Unthinkable Thoughts

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

~

HEART OF DARKNESS

The entrance of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy to breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning made quite a stir for a number of people. At the Gryffindor table a crowd of students rose and cheered and Harry was immediately welcomed back into the bosom of his family. Those seated at the Slytherin table shuffled along the benches respectfully to make room for their returned leader. At the staff table, nervous looks among the Inner Circle betrayed an awareness that a new, unpredictable stage had been reached.

Everything felt different, almost unimaginably. They ate separately, on opposite sides of a vast room. They slept apart; the familiarity of the return to their own beds no consolation for the lack of the other's warm body. They conversed with others, constantly thinking of how they would have phrased things differently or answered more honestly had they been back on their own in the hospital wing. When they were not in the same room, they felt the other's distress, the other's need, eating away inside of both of them.

But being in the same room was scarcely any easier. Lessons were a strange novelty for both Harry and Draco, none more so than Potions, where they sat within feet of each other, not even catching the other's eye, but spending the entire time trying to resist the aching pull they both felt to reach out for the other. Harry was also experiencing the strangeness of pretending to be rubbish at Potions again, and oddly this itself seemed to bind them together a little. When Snape administered an end of term quiz, which he perversely thought of as something of a treat, Harry felt the answers leap into his head almost before Snape had finished reading each question. Even with the distress of not being able to talk to, or touch, or even just smell Draco, Harry felt himself able to laugh a little inside: thinking of the magical afternoon of the Perceptivity Potion, he went through his paper and changed some of his answers to ones which were incorrect. After all, he didn't want the rest of the class thinking he had cheated. He watched as, two rows in front of him, Draco's shoulders shook slightly in silent sympathetic laughter, his body and hair moving in ways which reminded Harry of situations far more intimate than a Potions quiz. Oh my God, thought Harry, he knows exactly what I'm doing! Then, kind of in honour of Draco himself, hoping Snape would forgive him under these unusual circumstances, Harry made one answer so inept that it was likely to risk a double-figure point deduction. Hermione noticed what Harry was up to, and regarded him in complete disbelief; Ron glanced at Harry's paper too and thought nothing amiss as he filled in a couple of his own blanks with some of Harry's wilder suggestions. Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation.

But Dumbledore had been right. Either in the same room or not, it hadn't killed them.

One day became two, and two became three. On the last afternoon of the Christmas term, Harry, Ron and Hermione were walking together in the grounds as most of the rest of the school were preparing for the journey home the following morning. The cold snows of the previous month were gone, and had been replaced by some bracing grey drizzle. It was the kind of winter weather that can sap the life out of many caught in England in December, but for Harry, no air had ever felt fresher. He hadn't realised how much he had missed being outside (during daylight at least) and was only regretful that Draco, for the sake of maintaining what they both thought of as an increasingly stupid charade, wasn't there to share it with him.

Not that there was any lack of affection in evidence that afternoon. As the three walked round the Quidditch pitch and back towards the lake, Ron and Hermione, holding hands, would frequently stop and kiss, gently and with a little embarrassment. Harry felt delighted for his friends, but couldn't help thinking it would be better if he weren't there. On the fourth time their walk was interrupted in this way, Ron and Hermione giggled and looked at each other.

'Harry,' Ron beamed, 'we've got something to tell you. And I bet you ten Galleons you'll like it.'

'What?' asked Harry. 'Are you going to have babies?'

'Ooh, Harry, don't be silly,' Hermione smiled. 'Missing him?'

Harry rolled his eyes. Missing him? If only it was as easy as missing him.

'You don't want to put an embargo on affection, you know,' grinned Ron. 'Not the way you and Draco carry on.'

'Learn that word from Seamus, did we?' giggled Hermione. 'But you're quite right, Ron. They don't have a monopoly.'

'We're not that bad!' cried Harry, thinking how fortunate it was that 95% of his and Draco's affection was kept behind closed doors.

They moved off towards the lake again.

'So if it's not babies, what is it?' asked Harry, intrigued.

'Ah,' began Ron. 'Yes. We've had an idea. A plan, you might call it. We thought...'

'...that seeing as we are to be a small and select group this Christmas,' continued Hermione, 'with one new addition, of course...'

'...that we'd try and make it the best Christmas any of us has ever had, you know, just to try and put all the crappiness from earlier in the term behind us all, and because obviously there's also a lot to celebrate...'

'...so we've got permission from Dumbledore to do something new. He's going to let us have a special meal in the Gryffindor Common Room on Christmas Eve!' beamed Hermione.

'And after that,' smiled Ron, 'you and Draco can sleep in our dormitory, you know, for a bit of privacy...'

'...while the rest of us are going to have a sort of sleepover in the girls' dorm, and then in the morning...'

'...we can do private presents in bed, then group presents in the Common Room. Then a lazy morning and ...'

'...lunch with the staff. What do you think?' finished Hermione, happily.

'What do I think?' laughed Harry. 'I think... how long have you two been completing each other's sentences?'

They all laughed.

'I think it sounds marvellous,' Harry smiled. 'Just one thing. It sounds like you've got everything planned, so I won't interfere, but is there any way we can do something special to make Draco feel welcome in Gryffindor House? It will be quite odd for him...'

'Don't worry about that,' Hermione smiled enigmatically.

'It's all been thought out,' added Ron, and the two of them laughed a private laugh.

'I won't ask then,' Harry said, slightly confused.

At that moment, they heard a loud roaring sound from behind Hagrid's hut.

'What on earth...?' wondered Ron.

They went round the back of the hut to find Hagrid tinkering with the motorbike, holding an oily rag and a huge mug of tea, wearing a vast shapeless yellow garment that might at one time have been a pair of giant dungarees.

'Hello you lot!' he said cheerily. 'Merlin's beard, Harry, it's good teh see yeh out an' about at last! Jus' fixin' up the bike for a wee trip tomorrow.'

'Where are you going?' asked Hermione.

'Off teh London, on a bit o' school business fer Dumbledore,' he said, looking rather shifty. 'Once I've seen everyone off on the Hogwarts Express.' A guilty expression crept over his face, and he added, quietly, 'but p'raps I shouldn't o' said that.'

'Ooh, secret mission?' grinned Ron.

'Summat like that, maybe,' agreed Hagrid, looking uncomfortably like he wanted the subject changed.

'Really?' asked Harry suddenly, his mind working along other lines. 'London? Will you have any free time? If I give you a list and my key, could you get some money out of Gringotts for me and buy some stuff?'

'Sure, Harry. No problems. Jus' mek sure yeh get the list teh me tonight. Ah'm off very early in the morning.'

'Oh, Harry, what an excellent idea!' agreed Hermione. 'Hagrid, can you do the same for me?'

'Of course. What about you, Ron? Want anything from London?'

There was an awkward pause in which Ron said nothing and Harry felt his friend's acute discomfort where the matter of money was concerned.

'Yes,' said Harry determinedly. 'Ron will have a list too. I owe you ten Galleons, remember, Ron? You were right, I love your Grand Christmas Plan.'

Ron looked at Harry oddly, and after only a couple of seconds' hesitation, the pair of them grinned warmly at each other.

Hermione looked pleased at this moment of understanding between them.

'And don't spend it on me,' Harry whispered into Ron's ear. 'Spend it on Hermione.'

As they strolled back to the castle in the half-hearted rain, all were happy. Hermione knew that their Christmas Plan was going to work, Ron was grateful for the seamless way in which Harry had stepped round what was still Ron's biggest insecurity, and Harry knew that it was only a few hours before he could be with Draco again. None of them noticed the rain.

***

Having Harry back in the dormitory had been a good thing for all of them, but especially for Ron. There had been just one night when they had all five been there on good terms since the day of the Great Clear Up, and on that night, the night of Harry and Ron's reconciliation, Harry had been shepherded to bed by Ron just after supper. Not since the Boys' Book of Spells (Special Edition) was brought into existence, about two and half months before, had there been any real hilarity involving all of them, and in those three days of separation, despite the permanent ache of absence in Harry's heart, the five found it easy to drift back into carefree tomfoolery as if the break in festivities had been just ten minutes rather than ten weeks.

Ron was their captain. There were games and contests, late night chats, dormitory Olympics, corridor Quidditch, long talks and quick jokes, races, special Hogwarts-rules wrestling matches, high-spirited debates and near-the-knuckle teasing. Harry couldn't believe that he had pushed it all away before. And he knew that much of what Ron was doing went far deeper than his wanting to be master of ceremonies. It took Harry a while to realise it, but he knew that on some (probably subconscious) level Ron was trying to compete with Draco for the number one place in Harry's life. And to be fair to Ron, much of what he offered Harry in those three days was way beyond anything Draco could ever have thought of. But there were other more obvious reasons Ron was playing court jester, which both Harry and Hermione had seen straight away and been pleased by, as they all boiled down to one thing: Ron was madly happy at having Harry back, even given it was only to be for three days, and even given Ron would still rather look back than forward.

The night before the Hogwarts Express was to take the main body of the school back to London, Harry and Ron stayed up talking on Ron's bed well into the small hours, having a conversation both of them knew to be long overdue. With a silencing charm in place, Harry finally found the time and place and privacy he needed to apologise whole-heartedly to Ron for how he had treated him earlier in the term, and to explain what he'd been going through, what he'd been thinking, and how he had never meant any of his behaviour to be deliberately insensitive to Ron and the others. Ron found himself able to accept and understand everything Harry had told him, but wanted Harry to realize a few things too: that there had never been any need for Harry to cut himself off, and that both he and Hermione had felt desperately hurt that Harry had ever doubted their support. Interestingly enough it was Harry who saw the real truth of this conversation: that it was necessary for these old wounds to be re-opened before they could heal properly. But, over a course of several hours and the odd tearful moment, heal they did.

Ron brought the matter to an end.

'Well, I guess we can finally close this dreadful chapter,' he half-smiled. 'You'll be reunited with Draco in a few hours, and I'm glad we've been able to sort things out before then. I doubt we'll get another chance to talk like this for some time.'

'Oh Ron,' sighed Harry. 'Is that what this is all about? You think that as soon as I can see Draco again I'm just going to ignore you like I did before?'

'Well, not really. But you can't deny that after tomorrow morning you're not going to want to sit around talking to me for hours.'

'Ron! This isn't a case of either/or. I will still always be your best friend, even if I live with Draco for the rest of my life. Did you think I only had room for one of you? Don't be so stupid, you silly tit. Of course I'm going to spend time with Draco, as much as possible. But that doesn't mean I like you any less. Moron.'

'Yeah, Harry, you say that now. And I wish you all the best, I really do, I love thinking of you being happy at last. But just remember: if you ever get bored from time to time, I'll still be here--'

'Ron!' Harry laughed, punching him on the arm. 'Stop yourself right now before you begin to sound like a total prick! Think about Hermione. If you went off and married her and had twenty kids, would you think any differently about me? This is the same thing! As long as you can accept Draco, and be happy for us, and as long as we've drawn a line under how badly I've behaved this term, there's no reason why anything should change between you and me!'

It was odd for Ron to find that Harry was right about matters other than bravery and nobility and sheer nerve; that was more typically Hermione's territory. But that was indeed the case, and sometime after 2am they reached a point where, to the immense satisfaction of both, there was nothing more to say. Smiling properly at last, they both turned in.

The next morning, none of the members of the fifth year Gryffindor boys' dormitory had to get up to leave on the train, but the day began as early as any other. For one reason, the House was alive with the sound of shouts and cries and people dragging trunks and cases across floors and down stairs. Ron especially, usually one to favour a long sleep-in in preference to almost anything else, seemed to be affected the excitement buzzing in the rest of the House as he fumbled his way towards Harry's bed to wake his friend. He'd set his alarm for just after 7am, only a few hours after he had eventually got to sleep. He knew how much Harry was longing to be with Draco again, and wanted to make sure that his friend was up and dressed in good time. As he drew back the curtains early that December morning, there was just enough light to see that Harry was already sitting quietly on the end of his bed, fully dressed. He had obviously also showered, and had a pretty good stab at taming his hair.

'Blimey, Harry!' laughed Ron. 'How long have you been up? I thought you were sleeping properly again!'

'He's been sitting there since at least half past five. I saw him when Hedwig's scrabbling woke me up,' yawned Seamus. 'And it looks like he's spent over an hour in the bathroom. So God alone knows what time he got up!'

'Harry! Harry? Are you OK?' Ron turned to Seamus. 'Can he hear me?' he asked.

'Of course I can hear you, you git.' Harry rolled his eyes. 'What time is it?' he demanded, although he was actually holding his Snitch-clock in his hand.

'Ten past seven,' said Dean.

'The train leaves after breakfast, which starts at eight today,' supplied Neville.

'So! Not much longer to wait then!' Ron smiled.

Harry tried not to laugh.

'Now, Harry...' Seamus affected the voice of his oft-imitated Irish mother. 'Have you cleaned your teeth?'

They all laughed, including Harry.

'Ha! Has he cleaned his teeth?' Neville sighed. 'Only about six times in the last hour. Harry, do you think that will be enough?'

'It has not been six times!' cried Harry.

'Well, tell us it wasn't more than once though,' Dean laughed.

Harry blushed. 'Well, OK. I just wanted to look nice this morning. Don't mock.'

'Oooh, and you do, Harry! You look gorgeous!' teased Seamus in an accent even more Irish than that of his mother. 'I don't know how he's going to resist you during breakfast!'

'I refuse to get embarrassed,' shouted Harry above the din of the others laughing, but sniggering to himself at the same time. 'One day, all you little boys, if you're very lucky, will know how I feel right now. Until that time, don't take the piss. You've no idea. None at all.'

'Er...?' queried Ron, smirking and theatrically rolling up his pyjama sleeves. '"Little boys"...?'

'Uh-oh,' said Neville to nobody in particular, watching the other three launch themselves on Harry in a bout of energetic Hogwarts-rules wrestling. 'Just nobody mess his hair up!'

***

Having served the tea, Dumbledore looked across the desk at McGonagall and Snape. They both regarded the book - recently delivered by Hagrid - which sat in front of the Headmaster.

'It's as bad as we feared,' Dumbledore stated slowly. 'Perhaps worse. But I suppose at least some questions have been answered. Although more may have been posed.'

The Headmaster's colleagues sat and waited patiently for his thoughts to be explained.

'The memories contained within this book are almost exclusively happy, just the sort we imagined. But the last page is, I'm afraid, not something I shall want to see too many times. But you must see it. And then we will have to talk.'

Dumbledore carefully turned the book around to face McGonagall and Snape, opened it at the first page and pushed it towards them. He sat back and watched them turn the pages cautiously. Each page was like a small scene, like a clip of film or a collage of wizard pictures, some just silent laughing figures, some with voices ringing out. McGonagall caught her breath at a page containing James flying his broom, and at another with Lily sitting with the infant Harry under a tree. Snape stayed silent throughout, until McGonagall turned onto the last page.

They both gasped at the unfolding images. But the pictures were nothing to the sounds that rang from the book and filled the circular office. It was no more than a couple of minutes that they sat there both watching in revulsion and disbelief, but the memory would stay with them for much longer. McGonagall sat back, horror-struck, sniffing into a lace handkerchief. Snape, stony-faced, gently closed the book and pushed it back toward Dumbledore.

There was silence.

'Well, now we know why Lucius took this book,' grimaced Snape, eventually.

McGonagall choked. 'We absolutely cannot give that to Harry.'

Dumbledore said nothing, but looked to Snape for an opinion.

'I am inclined to agree,' he concurred.

There was more silence.

'If we don't give it to Harry, what do we do with it?' prompted the Headmaster.

'Destroy it,' said McGonagall immediately.

'Destroy it?' Dumbledore echoed. 'Are you sure? All that happiness; the kind he has craved and never known?'

'He's happy now, though,' offered Snape, gruffly. 'Isn't that what all this has been about? So what's to be gained from letting him see this?'

'Nothing,' persisted McGonagall. 'Not that I can see. If you don't want to destroy it, why not just hide it away? It can go back to Gringotts tomorrow and stay there till he is older.'

Snape looked doubtful. 'How much older though? Eighteen? Twenty-one? Thirty? Who's to say when he'd ever be ready, if it all?'

'Let it stay there forever then.'

Dumbledore stayed quiet.

McGonagall looked hopeful. 'Could we let him have it with the last page removed?'

'But what would we do with the last page?' sighed Snape. 'Destroy it, hide it, keep it for him? It's the same issue.'

They had lapsed into silence again, but McGonagall suddenly burst out, 'I can't even believe we're having this discussion! Why on earth should we wish to put him through this? Don't we all want the best for him?'

After another little while, Snape said to Dumbledore, 'well, what do you think?'

The Headmaster drew a long breath and began to speak tentatively.

'I understand totally how you feel, Minerva. We all feel protective of him; we've felt that all his life. And we've gone to great lengths to look out for him, keep an eye on him, protect him where we can. In short, we've meddled.'

'Of course we have!' McGonagall cried. 'He's got no parents!'

Dumbledore took a long sip of tea from the delicate china.

'Another thing we're guilty of is underestimating him. Hasn't he always surprised us with his resilience? With his bravery, and determination? So much so, in fact, that we have sometimes actually begun to bank on his qualities. He's much more buoyant than we think, and even stronger since his attachment to Draco. But apart from his physical and mental strength, isn't there another issue here? Doesn't he have a right to see this?'

McGonagall coughed slightly but said nothing.

'But these are, I grant you, all inconclusive things. He might be strong enough. He might benefit from some closure in this appalling matter. On the other hand, he might be crushed. For all I've learned about him, I still don't feel I know him well enough to be sure. Short of asking him myself, I cannot decide what to do.'

'So we do nothing?' wondered Snape.

'No. I think this is too important to ignore. But I think you hit on it, Minerva, when you said we cannot give this to Harry. I agree. We cannot. But maybe someone else could, someone who knows him better than anyone, someone who could judge precisely how it could be done with the least harm. I'm going to give this book, complete, to Draco.'

McGonagall gasped. 'Are you sure that's wise? Draco is not just a bystander in this affair. He is bound to have issues of his own to deal with. In giving the book to Draco, aren't you just going to give a different boy a different sort of pain?'

'Maybe, Minerva, maybe; you are often right in these matters. But what is the alternative? Think of this: Draco is as strong as Harry, and is himself very mature; he knows Harry better than we do, so his gut reactions will more likely be the right ones. And considering what's in that book, this is a matter that concerns both of them more than it does any of us.'

McGonagall sighed heavily and Snape nodded. It was the closest they would get to agreement.

'However much anxiety Draco is going to feel over this,' concluded Dumbledore, 'I suspect he himself would not want it any other way. I will call him in to speak to him this evening.'

***

With only a handful of students left in the castle, and those that were all being part of the Grand Christmas Plan, Harry and Draco had been free to behave however they wanted from the moment the last carriage had left for Hogsmeade station. And they had lost no time.

The second Harry had found Draco idling around the main steps at the front of the castle, a breathlessness overcame him which wasn't relieved until the two of them, hearts racing, had fallen into an urgent snog, and tried to maintain this connection as they proceeded clumsily in the general direction of the rose garden. Shortly afterwards, anyone looking out of one of the castle's windows might have seen a border collie and a fox scampering madly to the furthest part of the grounds well beyond Hagrid's hut and the Quidditch pitch. Human again, they created a nest of heavy cloaks and jumpers under a tree where, oblivious to the cold wind and intermittent downpours, they spent the greater part of the day talking and kissing and enjoying other intimacies.

About four o'clock that afternoon it began to feel as if they might just be getting on top of making up for three days of separation, when they suddenly realised it was dark and they were starving. Just as they noticed the appalling weather for the first time and were standing up to go back to the castle, a silent brown barn owl swooped down and perched on Draco's shoulder, proffering its right foot. He took the message and tore it open quickly.

'Bugger and blast,' moaned Draco. 'Dumbledore wants to see me this evening. Will you be able to cope for a little while without me later, Harry?'

'Perhaps,' smiled Harry. 'Will you?'

***

The first of Draco's reactions on leaving Dumbledore's office was one of gut-wrenching nausea. After that, in turn, he went through shame, disgust and disbelief. He walked, staggering, not knowing where he was going, his eyes stinging. As he reached the main door to the castle grounds he ran blindly, in an uncontainable fury, as if by running he could actually distance himself from this terrible situation. By the time he was half way to the lake he had arrived at despair; sitting in the spot where he and Harry had both smoked a cigarette some weeks before, all the emotions of the previous half hour now assaulted him together, churning his stomach and heart in a sickening, hopeless chaos.

That cigarette. It had only been a few weeks before, but it now seemed like another lifetime. In a way it was another lifetime: none of what Draco had held dear before that day seemed even remotely attractive now. But even considering the joy of being with Harry, he felt, were it possible, that it might still be better to return to his pre-faun ignorance and arrogance than deal with what now faced him. He held his head in his hands as he dared to let his mind consider what Dumbledore had just told him, had just shown him. This place by the lake, this was where it had all started. And it might also be where it all ended.

He sobbed. For Harry, for himself, for injustice, for love.

Draco could recall every thought, every word, every image of his exchange with Dumbledore with frightening clarity, and it was impossible to tell which was the most shocking aspect of what he had seen.

At first, coming face to face with such an extraordinary book was certainly an eye-opener. Realising what the book contained - that was fantastic. He suspected instantly why Dumbledore was talking to him rather than to Harry himself - here was something very special to be returned to someone very special, and who better to make the presentation than that special person's special person? He loved some of the images he saw. A picnic. A walk in the country. A family tea by the fire. James and Lily and Harry, Dumbledore had pointed out sadly. How staggeringly like his father Harry looks, Draco smiled to himself. He was delighted when he thought his Christmas present problem might be solved.

But when he began to wonder where on earth the book had come from, and why Harry hadn't possessed it all his life, he realised there was something unpleasantly familiar about it, and he was hit by a ghastly thought. It was triggered by one particular page; one on which there was someone he recognised. It was almost unreal to think it was him, but there, staring back out of the page, was a young Sirius Black astride a large motorbike, smiling and waving. Dumbledore said that this book contained pages from Harry's past, but of course Draco had no way of knowing for sure who he was actually looking at until he saw that image of Sirius. Suddenly this book was linked in his mind with Harry's godfather, not just with Harry himself, and within seconds he remembered the conversation they had had while Harry had been in a coma. Draco knew right in the core of his bones that the book he was looking at was the same book that he had seen once before: sitting on his father's knee in the library at Malfoy Manor.

He looked at Dumbledore, who stared back at him impassively.

'How did you get this?' Draco asked eventually.

'I admit some skulduggery,' said Dumbledore gently. 'When we realised what the book you remembered might be, we set about recovering it. We were concerned that, in the wrong hands, it could be a threat to Harry's safety.'

'The wrong hands in question being my father's?' Draco asked without emotion.

Dumbledore said nothing. And in the Headmaster's silence, Draco had his answer.

'I'm assuming my father did not just hand it over without question?' Draco said, as if thinking aloud.

'No,' replied the Headmaster without embarrassment. 'He didn't hand it over it all. If he has missed it, I doubt he knows where it is.'

Draco was incredulous. 'You stole it?' Quite apart from wondering how it had been done, Draco couldn't believe that Dumbledore would resort to such underhand tactics.

'We... reclaimed it,' rephrased Dumbledore. 'It had already been stolen.'

'But... how did you know what it was? Even I didn't know what it was! Sirius couldn't have known either, just from the conversation we had!'

Dumbledore retreated into his thinking-aloud, staring-into-the-distance kind of conversation. 'Funny how these things work out,' he mused. 'You're not the only one to have seen this book before, Draco. Close it and look at the front cover.'

Draco did so, and read:

For James and Lily, on this happiest of days, from Albus Dumbledore

'Oh my God,' Draco cried, staring in astonishment at Dumbledore. 'It was a wedding present from you!'

'Yes, although I had forgotten about it. A small gift in its way, just a scrap book, enhanced with a charm of my own. But Sirius sensed the importance of the memory you had, and the circumstances in which you recalled it. And I guessed what the book was from what he said to me at the time, although I wasn't totally convinced it was the same book until it was delivered to me earlier today. But there is no doubt. There it is.'

'It was delivered to you? How exactly... no, don't say. I don't want to know. Except I must say that whoever ran this recovery mission for you was in great danger. The wards covering the Library alone are designed to be lethal. To say nothing of those on the rest of the house, and the grounds.'

Draco leafed through the book again, smiling at the happiness caught in the pages.

'So, is it a threat to Harry's safety, in the wrong hands?' Draco asked.

'Alastor Moody thinks probably not. However, in the right hands... those issues disappear.'

'Well,' sighed Draco after a while, not quite understanding what Dumbledore had said. 'Harry will love it. I'll give it to him for Christmas. My father had no right to this book, and it will be my pleasure to return it from my family's illegal keeping to Harry's rightful ownership. But I'm left wondering why on earth my father took it.'

'Ah. Yes. Indeed.' Dumbledore seemed to lose coherence for a while, then looked Draco sharply in the eye. 'I had been wondering that too. But now I know. This will be difficult for you, Draco, very difficult. But I ask you to look at the last page.'

Draco sensed the reluctance in Dumbledore's voice, and he felt a chill as he slowly picked up a wedge of pages and let them fall down, revealing the final page of the scrap book.

Draco guessed the scene was James and Lily's house in Godric's Hollow. Harry was with Lily in an armchair; she was singing softly to him. James entered the room, smiling broadly, with news of a Quidditch triumph. The scene glowed with familial love, Harry at its centre. But then there was a blinding flash, and the intrigue and wonder of the book were obliterated in a single moment as the room was suddenly streaming with Death Eaters. Draco knew instinctively what he was about to witness, and recoiled in horror, unable to stop staring at the page. At this moment of realisation, he found himself inexplicably wondering whether the flash was caused by the Dark Magic necessary to Apparate through protective wards, or the magical destruction of those same wards. As a way of trying to black out - at any cost - the awfulness of what was unfolding before him, he tried frantically to remember what Sirius had told him about the Fidelius charm, and work out how it might affect the hiding place itself, but he was hurled back to hideous reality as the crowd of Death Eaters parted and the gruesome image of a disfigured and twisted man was revealed in their midst. Under a thick black cowl there was a pocked skeletal face with cruel glinting eyes, an angular nose and an evil, narrow mouth: Voldemort. The sweat ran cold over Draco's body and he pulled his robe closer to him. He watched in repulsion as the thin lips parted slowly and a demonic high-pitched cackle filled the room. The Death Eaters were chanting, as if in some kind of religious trance; Lily was screaming; James was shouting manically, incensed, outraged, blinded by fury, brandishing his wand in all directions, ordering Lily two, three, four times to take Harry and run.

'Run, Lily! For God's sake, run!' cried Draco in desperation.

Lily was rooted to the spot by the horror surrounding her, maddened by the futility of trying to hide Harry under her robes. There was the crash of furniture overturning as the Death Eaters overpowered James, and he was restrained by some kind of stasis charm. It didn't stop his voice though, and he bellowed one final enraged cry, one final desperate plea to Lily to try to get away. They were the last words he spoke, as Voldemort closed in, his cackling now closer to ecstasy as he extinguished James's life with the death curse. As James fell heavily to the floor, Lily screamed and her scream ran through Draco's blood like ice; he wanted to slam the book shut and burn it, but some inner grit forced him to keep watching. The monotonous chanting of the Death Eaters was rising in volume like a thronging, maddened mob and Voldemort's possessed cackling was now intolerable, but Draco thought he would rather listen to that for a hundred years than have to hear Lily's heart-rending cries. Her voice wracked in a desperation Draco couldn't begin to comprehend, she pleaded with every ounce of her soul, not for her own life, but for Harry's.

'Not my son! Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!'

Tears streamed down Draco's face. 'Oh God, no!'

'Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead--'

Shielding Harry with her body, Lily stood up defiantly to Voldemort, the certainty of death etched across her beautiful face, at once both terrified and brave beyond imagination.

Draco struggled in his seat, overwhelmed by feelings of fury and helplessness. He needed to help her... she was going to die... she was going to be murdered...

'Not Harry! Please... have mercy... have mercy...'

Draco was falling, falling through an icy mist. He heard Voldemort screech the words Avada Kedavra in a blaze of vivid green light. A long dying wail filled the room as she struggled in her final seconds to conceal Harry under her robes, until she slumped to the floor next to James, Harry still cradled in her arms. The Death Eaters closed around the couple in excited, morbid anticipation of the final kill, and Draco saw Harry's face, open, trusting, miraculously yet tragically oblivious to the unimaginable danger he was in. As the death curse was cast for the third time, the images on the page descended further into chaos as Voldemort's spell rebounded from Harry and back towards the Dark Lord. His cackle metamorphosed into manic, disbelieving shrieks of agony. The Death Eaters swarmed again, this time in panic, and Harry was forgotten. As if caught in slow motion, Voldemort's body vaporised to nothing, the black robe drifting silently to the floor. The uproar among the Death Eaters reached fever pitch and then there was one final image: one of them, standing away from the rest of the group, came closer to the book, regarding it intently. His face appeared on the page, cold, calm, unemotional, then he reached out his hand and the images faded abruptly from the page; he had evidently closed the book. But the face of the Death Eater crushed Draco as much as any of the other appalling things he had just witnessed.

That face was still with him now as he sat beside the lake in the rain. It was the face of his father.

***

'Er... Ron, what exactly are you doing?' mused Hermione, watching Ron concentrating very hard with a scrappy piece of parchment, chewing on an old quill. 'Don't tell me it's homework, because I will simply refuse to believe you. And you've got ink on your lip, by the way.'

They were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione and Harry playing cards with Ginny and Seamus, Neville and Dean playing chess. Ron sat apart, scribbling occasionally.

'Errrrmmm...' came Ron's meaningless reply.

'Steady on, Herm, don't disturb him,' laughed Ginny. 'He's trying to do the seating plan for our meal on Christmas Eve. So far he's managed to get the number of chairs right, but beyond that...'

'Oh,' giggled Hermione. 'You mean, this seating plan?' she said as she fumbled in her bag.

An elaborate and carefully drawn chart was produced from within the depths of Hermione's voluminous book-bag and Ginny gazed at it. 'Oooh,' she cooed. 'That's good!'

Harry glanced over, intrigued.

Hermione moved the chart out of Harry's view and passed it to Ron. 'Not yet, Harry,' she said firmly. 'The arrangements for that night are a surprise. Wait and see.'

'Oh, Herm, this is good,' said Ron, looking it over in appreciation.

Suddenly Harry felt gruesomely sick and light-headed, clutched his stomach like he'd been kicked hard and slumped in his chair with a groan.

'What is it?' asked Ron instantly, and all eyes turned to Harry.

'I don't know,' he said slowly. 'I think Draco is upset. Really upset. I'm going to go and try and find him.'

Ron got up to go with him, but Hermione pulled him back as they watched Harry exit the portrait hole. 'Let him go,' she said. 'If something is wrong, they'll need to be alone.'

***

Still his father's face haunted him, as he sat with his eyes screwed shut, trying to block out the image, sobbing, terrified, lost.

He was simply overwhelmed by the book's implications. As his crying began to subside, he was bombarded by a cascade of terrible thoughts, each suffocatingly worse than the previous one. It was dark and cold, well after 8pm, and he wore only the light robe he had been wearing in Dumbledore's office. An insistent and dreary drizzle soaked and chilled him to his very bones, but he didn't notice. There was only room for one thing in his mind. And he couldn't bear to look at it.

But, as so often in the way of something too awful to consider, avoiding the issue only makes the awfulness worse. The thoughts wouldn't go away, they just wouldn't. Draco stared into the dark water of the lake as the thoughts besieged him, forcing him to look them in the eye, one by one, leading him, pulling him on a journey whose inevitable destination was... unthinkable.

The book had been a wedding present from Dumbledore. Naturally, Dumbledore had only ever envisaged the happiness the book might offer, and what happiness it was, for the most part. But Draco couldn't now see anything positive in the pure, innocent happiness of the rest of the book; it only served as a hideous contrast to the last page. The last bloody page.

If only the book had been made with one page fewer! If only it hadn't been open on that day! If only... if only...

If only I didn't have to deal with this myself! This was Ron's territory - he was Harry's best friend; or Hermione's - she always knew how to deal with something difficult; or Dumbledore's - he always saw the full picture, he would know for sure; or McGonagall's - she was Harry's head of House, it was her responsibility surely; or perhaps Hagrid's - he had known James and Lily, he would surely resent Draco interfering in this matter; or maybe Mr and Mrs Weasley's - they had after all practically adopted Harry, they would have a parent's wisdom; or Sirius's. Yes! Certainly it was Harry's godfather's duty to sort this out.

I could owl him in the morning, thought Draco desperately. Dumbledore could give the book to him. After all, Sirius was James and Lily's best friend; I never even knew them. It's got nothing to do with me. God knows why Dumbledore thinks I can deal with this book...

This book... an outrageous and appalling violation of an object that should only have been for joy. The kind of joy Harry had yearned for all his life. How Draco longed to see Harry's face when he saw the book. He would be ecstatic! Delirious! Right up until the moment when he would see... when he would see... NO! Please no! Damn this book... this book...

This book had been made possible by Dumbledore himself; that should only have made its magic even more special. But it had been desecrated so horrifically that it now included a tableau of the deaths of Harry's parents. No! Not even a tableau! The actual images, the actual experiences, the actual agonies and sufferings!

The real thing. Complete and unabridged.

Oh Jesus, the death of Harry's parents! Parents! Harry's parents! Their deaths!

All his life Draco had known the story of the Boy Who Lived, which was - with each passing year, as Harry grew and the time between him and that awful night increased - essentially a happy story: Harry was a hero to most of the Wizarding world, he was Triwizard champion, he was the youngest and best Seeker in a century, he was the pride and joy of a nation and he embodied the hope of a new era. But because of this bloody book Draco had been slammed up against the truth so hard that it had left him winded. Sure, Harry was the Boy Who Lived; but he was also the Orphan Son of Murdered Parents. Draco had known this all his life too, but few people ever dwelt on that aspect of the story. Harry did of course, and Sirius, and Dumbledore, and a few others; but for most people the truth about Harry Potter was simpler, sanitised, with the pain removed.

Tonight Draco had seen the pain.

James and Lily's deaths, and the attempted murder of Harry himself, were recorded in the pages of a magical book. Was there anything on earth that was worse than your parents being murdered? Yes: having those murders captured in living image for all time. Forever. In a family album. To look at again. To torture yourself with. To tie yourself into knots with. To taint every future scrap of happiness with a permanent reminder of a grisly truth. Oh Harry! How you don't deserve this! It will sit on your shelf forever, taunt you, haunt you, a macabre keepsake of the parents you never knew, a heart of darkness in a life dogged by tragedy. It will fester inside you for years, it will never heal. You will never let it heal. You are too proud, too stubborn, too noble. And I won't be able to help you with it, because you will look at me, and all you will see is my father...

My father, who was present that terrible night...

My father, whose presence makes him complicit in their deaths...

My father, who is a murderer.

In this book was incontrovertible evidence of his guilt. Whatever anybody had ever said, whatever anybody had ever thought, despite Draco's knowledge of his father's acute interest in the Dark Arts, despite circumstances, and rumour, and evidence, Draco had never been completely certain of his father's involvement with the Dark Lord's disciples. Perhaps he had known it and blanked it out. Perhaps he had known it and chosen not to believe. Perhaps he had known it and dared to be proud of the exalted position his father occupied without comprehending the atrocities that inevitably accompanied it. He had admitted it to Crabbe and Goyle. He had admitted it to Pansy. He had even more or less admitted it to Harry. But he had never admitted it to himself.

But now, here it was. Proof. His father was a murderer. His father was a liar, a thief, a plotter, a schemer, a killer, a torturer, a blackmailer, a fraud. A façade of a man. The great Lucius Malfoy. Indecently wealthy, ruthlessly clever, absurdly handsome. But all his gifts and talents and privileges were exploited to hide the truth: Muggle-killer, wizard-murderer. And what more did this book imply about his father? How many more unspeakable crimes did it point to? Blast my father! Damn him! Why?

Why? When he already had everything a man could want, when there was nothing in the world he couldn't buy? Why?

Draco wept in frustration, in shame, in uncovered denial. The rain, heavier now, lashed at him out of the darkness, freezing him, drenching him, but coming nowhere near removing the stain of his father's actions. Oh Harry... oh Harry... how will we ever get over this book, that night, your parents, my father...?

My father stole this book. And he did NOT destroy it. He kept it. Draco's despair was mounting to unsustainable levels. He was shaking, trembling, unable to stop the cascade of thought that bombarded him almost faster than he could follow. He must have been keeping this book as some kind of chilling memento. A trophy. A sickening souvenir of a day-trip to Godric's Hollow. Draco imagined the scene, he couldn't help it; his mind was racing in random directions. Hello Narcissa darling, I went to Godric's Hollow today and I picked up this little book. Charming, isn't it? Look at the happy little people enjoying their picnic! And then it was stashed away in a special place in his father's prized library: in the glass-fronted cabinet with the elaborate lock, along with his books of particular value or rarity. Draco didn't suppose his father was bothered much by Voldemort's demise; perhaps he was growing bored with it all. He doesn't care about anything. Not me, not my mother, so why should Voldemort have been any different?

His father certainly hadn't looked mad with grief like the other Death Eaters. Draco pictured him, flicking through the book, later in life, idly recalling that day in Godric's Hollow, the day he was an accomplice to murder, the day the Potter baby proved so tiresome, the day the Dark Lord was unfortunately vanquished and condemned to an indefinite period of existence without the convenience of a body. And on one such subsequent perusal of this dreadful token, young Draco was summoned to the library: Hello, Draco my son. Come and sit on my knee. Today's book is a special book, because some books can hold more than words. They can hold memories...

Memories that belonged, without doubt, to Harry. Memories that would form his entire knowledge of his own parents.

Despite what it contained, Draco felt in deep in his stomach that this book was crucial to Harry. And he was crushed to think that he had seen the book more times than Harry himself, who wasn't even aware of its existence. Oh Harry! Can any love, Crimson Cloud or otherwise, be strong enough to cope? If I love you for eternity, will it mean I never have to confess? Can any act of contrition of mine absolve the sins of my father? Draco was caught in an impossible trap, and he knew it. His father pulled one way, Harry the other. Abruptly, out of the uncontrollable racing of his frantic mind, a thought crystallised itself so clearly in his head that it blotted all the others out. A choice. A dilemma. An impasse, beyond which he couldn't see. A decision, the most important he would ever make.

Destroy the book: live with the shame of his decision for the rest of his life, maintain the fake reputation of his murderous father, deny Harry his terrible inheritance.

Present the book: risk losing Harry forever, ruin his father, put Harry through hell.

Suddenly Draco was aware of the cold and the rain, and he stared into the intense blackness of the lake, shivering wildly. There was another way out. Just one moment of mad bravery and he would be released from this quandary for all time. It seemed logical. Scarily so. And he couldn't actually be any wetter or colder than he was at that moment. He stood up shakily and moved in the heavy rain towards the edge of the rock, his robe sopping and heavy, his fair hair plastered to his face. He stood teetering on the brink, the icy water just feet below him. The rain continued teeming, oblivious to Draco's actions and intentions.

Time stopped.

COWARD! screamed his father's voice in his head. WHAT ARE YOU? YOU WOULD CHOOSE HIS HAPPINESS OVER MINE? OVER YOUR OWN?

Draco whimpered. Please, leave me alone, please!

COWARD! IS HE WORTH DYING FOR? DO IT, THEN! DO IT!

'SCREW YOU!' shouted Draco fiercely into the wind and rain. 'SCREW YOU, FATHER! I CAN'T DECIDE! SCREW THE FUCKING CRIMSON CLOUD! AND YOU, HARRY!'

Fuck, what am I doing?

He was a Malfoy. Malfoys don't cry. Malfoys don't throw themselves in lakes. Malfoys don't have ethical dilemmas. Malfoys don't put other people first. Nobody is worth dying for. He didn't need Harry; he didn't need his father. Why should my own life suffer because of this? The Crimson Cloud can be beaten. I can walk away from this. Screw that book. Who cares who has it? I bloody don't.

'Draco!'

Gaining a trace of strength, he glanced again into the water and tried to sneer in contempt at his own foolishness. Would he really have done it?

'Draco!'

Nobody could mean that much to anyone. Enough to die for. It was only the Crimson Cloud that made him feel like that. It wasn't really him. Surely.

'Draco! Draco, please! Answer me!'

But if anyone in the world meant enough to him, it was Harry. Harry. Harry. His brief burst of defiance ebbed away as he thought of Harry.

'Draco!'

Harry. Harry who knew what he felt. Harry who he loved. Harry who he would die for.

'DRACO!'

Harry. Harry who was even now gathering his limp, exhausted, freezing body into his arms, who was begging him to talk, whose very presence bathed him in a love he had never known from his father.

'Draco, please talk to me! What's the matter? What on earth's happened?'

Harry. Harry whom he didn't deserve. Harry who removed his own cloak in the pouring rain to try to warm him. Harry who somehow found the strength to lift Draco into his arms and struggle under his weight on the long trek back to the castle.

'Draco!'

Harry. Harry whose warmth flooded through him so that the rain seemed to stop falling. Harry who held him. Harry who would always hold him.

Harry.