Adamant and Starlight

Chapter 5: Love, Hate and Memory

Narcissa sat very stiffly in her chair, very upright, her elegant hands clenched tightly together in her lap. She had refused a cup of tea and now seemed intent upon holding herself completely aloof from her surroundings. Her face - so unlike her son's and yet so similar in expression - was rigid with control and lined with the evidence of recent grief. Her eyes did not lift to meet Dumbledore's. They remained fixed on the desktop, looking heavy and shadowed.

Dumbledore remembered her well from her days at Hogwarts, but he had never been fond of the cold, lovely, disdainful Narcissa Black. She came from a family that produced both the best and the worst of wizards - those who loved and those who hated, always with more passion than was good for them. Dumbledore had held out little hope that Narcissa would prove to be the loving sort, even before she allied herself with Lucius Malfoy. Since her marriage, he had filed her away in his mind as an unknown but likely danger. She had done nothing to openly aid Voldemort, but neither had she stood up against her Death Eater husband and his dark master. And by her silent acquiescence, she chose to be counted with the enemy.

Alastor Moody lurked in the shadows beside the tall windows, a looming, supportive presence with his unshakable loyalty and magic eye. Dumbledore was glad to have him there, but he did not acknowledge his presence, hoping Narcissa would forget about him. With any luck, Moody would see what Dumbledore could not and give him a different perspective on the confrontation to come. For it would be a confrontation - veiled, perhaps, and cautious, but entirely hostile.

He smiled at Narcissa, his face a study in bland geniality, and asked, "What can I do for you, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"I am concerned about my son." She spoke coldly, her eyes veiled behind long lashes to mask whatever emotion they held.

"Of course you are. So are we all."

"It would seem so, to judge by the effort you have put into finding him. One would almost think you valued him."

Dumbledore ignored the caustic note in her voice and answered solemnly, "I value all of my students. I would do the same for any one of them that went missing in such a troubling and mysterious way."

"What you would do for any one of your students is not my concern, only what you have done for - or to - Draco. His welfare is the only thing that matters to me."

"The only thing?" Dumbledore asked, a hint of amusement in his mild words.

Narcissa's jaw tightened, and her heavy eyelids lifted to reveal pale, ice-blue eyes. Dumbledore saw her lips tighten in an effort at control that reminded him very strongly of Draco. "He is my son."

"I am aware of that."

Her irritation growing with every oblique response he gave, she snapped, "I want to see him. Take me to him, at once."

"I am truly sorry, my dear Narcissa, but that is not possible."

"Do you mean to tell me you haven't found him? But you called off the search! Why would you do that if..." Narcissa swallowed once, her throat working, then demanded, "Why did you stop looking for him?"

"I felt it was no longer necessary."

"Then either he is here, in your keeping, or he is dead. Which is it, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore hesitated for a bare moment. He was unwilling to tell Narcissa outright where her son was, but neither could he lie to her face and tell her that he was dead. Draco was safe in the castle. She could not remove him by guile or by force, and Hogwarts had already proven strong enough to withstand an attack from Voldemort himself. What could Narcissa Malfoy do that the Dark Lord could not?

"He is here."

Narcissa surged to her feet and stood majestically over him, looking down her aristocratic nose. "Take me to him!"

"Sit down, my dear."

"I want Draco, and I won't leave this castle without him!"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but you will most certainly be leaving, and just as certainly without your son." Narcissa's snapping eyes met Dumbledore's steady ones, locked in silent combat, and hers quickly fell. "Sit down," he repeated, very softly.

Narcissa sank back into her chair, but the fire had not gone out of her. Her chin lifted arrogantly, and her voice dripped with contempt when she said, "Don't think you can intimidate me, Dumbledore. Draco is underage. He is my son and my responsibility, and I say that he is to return home with me. Neither you nor any other wizard in this castle has the right to say otherwise."

"On the contrary. Draco himself has that right, and he has made his choice." Her pinched nostrils flared in disgust, and Dumbledore went on firmly, before she could interrupt, "Go home, Narcissa, and tell Lucius that you are no more welcome a petitioner at my door than is he."

"Lucius did not send me." The words seemed to be wrenched out of her, and Dumbledore could hear the truth in them. But at the same time, he could hear currents of other, colder truths flowing beneath this overt one.

"Who, then? His master?"

"I am here on behalf of my son and no other."

"Then you may rest assured that he is safe."

"Is that why he ran away?" Dumbledore's brows lifted in a silent query, and Narcissa sneered faintly at him. "You speak a great deal of nonsense about Draco's choice, and about protecting him from his own family, but you do not fool me, Albus Dumbledore. I know that Draco is not here by his own choice. Whatever lies and spells you wove to hold him must have grown weak, indeed, for him to escape. Or did you underestimate his strength? He is a Malfoy, remember. And a Black. He comes from the finest and oldest of wizarding stock..."

"I am well aware of his pedigree, Narcissa, and I would never make the mistake of underestimating him. Or his mother."

"Good. Then you must know that I will not abandon my son to your tender mercies."

"If you really want to help Draco, you'll leave this castle at once and pretend you do not know where he is."

"Why? So you can break his mind, completely?"

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully into her blazing eyes, his own expression carefully neutral. The mingled triumph, anger and sorrow he felt were hidden from any eye less penetrating than Moody's magical one, and his voice was grave. "When have I ever done Voldemort's work for him? My task is to heal the wounds his evil inflicts, not deepen them."

"How like you to retreat into platitudes! And how like you to blame the Dark Lord for the hurts you yourself inflict! Did the Dark Lord cut off Draco's hand? Did I? Did Lucius?"

"Where did you see Draco?"

The swift, hard question caught Narcissa unawares, as Dumbledore had intended, and cut short her tirade. She stared at him, seeming only at that moment to understand that she had betrayed herself, and shut her mouth with a snap.

"It's a simple question. Where did you last see him?"

She licked her suddenly dry lips and answered, in a rasping voice, "At the Manor."

Dumbledore nodded, not bothering to challenge this obvious lie. He knew for a certainty that Draco had not gone to the Manor, just as he knew that the boy had not fled the castle to escape his sorceries, but he deemed it wisest to let Narcissa spin her tale in her own way. For now.

"When?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Four... five days ago. I don't remember exactly."

His eyebrows rose at that, but again, he offered no comment. "How did he seem to you?"

The anger flared afresh in her eyes. "How did he seem? How do you think?! He was half out of his wits, distraught, sick in body and mind!"

Dumbledore made a polite, sympathetic noise that she ignored as she continued to rail.

"He attacked his own father with that abomination of a hand... is that how you did it? How you corrupted him and bound him? Through the hand? Or is it Potter who holds him in thrall?"

"I would be careful of what I say, Narcissa."

Either she did not hear the warning in his voice or she chose to ignore it. "You hate Lucius Malfoy and you hope to injure the Dark Lord through him, so you turn my son into a..."

She broke off, and Dumbledore fancied that he saw tears shining in her eyes.

"Into a what?"

"A traitor! A mad thing! A horrid, debased, shameful mockery of the beautiful boy he was!"

"I have done nothing to Draco but try to help him."

"You gave him to Harry Potter!"

Dumbledore said nothing, only looked into her grief-ravaged face and wondered from where the grief sprang. Her rage and pain were very real, as was her desperation to reach her son, but that told Dumbledore very little that could guide him.

"You're nothing but a... a filthy panderer!" she hissed. "When I think of what you and Potter, between you, have done to Draco, I could kill you. Gladly. Easily. I'd even risk Azkaban for the chance to do it, if I thought I would succeed!"

"And what would you do to your son?"

She bared her teeth in a feral snarl. "Get him away from you."

"That's not enough." He sighed with real regret and pushed back his chair. "I do not know what you truly want with Draco. Perhaps you mean only to protect him from me, misguided though your desire is. But I am no threat to him, Narcissa, and I am his best hope for survival. He stays with me."

He rose to his feet and gestured toward the shadows where Moody lurked. "Alastor, will you escort Mrs. Malfoy to the gates?"

Narcissa also rose. She drew herself up to her full, regal height, and pulled her icy composure around her like a cloak. "I will not leave without Draco."

Dumbledore spoke pleasantly, as if he had not heard her cold demand. "We will take the best possible care of your son. When we have found the source of his illness and done what we can to cure it, I will once again give him the choice to return to you. But you had best prepare yourself for his answer, my dear. There is very little chance that he will choose to leave Hogwarts. Or Harry."

"Do not speak of that boy to me. He is your willing tool. Be satisfied with him, and leave Draco to those who love him."

"Did it ever occur to you that Harry Potter loves him, too?"

Narcissa gave him one long, fulminating look, then spun on her heel and stalked to the door without another word. She halted at the closed door, waiting for the escort she knew she could not refuse, and pretended not to hear Dumbledore speak to Moody.

"See our guest safely off the grounds, Alastor, then return here."

Moody grunted his assent and clumped over to the door. Dumbledore lifted his hand, and the door opened of its own accord. Narcissa went through it, followed closely by the glowering Moody, and the door swung shut behind them.

Only then, when he was completely alone, did Dumbledore sink back into his chair. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, he folded his hands precisely before him, closed his eyes, and fell completely still. No flicker of emotion crossed his face, but behind his eyelids, he was reliving every moment, every nuance of the meeting that had just ended.

He was certain of many things. Narcissa had lied to him, repeatedly. She knew far more of Draco's disappearance from Hogwarts than she would admit. Some compulsion other than her love for her son had brought her here, but it was not Lucius Malfoy. She was deeply angry at what had happened to Draco in the last few months - his choice to stay at Hogwarts, his injury, his attachment to Harry - and honestly believed that all of it was a plot hatched by Dumbledore to punish her husband. She was in real pain, grieving, and afraid.

But afraid of what? Dumbledore wondered. Was she afraid for Draco? Afraid of what Lucius' enemies might do to him while he was in their power? Or afraid of what waited for him when she took him from Dumbledore's protection, as she clearly felt she must?

He was still pondering this question when he heard the sigh of the door swinging open and the dull clunk of Moody's clawed foot against the floor. Lifting his head, he smiled a welcome that the irascible Moody met with a scowl. Moody stumped across the room and eased himself into a chair. He a grunted a refusal at Dumbledore's offer of tea, pulled his flask from his pocket, and took a long swallow of its contents, while Dumbledore watched him with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

"Well, Alastor," the old wizard asked, pleasantly, when Moody had pocketed the flask again, "what do you think?"

Moody gave another grunt. "I think you'd be a great fool to believe one word that woman says."

One corner of Dumbledore's mouth lifted in a humorless half-smile. "You, I take it, do not believe her?"

"I do not," Moody stated, flatly. "Whatever she may or may not feel for her son, she's here on Lucius Malfoy's orders. Or worse. And if you give her the boy, she'll take him straight to You-Know-Who."

Dumbledore settled back in his chair and let his eyes fall nearly closed, masking his thoughts from Moody's normal eye, though he could do nothing to protect himself from the magical one. "When the castle was under siege and Lucius came to demand his son's release, you counseled me to give Draco to him. Do you say the same, now?"

Moody shifted uncomfortably in his chair and growled, "No."

For the first time, a genuine smile touched Dumbledore's face. "Are you coming around to my way of thinking?"

"Not bloody likely. But I've watched that boy closely since the siege," Moody grinned and pulled his magical eye around to stare straight at Dumbledore, "very closely, and he's done precisely nothing to warrant suspicion. Unless you count this messy business with Potter."

"Messy?" Dumbledore repeated, eyebrows raised.

Moody gave a sour bark of laughter. "I don't care how nicely he cleans up, Dumbledore, he's still Lucius Malfoy's son, and he's poison where Potter is concerned."

"Draco has done nothing to harm Harry."

"Even you can't really believe that." Moody waved a hand toward the windows. "Go on. Go down to Diagon Alley, have a drink at the Three Broomsticks, and chat up some of your old friends there. Ask them what Malfoy has done to their precious Harry Potter. Talk to the members of the Order. Talk to Arthur Weasley."

Dumbledore felt a stab of real dismay at that. "Arthur?"

"Had an owl from him just last week, when you were still turning over every rock in Britain to find the boy. He told me, point blank, that we ought to leave well enough alone. Give up the search and thank our stars Malfoy was gone."

Dumbledore blinked at him in patent disbelief. "Arthur?"

"Stop saying 'Arthur' like you've never heard the name before. You know how Arthur and Molly feel about Potter. They were spitting mad when one of their brood wrote home about his fling with Malfoy. Molly was all for flying up here to give you a piece of her mind and Potter a good, strong purgative to set him to rights. When Arthur talked her out of that, she threatened to send Malfoy a Howler that would singe off his eyebrows."

"I'm relieved that she didn't," Dumbledore said, a trifle weakly.

"You can thank me for that. I told the pair of them to stay out of it and let you manage this your own way."

"Thank you, Alastor."

He waved that away and went on, "You're sitting on the world's biggest dung bomb, Albus, and when it goes off, we'll all be up to our necks in it. I don't say Malfoy will do anything deliberately. As far as I can tell, he's completely loyal to Potter. But there's not one wizard in ten who'll forget who he is or forgive him for putting his dirty hands on their precious hero, and if you think you can win them over by telling them that Potter loves him, you're a damned fool."

Dumbledore stared into Moody's mismatched eyes, reading his utter sincerity and the concern behind his blunt words. "And believing all this, you still would not give Draco to his mother?"

Moody's jaw worked for a moment as he struggled against his baser impulses, then he answered, curtly, "You promised him your protection."

"So I did." Dumbledore pushed back his chair with a decisive gesture and rose to his feet. "If I mean to keep that promise, I must delay no longer. Do you have an empty Pensieve among your many tools, Alastor?"

"I think so." Moody squinted up at him with his normal eye. "What's in your mind, Dumbledore?"

"It's time to find out what happened to Draco."

"With the Pensieve?"

"It is the only safe means I can devise to sort through his memories and find those that are whole. I don't know that we'll find anything useful in his mind, shattered as it is, but we have to try, and quickly."

Moody grunted his assent. "Before Narcissa comes back. She made sure I got that message loud and clear, before she left - she's coming back, and she's not coming alone." His scarred face contorted in a fierce smile. "I don't suppose she'll bring Lucius with her next time and save us the trouble of finding him?"

"We can only hope." Turning to one of the portraits on the wall behind him, Dumbledore called, "Phineas!"

The sly-faced wizard in the portrait cracked open one eye and gave a theatrical yawn. "You called?"

Moody growled at the lazy, sneering note in the wizard's voice, but Dumbledore only smiled at the former Headmaster. "I did, indeed. I need you to take a message to Severus Snape."

Phineas perked up visibly, even going so far as to open his eyes wide and straighten up in his frame, smoothing his green and silver robes with one spidery hand.

"Tell him to meet me in my office as soon as his class is dismissed."

"Is that all?" Phineas asked, querulously. "Why not send an owl?"

"The message is urgent, Phineas. See that he gets it, before you take a nostalgic tour of the dungeons, if you please!"

Phineas gave an elaborate, ironic bow and disappeared from his canvas, only to appear in Armando Dippet's picture nearby and crowd rudely past him. He pushed and prodded his way through several portraits, starting the various Headmaster's grumbling, before he finally moved out of the tower room and beyond the range of Dumbledore's sight.

"Come, Alastor."

Dumbledore led Moody swiftly out the door and down the spiral stair to the gargoyle. They hurried along an empty corridor, around a couple of corners, past classrooms full of muted voices, and finally to the door of Moody's office. Inside, Dumbledore stood back and let Moody approach his enormous trunk, with its seven locks, alone. The old Auror did not like to have anyone stand at his back, nor did he relish prying eyes when he was going through his most personal and valuable belongings.

Dumbledore watched him unlock three different locks, each time revealing a different collection of Dark Arts detection tools, books, clothing and general clutter inside the trunk. Each time the lid swung up, he rifled through the contents, muttering, then slammed the lid and tried another key. On the fourth try, he pushed aside an Invisibility cloak and a spare wooden leg, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. Lifting a wide stone basin in both hands, he held it out to Dumbledore.

"It's a bit dusty."

Dumbledore took the Pensieve from him and blew gently into it. A plume of dust rose to tickle his nose. "Excellent." He began wiping it with one wide sleeve, as he turned for the door. "Go back to my office and wait there for me, please. This may take a while."

"Dumbledore..." The Headmaster halted and shot him a questioning look. "Are you sure you know what you're about? That boy's in bad shape. We don't know what it will do to him to pull out his memories and poke around in them."

"If my hunch is right, it may well save his life."

Moody grunted and heaved himself to his feet. "Better hurry, then. The ice queen could be back any time."

Dumbledore nodded once and strode out of the room.

*** *** ***

The tray lay on the mattress between the two boys, piled with generous portions of food, most of which could be eaten with fingers. Madam Pomfrey had not allowed any knives or forks into the room, Harry noticed, and the spoons were wooden ones from the kitchen rather than the polished silver cutlery used in the Great Hall. This did not bother Harry, who was hungry enough to eat a plate full of Aunt Petunia's celery sticks right now, and he tucked in without hesitation.

As he scooped up another large spoonful of beef casserole and stuffed it in his mouth, he watched the boy seated across from him intently. Draco gave no sign that he noticed Harry's scrutiny or the meal in front of him. He sat cross-legged on the mattress, where Madam Pomfrey had told him to sit, and stared vacantly at the middle distance. His face, usually so beautiful in its cool perfection, was thin and colorless, with dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones. His eyes were dull, his hair hanging in a snarl about his shoulders, and the wound on his cheek burning an angry red against his oddly transparent skin. He looked completely awful.

Some corner of Harry's mind noticed and cried out in pain to see his archangel so dreadfully changed, so obviously suffering. But most of him was absorbed with the terrible emptiness of Draco's gaze and the lack of recognition or interest in his face. He was torn between his passionate wish to have the boy he knew and loved look out of those shuttered eyes at him again, and his fear of what would happen if he did. The events of the last day had taught Harry caution. Much as he wanted Draco back, he was beginning to grasp just how damaged the other boy was and how badly he needed to hide from reality and memory right now.

Harry knew he must be careful not to push Draco into another burst of frantic violence, which meant that nearly every topic of conversation was off limits. But he also knew that Draco recognized him on some level and made an effort to respond to him when he spoke. So he kept talking, kept trying, and welcomed even the most reluctant and vague of responses to his prodding. Anything was better than empty silence.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, when Draco had sat for some minutes without moving.

Draco slowly dragged his gaze to Harry's face, blinked at him once or twice, and frowned as though trying very hard to remember something.

"Draco?" The frown deepened. "Aren't you going to eat?"

The other boy hesitated for a moment, then his brow cleared and he murmured, "Harry."

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "I didn't ask you my name. I asked..."

"They're gone."

"What?"

Draco's gaze drifted away from his face and wandered pointlessly about the room. "The stars. They're gone."

"They aren't gone. They're outside, where they belong. And before you ask, no, you can't go outside to look at them. Have something to eat, Draco. Please."

Obediently, Draco turned his attention to the tray and, in a natural, unthinking gesture, reached out with his left hand to pick up the spoon. He halted the movement, his empty sleeve with its neatly turned-up cuff poised above the tray, when Harry cried out,

"Don't!"

Draco lifted his arm to stare blankly at the place where his hand should be, clearly startled to find no spoon and no adamant fingers to hold it.

His voice rough with pain, Harry muttered, "Here, Draco, let me..." He picked up the spoon and pushed it into Draco's right hand. "Try that."

Draco looked up at him, and the hurt confusion in his face made Harry want to cry. He wanted so desperately to comfort the other boy that he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from reaching out for him. He told himself that a touch would bring Draco no comfort. It would only frighten him, and Harry had promised, faithfully, not to do that again. If he screwed up this time, they would banish him from Draco's room, take away his password, and leave Draco cold and alone without him.

"Go on," Harry urged, struggling to keep his voice even, "have some, before I eat it all myself."

Once again, Draco obeyed him, holding the spoon awkwardly in his right hand and jabbing it into the lump of casserole on his plate. He ate distractedly, as though he had no idea what his hand and mouth were doing, and did not notice when his clumsiness with the spoon spilled food across the tray and blanket.

Harry was picking at his own meal and watching Draco eat, when he heard Madam Pomfrey's muffled voice talking to the door. As the nurse bustled into the room, Draco fell still again, his spoon halfway to his mouth. Harry caught his wrist in one hand and took the spoon from his fingers with the other, setting it back on the tray.

He clasped the other boy's cold fingers in his own warm ones and murmured, "It's okay. It's only Madam Pomfrey."

Draco looked at him with dead eyes, his hand lying motionless in Harry's.

Madam Pomfrey came up beside them, her eyes narrowed in suspicion when she saw that Harry held Draco's hand. "I'll just take that tray. Potter, you have visitors."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Go on and see for yourself. And don't hurry back."

"But..."

"Malfoy will be just fine with me."

Harry did not want to go, and he did not want to face any of his friends right now, but he knew better than to argue with Madam Pomfrey when she used that tone. Letting go of Draco's hand, he climbed off the bed and reached up to touch the other boy's shoulder, lightly.

"I'll be back soon, Draco."

Then he turned for the door, knowing that Draco would not answer him. His steps were heavy and reluctant, but they carried him across the room all too quickly. He muttered his password to the door and heard the latch click. As he reached for the brass knob, he wondered what he could possibly say to Hermione and Ron to explain everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Then he stepped through the door and pulled up short in surprise. "Neville?"

"Hallo, Harry."

Harry looked from Neville Longbottom's round, anxious face to Hermione's frowning one and demanded, with a notable lack of tact, "What are you doing here?"

"We were worried about you," Hermione said, a touch of acid in her voice. "You left the tower this morning, before anyone could talk to you, and you didn't come to class." Hefting the pile of books in her arms, she added, "I thought you might want your homework, just to keep busy..."

"No, Hermione, I do not want my homework!" Harry cried in exasperation. "I do not want to be distracted or kept busy or worry about how far behind I am! I have a few more important things to think about!"

Hermione's face reddened. "I was only trying to help."

"I know that." The anger drained out of him as swiftly as it had come, and he drooped under her hurt gaze. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I should have known better."

Harry looked away awkwardly, fumbling for something to say. "Where's Ron?"

"He had to stay after Charms to clean up the classroom. He had a bit of an accident."

"Charms? But Ron's really good at Charms. How could he..."

"Honestly, Harry, are you trying to be dense? He was distracted and upset, thinking about you, wondering if you were all right, and he wasn't paying attention. None of us were. So he accidentally filled the classroom with green goo, and Professor Flitwick told him to get rid of it. Neville and I came to see how you're doing, while Ron got the slime out of the candle sconces."

Harry glanced from her to Neville, chewing his lip. He knew he should be grateful for his friends' concern, but right now he had no room in him for anything but worry over Draco. They couldn't help Draco, so they couldn't help him, and their presence only forced him to come up with excuses or explanations that he did not want to bother with.

"I'm okay," he lied, woodenly.

"No, you're not, but we kind of expected that."

Neville shot a look over Harry's shoulder, toward the little room and the expanse of transparent wall, and asked, "How's Malfoy?"

"Not so good." Harry swallowed painfully. "How did... how did you guys know he was here?"

"There have been rumors all over the castle since breakfast. The Ravenclaws are spreading some pretty ugly stories."

Harry nodded glumly. He couldn't bear to tell them that the stories were probably true. Not yet.

Hermione shifted the books to one hip to free one hand and touched him lightly on the arm. "We know better than to believe rumors."

He nodded again, wordlessly, and Hermione's lips tightened in frustration.

"Why didn't you tell us yourself, Harry? Didn't you think we'd care?"

"I just... I..."

"You left us to hear about Malfoy from a bunch of snickering Ravenclaws!"

"I'm sorry, Hermione. Honestly." The dejection in his voice deflated her anger instantly and brought the gleam of tears to her eyes. "I'm not trying to keep things from you."

She squeezed his arm. "It's okay. Never mind."

"I just want Draco back. I can't think about anything else, and I can't figure out how to get him back, so my mind goes around and around in circles, never getting anywhere. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks."

"You haven't," Neville pointed out, softly.

"How bad is he, really?" Hermione asked.

"Bad."

"The Ravenclaws are saying that he tried to jump out a window last night."

"He did. Madam Pomfrey hit him with a Stupefying Charm just in time, or he'd have..."

At that moment, Neville brushed past Harry, cutting him off, and drifted up to the transparent wall. His eyes were glued to the boy in the bed, and his face was full of a kind of horrified fascination. Very slowly, he lifted a hand to touch the invisible stone.

"Neville?"

Neville did not turn at the sound of Harry's voice, but he spoke quietly to his friends as they drew up beside him. "His hand is gone."

Hermione gasped, "Oh, Harry! Where's his hand?"

"Dumbledore took it off." Standing outside the room like this, with his friends beside him, Harry saw Draco with detached eyes, as Hermione would see him, and felt an aching pity fill him. Then he turned to look at Neville and felt a whole different kind of pity. Dropping his voice to a private murmur, he bent close to Neville and said, "Maybe you shouldn't be here."

Neville gave a start and turned to face Harry. Their eyes met, and a flash of understanding passed between them. When Harry looked away, he was sure Neville knew that Harry was in on his secret about his parents and equally sure that Neville knew he wouldn't blab it to anyone.

"I'd like to help, if I can," Neville murmured.

Before Harry could find an answer, Hermione spoke up on the other side of him. "What's that thing on his face, Harry?"

"We don't know. Dumbledore thinks it's a rune or symbol of some kind..."

"Well, obviously, it's an M."

"What?" Harry stared at her for a moment, then at Draco, who sat huddled on the bed with his left profile turned toward them. The burn was a fierce, livid red against his white cheek, and with the swelling gone, the shape of it was much clearer than before. As he studied it, Harry felt a prickle go down his back. He had seen that shape somewhere. He was sure of it.

"It's hard to see, with those marks around it, and it's kind of crooked, but there's not doubt about it. That's an M."

"Oh, my God."

Hermione tilted her head to one side, frowning. "From here, it almost looks like the one in the Malfoy Family crest."

Harry's stomach clenched. "How... how would you know that?"

"Well, I've seen it, haven't I? There's a picture of it in Great Wizarding Families of Britain. And it's on half of Malfoy's stuff." She shot Harry an exasperated look and added, "Honestly, didn't you notice the big, silver Ms all over everything he owns?"

"Yes." The clenching turned to a twisting, heaving sensation, and Harry swallowed convulsively, afraid his lunch was about to come back up. He knew now exactly where he had seen that particular M - on Draco's ring. The one his father had given him. It was cut into the big emerald, with fancy curlicues around it and something that looked like tiny flames, just exactly like the blurred, torn spots on Draco's face. "I have to tell Dumbledore," he muttered.

"Tell me what, Mr. Potter?"

All three Gryffindors spun around to find Professor Dumbledore standing behind them. He held something in both his hands that was covered with a very large linen handkerchief, and his face looked unusually grave.

"Malfoy's face!" Harry exclaimed, eagerly. "Hermione figured out what the burn means!"

"I heard. That was very astute of you, Miss Granger, but then, I am hardly surprised." He looked at them over the tops of his spectacles, his eyes fixing longest on Neville, and said, "It is nearly time for your next class. You two had better hurry."

"What about Harry?" Hermione asked.

"I need Harry for the moment." Smiling at Neville, he asked, "How is your grandmother, Mr. Longbottom? In excellent health, as always?"

"Yes, Professor." Neville flushed under Dumbledore's kindly gaze and ducked his head. He said goodbye to Harry hurried out of the room in Hermione's wake, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore.

"Come along, Harry. We have work to do."

Dumbledore led him into Draco's room, startling Madam Pomfrey up out of her chair. Draco gave no sign of noticing their entrance. Handing the draped object to Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore pulled out his wand."

"Headmaster!" the nurse protested.

"Don't worry, Poppy. Young Mr. Malfoy will not get his hands on it." He flourished the wand, and a funny, squat little table on crocodile legs appeared beside the bed. At his gesture, Madam Pomfrey set down the thing she held on it.

"Now, Harry, if you please."

Harry stepped closer, letting Dumbledore guide him up to the bed where Draco sat, oblivious to the goings-on around him.

"Poppy, I think he'll be more comfortable lying down, and we'd best put a partial binding hex on him. Just enough to make sure he stays put. Harry, I think a shot of your wizarding power would be in order. We aren't going to hurt him, but we may well frighten him at first, and your power seems to both calm and warm him."

As he spoke, Dumbledore caught Draco by the shoulders and pushed him gently back onto the bed. At first, Draco did not react, but when Madam Pomfrey pinned him to the mattress and Dumbledore raised his wand, his eyes widened in panic and he began to struggle.

"No!" Draco gasped, his blank eyes fixed in horror on Dumbledore's face. "No!"

"It's okay, Draco." Harry caught his right hand and held it very tightly, letting a surge of power flow down his arms and into the other boy. "It won't hurt, I promise."

"Harry? No... don't!"

"It's okay." Gold flames began to flicker and dance before Harry's eyes. "Trust me."

Dumbledore muttered a few words and touched Draco with his wand. The boy's movements abruptly stilled, but the fear did not leave his face. Harry could feel the pulse in Draco's wrist beneath his fingers. It was racing.

"What are you going to do to him?" Harry asked, nervously.

In answer, Dumbledore slid the little crocodile table forward and pulled off the cloth to reveal a Pensieve. Harry blinked, trying to clear his vision and see into it, but the interference from his own power was brighter than the silvery glow from inside the stone bowl. He had the impression that it was empty, except for a sheen of light covering the inner surface, but he couldn't be sure.

"I am going to borrow his memories," Dumbledore said.

The old wizard touched his wand to Draco's temple. When he drew it away, a long thread of light came with it, sliding through the strands of bright hair. With a fluid gesture, Dumbledore placed the thread in the Pensieve, where it settled to the bottom and mingled with the light clinging to the bowl. Another strand of memory followed, then another, and in a few moments, the bowl began to fill with silver-white liquid.

Harry found that he could not keep his eyes away from the moving surface, though he ought to be concentrating on Draco and his own flow of power. As he stared at the swirling, half-formed images that moved across the liquid's surface, he caught glimpses of familiar faces. Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, Snape, and Harry himself. They all looked strange, as if their faces had been broken and reassembled by someone who did not know where the pieces went. And when his own face took shape out of the swirling shadows, Harry saw it flicker eerily, another image sliding in and out of focus with it.

With a gasp, Harry pulled back and looked away. For he had seen, there in Draco's thoughts, his own face change into that of a Dementor, and suddenly, he was not so eager to find out what else might be floating in that bowl.

He kept his eyes on Draco's face, after that, and he was heartened by what he saw. While Draco still looked blank and disconnected from reality, his face grew more and more peaceful, as though the removal of his thoughts was a relief to him. His body relaxed, no longer fighting the hex that bound him, his eyes began to drift closed, and his features softened. Harry bled a little more power into him, hoping to warm him a bit while he was so restful and vulnerable, and he saw something very close to a smile touch Draco's lips. He smiled back, fighting the urge to bend over and kiss him, to lend him more physical warmth than his power could give.

At last, Dumbledore straightened up and spread the handkerchief over the Pensieve. "That's all I dare take, but I think I've gone back to before the night of the Equinox."

"Now, what?" Harry asked.

"Now we remove the binding hex and make him comfortable."

"And then we go into his memories, to see what happened?"

Dumbledore nodded, eyes twinkling. "Then we go in."

They found Professors Moody and Snape waiting for them in Dumbledore's office. Moody had already explained to the Potions Master what they planned, and Snape was twitching with eagerness to get his hands on the Pensieve. When Dumbledore informed him that he would have to wait, that Harry was going into the Pensieve with Dumbledore this first time, Harry thought that Snape would burn him to a cinder with one look. But as always, he bowed to Dumbledore's wishes and agreed to stand watch with Moody while they were gone.

It seemed, to Harry's overstretched nerves, to take an age to set the locks and wards on the tower room. By the time Dumbledore drew him up to the desk and motioned for him to bend over the Pensieve, he was sweating with fear and almost dancing with impatience. Distractedly, as Dumbledore swirled the Pensieve between his hands, Harry wondered if this was how Snape felt and how, if it was, he could bear to just sit here and wait.

Images moved and shifted across the shining surface, dazzling and confusing Harry. He could tell, at a glance, that many of them were recent memories, fragmented and distorted by Draco's illness. But some were strong, clean images - the Gryffindor dormitory, Ron, Crabbe, the Quidditch pitch - taken from a healthy mind, and they gave Harry hope that the real Draco, the one who saw and remembered things so clearly, still lived somewhere inside that battered shell sleeping downstairs.

Finally, Dumbledore said, "This is it, I believe." He set down the Pensieve and stretched out a hand toward Harry. "Come, Harry."

Harry leaned over the bowl. The thick, white surface was now clear as glass, and Harry found himself looking down into a small, bare, gloomy room, with moisture seeping from its stone walls and sullen puddles collecting on the floor. A single torch burned somewhere outside his line of sight, but it shed enough light to show him the slight figure seated on the floor, drawn up into a protective huddle in the far corner.

It took Harry less than a heartbeat to recognize him, and in that same instant, he reached out to touch the glassy surface. The world dissolved around him, and he was inside the Pensieve. Inside Draco's memory.

To be continued...