Temet Nosce

He knew that something was coming to an end. Soon, it would all be over and the world would cease to exist. What was outside his windows? What was beneath the water that he looked into for so long every night? Why did it feel like everything he touched was lost to another time, and another place? If nothing were real, would he find solace in a place after his death?

Thinking about this constantly made him restless. Tossing and turning in the tangled, wet grass. Why did the lump in his neck continue to pulse with the agony of anxiety? With the agony of fear? And as people smiled at him, as people scowled at him, he realised that it didn't matter.

It didn't matter who he was, but who he would become. It mattered that he knew.

Who cared if everyone thought him different, and maybe evil? As a matter of fact, this was the truth. He understood more.

Remembering the days in his youth was painful. He could picture a time when he was free and rather happy. Now, days felt oddly slow, as if being wound around like slides in a picture box. Nothing was real anymore.

Everything rolled with a strange falseness.

The trees shone under snowcaps as he trekked over the grounds. The sky was gingerly grey. Air bit at his fingers. This wasn't true. He was merely a player the great game of the world. He was merely a pawn, ready to die. But for what?

How did his life mean a thing? After all, he was a tiny speck on a globe of hundreds. Inferior.

But he hoped that someone else knew. He hoped that someone else realised. Moods were never recognised by his so-called friends, but would the boy he loved remember his name? Would the boy he loved agree?

Because no really cared anymore. Years ago, maybe, people would have considered it. People may have asked why. When. When will the darkness finally open our eyes? But the students just couldn't see anymore. They walked up and down the stairs with a false sense of security. A false sense of real. And even if they were talking, laughing, what did emotion really mean?

Emotions are mental reactions which are physically portrayed to the world around us. And what if the world wasn't real? If the world wasn't real, emotions were simply an excuse.

Anger. Fear. Love. Excuses for giving us the so-called power to control ourselves.

A shiver crawled up his back. This was all getting too much to bear. A solid glass casing had wrapped around his body. How could he face the day? What was the point?

He needed someone. He needed to talk to someone. He needed to leave.

But she would assure him, each night, that he was not alone. That he would understand. That soon, everything would make sense.

But where could he go? Could he take his life, just for the risk of pleasure? Just for the ironic risk of a painless journey to another place?

And most of all, would the boy he loved come with him?

Draco sat down at the Far East entrance to the Forbidden Forest. His cavern, a small glade overhung with dripping branches, was where he often came to think, because even though all his friends thought he was strong, Draco was often reduced to emotional collapse. He was one of those people who covered himself with such a fierce exterior to hide the confusion within. Here, he could think.

If something had gone awry, which it often did for Draco, the forest was somewhere cold and quite, just as he liked it. There were no nasty stares to give or to receive, no reason to have a freezing retort lying dormant yet ready in the back of his head, no obligation to think. He didn't have to be Draco Malfoy when he was by himself. That act was simply for others. By himself, he could be the real boy that no one knew.

Wrapped in one of his father's old grey cloaks, he was warm. The Malfoys, much like vampires, had a strong temperature resistance; they never felt the snow, wind or rain. They rather liked the aura that was wintertime, and the grey and blue tones that went along with it. It was shadowy, comforting, but still hostile and severe.

Draco envied Harry for his friends. One's solidarity and silence didn't mean that they could never do with company. On many occasions during Draco's happiness, he could have talked forever with someone trusted. But he lacked that person. He lacked those people. He had lost the chance to a pair of friendly ears. And it seemed that Harry had too many.

Actually, Draco despised Harry for a number of reasons. One, his fame, yet his wonderful anonymity. Everyone thought they knew who Draco was, and wouldn't give him a single chance, but they didn't have a clue about Harry. Two, his face, intriguing and totally captivating. Three, his addictive personality and his ability to turn the happiest situation to one of sadness, or vice versa. Four, he had the amazing quality to hide his emotions, and to express them with verve whenever it was needed. Draco never took the chance, even if one was given to him on a silver plate. When pushed, or asked, only some stupid offbeat retort would result and he would have to walk away. As effective as ever, for Draco's stalk was probably the best in the school, but quite humiliating for himself personally.

And, of all, the most difficult to cope with - Harry's hatred. Draco knew that there was no way of them becoming more than friends while Harry despised him so. They hardly ever passed each other in the hallways, and Draco had given up his early-year taunting. Now, Harry completely ignored him. No, you couldn't even call it ignoring. He didn't even know who Draco was anymore. He didn't even care. The Slytherin could have been some nonchalant, ignorant first year Hufflepuff and Harry would have paid him more attention.

So there was really nothing worth liking about Harry. Sure, Draco matched him on the Quidditch pitch, and in the classroom, he often overtook the Gryffindor. But even though Draco kept repairing his heart as Harry broke it daily, he truly wanted to be Harry's friend. He felt something. Something more.

While he stalked the halls in his billowing grey and chartreuse capes, Draco realised that he hadn't thought about much other than Harry and the world around him over the past few weeks. Finally a 5^th year, and with some sort of position, nothing really mattered. People didn't pay him attention any more. Schoolwork was foolishly easy for him, so not much thought really went into achieving his high results. He didn't sleep much, but Draco liked the night air and often crept down into the grounds at night to reflect. To mull. To drift away. Spare time was spent in his study; a small draughty room deep in the dungeons.

Life had no meaning anymore. He knew that there had been a time when everything felt okay, but he just couldn't go back. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get to that place that he had been looking for. He was sick of being controlled, by the world and it's stupid system. He wanted to take Harry and run away.

He wanted to understand the truth.

Underneath the canopy, the floor was dappled browns and murky umbers. Draco had fallen asleep across a branch, dreaming of floating on an everlasting lake. Swimming away. Cold deepness ebbing at his body, taking him up. Taking him down. He enjoyed this recurring image, and the wonderful feeling that came with it. The entire weightlessness, like flying spirals across the grounds of Hogwarts atop his broom. It was comfortable compared to his usual dreams, of late. His dreams of her flights, of their escape. Of her wonderful cape and her wonderful words. Word of assurance.

It was early evening. The sun had disappeared behind the castle. Draco's hair was a tangled mess of stormy grey tendrils. He had a long fringe that stuck horizontally over his forehead like a brim, and when damp, it's shiny, milky gleam was diminished to grey and it fell over his eyes instead of sticking out straight.

Opening a single narrow eye, he decided to sleep longer, but a strange voice forced him to sit up. He looked into the sky.

"Draco..."

He stood and circled, not daring to let himself shake. Harry had embarrassingly made him do that lately.

"Draco, be still..."

He was suspicious, but Draco stopped and furrowed his brow.

"Draco, I know that you want to know. I know that you can understand. But you must hold on. Great worlds come to dreamers who wait. Great truths come to the real people, who understand. Have faith. I can see that you are strong. You have not succumbed to the lie that has been pulled over your eyes. You can see beneath, within. You shall be rescued from your reverie."

He knew who was speaking, but he had never heard her voice like this before. Her usual floating whisper was now a clear, singing voice.

Draco clenched his robes in his fists, "I can't wait any longer!" he screamed; "This world, this... LIFE! It eats away at me day after day..." He hadn't spoken aloud for quite some time, and this expression was a change for the better.

The voice stayed unearthly calm, "You will wait. You will believe. Though the cold nights are long, you have never been alone. I have been watching. I have seen it all before. For I once asked the same question. What is outside the windows? What is beneath everything we touch? What is the secret? The great secret. You know what this secret is, Draco?"

He glared, "I know."

"But you are yet to understand. Go to sleep. Dream. Be calm, and forget that you will die. For before that, you will live. You, Draco, will live to be great. Realise that not everything is what it might seem. Including the people around you. You are never the only one. There is more than one secret to be uncovered. Give yourself good advice, and follow it down the rabbit hole. Pursue him, for he is your key to the real truth, and the real world."

The voice disappeared. The distinctively female voice was gone without even a breeze. And Draco understood. He knew that everything would be okay. He was being watched. And he knew that those people would come for him. He had seen it in his dreams. Night after night, as he lay next to the lake, staring at his reflection.

But he had to do something quickly. Not much time was left. He had to find someone.

"Pursue him, for he is your key to the real truth, and the real world."

He had to find Harry. She knew that Harry would never come to him. He had to find Harry.

***

Atop the castle, you could see everything.

"You shall be rescued from your reverie."

Mist had hung deep on the grounds throughout the morning, and hadn't really improved by the afternoon. Snow had drifted, but now most had melted and the trees hung with a soggy graveness.

Hills rolled in every direction, as far as you could see before the fog shaded the horizon, as if the canvas ended while standing in a painting.

She had brought him higher and higher. It was time to leave. The journey had been one of blurred browns and rushes of faces. Her never-ending black jacket, her heels on the cobblestones. His grey hood and robe fluttering behind them.

"Great worlds come to dreamers who wait. Great truths come to the real people, who understand."

She flew like a wizard, like a Quidditch player, her strides defeating even three of his. Expected oceans of hair were non-existent; the gunmetal fabric of her suit clung to her like oil. Her impish profile was burnt onto his memory, but he never caught her face.

She wasn't a wizard, which hurt Draco deep in his blood and deep in his upbringing. She wasn't even a human. She was something inconceivable. But she understood, and she was going to save him. And this counted for everything.

"You are never the only one."

Not a word, but her language spoke so much. They had to get away. Reaching the roof, moments were wasted staring out at the horizon.

Draco could hear voices behind them.

She reached out and grabbed his hand.

His pale face turned to look over his shoulder, but he was never quick enough.

"Realise that not everything is what it might seem."

Night after night, they were plunged into darkness. Night after night, Draco lost her to another world. Where she would find solace.

And he was repeatedly left behind.

"Though the cold nights are long, you will never been alone. I will be watching."

***

He knew that nothing would ever be the same again. A light had suddenly come on inside his head. A little voice had awoken him. His dream had forever changed.

It used to be okay. He used to see the path. That path told him that he would fight. He would fight because it was his duty, and the world would applaud. He would overthrow the Darkness, and the world would applaud.

But now he could see that he would have been fighting for all of the wrong reasons. He would have been accepting the curse. And even if he had won, that victory would have been his sentence. His lifetime imprisonment. If he had won, all of that progress he had made would have vanished.

Now, everything was going to be okay. He could see. He could see the simplicity of it all. The simplicity of the game.

It didn't matter who he was, but who he would become. It mattered that he knew.

Often he would ask, why me? Why me of all the sleeping, peaceful humans? Why do I have to be the one? Why do I have to understand? Reminding himself - Would you want it any different? - he would finally be content with the truth.

Fancy not realising? Fancy being one of the billions that didn't know? One that couldn't see their tiny strings and their dancing wooden feet?

He would walk the halls in a trance, seeing flashes of light. Peering at the structure that supported the world. The counterfeit framework for the most civilised program ever to exist. And it marvelled him how the students, also in a trance, laughed and sang and cried.

It really hurt that he could share this with no one. What he would have given to be able to talk. The secret ate away at him like cancer. He used to have his friends, but as he considered it deeper, their perfect allegiance seemed to die. It just wasn't genuine. How could he converse with people, who weren't actually capable of rational, personal thought?

They were such machines. He could see through their skin, into oblivion.

As they smiled at him, the knowledge burnt in his throat. He had to get out. Escape was the only option. Turning back seemed so easy, but so very difficult.

Why the act? Why the charade? What on earth did we do to deserve this torture?

What on earth did I do to deserve this pain? The pain of knowing, and being able to think freely?

In the end, what did he know? He knew absolutely nothing, except for the fact that there was something to know. There was something to question.

But she would assure him, each night, that he was not alone. That he would understand. That soon, everything would make sense.

To his confusion, she would also assure him that there was someone else. Someone to take care of him. Someone that he could talk to.

Harry hoped that that person would be able to take care of him properly.

Would that person truly love him?

Would that person understand?

Ron's infuriating scrawl always got to Harry late into the night. After hours of talking and offhand snoozing, he would start his assignments spread out on his bed, as Harry tried to sleep.

Nights weren't relaxing. They were hard to get through.

Hermione just didn't understand. To her, school was everything. To her, Harry was everything. She would run and hug him each morning, leading him to the hall for breakfast. She was so happy, but it was all so fake, for without him, she was nothing. Her depth had been lost year by year, until there was nothing left. Just wild curly hair and that so called doe-eyed intelligence.

But Harry just saw through it now. He saw straight through everyone.

And he had tried to tell her that.

He had tried to tell her that it wasn't just about school, and grades and their companionship. It wasn't about possessions and breaking rules. It wasn't about being popular and smart and it most certainly wasn't about winning. It was about the person you were deep inside, and your emotions, and the way you perceived other people.

Then, she told him that she had lots of emotion, and she perceived other people very appropriately. Then, she would reach out to kiss him.

And a year ago, Harry would have taken her into his arms and kissed her back. But now, he had to pull away.

It was about thinking about the world, not taking things for face value. He knew that all of those years of shallow peace were gone. All of that happiness. How could one be happy, and at peace, in their dreams? Such irony drove him crazy.

She was a silly girl who didn't realise what was going on around them. Hermione couldn't see the huge playing squares. Refusing to peer deeper into the mirror was her pitfall, and the more Harry pondered it, the later he waited at nights, thinking, he realised that it was the world's pitfall. It was the flaw.

The special ones were bound to find out eventually. The human spirit was created to question. To think outside the square. To search for the truth.

She couldn't see that Harry was different. He wasn't simply another boy. Another average wizard. He was unique. In a way that supposedly, no other human would recognise. And he didn't want to be with her anymore. For she failed to see that they were all part of something bigger. Her love meant nothing.

Each night, he tried to stare through the darkness, forgetting Hermione's naivety. Forgetting the world's naivety. Forgetting about how stupid everyone was.

Surely someone else could see it.

Surely he wasn't the only one.

Lately, a long gone enemy had been creeping into his thoughts. Sitting in the classrooms, thinking in the common room. And then now, when he went to bed. Draco Malfoy.

He had dominated his mind for so long now. That creeping, shadowy Slytherin, who always seemed to know something that everyone didn't. This confused him even more than some of his dreams. Who was Draco Malfoy? What part did he play?

Harry knew that the world was soon to come to an end. He wasn't upset at the fear of leaving it behind. He wasn't afraid of death. Over the last few months, pieces had fallen into place. A little curtain had been lifted. What was the point of living if you were unable to see? Unable to conceive?

And then, she would come to him every night in his dreams. To look after him. That wonderful mother. A touch that he had never felt before. Her soft drifting touch, promising to lift him from his reverie.

She had visited him at night. Lying on his bed, swept away by his dreams, both asleep and awake. Was there a difference?

He had been startled. The face that he knew so well was not there. Only her booming voice, filling the canopied bed.

"Harry..."

He sat up, crawling feet and hands scared and vulnerable.

"You will be okay, Harry. All of your dreaming will, of course, amount to something. Soon, all of those flying letters will assemble into the truth. The truth that has been so well hidden from you. The truth that you, yourself, have found. It is the secret that separates the people who have lost their souls from the people that have fought to hold onto them. Their passion and their fire. Their nature to question."

She understood. She would save him. She would take him from his picture world, and introduce him to reality. The game would still exist, but he would refuse to play. He would forfeit the match. That great secret. She whispered in his ear -

"What is the Matrix?"

- And though he knew, of course, he didn't understand.

"Realise that not everything is what it might seem. Including the people around you. You are never the only one. There is more than one secret to be uncovered.

Somewhere, amongst all of this confusion, Harry decided that he was going to be okay. Harry decided that soon, he would live. Soon, he would understand.

"Great worlds come to dreamers who wait. Great truths come to the real people, who understand. Have faith. I can see that you are strong. You have not succumbed to the lie that has been pulled over your eyes. You can see beneath, within. You shall be rescued from your reverie."

And then she disappeared. He knew he was being watched over, and that it would all be okay. He would reach the place he was looking for, and she would take care of him.

He had seen it in his dreams, night after night.

***

A tender hand brushed over his cheek. The air was cool, but much thicker than usual. Much thicker than he was used to. A faint buzz had lulled him to sleep. Smells of metal, of dirty, rusting metal. Closing in around him. Like a great suit of armour.

"You will be okay, Harry."

There was the hand again. Tracing circles. Long nimble fingers, lingering up and down his jawbone. Around his snubbed chin. Down the bump in his nose, and up again to his ear-lobe.

The room was very dark, but a curved slit of blue gave away the deck door. He always slept on his back, but here, he lay on his side. Knees up against his chest, heaving. He wasn't entirely comfortable. In his heart, he was relieved, but still afraid. This was home now, but where was the solace he had been looking for?

"All of your dreaming will of course amount to something."

Tips stepped up and down the apples of his cheeks. A forefinger ran up and down his profile, like a faerie. Fingerprints on his eyelids. Feather strokes, just underneath his eyebrows. Just where he liked it.

It was where he wanted to be. Away. Away from the world at hand. Somewhere safe. Somewhere dark and cold and loving. Someplace where everyone understood.

Smoothing his widows' peak and orbiting his scalp, the fingers never ceased. Mapping their way along his cheekbones, down past his neck and all the way to the nape, their lightness was enough to make him shiver. Painting along his hairline, outlining his lips.

"It is the secret that separates the people who have lost their souls from the people that have fought to hold onto them."

But this touch felt wrong. She was like a friend, almost a mother. She cared so much, but so little. She smoothed back his hair; she kissed him gently on the forehead. Harry knew that she was worried, and that she wanted the best for him. She would take care of him.

But there was something missing.

"What is the Matrix?"

She got up to leave, unlatching and opening the door. Her lean, curvy silhouette draped in rags echoed against the sharp light of the hallway.

Harry peeked. There was something missing. He belonged to someone else.

She shut the door and her footsteps trailed off into the adjacent bedroom. Where her love waited.

Where would his love be waiting?

"Though the cold nights are long, you will never been alone. I will be watching."

***

She flew like no other.

A great black beast, circling the skies. A hawk, her spiky talons outstretched, peering out for her prey.

Which should she kill? Which should she rescue?

Her cape fluttered in the breeze, a slick of metal and graphite jewels. Still, he couldn't see her face, a blurred, sharp outline. A kaleidoscope of muted greys. Little pixels leapt over her body, outlining cat-like joints and accenting her fierce, fluid movements.

She would stop every now and then, and the world would rotate. She could pause time. She could sit there, amid the air, like an ethereal princess of the dark. Ready to pounce. Balanced on the very rules that told us it just couldn't happen. It just couldn't be.

She could manipulate herself not like a wizard, but more like a God. A Goddess. She could manoeuvre the universe to her request. Her playground.

Pinballing between skyscrapers. A figure skater. A ballerina. The most perfect being he had ever laid eyes on. But not a wand. Not a single ounce of gift inside.

She had a much greater gift. No longer it mattered that he was a wizard. Once it had mattered so much. But now, she was the only one that mattered. She was his ticket to the real world. His ticket to the truth.

And then she told him that he had to wait.

"Go and find him. Go and talk to him."

And into the black.

"Once you have found him, I will come for you. Once you have talked, you will both be ready."

And then Harry woke, sweating in the hot bedroom air, deep in the covers of his bed.

And then Draco sat up, heaving amidst the freezing night-time fog, deep in the banks of the Lake.

"Boys... It's time to go..."