playing the game, living the lie

chapter 9: the road to mandalay.

[date: 31 October - 1 November]

Seamus Finnigan looked down at the mail in his hands. The family owl had dropped two parcels in his lap at dinner, and swooped off as quickly as it had arrived. Seamus had tamed his usual curiosity, because honestly, he didn´t know what they were, and he wanted to be the first to know, without anyone else butting in.

Following the meal, he´d scampered off quick smart to the dorms, to open his things in quiet and solitude while there still was some. Although there would be no special ball or festival to mark Halloween (or Samhain the following day), each individual House was encouraged to celebrate the occasion, and McGonagall had activities planned.

He opened the package first - because it was a package, and therefore was bigger and had more stuff, and Seamus was still having trouble developing a keen sense of self-discipline, so he tore off the paper, opened the box, to reveal...a silver flask. Hip-flask, in fact, with small note attached.

I wanted to give you this for your birthday, but it took a small while to get organised, it read. You´ll probably be needing this kind of relief over the next few months. Don´t tell your Mam. It was simply signed, love, Dad.

Somewhat cautiously, he opened the flask, and immediately his nose was hit with a pungent, almost acrid smell. He took in a long sniff, and nearly coughed. It reminded him of Uncle Kieran, his father´s eldest brother, who spent most of her time chain smoking. Tar, that was it. It smelt of tar. Sour, and bitter. Which meant it had to be Guinness! His father had always told him he´d buy him a pint when he was old enough, and evidentially it seemed that now was the time.

There was a faint tingle around the flask as well, the tinge of magic that Seamus was now quite familiar with. This suggested that one of his Aunts had gone around his mother´s back - his Mam had certainly not been approving of his father´s promised intoxication - in order to make sure it would last, the flavour and aroma as fresh as when it had been poured.

He grinned to himself, thanking the fact that at least he wouldn´t be there when his mother found out. Although he might be able to hear her (all the way over in Dublin) yelling at both Da and Aunt, knowing her. Licking his lips in anticipation, he raised the flask to his lips - and stopped. He hadn´t really drunk much alcohol, save for the rare shot of whatever Ron´s brothers snuck in last year, so if he drunk it now it would definitely go straight to his head.

And he didn´t really think he wanted to be that uninhibited. Well, he knew whatever he felt now, if he drank it would change the following morning, with a headache bigger than Hagrid and the awful feeling he´d done something horrible the previous night. And with his imagination who knew what he might be tempted to get away with? Especially if Dean was around, he thought, and pushed that idea to one side. Shuddering, he placed the flask on his bedside table, and resolved to deal with it later.

The other piece of mail was an envelope, and he recognised his mother´s slightly twitchy hand instantly. Breaking the seal, he pulled out the parchment, and unfolded it, lying back on his bed to scan down the page. It was mostly filled with news of his sister; he turned to the second, and lo and behold, it was as well. And the third. Three pages, all glowing about how well Niamh was doing as a Healer in the community of Tamlaght, Fermanagh. She´d been unable to use a wand - some wizards just couldn´t, but made up for it with various sympathetic magics, and besides, it didn´t seem to be doing Niamh any disservices. His mother rambled on and on about her good works: healing the sick, comforting the unfortunate and basically giving his mother reason to have her canonised, by the sounds of things. Honestly, if Mam doesn't petition the Pope in a couple of years, I'll be surprised.

Seamus could not expect little more, though: his sister, seven years older, had already garnered herself a firm place in both parent´s hearts by the time Seamus was born, but especially with their mother, whose career she took after (their mother, Kathleen, was a Medi-Witch in Dublin). It had always been "Have you heard how well Niamh's doing, Seamus?" "Have you heard she's been asked to take over Mary O'Donnel's practice in Enniskillen?" "I've been told she's become the most sought after Healer in three districts, Seamus, isn't that wonderful?"

It wasn´t that Seamus didn´t feel loved, but he knew that there would be a connection between his sister and mother than he could never duplicate, and that had always saddened him, to some extent.

Niamh, it seemed, was getting married. In December, just before Christmas. That was the big news his mother was leading up to over four pages of parchment. Seamus had heard of this bloke before: he'd been around for ages it seems - since Seamus was in first year anyway, and he´d met the prospective bridegroom once or twice.

The young Irishman considered the news, and found himself annoyingly dispassionate about it. I don't really know what to feel; I don't know what I should be feeling - he is going to be my brother-in-law. Maybe I should like him more.

An additional note from his sister - in that professional tone of hers, quite a contrast to the gushing of his mother - invited him to the wedding, and his mother affirmed in her own epistle that he could stay with them. Seamus mentally reminded himself to go see Professor Dumbledore to get permission to leave early before the regular Christmas break.

That wasn´t the problem.

His mother had even invited Dean to stay, if he wanted, and that wasn´t the problem either.

All through the letter, Kathleen Finnigan had left all kinds of subtle - and some not-so subtle - hints. Niamh, was after all a grown woman, but Seamus was sixteen. Which was virtually coming of age for any young man. And as yet, he´d shown no sign in getting a girlfriend - or a boyfriend, his mother helpfully added (in brackets). It was not that she wanted to drive him into something he didn´t want, she wrote, but Niamh and this fellow had been dating for six years, and she´d had relationships before that, and well, Seamus looked in comparison as though he might be a late bloomer. That was perfectly fine, of course, but he had to recognise that in the wizarding community people settled down young. In the wizarding world, which honoured stability above all things, there was a stigma against those who didn´t have some kind of settled permanent relationship by their early twenties, at the latest, and his mother just wanted to make sure he wasn´t doing himself an injury, by not dating.

It was all very nicely phrased, and supportively worded, but it stuck in Seamus´ mind like a sign of things yet to come. Now that Niamh was engaged, both she and their mother would be constantly dropping hints about this girl, or that boy, and the wonders that companionship brought, and how lonely he must be, at that school, all by himself. In order to cleanse himself of the prospective babble, Seamus grabbed the flask from the bedside table and took a swig, grimacing slightly at the tart flavour, and flung himself back down on the bed. It felt...rich in his mouth. Somewhat creamy, and possibly thicker. Like bread. It just tasted that way. And the ashy qualities seemed more wooden...he didn´t know how to describe it, really.

But it didn´t help much, because deep in his heart, he thought his mother was right.

* * *

Peter found the puppy just where the Dark Lord had told him he would. It was a pitiful thing, half dead, its fur matted and mangy in places. It had probably been bought by one of the families who populated the housing estate on Christmas, and then abandoned when the child tired of it, or the mother grew tired of the upkeep she had to do. The puppy had survived amongst the elements, scrounging for food where it could, although the emaciation of its frame showed it may only have been partly successful. It was a he, Peter could tell, as he moved closer, feeling the emanations of the small animal mind, and he reached forward, trying to project an image of calm, seemingly non-threatening.

"Come now, my precious," he murmured, his upper body made bulky with the copious folds of the baggy thick sweater he used to disguise his arm when he went out, and the puppy backed into a corner behind some dustbins, and bared its teeth at him, growling.

Peter reflected he´d never really had much luck with dogs, and moved forward as quickly as he could, grabbing it by the scruff of its neck, and trying to wrap the mongrel in the folds of his sweater, to quieten it. He couldn´t use magic for fear of detection, and he was less than happy making his way out of the cul de sac, trying to avoid notice from the residents who were still out and about in this Halloween twilight. Feigning smiles at a few, and nodding at others - all the while contemplating how he would kill each and every one of them if he had the chance - he managed to get to the ground floor apartment. Fumbling to get the keys out of his pocket, he cursed as he nearly dropped them, and then the bloody dog decided to attempt to make an escape.

He barely made it inside without falling over himself, and then as he let the dog jump to the ground, it bit him, and he bit off a yelp of his own.

In the darkness of the flat, something darker seemed to suck the light into itself, leaving only crimson red eyes that glowed in the shadows. Immediately, the dog fixed in its tracks, whimpering softly, almost as if it recognised the intent of those eyes, and its own fate.

"So you found our little friend," Voldemort whispered, and both Peter and puppy quaked at that voice.

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort reached out and switched the lights on. The glow faded in those eyes, revealing one who was painfully aged, wisps of brittle hair tufting from the pale almost translucent scalp. "Bring him," the Dark Lord ordered, and lifting himself, made his way into the small kitchenette. Peter picked up the animal and followed.

The gas stove he had lit was still on, a pot gently simmering. Inside was wolfsbane and henna, and a few more ingredients besides. One of the Lord´s agents had provided them with the pale hair that floated in the mixture, and Voldemort pulled off the saucepan lid to chuck some loose soil in, symbol of the mother earth, fertile, and ripe for planting. This would neither be a sowing or a harvest, exactly, but something new would be affirmed, and readied for creation in time to come. Not even Pettigrew fully understood the Dark Lord´s plan, and Potions was never his best subject.

Voldemort rolled up his sleeve, and took the stainless steel kitchen knife that rested by the stove, making one quick gash across his palm, turning his hand over the pot, and watching as the blood, almost black, dripped into the pot. This reminded him of a ceremony he´d performed what seemed like a lifetime ago, and in some ways the two emerged from the same idea, but this was of Voldemort´s own creation.

Stirring for a few moments, he watched as the mass thickened significantly - far more than his few drops of blood should have caused, and the pale hair disappeared into the soup. Nodding to himself, he tore off a stretch of his robe and bandaged his hand with it. There would be a scar there, to match the one he had before his humanity was burnt away, those many years previously.

Glancing over at Wormtail, the Dark Lord nodded, and Pettigrew moved forward, burden in hand, the puppy still moving and desperate to get away. The puppy was held over the pot, as tight as could be achieved, and Voldemort continued.

"A life for a life," he murmured, "I give to the Earth what I take away," the ceremonial words seeming strange in the cramped kitchenette, under the harsh electric lights. The knife flashed, and the puppy squirmed, almost frantic, as it felt its lifeblood pour from the gash in its neck, and finally it was still, limp in Peter´s hands. Pettigrew removed the corpse, and slung it in the bin, opening the lid with the foot pedal. Wrinkling his nose slightly, he washed his bloodstained hands at the sink, and Voldemort watched the simmering pot, looking for all the world like a housewife waiting for dinner to be ready.

After a few minutes, he tested the consistency with his wooden spoon, the thick gelatinous liquid falling from the spoon back into the pot, and satisfied, he turned the stove off. Leaving it to cool, he tapped his fingers against the Formica bench, and an awkward silence sprung up between the two, Peter relieving himself by awkwardly brushing past the Dark Lord to exit, and sure enough, there was the sound of a door being closed up the passageway, and soon after that, a toilet being flushed. By the time he returned, Voldemort had spooned some of the brew into a glass that had been left by the previous occupants - a plastic children´s beaker, with Big Bird on the side, although he wouldn´t have recognised that. He had not asked where the previous occupants had gone, and he judged that he simply did not need to know. Being gone, there was insignificant, and he had other things to worry about.

Drinking the glistening black liquid down - shot through with hints of red - he licked his lips, and immediately felt heavy. The mixture contained a herbal sedative, which would send him to sleep - something he hadn´t done in several decades, as his immortal form no longer needed sleep. Even when Quirrel had been snoozing, he had stayed awake to ponder the injustices that had been laid upon him. With Wormtail´s help, he made his way through the tiny dwelling to Pettigrew´s room, and laid himself down in the small cot.

It felt...strange, to be drowsy, and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. Ordering Peter to keep watch - and the sometime rodent knew that if anything happened to the Dark Lord during his sleep, there were several Death Eaters out there who would make sure Pettigrew did not long survive, Voldemort let himself fall into sleep. Dreams allowed a greater freedom than reality, and there was much to be done on this night, when the walls between the living and the dead were themselves shaky.

* * *

This is the dream.

Harry is flung back against a hard surface - the rough edges of the brick wall felt through his robes, their harsh contours biting into his back. He is pinned, helpless as a First Year, by the arm that rests against his chest, its´ power indicated by the restraint. Pressed a little further, and Harry would have trouble breathing.

But for the moment, he can, deep hoarse breaths, through quaking lips and he knows he looks terrified, simply because he feels it.

In the shadows of this place, he recognises the form of the young man currently pinning him. Fine black hair and green eyes and slender cheekbones and a mouth that seems far too wide, and whose smile is hunger personified. A grey school uniform that shrieks of olden days and the war and words like `dapper´.

"But you´re dead," says Harry, as if naming that truth will give him power here, in his own dreams. Except he knows that he lost control of his dreams a long time ago.

The smile widens, but it never touches those green eyes. "Why, Harry," says Tom, leaning in close to whisper in Harry´s ear. "I didn´t know you cared."

Harry was not the boy he once was: he´s sixteen now, and seen a lot, and lived even more. Still, squirming under that ravenous gaze, his fingers skittering across the wall for anything he could use - a shard of brick, a handhold, anything!- he feels like he´s in Second Year all over again, except this time he knows he´s in the cave of the Beast, and he knows the Beast is hungry.

Tom licks his neck. Harry whimpers, but cannot break free. He feels defiled by this: defiled that someone other than who he wants is touching him, and defiled by his own inability to stop it. He is unworthy.

"I was just a dream," Tom croons, planting kisses on Harry´s hair, "just a memory, Harry." He stops, takes Harry´s cheek in his hand and looks at the terrified boy, his mouth curved into a gentle expression. "And you of all people should know that memories never die."

Harry´s on the verge of tears, but he doesn´t let Tom see it, won´t give him the satisfaction while his mind screams wake up wake up wake up wake up! He feels the dead weight of Tom´s arm across his chest like a vice, the slender caress of a finger down his cheek, and turns away, repulsed.

The shade chuckles low under his breath. "You don´t want me to touch you, Harry? No, I suppose not. But then, you have come a long way since we first met, haven´t you?" His tone is mocking, derogatory, the voice of a man who knows he´s won. "If I knew you were into boys, well, my plans might have gone a little differently."

He pauses, reading the sullen mirror of Harry´s eyes, the lack of response. Knows that Harry is trying to retreat into himself, hoping that like the monsters under the bed, if he ignores it, it will just go away. Except that Harry was raised to see himself as the monster in the cupboard. And he´s got his own guilt to deal with.

"I hear Ginny´s a fully-fledged dyke, now, Harry," Tom muses, eyes bright. "Strange, considering how she did follow you around like a lost puppy-dog at the beginning of Second Year. You don´t think it had anything to do with what I did to her, do you?"

Harry grinds his teeth together, knows he can´t run away. "Shut up."

"Yes, I know what you´re going to say - biological imperative, psychological conditioning. It´s genetic. It´s from her childhood, and there´s nothing wrong with being gay now, is there? And you´d be right, of course. But then...the doubt lingers. Perhaps the real reason she´s turned off men so is because I brought her into my world and fucked her so hard that she-"

Harry yells, and tries to break free, hands scrabbling out, fingers into claws, reaching for Tom´s eyes. Tom slams him back against the wall, and easily captured Harry´s wrists with his free hand. "Tsk, tsk," he tuts, shaking his head. "That might have been very brave of you, Harry, but where´s that Slytherin cunning the Hat found in you? You should have known better."

Harry lolls his head to one side, gasping for breath, release, vision, and when he returns to face his captor the world has changed. It´s Draco´s face now that looms in front of him, and Draco´s voice that speaks. But there´s a cold inhumanity that lingers at the depths of the eyes Harry knows far too well know, and he knows exactly who´s behind the mask.

"Is this a more pleasing shape?" the thing asks, trailing one hand down Harry´s robes, squeezing Harry´s crotch. "Is this what gets you off, Harry? Pouty lips, a lithe body and a smirk?" He laughs to himself, and Harry would spit at him, if he had the strength. "I suppose it would do," he comments, looking down at his new form. "And Draco is very flexible - that must come in handy."

"I haven´t...We haven´t made love." Harry pants, trying to redeem what Tom has sullied.

A sneer, one that would have looked perfect on Draco´s face, except the eyes are dead and as such it becomes a mockery. Or a warning. "Course not. You don´t consider yourself worthy enough to touch him, do you, because of your motives? Too afraid he´ll reject you when he finds out. And this is what you mortals call love?" His lips are suddenly uncomfortably close to Harry´s own, eyes locked together. "But I know what you dream of, Harry."

Over the other´s shoulder, a space is illuminated in the darkness, revealing...Harry and Draco, bodies entwined, curled up around each other atop a bed: Harry´s bed from what he can make out. Nothing is wrong except the scene itself.

Harry´s fucking Draco in the light, fucking him so hard that the real (real? Is there a difference?) Harry can see the pain that shudders through Draco´s slender frame with every thrust. And he can see his own face, mouth contorted in a scream of ecstasy. He is enjoying it, this torture. This control.

He feels like vomiting. "I wouldn´t...", he stammers, eyes filling with tears. "I..." But he can´t say it.

"Oh, Harry, so close and yet so far," replies the thing that wore Draco´s shape. "Mrs. Norris got your tongue? You can´t even admit what you feel, let alone say it, so you might as well accept you´re just using him." A pointed look, and easy smile. "Aren´t you?"

A slight nod. Shame. The consequences of his act, rebounding on him.

The abomination continues. "So what emotion you feel now is fruit of the poisoned tree, Harry. Besides, I´ve walked in your dreams. I´ve seen you think of this."

"Why would I?" Harry cries.

"Because you like him," comes the gentle tone, mocking, and Draco´s fingers are ghosting along his jaw. "Because as long as he loves you, you have to live with your crime. So if you brutalise him to the point where he hates you...you can be absolved of your guilt."

The Gryffindor looks, transfixed by the tableau, feeling the lump in his throat, and he tries to swallow and force that emotion down into his depths. He sees his other self orgasm with a wordless scream, and collapse into Draco, who was weeping, tears staining his cheeks. The eyes of his doppelganger glinted red in the darkness.

"That´s not me," he realises suddenly, turning back to face his accuser. "It´s you."

But Tom wore another face now: his own. "You. Me. Him. We´re all the same underneath," he promises, moving forward to kiss Harry´s scar, clutch him close in his own arms. Harry shudders at the contact, but doesn´t try to escape.

He knows who he is, now.

Tom kisses his way down Harry´s face, Harry marvelling at the sight of himself, and was not unprepared for when Tom kissed his mouth, and thrust his tongue inside.

"We´re all the same underneath," he hears Tom again, an echo in his mind.

Harry tastes death on his own lips.

* * *

He woke, a cold sweat across his clammy skin, his breath fast and harsh in his ears, and he almost jumped into the air when someone pulled the curtains apart, and sun rained down on him.

"Happy Samhain, Harry," Ron said, and then noticed his friend´s demeanour. "You alright? You look like Peeves stopped by during the night, or something."

Harry struggled to find enough moisture in his dry throat to speak with, but managed. "Yeah, Ron," he responded, his attention somewhere else, "I´m fine."

Breakfast was restrained, to say the least. Most students looked the worse for wear after last night´s celebrations. Many still had rumpled robes, having slept in them, and lacked the time to charm them clean.

For a moment, Harry caught Draco´s eyes. Then Draco wrenched his away with a snarl, turning back to Pansy, who was sitting next to him. He looked how Harry felt - exhausted, frayed at the edges and just a little bit scared. When Pansy attempted to pat his back, he visibly flinched from her touch, and turned on her, almost growling. Within a few seconds, she was pale and almost in tears. Seeing the reaction that got from the other Slytherins, he glowered, and rose from the table with what remnants of grace and dignity he still possessed, storming out the doors.

Harry ignored the impulse to go after him, not wanting to make an obvious scene and ate his toast. It tasted like ashes in his mouth. All of Hogwarts might think he and Draco were dating, or fucking like bunnies, and they definitely were something, but he didn´t have to confirm it. After another study session a few days ago where they absently rested against each other, pouring over notes and occasionally posing DADA questions, with infrequent but significant contact - Draco would place his hand on Harry´s, or Harry would rub Draco´s shoulder, or scratch the back of his neck, gently - had left Harry with the clear realisation that indeed, they were something. He just didn´t know if he wanted to find out what that something was.

He paused, caught considering telling his friends about his dream, tumbling over scenarios in his mind. They couldn´t exactly do anything: Hermione would invariably go and bury herself in a book and Ron would assure him that no matter what, he was Harry Potter, and he would kick Voldemort´s arse from here to Bath, no matter what dreams may come. It would be wonderfully reassuring, but quite, quite futile. And it would require keeping a secret from the rest of his fellows - something he didn´t feel especially guilty about, because some things (a lot of them really) just couldn´t be said.

And if he went to Dumbledore, the old wizard - who behaved oddly on good days, in Harry´s opinion, might decide in his wisdom to announce to all of Hogwarts that Harry was having dreams of the Dark Lord, and it would be Second Year all over again.

Ultimately, he decided not inform his friends to because it would cause them unnecessary pain, and he´d already put them through too much as it was.

The only problem with the fact that Ron and Hermione had made up was that both of them put everything of themselves into something, which meant that Harry was on his own just as much as when they were screaming at each other. Affection, like hatred, left them with only themselves, and they were usually too busy falling over each other being Humble and Gallant. Again, Harry had to deal with the Nasty of the week in Care of Magical Creatures, and he got told off by Hagrid for doing something wrong.

The Slytherins laughed, but only after Draco did. They were just as wary of this unspoken relationship as Harry himself was; without any clear boundaries, none of them knew what might set Draco off. Harry glared at Draco across the small patch of swampy ground, and Draco just glared back, which brought Harry up quick smart. It almost seemed as if Draco hated him again, and that couldn´t be? Could it?

How could you hate someone you´d spend the past week snogging, on and off?

Ron and Hermione seemed to provide an answer to that particular question.

Shrugging them off at lunch with a brief explanation - "I need to see Draco" - Harry made his way through the cavernous halls and corridors of the castle. That was one good thing about Ron and Draco´s mutual hatred; Ron´s face went hard as stone when Harry had excused himself, and he certainly wouldn´t be asking Harry many questions about what went on, therefore Harry would need to tell no lies.

It was, all in all, a nice little arrangement.

He found Draco in that little study room they used; the one where they´d first kissed, just over a week ago. Draco was standing facing away from Harry, his arms crossed over his chest, from what Harry could see.

As usual, he felt somewhat helpless around Draco. Without knowing the rules, the Gryffindor didn´t know it would be acceptable to wrap his arms around the blond and hold him close. Which he wanted to do very much, right now.

"Ah. The Hero, it seems, has come to rescue this poor fallen angel from the abyss." Draco´s voice was arch and mocking; he didn´t turn round.

"I was wondering if you wanted some company," offered Harry, lamely.

"If I did, don´t you think I would have found you?" Draco turned finally to face him, one eyebrow raised.

"You seem to be acting a bit jumpy today."

"I´ve just got a lot on my mind," was the smooth reply. Draco was always smooth.

"Have I done something wrong?"

Draco snorted. "No. How could you do anything wrong?" he asked softly, almost rhetorically, his cool eyes surveying Harry. "You probably defeat monsters in your sleep." There was a bitter chuckle.

Harry felt the atmosphere soften slightly, and so moved forward, to stand directly in front of the other boy. "Have I forgotten your birthday, or something?" he asked curiously, peering at Draco through his glasses.

Draco laughed, and it was loud and vibrant in the small room, with an edge that worried Harry´s heart. He reached out, and gently traced the curve of Harry´s jaw, the skin of his cheek. "My dear Harry. Always thinking you can save the world´s problems. Still," he mused, "I suppose the fact you actually have on a few occasions does lend it to be habit-forming," and Harry brightened. Draco might be acting a bit strangely, but he never claimed to understand the Slytherin; besides, if he was touching Harry, he couldn´t be that bad, now could it?

"I was wondering if you´d dreamt anything strange last night," Harry began, and Draco turned cold almost instantly. His hand dropped from Harry´s face, and the emotion in his face locked away.

"No," he replied, curtly, and turned to look at the fireplace.

Not quite understanding what was wrong - and wanted to reassure Draco if there was anything wrong, Harry moved a bit closer, crowding him. "It´s just that I had a rather bizarre dream, and it involved you, and I thought it might be magical," he finished, realising just how stupid it sounded. "So I thought you might have dreamt too."

The laugh was back again, and this time it was all edge. "So many thoughts, for such a small mind." His voice was trembling; he was either very angry, or very frightened.

Harry ignored the slight; his mind concentrating upon other things. "So you did dream?"

Draco´s eyes flashed. "I think I´d like to be alone now."

"Draco, I...I don´t know why you´re behaving like this."

"Isn´t it obvious, Potter? I´ve suddenly realised what it means to be associated with you. "

"Merlin, Draco, stop talking in bloody riddles! It might appeal to your sense of tragedy, but the rest of find it rather annoying. All I´m trying to find out is whether you dreamt or not!" His own temper quickly fraying, he placed his hand lightly on Draco´s shoulder.

The Slytherin whirled on Harry, shrugging off the casual touch in a second, and his voice was soft, and cool as ice. "I did not dream."

"You´re sure?"

That did it. "I think I´m fully capable of remembering whether I dreamt or not, thankyou!" Draco roared, and his mouth twisted. "Did you mother drop you on your head frequently as a baby, or were you just born this stupid?"

Harry stepped away, his own feelings hurt. "Well. Thankyou for being so honest."

"I had to make sure you took it in, considering your demonstrated ability to understand what I say. Or maybe I´m not just important enough to listen to?"

"Oh, I guess I presumed that you´d remind me if I missed anything. After all, your entire life seems to be spent listening to yourself."

The Slytherin pressed his lips to a thin line, and set his jaw firmly in place. "Any more questions?", he ground out, "or is the interrogation over?"

Harry moved back, heading towards the door. "Oh, I´m certain it´s over," he said, tightly, and they both knew what he was talking about.

There was a slight widening in Draco´s eyes as the realisation hit him, and he barely nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to contemplate the flames. As always, Draco refused to let anyone get the last word. "My birthday´s September Twenty-Second," he mused, "but then I suppose you´ve never bothered to find that out."

Stung by the accusation - and more by the fact it was true - Harry reached out for the door, pushing it open, and restrained the impulse to growl. Soon enough, he was gone, and Draco was but a memory behind him.

Draco stood quiet, his chest heaving slightly, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides as he tried to regain his calm.

He had thought he´d grown up beyond those kinds of childish displays of temper, but it seemed that when he was off balance, he returned to what he knew best: demolishing people.

And Harry always kept him off balance.

It had started off so simply.

He was in darkness. The sole light was the halo that surrounded him, almost blinding. And out of the void, a voice spoke...

"It´s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Draco Malfoy."

A form coalesced: there was no other word for it. It simply arose from the shadows, taking shade and colour and depth. A young man, with black hair and green eyes, striding softly out of the night, the only sound the swish of his cotton trousers as he walked. The man was rigid, self-disciplined in a way that Harry was not, but Draco found very familiar.

For all his colouring, Draco was reminded of himself.

He took a deep sigh, eyes wide, and forced the memory down. It didn´t happen, and that was that. It didn´t happen, he wasn´t involved. Har-Potter couldn´t have known about it and was therefore being a nuisance.

Draco still didn´t speak; he was too terrified. This kind of freakish abnormality might happen to Harry five times a day (and probably did) but he had never signed up to be a hero. Besides, he felt as if he knew the man: there was a familiarity about him that went into his bones, and caught in the spaces in his mind, yet he knew he´d never seen him before in his life.

In the distance over the man´s shoulder, another light appeared; silhouetting two figures: the man, again, and Harry. Draco looked from the tableau to the man standing in front of him, and back again.

"It´s his way of making sense of this," the young man offered, looking somewhat smug. "He can feel the backlash, but he doesn´t know what it means."

"The backlash of what?" Draco´s voice sounded very small, as if infinity was around them.

The man leaned forward, and Draco moved back, only to hit what felt like a wall, yet couldn´t be seen. His hands scrabbled against the invisible surface, but it was smooth, and there was nothing to be done. He was trapped.

"What we are," the man whispered softly into Draco´s ear, and he fought the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. "You and I are linked, Draco, and I´m surprised he hasn´t see it before," he continued, conspiratorially, "considering that we´re all a part of each other."

In the wooden panelled room, all Draco could see was that darkness, and it reached out from his mind to cradle him, and clutch him to itself like a long lost child.

"We are?" Draco´s voice cracked, and he sounded like a child again, far too busy being petrified to even hate himself for it.

The man smiled, his voice like smoke - "Oh yes. I am he and you are me and we are all together. Goo goo goo joob," he added, smirking, although Draco didn´t see what the joke was.

Noting Draco´s reluctance to speak, he straightened up, his rigidity combining with a certain litheness, like a snake. He almost seemed to melt when he moved. "My name is Tom Riddle, in case you were wondering," said he, offhand, and again, that name tickled at Draco´s mind, and he fought the impulse to somehow scratch.

"I´m not familiar with the name," Draco stammered, trying to sound defiant.

"You will be." There was a surety there the kind of which Draco had never heard before. "But then, we certainly have a lot of time-"

And relentlessly, ruthlessly, Draco pushed the memory back into the dark corners of his mind, locked and bolted the metaphorical door. He would not think about it, he told himself. It was a delusion; it was unimportant; it didn´t happen. The reasoning was unimportant, so long as he didn´t think about it!

After a few moments, the blond opened his eyes, the friendly, warm atmosphere of the room a reassurance, and a welcome one. Sighing in relief, he uncurled his fingers, and winced at the sudden pain. Bringing his hand up to his face, he examined the skin in the firelight. Imprinted upon the palm were four half-moons, bleeding, from where his fingernails had cut the skin. His concentration had been so immense he hadn´t even felt it.

Sucking lightly at the wounds, he took one last look around him, and exited.

* * *

The Slytherin dungeons was not hopelessly far away: a quick walk and a few minutes later and he strode imperiously into the dorms, head held high, no sign of his previous worry. He saw Crabbe and Goyle playing checkers, and wrinkled his nose in slight distaste, probably for no other reason that he could.

"Where´s Pansy?", he asked, in a tone that brooked no dissent.

Crabbed didn´t raise his head from the board, and Goyle shrugged. "Dunno," he said, "Snape came and took her away after she got back, start of lunch."

"Snape?" Draco had no idea why their Head of House would be needing her.

"Snape," Goyle affirmed, and turned back to his friend. "I´ll have all your pieces in five moves," he announced, and lay back in his chair.

"Bollocks," retorted Crabbe, and moved a checker.

Shaking his head, Draco left them to their game. There was only a few minutes of lunch left, and he used it to grab his book for the final class of the day, and straighten himself in the mirror. Even if he was barely managing to control his hysteria - and he would not admit that - he could at least look composed. His mother had always taught him that if was far easier to play a role if you resembled it, and he had clung onto that piece of advice as he had all her wisdom.

* * *

Upon exiting the small study space, Harry most certainly did not want to find Ron and Hermione. The very fact that the two of them were having a marginally successful relationship - however much it bordered on collapsing half the time - would be far too much to bear. That being said, he made a sharp right at one of the turnings, and promptly found his way to the grounds.

He´d gathered enough steam that by the time he actually exited the castle, he was almost storming - he had no idea exactly where he was storming to, but he was certainly doing it with a stylish amount of anger.

"You look like shit, Harry," a voice called out as he strode through the doors, blinking at the sudden harsh daylight, and turned, to see Ginny Weasley standing close to the steps, a fag in one hand.

Smoking was not unknown in the wizarding world - more than a few wizards smoked pipes, as the wizarding world seemed to be stuck somewhere between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries as far as fashions were concerned, and considering most of the health considerations could be treated, it wasn´t a health hazard. So some people smoked like chimneys.

Ginny Weasley, it seemed, had discovered cigarettes through her father, who had brought a packet home with a set of `firesticks´ he´d confiscated off a wizard who´d been living in Southwark for fifteen years, making a mint from using her Forecasting abilities to play the London Stock Market.

After nearly setting the house on fire, the `firesticks´ (matches) had been flushed down the loo by a furious Mrs. Weasley - what do you think you´re doing Arthur, endangering the lives of our poor children? - but Ginny, then in the first few days of her teenage rebellion (that quickly settled in to be just her adolescence, and no `rebellion´ at all) had snuck off with the cigarettes.

She´d asked Harry what they were mid last year, before all the trouble, and not quite knowing where it was all going, he´d explained. Ginny caught on, and lit up. Despite groundings, scoldings, and near hysteria on the part of her mother - oh! My! Ginny! You´re trying to give me a heart attack, aren´t you, your own mother, a heart attack! - the habit had stayed, and everyone had gotten used to it.

She smoked outside, of course; in lunch and usually after breakfast and after the final class, and Harry had run into her a few times before.

"Look, I´m busy," he said, trying to shrug her off.

"Yeah, I can see. It takes so much of your time to sulk, I guess."

There were times when Harry did not like the new Ginny at all. This was one of them. "Look, Gin, can we please cut the crap?"

"I will if you will," she offered. "You and Draco had a little tiff?"

"Yes," he sighed, moving to stand next to her. The castle wall gave them some shelter from the bitter autumn wind, and Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. He shouldn´t have been surprised she would be sympathetic, or understanding. Tumultuous relationships had been around since the beginning of Time, but according to gossip Virginia Weasley and Catherine Henshaw pretty much perfected the idea. There were `off´ as much as they were `on´. Harry didn´t see the point of it, really, but then, he was obviously lacking in terms of his relationship prestige.

Ginny took a drag from the cigarette, and handed it over. Harry inhaled, feeling the warmth spread down his throat and into his lungs, and then blew smoke out into the air. A couple of times he´d ended up here, when things had gotten on top of him, and he was no stranger to the teenage art of smoking.

They passed it back and fro between each other for a while, and then Harry finally blurted out what was on his mind.

"Ginny, do you ever think about Second Year?"

In the process of taking the cigarette from him, she gave Harry a cool, flat stare, and took a deep drag. Exhaling, she tipped some of the ash out on the ground, but didn´t hand it back. "Sometimes," she admitted, grudgingly.

"How do you feel about it?"

There was no warmth in her smile. "Usually makes me want to jump off the Astronomy Tower, Harry."

"What do you remember?"

"Not much." She paused. "Bits and pieces, and it´s like one of those Muggle filums. Like it´s not happening to me, just someone else."

"I dreamt about him last night."

Nodding, she took another drag, and flicked ash off into a nearby bush. "Sometimes I dream about what he made me do. Then I dream about what he told me he was going to do to me. I don´t like it when I have those dreams."

Harry knew he was pushing it, but he had to ask. "Is what he said..." he trailed off, and started again. "I mean, are you..." He couldn´t say it. But he had to. "Are you a lesbian because of something Tom did to you, or said he was going to do to you?" He´d only manage to say it by looking at the ground, and he could feel the blush creep his face.

There was silence. Harry, mortified, looked up at her.

Ginny Weasley was standing there, fag hanging from her mouth, and she didn´t look impressed. "Oh, get a life," she hurled out between clenched teeth, dashing the fag to the floor, and ground her foot down on it, quickly storming inside the castle.

Upon reflection, Harry thought it was not his day, really.

* * *

Voldemort pottered about the apartment; there was little to do, but it kept him somewhat busy. The pots and pans from the previous night had been scrubbed, and left on the rack to dry: he put them away. Once that was done, he could easily settle down in his chair and turn the television on, mind comfortably numbed by the forms of light and sound.

The numbness had an advantage, though: it allowed his mind to wander, and right now, he could feel the tight ball of emotions at the back of his mind, confirming the link had been re-established. He could sense Draco, distant, but there. If asked, the Dark Lord could have pointed, and unerringly, he would have pointed straight to Draco´s dorm deep beneath the castle. It was still several months before the next phase could be reached, but last night showed that Draco was still his - at least in all the ways that counted, anyway. He paused for a moment, concentrating on that tight net of thought and feeling, exploring it softly with his mind, teasing apart the layers of lies and excuse and self-denial. Draco, it seemed, was one very fucked up little boy, and that suited Voldemort´s purposes beautifully.

His mind caught on something, and his eyes widened, looking into an unforeseeable distance. There was a block; a wall in Draco´s mind. An area that the Dark Lord couldn´t reach. In his creation? If someone had dared to spite his purpose, Voldemort would be very upset indeed. Gritting his teeth, he cast the unpleasantness from his mind. It was of no matter; there was nothing he could do about it from here, even with the connection between Draco and himself, and soon enough he´d be face to face with the young Slytherin, and all Draco´s secrets would be his.

* * *

Narcissa rose as the House Elf showed them in to her parlour. Lucius, fortunately, was away on business, so he would not disturb - even if he accepted and encouraged what had to be done. His encouragement was derived from different reasoning from hers, though, and therefore she did not wished to see how trustworthy it was.

Snape was, as always, clad in black, and a slightly sour expression on his face, as it always was when he visited the Manor. He nodded graciously in her direction, and she responded in kind. They had not always seen eye-to-eye about many things, but he had been an unlikely ally in many of her quarrels with Lucius, and there was something to be said for his experience in certain matters. In a way, she empathised with the man: both of them had been used by Lucius, and both had been found wanting, unable to capture his heart from a man Lucius had virtually killed himself. They had both accepted that, each in their own way, and both found new reasons for going on: often, this reason would be Draco, and so Narcissa felt a rather bizarre understanding for the lonely man, and a gratitude for his efforts. Briefly, she wondered to herself if she would have found any common ground with Lily Evans, seeing as how they´d both married men who as it happened had been in love with one another.

Narcissa had barely known the woman; they´d moved in different social circles, and at the time, she had seen no reason to change this. Pursing her lips together, she decided she didn´t like this line of reasoning at all. For all she knew, Lily had managed to wrest James´ away from the ghost of his relationship past, and Narcissa wanted nothing to do with someone who had succeeded where she failed.

Which was, in part, why she had invited her guest. She might have accepted that she had failed, her life empty, a grandiose exercise in self-justification, but she would not see others broken by the same fate.

"I will be back to collect you before dinner," murmured Snape to the young girl, and she nodded, a tad fearful, and not wanting to show it. She and Narcissa had never exactly gotten on, although there was a mutual respect there, the idea of being stuck in the same room as her for several hours was less than appetising.

He chose to ignore his charge´s apprehension and turned to Narcissa, his face betraying nothing. "I leave her in your capable hands, then, Narcissa. Please see she is returned undamaged," Severus proposed, and swept out of the room.

Narcissa glared daggers into his retreating back. It is all very well for you to leave with a biting remark but you will not have to pick up the pieces, will you? Keeping her frustration to herself, she turned back to the girl, a well-trained, reassuring smile on her face, and gestured for her to sit.

She sat, looking about her. She was nothing if not well-schooled, Narcissa reflected, and that boded well for the course of the conversation.

"Would you like some tea?" Narcissa asked, and the girl blinked, her mind coming back to itself.

"Oh, yes, please," she said, a tad too enthusiastically, and Narcissa winced internally. So young, and so forward with her emotions! She´d be eaten up and spat out by society in a week. It was lucky she will have me to guide her, in this matter at least.

Pouring from the pot the house-elf had left the moment the visitor had been announced, Narcissa handed the cup to her young and overeager guest, watching her settle back in her chair.

"I asked you here, my dear," and Narcissa smiled, "because I wish to discuss the marriage contract your parents drew up with Lucius and I when you were but a babe..."

Pansy Parkinson sipped her tea, and listened.

* * *

Voldemort shifted in his seat, and dug out the remote, changing the channel. The presence in his mind had dulled down to a distant familiarity, and he was quite used to it now. The link would grow stronger over the oncoming months, but it would always remain just that - distant. Until of course, it changed.

He heard a key in the front door, and Peter stumbled in, balancing a brown paper bag on his knee, and trying to keep a hold of two matching ones in his arms. The Dark Lord watched him stagger through the living space into the kitchen, and barely keep himself from tumbling over. He could have gotten up and helped, he supposed, but it was rather amusing.

"Peter," he called, and the man soon poked his head out from the doorway.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"You might want to round up the troops," he informed him. "I want to start handing out orders in the next few weeks. We have a lot to do."

"Yes, my Lord." He paused. "Er, mind if I put the shopping away first?"

Peter´s request was met with a nod - after all, even Dark Lords had to eat, and besides, Voldemort could afford to be somewhat magnanimous - they weren´t going to conquer the world this afternoon. Well, not before teatime, at any rate.

"Did you buy the things I asked for?"

"Yes, my Lord," Peter called back, his head buried in the pantry as he put away the shopping. "Although those Pringles things don´t come cheap."

Trying cable now, Voldemort let out an appreciative rumble. UK Gold was showing repeats of Doctor Who, he had Pringles for supper, and with a little luck, he´d be ruler of a significantly large part of the world in oh, a year´s time.

Life was good.