Congenital Magnetism

Dumbledore sat at his desk leafing through the documentation for the spell Sybill Trelawney had cast on Harry, a spell she had used in an attempt to control his powers of Veela attraction, which had the male students making passes at Harry every chance they could. Snape stood behind him, occasionally leaning over to make an annotation in the margins. When the two had gone through all the pages, Dumbledore closed the bound volume, and Snape began pacing back and forth across the floor.

“Lord Voldemort is a highly skilled Legilimens,” Snape said. “As soon as he realizes Potter is under a spell that is keeping him asleep, he could use the opportunity to inflict a fair amount of psychic torture on Potter. He has certainly demonstrated his special link to Potter’s mind before.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were squeezed shut. “That was exactly the possibility I was contemplating.” The Headmaster opened his eyes and looked steadily at Snape, who had now stopped pacing. “It will depend on how often Lord Voldemort attempts to invade Harry’s mind. I’ve suspected that the Legilimency attempts are most often very brief, perhaps lasting only a fraction of a second. Harry may often not even be aware of anything unusual when the mental connection is so brief.”

Snape followed the thread of Dumbledore’s logic. “But if Voldemort were able to peer into Harry’s mind for even a fraction of a second, he would know when Harry was awake or asleep; and if he realized Harry was asleep for an extended period…”

“Yes,” Dumbledore continued, “he would be in a position to cause Harry all manner of psychic anguish.” He rose from his chair. “This is only Friday afternoon, and Sybill cast the spell on Harry late last night. Harry will most likely remain asleep in the hospital wing during the next six days. Poppy needs to be alerted so that she can keep a close eye on Harry… in case she needs to equip his bed with physical restraints.”

“Do you think there’s any possibility of Potter causing himself physical injury while he’s asleep?”

“Harry may suffer a great deal during the coming days,” Dumbledore said, “and he may emerge from his seven-day sleep exhausted. He will certainly need some time to recuperate his energies. But no, Severus, I don’t think any psychic assault Voldemort could inflict would lead Harry to injure himself during his time asleep. I think he has at least sufficient powers of Occlumency to shield his mind to that extent.” Dumbledore’s brow furrowed deeply and he was quiet for a moment. “However, Poppy should be prepared for any eventuality.”

The Headmaster was moving toward the door of his office. “We need to speak with Poppy. And, Severus, could you fetch Draco and bring him along with you to the hospital wing? He should be finishing his afternoon classes now.”

Snape’s eyebrows arched up. “Draco?”

Dumbledore smile was playful. “Harry and Draco have formed such a successful collaboration of late. His presence could only help, don’t you think?”

“Their strategies are highly unconventional at times”—Snape coughed, almost choking a bit—“but yes, I admit that a surprising camaraderie has developed between the two. At least it’s surprising to me, given their past history.”

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore, Snape and Draco were seated opposite Poppy Pomfrey in a small antechamber in the hospital wing.

“Mr. Potter has been asleep since he was brought here late last night,” Pomfrey began. “His friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were here visiting him earlier, although only Miss Granger was able to stay in Harry’s room for any length of time. Mr. Weasley began behaving rather oddly. I mean, he was displaying an unusual amount of physical affection for Mr. Potter even though Mr. Potter was asleep”—Draco’s snickers were met with disapproving looks from Dumbledore and Snape—“and Miss Granger suggested to Mr. Weasley that he wait outside, which he did.”

“At the moment…” Madam Pomfrey leaned forward and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “… at the moment, Professor Trelawney is in Harry’s room. She’s performing a spell—actually, I think it’s a full-blown ritual—which she tells me is guaranteed to wake Mr. Potter from his sleep. The Rooster Spell, she calls it. The name of the spell sounds hopeful. I suppose roosters are useful animals in regards to waking people up in the morning.” Furrows appeared on Pomfrey’s forehead and she shifted in her seat. “But this whole ritual seems so… irregular. For one thing, there’s that musical instrument she took in there… an accordion, I believe. Don’t they use that in German-speaking countries? Sybill swears on everything sacred that the Rooster Spell was developed by a renowned Bavarian witch. And what on earth is she doing bringing alcoholic spirits in there with her? I think she called it schnapps.”

Dumbledore, Snape and Draco crept around the room divider that separated Harry’s bed from the rest of the ward and watched as Sybill Trelawney perfected the physical movements of the ritual. She lifted both hands up with her hands open wide, fingers straight up and thumbs straight down. Then she clamped her fingers and thumbs together and opened them again; she did this four times, rhythmically. Next, she lifted both arms up, bent at the elbows, so they were horizontal. Then she snapped her bent arms down against the sides of her chest, and then up again. This, she also did four times in rhythm. After that, she wriggled her arse while lowering her body by bending her knees, using the same rhythm. Finally, she clapped her hands four times. She repeated this entire spell procedure twice.

This, apparently, was a practice round. She was ready for the actual spell. With great ceremony, she raised her wand, aimed it at the sacred Bavarian accordion, then uttered the incantation:

“And a one, and a two, and a—”

—at which point, the accordion began to play inanely bouncy polka music in 4/4 time. The spell ritual had now attained its complete form: the beak-like hand movements, the arms flapping against the chest, the wriggling arse on knees bending lower and lower, and finally, the hand claps. Trelawney repeated all of this four times through, and then…

The accordion melody switched to a glorious polka refrain during which Trelawney filled her glass with a hearty serving of schnapps and downed it in one swallow. She then danced around the circumference of Harry’s bed, waving her arms. Her body movements during this dance refrain were vague and unstructured—perhaps just as well, since her increasingly inebriated state produced an erratic course, which resulted in Trelawney sometimes colliding with the side of the bed.

None of this commotion did anything to rouse Harry from his slumber, and after four verses, a refrain, another four verses and a final refrain, the music came to a merciful stop. Trelawney approached Harry’s bed in hopes of success.

“Mr. Potter… Mr. Potter, are you awake?”

Trelawney heaved a disheartened sigh, but decided to persevere and began the entire sorry performance anew.

Snape turned to Dumbledore and made his concerns known in a loud whisper: “What IS this?”

The Headmaster looked at Snape helplessly with the palms of his hands face up. By this point, Trelawney had drunk a considerable amount of schnapps and was crashing into the bed with increasing frequency, although Harry remained resolutely asleep.

With the next pause in the music, Snape stepped forward into the area around Harry’s bed and intervened.

“Sybill”—Trelawney’s head jerked around in surprise—“I’m sure you’ve exhausted any possibility of success from this spell… er, ritual.” Trelawney’s shoulders slumped.

“Sybill,” said Dumbledore as he moved toward Harry’s bedside, followed by Draco, “your efforts are valiant, but Severus has been studying your documentation for the spell that has sent Harry into a seven-day slumber, and he may be better able to provide us with insight. Perhaps it’s best if you left things up to Severus and I for now.”

Trelawney admitted defeat. “Very well, Albus.” Her eyes were wide and vulnerable behind her thick spectacles. “I just felt somehow responsible for rectifying the unintended effects of my spell.” She paused, looking from Dumbledore back to Snape. “Thank you both for offering your expertise. I feel much better knowing you have matters in hand.” Trelawney glided out the door, and then there was nothing but the faint, tinkling sound of bangles retreating down the corridor.

Pomfrey had now joined Dumbledore, Snape and Draco at Harry’s bedside. Her hand went up to her mouth as her expression turned more serious. “I wanted to wait until Sybill left before I told you about what Mr. Potter was going through earlier, before Sybill arrived. It started soon after Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger left. Mr. Potter began experiencing difficulty even though he was asleep.”

Dumbledore and Snape looked at each other, hoping not to confirm what the other was thinking. Dumbledore spoke for them both. “What sort of difficulty was Harry going through?”

“Nightmares, I imagine,” Pomfrey replied. “He was trying to struggle and thrash about, although he made the kind of movements he would make if his arms and legs were tied down to the bed. Mr. Potter was even shouting at one point. Something about someone torturing him. A little later, he calmed down and he seemed as though he could move his arms and legs freely again. He’s been sleeping peacefully since then.”

Draco was scowling, but said nothing.

“Poppy,” Dumbledore said, “if Harry has any further nightmares, and his movements threaten him with injury, can you equip his bed with restraints? I don’t think it will be necessary, but just in case. Severus and I believe Harry will be under this spell for the next six days, and he may very well go through the same trouble you observed earlier.”

“Yes, of course.” Pomfrey absently pulled Harry’s blanket up to cover his neck.

“And, Poppy… if Severus, Draco and I could have a few more minutes to visit with Harry.”

“Certainly, Albus,” Pomfrey said, leaving the room. “I’ll be at the front desk should you need anything at all.”

“Albus,” Snape said as soon as Pomfrey had left, “the timing of all this is most unfortunate. You know that these last few days I’ve been developing a potion to counteract Veela attraction, but one that is specifically designed for Mr. Potter’s unique chemistry. I already have a blood sample from Mr. Potter, but in addition, I require an object he has had since childhood. The potion relies on the lunar cycle, and it must be completed early Thursday evening, during the last few hours before the new moon. Mr. Potter had promised to provide me with a childhood toy—a toy train engine, I believe—and he was to travel to his uncle’s house this weekend to retrieve it.” Snape looked down at Harry. “However, since Sybill’s botched spell will keep him asleep until late Thursday night, it will be impossible to complete my potion. I will have to wait for another month…” Snape lowered his head until his face was resting in his hands, “… which guarantees another month of yet more Veela-related chaos.” Snape lifted his head up weakly. “Why does everything related to Mr. Potter conspire to produce the most inconvenient result possible? Can anyone tell me?”

“Potter’s toy train engine—I know where it’s hidden.”

Two heads snapped around in unison to stare at Draco. With Harry asleep, Snape dispensed with formality and used Draco’s given name.

“You know where it’s hidden, Draco? How would you know?”

“Potter told me. He hid it under a loose floorboard that’s directly underneath the light fixture in the broom cupboard.”

“I told you, Severus,” Dumbledore said, beaming. “Harry and Draco are collaborating even more effectively than we imagined.” Snape could only spread his hands and accept the undeniable fact of Harry and Draco’s unexpected partnership.

“Draco,” Dumbledore continued, “if I provided you with a Portkey and a letter of introduction, would you consider traveling to the home of Harry’s uncle this weekend to retrieve this childhood toy of Harry’s for us? I think Harry’s uncle and aunt would be much less suspicious of one of Harry’s fellow students than a faculty member.”

Draco shrugged. “Why not? All I have to do is say that I’m fetching it for Potter, and I’m sure his uncle and aunt will do anything they can to help. But how will I explain why Potter isn’t going there himself?”

Snape was now in much better cheer and offered a plausible excuse. “You will tell them Mr. Potter is suffering from a bad cold, and the school nurse has confined him to bed.”

The conversation was cut short by anguished moans, and all three turned toward the bed to see Harry’s body suddenly rigid, his face contorted with pain.

“No more,” Harry said in agony, and a few tears slid onto the pillow.

Draco pulled up a chair close to the side of the bed and sat down. “It’s Voldemort, isn’t it? He’s taking advantage of his link to Potter’s mind.”

“After reading the documentation for Trelawney’s spell,” Dumbledore said, “we came to that conclusion. This spell, Abeyance of Consciousness, allows anyone with a link to the victim’s mind to control the content of his dreams. And only Voldemort has a link to Harry’s mind.”

Draco shifted closer to Harry. “You asked Madam Pomfrey about having to physically restrain him. Do you think Potter’s in physical danger?”

“No,” Snape answered. “We think Mr. Potter has sufficient powers of Occlumency to shield his mind from self-destructive notions, even if Voldemort suggests it. However, the next six days will likely be unpleasant. The nightmares will come and go randomly, and Mr. Potter will feel drained of energy when he wakes up on Thursday night.”

Harry’s fists were tightly clenched and he was quietly whimpering. Draco was sitting very close to Harry, and he took one of Harry’s balled-up fists in both of his hands, gently covering it. Harry’s fist instantly relaxed. Draco moved the palm of his hand until it was flat against Harry’s palm, laced his fingers with Harry’s and began to use his other hand to softly stroke the back of Harry’s hand. Draco’s gesture conveyed such tenderness that Dumbledore and Snape were held transfixed, staring at Draco. Harry’s agonized whimpering had stopped, and his face relaxed as Draco spoke.

“I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow. Where is it that I have to go?”

“The name of the town is Little Whinging,” Dumbledore said. “It’s in Surrey.”

“And you’re sure Potter will be all right?” Draco asked, still stroking Harry’s hand.

Snape was speechless and could do nothing more than watch the image of endearment unfolding in front of him. Dumbledore answered instead.

“Madam Pomfrey will keep close watch. I have every confidence in her ability to keep Harry from harm.”

Draco shifted his attention away from Harry, and he finally became aware of the curiosity Dumbledore and Snape were directing at him. “Potter and I—we’ve sort of looked after each other during this project—you know, the disasters in the Potions classroom, the giant water lilies chasing Potter through the school, collecting plant specimens out in the countryside.”

Draco released Harry’s hand and gently laid it back down on the bed. “Headmaster, you said you have a Portkey and a letter of introduction for me?”

“Come with me to my office, Draco,” Dumbledore replied.

 

* * *

 

Darkness had already descended on Privet Drive when Draco Malfoy appeared on the corner just up the street from the Dursley house. He was still clutching the Cuban cigar that Dumbledore had provided him with, the Portkey that had conveyed Draco from Hogwarts Castle in Scotland to the most self-consciously bourgeois locale he had ever seen. He noticed the orderly series of street lamps, every one of them functioning perfectly, whose soft glow revealed small but perfectly-manicured lawns; there couldn’t have been so much as a blade of grass out of place. Draco put the cigar into his pants pocket and made his way up the street toward number four. As he passed one of the houses, he noticed a small sign that was planted in the grass. The sign read: “Please do not walk on the grass.” It was then that Draco noticed a very short picket fence, about as high as his knees, enclosing the entire lawn. Behind that lay a wide strip of pebbles, and behind the pebbles lay an equally wide strip of mulch. Behind the mulch stood a line of small bushes about two feet in height. And finally, behind all of these various barriers was the grass that the sign referred to. Draco reckoned that if someone were hell-bent on defying the instructions on the sign, he would have to perform a running long jump to clear all the hurdles necessary to land on the grass.

Draco forged ahead, passing several more painfully tidy houses along the way. A garden ornament that stood at the edge of one lawn now caught his eye. It was a life-size statue of a young woman draped in classical Greco-Roman robes. The female figure was modestly clutching the folds of her robe to her collarbone, and her position on the part of the lawn adjacent to the sidewalk gave the observer the impression she was guarding the house from outside forces. As Draco examined the statue, he noticed a plaque at the bottom, whose dark lettering was clearly legible in the glow of the nearby street lamp:

 

~ Purity ~

I abhor all things shady or risqué. I strive to be drab.
I am as chaste as the chalk hills of suburban Surrey, which surround me.
Chalk, I tell you!
I cover and conceal all dodgy liaisons that are better left undiscovered.

 

Draco paused and surveyed the surrounding houses in awe.

“Dear God,” he said to himself. “This is Little Whinging?”

He continued up the street, checked the street number and saw that he had achieved his destination. The house in front of him presented itself as a temple of propriety, from which every sort of vice or doubtful pleasure was surely banished. The house beckoned, and Draco walked up the pathway, realizing that he was approaching the holy grail of staid respectability: number four, Privet Drive. As he neared the door, he glanced at the front window and noticed a hand pulling the edge of the curtain aside a scant couple of inches, which allowed just enough room for a pair of eyes to peer at him from the edge of the window.

Draco was in front of the door, and he suddenly felt self-conscious about his appearance. But what did he have to worry about? He’d taken care to choose expensive, well-tailored clothes that showed conservative good taste. From Dumbledore’s description of the Dursleys, he was prepared for a stuffy atmosphere, but the evening was already exceeding his expectations in that regard. He smoothed his hair in the back and rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal Aunt Petunia, sleek and elegantly dressed. She clearly displayed her Veela inheritance, in spite of herself. In doing so, she provided something of a contrast to the rigid conformity of the house and the neighborhood.

“Good evening,” Petunia said. Her voice had a pleasantness that wasn’t forced; it was clear that she was favorably impressed with Draco.

“Good evening, madam,” Draco replied, using a polished tone. “I’m inquiring after Mrs. Vernon Dursley.”

Petunia’s smile was genuine. “I am Mrs. Dursley, but you may call me Petunia. What is the nature of your inquiry?”

Assessing Aunt Petunia’s behavior, Draco anticipated effortless success. She already seemed to be well disposed toward him, and as soon as he mentioned his association with Harry, she would no doubt be more than eager to provide her treasured nephew with any assistance he required.

“My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am here at the request of my school’s Headmaster. I’m currently working on a school project with your nephew, Harry Potter, and he needs one of his possessions for the project. I believe it’s a childhood toy.” Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Draco thought he detected a disgruntled expression cross Petunia’s face.

“Then you must go to… that school.”

“Hogwarts, yes. Your nephew would have come himself, but he’s laid up in bed with a bad cold.” Draco worried that Petunia might become distraught over Harry’s health, and he would need to calm her fears by giving her a full report of Harry’s “cold” and his expected recovery.

Aunt Petunia merely rolled her eyes. “He’s always been such a hypochondriac, fussing over absolutely nothing. He’s probably too lazy to get out of bed and sent you instead.” Petunia gave Draco a shrewd look. “Did you say Harry was a friend of yours? I mean, did you choose to collaborate with Harry on this project rather than picking another student?”

Draco disguised his growing sense of shock. “No… no. I didn’t choose to work with Potter. We were assigned to work with each other by the faculty.” Draco reflected on the fact that, oddly enough, this was the truth.

Petunia’s good humor returned. “My sympathies,” she said. “Harry has never been anything but a trial for us. So the teachers at that weirdo school are forcing you to work on projects with my worthless nephew? Beastly. I daresay you’re ill-treated at that distasteful school in any number of ways. Draco, did you say?” Aunt Petunia opened the door wide. “Where are my manners? Please, come in. Welcome to my home.” Aunt Petunia led Draco through the small foyer and into the main parlor as she continued chatting.

“Really, I’m surprised you’re mixed up with that crowd at all, that crowd at…” Petunia paused, grimacing, “… at Hogwarts School. I mean, the only criteria by which I can judge are what I’ve seen until now. There was that freakish giant who showed up to retrieve Harry five years ago—why, he must have been 10 feet in height. He was grotesque—absolutely hideous. And, of course, my twisted sister. I’ve always seen her for the weirdo that she was.” Petunia stopped short to appraise Draco anew. “But you’re altogether more presentable. You seem to be from a very cultivated family. Was it really your own wish to attend that school?”

Draco decided to mention Durmstrang Institute without revealing that it was also a school for wizardry. Let this unpleasant woman make her own conclusions.

“No, my parents decided for me. My father had wanted to send me to a school in Scandinavia because the academic atmosphere was more in keeping with his own education. However, my mother insisted on having me attend Hogwarts because it was closer to home, and she had a number of personal connections among the faculty.”

“I daresay your father showed more wisdom in the matter. My husband has a close business associate who himself spent a year at university in Norway, and it was a most satisfactory experience. Pity that your father wasn’t able to prevail. My husband’s associate tells us that the curriculum in Scandinavian schools is quite sensible and sound.”

“Your husband—I mean, Potter’s Uncle Vernon—is he at home?”

“No, my husband and my son, Dudley, are spending the evening at the home of the very same business associate I just mentioned. We feel it would be a grand opportunity if Dudley were to become familiar with the workings of the business world.”

Petunia stopped at the foot of the stairs that lead to the upper floor. “You did say you needed one of Harry’s possessions for your school project.”

“Yes.”

“Follow me,” she commanded, and she started up the stairs without even looking back to see that Draco was following. Draco knew that the object he needed was located in the broom cupboard on the ground floor, underneath the staircase, but he took care not to offend Aunt Petunia and politely followed her upstairs.

Petunia swept past the first door, which was closed, and stopped at the end of the hallway in front of two bedrooms, one on either side. Both bedroom doors were wide open, and she switched on the lights in both bedrooms. Aunt Petunia reminded Draco of a real estate agent showing off the better features of a house to a prospective buyer. With a grand gesture, she extended her hand toward the large, tastefully appointed bedroom on her right.

She wore a pleased expression and said, “This is the master bedroom.”

She indicated the slightly smaller bedroom on the left, which was filled with a variety of expensive-looking toys and gadgetry. “And this is Dudley’s bedroom,” she said, still beaming.

She then retraced her steps back toward the closed door they had passed. She turned the doorknob, threw the door open, switched on the light and flicked her hand toward Harry’s bedroom in a dismissive gesture. This bedroom was far and away the smallest of the three, perhaps half the size of Dudley’s.

“And this is the room we allow Harry to use,” she said, her smile having vanished. “Dudley used this room for his extra toys when he was a child.”

Draco scowled. He tried to make sense of this last piece of information, but was unable to. “But if Dudley used this room for his extra toys, then where… ?”

“We only allowed Harry to use this room as a bedroom after he started attending that school. God knows it’s more than he deserves, what with all the extra bother he’s put us through since his good-for-nothing parents died. But we decided that the Headmaster of your school might have caused trouble for us if we hadn’t given Harry something larger than the broom cupboard to sleep in.”

“The broom cupboard,” Draco said, remembering where Harry had hidden the toy train engine. “That’s where Potter said I would find this object that belongs to him. I think it’s a childhood toy of some kind.”

“Oh, I see,” Petunia said. “I had guessed that this personal belonging of his would be in his bedroom. No matter.” She smiled at Draco and said, “It would have been rude not to have given you a little tour of the house. Let’s go back down to the main floor. I’ll show you to the broom cupboard under the stairs.”

Draco thoughts were scattering in every direction under the assault of new information that was demolishing most of what he had ever believed about Harry. Draco could only ask the question that was of the most immediate concern.

“And before Potter was eleven years old, he slept in the broom cupboard?”

“By rights, he should have been sleeping in some orphanage. But no”—Petunia sighed and looked upwards—“we felt an obligation because he was our nephew, though he’s been nothing but a needless headache since he was a year old. Our only consolation is that soon, we’ll be rid of him for good, and our lives can blessedly return to normal.”

Draco felt unsteady on his feet and didn’t trust himself to walk down the stairs without gripping the banister. At the foot of the stairs, Petunia made a U-turn to walk along the side of the staircase, and Draco stumbled numbly behind her. She stopped in front of a small door. After opening the door, she reached in and flicked a light switch; a single bare light bulb now illuminated the dismal space that housed a few brooms and cardboard boxes.

Draco peered inside. “It might take a while for me to locate the item Potter was talking about.”

“Not to worry,” Aunt Petunia replied. “Take as long as you like. I have some correspondence I have to read. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be in the front parlor.”

Finally alone with his thoughts, Draco stepped into the broom cupboard, looked up and saw that the sloping ceiling was nothing more than the set of stairs above. At the far end of the cupboard, where the ceiling was higher, a set of shelves with some cleaning supplies stood against the wall. Next to the shelves, along the adjacent wall, Draco noticed a desk—incongruous in a broom cupboard—and the desk was small enough to be meant for a child to use. He moved toward the desk, as slowly and respectfully as one might move through a graveyard, and picked up the sole item on the desktop, a tiny toy horse made of plastic. Draco pulled away the chair nestled against the desk, a chair too small for an adult, and he sat down on the edge of the chair. From his seat, he looked slowly around in a circle, seeing what Harry must have seen throughout his childhood, this sad little universe… no windows, no breeze, no sunlight… and he imagined the hammering sound of feet stomping against the stairs above his head.

“Harry.” Draco spoke the name out loud, and the sound of his own voice speaking the name was strange. Ever since first year, he’d only said the name “Harry Potter” a handful of times, usually in a demeaning context. But he’d never spoken Harry’s given name by itself… almost never.

Finally, Draco’s head cleared enough for him to remember what he was there for. He looked over toward the light bulb, and then down at the floorboards directly underneath—yes, one of the boards looked as though someone had pulled out the nails and then set the board back in place. He lifted the floorboard up and found the toy train engine Harry had described. Unlike the little horse on the desk, this toy was made of metal and painted bright red, the single most cheerful item in the broom cupboard. Draco replaced the floorboard and sat back down at the desk. He set the train engine on the desk and gave it a push, letting it roll for a bit before stopping it with his hand before it could fall of the edge.

Draco remembered the countless times when he’d resentfully called Harry the pampered Golden Boy. Now he saw the terrible wound that was Harry’s childhood for what it was and wondered how he could ever heal that wound. Did anything powerful enough exist that could mend that kind of hurt? The answer came to Draco the moment he asked himself the question: affection and tenderness, exactly what fate had denied Harry all those dismal years in this broom cupboard. In his mind, Draco saw a shining image of Harry’s green eyes gazing into his own.

“Angel eyes,” Draco whispered.

Draco held the little red train engine in his hands and patiently waited for his tears to come, but none did. The last time he had cried was when he was seven years old… almost the last time, anyway. The memory was still vivid. He saw the image of seven-year-old Draco wearing short pants in the middle of summer, tripping and falling on some stone steps at Malfoy Manor and skinning his knee rather badly while his father was reading a book nearby. Maybe the incident stood out so clearly in Draco’s memory because Lucius had always loved his son dearly and took the trouble to show it. Draco had gotten up from the ground, his knee bleeding, and a few small tears had escaped down his cheek. His father’s look of surprise and disappointment had been a huge shock to Draco. His tears had stopped instantly, and his father’s words had held him riveted:

“Draco! I expect you to behave like the fine young man you are. I certainly don’t expect you to cry like a cranky little baby. Now get in the house and ask your mother to clean you up. I don’t expect to see any more foolish tears.” From that day forward, Draco had never shed a single tear… almost never.

Draco looked down at Harry’s toy train engine, and he realized that something began to change ever since that day last June at the edge of Hogwarts Lake, the day when Harry told him about the crazy dreams he’d been having, the day after Harry’s ill-advised rendezvous with Kyle Urquhart. Ever since then, Draco had begun to see Harry differently, and somewhere along the way, he’d become more attached to Harry than he was willing to admit.

Where were all his previous notions about Harry? All that remained was regret—for the sixteen-year-old Draco who had never treated Harry as anything other than a rival… for the eleven-year-old Draco who secretly wanted to convince Harry to be his friend… for never having had the courage to show Harry affection. And now all his assumptions about Harry lay in ruins, rusted away or crumbled into dust. Draco desperately wanted to cry for the shattered childhood of the boy he’d grown so fond of. But the tears wouldn’t come, so he just took the red train engine with him and walked out of the broom cupboard, closing the door behind him. Draco walked down the hallway toward the front parlor, hoping he would never again lay eyes on that wretched little broom cupboard under the stairs.

Aunt Petunia was perched on the chaise lounge in the middle of the parlor, and she rose, putting down her correspondence, when Draco entered.

“I trust you found what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” Draco said, holding up the toy train engine. “Just a silly childhood toy, but the school project requires some item that’s been in his possession for many years. I needn’t take up any more of your time this evening. You’ve been most gracious.”

“No trouble at all,” Petunia said.

Draco took his leave and headed up Privet Drive to a discreet location where he could use Dumbledore’s Portkey, the Cuban cigar, to transport himself back to Hogwarts Castle. Casting one last glance around the neighborhood, Draco decided that a little bit of respectable, suburban Surrey goes a very long way.

 

* * *

 

Voldemort had been at it for days now, torturing Harry in dreams. And still Harry slept, a prisoner of Voldemort’s sadistic whims. Harry suffered the illusion of being tied down, a large metal container of warm water suspended over his head. A small hole in the bottom of the container allowed a slow series of drops to fall on Harry’s cheeks. He could see Voldemort’s horrible grimace above him, and finally Harry shut his eyes to it, giving himself up to the misery of the dripping water, but at least shutting out the sight of Voldemort’s face. Harry had become wild with despair. Day after endless day of slowly dripping warm water, but Harry slept on. Finally, Harry knew he had to look into Voldemort’s eyes without showing fear.

Conquer fear and I’ll win, Harry thought, because fear is the only thing that sustains Voldemort.

Harry took several deep breaths—eyes still closed—willing himself to remain calm. He felt another blasted drop of warm water hit his cheeks. If he just kept breathing evenly, he could maintain control, in spite of what he had to face: Voldemort’s grotesque red eyes and loathsome grimace. But he was determined to look straight into those red eyes just to prove he wasn’t afraid. Harry forced himself to open his eyes.

Iron.

The first color that caught Harry’s attention was the color of iron, and images of the wrought-iron gates and window grills that graced parts of Hogwarts Castle danced through his mind. Iron gates and window grills always evoked thoughts of home and shelter and protection because Harry associated them with Hogwarts Castle, a haven where he was free from the Dursleys’ ill will… and Harry realized he was staring into the eyes of Draco Malfoy, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over him. Then he felt another warm drop fall on his face. Harry lifted his hand to wipe the drops from his face, and he finally understood that the drops were Draco’s tears. Harry didn’t have much time to be astonished by any of this because his thoughts were cut short by the first word out of Draco’s mouth.

“Harry,” Draco said.

Harry’s thoughts tripped over each other, and all he could say in reply was “My name.”

Draco slipped his hand under Harry’s pillow and adjusted it so that Harry could shift his head up. “You’ve been asleep for seven days because of Trelawney’s spell. As soon as you were under the spell, we all saw you going through fits of terror in your sleep, and we knew it was Voldemort who was causing it.” Draco reached out and ran his fingers through Harry’s forelocks. “Harry, I was worried. You were suffering so much.”

Harry closed his hand around Draco’s and said, “Say my name again. I like the way you say my name.”

Draco leaned in closer. “Harry.” Now he slid his entire arm under Harry’s pillow. “It’s a beautiful name. I’ll never tire of saying it.”

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand harder. “Your name means dragon. Like a combination of Gryffindor and Slytherin—the head of a lion and the body of a serpent,” Harry mused. “Draco.” Then Harry’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Draco.” Harry wanted to move closer to Draco, but he lifted himself up too quickly, and his eyes squeezed shut as a sharp pain went through him. He dropped back down on the pillow. “… hurts too much.”

“Try not to move too much at once.” Draco brushed the back of his hand across Harry’s forehead in a slow, tender movement.

Harry inched his back up against the headboard, trying to sit up. “I’m sore all over and I still feel tired.”

“We were expecting that,” Draco said. “The spell Trelawney used doesn’t just put someone to sleep for seven days. It also allows anyone with a link to the person’s mind to enter their dreams. Voldemort must have put you through the wringer. Professor Snape showed me the documentation for the spell.”

Harry started and panic flashed in his eyes. “Professor Snape! I was supposed to go to my uncle’s house over the weekend and get that toy, the one Professor Snape was going to use for his potion. He needed to finish the potion by the evening of the new moon—that’s Thursday. What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday night and it must be near midnight.” Draco laid his palm against Harry’s chest and gently pushed Harry back down against the pillow. “Snape has the toy train engine, the one you had when you were a child. He’s already finished the potion.”

“But how… ?”

“Don’t you remember? You told me where it was hidden. In the broom cupboard under the stairs. Underneath the floorboard, right under the light fixture. I had to go to your uncle’s house and get it myself.”

“You?”

“Dumbledore thought your aunt and uncle might feel too intimidated if a faculty member went. He figured they would be less guarded and more willing to cooperate if a student went.”

Harry scowled, hardly daring to look up, as he pictured Draco meeting his aunt and uncle. “And you met both of them?”

“Your uncle and cousin weren’t there. It seems your uncle wanted to take your cousin to the home of one of his business associates, and they were spending the evening there. Only your aunt was at home.”

Harry began to fidget and twist the edge of the bed sheet between his fingers. “Was she rude to you?”

“No, Harry, she was very courteous. Your aunt…” Draco’s voice began to break, “… she’s a superficial person… I mean, she judges people by appearance. Her first impression of wizarding folk was Hagrid—and, of course, she grew up with your mother, whom I think she always hated. She rather took a liking to me… perhaps it was my clothes or manner.” Draco forced a humorless laugh. “Your aunt told me that she thought I must be from a very cultivated family, and she was surprised I was hanging around with anyone at Hogwarts. She suggested it would be to my advantage to associate with a better sort.” Draco looked away from Harry. “Your aunt and uncle have always hated you. She couldn’t have made that plainer.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and continued. “I didn’t let on to anything because I wanted her to cooperate and get your toy train engine for me. I explained that I was taking some classes with you and that we needed one of your childhood belongings for a school project. I told her where you’d hidden it, under the floorboard in the broom cupboard.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “You mean Petunia went to the broom cupboard and looked for my toy train engine while you waited?”

“No.” Draco’s tone was hesitant and almost shy, which was uncharacteristic for him. “Your aunt told me I could track it down in the broom cupboard myself.” Draco opened his mouth, but no words came at first. He had to continue, had to tell Harry what came next, no matter how hard it was to say. “Your aunt told me everything. She showed me the smallest upstairs bedroom and told me your cousin used it for toys when he was a child. But then after you started at Hogwarts—and I think it really disgusted her to do it—your aunt and uncle let you sleep there. The only reason they did it, she said, was because they thought Dumbledore might give them trouble otherwise. The broom cupboard under the stairs was all they gave you for a bedroom until you were eleven. I looked through the broom cupboard myself.”

“Harry…” Draco had to look away again. “All I ever did was treat you with misplaced resentment and call you the pampered Golden Boy. You spent your whole childhood with a broom cupboard for a bedroom, without anyone ever extending so much as a single kindness toward you.”

Draco forced himself to look directly into Harry’s eyes. “Forgive me. Harry, please… forgive me.”

“Draco, you had no way of knowing. I never told anyone about living in the broom cupboard when I was a child, not even Ron and Hermione. I think Dumbledore was the only one who ever knew.”

“But you tried to tell me last week, when we were collecting plant samples in the bog. You tried to tell me how your uncle and aunt treated you, but I wouldn’t listen. I thought it had to be a joke, and then you just gave up trying to convince me.”

Draco moved one knee farther onto the bed and wrapped his arms behind Harry’s neck, bringing the two of them closer to each other.

“From now on, if you tell me something, I won’t ignore you. Never again. I’ll believe you, Harry. I promise.”

Harry was just gazing at Draco, rapt, when Draco released Harry, reached down toward the floor and pulled something out of his backpack. He handed Harry something soft that was wrapped in tissue paper.

“I stopped in London on my way back from your uncle and aunt’s house. I got you something for later in the year, when it’s cold.”

Harry peeled away the fine white tissue paper and found himself holding a gray scarf made of the softest material he had ever felt in his life. He brought it up to his face and let it caress his skin, and he looked up at Draco, eyes all full of wonder.

“How can anything feel this soft?”

Draco chuckled and said, “It’s cashmere.”

“I’ve never had anything this fine before. My uncle and aunt only gave me my cousin’s hand-me-downs.” Harry lowered his gaze toward the scarf. “I never had nice things.”

“I know. Your aunt and uncle didn’t want you to have nice things. But I do.”

“Draco? You know what I miss even more? Some kind of shelter from all that hostility… you know, first from the Dursleys, then from Voldemort. I mean, I really don’t mind everyone expecting me to do the world some good and defeat Voldemort. I guess there’s no way out of it, even if I wanted to avoid the fight.”

“No, I don’t think there’s any way out of it. Voldemort picked you, and you’re going to have to face him.”

“But it wasn’t something I asked for. It was only chance, something that happened when I was one year old. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort making me his target, I would’ve just been some scrawny anonymous first-year student that no one paid any special attention to, and you know, that would’ve been fine with me.”

It occurred to Draco that Harry didn’t see himself the way others saw him. Scrawny? That lithe, beautiful body was so inviting that Draco found himself examining every inch of Harry’s form. As unsettling as it was to think of Harry that way, he imagined peeling off Harry’s bedclothes, like gift-wrapping paper.

Harry was certain he noticed something different in Draco’s expression, something he hadn’t detected until now. Draco’s chest was so close, and Harry took a chance. It was outrageously ambitious, but Harry deposited his head directly on top of Draco’s chest. So what if Draco was probably straight? Who cares what his Slytherin pals might say? The hell with it. Harry decided that, under the circumstances, the best strategy was to keep talking.

“People think it’s my job to rid the world of Voldemort, so I just drag myself through everything he throws at me. Between the Dursleys and Voldemort, it’s one storm after another, and I always wind up cold and wet.”

Draco battled with himself to maintain some sense of decorum, and lost. He reached his arms around and pressed Harry’s head even more securely against his chest.

“A never-ending storm with no shelter,” Draco said, and then he brushed some silken waves of black hair out of the way and planted a soft kiss on Harry’s forehead. He lifted Harry’s chin up until they were eye-to-eye.

“Pomfrey and Dumbledore tell me you’re not going to be feeling great for a couple more days, with everything Voldemort’s put you through. The last seven days have been hell for you.” Draco laced his fingers with Harry’s. “Let me be your shelter, all right?”

Harry uttered a soft moan. Some switch inside his mind toggled from off to on. Harry’s tears finally came, and they were tears of relief.

“OK, Draco. You take care of me.”

Draco cradled Harry in his arms and looked out the window at the night sky. Even though he knew it was the night of the new moon, Draco still missed the moonlight, but he knew there would be other full moons. Last week when they were out in the hills and bogs, there wasn’t enough of a moon to really see Harry’s eyes in full moonlight. Draco scrutinized the color of Harry’s eyes by candlelight, counting the different shades of green, and he fancied knowing what Harry’s eyes would look like in moonlight. Harry snuggled against Draco’s chest, and Draco squeezed his arms tighter around Harry as they looked out the castle window at a sky that was lit only by the stars.