's already dead, he will be. He probably hopes that method works in the other direction, anyway."

"But--" She put her book down and focused on her sausages, spearing one carefully and cutting it into bite-size pieces with the utmost concentration. "I know you're wondering too, Harry. I've seen you been looking. Why do you think I noticed?" she said in a reasonable tone.

Harry choked, speechless, and Ron started pounding on his back without breaking stride with the bacon he was shoveling in his mouth. Apparently, an idea struck in the midst of chewing, because he raised both eyebrows and waved a fork at Hermione, who was seated at Harry's other side.

Naturally, Hermione was scandalized. "Ronald!"

"Oh, can it and wipe up your own ketchup. Here, want some more of this? I don't think I can handle dessert, too, and mum--" Ron babbled, blissfully oblivious as usual. Hermione frowned, having gone back to ignoring him, or possibly just multitasking. "Hermione?"

She looked up at Ron and gave her first genuine smile of the day, though it was rather harried. "It's nothing. My calculations were off, and this affects my whole thesis for the extra-credit Arithmancy essay."

Ron raised both eyebrows at Harry, who couldn't help but chuckle. "I see." Ron grinned. "Well, if that's all.... I suppose the Apocalypse can't be far behind." He ate a whole sausage smugly, making Hermione blanch.

Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione scowled again.

"In any case, do you think-- maybe-- maybe he's under sort of charm? Or a potion?"

"Huh?" Both Harry and Ron chorused.

Hermione flinched a little, then blushed. "I mean Malfoy."

"Since the day he was born, you mean?" Ron slurped his soup loudly, and Harry watched Hermione squirm with the effort not to say anything, because it would only lead to no good.

"What? No! Honestly, Ron! Harry!" Hermione sighed in exasperation. "Since he'd come back this year. Doesn't he seem a bit... well, a bit like Luna, only not? It's just unnatural." She chewed on a fingernail, a sure sign of impending crisis.

"Malfoy?" Ron exclaimed, as if he were talking about a particularly interesting type of slug. "He's always been off, so no wonder. The git is more raving than an inbred chiahuahua if you ask me. Maybe the awful stress of losing his daddy had finally made him crack. And not a moment too soon!"

Harry's left eyebrow twitched.

Hermione just sighed again. "But what if... what if maybe there's a method to his madness," she said slowly, still frowning.

"I seriously doubt the method makes any difference."

"Yeah!" Ron said stoutly. "Any way you slice it, Malfoy is Malfoy. Although...." A lopsided grin emerged. "I bet if you pickled it, it'd be pickled Malfoy. And if you canned it, why, it'd be spotted dick Malfoy...."

Hermione tsked and muttered to herself, drinking tea judiciously while flipping through her book again.

Harry decided he was feeling a little better for some reason.

There really wasn't anything else anyone needed to know, Harry thought stubbornly. Malfoy had picked his side, hadn't he?

Though all the politicking and the whole damn war was kind of useless in a way, if it was all going to come down to him and Voldemort, and nothing else was going to help. They'd all be losing their lives for nothing, including Malfoy. If the only thing that counted was The Boy Who Lived living up to his name, that is, as Dumbledore had said.

His good mood evaporated, as he looked at his friends weighed down by what he couldn't even tell them. He couldn't bear to tell them, to see the looks on their faces, to see the pity and sympathy and horror that he'd felt himself so many times over this past summer, when it felt like self-pity was his best friend for days on end. When he wasn't angry at Dumbledore for keeping the Prophecy and everything else from him anymore, it was all that had been left.

And then there were the nights, the ones where he did fall asleep after all.

~~

In the Slytherin Dungeons, pale green light filtered through the small round opening onto the lake in the sixth year boys' dorm, dappling odd shadows onto a narrow, sweat-streaked face. The bed-curtains had been carelessly left partway open, as if the boy had forgotten to pull the tie before sleep, or had fallen asleep too suddenly.

Draco tossed and turned, biting his lips bloody; he couldn't make too much noise or the other Slytherins would notice, he knew even asleep.

"Wait," the boy would always say in his dream as they watched the stage, his open mouth wet and awful against Draco's ear. "Wait for me." Draco gasped and shuddered, but never responded; he only stared straight ahead at the figure in front of them. "Good, that's good."

He told himself it was just a dream: night after night, Potter bleeding, his body so pale and thin and smeared so liberally with blood, Draco couldn't tell where his wounds began or ended until he touched them.

There was a body lying prone on a grand theatre stage, blood-red curtains pulled shut behind it. Draco sat on one of the chairs arranged in a traditional semi-circle in the first row, and the other man sat behind him, one hand digging into his shoulder as he whispered filthy, dark things into Draco's ear. All the things Draco could imagine doing to that body, he could now do. There were no limits.

When Draco snapped, unable to bear it, he would walk forward, stepping onto the white-washed stage to kneel and press his palms against the body's cooling flesh. He would watch the liquid pool between his fingers. Even his cuticles turned into crimson half-moons before his eyes. He would moan, feeling sick and dizzy, like he was suffocating, like he was the one bleeding from countless cuts.

Harry Potter was dying in his dreams every night now, and Draco just wanted him to stop. "Wait," he'd say, looking into Draco's eyes as if Draco was supposed to understand. As if he was supposed to want to.

"Stop it," Draco would hiss, grinding his teeth and fighting the urge to dig perfectly smooth fingernails into Potter's broken skin.

"I can't," Potter would try to say, though no sound escaped. "Wait here for him," he'd say, and Draco would understand this wasn't Potter, but the pleading tone would still make his mouth tighten, his skin break out in shivers of longing and disgust.

"Why would I do anything you say, Potter? It's not like you'd ever return the favor." He would try to sneer, but his mouth could barely move with the taste of Potter's blood in his mouth, silencing him. Potter (who wasn't Potter) would smile with his cracked, blood-caked mouth, a ghastly mockery of a smile. "You've always waited for him, Draco Malfoy. For me. For both of us. Haven't you, Malfoy?"

"God, I hate you, you fucking-- evil-- bastard," Draco spat, coughing and wanting to spit. "This is sick."

"Yes, hate, yes, hate his sickness" the bodiless whisper would hiss against his ear. "Hate him. You have killed him. He's yours now."

"No," Draco gasped shakily. "No, not-- not mine, I don't-- not like this--"

"Yes! Touch him... just see... look at him... he's weak... he has always been weak. You can destroy him...."

"I-- I don't need your help!"

At that point, there would always be soft, pungent curls of laughter, curling around Draco's own body like a caress, like a snake slipping around his throat, tightening. Feeling like he would never breathe again, the inevitable panic would begin to take control. He couldn't talk anymore by then, could only stare incredulously as Potter's body fell apart and the voice continued to tell him it was his to own and to destroy.

The body that wasn't Potter's would convulse in a fit of liquid coughing, fresh blood trickling out of the corner of the mouth and seeping from its eyes, down the nose. Potter's eyes would always remain clouded with a thin film across them, but Draco told himself he'd never needed to see the eyes to know what lay within: blood and bones. Just like everybody else. Sticks and stones may break his bones, but....

"Hurt me," the voice would whisper, low and throaty, making Draco shudder helplessly. It was much worse that Potter's voice wasn't coming from Potter's body on the floor. "Come on... come on... I know you want to. Just do it. Hurt me, Malfoy."

And of course Draco wanted to. He'd always wanted to. He should just kick him in the ribs as he lay there, it would be so easy. He should hurt him. The bastard more than deserved everything Draco could possibly do to him, because he had hurt him again and again. This was only fair.

Draco would swallow painfully, feeling the seconds tick by as his own blood pounded in his head. The idea of touching this simulacrum of 'Potter' made him sick. He would feel still more dizzy with the hate and sickness and rise only to sway violently on his feet, the taste of blood gathering in his mouth.

"I-- I can't," he'd say, but it sounded hollow. He felt like he was reading from a script, just passing the moments before the dream ended, as it always did, with Potter dying in his arms.

"You can... oh you can, Draco," the other would purr, in his own voice now, sending shivers all down Draco's body. "And you have."

"No...."

"Wait for me." It was a thin whisper burning through the fog, beginning to envelop him. "I have always waited for you, Draco. Always...."

~~

Draco woke up gasping. The ring felt painfully tight around his finger, blazing eerily red in the darkness. It wouldn't be so bad, except most of the time the stone was a dull, flat black color. He wouldn't have been surprised if he began bleeding from his index finger, but he was spared that much. Small mercies aside, lately Draco woke up cold, sweaty, and usually with a pounding headache that felt as if it would split his skull open, though his skin was as smooth and unbroken as Potter's had been riddled with countless seeping cuts.

Draco still saw them if he closed his eyes, ten minutes and a half an hour and two hours later, still saw them the next morning at breakfast, looking across the Great Hall to see Potter with his eyes firmly on his food. Of course he was; naturally he acted as if Draco didn't exist in the daylight hours, though sometimes Granger caught his glance. Whenever his eyes met Potter's, he'd stare right through him. Normally, Draco would be incensed-- how dare he ignore him!-- but he got the feeling Potter was the one who wasn't all there. It was a wonder Potter hadn't walked into walls yet, probably.

All this was fine with Draco. Besides, he wanted Potter to die, he needed to remember that even if the summer's raging certainty had gotten a bit... sidetracked. It would certainly make his life easier; hell, maybe the dreams would stop. He also needed to remember Potter didn't actually visit his dreams.

He needed to remember all that when he stood under the shower in the middle of the night, the water prickling his skin like a thousand tiny needles. In the dungeons, the weight of centuries of stone, secrets and expectations pressed down upon him, adding pressure to the stream of heated water dousing him, making him gasp.

Then he heard it: "I expect great things of you, Draco!"

That snake's voice. The man from his dreams, even though he could not see nor hear anyone there. The voice had been both there and not there, hissing so close to him his small hairs stood up, but it still raised goosebumps all along his body. He felt... watched. Seen.

"No... oh god, no, please, no...," he whimpered as his forehead knocked violently against the tiles and his legs buckled and he slid to his knees. Images from his dream danced behind his eyes-- Potter prone, now naked, blood trickling like water down tiles-- and Draco's eyes rolled back.

Beyond his volition, his hand snaked down to his limp penis, tugging hard. Draco wheezed, his eyes itching and nose running as he grabbed himself, biting hard on his lower lip. It hurt.

He'd barely touched himself the last month. He never felt like it, not anymore. He didn't want this. His whole body shook, his fingers scrabbling towards the faucets. Draco bit down harder on his lower lip, fighting the sudden compulsion as best he could. His mouth opened and closed like a fish and he kept panting heavily, the heavy, sick dizziness settling in his belly just like in his dream, except now it was mixed with pulses of a familiar heat shooting through him against his will.

His mind was blank as he used his fist, the ring on his finger slick and sparking against his skin.

Draco didn't know whom he begged, he just wanted it to stop.

"Yessss. You're doing well. Quite well."

He all but sobbed, pulling at his prick hard enough to chafe, his breath rattling painfully in his chest, his head pounding.

There was the awful sting of shame like a bone lodged in his throat that Draco couldn't swallow past.

Every time he'd wake up from these dreams, there was that sweeping alien sense of desperation, possessing him. He couldn't ignore it if he tried.

"Please," he choked out, and gasped. He came in gut-wrenching spasms against the tile, his stomach clenching for a bit even once he was emptied out.

Afterwards, Draco felt drained, weak and feverish, almost nauseous. He shuddered and tilted his face up even as he turned the water icy cold, gulping down the water that streamed into his mouth. He was suddenly quite thirsty. Then he exhaled and slumped completely, numbly letting the half-freezing spray run down his neck and shoulders in countless rivulets, making his darkened chin-length blond strands stick to his cheeks and forehead in clumps. It was all too much... just... too much.

Draco had no idea since when he'd become so bloody sensitive, and he didn't like it. It had been four months now, and he still was no closer to having a clue as to what the ring was supposed to be.

No one at Hogwarts could know about Draco's little problem, though he assumed the Dark Lord knew and probably approved. Draco wasn't stupid. Even Snape was unlikely to empathize with Draco's being utterly besieged by Potter in new and increasingly horrid ways, now that the war had begun in earnest. Wishing things were different didn't change the facts as Draco knew them. The only thing that mattered anymore was what he did now. He would get Potter, regardless of the stupid ring. Regardless of his father. The stakes were just higher now.

Draco couldn't afford this distraction; their games were over. Now that the Dark Lord was back and his father finally needed him, Draco had to show his strength. It was a test and he knew it, and there was simply no way Draco was going to fail.

Shaking his head, he stepped out of the showers, summoning the towel with a grim set to his mouth. If he put in the effort, the crimson fog in his mind receded, and his head was clear, just as it should be. Draco realized this wasn't even about Potter at this point; this was about him.

He didn't have much time. All the clamoring, merciless desires the ring woke in him, each one more preposterous and impossible than the last: hurt him. Touch him. Own him.

Draco had to do something soon. He was always aware it'd come to this; he'd looked forward to it. But as things progressed, he'd started to wish it would all just... stop. He almost hoped for way out, though of course there couldn't be one.

Not for him.

~~

Harry yawned, resisting the urge to lay his head on his arms. Another night not to remember, and Snape first thing in the morning didn't help matters. Defence Against the Dark Arts, no less.

Much as he didn't relish the idea of Snape teaching his best subject, it was better than someone the Ministry assigned, Harry guessed. At least this meant he'd probably 'improve' in Potions. Slughorn, their new professor, couldn't be as bad as Snape. Could he? Well, there was no one as bad as that. In any case, after Umbridge, his old Potions professor seemed almost like a relief. He really didn't want to know what new and different evil the position was capable of attracting, especially since it was likely to be even worse then Snape.

The biggest fly in the ointment was really Malfoy, as far as Harry was concerned. What the bloody hell was he doing here? Since when did a Slytherin need to defend against the Dark Arts? Come to that, what were Zabini and Nott doing behind him? It jangled, since Harry was so used to seeing Crabbe and Goyle flanking his not-so-favorite Slytherin. The only thing Harry could think of was that they were here either to cause trouble or to show support for their Head of House, and possibly both.

Harry noticed Hermione's odd signs, too, once he paid attention. Malfoy sat almost motionless at the other side of the classroom, writing carefully on his parchment as Snape made another grandiose first-day speech, going on about the glorious dangers of the Dark Arts, etcetera. Harry wasn't attending. Malfoy's face was empty of malice or even much discernable life, but his hand kept moving in practiced smooth motions. Again, Harry had to wonder why Malfoy took Defence Against the Dark Arts; it defied common sense, really. It appeared that Malfoy didn't see him, period, however.

It was true that the school was seemingly on a verge of a wide-spread panic, and only the sense of complete isolation they had was keeping any of them sane. They were all potentially in danger; Harry just didn't expect the Slytherins to think so.

"I hope you're ready to be taught what you will all need to know to stay alive in this war," Snape said in that awful, slithery voice of his. "Because I will expect you to learn it whether you're ready or not. The Dark Lord--" and here a number of students gasped, making Snape sneer.

Harry glared at him, but he felt completely at ease. He would not rise to the bait so easily. Some of the Gryffindors had gasped at their professor's use of a Death Eater's term for Voldemort, while the Slytherins sported small, pleased smiles. They were so ridiculously transparent and harmless, it was too pathetic to bother with.

"-- expects you to fail, to be too weak to meet the Darker powers on their own terms. He thinks you are feeble-minded fools with no true grasp of real power." Snape whirled around, looking straight at Harry. "He thinks your fragile young minds are ripe for the plucking," he said smoothly, mouth curling around the words.

Harry bared his teeth just a little. Snape had to teach him Occlumency again this year, and Harry knew he hated it almost as much as he himself did, but Dumbledore left neither of them any choice in the matter. He suspected that one of the major reasons that Snape had agreed at all was that he would now be teaching it to a personally selected group of students from his Defence Against The Dark Arts class.

"Hopefully, by the end of the year at least some of you will know enough of what you need to survive," Snape went on. "Though frankly, I wouldn't push my luck. Any... questions?" He drew out the last word, as if daring someone to question him. He was getting off on having even more helpless students to terrorize, most likely.

Harry scowled. "I have one, Professor," he called with what he hoped was a half-way innocent expression. And why not? He was innocent.

"Yessss?" Snape hissed, obviously not having wanted to remember Harry was even in the room.

"How is what we're going to be studying going to be more useful against Voldemort than what we'd already covered in the previous five years? Shouldn't we be building on what we've already learned? Everyone here had passed the Defence O.W.L.s, Professor."

"Harry!" Hermione whispered, pocking him in the side with her elbow. Harry just glowered at Snape, daring him to give him as much detention as he wanted. It wasn't like this was Umbridge. This was nothing.

"Mister Potter," Snape drawled. "I suppose you think you know more about this subject than I do, don't you? That you're above the need to have any more of an education in the defending against the Dark Arts than you think you already have? Is that it?"

Harry winced a little. He should've known this would be Snape's reaction. He could see the endless string of detentions stretching until the end of the school year already. "No. I mean, no Sir. That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Snape nearly purred. "I think you should have the opportunity to teach the less-fortunate Hogwarts students what they've missed out on, don't you?" There was a dangerous gleam in Snape's eyes now, and he was advancing towards Harry, his billowing robes sweeping almost majestically behind him.

"I-- really don't think there's any need...." Crap, Harry thought.

"Don't tell me what is and isn't needed in my class, Potter!" Snape hissed, virtually towering over Harry at this point. "Now. I propose something of a test of your abilities. You should like this. You Gryffindors like to press your unfair advantage, don't you?"

Harry began to speak, but Snape cut him off.

"Silence! I see you need to be taught a lesson, but clearly you think you're too good to learn from the likes of me, aren't you, Potter?" Harry started to shake his head, but Snape interrupted once again. "No," he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear perfectly. "I can tell that you need some more... direct experience, shall we say." Snape smiled, showing the bare tops of his yellowed teeth, making Harry wish he'd never spoken more fiercely than ever. "What you seem to require is a challenge, correct? Well, then you shall have one."

Snape turned around and now faced the class at large. "I don't expect any of you to volunteer to find out about Mr. Potter's questionable talents as a teacher first-hand. I'm sure those of you with the inclination to do so have already joined his little... club, shall we say." He sneered, and the Slytherin boys snickered. "But this isn't that. No. Mr. Potter will simply go over the material we cover in class and oversee the homework I will give you for the rest of the semester, making sure you get a satisfactory grade, should you be chosen to be in this group. If anyone fails in this little experiment, so does he, and vice versa."

This time, everyone groaned and looked balefully at Harry, who just tried to shrug and melt into the bench. Even Hermione was giving him the evil eye, which Harry thought was uncalled-for since they studied together anyway.

"So," he continued. "I will pick three students for now." Snape looked around the room languidly, not giving away his thought processes with any change in his expression that Harry could see. Not that Harry had ever had positive experiences with figuring out what was going on behind those beady, black little eyes. "Malfoy!" Snape called out suddenly, making the pale boy jump in his seat, looking traumatized. "Zabini! Nott! It's your lucky day." He grinned nastily.

Harry had to fight hard to resist banging his head into his desk repeatedly. He figured that if Voldemort wouldn't kill him this year, this probably would. How stupid could he be? He should've learned to just not speak to Snape by now, shouldn't he?

Unsurprisingly, Snape was positively chipper, even though it came at the expense of several of his own House's students. Apparently Harry's misery was much more important. "Now," he said briskly. "We will begin with covering all forms of Dark possession: mental, physical and what some might call spiritual. What you all have to realize is this: the greatest weapon the Dark has to use against you is also potentially your greatest strength: your own selves. As long as there are emotional and mental weaknesses within you, Voldemort can and will exploit them to achieve his ends. In a very real way, your own minds are always your greatest enemy, and only when you will have achieved mastery over your thoughts and emotions, as well as actions and any spells you may possibly cast, will you even come close to attaining victory. Am I understood?"

Hermione raised her hand high immediately, though Snape ignored it. Harry just pretended like he wasn't there, closing his eyes and wishing he were somewhere else with as much passionate intensity as he could possibly summon while in full view of the Potions Master. Anywhere else, in fact.

Even nowhere would do.

~~

It began in silence, that night which was just like any other night. It hadn't meant anything. Harry was just very, very tired, and yet not tired enough to fall asleep. Finally, in desperation, he decided another brisk night walk might be the answer this time, and so he slipped out of bed, Invisibility Cloak barely enough to cover him completely these days but still worth its weight in gold.

Harry walked and walked, but felt no more sleepy than before. He made another circle of the grounds, starting to feel rather foolish. If he caught a cold at this point, it would be no surprise. Even with a warming and drying spell on the Cloak and his shoes, he could feel the chill starting to set in his bones.

Whether leaning against a stone wall or sitting down in damp, cold, early October grass, it was too easy to stay awake all the way until early morning, or at least in the space in-between waking and dreaming. That particular night, Harry sprawled against his favorite oak by the lake again, his spread Cloak keeping the ground from chilling him, secure that Filch wasn't going to extend his nighttime excursions quite this far from the castle.

He heard footsteps approaching, but he didn't move for long moments. It might be almost dawn, but Harry was almost there, about to fall into exhausted, dreamless sleep. Come what may, it didn't matter until whoever it was made themselves Harry's problem. Even so, Harry's hand moved instinctively to his pocket, fingers curling tight around his wand.

He sensed someone sat on the other side of the tree, but for some reason, after a minute Harry lightly dozed off. Neither of them had spoken. Another few hours passed and it was morning, though when Harry woke he'd startled, having forgotten he had company. He could almost pretend he didn't know who it was without having to look.

"Morning, Potter," Malfoy drawled from behind him. "Getting a suntan, I presume?" His voice was devoid of curiosity. It was as if they'd spoken civilly every day, and this night had not been remotely extraordinary.

Harry supposed the silence had been too good to last, and consequently, so was the relative peace. He just couldn't be bothered to move or muster up the negligible amount of will needed to hex the little wanker. His coiling energy seemed to have bled out of him at some point, and all that was left in its place was a yawning, endless emptiness and a headache. And, of course, cold, damp toes.

Malfoy had gotten up and was now standing in front of him while Harry still sat, as unmoving as the tree-root pushing up into his arse. He couldn't be bothered to meet Malfoy's eyes, so he stared at the clenched thighs before him. There was some grass stuck to Malfoy's trousers, he noted. Slowly, he raised his eyes, and further noted that the other's arms were crossed and he was resting mostly on one leg, thrust out behind him. Presently, he used the other one to kick softly at Harry's shoe.

Harry growled, wondering if it was worth it to actually touch Malfoy just to break his legs. The idea certainly had merit, but he was still so groggy. He wanted coffee. He needed to get up. They'd miss him if he tarried any longer. Get up, he told himself, but didn't move.

"Don't suppose you'll just shove off if I asked nicely, will you?" Harry paused, drawing out his wand and laying it quietly on his lap. "And I am. Asking nicely. I won't do it twice."

"Yeah, right. Looks to me like you're hiding, Potter. Why would that be?" Malfoy drawled, like he had all the time in the world. They'd probably miss him at breakfast as well.

Harry was silent, thinking he'd just sit another half a minute before he'd get up and go to sleep in his own bed. There was no one to stop him. He was so exhausted.

"Do you want me to start guessing?"

Malfoy had never been particularly bright about knowing when to stop, however.

Harry sighed. "So what now? Going to tell on me, Malfoy? Go ahead. See if I care. Now move, or I'll have to make you."

Predictably, Malfoy ignored the threat entirely. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Besides, everyone already knows you've snapped." Malfoy sneered, which only made Harry's fist clench involuntarily with the sudden urge to wipe that off his face with blood.

When Harry actually took half a moment to think about it, he had the sour feeling that Malfoy wasn't half wrong. Between the new taste he'd acquired last year for Malfoy's pale little face covered in blood and bruises and this year's renewed tendency to have even more messed up dreams, even Harry could see that something was not right here.

Sighing briefly, Harry began to rise to his feet. He'd really had enough of this by now.

"Enough. That's enough. I quit? So long, Malfoy. Can't say it's been fun, but that's just how it goes, isn't it."

"Quit?" Malfoy's voice was strange, almost devoid of inflection. "You can't quit. If I don't get to quit, neither do you, Potterboy."

"Since when have you gotten so chatty? And since when is this a conversation, because I think I'd missed it. I'm telling you to shuffle off before I hex your balls off, got it?" He waved his wand vaguely.

Harry blamed his continued presence here entirely on exhaustion. He felt like a popped balloon after a party that went on too long, and all he could think of was rest, a long glorious rest, and possibly a shower and some of Hermione's first aid pain-relief potions for his head and the aching muscles and joints.

"Since now," Malfoy said quietly. "And if you think you're up to hexing me, try walking in a straight line first, genius. If you have to threaten me, that means you can't just show me. Simple."

"I've got nothing to say to you, Malfoy." Rising fully, Harry finally turned to walk away, but the motion was arrested as he stood quite still, waiting for the sudden nausea to subside. A cold appeared likelier with every passing moment. Shit.

"Then we'll just stay silent, won't we."

Harry kept standing, looking up into the pale sky, almost entirely blue now. It was nippy but not so bad, really. He bent to pick up his Cloak, treating it as a normal piece of clothing since Malfoy was there. The air was almost comfortingly cold, keeping him somewhat focused. The thought of staying here and sleeping the morning away crossed his mind, but in the end, he took a deep breath and exhaled, thoughts of a hot shower and coffee giving him a small burst of energy at last.

"Very well," Harry said tiredly. "Suit yourself."

When he started to walk back towards the castle, Malfoy followed along without a word.

~~

TWO // direction for the lost.

I'm looking for an interruption,
Can you believe?
Some medicine for my headache
Hooray, hooray, hip hip hooray
I'm pitching for a new direction
Pinch me when I wake
Don't tell me my dreams are fake
You leave me to lay, you touch me deep,
I don't sleep, I dream

- REM
~~

Draco didn't know what was going on anymore. It didn't make sense, any of it. Not anymore.

Days and weeks had passed since that night by the tree, when something had drawn Draco to the lakeside. He'd woke up hard after another nightmare, eyes snapping open while he lay still, staring at the tiny window onto the lake in front of him. These days, Draco didn't close the curtains very much, unwilling to sleep in the dark. Goyle's snores were almost welcome, somehow.

That night, the greenish light from the lake seemed especially mesmerizing. Draco got up and got dressed silently, in a sort of trance. Later, he didn't recall what he'd been thinking at all.

He knew he'd found the place he was meant to go once he reached the tree, so he wrapped his cloak right around him and fell asleep, suddenly exhausted. He'd been rather shocked to find himself having sleepwalked all the way out of the castle and Potter in the same predicament, more or less.

He'd stared at Potter's sleeping face, pretty much speechless. Potter was pale to the point of being grey, and yet looked peaky and unwell at the same time. He was too miserable to resent, or close enough. He supposed he should have hexed him while he'd been defenseless just on principle, but he couldn't muster the proper mind-set so soon after having woken up. Plus, he'd been bloody chilled as fuck. His poor, poor damp toes.

"Bloody Potter," he muttered, sitting next to the dozing Gryffindor for no apparent reason. This morning he'd woken up in the relative warmth and comfort of Trelawney's classroom, one of the few that was unfailingly unlocked when not in use. It was not as widely known as the Astronomy Tower, but not as difficult to get to as the Room of Requirement, which meant that the only reason Slytherins avoided it was pure disdain for Professor Trelawney. And Filch, of course.

Draco sighed. At least it was Saturday morning.

Somehow they found each other naturally every night, without ever making appointments or keeping to the same place for more than a few nights. As the weather had gotten worse, Potter had started turning up in places like the greenhouse, the carriage stables, the Gryffindor changing rooms and on one memorable occasion, the Owlery. If he ever ended up in the Astronomy Tower, Draco would know it was time to take drastic measures.

"Potter," Draco hissed. When Potter didn't move, he kicked his shin, and Potter groaned. It was all good for Potter and his Invisibility Cloak (oh yes, as if Draco didn't know), but some people had to look out for themselves by their own wits and cunning.

After a moment, it struck Draco that he was actually trying to wake up Potter to let him know it was morning and they might be discovered. He almost smacked himself. Without further ado, he hurried down the old tower stairs. Let Potter fend for himself.

Pansy gave him a knowing look when he arrived, rumpled and late, to breakfast, and Draco bristled. He had to take his time and have a hot shower and a good clean-up, even if it meant cutting his breakfast short. He may be a sleepwalking loon these days, but he wasn't a barbarian.

"Don't ask," he said heavily. "Please."

She giggled, and he glared at her.

"Sleep well?" she said sweetly.

"I told you!" he snapped, snatching a scone and buttering it with a vengeance. "Don't ask!"

"Aww," she said, patting his hand. Draco twitched. "Poor Draco. You look awful, darling."

He looked at her sidelong, scowling. "Thanks."

"If I don't tell you, who will?"

"You bloody well live for this, don't you?" he said sourly.

She beamed at him, then kissed his cheek with pure theatrical flair. She laid it on thick sometimes, but Draco still felt a bit better. "You need a keeper. I've always told you."

"Are you volunteering?"

She laughed brightly, covering her mouth with one hand. "Why don't you ask whoever you've been spending your nights with?" she tittered, batting her eyelashes. "I'm sure they'd jump at the opportunity."

Draco glared at her as viciously as he could while stuffing what was left of the tea and biscuits down his throat.

"Traitorous wench," he muttered. "Who was it petting my head in full sight of everyone on the train only months ago?"

She smirked at him. "If you want it, you'll have to come and get it."

Draco closed his eyes. "This is not going to be my day. I can tell already."

"Aww, poor baby," Pansy simpered, and snatched a glazed strawberry from Draco's fruit tart. "Those are bad for you anyway, you know."

Some part of him wanted to sniff and say, 'That's right. You ought to feel sorry for me, dammit. I'm cold and cramped and bloody well homing in on Potter like a crazed homing pigeon! It's enough to drive anyone around the bend, I'd say!'

Of course, he couldn't say that. He sighed again. At least the tea was good and hot this morning.

"I'll get you back for that when you least expect it, you realize."

"Of course."

Back to what passed for normal, he supposed, though normally he'd be getting his supply of sweets from his mum. His mum was distracted lately, however. Apparently, she slept a lot, these days, thanks to Snape's helpful potions and the instructions to the house-elves. He felt alone whenever he wasn't with Pansy; Crabbe and Goyle didn't help. Potter was purely a complication, something he couldn't share even with Pansy.

The important thing was Potter remained-- would always remain-- the enemy. Then and now. Especially now that neither of them dared look at each other openly during the day so as to avoid unfortunate associations. Even so, Draco could feel Potter's gaze upon him as he resolutely drank his tea, and couldn't stop the furious blush before he set the cup down with a clatter and left the Hall without a word.

This had to stop, he thought, his fists clenched.

The ring got tighter, hotter around his finger, and the tears prickled at the backs of his eyes. Whatever it took. He'd take Dreamless Sleep potion as he should have long ago, and Snape could take his questions and shove them. With that resolution, Draco's heart lightened at last.

~~

The first 'study' session for Defence Against the Dark Arts happened that Saturday night, since most students had gone off to Hogsmeade and most wouldn't be in the library at 7 o'clock to witness their strange meeting.

Harry thought it had been both unnervingly normal-seeming and surreal so far. They'd gathered up the materials, divided up their readings, and had been browsing various tomes on Dark magic almost companionably for more than an hour now. If not for Malfoy avoiding his gaze and Nott smirking incessantly, they could have been any study group out of the many that used the same space for these purposes. It was almost... dull.

"Let's just get this over with," Harry said. "Snape wants a report on resisting the Imperius Curse since I can do it, but I doubt he wants anything not in the books, so...."

Suddenly, Malfoy's eyes snapped up and he sneered. "If that's what you think, then you don't know Professor Snape at all, Potter."

"Oh yeah?"

"He'd probably take points off if you don't prove you understand the material independently."

"You've got to be kidding me." Harry rolled his eyes. "He'd take points off no matter what we do. That's pretty much the point, isn't it? We've already covered this in fourth year, and Snape isn't actually going over the subject in class. It's pretty obvious this is supposed to make me refuse to do it and give Snape an excuse to throw me out."

Zabini raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That may very well be true for you, Potter, but our own Head of House isn't about to treat us like that. We hadn't taken Defence before, after all. I'd say the best way to make the best of this situation would be to illustrate your ability for our benefit. Say, I could cast the Imperius right here and you could... resist. How about it?" He grinned, showing large white teeth.

"I'll act as second and make sure he doesn't do anything too dreadful to you," Nott added, suddenly seeming intrigued. "It's all for the good of wizardkind, Potter, should be right up your alley."

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy didn't offer any argument, but neither did he seem excited to have Harry be the experimental subject. They could theoretically ask some pretty incriminating questions about what Harry had been up to lately, after all, and Malfoy was the one with more to lose there.

After a moment's further consideration, Harry smirked and leaned back in his chair. "All right."

It was satisfying to see Zabini's eyes widen like that. Nott actually sat up a little straighter in his chair, looking less asleep. Malfoy, quite satisfyingly, went even more pale than usual.

"I'm game. Why not? I actually can throw it off, you know. The fake Mad-Eye Moody made us all practice so much, I could probably do it in my sleep." He grinned at the transparently dubious looks on their faces. "Though I have to say, observing it wouldn't do you much good if you want to figure out how to resist it yourself. I'd have to do it to you right back."

Apparently, Nott was the most cerebral between the four of them, so he asked: "Well, go on. Enlighten us. How do you do it?"

Harry raised both eyebrows. "I never said I really knew how I did it, have I." He shook his head. "Nevermind. The truth is, being under Imperius feels really good. It may seem weird, but there's something about letting go of all need to make decisions and responsibilities that feels like a relief. Basically, all you've really got to fight is your own unconscious desire to do as someone asks you to. Simple." Harry smirked. "At least for me it is, since I pretty much never want to do what anyone asks, certainly anyone who'd be casting an Unforgivable on me in the first place."

Nott had his head cocked, a considering look on his ratty face. "Hmm. Interesting." He tapped a quill against the topmost Dark Arts book in his pile. "I've had a theory for awhile now, about how one's areas of magical strength reflect one's personality. If you're freakishly good or pure bollocks at some particular skill, chances are it translates into some similar enough behavior, like being a bull-headed Gryffindor about things in Potter's case. This definitely serves as proof there."

Zabini rolled his eyes. "When do I get to Imperio someone? I'm getting hungry."

Malfoy just sneered.

Harry made a little gesture with one hand. "Go ahead. I'm ready anytime."

Zabini whipped out his wand with relish, and Harry noticed Malfoy's suppressed flinch. He didn't give so much as a twitch of his face to betray him, but he was a little nervous. While he was almost certain, there was a part of him that wondered whether Zabini knew something he didn't. Ridiculous, of course, and yet....

"Imperio!"

Harry sighed, and distantly wondered if this blissful, peaceful floaty feeling had been why he'd agreed to this. Nothing mattered very much anymore, but not in the bad, depressing way. It was more like the feeling you'd get after having already done some huge, painfully onerous task, and being entitled to a long, well-deserved rest. No need to stir, it would all be done for you. Harry hadn't realized how much he'd wanted precisely this feeling to come for so very long.

He gazed at Malfoy, all bad feeling washed away. It was probably only seconds, but Malfoy blushed so prettily under his gaze that Harry kept on looking. There was no reason not to, even if there was no reason to continue except that he'd started. Now that he was properly relaxed, he was in the right state of mind to notice how Malfoy's eyes were really wide and grey, like Scottish rain-clouds. Rain would be nice, he thought. Too bad it was November, and nearly cold enough to snow.

And then he heard, rather distantly: 'Stand up... undress....'

He ignored it entirely for a bit, but the voice was insistent. Pity, because Harry could feel himself regaining consciousness by the second, as he became aware he didn't want to strip in the library, after all. Not in front of Malfoy. Definitely not. No.

'Come on....' the voice both cajoled and commanded. 'Strip for us... let us see you bare arse to the wind... wouldn't that be fun?'

No. Malfoy would see!

'Strip!'

No! Harry gritted his teeth, fingers digging into his palms so hard they drew blood, shuddering with the itch to take his clothes off. A part of him was oddly certain he wanted to see Malfoy's reaction, but the rest of him was shriveled in horror. Thankfully, that bigger part included his cock, which was twitching but offline.

With a grunt, Harry returned to himself, and blinked to see himself holding his crotch in what was probably a defensive move. He blushed furiously, unable to help it.

"Well," Nott drawled. "That was definitely educational, wouldn't you say?"

Malfoy coughed. Zabini looked bored now. Harry sighed. This was going to be a long bloody homework assignment after all.

~~

Ron gave Harry commiserating looks these days, as if Harry's little study-group meant undergoing worse torture than serving detention with Umbridge the year before, but Harry just couldn't summon up the indignation Ron would've wanted. He had bigger problems. Aside from Malfoy unerringly finding him every time Harry went on one of his 'walks' in the Invisibility Cloak, more worrying was the fact that Harry did not even try to stop it. Yet that also paled in comparison to the Occlumency lessons he was due to resume now that the school year was in full swing.

Whenever Ron asked him about what was going on at the study-group meetings, Harry grunted and smiled evasively and tried to change the subject. It wasn't that difficult, especially now that he and Ron had Quidditch practice together to talk about. Ron flew much better this year; probably the effect of competing partly against his own little sister, but partly some sort of mad determination to have fun at any cost this year. Harry thought it was a good plan, but held on to his small stash of the Felix Felicis potion, which was probably the only thing to come out of any Potions class he'd ever appreciated.

Harry just couldn't help being excited about Quidditch, even with everything else on his mind, or perhaps because of everything. There was a simplicity to flying, a unity of purpose, an escape from everything and anything that clamored for attention in his mind.

Besides, it seemed like a nice honest win against Slytherin was just the thing, somehow. The look on Malfoy's face was always priceless when he lost. Nothing would change that much. And there was absolutely nothing that compared to the feeling of the Snitch fluttering desperately in his fist. He wanted to fly so badly he could taste it, and being Captain wasn't so bad either.

Later, he could relive the memory of that golden match with Slytherin in vivid detail: the slow motion final seconds before he'd nudged Malfoy's hand out of the way, feeling the tiniest whisper of the wind against his skin as his fingers grasped the Snitch in victory. They'd stared each other, Harry's fist around the Snitch and Malfoy's fist around his, gazes locked for a moment until Malfoy sneered and whirled around into a dive.

He'd stared after him for frozen moments, until the roar of the crowd and Luna's commentary ("It appears Gryffindor has won again, though their Seeker doesn't seem quite sure, so perhaps they haven't") jolted him out of it. He went into a dive only to break midair next to Ron, beaming at him from across the short distance between their brooms. Suddenly, something had snapped in Harry's chest, and he yelled something incoherent, grasping Ron's fist with his own, lifting the Snitch high in his other hand. The crowd liked that.

"It appears Gryffindor's Seeker calls this one a win," Luna noted over the speakers. "That's a relief."

Harry laughed out loud.

When he landed, Hermione ran up and thwapped Ron on the head for no apparent reason, after which she tackled-hugged him (inspiring a rather panicked 'help! help!' look from Ron, though Harry only shrugged, grinning) and then Harry as well.

Some part of him felt certain this was the last time they'd have a day like this, but he gagged it. Harry let out a little 'oomph' of surprise as Ginny Weasley rushed into to the fray to hug him too.

"Good one, Harry!" She pulled away to arm's length, her eyes crinkling at him.

Harry grinned back. Ginny was quite fit these days, wasn't she? He shook his head. Why had he never noticed? Well, no matter.

He smirked at her, then nodded at Ron. "Thank your brother. If he hadn't done such a good job meanwhile, it would've been over before it began."

Ron flushed and glared at Harry, which was the idea. Ginny snorted and walked companionably back towards the Gryffindor changing rooms with him and Ron, though of course she was bound for the girls'. It was almost like she was a different person, somehow, but Harry wasn't about to protest this new Ginny. Not when he could walk behind her, he thought to himself with a chuckle, though a second later he was horrified at himself. Ron's sister! Ewww! Only last year he was half thinking she was going to be a burden he'd have to look after if she tagged along to the Ministry. Right now, he wouldn't half mind looking after her, but suspected she'd laugh in his face if he tried.

Yeah, there was no denying she wasn't the same sister she'd been at twelve, though.

For some reason, Harry felt he was living on borrowed time right then, which turned out to be true. On the very night of their victory, naturally Snape summoned Harry for his first Occlumency lesson of the year, so Harry wound up parting from his friends on their way back to the Common Room for a detour to the dungeons.

"Wonderful," Harry muttered to himself. "Just bloody wonderful."

He was barely about to announce his presence at Snape's door when he heard a familiar drawl: "Waiting for the sunrise, Mr. Potter? Or Mr. Filch to save you instead?"

Harry stormed through the door, about to tell Snape what he thought of this whole idea, Dumbledore or no Dumbledore, but he was brought up short by the sight of Malfoy sitting comfortably in the only chair besides Snape's in what passed for his 'office'. He opened and closed his mouth, speechless.

"Ah. I see I finally found something that works to shut your impudent mouth, Potter. Perhaps there is hope after all."

Malfoy sniggered. Harry seethed.

"Why is he here?" Harry burst out. "This is a secret!"

Of course, Snape didn't twitch a muscle. "I do realize that, Potter. However much I may regret it, I have accepted the responsibility for teaching you Occlumency As I see fit. And I assure you, if you have a problem with my teaching methods, you may take it up with the Headmaster and stop wasting my time right now. Are we clear?"

Harry bit down on his lip in his effort not to snarl. He knew there was some sort of twisted logic to this on Snape's part, but at the moment, he didn't want to know. He simply did not. Want. To know.

"Well? Are you struck dumb as well as mute or are you trying to test my patience?"

Harry clenched his fist, and made himself speak normally. "Malfoy-- he--" Harry stopped, suddenly unsure what he wanted to say. Malfoy was staring at him oddly, and for once Harry couldn't read him at all. No way was he letting Malfoy into his mind in any capacity or for any purpose, and it shocked Harry a bit to realize he felt more strongly about this than about keeping Snape out. In the end, there was only so much shit Harry was willing to take from Snape, he decided. What's more, he certainly didn't want any revelations about Malfoy of the sort he'd had about Snape last year.

"I'll speak with Dumbledore," he said stiffly, and Snape actually smiled. It wasn't an expression Harry was in any hurry to see on his face again.

"Be my guest. See that the door doesn't hit you on your way out, Potter. Dismissed."

Harry stalked out with as much dignity as he could, feeling distinctly played but unable to pinpoint the moment he'd done something he didn't mean to.

Bloody Slytherins. Surely Dumbledore didn't mean for him to go forward with this. After last year, Harry wasn't so sure he'd put much below Dumbledore if it suited him, he thought grimly. He'd never before second-guessed his immediate impulse to go to Dumbledore, but as he stood before the entrance to his office, he told himself he didn't know the current password and this could wait until he found out.

Just because he wasn't angry at Dumbledore anymore didn't mean Harry wanted to talk to him any more than he absolutely had to. Possibly even if he did. If Dumbledore wanted something, he'd doubtless make sure Harry knew it.

The thought of going back to Gryffindor Tower, with all its merrymakers and proud happy looks and butterbeer made Harry slightly ill all of a sudden. The thought of Ginny smiling at him again was more than he could stomach as well, for some reason.

What he needed was a walk. A nice long walk.

~~

It was after midnight, and his toes were cold. Again.

Harry didn't want to wonder what kept bringing him back here, to the first place he and Malfoy bumped into each other. It had only been last month, though somehow it seemed much longer. Now it was well into November, and only the various charms (including the Impervius, which he was usually pants at) kept him remotely comfortable. Still, he was no closer to either peace or calm, let alone dreamless sleep, so even he had to wonder what the hell he was doing. And Harry was generally pretty good at ignoring inconvenient questions, so this was especially irritating.

He was not looking up at the night sky with sticky, half-open eyes, waiting for those footsteps again.

After that little encounter in the dungeons, what was he thinking? Just because it was dark now didn't mean the rules changed. It didn't change the truth. This was stupid. He wasn't thinking. It was just... odd that Malfoy wasn't here yet. A relief. It was a relief.

Resolutely, he pretended he was alone in all the world and he didn't have to think of anything at all. It was easier to forget that he was waiting, that way.

Usually, when Malfoy came, he wouldn't bother with a greeting or any acknowledgement whatsoever; he'd sit quietly at the side opposite Harry, as far away as he could comfortably get, stretching out his legs. Most of the time, he was out of Harry's line of sight, but he knew Malfoy was there. Even if he arrived after Harry dozed off, he knew. Half the time, he wouldn't even quite wake at the new arrival, but Harry hadn't been surprised since that first time.

More often, perhaps, Harry's heart would start beating stronger, more erratically, and he'd feel a dozen times more awake all at once, though he took care to breathe as if he was asleep. He didn't want to spook it. He had the somewhat superstitious belief that if he opened his eyes, or worse yet said anything, it would turn out that Malfoy hadn't really been there, and Harry would open his eyes in his dorm room. Maybe this had all been one long, elaborately fucked-up dream.

Harry knew it wasn't, though. His dreams had been a lot more sinister for quite awhile now. Still, even thinking about it too much meant he might have to do something.

He may not have to, of course, if Malfoy never showed up. Besides, it was getting too cold for this now, and it was a sheer miracle he got away with being gone a couple mornings every now and then; at least Harry didn't go on his 'walks' nightly. That would be impossible to cover up. Most of the time he made it back before people woke, but that was taking its toll.

Bottom line, Harry knew that time was running out.

All things considered, then, Harry was pretty startled to hear Malfoy's voice sometime after two in the morning. It sounded hoarse with disuse or cold; probably the latter. It was both too close and too distant.

"Potter."

Harry jerked as if it was an electric shock, but stubbornly kept his eyes closed and hoped Malfoy would go away. Or stay quietly. It didn't matter, honestly.

"Potter. This can't go on."

Harry sighed. "Yes."

"We have to talk."

"Now?!"

"I don't mean... I just mean, it's cold, if you haven't noticed. I'm freezing my arse off already even with the warming spell. What happened to Trelawney's classroom?" There was a shuffling noise. "Nevermind that. I came to say I won't be returning. I've got a Potion from Snape, so I'll sleep like a baby, you know. This had really been an insane--"

"So go the fuck away, Malfoy. What's keeping you?" Harry popped his eyes open on a glare. He paused to blow on his numbed fingers. "The way back's thataway." He pointed, raising an eyebrow. "Don't get lost."

"Nothing's keeping me. That's the point." Did Malfoy sound... miffed? "Just a warning."

"Oh, well then, thank you very much for that brilliant piece of information, Malfoy. What would I do without you to guide my daily steps? Oh wait, I'd be happy as a clam."

"You're really an idiot," Malfoy told him softly. "And you don't know anything. That's always been your problem. You think you know, but you don't have a bloody clue what you're messing with. I bet you haven't even thought to wonder how is it I knew where to find you night after bloody night."

That wasn't true; Harry did wonder. He just thought he was better off not knowing for once. It was bound to lead to something like... well, this. Only worse, probably. He clenched his fists.

"So now I'm stupid; so says the prince of hot air and pointless posturing. Go back to your real friends. If you still have any, that is." Harry's voice was even. Insulting Malfoy and vice versa was really nothing. Which was to say, it made him feel nothing at all anymore, and there was something almost calming about that.

"I just-- forget it. I should've known better than to try talking seriously to the likes of you." Malfoy sneered, jerking his chin up. "As for me, I hope you freeze to death." Back to his old self, Harry noted. Well, that was fast.

"Right back at you!" Harry called after him, feeling about as stupid as Malfoy claimed for a minute. "And if you think I should know something, then go ahead and tell me!" Harry panted. "Idiot! I'll find out, whatever it is!"

Well, Malfoy probably didn't hear that last part. Probably. Hopefully.

Harry felt like an idiot, true enough.

What were the chances Malfoy had really wanted to talk, anyway? Slim to none. Didn't bear thinking of.

Scowling, Harry got up and brushed his trousers off, picking up his Cloak and the stupidly large charmed pillow he'd stupidly brought (he was not to share) and setting off towards the tall dark shape of the Gryffindor Tower.

~~

THREE // side by side in orbit

Don't save me
Don't lose me
Don't wake me now
You left me
You release me
Let me drown
Take me down

- October Project
~~

Hermione was concerned. Of course, Hermione was always 'concerned' about one thing or another, apparently, but she didn't know Malfoy like Harry did.

"You're the one who said there's something off about him!" Harry glowered at all his extra Defence homework; he had almost as much as Hermione these days, and that was just wrong. Wrong.

Ron was out practicing and being all confident and peppy and Cheerio, mate, while Harry was stuck in the Common Room, under Hermione's eagle eye. Harry's life had never been fair, but this was cruel and unusual punishment, Harry felt. Or, he did until he remembered last year, and Umbridge, and Sirius, and everything else, and then he just felt worse.

Hermione winced a little. "When I said that, I didn't mean you should go off and follow him around to figure out what was going on! Honestly!"

Harry glared at her. "I never should have told you. I thought you'd understand that I need to know."

"Harry...." She put a hand on Harry's own and looked at him meaningfully.

"What," he snapped.

"What's really going on?" she asked gently, and it was Harry's turn to wince.

It wasn't like he could really tell her he'd been sneaking out to sleep with Malfoy for no apparent reason except his room and Ron's snores and the familiar surroundings were stifling to the point of being suffocating, and he needed to walk it off so he could sleep without dreaming of Sirius. And then Malfoy stopped, and that felt wrong. It was wrong, and Harry couldn't get a decent night's sleep anymore since he dreamt of Malfoy whenever he wasn't having the Sirius dream again. Right? There were limits to what Hermione could be expected to accept, and he'd already reached them just with following Malfoy around a bit.

"I'm not a stalker," Harry said finally. "If anything, he was the one...." Harry trailed off.

Hermione blinked. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "I never said you were, Harry," she said slowly, as if talking to a dangerously unstable person. Great. Just what he needed.

"You don't get it, do you," he muttered.

"Oh, honestly! If you would explain, I could understand! What do you hope to accomplish this way? Dumbledore has even called me to express his concerns, and.... He wonders why you've been avoiding him, Harry."

Harry gaped. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was." She smiled slightly. "Being a go-between between you and Dumbledore isn't a lot of fun for me either, you know."

"I suppose I should be grateful he didn't call Malfoy himself to 'express his concerns'." Harry stabbed his quill till it penetrated the parchment entirely, leaving a healthy splotch in the middle of 'potion'. Even though this was Defence Against the Dark Arts, somehow he was still writing about potions. It figured.

"Harry... what is this really about? You can tell me."

It wasn't like Harry didn't want to; it's just that he didn't know, exactly. He probably shouldn't have told her about his suspicions about Malfoy if he couldn't back them up. Even though she'd done basically the same thing not so long ago.

"He's hiding something," he said finally.

"Okay. How do you know?"

He wanted to talk to me about something! But he didn't! And now he's avoiding me! "Um." Too childish. Not like we're friends or anything. And it's not like I'd expect him to talk to me. Too crazy. "Didn't you see, while we were at Diagon Alley? He ducked into Nocturne Alley alone, and his mum was nowhere in sight. And he'd made threats at the end of last year, too. This is his chance, you know. Plus, I can tell just looking at him. He's been rattier than usual; he's up to something," Harry said stubbornly, feeling a bit foolish but persevering. "According to the Map, he spends lots of time with Snape and in the Room of Requirement. There's other stuff, too."

"Why are you bringing up the Diagon Alley incident now, though? Besides, you don't actually think Malfoy is a threat, do you? And Snape is the Head of his House, remember?"

"Well, I've been thinking about it! And he's still acting suspicious, okay? I'll prove it to you, trust me."

Hermione gave him a Look. "You know it's not because I don't trust you, Harry...."

"Yeah, you just think I've been into Snape's super-special potions stash or something."

"Oh! That reminds me! How are the Occlumency lessons going?"

"They're not," Harry said shortly.

"Oh Harry. This isn't related to the Malfoy thing somehow, is it?"

How did she always know? Not that it was, really. "It's not!" he said, a trifle too loudly. "He doesn't really want to teach me anymore than I want him to. It all works out in the end, I think, actually."

"Isn't this about what you need rather than what either of you might prefer, Harry? You need to develop the skills he can provide, or you won't stop being vulnerable to Voldemort, you know that as well as I do."

"Yeah." He stared at his book until the words started to blur in front of him.

"Well." Hermione huffed and took up her quill, ever practical. "We'll talk about this more after we're finished."

It was one of the few times in his Hogwarts career Harry could recall being grateful he'd stayed up doing homework until well past midnight.

~~

Harry was falling, falling, falling. The sense of vertigo persisted though it was a dream, and he couldn't possibly be falling at all.

He stood at the edge of the Hogwarts Lake, watching the moon, swollen full and silver, calling to him. He wasn't really there, he knew that. He was an intruder, a stalker. He shouldn't be seeing this, he realized, but he couldn't stop looking.

It was Malfoy, standing not far from their oak tree-- or what Harry now thought of as their tree. He stood at the lakeshore, naked, facing the lake. His bare back shone in the moonlight, his skinny legs trembling with cold. Even so, he kept standing there, shivering, just like Harry couldn't help watching.

Harry wanted to talk to him, to walk up and offer him a cloak to get him warm, but he couldn't move. He couldn't do a thing. Malfoy was beyond him, somehow, a silvery creature of the water and the moolight. Besides, he had the certainty of dreams that Malfoy wasn't in the state to hear anything right now; he knew Malfoy wouldn't be able to explain how he got here either. They couldn't do anything about this, either of them.

Malfoy walked a step forward, then stopped. The Malfoy Harry knew would have run away from the cold and the dark by now. Of course, the Malfoy Harry knew would never have gone swimming in the squid-infested lake in late November. Then again, Harry knew this was a dream, so all bets were off.

"Draco!" he called, and Malfoy turned around after all.

Their eyes locked, and Harry forgot what he thought he might say.

"I'm drowning," Malfoy said simply. "Help me."

Harry looked at the icy water lapping at Malfoy's bare toes dubiously. "You belong here. Where you are."

"Is that what you really think?"

"Isn't that what you want me to think?"

There was a pause. "Yes. But you'll try to help anyway, won't you? Even though I don't want you to?"

"And why should I?"

Dream Draco might be pale, sad and weary, but he was still more thorn than rose. He rolled his eyes. "You're nothing if not predictable, Potter."

"You sure know how to butter up a bloke when you want their help, Malfoy."

"That's why people invented gratuitous nudity." He smirked, looking over his own shoulder. "I know you looked."

That's when Harry woke up, choking on his own spit. He shuddered, and lay rigidly awake for a few minutes before giving up on sleep and making his way to the showers. He could see Malfoy's pale arse when he closed his eyes, which was just. Not. On.

After a moment's consideration, Harry decided what he needed was a cold shower to wake him up.

~~

At some point, a man had to draw a line, even if it was a line in the sand. So Harry sent a Malfoy an Owl. It was quite simple and to the point:

Malfoy,

We need to talk. Alone.

Tonight. Ten o'clock at the Astronomy Tower.

- HJP

He was quite proud of himself. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was confident to the point of being blase, which was exactly what Malfoy ought to think.

Still, that was after a dozen drafts which involved things like Malfoy bringing his arse down, or Malfoy showing up or else, or Harry claiming he knew what he did in the Room of Requirement. Seeing Malfoy's goons Polyjuiced into little girls to stand watch had been the last straw. Even Hermione was aghast when he told her (even if it dissolved into a fit of giggles soon thereafter).

As long as they didn't magically fall asleep together this time (and Harry was on guard), he figured this should go according to plan.

Later on, he would regret thinking of it in quite those terms. He didn't have the best track record with plans, exactly.

~~

Draco was not having a good morning. The Dreamless Sleep potion left him groggy and disoriented, barely fighting off a pounding headache by the skin of his teeth. His mum had always said Draco was especially sensitive to strong medicines. Besides, the possible side-effects was why it was often so cautiously prescribed; though Snape had relented under pressure, he'd been highly reluctant to provide any. Draco had to go so far as to mention his 'stress' and his mum. It was beyond galling to speak of private matters with Snape, whose eyes always glittered guardedly, making one feel a fool for any emotional display.

When Pansy bid him good morning, it was all he could do not to snarl at her. He grunted something unintelligible enough for Goyle, but she only looked concerned. He sighed to himself.

He had almost convinced himself it could be worse when he got an owl from Potter in plain sight of all his Housemates. He felt himself pale, but clenched his teeth against showing his rage; he'd never been that great at repressing strong emotions, and especially not with a now (full-fledged) headache that felt like a hang-over, but somehow he managed.

Suddenly, he remembered that this was going to be the year he made Potter pay. He crumpled up the owl without reading it, flushing from head to toe with rage.

Just because he'd been distracted by other matters didn't mean Potter would be allowed to think this was acceptable! If he'd sent his own owl... Draco shuddered. It didn't bear thinking of.

"What was that?" Pansy asked, clearly unable to bear it.

Draco sipped his coffee as slowly as he could, but clearly that wasn't fooling the next Rita Skeeter among them. It was always merely a matter of time before he snapped. At last, Draco smirked. "A secret admirer."

Pansy's eyes were round, shiny saucers of barely-banked glee. And to think this was the girl he'd went out with for the last two years. She was so... cute sometimes. It was really a shame they were friends. Draco had so few real friends, in the end, sleeping with them just felt weird, though technically he and Pansy were still together. It sucked, too, because Pansy gave mind-blowing massages. He could sure use one of those right now.

"Do tell," she cooed, sidling closer to him.

Uh-oh, Draco thought. Bad move.

"I'm especially curious how you can tell, since that was one of the school's owls, and you didn't even open it."

"He's been sending me these messages for a w--" Crap.

Pansy's eyebrows shot up nearly all the way to her hairline. "He?" She tittered. "Are you branching out, darling?"

He glared at her seriously now, but Pansy Parkinson was, as always, unrepentant.

She pursed her mouth. "Don't be so narrow-minded, dear. It would be good for you, I think."

Draco choked, spluttering coffee everywhere. "W-what?"

Pansy shook her head and mopped up Draco's chin with her own napkin before he could bat her away. Zabini was giving him a look, and Goyle-- the idiot-- was smiling widely around his muffin. Everyone thought they were just oh-so-adorable, and Draco kicked Pansy's ankle in retaliation. Pansy stuffed the cloth napkin into his mouth in one punchy move, gagging him.

"That's better," she said sweetly.

Draco spat out the linen, coughing as everyone on his side of the table laughed at his expense. God, he didn't dare look over at the Gryffindor table to see if they'd noticed; normally, they would all know better than to act out of character in public, but he supposed matters had grown rather glum for Slytherins in Hogwarts lately and they all needed a bit of relief.

"I'll get you for this," he muttered darkly.

"Of course you will." Pansy patted his hand agreeably.

It was continuously disturbing to Draco that life went on much as normal even though Potter shot him meaningful glances these days and there was a Dark ring pretty much burning a hole through his finger. Oh, and instead of dreaming of Potter naked and bloody, he'd taken to dreaming of himself naked in the moonlight white Potter got to watch.

One of these days Draco was going to start laughing maniacally, he knew, and nothing and no one would be able to get him to stop. Something had to give under pressure here, true enough, but he would be damned if that would be him.

Finally, eyeing the remnants of Snape's potion that night, Draco had to face the three options truly open to him: talking to Snape about this (and face the risk he'd mention it to Dumbledore or worse, the Dark Lord); talking to Dumbledore about this directly (mind-boggling) and, of course, talking to Potter. Potter, who for some insane reason wanted to talk to him right back.

The insane laugher bubbled ever so slightly closer to the surface.

Draco sighed.

Out of the three evils, the lesser was.... He groaned and buried his head in his pillow, just barely refraining from banging it repeatedly against the wall.

The lesser evil here was Potter, rationally speaking. Probably. He was unlikely to talk, not when Draco knew the secret of his little nightly excursions. Not to mention his obsessive stalker owls, all of which Draco had carefully kept for evidence, should he need it in the future.

Of course, the problem was that Draco couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of the two of them having a normal conversation, let alone cooperating for the purposes of Draco's greater good. The concept itself was ludicrous. All he could think of at the sight of him was how wonderful his boot would look mashed into Potter's face, and how Potter would look if he was completely at Draco's mercy. Now that would indeed be stress relief. Too bad it never happened; Draco had always been the one petrified and left helpless as a slug.

Thinking about that incident at the end of last year, Draco's mouth thinned. He'd planned on and even practiced for certain eventualities if Potter was so unfortunate as to cross his path on the train to Hogwarts this year, but instead he'd spent an uneventful ride on Pansy's lap, making certain hints for Zabini's benefit about the Dark Lord's interest in him. Unfortunately for everyone, while Draco suspected the Dark Lord did indeed have a plan for him, he didn't exactly know what it was, and it was likely as not to leave him dead or worse.

He should show up just to hex Potter to bits. Didn't Draco deserve a bit of a release after all this time? True, Potter generally had better goons for back-up and the element of surprise with that stupid Invisibility Cloak he obviously had, but this time he shouldn't be hiding. Not if he was expecting Draco. In other words, he had a chance.

That settled, Draco laid back for a little nap.

~~

He showed up a little late; not so late as to have Potter leave, but late enough to make a point.

Potter stood up from the edge of the windowsill at the sight of him, looking startled. "Malfoy!"

Draco gritted his teeth. This was it!

He drew his wand in a flash, having just practiced, and walked in with it up his sleeve. He didn't waste any time, yelling "Petrificus Totalus!" before Potter had done much more than blink.

Potter toppled forward, right onto his face. Draco was relieved for a bare second that it hadn't been backwards. He didn't need the fallout that'd rain down on his head if he actually killed the Boy Who Wouldn't Die. Draco turned him over onto his back, stepping away to admire his handiwork.

It was cute, the way Potter glared at him even though he couldn't move a muscle. Utterly helpless as a kitten. No, no, it was beautiful. Draco beamed, shivering slightly.

"I told you I'll have you, haven't I? I keep my promises, Potter." Draco wanted to laugh, maybe even do a little jig, but that would spoil the effect. Potter just looked so... perfect like that. "Not what you expected, eh? Hmm? What is it? Cat got your tongue?"

Potter stared back at him, his eyes clear. He still didn't understand. He wasn't even worried. He was secretly laughing at him.

"This is for my father, you fucking bastard!"

Draco's lips peeled away from his teeth and he did it: he stomped hard on Potter's face with his boot. There was a distinct crunch, and there was blood everywhere, running down Potter's cheeks and into his mouth, and his broken nose looked quite awful. Draco felt dizzy; he hated the sight of blood. And yet, he must not show weakness. He must not look away too fast.

His fists clenched, he tried to control his panting. He really did feel dizzy. He ought to get going; the spell didn't last that long.

Potter had his eyes screwed shut. Just like in Draco's dream: he was pale and bloody and on the floor, but Draco's glee evaporated with the pounding, heavy pain that spread up his arm from his ring finger. It only added to his light-headedness and nausea, and Draco thought he could actually hear a low whispering in his ears, though he couldn't make out