Adamant and Starlight

Chapter 3: Shattered Adamant

"Madam Pomfrey!" Hagrid shouldered the door open and plowed into the hospital wing, Harry trailing behind, shouting loudly enough to rattle the windows in their frames. "Madam Pomfrey!"

"Really, Hagrid, is all this racket necessary?" The nurse came bustling out of her office, face a study in disapproval, then stopped dead in her tracks at the sight that met her eyes. "Gracious! It's Malfoy!"

"We found him in the Forbidden Forest. Cold as a stone, and wet through."

Blank amazement gave way to her usual brisk efficiency, and she waved Hagrid toward the nearest bed. "Put him down, put him down. Potter, fetch me that blanket from the other bed... Does the Headmaster know?"

Hagrid shook his head. "We brought him straight ter you."

"Good man." She took the blanket that Harry had ripped off the nearest empty bed from his hand. "Go fetch him, Hagrid. And Professor Snape, I think."

"Righ'." Hagrid strode back out the door, ducking his head to clear the lintel.

Madam Pomfrey whipped her wand from the pocket of her starched apron and bent over Draco. Harry watched, twitching from one foot to the other with impatience, as she examined the unconscious boy. "Hmm. Exposure. Dehydration. Hasn't eaten much, either, from the looks of him. Give me a hand with these wet clothes, Potter."

When Harry hung back from the bed, face tinged a dull red, she pinned him with a bright, knowing gaze and demanded, "You're not turning modest on me, are you?"

"It's not me, it's... well..."

Madam Pomfrey gave a small, humorless snort of laughter. "There isn't a boy in this castle I haven't seen in the all-together, at one time or another," she pointed her wand at Harry, "including you. Now help me or get out of my way."

Harry's blush deepened, but he moved up to help Madam Pomfrey strip the soaked and filthy clothes off of Draco without further protest. Draco's skin beneath the sodden fabric was chill and white as marble, lifeless, inhuman, and Harry shuddered at the feel of it under his hands. Squelching fear and revulsion, Harry worked as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow. He kept his eyes on what he was doing and avoided looking at Draco's face - at the ghastly white cheeks, bluish lips, clumped and sticky eyelashes lying against the purple hollows beneath his eyes, and the raw, inflamed wound high on his left cheekbone. If he looked, he'd start to howl with the pain of it and never stop. Never, never stop.

"That's good, Potter. Now another blanket."

Harry blinked and looked up, startled to find that they had not only finished stripping off Draco's wet clothes but had dressed him in flannel pajamas as well, while he had been lost in his own misery. Madam Pomfrey had dried his hair, banished any damp spots on the bed, and turned the blankets covering him toasty warm with a spell. Now she was summoning a tray full of medicines and a spare blanket.

Harry helped her spread the extra blanket over Draco and pull it up around his chin. Then he reached under the heap of covers, into the pocket of warmth created by Pomfrey's self-heating spell, and found Draco's right hand lying on the mattress. He held it tightly in both of his own, lacing his warm fingers through Draco's cold, still ones, and reached deep in himself to find the rush of wizarding power that always came when Draco was near him.

The hand in his did not stir. The silver-blond lashes did not move. But Harry saw a tiny flicker of gold fire in the grey-white planes of his archangel's face and knew that his power was flowing into Draco, warming and strengthening him. Madam Pomfrey saw the tell-tale flicker, as well, and paused in her work to shoot Harry an approving glance.

"You're very good at that, Potter, though I don't know why I should be surprised. You always seem able to master magic that's far beyond your years."

"I can only do it with Draco," Harry murmured, his eyes now full of gold sparks and his fingertips beginning to tingle.

"Hm." Madam Pomfrey shot him another look from beneath her lashes, and with his own power dancing in a glittering net before his eyes, he couldn't see the amused affection in her face. "Well, don't overdo it. Malfoy will be just fine without you draining yourself."

Harry gave a start, and his concentration slipped. The light faded from his field of vision and he found himself blinking stupidly into the nurse's kindly face. "But Hagrid said he was..." Harry swallowed painfully, "dying."

"So he was, and it was very sensible of Hagrid to bring him straight to me, without trying to meddle in things he doesn't understand. But it's nothing I can't fix."

Before Harry could demand more information, the door to the hospital wing swung open and Professor Snape burst into the room. McGonagall was right on his heels, almost running, and looking a good deal less dignified than usual, with her hat on crooked and a napkin still clutched in one hand. Dumbledore and Hagrid followed them at a more sober pace, but with no less suppressed excitement about them.

Snape swooped down on the unconscious Malfoy like a great carrion crow, robes flapping and eyes gleaming black in the candlelight. His face would have frightened Harry, had the boy not seen just such an expression on it before and come to recognize it as one of distress. Madam Pomfrey stepped out of his way, but Harry stood his ground, refusing to back away from the bed in spite of Snape's repellent glare.

The Potions Master stared down at his favorite student without speaking, then, to Harry's utter amazement, he lifted one hand to stroke Draco's hair very lightly. A single deft touch, and his arm dropped again.

His face was twisted with the effort to contain himself, as he snarled, "Hagrid said you found him in the Forbidden Forest."

"The centaurs did," Harry said.

"How is he, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked, as he moved up beside Harry and bent over the still figure in the bed.

"He'll mend. Hagrid did well to get him here so quickly."

"We must remember to thank the centaurs."

Madam Pomfrey snorted. "Thank them? Trust a pack of centaurs to leave the boy lying in a forest clearing, in the rain no less, for nearly three days! Just because they can live on prophecies and moonlight, they think the rest of us can, too! It's no wonder he's frozen through and half dead from thirst."

"We'll debate this at a later time. How badly is he injured?"

"He isn't injured, exactly, just cold and exhausted. I've given him some fluids, and Potter's helped me warm him up a bit."

Harry ignored Snape's burning glare and sent another surge of warmth down his own arms, through his hands and into Draco.

Snape lifted one long finger to touch the oozing wound on Draco's cheek. "This wasn't caused by hunger or thirst."

"What do you make of that, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked. "Is it a burn?"

"I can't tell for certain. There's something cut into his face, a figure of some kind, but it's also badly burned. And whatever it is, it was made by magic."

All eyes turned to look at the nurse.

"Magic?" McGonagall repeated, blankly.

"I can't heal it. It resists any kind of spell. The best I can do is clean it, to reduce the infection, and wait for it to heal on its own. But it will scar."

Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted. "Interesting."

But Harry didn't find it interesting. He thought of Draco lying huddled in the clearing, where he had fallen after sitting under the stars for two nights, unmoving, and he shuddered. Something dreadful must have happened to him to drive him into that lonely place. Something that left only this one, small mark on his body but robbed him of the will to save himself. Harry's hand went, unconsciously, to his own scar and rubbed at it, as though he could wipe it from his face.

"There is one other thing, Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey said. Flipping back the blanket that covered Draco's left side, she caught his wrist and lifted his hand up where they all could see it. "I don't know if you would call it an injury, but it is definitely a sign of violence."

Harry gasped, as he caught sight of Draco's hand. Snape swore under his breath, and McGonagall uttered a startled cry. For the adamant hand - the beautiful, indestructible adamant hand - was missing two fingers. Of the two outer fingers only jagged stumps remained, shards of crystal like tiny knives protruding from the ends where the facets had broken, and the sharp ends were stained an ugly brownish red. Whatever had taken the fingers off had not done so neatly or easily.

Dumbledore held out his hand, and Pomfrey laid Draco's forearm arm in his clasp. Dumbledore bent over the damaged limb, studying it with a frown of concentration on his face, turning it gently in his hands. With one fingertip, he wiped at a brown stain, then he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, frowning even more heavily.

"Violence, indeed," he said at last. Laying Draco's arm across his midriff, Dumbledore pulled the blanket back up to his chin and glanced from McGonagall to Snape, his eyes bleak. "I cannot be certain what happened, but the force required to remove those fingers was immense. I would say they were blown off. And they are stained with dried blood."

McGonagall took a step closer to the bed. "Magic and fire," she murmured, her eyes on Draco's face. "Perhaps he cut himself with his own hand..."

"It would account for the magical nature of the wound," Snape said.

Dumbledore shook his head, slowly. "Perhaps. But there is something deliberate about the injury to his face... something calculated."

McGonagall flinched, and Harry was suddenly struck by the depth of concern in her eyes. She was not wrestling with a difficult problem that faced the school; she was wrestling with her own feelings and the horror of seeing a boy she cared about hurt. Wondering, Harry let his gaze travel around the circle of faces. Snape, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, even Hagrid. They looked genuinely worried. Upset. In pain. And in that moment, Harry realized that he was not the only person at Hogwarts who cared what happened to Draco Malfoy.

"Will he wake up soon?" Harry asked Madam Pomfrey, breaking the grim silence.

"I expect we could wake him up right now, if that's what the Headmaster wants, or we could let him come around on his own. That could take some time."

"I don't want to put him under any more strain, Poppy, but we all would like some answers. Is he strong enough for a reviving spell, do you think?"

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips in disapproval. "He isn't going to die, if that's what you mean, but I should think the boy's been through enough... Oh, very well. I can see you'll only fret yourselves into flinders until you can speak to him. If you'll excuse me, Professor Snape..." she said, crisply.

Snape grumbled something about being perfectly capable of doing the spell himself as he stepped away from the bed to give her room, while Dumbledore watched them both with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. Harry braced himself to be ordered away, but no one so much as looked at him, so he stayed where he was.

He had the sickening feeling that he had lived through all of this before, and not so very long ago. The hospital wing, the teachers crowded round the bed, Draco lying so still and broken between them, Harry watching as one of them prepared to awaken him. But this time, Harry was not trying to make himself invisible. This time, he wanted to be the first person Draco saw when he opened his eyes.

As Madam Pomfrey lifted her wand, Harry edged closer to the head of the bed, still clutching Draco's hand in both of his own. She murmured the spell, tapped the sleeping boy once with her wand, between the eyebrows, then bent over him, watching intently. Malfoy did not move.

Harry waited for some sign of life, gnawing his lip, and when none came whispered, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Give him a moment."

"Come on, Draco," Harry urged, "it's time to wake up! Open your eyes."

Very reluctantly, as if dragged up from a deep sleep by the sound of Harry's voice, Draco stirred. His face, so blank and cold 'til now, seemed to thaw. Lines of exhaustion and pain etched themselves into his forehead and around his mouth. His eyes drifted slowly open but did not seem to focus on anything, only stared at the shadowed ceiling above him and ignored the people clustered so anxiously around the bed.

"Draco?"

Once again, Harry's voice demanded his obedience. His eyes tracked over to Harry's face and rested there, staring blankly at him for so long that Harry began to fear Draco could not actually see him. Then he took a careful breath and said, in a voice as blank and dull as his gaze, "Potter."

Harry had an overwhelming urge to bend down and kiss him, but he contented himself with a wide, relieved smile. "Welcome back, Malfoy."

The silver-gilt brows drew together in a small frown. "From where?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, as he moved up to stand opposite Harry. "You've been missing for some time, and we've been quite worried about you. How do you feel?"

Draco's frown deepened when he shifted his gaze to Dumbledore. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Cold. I'm cold."

"Madam Pomfrey is taking care of that. Are you in any pain?"

"I... don't think so."

"Good." Dumbledore's hand rested on Draco's shoulder, squeezing it lightly through the piled blankets. "Then perhaps you can tell us where you've been for the last two weeks."

Draco's expression did not change, but Harry could feel tension rising in his body. His fingers stiffened. A small tremor went through him. And the blind look in his eyes grew more pronounced. He still stared up at the Headmaster's face, but Harry could swear that he was not seeing the old wizard at all, and whatever he was seeing terrified him.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore's voice, soft as it was, made Draco flinch and begin to shiver. "Can you tell me where you've been?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out of it. When he shut it again, his teeth closed on his lower lip. Harry saw them sink viciously into soft flesh, breaking the skin, and a trickle of blood ran down Draco's chin.

Dumbledore lifted his hand to rest against the side of Draco's head, cradling it gently without touching the wound on his cheek. "Calm down, my boy. Take a deep breath and relax. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"You're back at Hogwarts," Harry interjected and, forgetting that he was supposed to be circumspect around the teachers or that Draco didn't like being casually touched, he pulled the other boy's hand from beneath the blankets and clutched it to his chest in a protective, possessive gesture. "You're safe. Professor Dumbledore won't let anything get in here."

"Hogwarts." Draco stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then around at the huge room with its rows of beds and tall, arched windows. "The hospital wing."

"Right."

"It's always cold in the hospital wing."

"Madam Pomfrey put a whole pile of self-warming blankets on you."

"I don't want to stay in here. It's cold."

"Please, Draco, you have to tell us what happened."

"Let's go someplace warm."

"Draco..."

"You do good warming spells, Potter. Make us a warm place where we can sleep."

"You have to stay here for now."

"I'm cold. I can't sleep when I'm cold..."

"Hush. I'll cast you a warming spell right here, I promise, but you have to..."

"A moment, if you please, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes flicked over to his face, the clouded grey now glazed with panic.

"What's the last thing you remember, before waking up here with us?"

"I..." He looked from Dumbledore to Harry and back again, his mouth open and his breathing unnaturally fast.

"There's no right answer, Draco. Just tell us what you remember." Harry had never heard such a gentle and persuasive note in Dumbledore's voice. "Anything at all."

"Stars," Draco whispered.

"Good. Where were the stars?"

"In the sky. Stars are always in the sky!" His voice scaled up and cracked on the last word, sending a chill down Harry's spine.

Dumbledore kept his hand against Draco's head and his eyes on the boy's face, holding his gaze, willing him to understand and to answer. "And where were you, when you saw them?"

"On the g... ground... With stones and... No!"

Dumbledore turned swiftly on Madam Pomfrey. "Something to calm him, Poppy, quickly."

"No! Don't... I can't s-see them anymore!" Before anyone could move to stop him, Draco tore his right hand away from Harry, clutched it fiercely in his left one, and curled himself into a tight ball, shouting, "Get away! Get away!"

Then Madam Pomfrey was pushing him away from the bed and leaning over Draco with a cup in her hands, and Professor McGonagall had caught him by the shoulders, her grip painful in her urgency.

"What's the matter with him?" Harry demanded, as he struggled to free himself from her iron fingers.

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the boy huddled in the bed. Dumbledore scooped up Draco, pulling him free of the blankets, and held him so that Madam Pomfrey could pour the potion down his throat, but Draco fought them mindlessly. It took all Dumbledore's strength to hold him, and Madam Pomfrey could not get the cup to his lips long enough to force the potion into him. Harry watched them struggle to restrain him with his fists knotted helplessly and a bubble of panic rising in him.

"Let me do it!" he cried, still fighting McGonagall's hold on him. Then his eyes fell on Draco's midriff and he gasped, "He's bleeding! Stop it! He's bleeding!"

Madam Pomfrey stepped quickly back and exclaimed, "It's his hand! He's crushing it..." She grabbed Draco's left wrist and tried to pry his hand away from the other one, but she could not begin to loosen the grip of those adamant fingers. Harry watched the grim, macabre struggle, watched blood splatter the front of Draco's white pajamas and run over his crystalline hand, and the bubble of panic inside him burst.

"Do something!" he shouted. "Make him stop!"

Snape suddenly grabbed the bed, pulling it a foot or two from the wall, then he moved to the space at the head. Catching Draco's head in both hands, he growled, "The potion, quickly!"

With the strength of all three of them combined - Pomfrey, Dumbledore and Snape - they managed to pour the potion down Draco's throat. Then Dumbledore sat down on the bed and held him tightly, confining his movements, until his struggles weakened and his limbs slowly began to relax. Finally, after what felt like hours, his head fell back against Dumbledore's arm and his eyes began to drift closed.

"That's it," Dumbledore murmured. "That's much better. Draco?"

Glazed, confused eyes tracked over to his face, and Draco's lips moved soundlessly.

"I'm going to let you go, now. Can you lie still?"

After a few false tries, Draco whispered, "Where's Harry?"

"He's right here. I'll let him sit with you, if you do as you're told, but you must lie still."

Very gently, Dumbledore settled him back against his pillow, and Snape rested his hands on his shoulders to keep him there.

"Now, let go of your hand." The Headmaster's long fingers curled around Draco's adamant wrist as his voice slid compellingly over the stunned, drugged boy. "Let go, Draco."

Draco's fingers went slack, and Dumbledore pulled his left hand away from his midriff. His right hand lay on the reddened flannel of his shirt, bruised and bloodied, looking oddly misshapen. Silence gripped them all, as they stared at the mangled mess and absorbed the fact that Draco had done this to himself. Then Madam Pomfrey bent over the abused limb and lifted her wand.

Harry closed her eyes as she began to work, not wanting to see the hand again until it was whole and praying that the nurse could fix it.

"That should make him more comfortable," Madam Pomfrey said, and Harry opened his eyes to see her laying Draco's hand on the mattress. To his relief, it looked perfectly normal except for the fading bruises and half-healed cuts where the stumps of his adamant fingers had sunk into the flesh. "It will hurt for a few days, but there's no permanent damage."

"How do we stop him from doing it again?" McGonagall asked, her voice harsh with strain.

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully down at Draco's sleeping face - colorless except for the livid wound on his cheek - and said, "I think we had better discuss that in my office. Unless Poppy would rather that we stay here?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head emphatically. "He'll sleep, probably for several hours."

"Then we shall give him some peace and quiet. But someone must stay with him, Poppy. He's not to be left alone."

"I'll see to it."

"May I stay with him, Professor?" Harry asked.

"Of course."

"But you'll... you'll tell me what you decide, or figure out, or..."

"I will tell you everything, Harry. Now sit down and keep Draco company, but don't disturb him."

"I won't."

Harry waited until they had all filed out of the hospital wing, Hagrid pausing to thump him on the shoulder in a comforting gesture, then he pulled a chair up to the bed and sank into it. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around with trays and bottles, moving between her storage cupboard and her office, and leaving Harry alone with Draco for the first time since they had found him in the forest. At last he could do what he had been dying to do for all that endless time, what he had been dying to do for two solid weeks.

Pushing himself out of his chair, Harry leaned over the bed and whispered, "I'm sorry I couldn't do this before."

He kissed Draco softly, careful to do nothing that might wake his sleeping archangel, but he could not hope to rein in his feelings completely. The moment his lips touched Draco's, he felt the sparkling heat of his wizarding power fill him, felt it course from him into the other boy's weakened body, and he closed his eyes with a silent sigh of pleasure.

It had been so long since he had felt this! An eternity, to judge by the gnawing ache in his body and heart. Even cold, still and unknowing, Draco could call up more raw emotion and more power in him than any other force in this world! One touch and Harry broke into a thousand helpless pieces, shattered by happiness and fear and desperate longing, and he asked nothing in life beyond the chance to do it again. Feel it again. Break himself open for Draco again and show him the love in his heart so plainly that even his dear, impossible, prickly dragon of a lover could not deny it.

"Potter."

He started at the sound of Madam Pomfrey's voice but forced himself not to jerk away from Draco. Breaking off the kiss as gently as he had begun it, Harry paused to brush the hair back from Draco's forehead and drop another kiss between his eyebrows, then he straightened up to meet Madam Pomfrey's gaze.

"Be sure you don't wake him," she said, repressively.

"I won't."

The nurse nodded once and whisked away in a swirl of starched white apron and efficiency. Harry blinked at her, not sure whether he had just been chastised for inappropriate behavior or given permission to snog Draco in the middle of the infirmary, and sank back in his chair. Pulling Draco's hand out from under the blankets, he held it tightly against his chest for a moment, then bent his head and rested his lips against the backs of the other boy's fingers.

"I know you don't like this kind of stuff," he mumbled into the back of Draco's hand, "but I can't help it. I need to touch you, and Pomfrey will chuck me out if I kiss you again. At least... I think she will. It's kind of hard to tell with her."

Propping his elbows on the mattress, Harry clasped Draco's hand in both of his own and rested his chin lightly on their entwined fingers. He stared at the other boy's sleeping face for a long, quiet time, his eyes growing darker and stormier as he remembered the horrible sound of Draco screaming at him to get away. Finally, in spite of Madam Pomfrey's warnings about awakening her patient, he had to talk, to vent his feelings.

"You knew me when you woke up. I saw it in your face. You remembered about us, about the warming spells and sleeping together, and you asked for me. So you know me, Malfoy, and you aren't afraid of me. You just have to wake up and remember. Don't go back to that other place."

He pressed Draco's knuckles hard against his lips and shut his eyes. "You have to stay with me Draco. I couldn't stand it, if you left again. I spent the last two weeks learning what it would be like without you, and I know that I can't do it. I can't. You have to believe me, and you have to stay with me. If you don't..." He hunted around in his exhausted, overstressed mind for the worst thing he could possibly imagine, something to express the depth and breadth of his need, and could come up with only one disaster big enough. "Voldemort wins. That's it. You'll wipe out the wizarding world in one fell swoop, by turning Perfect Bloody Potter, The Boy Who Lived, everybody's favorite hero, into a bedlamite."

"Now, Potter, is that really necessary?" Once again, Madam Pomfrey had sneaked up on him and caught him unawares. "I've never yet heard that guilt speeds healing."

Harry flushed painfully but refused to look away from the nurse's bright, knowing eyes. "I need him to come back."

"I'm well aware of that. So hold his hand and have a nice chat - a quiet chat, mind you - but keep the Dark Lord out of it. We hear quite enough of him, as it is."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey."

"And try not to fret so. Sixteen-year-old boys are nearly indestructible. Trust me, I have reason to know!"

That's what Dumbledore said about his hand, Harry thought, as Madam Pomfrey bustled away, and look at it now.

*** *** ***

"What exactly happened down there?" Snape demanded, as the door swung shut behind them.

"That boy has lost his grip on reality," McGonagall said, grimly. "He's dangerous."

"The only person who got hurt was Malfoy himself."

"Does that mean we should let him go on doing it, unchecked? What will he break the next time he's frightened and grabs onto something with that hand?"

"What are you suggesting, Minerva?" Snape growled, his eyes flaring from beneath his lowered brows. "That we take his hand off for his own good... again?!"

"Not unless we absolutely must," Dumbledore answered, calmly. He waved at the chairs next to the desk, then conjured an extra big one for Hagrid. "Let's try to discuss this calmly. Please. Don't lurk there by the door, Hagrid. Sit down."

The groundskeeper shuffled across the room to Dumbledore's desk and eased himself into the provided chair. The professors took the smaller chairs that always stood ready for visitors, but neither of them looked very comfortable against the Victorian cushions.

"I was thinkin' I ought ter go back for a chat with Firenze," Hagrid mumbled diffidently.

"Very true, but not this minute." Under the startled eyes of his staff, Dumbledore sank down in his chair, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. None of them remembered ever seeing the Headmaster betray such weariness before, and they waited in silence for him to resume his usual alert, twinkling manner.

"Albus?" McGonagall finally ventured, when he still sat with his fingers pressed to his eyes.

Dumbledore dropped his hands and looked a question at her.

"Are you all right?"

"No, I am not." He settled his half-moon spectacles on his nose again and fixed a gaze full of sorrow and exhaustion on her troubled face. "Not so many days ago, I sat in this chair and asked myself just how much a pair of teenaged boys could suffer before they broke. I did not think to find an answer so soon."

"Are you so sure Malfoy has broken?" Snape asked, hurt putting an edge in his voice.

"Was that the Draco Malfoy you know, Severus?" Snape shook his head, his eyes sliding away from Dumbledore's. "I devoutly hope the break is neither complete nor permanent, but we cannot fool ourselves that a good night's sleep and a square meal will cure him."

"He was all right when he woke up," McGonagall ventured. "He recognized Potter, until..."

"Until he tried to remember."

"What on earth could have happened to him, to make him snap that way?"

"Voldemort," Dumbledore answered, succinctly.

"If You-Know-Who had him, he'd be dead, not wasting away in the Forbidden Forest," Snape argued.

McGonagall frowned. "And speaking of the Forest..."

"You-Know-Who isn't in our fores', is he?" Hagrid asked.

"No." Dumbledore smiled tiredly at the worried Hagrid, shaking his head. "Voldemort is nowhere near Hogwarts, as far as we can determine, nor was Draco, until very recently. I had the Forbidden Forest searched three times in the first week of his absence. He was not there."

"He wouldn't have survived this long anyway," Snape said, "alone and unarmed in that place. There are plenty of things in that forest that can kill a wizard besides the Dark Lord. Nothing dares intrude on the centaurs' clearing, but anywhere else he'd be a quick meal for the first werewolf or spider that found him."

"How long did Firenze say he was in the clearing?" Dumbledore asked.

"Two nights," Hagrid answered.

"While he's been missing closer to two weeks. At a guess, I'd say he didn't enter the forest until the night he turned up in the centaurs' clearing since, as Severus points out, he would not likely survive a even one night alone in the forest. But this brings up another conundrum. I've never heard tell of an intruder coming alive from that clearing, yet the centaurs summoned you to rescue Draco. Why did they save him, I wonder?"

"Somethin' abou' portents. You know how centaurs talk - hard ter make head or tails of what they say - but Firenze seemed ter think the stars had told him not ter let Malfoy die."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, and he murmured, "Indeed."

"It was Firenze did the savin'. He said they all agreed, but I could tell he was stretchin' the truth jus' a bit. The rest of them were all around the clearin', watchin', jus' waitin' for an excuse ter stomp us all flat. I figured they could change their minds any time, so I got Harry an' Malfoy outta there, right quick."

"I must have a chat with Firenze, sometime soon." The twinkle was creeping back into Dumbledore's eyes and the smile tugging at his mouth again. "We're all so used to thinking of Mr. Potter as the focus of prophecy and portent that it comes as something of a surprise to find Mr. Malfoy in that position. If Firenze was telling the truth about the portents."

"Do centaurs lie?" McGonagall asked.

Snape glared sourly at them both and snapped, "The entire world does not revolve around Harry Potter!"

"No, but our war against You-Know-Who does," McGonagall retorted.

Dumbledore's smile turned wistful. "And Harry revolves around Draco in a way that our older, wiser and more cynical heads have difficulty grasping. This places Mr. Malfoy squarely at the center of all our strategies, whether or not we feel he belongs there. Yes, I must definitely have a chat with Firenze."

McGonagall fidgeted in her chair for a moment, shooting wary glances at Snape, then she said, "This is all very well, Albus, but you have not addressed the most pressing issue. What to do with Malfoy."

"Do with him?" Snape barked. "What do you mean, do with him? He's not a robe you've outgrown and need to get rid of, Minerva!"

"No, he's a boy who is clearly suffering some kind of breakdown..."

"You don't know that! You're not qualified to say what he is or isn't suffering!"

"Exactly my point. None of us are qualified! And as long as he's got that hand..."

Snape was half out of his chair, towering over McGonagall and hissing at her in wounded fury, "That's the second time you've mentioned his hand... a hand you gave him, if my memory serves! And now what? You want to take it away from him? Or do you want to put him in a binding spell, so he can't touch anything... or anyone with it? Worried about your precious Potter, are you?"

"I'm worried about all of us!" McGonagall rose from her chair to glare straight into his eyes. "Most of all, I'm worried about Malfoy."

"Enough. Both of you, sit down." Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument, and both professors subsided into their chairs. "Minerva, what exactly are you suggesting?"

"That Malfoy belongs at St. Mungo's, not in our hospital wing."

Snape gave snarl of rage, and Dumbledore silenced him with a raised hand. "Why?"

"They have healers there who can help him, and he won't be able to hurt himself or anyone else."

"No, but plenty of people will be able to hurt him," Snape interjected.

"St. Mungo's is not a Medieval torture chamber, Severus," McGonagall said, wearily.

"You're forgetting his parents." McGonagall shut her mouth with a snap, and all eyes fixed on Snape. "Malfoy is underage. If you take him out of this castle, he becomes the responsibility - the property - of his parents. The only thing that's protected him from them, so far, is Dumbledore, and Dumbledore can only protect him inside Hogwarts."

"We don't even know that his father is still alive..."

"He has a mother."

"Who may want to protect him as badly as we do!"

"Or not." Snape's black, burning eyes turned on Dumbledore. "Are you willing to take that chance? You promised Draco that you would do everything in your power to protect him, if he chose you over his father. What is that promise worth, Dumbledore?"

The Headmaster met his gaze steadily, face unreadable, for a long moment. Then Dumbledore nodded once and said, "Draco stays at Hogwarts."

The fury drained from Snape so quickly that he seemed to deflate into his chair. His eyes closed for a moment, and a relief so intense it looked like pain washed over his face. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at McGonagall.

She shrugged slightly and said, "You're right, Severus. Albus gave his word, and the boy belongs here. But that doesn't..."

Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing her repeated protest. "The hand is a concern, but not an insurmountable problem. I'll discuss it with Poppy and find a way to keep him both calm and safe. We must be particularly careful, however, that he not have access to a wand in his current condition. He could do real, irreparable damage with magic."

"Make sure Potter doesn't carry his wand in his pocket," McGonagall advised.

"See to it, will you please, Minerva? I will talk to Poppy when I can and let you know what we decide to do. But if you will all excuse me," he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, "I must contact Sirius and tell him to call off the search."

They all stood up and filed out of the room, Hagrid closing the door behind them. Only when he was alone did Dumbledore resume his seat. He sank slowly into his chair, pulled off his glasses, and pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. It was a very, very long time before he finally stirred, put on his spectacles with a sigh, and reached for a pen.

*** *** ***

As afternoon stretched into evening and evening into full night, Harry sat in the hospital wing, watching Draco sleep. The potion slowly wore off, and Draco's deep, drugged sleep gave way to a more natural one, full of restless dreams. He tossed and muttered, clutching at the mattress, the bedclothes and his own pajamas with adamant fingers, while Harry kept hold of his right hand just to be sure that he didn't injure it again in the grip of a nightmare.

It was getting late, and Harry was painfully tired. He wanted to crawl into bed with Draco and sleep for a week, but he didn't think either one of them would rest much that way, or that Madam Pomfrey would allow it. Leaving was out of the question, even if Dumbledore had not charged him to keep an eye on Malfoy. So Harry did the only thing left to him - pulled off his glasses, put his head down on the mattress, and fell asleep in his chair.

The crash of the door being thrown open and the sound of loud, laughing voices startled Harry awake. He jerked upright in his chair, fumbling for his glasses, as a whole crowd of students surged through the doorway. In the midst of the group was one girl - a Ravenclaw he recognized from Astronomy class - with an enormous, purple boil on her face that was sprouting tentacles before Harry's eyes. She was the only one not laughing.

As they piled into the room, dragging the girl along with them, shouting for Madam Pomfrey at the top of their lungs, Harry felt the hand in his stiffen. He had only a moment to register that Draco was awake, then the other boy was up and moving, too fast for Harry to catch. Snatching his hand free of Harry's clasp, he rolled abruptly from the bed to land in a crouch on the floor. Then he pushed himself to his feet and started running toward the nearest window.

"Draco! No!"

Harry leapt to his feet so violently that he knocked his chair over with a crash, and a dead silence descended on the room, as everyone turned to stare at him. Harry launched himself after the fleeing figure, screaming, "Draco!"

Malfoy did not turn or break stride at Harry's cry. Panic leant him a speed that Harry could not match, even with his longer legs, and he reached the window well ahead of pursuit. Pausing for a bare moment with both hands flattened against the glass, he looked up at the soaring arch of stone above his head. Then he drew back his left arm and brought his adamant hand against the glass with shattering force.

Bright shards cascaded to the floor all around him. Chill, wet air poured through the empty archway. Paying no heed to the thousands of tiny blades on the floor beneath his bare feet, Draco bounded into the deep window embrasure and stood there, poised to jump, his hands braced against the carved stone.

"No!" Harry screamed, flinging himself bodily across the last few feet that separated them.

At the same moment, another voice called, "Stupefy!"

The spell burned over Harry's head and struck Draco in the middle of the back. He stiffened, his hands opening reflexively, and he began to topple forward, out of the window. Harry slid the last step on glass shards and fastened his hand in Draco's shirt. With a strength born of terror, he pulled the smaller boy backward, away from the window and the killing drop to the grass below, and into his arms. Draco's deadweight carried them both to the floor. They landed hard among the shattered remains of the window, and there Harry sat, holding Draco's body across his lap and shaking uncontrollably.

To be continued...