The Cloak of Shadows

Hermione grabbed the sterilized syringe from the tray and snapped on a wicked-looking needle. Harry sat next to Draco on the infirmary bed, holding his hand tightly and trying to process the overload of information forced on his brain that day. He knew he should be helping Dumbledore form the resistance to fight the ever-nearing Anguionae, but he couldn't seem to leave Draco's side.

"Alright Draco," Hermione said, gesturing toward his arm. "Push up your sleeve and we'll get this over with." Draco frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

"Can you take it out of this arm?" he said, releasing Harry's hand and stretching it towards her. Hermione gave him a curious look, and then shrugged.

"Sure. Whatever you want." She rolled up the sleeve of his robe and wrapped a rubber tourniquet tightly around his bicep. Tentatively she prodded at the delicate, paper-thin skin of his inner elbow, seeking out a vein.

"Shit, Granger!" Draco hissed. "Your hands are freezing!" Hermione case him a stony glance, and he thought it best to refrain from further comment. Hermione continued to jab at him painfully for several minutes.

"I don't know," she said finally, sighing and stepping back. "Your veins are awfully small." Draco looked indignant, but said nothing. "I think I should try the other arm."

"No!" Draco said, subconsciously drawing the arm against his chest. Harry looked at him strangely, but Draco dropped his eyes, kicking at the floor with the toe of his shoe. "Just try this arm," he insisted stubbornly.

Hermione sighed again, furrowing her brow. "Okay, but it's your funeral. This is going to hurt like the dickens."

"Granger, I just faced Voldemort and over thirty death eaters. I think I can handle a little needle." Hermione and Harry both flinched at this, but Hermione nodded resolutely and took his arm.

Draco barely took notice as she slid the needle in quite easily. Unfortunately, she missed the vein by mere millimeters and had to pull back and try again. Frowning, Hermione gazed off into the distance, deep in concentration, shifting the needle to and fro, probing for a vein. Draco gritted his teeth, unwilling to admit that this hurt every bit as much as she said it would. Harry rested a hand gently on his back, rubbing it up and down soothingly. Draco was torn between being grateful for Harry's nearness or being annoyed at his petting on him like a small child.

"Almost there," Hermione said reassuringly, but Draco was not comforted. He felt a sharp sting as she poked the needle through his skin one more time, followed by a searing stab of heat that seemed to run all the way down his arm. He couldn't stop the sharp cry that escaped his lips.

"Damn!" Hermione said, exasperated. Both Draco and Harry stared at her, surprised. Not even Harry had ever heard her swear. She glared at them both, challenging them to comment. They said nothing. After a moment, Hermione sighed. "Draco, your vein's bifurcated," she said, sounding weary.

"What's that mean?" Draco asked, not sure he wanted to know. It sounded painful. Which, he noted, it was.

"It means your vein has split, so it's bleeding underneath the skin." Draco made a distasteful face and Hermione gave him a small grin. "You're going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow." Draco glanced down at his arm and saw that about an inch of skin all the way around the tiny puncture marks had already darkened to a violent shade of purple. He felt a little queasy, so he quickly looked away, and met Harry's steady gaze. Harry smiled softly, and Draco felt marginally better.

"You know Granger," he said, turning to give her his best Malfoy glare, "you're shit at this whole medicine thing. Perhaps you should consider a career in secretarial work instead." Hermione looked hurt, and Draco felt bad. But still, it had hurt like a son of a bitch, and she was supposed to be a professional. Well, sort of. Harry's hand trailed down his back and pinched his side sharply. "Ow! Sorry," Draco muttered, giving Harry a frown, albeit a weak one.

Hermione sighed. "No, I'm sorry Draco. It's my fault. I should have known better than to try to get blood out of that vein. I'm just going to have to try the other arm."

"No!" Draco said, panic rising within him. His throat burned and he could feel tears prickle under his eyelids.

"Draco, what's the matter?" Harry asked, looking concerned and a bit wary.

"It's nothing... just..." Draco fumbled for an excuse, for anything, but he realized he was merely delaying the inevitable. With a sigh of tired resignation, he held out his other arm towards Hermione, hoping against hope he would be spared the humiliation of crying in front of them.

Hermione took his arm gently and pushed the sleeve of his robe up past his elbow. Reaching back for an alcohol wipe, she flipped his arm over and then gasped in shock. Harry let out a soft noise that could have indicated anything from surprise to sadness to abject horror.

Draco cringed but did not withdraw his arm. He wished he could look away, but like Harry and Hermione, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the soft skin of his inner arm, marred by a grotesque black skull, twined with a wicked-looking snake. The burn was still inflamed and red around the edges, and Draco expected the uncomfortable tingling would never fully go away.

"I took the Mark," he said redundantly; his voice held no emotion. He was waiting, bracing himself for the deluge of anger that was sure to come from Harry, but none was forthcoming. Even worse, Draco thought, with a sinking stomach. Harry was not going to yell, was not going to say anything. He would probably just look at Draco in that hurt, injured way of his and Draco would grovel at his feet, begging forgiveness in a very un-Malfoyish manner. But it would do no good, for Harry Potter could never accept anyone with the Dark Mark, no matter how sorry they may be. Look at how bitter he still was toward Snape for God's sake, even after all these years.

Draco snatched his arm away and let the icy mask fall into place. Whatever had been happening between himself and Potter was surely over now, and Draco absolutely would not give Harry the pleasure of seeing him lose control.

But Draco wasn't the one who was in danger of losing control.

"GODDAMN HIM!" Harry roared, and Draco winced in spite of himself. Here it comes, he thought. Hermione was crying quietly. She was still, absurdly, clutching the hypodermic, and for a moment Draco was worried she was going to poke herself with it and expose herself to his Shifter blood.

He had just managed to wrench it from her hand - slightly relieved to noticed she didn't flinch away from his touch, but telling himself she was probably in shock - when Harry grabbed his wrist with numbing force.

"Come on," he hissed, hauling Draco to his feet and pulling him to the door. Draco glanced back uncertainly at Hermione, who had snapped out of her shock and was quickly wiping the tears from her face. She looked confused, and worried, but not disgusted. Draco comforted himself with this thought and allowed Harry to yank him out into the hallway.

***

Harry was aware of a faint buzzing noise in his ears, but he shook it off, trying not to stumble as he tugged Draco blindly through the halls. There were tears in his eyes, but they didn't fall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry wondered if he'd ever cry after this - wondered if he'd ever feel anything but anger.

He was consumed with it now - he could smell it in the chilly stale air, taste it in the blood from the lip he didn't even know he'd been biting. He felt suddenly sure that he would never not be angry. Draco let out a small cry as he tripped and faltered, but Harry jerked him upwards and continued yanking him along, heedless of his surroundings, other than the direction he was ultimately heading.

Several minutes later, the two of them reached the familiar statue, and Harry bit out the password.

"Fruitcake."

He shot Draco a glare, daring him to comment, but when the deathly-pale boy said nothing, presumably out of fear for his life, Harry looked away. He could have sworn he heard a sigh of relief.

"Come on," he growled, pulling unforgivingly on Draco's arm, only fearing for a moment that he might yank it out of socket, and started up the stairs. Draco, rightfully thinking it was useless to protest, went along, trying his best to keep from tripping as he maintained the brisk pace Harry had set.

When they reached the door to Dumbledore's office, Draco was panting, doubled over and clutching his side. Harry, who felt as though he could run barefoot up a mountain, burst through the door without warning and strode right into the middle of the office, tugging Draco along behind. He felt just the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the stunned look on the normally-unflappable headmaster's face, and smiled mirthlessly.

"Harry, what -" Dumbledore began, but Harry cut him off with a sharp glance. Turning and looking behind him, he saw Cho Chang and a Hufflepuff boy from her year bending over a stack of crumpled maps, watching the scene unfold with twin expressions of shock etched on their faces.

"Out," Harry said in a low, dangerous voice, not caring what sort of plan-making he had interrupted. Cho arched a slim black eyebrow questioningly, but she grabbed the boy and pulled him gently toward the door.

"Come on, Martin," she said quietly, giving Harry a concerned look as she passed. Martin, however, seemed reluctant to miss out on the action, and he resisted her, goggling at Harry and Draco with an expression that clearly said he wanted to witness the drama.

"OUT!" Harry roared, gesturing violently toward the door and taking a menacing step forward. With a frightened yelp entirely too characteristic of a Hufflepuff, Martin was out the door like a shot, pulling Cho behind him.

When they were gone and the door had shut with a resounding thud, Harry turned to face Dumbledore, who was now watching them with a reserved, but surprised expression. Harry dragged the blonde boy, whose breath was coming in sharp, raspy pants, over to the headmaster's desk.

Dumbledore's eyes widened as Harry slammed Draco's arm down on the unforgiving oak surface, the charred, tender flesh exposed.

"Get. It. Off," he bit out through clenched teeth.

Dumbledore found his voice. "Harry, I just can't...."

"I said, get it off. Now! This is your fault! You sent him in there, and look what happened! GET IT OFF!" Harry knew he was hysterical, knew there was nothing even Dumbledore could do, but he felt so lost, so fucking helpless, and screaming seemed to be the only thing he was good at.

"Harry," Draco gasped. Harry could feel the muscles of his lean forearm tense beneath him, but he made no move to break away. "Come on, Harry. It's okay. It'll all be..."

"IT'S NOT OKAY! It's not, Draco, don't you see?" He turned pleading green eyes on pained quicksilver, and begged him to understand. "None of this is your fault, Draco. They made you do this, they made you spy, they sent you into the lion's den, probably knowing this would happen, and they didn't give a flying fuck if you came out alright!"

"That's not true, Harry. I wanted to go. You know that. I accepted the job, and all the possible outcomes. This is no one's fault."

Harry felt his lower lip trembling, and he looked up at Dumbledore, silently praying that the powerful old wizard could wave his wand and make everything better, they way it seemed he had when Harry was younger.

"Dumbledore," he whispered, and his voice faltered.

The worn, exhausted man in front of him looked at him with such sympathy and pain in his tired blue eyes that for a moment, Harry still believed he was the same benevolent old man Harry had always known. But then he saw the pity, the cool reservation that said Draco's misfortune was just another necessary casualty in a war Harry had never wanted to fight. And Harry snapped.

In that moment, he hated the world.

In that moment, he saw everything he was, everything he'd known, being stripped away from him irrevocably. And if he'd thought he was angry over Sirius's death back in fifth year - well, that was nothing compared to the fiery rage coursing through him now.

"I hate you," he hissed, his gaze never wavering from the headmaster's. "You're killing everything I love, everything that's good. It's not Voldemort, it's you."

"Harry," Draco said quietly, his voice heavy with warning.

But Harry was beyond heeding it.

"No," he said, flicking a glance at Draco, his heart clenching at the drawn look straining the boy's features. He looked back Dumbledore. "No, not this time. I've been blinded to what this war is really about. I've been blinded by your treatises of peace and prosperity for wizarding-kind, when all the time the people I love are dropping around me like flies! This isn't about me anymore, is it? I'm just another pawn in your little game, expendable, just so long as it helps you win. Well, you listen to me Albus Dumbledore - you may think I'm a child, you may think I'm immature and impulsive and stupid, and I may be all those things - but I will not be used, and I will not let you use the people I care about. I want no part in this war, do you hear me? I will not be bullied into fighting for a cause I no longer believe in. I want nothing more than to see Voldemort brought down, but you mark my words, I will cheer just as loud when you are no longer in power."

Harry, so caught up in his anger, had not even noticed that Draco had pulled his arm away. Had not even remembered he was in the room, to be honest, until he heard the boy's ragged sob. He looked at him then, and felt the full weight of all he had said come crashing down on him with the pain filling Draco's eyes.

"Draco," he said, extending a hand, but Draco was shaking his head, tears coursing down his cheeks, and before Harry could even move, he was out the door, sprinting down the spiral staircase as though Cerberus was barking at his heels.

Oh hell.

Harry looked back to Dumbledore, whose skin had gone ashen and gray, hanging heavily on his face like lumps of wet clay. The headmaster's eyes were glassy, and one hand fluttered to his chest. Harry could see his pulse beating erratically against the skin of his neck.

Double hell.

Not knowing what to do, Harry wanted to collapse on the floor and cry, the way he had when he was a little boy and wanted to make all the shouting at the Dursley's go away. But that wouldn't work now, and immature though he may sometimes be, he knew it.

Racing to the fireplace, Harry hurled a handful of powder into it and thrust his head inside. "Hermione!" he barked when her face came fuzzily into view. "Get up to the headmaster's office, now!"

He pulled his head out and whipped around, so fast the room began to spin. Rushing to Dumbledore's side, he grabbed the old wizard's arm and helped lower him into his seat.

"I'm sorry!" he cried hoarsely. "I'm sorry! Just be alright! Please, Dumbledore, please. I take it back, I do!"

Albus looked up at him then, and Harry felt a wave of sorrow consume him. He had meant most of the things he said, but he didn't hate the man - couldn't hate him - and he would rather take the Mark himself than see his headmaster come to any harm. But how to tell him that now, after all the hurtful things he'd said?

Just as he was opening his mouth to form a coherent apology, Hermione dashed through the door, eyes wild and hair flying crazily about her head.

"What is it?" she said, looking first at Harry. Her gaze lit on Dumbledore then, and no explanation was necessary. She ran to the headmaster, immediately checking the man's pulse and breathing.

In a panic, Harry wrung his hands, not knowing how to help. And then he remembered Draco, and the state the boy had been in when he ran out.

"Oh god," he whispered, realizing what a horrible mess he'd made. "Hermione, please, take care of him. I have to... I have to... oh god, Draco." Hermione looked confused, but nodded her assent, and Harry leaned over, shivering at the cold radiating from Dumbledore's skin, and placed his mouth next to the man's ear.

"I know this doesn't make anything better, but I'm sorry. I would rather die than see anything bad happen to you. You're the only person who's always believed in me, who's always seen something good in me, even when I couldn't. I have to go now, I have to find Draco and make things okay between us, but then I'll be back. I'll be back, and you'll be okay, and then I can apologize for real. Okay? Just... just hang on 'til then, alright? Please Dumbledore, just hang on!"

Saying this, Harry blinked away his tears, squeezed Albus's trembling, icy hand, and dashed out the door, praying to a god he wasn't even sure he believed in that he wouldn't cause any further harm to the people he loved.

***

Draco crouched on the floor at the foot of his bed, throwing sweaters, books, and chocolate frogs haphazardly from his trunk. The room was a mess - it looked as though some intruder had snuck in and ransacked the place in his and Harry's absence.

"Where the hell is it?" Draco mumbled under his breath, tossing aside the Remembrall Neville had given him the week before as a joke and a symbol of putting the past behind them. Draco winced at the sound of the glass orb shattering against the stone floor, but told himself he had more important things to think about.

"Like finding my fucking knife," he said aloud, yanking out a pile of silk robes and throwing them on the growing heap.

A sudden idea stopped him cold. Turning, he glanced at the shards of glass and bits of copper wire that were the only remains of the Remembrall. With a humorless smile, Draco crept closer, transfixed by the way the firelight danced and sparkled on the surface of the jagged glass, dazzling his eyes and dizzying his mind.

He fingered the edge of the longest shard, admiring the way it curved, like a transparent talon of some wicked imaginary beast. He tested the point for sharpness, and was pleased to feel a prick of pain, and see a dot of crimson blood well up on the pad of his index finger.

"It'll do," he whispered, staring unblinkingly at the deceptive innocence of the shard. It winked at him, cheerfully, beckoning him, teasing him.

But Draco would not be teased.

He carefully picked up the shard, noticing how light and insignificant it felt in his hand. He considered moving to the bed, where he would be more comfortable, but he hated the thought of dirtying his nice bedding. No, best just do it on the cold stone floor, where the mess could be easily cleaned.

Draco rolled up his sleeve slowly, bile rising in his throat at the merest glimpse of the foul Mark. Fortunately, he would not have to look at it for long. He hoped Harry would not mind the scarring, and wondered if perhaps Madame Pomfrey would be able to fix that later.

Draco had never had any suicidal tendencies, not even when his father went to Azkaban, or his mother went insane, or his entire world crumbled around his aristocratic shoulders. Not even now, when he had successfully ruined the only thing that might actually be worth living for. No, Draco was not intending to kill himself - he was far too logical, and maybe just a bit superstitious. However, his logical mind told him that Harry could never care about someone who had the Mark; he had seen the look of disgust in Harry's eyes when he begged the headmaster to remove it. But Dumbledore couldn't.

So Draco would.

Taking a steadying breath, Draco placed the sharp edge of the shard against the inside of his forearm, just above the top of the Mark. The first cut just plain hurt, and Draco sucked back a gasp of pain. Tears prickled behind his eyelids, and he slammed them shut. He'd already brought waves of humiliation upon the Malfoy name, so a few tears couldn't really hurt, but it was a matter of pride, and if there was one thing Draco most certainly was, it was proud.

He opened one eye a slit and saw a line of blood arcing over the Mark. It stayed there for a moment, trembling expectantly, before dribbling down his arm, tracing a grotesque path of scarlet tears down the face of the skull. Though his flesh was throbbing, Draco felt an immense sense of satisfaction. One cut down.

But how many more to go?

Swallowing the unexpected lump that had risen in his throat, Draco clenched his jaw determinedly and positioned the tip of the shard again, preparing to begin his second cut. A wave of dizziness passed over him, and he tried to blink the spots out of his vision. Perhaps he had cut deeper than he thought.

No time to worry about it now. Someone would find him soon, and he had to finish before he passed out. He began dragging the shard down his arm, hissing quietly at the sting. He felt his grip on consciousness slipping, and after a moment, he couldn't remember why that was a bad thing.

With a soft, contented sigh, Draco let go of everything that bound him to earth, and felt his spirit lift with a weightlessness that made him want to laugh. Vaguely, he heard the rumble of his own familiar chuckle, and then a loud noise, and then shouting.

And then none of it mattered anymore.

***

Harry burst through the door to his and Draco's bedroom, inexplicably knowing he wouldn't like what he found. On his way down from the headmaster's office, he had imagined a dozen awful scenarios.

The reality was a thousand times more terrifying.

Draco was laughing quietly, clutching a wicked-looking shard of glass in one hand while blood poured from his left arm. His eyes were shut, and as Harry watched, horrified, the laughter weakened and then died out entirely, and Draco slumped.

Breaking out of his fearful paralysis, Harry ran to the unconscious boy and put an arm around his angular shoulders. With his other hand, he smacked Draco gently on the cheek, looking for some response.

"Draco," he said raggedly. "Draco, come on, open your eyes. Draco! Goddamn you, wake up!" Harry felt the panic swell up in his chest again, and he struggled to quash it. He couldn't help Draco if he was hysterical. He frantically racked his brain for a solution, a way to get aid for the quickly fading boy.

Madame Pomfrey. She had returned to the hospital wing after tending to Professor Snape. She would be there now, readying supplies for the departing regiments. He silently cursed the anti-Apparition wards inside the school, and begged all the gods for strength.

With much exertion, he managed to heave Draco to his feet and prop him against the bedpost. Harry fumbled for his wand, wishing he'd asked Hermione to teach him the basic healing charms. With shaking hands, he cast a featherweight charm on Draco and then picked him up as if he weighed no more than a kitten. He sat him on the bed for a moment, and looked around for something to staunch the blood.

One of his t-shirts was crumpled at the foot of his bed, and he made a grab for it, ripping it into pieces. He took the largest one and wrapped it around Draco's arm, blanching as the white fabric instantly turned crimson.

Realizing it was the best he could for now, he hauled Draco up again and carried him out of the room, making a mad dash in the direction of the hospital wing. Agonizing minutes later, he was standing outside the door, kicking it repeatedly with his foot. He cradled Draco against him, whispering soothingly in his ear.

The door opened then to reveal Madame Pomfrey, looking old and exhausted. When she saw Draco, she became immediately alert and ushered Harry inside. He went to the nearest bed and deposited the boy, backing up to allow Poppy the room she needed to check him over.

"Harry, what..." Harry turned and saw Hermione, who was standing across the room next to the bed that held the headmaster. He was unconscious, but some of the color had returned to his cheeks, and he was breathing steadily, Harry judged by the consistent rise and fall of his chest.

The news should have relieved him, but he only felt numb. He stared dumbly at Hermione, feeling strangely detached from the situation. She was making her way over to him, concern etched all over her face, but he backed away, not wanting her attention, not wanting her to touch him.

"I'm fine," he said in a dead voice, before she could ask. "Help Draco, or Dumbledore, but leave me alone."

Thankfully, Hermione obeyed his command, going over to join Madame Pomfrey, who was tsking over Draco's weak form. Harry backed into the shadows with some relief, collapsing into an unforgiving plastic chair and burying his head in his hands.

This is all my fault, he thought with a strange lack of emotion. I almost killed the headmaster, and now Draco's mutilating himself, all because I couldn't keep my temper in check.

Harry sat there, unmoving, for a space of time that seemed to stretch into the yawning void of eternity. At some point, Hermione placed a hot mug of tea in his hands, but Harry did not drink it. He held it until it became cold and bitter, and finally Hermione came and took it away.

He didn't think he slept, but he apparently slipped out of consciousness for a while, because suddenly Hermione was shaking him awake, and the gray light of early dawn was slanting through the window.

"Draco?" he whispered, wincing at the ache in his neck and shoulders. He looked over to where the boy lay sleeping, his bandaged arm cushioned on a sterile white pillow.

"He'll be fine, Harry," Hermione said, worry creasing her forehead. "You've been out since yesterday evening - you need to eat something."

"Not hungry," Harry muttered, his eyes drifting over to the bed opposite Draco's. The headmaster was still there, snoring softly and looking more like himself. Snape rested in the bed next to him, pale skin pinched, especially around the eyes, but otherwise alright. Harry gave Hermione a questioning glance.

"Madame Pomfrey had him brought in late last night. Before we healed Draco's wounds, I was able to get enough of his blood to work on an antidote. I finished it this morning, and Snape's just had the first dose. It's calmed him down quite a bit, and he seems to be resting peacefully."

Harry nodded, thinking on how he'd never imagined he would be concerned over the welfare of his nasty potions master.

"And the headmaster?" he said finally, not sure he wanted to know.

Hermione looked away for a long moment, pondering her answer. "He's doing alright, for now," she said slowly, and Harry knew she was trying to gauge his response.

"But?"

The wild-haired witch sighed, tugging on a strand of her wavy mane, still avoiding Harry's eyes. "He's been sick for a long time, Harry. Probably for years now, though he's done a good job of hiding it. Snape knew, and he's been making him potions. In fact, that's the only thing that's kept him alive this long."

The news came as a shock to Harry, who'd always imagined Dumbledore to be unsusceptible to common illness. "What... what exactly is wrong with him?" he asked finally, his voice strained.

"It's his heart. The average wizard lives fifty to one hundred years longer than the average Muggle, but there's only so long a heart can hold out, especially one that's dealt constantly with above-normal stress. Look, Harry, I don't want you to think that any of this is your fault, or that whatever might happen to the headmaster is because of something you said or did..."

"You have no idea what I said, Hermione!" Harry snapped, suppressing a shiver as he remembered the awful accusations he'd made.

"I know," she replied gently, placing a hand on his knee. "But listen to me, Harry. However terrible it was, you have to understand that this was going to happen anyway. What's happening to Dumbledore is inevitable, and Snape has only been prolonging it."

Harry swallowed, realizing the numbness had worn off, leaving him with a deep burning ache in his chest, which was much, much worse.

"What's going to happen to him?" he managed to choke out, trying to avoid looking at the headmaster, weak and vulnerable in his bed.

Hermione's clear brown eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and that was enough answer for Harry.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head in blatant refusal. "Just... no."

"He's dying, Harry," Hermione said quietly, reaching for his hand. He wrenched it out of her grasp, barely noticing her hurt expression.

"No," he insisted vehemently. "That's not possible. It's just not."

"He's an old man," Hermione said, her voice gentle but firm. "It had to happen sooner or later, Harry, you know that. Everyone dies. It's a part of being human. Eventually, we all have to die."

"Not him!" Harry shouted, ignoring Hermione's surprised expression and subsequent attempts to shush him. "Not Dumbledore! Dammit, Hermione, he's supposed to live forever! He's been the only constant thing in my life... if he's gone, then what's the point? What's the point of even trying to fight? Tell me that, Hermione! Tell me what the point is!"

"Harry, listen to me," Hermione said, clutching his shoulders and bending until her face was mere inches away from his. "He's not going to die right this second, or even today. But you have to come to terms with this before it happens. I know it's horrible, I know you love him and you'll miss him terribly, but we have to figure out a way to go on. Most likely, he won't be here for the final battle, or if he is, he'll be far too weak to fight. You have to deal with this before then, Harry. If you're distracted by grief or regret, we will lose."

"But Hermione, the things I said to him..." Harry shuddered, letting his head fall forward onto Hermione's shoulder. She wrapped warm, supportive arms around him and held on tight, smoothing his unruly hair with one hand.

"There's still time to make it right," she said into the crook of his neck. "You still have a chance to say the things you need to say, Harry."

"But what if he won't forgive me," he whispered miserably. Hermione pulled away slightly and looked into his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Harry, have you ever known Dumbledore not to forgive a sincere apology?"

Harry thought back. No, of course not. After all, he'd welcomed Snape back into the fold after he defected to Voldemort. He treated Draco as though he'd been a member of the Order his whole life. No, Dumbledore would certainly forgive him. Now if only Harry could figure out how to forgive himself.

"Thanks Hermione," he mumbled, pulling away from her and giving her a tired smile.

"You're welcome," she said, looking relieved. "Listen, I have to get back to the lab and get Snape's next dose ready. Try to get some more sleep if you can. If you want, you can take one of the empty beds, and stay in here."

Harry nodded his agreement, and returned Hermione's fierce hug, feeling marginally better. Once she had left, he made his way haltingly to the empty bed beside Draco's and climbed in it, feeling exhausted and sick at heart. He rolled onto his side, so he could see the sleeping boy next to him, and drew the covers up around his chin. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, Remus was sitting in a chair beside Snape's bed, holding the sick man's hand. It was an odd picture, but Harry was still too sleep-fuzzed to make anything of it.

"Good morning, Harry," Remus said, without looking up.

"Morning," Harry said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "How are you feeling?" The full moon typically took a lot out of the older man, and with all the additional stress with Sirius missing and the impending battle, it was taking an even greater toll on him.

"I'm doing alright," he answered, still looking at Snape. "Better off than some. How's Draco?"

Harry frowned, looking over at the blonde boy, who was still sleeping peacefully. "Fine, I think. Hermione and Pomfrey healed the wounds, but..." He trailed off, not knowing how to give voice to the rest of his concerns.

"But you're more worried about something that goes far beyond his physical well-being, aren't you?" Remus supplied.

Harry nodded miserably. "I just don't know how to fix things. I know I'm the reason he did this. He thought I could never care about someone who had taken the Mark, so he tried to remove it himself."

"So you do care about him then," Remus said rhetorically.

"Of course," Harry answered anyway, hugging his knees to his chest and propping his chin on them as he watched Draco sleep. "More than I ever thought I would. And I know he had no choice in the matter - he had to take the Mark. But I don't care about that. I was just so angry, you know? It doesn't matter though. I still lo- I still care about him, whether he's got the Mark or not."

"I know what you mean," Remus said softly, but before Harry could ask what he meant, he went on. "Harry, it's understandable that you feel angry about all the terrible consequences of this war, particularly when most of the circumstances are beyond your control, but you can't just shut down. Hermione told me what happened, or at least what she surmised, between you and Dumbledore and Draco. I'm not condoning anything you said or did, but you have a right to be upset, and to express your feelings."

"I don't think I expressed them very well," Harry said wryly. "Not with both of them ending up in the hospital wing." He chuckled derisively, and then his face went serious. He passed a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to hold a headache at bay. "I really fucked up this time, Remus," he said wearily.

He opened his eyes, and the werewolf nodded. "I know," he said, shooting Harry a sympathetic look. He let go of Snape's hand and stood up, pausing to smooth the thin infirmary blanket over the man's still form. "I ought to be going. The Anguionae have veered off their path, and none of our tracking spells can find them."

"Oh, god," Harry said softly. "I hadn't even thought about them! I've been so caught up in my own stupid problems, I nearly forgot we're in the middle of a war!"

Remus smiled slightly. "It's okay, Harry. We've sent out the first regiments, but with the Anguionae off the radar, there's not much we can do right now. We've pulled back most of the troops we've dispatched, figuring this is some sort of trap. There's a meeting tonight, for Order members. With Dumbledore, Severus, and Sirius all out of commission, we'll need you there. We're going to have to come up with a better plan than we've got now, and I know we all want your opinion."

Harry nodded, noting that it was nice to feel wanted, like his ideas about the war actually counted. "I'll be there."

"I'll see you then. There'll be plenty of time for war, Harry, but right now, I think you have some more pressing matters to attend to. On that note, I'll leave you to your apologies." Remus gave him what could have been interpreted as a wink and exited the room, leaving Harry alone with the three unconscious men.

He was just wondering who to wake first, when a frail but clear voice met his ears.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, sitting up slowly and smiling in spite of his obvious discomfort. "I wonder, dear boy, if you could be bothered to fetch an old man a glass of water. And possibly, if any can be found, a sherbet lemon?"

***

Draco opened his eyes to bright afternoon sunshine, and smiled, relishing the warmth. He rolled over to nuzzle the sleeping boy beside him, and opened his eyes, confused, at the cold emptiness that met him. Blinking dazedly, Draco struggled to recall where he was and how he'd gotten there. The events of the previous night hit him like a ton of bricks, and he winced at the memory. God, what had he been thinking? Harry was sure to think he was completely nutters now, after that disgusting display of his neuroses. He'd cut himself before, when he was much younger, but it wasn't something he was proud of, wasn't something he wanted the people in his life now to know about. But the compulsion had come upon him so strongly, and it had seemed so completely rational at the time...

The sound of voices snapped him from his reverie, and he turned his head, listening. He kept his breathing shallow and closed his eyes, hoping whoever was talking would think he was still asleep.

"I just don't know what came over me," said the first voice. Harry. Draco strained to hear more.

"I understand," came the reply. Dumbledore. But what was he doing in the hospital wing? Draco rolled over slightly, stretching and making a soft sleep-noise. The conversation continued, so Draco figured he must have been pretty convincing.

He cracked his eyelids the tiniest bit, and could see Dumbledore propped up in the bed across from his. Harry was sitting at his side, playing nervously with his hands. Draco was surprised to see how ill the headmaster looked.

"I figured you would," Harry said, his gaze directed steadfastly at his lap. "But I needed to apologize. I feel horribly about the things I said. You know I..." his voice became choked, and Draco felt a little stab of pain in his chest at hearing Harry so broken.

"I know you didn't mean them," Dumbledore finished, patting Harry on the shoulder.

"No, that's not what I was going to say," Harry went on stubbornly. "I mean, you're right - I didn't mean the things I said - at least not all of them. But what I wanted to say was... I - I don't hate you. I couldn't ever hate you. I think of you like a father, and I... I love you."

Draco felt a lump rise, unbidden, in his throat, and cursed himself for his sudden onslaught of emotion. Really, hanging out with Harry was making him worse than an adolescent girl. But he wasn't the only one touched by Harry's speech - Dumbledore's eyes were shining, and if Draco hadn't known better, he would have sworn the old man's lip was trembling.

"I love you too, Harry. I have always thought of you as a son. I know it may not seem that my decisions are the best, but I've always tried to do what's right, especially by you."

"I know," Harry whispered, wiping a tear from his cheek. Draco ached to go to him, to kiss them away.

But Draco only watched as Harry rose to his feet and bent awkwardly over the headmaster, folding him in a clumsy but heartfelt embrace. "I really am sorry," he muttered into the old wizard's coarse white hair.

"All is forgiven, Harry," Dumbledore said, clasping the dark-haired boy firmly to him, and then pulling away with a smile. "Now, I think there's another person you owe an apology."

Harry laughed raggedly. "I guess there's no use in hiding anything from you lot. But yes, you're right, I've got to apologize to Draco. I've treated him abominably."

Draco's eyes nearly flew open in shock. Harry wanted to apologize to him? Whatever for? He felt his heart quicken, and tried to calm his breathing. What did Harry have to be sorry for? True, he had had quite the temper tantrum in Dumbledore's office, and it had been rather upsetting, but this whole mess was Draco's doing, not Harry's.

"Well I think I need a bit of a nap," Dumbledore said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Give me three minutes, and I'll be dead to the world."

Draco saw Harry blanch at this comment, but the raven-haired boy merely nodded and gave the headmaster a weak smile. Dumbledore shut his eyes and promptly began snoring. Harry watched him for a few moments, and then with a sigh, he made his way to Draco's bedside. Thinking he'd better still pretend to be asleep, Draco shut his eyes, shifted slightly and sighed contentedly, hoping Harry would think he was in the middle of some happy dream.

He heard the scraping of metal against the floor as Harry pulled a chair up next to him, and then the rustle of robes as he sat down.

"God, I don't even know where to begin," he heard the boy mutter. "I can't even bring myself to wake you up yet. I don't know what I'll do if you look at me like you did... before... before all this. I know that makes me a horrible coward, but this - whatever this is - is so new to me. I guess I don't quite know how to handle it. Before you, there was only Cho, and god knows that never amounted to much." Harry snorted derisively, and Draco had to fight off a grin of his own. He remembered predicting the demise of that relationship early on in fifth year, way before he would ever have admitted being the tiniest bit jealous.

"Well, I guess I'd better give this a test-run before you wake up," Harry continued, his voice quavering a bit. "I'm so, so sorry for the way I've hurt you. The way I reacted yesterday... it was... it was unforgivable. I don't care about the stupid mark, and I know why you took it. I guess..." here Harry took another deep, steadying breath, "I guess I should be thanking you, for being so brave and taking on this role. A lot of people are going to be saved because of you, Draco."

Draco felt a shock of surprise course through him at the pride in Harry's voice. Harry was proud... of him? Draco almost couldn't believe it. But Harry Potter was nothing if not totally sincere - whether it be in anger, passion, or as now, in respect - and Draco felt his heart swell at the thought.

"I suppose what I'm really trying to say," Harry went on, snapping Draco back to attention, "is that I... I just... god, this is hard." A strangled laugh escaped the boy's throat, and Draco wanted to reach out for him, but his breath had lodged somewhere in his chest at Harry's words, and he couldn't have moved no matter how much he wanted to. He waited for Harry to continue, but no declarations were forthcoming. He was just thinking he'd better give up the ruse and admit he was awake when he heard something that made a curiously strong and unfamiliar emotion surge up within him.

Harry was making soft, choking, sobbing noises, heart wrenching enough to make the most calloused death eater weep. Draco opened his eyes a slit and looked at the boy, whose eyes were shut tightly, though there was no evidence of tears. His shoulders were shaking though, and fine tremors ran up and down his arms, which were pressed tightly against the arms of the chair.

"Geez, I really make a mess of everything, don't I?" Harry said, chuckling mirthlessly. "I can't even tell you how I... how much I... care about you. And how sorry I am. I am, you know. And I don't know how to make it better, but I will. I promise I will. No matter what it takes, no matter what I have to do, or how long I have to try..."

Draco couldn't stand to hear any more of the boy's broken confessions.

"Potter," he rasped, sitting up and ignoring the shocked expression on Harry's face. "Shut the hell up, will you?"

***

Harry felt every bit of blood in his veins turn to ice the second he heard Draco's voice.

"Shut the hell up, will you?"

Well, that was that, then. His apology simply would not be enough - he should have known better than to hope for that. But how long had Draco been listening?

"Draco," he began, but the boy, whose tousled platinum hair gleamed in the late morning sunlight, held up a hand to quiet him.

"I said, shut up."

Harry nodded, thankful the well of tears inside him had finally dried up. He was starting to become as soppy as his Aunt Petunia, crying at the drop of a hat. He was crushed by Draco's rejection, of course, but he'd be damned if he broke down now. He looked back at Draco steadily, dry eyes burning, willing his expression calm and peaceful.

Draco scrutinized him for a moment, and then inclined his head. "What are you waiting for? Get in the bed."

Harry blinked. Obviously, his ears were playing tricks on him. Draco hadn't really just said...

"Have you gone deaf? Or just dumb? Obviously not, the way you've been running your mouth."

Harry gazed at him stupidly. Part of him was horrified that Draco had been awake for his pathetic practice apology, but a small part of him was grateful he wouldn't have to go through it again. But he didn't have time to dwell on that - there were more important matters weighing on his mind. For instance, if Draco now hated him, why was he inviting Harry into his bed? Was he planning on hexing him once he got him in point-blank range? But he was close now - Draco could do plenty of damage without moving an inch.

"Why?" Harry asked softly, not knowing which answer he wanted, or which question he was asking.

"I think you're confused, Potter. I asked you a question, not vice versa. I also asked you, very politely may I remind you, to get the fuck in this bed. I'm quite exhausted, and your yammering hasn't allowed me to get much rest. So please, would you just stop embarrassing yourself and come to bed so we can get some sleep? If you hadn't noticed, there's a war on, and if I'm correct, we'll both be in trouble if we're stumbling 'round the battlefield like a couple of zombies."

Harry was typically a bright boy. Of course, anything that involved Draco Malfoy was sure to be atypical. Point in case, this whole bizarre exchange. Harry rubbed his scar, half-wondering if there was a squadron of death eaters outside, waiting to mock his gullibility. Then he looked up at Draco's face, and saw nothing but sincerity.

"Alright," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes and trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts. "Maybe this is due to a severe amount of stress on my part, but I'm confused."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'll alert the media," he said dryly. "The Boy-who-lived is confused. Now there's something we only see, what? Every few hours?" He sighed then, and his face became more serious. "Look Harry, I heard what you said. I know you were angry, and I understand why. You don't need to apologize. No," he said, cutting off the protest that was on the tip of Harry's tongue. "You don't need to apologize. God Harry, look at us. Is it any wonder we're so dysfunctional, with all that's going on around us? No, you probably shouldn't have said some of the things you did, but I behaved like an idiot too. Can't we just put it behind us, at least for now?"

Harry swallowed over the lump in his throat, saying nothing, though he wanted to shout out his relief that Draco didn't hate him. "I don't know how," he said finally, looking resolutely at the ground. "It's not that I don't want to... I do. I want nothing more than to just go on, but I'm so afraid of what the future holds." Harry was talking about much more than his and Draco's relationship, and he was sure Draco knew it.

Draco gave him a half-smile, his eyes darkening knowingly. "We're a couple of fucked up boys, Harry, in the middle of a war we don't want to be in, fighting for reasons we don't even understand. Is it so much to want something good out of it? Is it wrong to want something to hold on to? If it is, then I'm sorry, because I've found something worth holding on to, and I'm not going to let it go because some reptilian bastard on an ego trip drew a picture on my arm."

"Alright," Harry said, not wanting to admit how touched he was by Draco's admission. "And I promise I won't apologize again after this, but I am truly sorry for the way I acted. I feel like I've been angry for the past two years, and it's hard to put that behind me. But I'm so tired of being angry, Draco. I'm just... tired."

Draco nodded and pulled back the sheets. "I know you're tired, Harry," he said gently. "So am I. But we have to keep going - we have to see this through." Harry didn't know which 'this' Draco meant - the war, or them - but it was true either way.

"You're right," he murmured, meeting the boy's intense gaze unflinchingly.

"Good," Draco said, grinning with relief. "Now get your arse in this bed - it's bloody freezing in here."

Harry laughed genuinely, for the first time in what felt like ages, and clambered into the bed beside Draco. It felt so good to curl up against the warmth of the boy's body, and Harry wondered how he thought he would have gotten by without this.

"God, Potter," Draco said softly, threading his fingers through Harry's hopelessly tangled hair. "Listen to me - you've got me sounding like a bloody Harlequin novel."

A loud snort from across the room drew their attention, and both boys looked suspiciously to where Dumbledore was hastily wiping a smile from his face and covering it up with a deafening snore.

"How d'you know what a Harlequin novel is?" Harry murmured against Draco's neck, feeling sleep creeping up to claim him. He'd already slept for hours, but he still felt so tired...

"Doesn't matter," Draco whispered, amusement fighting exhaustion. Exhaustion finally won out though, and he was asleep before Harry could tell him what he'd been trying to say all along. It didn't matter though, because Draco was in his arms, and no amount of words could make the moment any sweeter.

Feeling much like a soppy Harlequin heroine himself, Harry chuckled and let himself succumb to the comforting numbness of dreamless sleep.

***

If it hadn't been for the Order meeting, Harry probably would have been content to languish in bed with Draco all evening long. As it was, he had an incredibly difficult time extracting himself from the boy's embrace.

"Don't go," Draco said, pouting. "We've only just woken up. We haven't even had a chance to... to..."

"Celebrate our reconciliation?" Harry supplied, grinning.

"Ugh. Now who sounds like a romance novel? You disgust me Potter. Leave my bed immediately."

Harry complied, somewhat unwillingly, and turned back to look at Draco.

"Come with me?" he asked, giving the boy a beseeching look.

Draco chewed his lip indecisively, and then gave Harry a long glance. "I... shouldn't," he said finally. "I might make someone uncomfortable. Because of... this," he said, gesturing with his left arm.

"Draco, no one is going to care about that," Harry protested. "Snape comes to all the meetings, doesn't he?"

"How is he doing, by the way?" Draco asked, changing the subject. Harry let it slide.

"Better," he said, happy to see relief remove some of the tiredness from Draco's face. "Hermione's been making him some potions, and he's getting on quite well. He's not woken up yet, but he's sleeping peacefully. Maybe you could wake him up and talk to him while I'm gone," Harry added, thinking it might help Draco to get a bit of guidance from his godfather.

Draco nodded. "Yeah, that would be good. I'll do that. Hey, Harry?" he said, as Harry was turning to go.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Harry said, smiling. He wanted to go over and kiss Draco before he left, but he was already late for the meeting, and he knew if he got anywhere near that bed, he wouldn't be leaving it. He blew a kiss instead, and Draco grimaced, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes.

"Ponce," he called fondly after Harry's retreating form.

Laughing, Harry left the infirmary and made his way to Remus's quarters, thankful the meeting was not to be held in Dumbledore's office. He wasn't sure he could yet face the memories that room would hold from now on.

"Good evening, Harry," Remus greeted him when he opened the door.

"Hey," Harry said, looking over Remus's shoulder. "Where is everyone?"

"They'll be here shortly," Remus said, but his voice belied his worry.

"What's going on?" Harry asked warily. "Don't even bother trying to hide it, Remus. I know you just about as well as anyone else does, and I know something's wrong." Harry was afraid Remus would brush him off, thinking him too young to handle the truth. Fortunately, Remus was one of the few people who had always treated Harry as an adult.

"The Anguionae," he said, motioning for Harry to come inside. He explained the situation as he poured himself and Harry a cup of tea. "They attacked the regiment we sent out yesterday. We anticipated a sneak attack, and they did their best to avoid it, but it appears the Anguionae are tricky bastards."

Harry was surprised at hearing the bitterness in his typically mild-mannered ex-professor's voice, but he couldn't really blame the man. The war had only just begun in earnest, and already they were suffering.

"How bad was it?" Harry asked, though he didn't really want to know.

"Not good, but it could have been worse," Remus answered, handing Harry a mug and sitting down across from him. "Most of the Order are at the Burrow right now, helping Ron tend to the injured. Harry, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but... Dean Thomas was badly hurt."

Harry reeled. He hadn't even known Dean had been sent out. "What?" he said, disbelievingly. "Is he going to be okay?"

Remus shifted his gaze away and sighed. "Probably not," he said finally. "Ron and the others are doing all they can for him, but mostly they're just trying to make sure he's comfortable."

Harry shivered. The war suddenly seemed very, very real, and very near. Harry began to shake as the horrifying reality sank in.

"Wh-what did they do to him?" he whispered, feeling an inexplicable desire to know just how those terrible creatures hurt his friend.

"He was bitten," Remus said, slipping into his professional teaching mode. Harry figured it made things easier to deal with, and he couldn't blame the older man. "Several times, I believe. From what we've discovered, continuing where your and Hermione's research left off, the Anguionae are incredibly venomous. Each bite is more potent than that of ten pythons. Typically, it kills instantly."

"But not in this case?" Harry said, wondering at his sudden detachment to the situation.

"No," Remus answered. "It seems Mr. Thomas has quite a strong constitution. He has held on tenaciously until now, but he won't last much longer."

"And if he did survive?"

Remus sighed deeply. "He would be changed. An Anguionae bite is very similar to that of a werewolf. They transfer some of their characteristics to the victim."

"So he would... would become one of them?" Harry asked, shuddering in revulsion. Dean wouldn't want that, he knew. He'd rather die.

"Not exactly, but very like them. I'm very sorry, Harry."

Harry blinked, not sure what to say. Of course he was sorry. Everybody was sorry. It's a war, for Christ's sake. Everyone is sorry after the damage is done. Harry stamped down the anger that threatened to spew up, thinking of the disastrous consequences his earlier loss of control had had.

"Right. Well, thanks for telling me, Remus. Maybe I can floo over to the Burrow and see him later."

Remus smiled, obviously relieved. "I'm sure he'd like that Harry."

A loud noise from the fireplace startled the both of them, and Harry looked over to see McGonagall's face in the green flames.

"Minerva!" Remus exclaimed, scrambling to the fire and crouching down in front of it. "I was expecting you back ages ago."

Harry had a bad feeling about the grave look on her face, and he prepared to hear the worst about Dean. What she said instead was a complete surprise.

"Sirius has been found. Remus, you must come quickly."