Choices

Chapter Eleven - Winter's Light

The winter here's cold

And bitter

It's chilled us to the bone

~Sarah McLachlan, Full of Grace

***

Harry undressed mechanically, climbing into his pyjamas without noticing the cold of the floor or the fact that the fire in the grate was dying to embers. He was always cold, now; it seemed as though the chill of the little tower room had settled into his bones that afternoon, frozen him from the inside out as soon as Draco had left him.

Draco had left him. It still hurt, in a numb way. Harry wondered if this was what being in love was supposed to feel like, this way that he couldn't seem to feel anything else, couldn't stop thinking about Draco. He had spent precisely seven hours in Draco's presence since that Saturday afternoon, and had spent every minute of the time battling the painful impulse to glance over at the other boy. By himself, or with others, it hurt in an empty sort of way, but when Draco was there the pain intensified to clenching ache inside him, as though the Slytherin had reached into his chest and wrapped his fist around Harry's heart. In a way, Harry supposed, Draco had. And he had let him.

Was this what it felt like to have your heart broken? Harry didn't know; the bitter ache he had felt during the Triwizard Tournament when he saw Cho Chang with Cedric had hurt, he supposed, a little, but it had been nothing compared to this. It wasn't even the pain so much as the emptiness; what was he supposed to do now? Just get on with his life, get over Draco as he had watched so many of his friends and fellow students get over their own crushes and heartbreaks? How could he even pretend to live a normal life - or as normal a life as he could usually manage - when he felt this way?

Curling up beneath the blankets that one of the house-elves had considerately placed a warming spell on, Harry wondered bitterly when he had become so attached to Draco Malfoy. Just over a month of daytime sniping masking shared nightmares and comfort in the darkness, and suddenly the Dark Arts and six years of enmity meant nothing compared to the memory of one thoughtless, unintentional kiss. No matter how many times Harry told himself that it had meant nothing, that brief, intimate touch remained like a scar under his skin. Worse still were the other memories, memories of holding Draco's shaking body in his arms, of whispering soothing, meaningless words to pull the other boy out of nightmare, of quiet nights spent sharing each others' warmth. The feel of Draco's slight form in his arms was as vivid as it had ever been, tinged now with pain and wistful regret. Harry had wondered more than once in these past few days what he would do if he were put in that situation again...

It was quiet; the chill of the new-fallen snow seemed to muffle all sound. Faintly, as if from a distance Harry could hear footsteps on the stairs, the sounds of his fellow Gryffindor boys getting ready for bed. He felt as far removed from them as if he was on the moon. It was ridiculous, he knew; it was stupid and foolish of him to be behaving like this. But the world had taken on a strange inevitability; just as he had been unable to prevent himself from falling, now he was powerless to stop himself from hitting the ground.

***

Ron sighed and prodded a loose coal back into the fire with the poker. He just didn't know what to do about this; planning campaigns and strategies was one thing, but there, there were numbers, facts, solid things to grasp and manipulate. Emotions... he had never been good at emotions at the best of times, and this depression that his best friend had fallen into recently baffled him. Harry's gloom and introspection seemed to hang over the whole castle like a shroud, and Ron had no idea how to lift it.

"Aren't you worried?" Hermione asked again in a despairing tone of voice, and Ron turned to face her, the light of the flames lingering in his eyes and making strange patches of colour across her face for long moments.

"Of course I am. I just don't know what to do about it." Hermione's face was unhappy, her mouth turned down, and Ron sighed, reaching out to pull her down to the hearth beside him. She settled into the crook of his arm with a sigh, snuggling unhappily against his shoulder. Silence ruled them for a few moments as their thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the unhappy boy who lay shivering in his cold bed in the tower above them.

"He seems so... sad," Hermione whispered after a while. "I've tried to get him to talk to me, but he just mumbles, and stares off into space, and doesn't answer."

"He's not talking to me either," Ron murmured. It didn't surprise him, he supposed; Harry had never really talked about his feelings to anyone, even them. But then, neither of them had ever seen him this affected by anything before. It wasn't that he was pretending everything was all right; it quite clearly wasn't, but neither of them knew why or what had happened to cause this profound sadness in their friend. Although... Ron remembered again the way Harry had seemed so subtly different in the past few weeks, and wondered. "Hermione?" he asked slowly, thinking back.

"What it is?" She shifted against him, looking up concernedly into his face, and Ron was struck again by how much she had come to mean to him - and how beautiful she had grown. He remembered her during their first year, a skinny, bossy little bushy-haired girl, remembered the astonishment he had felt during the Yule Ball in fourth year - astonishment, and a dawning pain. He smiled now, wondering how he could have been so stupid for so long.

"These last few weeks - has Harry seemed different to you?"

"Different how?" she asked, frowning in thought. He could almost see her fingers itching for a quill to tap against her lips, and resisted the urge to kiss her there instead. After all, they were trying to have a conversation...

"I don't know... like there was something he wasn't telling us?"

"Now that you mention it... he did act very strangely about that charm..." Suddenly, she looked guilty as he frowned curiously at her.

"What charm?"

"I can't really say," she answered apologetically, biting at her lip. "It was... something he asked me to research for him, but then he didn't want to use it afterwards... It was a little strange, that's all."

He remembered now; they had been in the study room, and he and Harry had been discussing... Ron's eyes widened. Could that be it...? "Hermione... does it seem to you like maybe he's been... seeing someone?" he asked tentatively.

"What?" She pulled back a little, looking astonished, and he carefully relaxed his arm, letting her go. "But... Surely... Harry?" It seemed to be all she could say, and Ron saw a curious kind of hurt in her eyes. It hurt him too; the idea that Harry, his best friend, wouldn't trust Ron enough to tell him if he was with someone... yes, that was definitely painful.

"Think about it, love," he suggested gently. "He's been secretive, acting differently - and now he's depressed and hurting..."

"You think... he's broken up with someone?" Hermione asked slowly, and now Ron could see in her eyes that she was going back over the past term, looking for any clue that her formidable mind could discover. "Maybe... but why wouldn't he tell us, if he had a girlfriend?" And now he could hear the hurt in her voice. "We're his best friends!"

"Maybe..." Ron said slowly, wondering if he was entirely within his rights to confide his suspicions to Hermione, even if she was his girlfriend. They were only suspicions, after all, and they might very well be nothing more than cobwebs and moonbeams. But surely... "I've been thinking... it... might not be a girl..."

For several long moments there was no sound in the room but the soft crackle of the fire. He watched as she stared, then blinked in astonishment, her lashes casting soft-edged shadows onto her cheeks, then finally exhaled the breath she had been holding. "Harry?" she asked finally, in a very small voice. "You really think Harry might... be gay?"

"I've... wondered," Ron admitted slowly, thinking back over the last couple of years. Remembering the open door and empty room he had found the other week when he had gone to return Harry's Broom Repair Kit in the early hours of the morning, remembering the nagging suspicion that this was more than another nocturnal excursion and the realisation that there was no way that Harry could be in a girl's dormitory. Ancient rules, and powerful magic, and the way Harry had blushed, last summer, when he thought no one was looking...

Hermione's breath escaped her on a little "oh," and Ron felt his heart contract. He knew; he had always known that however much he wished, she would never be his alone, and he wondered now just how much this was hurting her. Slowly, she turned her face up to his. "Do you think we should ask him? Not about... that," she added hastily as she saw his brows draw down. "He - he'll tell us, if... I meant, whether he's been seeing somebody."

"I don't know," Ron answered slowly. Harry hadn't wanted to talk about this before... Hermione saw the look in his eyes and burrowed under his arm again, settling warm and solid against his side.

"We have to do something," she said at last, so softly that Ron wasn't sure he'd been meant to hear that. He closed his eyes, seeing the red glow of the fire through his eyelids, and tried to ignore the painful stab of his heart.

***

"God." Draco clutched at his blankets, gasping in the cold dungeon air as he tried to will his mind to calmness. Maybe it was just that over the last few weeks he had grown used to having Harry there to wake him, to the unspoken reassurance that he wouldn't have to suffer all that pain and fear and sick darkness, but the nightmares these last few nights had seemed worse than they had ever been before. Or maybe it was the lack of those comforting embraces he'd thought he had paid so little mind to...

Hell. He was thinking about Harry again, despite all his vows to put the other boy out of his mind. Thinking about the sad, shocked pain that had been in Harry's face that afternoon - the dying light from the window had shone full in his face, lighting his skin to an eerie clarity, and Draco had known that he would remember that lonely image all his life. Damn, why can't I stop shivering? Breathing deeply, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly about them, holding on. He needed to get as much honest sleep as he could manage; Slytherin were playing Hufflepuff tomorrow, and Draco knew that he hadn't been flying well recently.

Harry really had picked a perfect time to decide to have feelings for him, Draco thought with a grimace; he needed his sleep more than ever right now. Not just because of Quidditch and school marks but because the start of the Christmas holidays was approaching fast, dragging his birthday and the appointment his father had arranged close behind it. Two short weeks, and in that time he had to work out what he was going to do; he had to somehow find a way of escaping Voldemort. And how he was supposed to do that when nightmare and fear ate at his mind like one of Snape's acids, he had no clue.

It had come down to that: he had to escape Voldemort. The idea of willingly submitting to his Death Eater initiation brought nausea to his stomach and a fresh fit of shivering to his body; Draco knew that if he had to face the Dark Lord again he would disgrace himself utterly. He simply had to find a way to avoid that fate. Of course, he thought bitterly, it was easier said than done. After all, it wasn't as if he was Harry Potter, with his charmed life and his by-now predictable knack for getting himself out of deadly situations. He was no brave and noble Gryffindor, and all his Slytherin cunning couldn't seem to get him any nearer to a workable solution.

Thoughts of a certain brave and noble Gryffindor were beginning to make his face heat up, among other things; Draco swore and shifted his position irritably. Having to deal with that on top of everything else was just what he wanted right now; just what anyone would want. Why did it always have to be Harry Potter who stole his composure and left him red-faced and panting and alone? The knowledge that, strictly speaking, he didn't have to deal with this alone flashed through his mind again, and Draco groaned, burying his face in his arms. No. He had been right to say those things to Harry, he knew he had. Harry didn't want him, he wanted some noble Gryffindor ideal of a relationship. This strange connection, the nightmares... it was just confusing him.

I hate him, Draco told himself experimentally, but the words had no force and did nothing to dampen his traitorous body's enthusiasm. His fingers were itching to touch himself, to seek a fleeting pleasure in his own hands and try to exorcise Harry's face from his mind that way, but he schooled himself to stillness, refusing to give in to the craving. Stretching out on his bed in the darkness, Draco turned his mind determinedly to the real problem at hand. He had to remember that; no matter how immediate and urgent this irrational desire of his seemed (especially in the nights, and in Potions class when they worked together, and when he sat in the tower room to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch team practice), Potter wasn't important right now. It was just some silly reaction of his body, just his hormones pointing out that he had spent too much time in the boy's company, that was all.

Sometimes, over the last few days, Draco had thought he had almost arrived at a solution. He could feel the shape of it in his mind, like something stumbled over in darkness, but it lacked flesh or subtleties; he felt like a blind man trying to paint as his mind struggled to fit the pieces together. There had to be something, Draco knew it. There had to be a way, because otherwise he was as good as dead.

***

The Gryffindor crowd around them cheered as Hufflepuff scored another goal; they were leading by 30 points to 10, and it was barely ten minutes into the game. Harry shifted restlessly, avoiding Ron's concerned gaze and staring up at the slowly circling figure of the Slytherin Seeker. He didn't know what it was, but there seemed to be something slightly off-kilter about Draco today; he seemed distracted somehow, slower to react than usual, less swift and precise. Of course, Draco off his peak was still a damn good flyer, Harry reassured himself pointlessly, then shook himself a second later. Damn, this was getting irrational; there was no reason to actually worry about him...

"Harry, aren't you paying attention?" Ron demanded excitedly. "Davis just made the most amazing save..." Seamus, on the other side of Hermione, Harry noticed, was bouncing up and down in his seat, his eyes following the Hufflepuff Chasers. Quickly, Harry pulled his eyes away from that single, solitary figure.

"What? I was looking for the Snitch..."

There was something in Ron's eyes, as if just maybe he might not believe Harry quite as readily as he seemed to, but he launched into a detailed description of the manoeuvre all the same. Harry felt a little guilty about deceiving his friend, but after all, there was no way that Ron would let the fact that Harry had been watching Draco Malfoy pass. And no way on Earth or below it that he would ever believe the truth, Harry thought cynically. Whatever the truth was...

Slytherin were losing, fifty to ten. Hufflepuff had improved their defence since last year, Harry thought absently, and it showed. Slytherin... Draco wouldn't be happy about that; Harry wondered how he would show his anger if his house lost. Would he take it out on others, on the furniture? Or would he simply bottle it all up inside himself as seemed to have become his habit this term?

Harry was watching him again, he realised; the soft flip as Hermione turned the pages of her book and the excited shouts of the crowd seemed to dim somehow, as Draco filled his eyes again. He had always thought that the other boy flew with something of the grace of a bird in flight; now it was as though that careless bird had been shot in the wing. Draco seemed... heavier, somehow. Weighed down; Harry wondered if it was just the exhaustion of the nightmares, or something else. Perhaps this new awkwardness of flight reflected some new knowledge; perhaps, after all, Draco had accepted what he had told Harry was his fate.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was quiet and concerned. "You're zoning out again; I thought you wanted to come and watch the match."

Harry blinked hastily. "I did," he protested. "I do. I am watching, honestly..." She merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to her book. It wasn't a Gryffindor match; Harry knew that while she wasn't particularly interested in the game, she had come along today because Ron had asked her to. It was ironic, in a way, he supposed; he himself had only been persuaded to leave his room by fact that it was Slytherin playing, and the opportunity to watch Draco. Silently, he willed the Snitch to appear soon, while Slytherin could still make up their points deficit. Draco's aimless circling bothered him; it felt somehow wrong for the other boy to be exposed to the eyes of the school in this condition, even though Harry knew that no one else would likely notice that strange and sickening difference in him. Pulling the fabric of his cloak over his hand, Harry surreptitiously crossed his fingers for luck, and a swift end to the game. It felt illicit and disloyal. It felt like the only thing he could do.

***

Stomach lurching dizzily, Draco turned his Firebolt again and flew slowly back towards the Slytherin goals. His team weren't playing up to their best, and as Crabbe flew past, bat upraised, Draco summoned the residues of his willpower and directed a pointed glare at him. He had ended up with even less sleep last night than he had anticipated; after the nightmares he had been plagued by disturbingly erotic dreams that had left him sweat-soaked and thrashing until the early hours. Dreams of Harry, of course; they had started out with soft light and laughter, and the memory of that kiss he had thought banished. And then there had just been Harry; Harry's mouth on his, Harry's hands on his skin, Harry's tongue twining with his own, Harry's body thrusting slickly against his...

Altogether, it had left Quidditch the absolute last thing Draco wanted to face today, but there was no way out of this obligation. Irresolute, he scanned the sky. There had been no sign of the Snitch, and he was getting increasingly edgy. As long as he could catch it soon, Slytherin would still win, and he could go back to his room and try to think in peace. He was tempted to try something, some flashy aerobatic manoeuvre that would let him work off steam, but Draco knew he was too distracted; he didn't want to risk doing something stupid like fall off his broom in front of the whole school. Life was difficult enough already without being laid up in the infirmary, let alone being a laughingstock for weeks. And what his father would say...

Frowning, Draco turned again, scanning the far side of the pitch. No tell-tale flash of gold; no shouts from players surprised into stillness by flickering silver wings. Where had the silly little thing got to? It had been almost half an hour without a sight of it, and Slytherin were in serious danger of losing if it didn't make an appearance soon.

Shouts from the other end of the pitch distracted him, and Draco wheeled his broom around hastily, hating the exhaustion that added weight and clumsiness to his movements. Slytherin had scored; Blaise punched the air in celebration and the chill winter sunlight glinted off the silver ties on her gauntlets, picked out sparkles in the air. Draco saw the Hufflepuff girl - some third year whose name he couldn't recall - spin to focus on them, then turn back in apparent unconcern.

Sighing, he lifted one hand from the shaft of his broom and pushed his hair back from his forehead. He was tempted to signal Madam Hooch for a time-out so that he could bully some additional skill into his players, but he knew it wasn't likely to do any good when Draco himself was so distracted. He was certain, irrationally he knew, that he could feel Harry's gaze on him, aching like the remembered caresses of his dreams - themselves burnt indelibly into his memory.

A flicker of something right at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and before he really knew it Draco was moving, tilting his Firebolt forwards and falling into a steep dive. It was the Snitch; he could see it now, hovering aimlessly a few feet above the green-brown grass of the pitch. Although it had snowed midweek, in typical English fashion the stuff hadn't settled, leaving Hogwarts more like a wet, slushy bog than the fairytale confection of sugar it could sometimes resemble.

He was falling almost vertically through the sky; the ground was coming up fast before him, filling his vision, and for a moment Draco remembered that this was how it had been to fly, last summer. Before... before. He didn't really register the gasps from the crowd as the Snitch dipped even lower. He was bearing down on it almost vertically; there was no room for him to level out his dive safely if he wanted to catch it, so he would just have to take his chances. And at least, if he cracked his skull open on the Quidditch pitch, he wouldn't have to face Voldemort again. Wouldn't have to face his own fear...

Pulling one hand from his broomstick with an effort, Draco stretched out his fingers as he hurtled downwards, keeping a tight control over his descent. Almost... almost... there. His fingers grazed the surface of the little ball, and Draco yanked the Firebolt upwards, throwing himself backwards as his fist tightened about his prize. There were only a few feet in it... perhaps he had misjudged the distance after all... he screwed his eyes shut.

His feet dragged hard against something solid, and Draco's eyes flew open in relief; he had made it in time, despite the ache that told him he would have bruises tomorrow, and maybe even strained muscles where he had skimmed the ground. The Snitch was beating its wings against his fingers in a show of futility, and as he slowed to a halt Draco raised his hand into the air. The roar from the Slytherin stands was overwhelming; the disappointed sighs and boos of the rest of the school something he had long since become used to. The tiny part of him that dared to hope that maybe, just maybe Harry wasn't one of them was irrational and deluded, and mattered a lot less than the muddy scrapes on his new Italian leather Quidditch boots.

***

The minute he stepped into the common room, Harry knew that something was up. Ron was alone in the room except for a few younger girls in one corner, standing by the fire looking serious. He looked up as Harry entered the room, and by the complete lack of surprise in his eyes Harry knew that he had been expected. Ron's face had taken on that intent expression that Harry saw sometimes in Lupin's classes, and when he played chess; he was planning something, and Harry realised with a sinking feeling as his friend beckoned him over that it had to do with him.

"Hi." Unaccountably nervous, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the parchment crackle of the Map beneath his fingers and remembering; one week and one day since he had last used it. This time, though, there was another piece of parchment tucked carefully inside its folds; something far more important.

"Hey, Harry." Ron regarded him seriously for a moment. "Can I have a word?" He waved a hand at the sofa, and Harry walked over and sat down with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Ron wasn't smiling at all - how much did he know, or guess? And far more importantly, how was Harry going to get out of here so that he could find Draco?

"Sure." Harry couldn't bring himself to meet Ron's eyes; they suddenly seemed far too knowing. He knew, had always known, that Ron would not approve of his strange, lopsided relationship with Draco. There was no way he could make Ron believe that Draco was suffering in this, no way to convince his friend that the Slytherin boy was anything less than the Antichrist. There was too much history between the two of them; there should have been too much history between Draco and Harry, but circumstances seemed to have made a mockery of everything he'd once thought he believed. Harry grimaced, then sighed and looked up. "What's the matter, Ron?"

Ron was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was worried. "Harry, what's wrong? Please tell me; we've been worried about you..."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Concern - it was so difficult to guard against it; it wasn't something he'd had much experience of before he'd come to Hogwarts, and sometimes he still found it faintly astonishing that people could worry for him. "I... I can't tell you. Not now - not yet. I'm sorry."

"Look" Ron put one hand on his shoulder, and Harry looked up into his face wearily. He was so tired of this, so tired of the secrets, and the evasions, and he had always told Ron and Hermione everything before... But Draco. Draco must be just as tired; it wasn't his fault that Harry had gone and stupidly fallen for him, when all he had asked for was help. Draco was helpless in the face of the nightmares, and then there was his father, and Voldemort, and Harry knew that there was no way he could leave the situation like this. He had to find Draco...

"I know you," Ron was saying; Harry tried to smile at him. "Anyone can see that something's upset you this past week, and before that you've been distracted for ages - can't you tell me? Or Hermione? You know we wouldn't judge you, Harry..."

Harry swallowed a start of surprise; he had been right to think that Ron knew more than he was letting on. And then, he supposed that this was inevitable really. He would have to tell them sometime, have to get over this silly juvenile crush eventually. "Thanks, Ron... Look, I'm kind of busy now. I... I need to go and do something, okay?"

"But you'll talk to us?" Ron pressed, looking at him intently. "I swear, mate, we just want to understand..."

"I know." Harry tried to smile again. This was it, then; he would find Draco and do what he had to, and then he would come back here and try to explain. "I'll talk to you - both of you," he added, and watched as Ron's face lit up with relief.

"Well, okay then. I'll just... I'll just go and see Hermione for a while, then." He grinned, and for a moment Harry thought he saw the shadow of the lanky, red-headed boy he had met on the train all those years ago. He's changed so much since then - we all have. He smiled back, and sat for a moment watching as Ron left the room. Then, taking a deep breath, he rose and crossed to the portrait hole.

He already had a pretty good idea where Draco would be; it wasn't until he had climbed the stairs that Harry took the Map from his pocket and unfolded it carefully. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he said softly, watching as the lines unrolled across the page, and wondering in the back of his mind whether the words would become truth. Seeing Draco, being in the same room with him; it couldn't be a good idea to put any more stress on his self-control than he was already labouring under. Maybe I'm some sort of masochist, he thought with resigned amusement. I know this is going to hurt, and I'm doing it anyway.

The little green dot labelled Draco Malfoy was just where Harry had thought it would be, pacing slowly across the narrow floor of the old Owlery. Remembering the chill of last week, Harry began to wish that he'd thought to bring his cloak. How can he stand it, up there? Harry wondered, taking the stairs slowly. It hadn't snowed again, but for the last few days the clouds had been hanging grey and ominous over the castle, and the wind had been bitter. It would be Christmas soon, but Harry had never felt less like celebrating since he had come to Hogwarts. The prospect of the holidays was something he viewed with a niggling, anticipatory dread; both Hermione and Ron would be going back to the Burrow for the break, and although Harry had been invited along too, in the end he had decided to refuse. They deserved some time alone together, without feeling like they had to constantly support him, and even Christmas alone at Hogwarts was a thousand times better than with the Dursleys.

Draco would be gone too. Harry wondered whether this was a good thing. On the one hand, he wouldn't have to deal with the Slytherin's silent presence at meals and classes, but then on the other hand Draco would be gone.

Malfoy was no longer pacing the floor when Harry slipped into the little tower room; instead he was leaning on one of the wide windowsills, looking out over the dreary landscape. The sight hit Harry like a blow, and he swallowed convulsively before moving forwards and shutting the door carefully behind him. It was a few moments before he realised that he was shivering; the room was achingly cold, a bitter wind blowing through the unglazed windows and stinging his face. It lifted Draco's hair, stirring it fitfully so that the pale stuff seemed alive in the dim winter light. Soon the sun would set, and the darkness would begin creeping up the walls of the tower again. Harry had never liked winter very much.

Draco was still staring out of the window; he gave no sign that he had noticed Harry's presence behind him. Hesitantly, Harry stepped forward again and cleared his throat. There was no response; Malfoy seemed rooted to the spot like an alabaster and ebony statue, all black robes and pale hair lifting in the wind.

"Malfoy?"

At the sound of his name, Draco started violently and whirled around to face him, eyes wide and vulnerable in his pale face. A second later, though, Harry wondered if he had imagined it; Draco's face shut down into the blank, emotionless mask he was accustomed to seeing. "Harry," he said quietly, after an endless instant of wordless silence. He looked tired, Harry realised slowly; almost as drawn and weary as he had seemed back in September and October. His eyes were deeply shadowed, and even through the pretence of indifference there was something haunted about them. Maybe, Harry thought slowly, this wasn't such a bad idea as I thought...

"Malfoy," he said again, helplessly, wondering where to start. "Are you okay?" It was a stupid question; he could see that Draco wasn't; he had known even yesterday at the match that something had been wrong.

"I'm fine," Draco said in that bland, indifferent, emotionless voice that cut a lot more than anything he could have said, because it meant that he didn't trust Harry, wouldn't accept his help. Harry remembered, as if from a distance of years rather than mere months, a time when he would never have willingly stayed in the same room with Draco Malfoy for more than a minute, and smiled cynically. If that was the way things were... perhaps it was the way they were meant to be, after all.

"What do you want?" Draco demanded, when it became clear that Harry had no words ready. Bitterly, Harry wondered whether this was the real Malfoy after all, and all the fear and helplessness and indecision that he had seen in the last few weeks had just been an act.

"I've got something for you, is all." Harry shrugged uncomfortably, and pulled the piece of notepaper with its intricate inked design out of his pocket. Best just to get it over with and leave; Draco had made it plain time and time again that he wanted nothing to do with him. Gripping his wand tightly, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed his left hand with the paper to the centre of Draco's chest. The Slytherin boy's eyes went wide, and his mouth tightened, but Harry ignored him, pressing his wand to Draco's forehead and reciting carefully, "Somnus sine obscurus; requiescat in pace.". A bright crimson flare filled the little room momentarily, and Harry felt the heat against his palm as the paper crumbled to ash. Nice one, Hermione...

***

Draco was taken completely by surprise when Harry pointed a wand at his head and spoke some kind of incantation. The crimson light and the flare of heat through his whole body threw him into an utter panic, and he yanked himself desperately away, fumbling for his own wand with shaking hands.

"What was that?" he demanded shrilly, mind trying to link the effects he had felt with some spell he knew. Crimson and heat; was it a love spell, then? Had Harry gone utterly mad and tried to put him under a compulsion? "What have you done to me?" He raised his wand with shaking hands, trying to point it at Harry's throat, but it wobbled helplessly.

"Nothing!" Harry protested immediately, eyes wide as if he had not expected such a reaction. He raised his hand to push his glasses back up his nose, and Draco saw an ashy smear on his palm.

"You did something! What was that spell?"

"Malfoy, I swear, it won't hurt you!" Harry protested. "It's a charm Hermione found; it's supposed to stop nightmare-curses, and I thought..."

Oh... Draco stared at him for several seconds, trying to hang on to the anger that was rapidly draining out of him. He was too tired to deal with this right now. "You might have warned me," was all he eventually said, in a much quieter voice than he had really intended, as he slowly lowered his wand. "I could have killed you or something."

Harry snorted, relaxing visibly, and Draco tried to summon a glare through the heavy exhaustion that seemed to cover him like a fog. "You've tried that before," he observed wryly, "and I'm still here."

He was still here. Draco frowned slowly. Despite everything, despite the way he spoken last week, the way he had pushed the boy away and made it clear he no longer wished for either his company or his assistance, Harry was here. Why? Why did he come to find me? Just because of this charm? Is that all? Or... Harry was standing so close; they were barely feet apart and Draco was becoming intensely aware of the limitations of the space between them. "Why are you here, anyway?" he demanded suddenly, trying to hang onto his self-control. Dream and nightmare seemed to have interwoven in his mind, until he could no longer separate waking desire from unreal fantasy. Even if this charm of Harry's worked, what could it do about those other dreams?

Harry was silent for a long moment, just looking at Draco with that terrible concern that was worse than the pity; it meant that Harry cared about him, and Draco wasn't sure he could deal with that right now. "I'm sorry for invading your sanctuary," he said quietly after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I wouldn't have disturbed you up here, but I thought you needed help, and... this is all I can give you, now..."

Draco would have said something along the lines of How do you know what I need? - he had the words lined up in his mind, ready to speak, but the look in Harry's eyes, so honest and sad, somehow, withered them before they were uttered. He felt like a fly in amber, helplessly unable to look away; he felt poised on the edge of something enormous, staring into the abyss.

Before he really knew it, he was stepping forwards, closing the distance between them. His hands were on Harry's shoulders, and he could see the startlement in Harry's eyes as they grew closer, and then they were gone as his eyelids fluttered shut and his lips brushed against Harry's. Falling, he was falling, pressing forward into Harry's arms, kissing him blindly and feeling Harry tense against him and exhale in shock for a moment before he was kissing back with that same desperate inevitability, warm and solid and pressed against Draco so tightly, and there was nothing else, nothing else in the world apart from this, nothing but Harry's mouth on his, Harry's tongue touching his, Harry's body against his...

Abruptly, Harry's shoulders tensed under his hands again, and he pulled violently away from Draco, breathing heavily. "No..."

Blinking and confused, Draco started blindly towards him, hands held out, but Harry backed quickly away again, something hard and angry in his eyes that Draco simply didn't understand at all. "Harry, I..."

"No," Harry said again, harshly, interrupting him before Draco had even thought of what to say. "I... I know what... and I won't take that from you. Not ever." And before Draco could even find the words to tell him he didn't understand, to ask him what the hell he was talking about, Harry was gone, across the room and out of the door with quick, jerky strides, leaving Draco alone with the cold and the wind, his hands still outstretched pleadingly.

He... he thought I was... pitying him? Or - trying to pay him back for the charm? Slowly, Draco dropped his hands to his sides, staring blankly at the wall. God, Harry, you're just as stupid as I ever thought you were... He supposed it was too late to go after the Gryffindor, to try and call him back. Not that he would, in any case; Draco had his own share of pride. No; it would be better to simply leave it at this; he had wanted, last week, to separate himself permanently from Harry Potter, it was only ironic, he supposed, that it had taken a kiss to do it. It would be better for both of them, this way; perhaps they would even remember that they were enemies, given enough time apart.

Better this way - it seemed hollow. Sighing, Draco turned back to the window and more pressing problems. He still had to make a decision about what to do: soon his father's letter would be arriving with the Portkey, and he would be expecting Draco to use it in just under a week's time. There was always the choice, though; he could stay here, simply ignoring the command, but that would bring his father to the school to search for him, and in all likelihood drag him off to Voldemort before he could say 'Death Eater.' He could simply take the Hogwarts Express back to Kings' Cross with all the rest of the students, and then Apparate back to the Manor rather than wherever his father intended to send him; if he was lucky, Lucius would be absent when he arrived - but he would still be furious with Draco, whatever excuses he made. The idea of trying to tell his father that he was refusing Voldemort's service made his stomach writhe with nausea. He would be disgraced, if not disinherited outright; it was entirely possible that Lucius would send him to Voldemort anyway, as a sacrifice, or put him under Imperius.

Shivering fitfully, Draco stared blindly into the gathering darkness. Every rational impulse he had was shrieking at him to remember his position, his Malfoy blood and heritage, but even in memory, his own screams were louder. Just the thought of Voldemort's cold, burning touch brought sweat to his forehead and weakness to his knees. There had to be a way; he felt as though he was almost there now, inches away from it; as though he could reach out and touch the solution.

And then he remembered it. A casual reference, dropped into conversation; the words rose up in his mind and suddenly clicked, and Draco finally realised what he was going to have to do. Oh, God...

***

Gritting his teeth, Draco knocked firmly on Snape's office door. He didn't want to do this; he really didn't want to do this. He had spent too many years as Lucius Malfoy's son, had heard too many horror stories, to ever be able to... And what if he refused, what if Draco was left with no other choice but Voldemort? God...

"Enter," Snape's harsh voice barked, and Draco could hear the warning implied in the tone: This had better be good... Swallowing, he pushed the door open and stepped into the office.

"Professor Snape, I... Oh!" Draco interrupted himself desperately, feeling the cold gaze of a familiar pair of silver-grey eyes pass over him. "Father," he managed after a while, panic rising once again in his chest. Was Lucius here to see him, had he found out what Draco was planning, was he going to take him away? Desperately, he tried to will his voice to calm nonchalance. "I didn't know you were coming here."

Lucius' eyes fixed on his face with almost inhuman intensity. "There is a Governors' meeting this evening. I hadn't originally intended to attend, but they were kind enough to request my presence, so..." Draco understood; his father had made another donation towards the upkeep and running costs of the school, and would be thanked for it profusely and at length by the Governors, giving him the opportunity to sit in their meeting and possibly discover something about what Dumbledore was up to.

"You wished to see me, Mr Malfoy," Snape put in, his inscrutable black gaze also trained on Draco so that he felt pinned, like a moth to a collector's board. They both of them would use him as an object to be cultivated and displayed, and discard him with equal ease.

"It's not important, sir, if you're busy," he stammered out, cursing silently as his father's eyes narrowed. "I can come back tomorrow; it's only about the Potions project..."

"Very well," Snape began, but Lucius cut in with the ease of one accustomed to dominating the conversation.

"That won't be necessary, Severus; we've discussed what we need to and I'm sure the Chair of the Governors will be waiting for me."

"As you wish," was all Snape said, and Draco swallowed as his father stood and moved towards him. They were nearly of a height, now, although Lucius was slightly broader through the shoulder, an adult where Draco still retained the echoes of childhood. It made no difference, though; Draco had looked up to this man all his life, and his heart twisted sickly in his chest as his father permitted him a slight, brief smile.

"Here; the Portkey I promised you. It is set for ten on the morning of the nineteenth; be sure you don't miss the time." He held out his hand, and Draco accepted the small crystal sphere with numb fingers, looking anywhere but at Lucius.

"Yes, Father," he murmured helplessly, suddenly and unaccountably thinking of Harry and trying not to blush. Surely, surely, his father would see that something was wrong, would see the difference in him now... He braced himself for anger, for a curse, for some kind of reaction.

"Very good," was all Lucius said as he strolled in a leisurely fashion from the office, leaving Draco to stare helplessly after him, his insides twisted into painful knots. This was all too much, far too much... perhaps he should wait until tomorrow...

"Malfoy?" Snape's voice behind him made Draco jump, and he turned quickly, flushing.

"Sorry, sir."

"Hmph." Snape eyed him with displeasure. "Well, out with it, then."

"I... I need...." Draco squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed convulsively. No, it would have to be now, despite his father's presence in the castle, or he would never have the courage. Everything would depend on Snape now, and whether he was all he seemed to be. "I need to see the Headmaster, sir."