The Little Death

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Quotations belong to the speaker/writer, as referenced.

The Little Death

*

"The little death is a translation from the French "la petite mort" (Le Petit Mort/Le Petit Morte/La petite morte), a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has generally been interpreted to describe the post orgasmic fainting spells some lovers suffer from. Also it can refer to spiritual release that come with orgasm, or a short period of transcendence, an expenditure or spending of life force."

From the Wikipedia entry The Little Death

*

Chapter Two

*

January 8th, 2002

"It won't be long now, my boy," He said as he roughly tousled Draco's hair. With an almost affectionate smile on his face, he dropped a Chocolate Frog on the floor beside the bars, then left, noisily locking the door behind him.

Draco tensed, listening to the footsteps echo away, waiting for more to come. By now he was operating by instinct alone. There was no way he could think about what had happened, what was going to happen, without going to pieces completely. Instead he listened, counting the distant drip of water, his own heartbeat, the footsteps. It wasn't a completely useless exercise - Draco had learned that it took twenty-six to thirty steps to get to the door, around fourteen steps separated him and Granger, and that there was an additional eight steps between she and Potter. He also knew that it took approximately twenty drips after He left for Potter or Granger to call out to him.

When no more footsteps came, Draco slowly eased himself off the bench, wincing slightly as his body clenched in odd places. There'd been lubricant this time, but it still burned like half his guts had been pulled out his anus. He stepped onto the cold floor, rearranging his too-small Slytherin robes. The boy they belonged to was probably dead. Despite this knowledge, Draco couldn't bring himself to feel an ounce of pity for the devious, conniving, little shit.

Wearing those robes reminded him of too many things he'd rather forget. He liked Draco dressed in school robes. Draco shouldn't have been surprised, he'd already known He was a pervert. Though why He couldn't go bugger Potter and Granger was anyone's guess. Potter always got better treatment.

Draco picked up the Chocolate Frog packet, already a bit battered, and gave the frog within a good squeeze. The chocolate would look foul once he got the foil off, but it was far better than eating fresh air.

He was ravenous. They'd been starved for days, the only food source rather zealously pointed out - their own shit. Not liking that alternative, Draco had taken to scraping the slime off the stone walls with his fingernails, eating what he could and licking the rest for moisture. He'd started drinking what he could catch of his own urine, which became more concentrated and less copious each time. To his achingly empty stomach, a humble Chocolate Frog could taste like heaven. Zealously, he peeled off the wrapper, letting the card - Harry fucking Potter - fall to the floor, along with a surprisingly dexterous Frog that managed quite well on two lame legs and abruptly jumped through the bars on the door and disappeared down the hall.

"Fuck." Draco felt his stomach turn in on itself. Hot, prickly tears fell unbidden from his eyes. All those feelings he'd hidden away rushed into him, forcing everything else out. He was crying. Not a little whinge, but all out belly-heaving sobs.

"Malfoy?" a small voice called from a cell further down the hall. It was amplified by the rock walls and echoed strangely, like two people talking at once. When Draco didn't reply, it got louder. "Malfoy? Malfoy, are you alright?"

"No, I'm not fucking alright!" It came out half broken, cracked, falling apart like he was.

"Are you bleeding?" Granger asked. Not waiting for him to reply, she charged on ahead. "If you are, you should apply pressure to make it stop, and clean it- maybe with urine - it's sterile."

"Shut up! I never asked you for help!" Draco shouted. In frustration, he punched the wall, bloodying his knuckles. "Just leave me alone!"

He was a bit surprised that Potter didn't immediately jump to Granger's defence, but let it go. His tears were easing now, replaced more and more with anger and resentment. It was humiliating enough that Potter knew what was being done to him. It was more humiliating that Potter could hear him crying like a child - over a Chocolate Frog. Then there was the fact that Potter wasn't being made the boy-toy to a monster. And the fact that they were convinced Potter knew something.

There were maybe two hundred drips (Draco was no longer counting) before Granger spoke again. "Draco?"

"What?" Draco snapped.

"I know you would have kept it for yourself, but thank you."

Draco started to ask what for, but as always, Potter got there first. "What for?"

"Chocolate Frog," Granger mumbled. It was obvious that her mouth was crammed full. Draco felt anger stab, then twist. How dare she EAT! his Chocolate Frog? It wasn't like she had been buggered.

"Where'd he get a Chocolate Frog?" Potter asked in a tone spiked with jealousy. "That's not fair."

"Get off your fucking high horse, Potter!" Draco bellowed. He started to shout, "Shut up!", then stopped. His anger increased. Thinking about it, about everything, he came to a logical conclusion. "This is all your fault, Potter!"

"My fault?" Potter sounded surprised.

"If you'd bloody well defeated the Dark Lord properly in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"I did!" Potter snapped. "Five years ago!"

"Well you sure as hell missed something!" Draco said aggressively. "What's this Horcrux they're obsessing about?" Whatever it was, it was terribly important. Draco had taken to pretending to understand what they were asking for. He knew that they would kill him if they found out he was useless.

Potter didn't reply.

"Come on, Potter," Draco said. "What is it?"

"It's more your fault than mine," Potter suddenly said.

"I really don't think we should-" Granger began, but Draco cut her off. "How is it my fault?"

"Well first off, as an Auror you should've noticed-"

Draco shot back, "As a purported Defence Against the Dark Arts expert, you should've noticed too! Works both ways, Potter."

"Yeah, well," the Defence expert paused for a moment. "You should have caught all the Death Eaters after Godric's Hollow!"

"I wasn't even an Auror then!"

"Well, afterwards then! I can't believe some of them are still walking the streets, five years after Voldemort was defeated! I can't believe they let Snape go free! Someone's not doing their job right!" Potter exclaimed.

"Well, I am! And anyway, that's Patronus Squad territory - go yell at Weasley! It's not my fault!"

Potter fell silent. 'It's not my fault' continued to echo in Draco's own mind for quite some time.

*

"People with PTSD may startle easily, become emotionally numb (especially in relation to people with whom they used to be close), lose interest in things they used to enjoy, have trouble feeling affectionate, be irritable, become more aggressive, or even become violent. They avoid situations that remind them of the original incident..."

from Anxiety Disorders published by NIMH, US Dept of Health and Human Services.

*

February 10th, 2007

Draco haunted the doorway at the rear of the courtroom, a tall, thin spectre in dark robes. He preferred to stand. He could do without being evil eyed or whispered about by a bunch of idiots. Below him, the tiered theatre of the public gallery was packed. Every reporter, off-duty ministry worker, and general nosy parker had come to take a gawk at the now-legendary Meha Jones, the ferocious murderess who had burned Amos Diggory to death. Given the hype in the papers, one would expect a more impressive sight than the tiny Asian woman sitting bound in chains. She had lank dark hair and equally dark circles under her eyes; it was obvious Azkaban had not treated her well during her two week stay. Despite this, she sat rigidly upright, her lower jaw proud beneath a face dominated by fiercely indomitable brown eyes.

Diggory's estranged wife sat in the reserved seating at the front of the gallery, her posture strangely deflated, head slightly bowed. She was flanked on one side by Ron Weasley, tall and ungainly in silver-trimmed Patronus robes and Fleur Delacour, by contrast effortlessly elegant. Arthur Weasley sat next to Delacour. As Draco glanced at them again, he saw that Delacour's head now rested on the old Weasley's shoulder as he gently stroked her silvery hair. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture that Draco marvelled at for a moment, then looked away. It seemed too private to keep watching.

Further back, he recognised Loony Lovegood's ratty hair, held in place by some arcane object he didn't even recognise. She had been staring up at the dark ceiling for quite some time. He presumed that Granger would be writing the Quibbler article, having nit-picked the Weasleys and Lovegood for what little information she had gathered. Three seats over from Lovegood, Pansy sat occasionally making notes for The Daily Prophet. Even Zabini was there, his posture suggesting he was as bored as Draco felt, though of course, the prick always looked bored. Draco didn't know why Witch Weekly would want a story about Jones. Maybe Zabini was freelancing; not that he cared.

The Weasley son currently boring him stupid was Percy Weasley, the prat with glasses. Weasley was one of eight Superintendents of the Patronus Squad, with around fifty Patronus' and additional support staff under his command. Originally a branch of Aurors responsible for the arrest and conviction of Death Eaters and sympathisers, the Patronus Squad had become increasingly involved in the investigation of other crimes, often 'relieving' Aurors of active casework. This was what had happened in the Diggory case, a case that originally belonged H-Division, directed by Nymphadora Tonks. As an H-Division Auror, it had been Draco's case until Percy Weasley came storming in, slapped 'insubordination' complaints on Draco's record, and arrested a woman after one days enquiry; a typical result for the P Squad.

The Squad were revered by the public for their quick results. Draco was concerned about the same thing. That, and the way the snotty pricks ordered him around like he was some kind of idiot. The whole set-up rubbed him up the wrong way.

Draco was just about to nod off when Dean Thomas entered the public gallery, walked straight past Draco, got about four rows down and started to glance wildly about. Draco was tempted to throw something at him, but decided it was more amusing to watch him figure it out for himself. Seconds later, the light dawned and Thomas spotted him.

Appearing at Draco's elbow, the tall, muscular man gave a harassed smile. "Thought I'd find you here," he whispered, keeping his voice so low Draco could barely hear it.

"How'd you guess?" Draco asked. A woman in the back-row, fat with a beak for a nose, turned and glared. He made a face back, then thought better of it when she nudged the gorilla next to her. It would do neither of their careers good to be kicked out of a Wizengamot hearing.

Thinking the same thing, Thomas said, "We'll talk about it outside, yeah?"

As they left, Meha Jones started to scream, "I DIDN'T DO IT! I DIDN'T-" The head of the Wizengamot ordered silence, but she continued to scream, "WE WEREN'T LOVERS! WE WERE WOR-" until her voice was abruptly gagged.

"It was just starting to get interesting," Draco commented dryly. He paused for a moment, then asked, "Isn't today football day?" Dean's excitement about the Hammers' game at Upton Park had been building for days. He was always excited about football, but this game was especially special. Dean's two daughters had been deemed old enough to attend a match by their mother. Dean seemed to be really looking forward to taking them.

"Yep," his partner replied grimly. "Kids are pretty gutted I can't come- Penny's gonna go along- but what can I do? I have to work."

"Tell Tonks to stuff it?" he suggested. "We're off duty. I presume that's why you're here."

"Nah, just like your company," Dean said easily, though the tone of his voice contradicted the grave expression on his face.

"Right," Draco said dismissively. More seriously he added, "So who's dead and where are they?"

Dean seemed to stall a moment. His handsome, dark face was unusually closed. "Why are you assuming someone's dead?"

Draco glared at him as if he was thick. "Either that or they're not dead yet, but they will be soon."

Dean stalled again. Evasively, he started to walk toward the staircase. "How about we get going upstairs." Draco felt irritation grow as the other Auror began to ask, "So, how's the trial going? D'you think we could've done it better?"

Rolling his eyes at Dean's attempt to side-track him, Draco snapped, "What does the multi-coloured bitch want us to do?"

"You know, it's talk like that that makes her hate you," Dean said. His voice became even grimmer, "And she does hate you, you know."

Of course Draco knew. He could do without others rubbing it in. It was his fault that Tonks lived alone. As a brainless teenager, he'd seen her as an obstacle that needed to be removed, and his thoughtless plan had cruelly twisted her mind. With good reason, she hated him. Really, he should have been thankful that she had given an accurate account of what he had done for the Order of the Phoenix at his trial and refused to press charges for the absolute hell she'd endured. Typical righteous Gryffindor behaviour, he had supposed at the time; couldn't let any repentant sinner go to Azkaban if they'd proven themselves brave. Later, he had been surprised to receive an invitation from H-Division to train as an Auror. He supposed that although Tonks might hate him, she did know how to exploit resources.

Deciding to push all those unpleasant feelings of guilt back into the box where they belonged, Draco asked, "Right. So tell me about this case she's put us on."

Thomas took a deep breath as he entered the lift and selected the main atrium. The muscles in his shoulders tensed beneath his dark blue over-robe. When he exhaled, the tension eased slightly. "This morning," he began, "Ginny- Ginevra Potter, drank a glass of pumpkin juice and went into convulsions. Officially, she's dead."

"Unofficially?" Draco asked.

"Alive, not exactly well. Tonks wants us to keep a lid on it. She thinks it might draw the poisoner out if they believe that they have been successful."

"Is Potter a suspect?"

"What do you think?" Dean replied. Once again, his face was unreadable. "We're to go and get him from Hogwarts, give a quick interview on the way. I've got a Portkey to take us to Ginn-Evra's-" he stumbled over the name up again, "-Room at Saint Mungo's. It wouldn't do for him to be seen in the hallways."

"Why us?" Draco asked. "She's got thirty-odd other Aurors to chose from."

Dean smiled bleakly. "She hates you, that's why. Though it's a bloody nuisance that I have to be dragged into your problems."

That stung. Draco couldn't think of a suitable retort. He was saved from saying anything when Thomas continued, "Have you seen Harry since...?" he trailed off. Draco supposed he was trying to find a suitable euphemism.

"No," Draco snapped. "Why the hell would I want to see him? It's not as though we have anything in common."

Suddenly, it felt as though huge waves were crashing down on him. Something in his stomach seemed to drag his entire body down, and he felt unable to breathe, his heart racing far too fast to be healthy. He tightly grasped the railing of the lift, leaning his head back against the cold wall to stop the tears of panic tearing down his cheeks. He felt embarrassed, humiliated, that he was behaving like a pathetic girl, and was relieved when Thomas gave him a concerned look and asked if he'd had breakfast.

*

May, 2002

Draco hated the Ministry men's loos. He hated how they stank of some sickly floral potion that couldn't quite mask the stench of piss. How the floors were grottily tiled in orange and looked like a house-elf hadn't cleaned them in years. Probably scared off by the dirt, he thought. What he hated the most, though, were the walls. Covered in years of graffiti, mostly obscene and generally false, the walls reflected the true feelings of the Aurors about their co-workers. Following his completion of training there had been various depictions of him, bending for Death Eaters, bending for Voldemort, kissing the Minister's arse, and all sorts of general abuse. It'd pissed him off, but he'd had Nott for company then. Those other wankers could think what they liked.

Now Nott was gone, and he had a new partner. Another bloody Gryffindor who hated his guts.

Draco didn't want to look at the walls, but he did, out of habit. And there it was. A small, quite lifelike sketch of himself, naked in profile, skinny with protruding ribs and hipbones. His breath caught in his throat. The artist had given him a minutely sized penis, and the figure was furiously rubbing it, to no avail. Beside the figure were the initials D.T. Dean fucking Thomas.

As Draco glanced around, panicking as he saw more drawings, more words, and realised why it had felt as though everybody was laughing at him behind his back. He'd put it down to paranoia, but now he realised it wasn't. They were laughing at him.

*

February 10th, 2007

Slughorn, now Headmaster of Hogwarts, was as Draco remembered him, though with less hair and more fat. As he and Thomas exited the Floo, brushing off bits of soot and the like from their robes, Slughorn welcomed them heartily. Or at least he welcomed Dean. He barely gave Draco a nod and ignored his extended hand.

Thomas started to explain the nature of their visit, but Slughorn waved his hand dismissively. "Splendid, splendid! Why don't you take a seat?" Without waiting for a reply, the old walrus waved his wand and Draco found himself sitting beside Dean on a green couch, a cup of hot tea poured in his lap. ("Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry about that," Slughorn said in an unrepentant voice, flicking the moisture away.) Dean's cup gently hovered in the air in front of him, waiting for the Auror to take it.

"As you can see, I am currently entertaining guests, though I am certain they would love a talented wizard such as yourself to join them," Slughorn continued, stroking his jaw-line. He gestured to the other two occupants in the room, a nervy young man who was stammering something about a Floo permit, and a round faced wizard in teaching robes. "Professor Longbottom, you of course know, a brilliant man, an asset to our fine school." Longbottom looked distinctly uncomfortable, almost as though he too had had hot tea spilt down his pants. "And this is Marcus Belby." Draco found it rather strange that Slughorn, while obviously holding Belby in high esteem, didn't sing praises about his accomplishments. But there was no time to ponder about that.

"Headmaster," Draco began, effectively cutting off any more pointless banter. "We are here to see Po-Professor Potter," the name left a bad taste in his mouth. "He will probably need to leave for the rest of the day at least, and he may not want to teach in the following days. You'll have to organise somebody to cover his duties."

The colour in both Slughorn and Longbottom's faces drained. "What's happened?" Longbottom asked.

Draco was about to answer, but Thomas did so for him. "At this point, he's just going to be helping us with an investigation." He anticipated the next question. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

As they left, Longbottom stopped them with a "Wait!" There was an urgency to his tone that made Draco whip his head around to face him. Quietly, Longbottom said, "His hands always tremble."

*

"Why didn't you tell them Tonks' story?" Draco asked, after they left the Headmaster's office.

"I don't like lying," Thomas replied. "You know that. Not to Neville. Not to my friends."

"They'll find out soon enough if it gets into the papers."

"I know."

*

Potter's Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was for some, unknown reason, located in the dungeons, in Snape's old classroom. Slughorn had tried to launch into some elaborate explanation stuffed with superlatives, but Draco had stopped him. His handling of Slughorn had made him feel better, and he felt sure he could deal with Potter.

They quickly found their way down to the old Potions classroom. When knocking received no response (something clearly noisy was going on inside), Dean opened the door.

Draco's first impressions were that Potter wasn't much different to look at now than he been five years ago. Still stunted physically, probably emotionally as well - after all, he had practically married his mother. He didn't notice Draco and Dean enter the classroom, he was too busy hexing students. They watched as he launched an assault spell on a poised blonde Ravenclaw, whose insufficient shield charm weakened, but did not stop the assault. The girl staggered a little, then fell over. Potter abruptly rushed over to her side to help her up, shoving a bar of chocolate in her hand and informing the giggling class, "That is the reason why we do not use Clypeus." He turned to the girl, his voice lowered, "Are you alright, do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?" Draco sniggered as the girl blushed and clung onto Potter's arm harder than ever.

At Draco's snigger, Potter's eyes flashed to the back of the classroom. Draco froze. Potter had changed. He still wore the same godawful glasses and had hair like he'd been pulled through a bush backwards, but his face was different. Gone was the strangely appealing naivety, replaced by the hardness of experience. Wrinkles had crept around his eyes and grey hairs had insinuated their way into the hair of his temples. It seemed wrong for a man of Draco's own age (twenty-six) to look so old. He was reminded of Lupin.

Dean Thomas spoke because Draco didn't, "If we could just have a moment of your time outside, Professor." Draco wondered at the odd formality to Dean's tone. He'd ask about that later.

Potter nodded. "S-Sure, um, give me a minute, yeah?"

Dean nodded and started to leave the room. When Draco didn't follow, he returned and practically frogmarched Draco out of the classroom. Once they were in the hallway, he conjured a seat for Draco to sit in. Draco begrudgingly sat down. "You're really not well, are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine, you idiot," Draco snarled. "Stop treating me like I'm going to break!"

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, you nearly passed out at the Ministry. You're as pale as shit-" (and if Draco wasn't so angry he would have laughed at that and asked Dean why he had white shit) "-And you look more bloody peaky than usual. You're walking around like you're high as a kite, and-"

"I'm fine," Draco repeated, a tongue of fury in his voice. "Would you just get it into your stupid thick head that I'm not sick! I do eat! And I'm pale because that's the way I come, you brainless pillock!"

Angrily, Dean snapped back, "You're a hard person to get along with, you know that?" Spitefully, he vanished the chair, letting Draco fall to the cold, hard ground. "Don't make me pull rank here, Malfoy."

Draco was just getting to his feet when Potter entered the hallway. He gave Draco an odd look, then glanced at Dean. There was a weariness in his eyes. "What's happened? Is Ron alright?" he asked quietly.

Longbottom was right. His hands did jitter, though so minutely that it was barely noticeable. Trust him to have something visible, something that all those morons out there could look at and witter about. Anger tightened his fists. Feeling lucid enough to talk, Draco snapped, "Why are you assuming that it's Weasley we're here about?"

"Last year - the riot," Potter explained tersely. His hands trembled more. He stuffed them into the pockets of his robe. His eyes stayed locked on Draco's. "Who then?"

Draco felt oddly light-headed, as though he was losing blood somewhere. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, crashing again and again like the sound of waves striking a wall. The anger was gone. He was floating in something warm. "Um... Ginn-y. Ginevra-"

"Is she-?" Potter asked. He was still watching Draco with an angry, almost violent expression upon his face. Or maybe Draco was imagining that. He didn't know anymore.

"She's fine," Dean cut in. "In Saint Mungo's. Look, we've just got a couple of questions-"

"Sh-She's alright?" A rash of relief reddened Potter's face, brightening his cheeks and the sheen of his eyes.

There came a muffled thump from inside the classroom. "Shit," Potter said under his breath. He sounded irritated. "I'll just go and deal with that lot, then I'll be right back. The period's almost over, so I'll send them back to their houses."

Once Potter had closed the door behind him, Thomas hissed, "Fuck! Did you see that?"

"See what?" Draco asked vaguely.

One of the things Draco liked about Gryffindors was that generally, if their name wasn't Weasley or Potter, they soon forgot when someone had treated them like crap. He guessed he was becoming that way too. "We tell him that his wife's in hospital, and he gets a bloody big hard-on. That's why he put his hands in his pockets. I can't believe you missed it."

"I wouldn't know, I wasn't exactly looking there," Draco replied irritably. The full enormity of Dean's words suddenly struck home. "Shi- What do you think it means?"

The other Auror rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair, clearly rattled. "I don't know- He's- He's a good bloke- doesn't make sense-"

"Well, either he's guilty, he's turned on over that girl who was hanging off him, or he's on some sort of weird potion that does things like that," Draco sneered. "And I don't know why he'd be taking one of those sorts of potions at school unless he wanted to shaft a student."

Dean gave him a dark, slightly shocked glance. "My girls- I wouldn't want-" He started. He stopped himself. "Which do you think? I mean, this is Harry we're talking about. There's no way he would do anything to Ginny... but if that girl- that's just as bad."

"We'll just have to watch him. If it was the pumpkin juice, he's probably the only person that could have put the poison in it, unless it's a problem with the manufacturers, in which case Saint Mungo's will be crowded by the time we get back. If it wasn't the pumpkin juice, then-"

"We looked over the house pretty well, there was no other source for the poison. The poison was fast acting, sent her into convulsions the minute she drank it."

"There must have been someone else there. From what you've said, she would have been too sick to get to Saint Mungo's by herself," Draco said.

"Hermione was there when it happened," Dean replied.

"Has she been interviewed?"

Dean was about to respond when the door opened, emitting a stream of chattering Slytherin and Ravenclaw students of about fifteen or sixteen. A few of the girls gave them an appreciative eyeball. One even winked at Dean. Draco could easily imagine why Potter might feel flattered about the girl's attentions. He remembered being that age. How grown up and worldly he had felt, when really he knew nothing at all.

A moment later, Potter invited them into the classroom. The walls were still dark and rocky, but the room was a lot warmer and brighter than it ever had been in Snape's day. There were glowing pictures and charts upon the walls, and all in all, the classroom was quite inviting.

"So what happened?" Potter asked immediately.

Neither Dean nor Draco replied. Draco found his eyes wandering down to Potter's crotch, but the teacher had pulled his voluminous robe closed over his jumper and trousers. He didn't know whether he felt relieved that he couldn't see Potter's erection, or concerned because Potter was clearly trying to hide that he was aroused.

"Let's start with a few questions first," Dean said reasonably.

"You think I did- something to her?" Potter said. His face bore an anxious look.

"No-one's saying-" Dean began, but Draco interrupted him, "Did you?"

"No!" Potter snapped. "How dare you accuse me of- What happened to her? Why can't I see her?"

"You can see her," Dean said calmly. "We've got a Portkey to take you there."

"Well, let's go," the teacher said.

"After a couple of questions," Dean replied. He gave Draco one of his warning looks. "Standard stuff. When did you last see her?"

"Is Ginny alright?"

"She's absolutely fine," Dean reassured him. "She's awake and conscious. No permanent damage, she'll heal fully. Now, can you just answer the question?"

"Last night," Potter said immediately. "No, this morning, very early. I left very early."

"How early?" Draco asked.

Potter's head began to tremble in the same way that his fingers had trembled, almost indiscernibly shaking left and right. "We had a fight. A big one. I left at about three. I didn't get home last night 'til midnight," he ran a hand over his face, "and we just- we just had a fight."

"What did you fight about?"

Potter looked down, then back up, focussing on Draco. "Everything," he said. His eyes bore a strange, pleading expression, as though he expected Draco to understand what he meant. Draco felt the sickening waves wash over him for a second time. A cold, prickly feeling ran over his skin, replaced quickly by a rush of warmth. The feeling in his gut grew worse. He just wanted to run as far away as he could go.

"Alright," Dean said, quietly changing the subject. "When was the last time you ate anything in the kitchen?"

For a moment, Potter didn't reply and that dumbstruck expression that Draco remembered from school passed over his face. Then he said, "I honestly can't remember. I usually take my meals at Hogwarts."

When Dean raised his eyebrows, he continued, "Um, Ginny, she's been on a diet- and all the food at home- tastes-" he struggled to find the right word, lips trying out each obscenity before choosing, "...Bad. It's all celery and brown rice and cabbage. She puts vitamins- and herbs... and potions in everything. The kitchen smells terrible and even the juice and milk tastes... Like piss."

Draco took a deep breath. Maybe he was crook with something. It was difficult to concentrate with his heart pounding in his ears and that odd, painful warmth drawing his body down into the cold. "Bad in what way?" he asked huskily.

"Bitter. It smells like mint and celery and tastes like it's off. Something she puts in it. Everything tastes vinegary," Potter replied. "As though it's curdled."

"That's the milk, yeah?" Dean asked. "What about juice? Orange juice or pumpkin juice? How did that taste?"

Potter wrinkled his nose. "The same. I had a glass of it this morning. Spat it in the sink."

*