Necromance

Harry had made his excuses, couldn't remember what they were, but they'd worked, apologetic shrugs, shakes of his head, displaying of an armload of homework--it all worked the same, freeing him from the smothering presence of well-meaning friends and their light-footed pity. Each worried look burned in his stomach like a corrosive, eating at his insides as he forced the smile onto his face or, more often than not, didn't.

One hand shoved a thick handful of overlong black hair away from his eyes, away from the scaly redness that his scar had slowly become, not from Voldemort's calls--Voldemort was dead. Completely dead. A grim thinning of Harry's lips passed for a smile. Voldemort was dead, and the wizarding world celebrated. Sirius Black was dead. His parents were worse than dead. The mental tally came easily these days, short as it was. He remembered the impotent rage and panic he'd felt after, the disbelief, the refusal of truth that his godfather was gone--the truth that no one else had difficulty embracing. Harry didn't see a reason to celebrate. Slipping from his hair, short fingernails dug into the inflamed flesh again, scratched at it, curled into it--he'd hoped it would go away once Voldemort did--it hadn't. Now, it flared to his own rage. It might have disturbed him, once, that his anger felt the same as Voldemort's. The pain of ruined skin ceased to be a distraction and became, increasingly, the focal point of Harry's concentration--and his fury, channelling both into study focused enough to do Hermione proud.

If it were turned to his school work. It wasn't.

He'd sprawled on his cloak, just far enough into the forest to remain hidden from the school, yet close enough to the edge that he was unlikely to set off any warnings--within or without its dark confines. It was cold, yes, and a tree root poked unpleasantly at his thigh, but it was quiet, private--and private.

He withdrew both wand and a small package from a pocket, setting them before him and muttering a quiet engorgio before tucking his wand away. Even now, his fingers itched and his palms tingled at the touch of the too-smooth leather covers with their writing that sometimes seemed to crawl before his eyes.

They were only books.

But Harry wasn't foolish enough to believe that books were powerless to harm. He knew better. Had known all too intimately for almost five years now.

One of these books, however, would help, teach Harry what he needed to know--or kill him in the attempt. The distinct possibility had become, over the last year, an acceptable risk. Even then, when Harry closed his eyes at night, the first image to appear, and the last to fade was the startled look on Sirius's face as he disappeared through the veil. Not a flash of lurid green, or the soundless shriek of Voldemort's toothless maw, or even his own voice casting the killing curse. Though Lupin had been right, about the killing curse. It ate a place for itself in the caster, lived there, bred and brooded and whispered "murderer".

Murderer of Voldemort. The Boy Who Lived was The Boy Who Killed. The prophecy was finished, and the world rejoiced--nothing but cleaning up the aftermath, celebrating as everyone lost on the way to the second bitter victory fell through the cracks, abandoned in the greater victory of the Dark Lord's demise as if they'd never existed. Acceptable casualties, minimal losses.

To everyone but their loved ones.

And then life had gone on.

For them.

Harry let it.

As the rift grew, between his friends and The Boy Who Lived In The Past, Harry became more withdrawn, silent. His last words spoken where anyone could hear were Avada Kedavra--there had been nothing since. There was nothing that seemed appropriate for his voice after saying those words--and meaning them so very effectively. The silence had stretched until he'd had to be excused from charms for lack of voice. Give the boy time to rest and recover his voice--where no physical impediment is present, the mind is the most likely culprit. Depression, St. Mungo's had called it, Post-traumatic stress, and everyone seemed to agree.

Harry let them.

He was only 17 then, and while he couldn't deny the trauma, he knew the difference between depression and rage. He'd felt the touch of both--the cold winding tendrils of depression slid through the soul, leeching will and purpose, hope, and desire. That, he'd seen clearly all summer, every time Remus thought he wasn't being watched. This was rage that simmered quietly, tucked more safely beneath the surface but it fed him, fuelled him through hours of reading, and fed bitter hope--there was a simple truth. One of these books would contain that single spell he needed to bring Sirius back through the veil, the one tragedy left with chance of redemption, or the sum of them would give him every spell he needed to destroy Bellatrix LeStrange, and everyone and everything that got in his way.

It was a rage that burned coldly. He'd found, quickly, that the discomfort he'd felt with the first forbidden book open on his lap was a brief, ephemeral thing, without need or substance. Spells aren't dark, Harry, Remus had said once before circumstance had led Harry to even consider their study, unless the wizard makes them dark.

Then, Harry's concern whether a spell was dark or not had faded too, before the greater burning urge to know what spell was needed to strike first--strike harder, and fill, however briefly, the growing emptiness in his chest. Its nature no longer mattered.

He'd been used to fight the great war for wizard kind--all his life, even before he'd known it.

Harry's fingers tightened on the book's cover, and he pointed his wand at its binding, muttering the unlocking charm, the syllables slithering unpleasantly over his tongue as if a grotesque imitation of parseltongue. Given the book's subject matter, it might have been.

He had been used to fight the great war for wizard kind--and won. And then wizard kind left him on his pedestal alone and went on with their lives. "Give him time to recover," they'd said, "our hero."

Harry didn't feel like a hero.

The reading had been difficult, at first, falling asleep after hours buried in a forbidden book. Harry had gotten very good indeed at brewing Dreamless Sleep draughts once his wartime supply exhausted itself. But in recent nights, he'd stopped taking them, instead, welcoming the heart pounding terror that woke him with nightmare images burned into his eyes--they reminded him what he was doing. And why.

He didn't understand why even now, with Voldemort dead, they patted his shoulder, told him how sorry they were for his loss, and that nothing could be done--after all, the veil was Classified, and no, Harry would not be permitted to study such a dangerous item. Privately, he thought they were worried he might throw himself through it, Orpheus-like, after Sirius. Throwing the good after the bad.

He'd considered it.

And then he'd considered what Sirius would want. This time. Sirius had wanted him alive enough to risk his own life. Now, Harry owed his godfather that life back.

With one hand, Harry rubbed at his ribs, a gesture that had grown more common over the weeks since the end of the war, trying to rub away that hollow ache, let it know he was still there.

Still reading.

Harry sighed, silently, very deliberately set his wand aside, but still safely within reach, and returned his eyes to the page, lips moving silently with the words there. As he passed over the first spell, a frisson of power skittered over his nerves, making the hairs on his arms stand to attention. That had begun happening more frequently, the echo of a spell curling with potential inside him, yet trapped for lack of a wand to focus it outwards. Given the nature of the spell, Harry checked the top of the page again--drawing on the essence of the dead, and his lack of prepared focus, leaving his wand out of reach was the most prudent option.

Part of him wondered if the dead might include Voldemort. Not that there was anything left to draw on in that case. Harry should know--the moment Voldemort died, Harry had gotten the rest of his birth right--the remainder of the power Voldemort's first spell had infused him with. This time, it had flown to him, burrowing into his pores, filling his lungs, and swelling him until his eyes ached and his skin tingled, the throbbing dizziness in his head enough to make him think, for one heart-stopping day of terror, that it was Voldemort infusing him, taking him over.

But it had become quite clear, quite quickly, that for the first time in years, Harry was completely alone in his head. He almost felt bereft, and frightened--surely, he wouldn't be the only one to think that more than Voldemort's power had crossed the divide between them in that moment. So he hadn't mentioned it.

The way things had been going, he rather doubted anyone would listen. Voldemort was dead, all of him, and they wanted him to stay that way.

Completely.

He closed the book, knowing all too well that he wouldn't absorb much on a day like this, when the memories were still too real every time he shut his eyes. And most of the spells in the book required a body--which he didn't have. And while the lack of body gave him hope, it made a great many spells completely useless as well.

No--not completely. A thin smile stretched his lips. With a body, he could wake it up and kill it again. It may not have been useful, but it had a distinct appeal.

Harry clenched his fingers tightly, feeling the anger threatening to bubble to the surface again, preoccupy his thoughts, and fought it down. He took a deep breath, and let it out so slowly it made his heart pound and his lungs burn. Concentrate. Focus.

Drawing his legs up beneath him, Harry cleared a patch in the ground, and spread his fingers over it, palms down, beginning to mutter the incantation. He'd learned to be quiet in his spell casting, well aware that being hidden from the Hogwarts grounds meant that the grounds were likewise hidden from him. That had become the basis for his first wandless spell. From the hollow beneath his hands, shadows spread and skittered along the ground, weaving themselves into the branches of bush and tree, then arching up and over in a slow-moving fountain of dimmed air. And then, sucking in his breath, Harry pricked his finger, just once with his quill and let the drop fall onto the bare earth.

Patesco.

For a long moment, Harry simply stared at the trunk, now visible before him. The elements in the forest had weathered the outside, removed the glossy reddish sheen it'd had when Sirius bought it for him. For his sixth year.

It had, indeed, been a surprise.

Leaning forward on his knees, he unspelled the lock, and placed the book inside, tenderly resting on top of similar books, all of them annotated, some old and crumbling, nestled beside a smaller case that he knew held a cauldron, scales, boomslang skin, powdered bicorn horn, fluxweed picked while Remus had been locked in the house, dozing under the effects of Snape's Wolfsbane Potion, and a cloth-wrapped package of tenderly arranged silky black hair. He hadn't yet either the skill or the nerve to open the case since arranging it, but it offered a grim comfort in the illusions it promised.

In the bottom, he knew there was a false board, and beneath that, a vial like liquid mercury. That vial was his final guarantee.

Standing, Harry closed the case, laying his hands over the lock. dissimulo and watched it disappear as if it never was.

Finite incantem.

The shadows fled, more rapidly than they'd appeared and left Harry alone in the little clearing. He pulled his cloak back around his body, shouldered his bag, and slipped back out onto the Hogwarts grounds, angling his strides as if coming from Hagrid's hut to the Quidditch pitch. It wouldn't be all that out of the ordinary if someone were to spot him walking alone along the perimeter. The poor depressed Boy Who Lived, after all, had earned his space.

The rest, he'd just take himself.

Skirting the Quidditch field entirely, Harry angled back towards the classroom. Slytherin had the pitch, and he didn't feel much like watching--what was the point? He hadn't played since fifth year. Sure, he'd been offered the position on the team, begged even to rejoin, but he hadn't. Like the scar on the back of his hand, the faint outline of "lies" the only word he could still read, some parts of fifth year felt too trivial to reverse until he'd undone the one that most needed reparations.

His back to the pitch, he failed to see calculating grey eyes watching him--that had been following his trajectory since the moment he'd stepped into the forest. It might not have surprised him, if he'd been told, after all--Seekers were supposed to watch.

***

That evening, Harry joined his friends in the common room, laying his homework aside as soon as Ron came pounding down the stairs with a cry of "come on, mate! There's food to be eaten!" and Hermione had followed, somewhat more sedately, and laid a hand on his shoulder, asking if he was hungry.

He wished she wouldn't treat him as if he were about to crumble. On the other hand, he wished too that Ron wouldn't act as if everything were so normal. Resisting the urge to glare at either, he simply stood, nodded, and tucked everything into his bag, letting Hermione take his arm and lead him through the passage and out into the school.

"We missed you at lunch, Harry," she was saying, watching him worriedly as they walked. "Are you sure you're alright?"

He only smiled and shrugged a little, reaching over to pat her hand on his arm in what he hoped was reassurance. There might, he thought, be some truth to his diagnosis at St. Mungos. Because while his voice worked just fine for spells, when he was practicing alone in the forest, his vocal cords closed completely around his throat whenever he tried to speak. It hadn't been long before he'd given up trying--he didn't really have anything to say, he supposed.

They'd only worry more. Or try to stop him. And Harry was rapidly reaching the point where trying to stop him would be dangerous, and whatever else he felt, he didn't want to see more of his loved ones hurt.

Hermione looked as if she was going to say more, but he shook his head, and she sighed, just leaning into his side and taking the hint for a subject change. "Have you started in on your potions essay?"

Harry nodded. He'd finished it in the library the day before and turned it in that morning.

"Do you want me to read over it?"

Harry shook his head. He didn't know what Hermione would make of three feet on A Slip Of The Hand: Everyday Potions And Their Illegal Potential. With footnotes providing additional means for turning perfectly legal, simple to make potions into poisonous and highly effective concoctions with the addition of one or two very common ingredients.

He wasn't sure what Snape would think either. But he did know that if the potions master found fault in his work, it would be for his subject matter, and not his lack of research. Given Snape's personal history, Harry doubted he'd have the balls.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded again, and this time, smiled, just a little. As he hoped, Hermione only sighed at that, giving in to the silence, and leaning lightly against him as they followed Ron into the Great Hall. For a moment, Harry's smile was genuine, watching his friend all but launch himself towards the food. In the middle of a growth spurt so profound, food took precedence over his girlfriend, Ron had become something of a sideshow at meals, great quantities of food disappearing from his plate as the food had appeared on the table.

It had certainly improved his reach as a Keeper.

Harry picked at his own food--he'd long since stopped wondering when he'd get a growth spurt of his own, giving up on the notion completely when even Hermione surpassed him in size. He supposed he didn't mind. After all, he had no one he felt the need to impress, and for the first time in his life, dwarfed by a tall raucous redhead and flanked by a buxom girl with hair that had a life of its own, Harry had felt truly invisible on the streets of Hogsmeade. He welcomed it.

Even in his cloak, he'd never felt so invisible.

"Potter."

Harry's shoulders hunched out of instinct at the voice, and he turned in his seat to look up at Draco Malfoy, eyebrows raised expectantly. The Slytherin had left him alone since the battle; Harry didn't know whether Malfoy was carefully respectful of what he'd done like all the rest, or subdued by the loss of his own familial status, or simply irritated because Harry hadn't spoken to answer the taunts. Across the table, he was conscious that Ron had stopped eating, and was frantically trying to swallow his food in order to tell Malfoy off when Harry couldn't.

In true Malfoy form, the blond smoothly took advantage of the silence. "Snape wants to talk to you."

Harry's eyebrows arched higher, the swollen skin of his forehead tingling with the motion.

"So why'd he send you?" Ron had swallowed, and his voice was predictably hostile.

"Perhaps because I've been helping him grade his essays, Weasel, and am headed back that way myself." Malfoy's arms folded across his chest, and for a moment, Harry was reminded of Snape. It was true, what Malfoy had said--he had been spending a lot of time with Snape since the middle of sixth year. "He wants to see you now, Potter," he added, with subtle malevolent emphasis on the now.

"At least give Harry time to finish his dinner, Ferret face. Why don't you go be a good boy and sit outside on a bench until he's done?"

Malfoy's pale eyes flicked to Ron's half empty plate of food, and then back up to his face, a tone of polite inquiry infusing his voice. "Am I spoiling your appetite?"

Ron's face reddened, but Harry's hand on his arm quelled the outburst. He pushed his plate away instead, and rose. He wasn't terribly hungry. "You sure, mate?" Ron looked dubiously at the mostly full plate Harry left, shaking his head as if he could no longer comprehend leaving food on a plate. Harry gave it to him--all of it, and nodded.

"I'll be in my office after dinner, Harry," Hermione put in, the shiny Head Girl badge pinned to her robes a reminder of her extra responsibilities even if Ron tended to forget who he was talking to every time he broke the rules. "Stop by?"

He only smiled and shrugged. No promises. No way of telling what Snape wanted, or for how long. Not waiting for further comment, he tucked his bag under his arm and nodded to the blond, gesturing out the door.

As they walked side by side down the halls, both boys were silent, nodding or ignoring those students who called out greetings to either until they were alone in the lower levels, with no sound but their footsteps to accompany them.

Then, Malfoy stopped, catching Harry's arm and dragging him into Snape's office without so much as knocking. There was a time when Harry might have hexed Malfoy at first touch, but instead, he only tilted his head, waiting. Hexes weren't the only way to defend himself, he knew now--he didn't need them. And Malfoy had made it perfectly clear in the final battle on which side he stood, mark or no, so Harry could afford to wait for him to speak.

Behind him, the door closed and locked.

It only took a gesture to the room and an arch of his eyebrows to indicate his question--where was Snape?

"It's only me who wants to talk to you, Potter," Draco's voice was smooth, perhaps a bit deeper than it had been once, but otherwise unchanged. Still, the beautiful accent, the arrogant undertones, but no longer a boy. Harry waited. It wasn't as if Malfoy should be expecting an answer at this point, and he didn't feel very surprised. After all, when they left, Snape had still been sitting at Dumbledore's left hand.

Deciding the blond was waiting for some sign, any sign, Harry nodded.

"I don't believe them, you know, Potter, that you can't speak." Malfoy leaned one hip against the desk, looking Harry up and down. Harry couldn't help but smirk just a little. No matter how much time Malfoy spent with Snape, he couldn't match the potions master's silken tones or menacing sarcasm--he only sounded petulant. "I think you just don't want to."

Harry gave him a look that he hoped was as ambivalent as he felt. Part of him conceded that the truth was a bit of both. He tilted his head the other way, and waited. The conversation would get dull very fast if Malfoy was expecting him to speak.

"I saw you in the Forbidden Forest today." Malfoy stood then, forcing Harry to look up if he wanted to hold that challenging eye contact. Vague irritation prickled at the back of Harry's neck that even Malfoy was taller by a scant few inches. Even Malfoy had had his growth spurt. Harry set his jaw, and pushed the irritation away, reminding himself that this didn't matter--old rivalries with Malfoy didn't matter. They'd been on the same side when it counted, and now, he couldn't expect anyone on his side but himself. He continued to stare at the Slytherin. "I saw you disappear in the forest." Malfoy stepped forward, closer, beginning to loom.

Harry shrugged, and did not step back, held those pale eyes calmly.

"And I recognize the spell." Malfoy's lips curved, though not in the usual sneer, but in an expression of grim smugness. "I even know what book it's from. The ministry confiscated it from our library the summer after fifth year. You could be expelled for owning that book, Potter."

Harry's eyes flashed green fire, arms snapping down to his sides and fingers curling into fists--the threat implicit in Malfoy's words were clear. I could stop everything you're doing, you know. it said.

"What are you doing with dark arts books, Harry?" The surprising intimacy of his first name shocked the buzzing from Harry's head, and he frowned--what was Malfoy getting at if not to goad him? He shrugged again, and spread his hands, then flinched when pale and slender fingers pushed black hair away from his forehead, revealing his scratched and swollen scar. "And what's going on with this?" Malfoy's voice tightened, and he dropped the hair when Harry flinched away, glaring at him. "Where is he?"

A flicker of confusion must have shown in Harry's eyes because Malfoy jerked up the left sleeve of his robe, and the jumper beneath, thrusting his forearm into Harry's view. On it, the dark mark throbbed, red, scaled, and scratched very much like Harry's scar indeed.

Draco advanced. "Where. Is. He. Potter? Is he in there somewhere and you haven't told us?" He poked a finger at Harry's forehead, viciously.

Anger flared, bright and sudden at the thought that his own recovery time, his own silence, after giving everything to see the Dark Lord dead could turn so quickly again into making him the villain; it burst in flaming sparks behind his burning scar. He almost didn't hear Malfoy cry out, clutch at his left arm in something very like shock and fear.

They stared at each other then, Harry in mingled defiance and shame, and Draco in horrified confusion.

"He is dead, Malfoy," Harry spoke, quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse. "There's only me now."

"What do you mean?" The horrible tightness still lingered in Malfoy's voice, and his pupils narrowed, one hand still clutched defensively over the mark on his arm. Harry had wondered, often, if that mark wasn't why Malfoy had begun to spend all of his time with Snape after Christmas of 6th year. Thinking of Snape, Harry's blood chilled.

"Have you both been feeling," he gestured vaguely at Malfoy's arm, at his own scar with one shaking hand, feeling suddenly ill. "Every time I've been angry?"

Angry--Harry was always angry.

Voldemort had been always angry.

Harry felt himself begin to shake, the blood draining from his skin. Strong hands were on his shoulders then, shaking him. "Potter--what do you mean?"

This time, Harry couldn't meet Malfoy's eyes, a quiet simmer of resentment churning with the fear under his skin, but he wouldn't bow his head. He hadn't asked for this. But he wouldn't be blamed for using it. "I got the rest when he died," he said, at last, his eyes falling on a jar of powdered asphodel.

"What rest?"

That was the part that hurt, made Harry's jaw clench. "I absorbed some of him the first time, when," he gestured, at his scar. "I got the rest when I killed him."

Malfoy stared. "Do you mean to tell me, Potter, that you've been parading around for the last seven years with Voldemort's powers?"

"Not his anymore, were they?" He didn't feel like looking Malfoy in the eye.

"Parseltongue?"

"His."

"Prophetic dreams?"

"Him."

"Patronus?"

Harry's lips thinned, thinking achingly of the shimmering stag he only saw when his life was in danger. "That one's mine."

A silence stretched between them, but neither had moved. Harry could feel Malfoy's body heat radiating against his skin. "Sudden interest in the dark arts?" His voice held a note of challenge.

Harry lifted his head, this time meeting the grey eyes. "All mine," he said with immutable emphasis.

"Are you certain?"

Harry only looked back at him, green eyes hard and cold. What right did Malfoy have to be questioning him?

"Look, Potter. You're not the only one who gave up everything to see the Dark Lord defeated." Malfoy's voice dropped, low and even, and the fingers of his left hand twitched as if in response to a twinge of that brand that marked him. "I didn't do it so another Voldemort could rise in his place."

Harry looked away. "You're one to talk about the dark arts, Malfoy. I don't want to conquer anything," he said, so quietly that even in their close proximity, Malfoy leaned forward to catch the words.

"What do you want?"

Harry swallowed, feeling the anger roll across his mind and wrapped his arms around himself. "I want my life back."

"Don't we all?" Harry's head snapped up at the sardonic words. Perhaps Malfoy had picked up some of Snape's flair for silky sarcasm after all. It was certainly having a similar effect. The blond was watching him coolly, but he could see the way those pale fingers clutched defensively over the burning in his arm, tightened. "You can't change what's been done."

"I don't want to change it." Harry took a deep breath. "I want to finish it." When Malfoy didn't answer, Harry turned on him and advanced a step, fiercely. "You can't tell me you buy into the ministry's celebrations. Not when you know how many Death Eaters are on the loose."

Malfoy's fingers tightened convulsively.

Harry looked straight at the mark. "And what they've done."

"I didn't, Potter." Malfoy dropped his arm, shoving his hand into his pocket as if to hide the mark from Harry's gaze. "I didn't want it. I didn't ask for it."

"Neither did I."

"You can't be a one man vigilante force." Malfoy's voice was flat when he spoke again.

"That's not why I'm doing it." Harry answered him quietly, still looking up into those shuttered eyes, almost enjoying the confusion he saw in their depths. "That's only a bonus."

Malfoy's gaze narrowed.

"What would you have done if Snape had been lost in the fight, Malfoy?" Harry knew better than to ask after Malfoy's once-beloved father. Even Harry hadn't been absorbed enough to miss when worship had turned to disappointment, and disappointment to fear, and then hate. But he hadn't missed the transference of those worshipful looks to Snape either.

"He wasn't."

"Do you think they'd have let you look for him if he was?"

Malfoy let out a short bark of laughter. "Of course not, Potter. You're the hero here. Severus only risked the last thirty years of his life to keep Voldemort and his followers at bay."

"So did Sirius," Harry said, and watched. "I don't want to be the hero, and I don't want to be the saviour. Not when it means I'm the only one they care about."

"How honourable."

Harry's smile was mirthless. "Honour's got nothing to do with it."

"What then?"

"I want Sirius back."

"I thought he was dead."

The ache crawled from Harry's chest to seize around his throat, bringing back the silence, and he only shook his head. That's what they say.

Malfoy hesitated, looking more closely at Harry's face. "Isn't he?"

Harry shook his head again, and turned his eyes to Malfoy before looking away, ashamed of the tears he felt brimming in them. He swallowed around the heaviness in his throat, managing to force out a whisper. "No." He hated the uncertainty in his voice, took another breath, and looked Malfoy directly in the eyes. "No. Sirius isn't dead."

There was no body.

"So where is he?" The open wariness faded from Malfoy's voice, but he still crossed his arms, tight and defensive against his chest, watching Harry closely.

"The end of Fifth year," Harry said, not looking at Malfoy, feeling the shame of it, the uselessness of it flow through his veins like a slow working poison. "Bellatrix LeStrange cursed him through the veil."

"The veil," Malfoy repeated, flatly.

Harry's head snapped up, and a flare of irritation twinged through both scars. "Yes, Malfoy, he was cursed through the bloody Veil by your aunt and hasn't been seen since."

Malfoy looked entirely unimpressed. "I see, Potter. You're telling me that, because he went through a veil--he simply must be dead?" Malfoy's arms unfolded and he half turned, addressing the cold walls of Snape's office, fluttering one hand through the air in a gesture of complete disgust with the entire notion. "Really, when Severus and I were unavailable, the Order had no thinking abilities at all, did it?"

The Order. Harry would have said the Ministry, but Malfoy's scathing reply hit more uncomfortably close to the truth. "Dumbledore said I should let go and move on."

"Which, clearly, you haven't," Malfoy replied, regarding Harry with an expression of vague interest.

"No," Harry's smile returned, directed at the air, somewhere beyond Malfoy's left ear. "I did move on. Now I'm back to finish where I left off."

"Surely there's someone better suited?" One slim eyebrow twitched, and the blond pursed his lips. "Why you?"

Harry wrapped his arms around his chest, eyes skimming the room, passing over Malfoy, for a moment, as if he weren't there, instead seeing the veil again, Sirius's startled look. He'd hate being known as the man who fell through the bloody veil. Hate the scorn his manner of disappearance provoked in the Slytherins. He shook his head again. "Nobody else will, I reckon."

"It's dangerous." The words were softly voiced. A warning.

A short laugh bubbled from Harry's throat, and he looked back at Malfoy. "Dangerous," he repeated. "Malfoy, I've been facing Voldemort once a year for the last seven." He felt his voice soften, sadden--why was it so easy for everyone else to forget where he'd been? "I don't care about that."

Draco's voice sharpened. "It's dangerous for the rest of us."

Regret laced Harry's tones when he replied. "I don't care much about that anymore either."

At this, the blond's eyes flickered over Harry, assessing, and he drew himself up to his full height. "Will you accept help?"

"Why would you want to help me?" Bitterness coiled through the words, a chill and dangerous undertow.

The coldness was matched by eyes the colour of windowpane frost that never wavered from Harry's face. "Because I do care about the danger," he said. "And until I stop, my part in this isn't over either."

"You're not going to get in my way," Harry said, the flicker of defensiveness sliding across his scar as a dull throb, a tingling sliding through his veins as the magic coalesced.

"No," Malfoy said, not coming closer, but looking Harry over again, from head to toe. "I'm not going to stop you. Nor am I going to report you."

Disbelief flickered in Harry's eyes.

"I'm going to help you as I said."

"Why?" Harry demanded again, taking another step forward, almost closing the distance between them entirely.

Malfoy looked down, and behind the wariness, Harry could see a faint shadow of something else.

"Why?" He asked again.

"Because I believe in finishing what I've started too, Potter," he said quietly. "And I've had enough of power mad dark lords to last me several lifetimes."

Harry looked away. "I'm not a dark lord."

"No," Malfoy agreed, "but you could be. Easily."

"Are you appointing yourself my keeper?" Harry saw the Slytherin only in his peripheral vision, an uncomfortable shuffle from one foot to the other.

"You don't need a keeper, Harry," Malfoy said again, once more invoking that intimacy in his oh so soft tone.

It crawled over his arms and through his nerves, that tone, and wound into his brain like something tangible and silver. Harry gave his head a quick shake against the buzzing of rage that lived there. "What if I do?" His voice was small, then, and for a moment, uncertain. Sometimes, listening to that buzzing, he was uncertain.

"Then I'll be that too." Malfoy reached out one hand, stopping just before it touched Harry's skin, then dropping to his side. "And I've already studied what you're getting into. I know what I'm doing--you don't."

At last, Harry nodded, silent agreement. "It stays between us."

"It stays between us," Malfoy agreed, again, crossing his arms over his chest, protective or defensive, he wasn't sure. "Where will we meet?"

Harry's eyes fell onto Malfoy's arm, the mark there, then flickered back to his face, a half twist of smile tugging at his lips. "I'll find you tomorrow, Malfoy."

As Harry turned away, his hand on the doorknob, he couldn't see Malfoy shudder and clutch again at the magical mark burned into his skin. "Draco," he said.

Harry froze.

"Malfoy is my father's name," Draco continued, a quiet, almost bitter wryness in his voice. "I don't want you getting that confused."

Still not turning back, Harry nodded, though he was still smiling, faintly, distantly. "I won't."

***

By the time he reached his room in the nearly-empty Slytherin dorm, Draco was absently rubbing at the mark on his arm. Thin lashes of fear still coiled through his belly, and more than once, the urge to run to Severus and tell him everything had been overwhelming. He shook his head, quickly, unclasping his cloak in an unconsciously graceful gesture and throwing it sightlessly at the stand in the corner. Severus had done his part, stood by the Order until Tom Riddle fell.

This time, it would be Draco's turn. And his Tom Riddle would not be allowed to rise. Could not. For his sake, for Harry's, and for Severus. The rest of the world, as far as Draco was concerned, could go hang. On that, at least, he and Harry seemed to agree.

Pouring himself a glass of water from the jug that stood on his night stand, Draco sat on his bed. A sip later, he unpinned his prefect badge from his robes and lay it on the table, looking at it in vague amusement. There was little point in assigning a prefect for an almost empty house, but Dumbledore had seen fit to do so. To show his belief in Draco, perhaps. To reassure Draco that he was, indeed, appreciated by the light for what he risked. It would be just like the old man to do so--dangle the imagined carrot.

Draco had all the carrots he needed to risk what he had, give up what he had. Particularly when the alternative was servitude to an omnipotent megalomaniac. Rather big carrot, his continued health and freedom.

Relishing the brief spike of sardonic amusement, Draco stretched himself out on his bed, folding his aching left arm across his stomach and staring up at the cold blackened stone of the ceiling. He wondered how much he could tell Severus without getting his godfather involved. That Harry was the source of the mark's call, certainly, but he'd have to portray it as an unconscious thing on Harry's part, or at least the anguish of a boy who'd lost too much rather than the barely contained rage of a very powerful wizard precariously close to insanity.

Draco fancied he knew a thing or two about the insane.

It could be worse, he reflected, letting his arms come to rest above his head on the pillows, the fingers of one hand toying absently with a silken seam. The mark's pain could have indicated that Voldemort was still alive. Compared to that, Harry Potter about to reach critical was almost a relief.

Almost.

A derisive snort interrupted the silence and Draco absently kicked at his bedpost. What would the wizarding world have to say for itself if taken to task for the mistreatment of its hero? The Slytherin portion of it would probably say "I told you so." Draco certainly would. His lips curled and he tilted his head back into the pillows, wriggling until he was completely comfortable. Ironic, he was sure, that he and Severus were right about the short sighted selfishness of most wizards and witches, however well meaning they claimed to be. They were right, yet they had still fought against Voldemort at Dumbledore's side, taken risks for the old man and all he stood for--but they were still right. When it came to times of peace, the wizarding population was as eager to forget its fighting heroes as it was its villains.

They'd keep their figureheads, alright, the names they could invoke to make themselves feel safe at night, but the men and women who'd lived the battles, and lived them again every night in their sleep, the wounded, the lost--they were uncomfortable reminders.

Draco's fingers closed again over his forearm, feeling heat radiating from the swollen mark. He didn't need to be told about uncomfortable reminders.

Cowards.

Common opinion said Slytherins were cowards, slinking through the dark alleys, never approaching from the front. Perhaps so if the only form of bravery was facing danger head on. Personally, Draco considered intelligent defence and cunning attacks far more useful than blind brute force. And he hadn't flinched yet from what had been done. A Slytherin never shrank from the past. A Slytherin never hid from personal guilt.

Might not admit it; Draco's lips curved at that, vaguely amused by the contrast. That was the paradox of Slytherin, wasn't it? They never hid from their own guilt, but they never admitted to it when doing so would become--problematical. That wasn't cowardice. It was self-preservation. And Slytherins were very good at self-preservation.

He doubted very much that a Gryffindor could have survived Severus's duties of the last 30 years intact.

Whether they'd have survived his own for the last year was possibly more in doubt and he didn't think that Harry's mind counted as intact. Or Black's, come to think of it. Even Dumbledore was famously mad.

Draco began to wonder just how Hogwarts had been left standing all these years with that lot looked to for heroes.

Letting his fingers trace the slightly raised contours of the mark, Draco closed his eyes and pondered. It was impossible to ignore, of course, the flaring, but since Voldemort's demise, the pain had been unaccompanied by any compulsions, any summons. He found himself unable to resist a small smirk. Both he and Severus had been miles away from the right conclusion.

Phantom pains, professor? Draco sat up, looking down at it, disappointment twinging in his chest. His own theory had been more pleasant than either Snape's or the reality. He'd suggested that the pains might be his body rejecting the mark--searing it from his skin now that its creator was no more.

He shook his head, standing and taking a pinch of floo powder at the fireplace, then tossing it into the flames. "Professor Snape's office."

A moment later, Severus watched him from the flames, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "Draco?"

Below the sharp jaw, Draco could see his shirt undone at the throat, and lightly flushed. Drinking, then. "A bad time, professor?"

Snape looked briefly behind him on the other end, murmuring quietly before turning back to Draco. "No. Is something the matter?"

Draco sank to the floor, cross-legged, and rested his elbows on his knees. "Are you alone, then?"

"No," Snape's lips curled, just at the corner. It might have been somewhat of a sneer, but over the years, Draco had learned that his godfather had a great many sneers, and not all of them meant something terribly unpleasant. "But you may say anything you wish in front of him."

Him then? About time Severus had someone to his rooms--unless it was Dumbledore, but he had his doubts that Severus would encourage him to be quite so open in front of the old man. Trying not to snicker, and well aware that prying would be considerably less than welcome, Draco fiddled with the hem of one sleeve. "I've found out what caused the marks to burn."

"Oh?" Snape's eyes narrowed. "Would this have anything to do with your abrupt departure from dinner with Potter?"

Draco sighed. There really was no fun in surprising Severus--it so seldom worked. "You could at least have the decency to act surprised, Severus." He was aware that there was a note of petulance in his voice, but pushed on. "You knew about Potter's little childhood gift from Voldemort then?"

A small nod answered. "Albus did hint at something quite like that rather often over the years."

"Well now he's gotten the rest, I think. He lost it a bit while we were talking and the scars flared up." He shrugged, lightly, and showed Severus his mark, already fading back to its more usual aggravated pink. "His scar did too. Nothing to worry about, I suppose. Nothing a few more occlumency lessons shouldn't cure, possibly meditation."

Snape's face darkened and the angle shifted as if the man were drawing himself up to his full height. "I dare say." Draco winced at the ice in Severus's tone. He could see his godfather wasn't any more pleased with the notion of remaining linked to someone now that he'd paid his dues than Draco was. "Are you aware then that Potter is the living embodiment of a vial of exussum solution with a cracked seal?"

"Cracked something," Draco muttered. "He doesn't seem to be an immediate danger.

Severus muttered something under his breath that sounded very like a curse, and then stopped, looking up at Draco with excruciating slowness, realization flickering in those dark eyes. "He spoke to you?"

Draco cursed inwardly, and then, closing his mind as protectively around the truth as he could, put on his most carelessly casual face, and answered. "No. I was trying to taunt him into it and only made him angry." He wasn't entirely sure why Potter's voice should become part of their secret. But it had. "I figured out the rest."

"What was his reaction to you?"

Draco half shrugged, and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Already said. He got angry at me, then he calmed down again."

"I can't imagine, Mr. Malfoy, just what you might have said to calm down Harry Potter."

"Agreed with him mostly." Draco's tone softened with laughter. "Gryffindors seem to like being agreed with."

Severus's eyes flickered to the side, to whoever else was in the room with him, and Draco wondered, briefly, once again who it was. Gryffindor, then? "Indeed they do."

"Do you think we should tell Dumbledore?"

The potions master hesitated at that, and this time, turned to look at his companion for long moments before replying, the quiet murmur of conversation that Draco couldn't make out through the crackling of the flames. "I think, perhaps, it would be wisest simply to watch. Our connection to him may fade in time as he grows accustomed to his new abilities. The headmaster," Severus spoke with the measured pace of a man choosing just the right words to phrase a potentially dangerous declaration, "may not be quite the stabilizing influence Potter needs at this moment. I suspect that their sessions have not been going as well as Albus believes."

Draco snorted, softly. If there was ever an understatement, that was it. "Funny, and I thought I was the only one who noticed that Potter looks like he wants to kill something every time he comes down from the Headmaster's office."

Severus returned a measured look. "Indeed. You may, however, be the only one who sees it for what it is."

"Aside from you?"

"Of course." A hint of smugness infused the rich voice. "I suspect that you and I have, perhaps, more in common with Mr. Potter in this regard than the rest of the school."

"So what should I do?"

"Keep watching," Severus replied, and then, his lips curved in a true and wickedly amused smirk. "Constant vigilance."

Images of ferretdom danced through Draco's head, and he growled. "I don't need a Moody reminder, Severus."

Still smirking faintly, Snape watched him. "Moody or no, Draco, there is merit in watching. Continuing to do so will not, I think, do us any harm."

Slowly, Draco nodded, and the knot of ice in his belly warmed, just a little. "I'll tell you as soon as anything changes," he mentally filed the lie under 'necessary diversion.'

"Do so. Is this all?"

The blond nodded, standing again, and stretching the kinks out of his limbs. "Yes. Thank you, Severus." His eyes flicked in the direction of his godfather's invisible guest. "You too." He let the connection end, and raked his hands back through his hair, turning and undressing before sliding himself back onto his bed, cool now compared to the radiant heat of the fireplace. He pulled thick covers high over his shoulders until his breath echoed back to him from their folds. Even with no conclusions reached and truths concealed, he felt somewhat less uncertain of the situation after his talk with Severus. Whether that feeling lasted into his next meeting with Potter would remain to be seen.

Nox.

Draco tried to sleep.

He tried not to scratch at the irritation of his mark, and rolled over, pinning it beneath the pillow. On the darkness, he still saw the redness of Harry's famous scar and heard in the popping of the hearth the gravel in a voice too old for a man so young. And then, in that space between awake and asleep, he saw Severus writhing under Cruciatus once again, witnessed so many times though he'd only seen it once in life, and he knew his answer to Harry's question.

If it had been Severus gone missing, his existence denied by the ministry, Draco would have been doing the exact same thing.

***