A Plague of Legends

Chapter 11: The Fabulous Project

Or, The Nine of Wands

Harry Potter was tired.

This was not the light exhaustion that comes from a few sleepless nights or a particularly grueling Quidditch practice. Nor was it the heavy listless weight that comes from keeping still for too long. No, this was the type of weariness that drags down flesh and bone until each and every cell screams out for rest. If he had been asked, Harry would have sworn that he could feel the hair on his head thumping out a slow, sleepy tempo, each beat recalling lips and fingers and sweat and eyes all wild and gone.

If Harry had possessed the energy he would have cursed Malfoy. As it was, every last particle of strength left in his body was charged with the task of keeping himself upright. For a brief second Harry's head lolled against the back of his chair, motor control momentarily lost. Thankfully, no one in the room noticed but Hermione, and she satisfied herself with a brisk pinch to his side. The feeling of sharp nails digging into him was a sudden reminder of other nails and other places. Suddenly a great deal more awake, Harry herded his attention back to the current speaker, still Dumbledore.

The Headmaster sat in a chair at the head of the room, benevolent guardian to those gathered there. He stood out, a humble pigeon flanked by hawks and ravens wild, cast into shadow by the brightness of his own faithful familiar. The serrated edges of his robes were apparent even in the room's dim light, his dress casting him as a beggar before kings. There had never been a person quite as outwardly deceptive as Albus Dumbledore, and he wore his masks with skill. Tonight was the father figure, the leader true. He rallied his troops like they were children quivering with fright at the monsters locked behind closet door and narrow cupboard. Long words designed to foster bravery and trust.

As much as Harry respected the Headmaster, these meetings had long since taught him that the man had a tendency to be longwinded in his inspirational speeches. And the speeches were getting longer with each session.

". . . with that I call to order tonight's meeting of the Order of the Phoenix." Dumbledore settled into his chair, stroking Fawkes' head with brittle fingers. "Alastor, I would like you to give us your honest opinion on the students' defensive capabilities."

Mad-Eyed Moody thumped forward, magic eye spinning in circles as he addressed the room, "This year's graduates are going to need extra training after graduation. Between Quirrell and Lockhart they are well behind where they should be, and I don't have the class time to catch them up." Moody thumped his peg-leg at the names of Quirrel and Lockhart, his displeasure punctuated by the sharp crack of wood against stone.

"And what of the underclassmen?" Dumbledore seemed less hopeful than expectant, as though Moody was capable of delivering miracles.

"The rest of the school should be competent upon graduation, although the sixth years will be a tight squeeze."

The air in the room rippled as dozens of held breaths were suddenly liberated. Maybe Moody was a miracle-worker, or perhaps miracles were more commonplace than they seemed.

Dumbledore nodded at Moody and congratulated him on his hard work. Moody just shrugged and clomped back to his seat, his heavy frame teetering top-like and skillful as he spun into his chair.

The room strained in silence briefly while Dumbledore reached into a hidden pocket and removed a small cardboard box. His next question found its target in the Trio: "Harry, Miss Granger, Mr.Weasley- would you care for some Melty Kisses? Wonderful Muggle sweets; Japanese, I believe. No?" Dumbledore held out the box of candy.

Harry and Ron shook their heads, mindful of Hermione's nails.

"Ah, pity. Perhaps later. Well, then. If you could please tell us about the students, it would be most helpful," said Dumbledore with a brief penetrating look at Harry.

"Sir?"

Bless Ron and his confusion; right then, Harry was able to do little more than clutch at his chair's armrests and hope to Merlin that the room would stop tilting. If he opened his mouth, words were probably the last thing that would come out.

McGonagall stood up and stepped forward, her right eyelid twitching a bit at Ron's obtuseness, "What the Headmaster means, Mr. Weasley, is that we would like a report on current student sentiment regarding Voldemort and the measures being taken against him."

"Oh! Well, everyone trusts the Headmaster," was Ron's helpful response, "Except for the Slytherins, of course."

Harry wondered if that tic right beneath McGonagall's eye wasn't a bit unhealthy. He then wondered exactly for whom it might end up being unhealthy.

"Mr. Potter. Miss Granger. Do you have anything else to add?" McGonagall's question coated the room like permafrost.

Harry took Hermione's fingers twisting at his skin as a hint to stay quiet and decided to let her handle the situation.

"It's hard to say how everyone feels, Professor. It's just- It's been over a year since the Headmaster made his announcement and nothing has happened. Not here, not in the Wizarding world, and definitely not in the Muggle world. There hasn't even been a peep out of the Slytherins, about anything. Many students are saying that fourth year was just a false alarm; that it's time to move on." Hermione dissected the situation as coolly and clinically as if she were discussing the ingredients to a potion, "They're losing faith."

"I see."

It was hard not to.

"But we'll keep trying, Professor," Harry offered, saying his piece. Why, then, did he feel as though he had let Dumbledore, everyone, down? There was nothing but kind understanding in the Headmaster's eyes, certainly not any sort of accusation. These days there was a shortage of dragons roaming around for heroes to slay.

McGonagall jerked her chin up and down, her head looking more like it was attached to her neck by strings than skin. Her withered flesh strained away from her mouth as she called out, "Next order of business," and looked expectantly at Dumbledore.

"Minerva, do you have Remus' latest report on his negotiations with the werewolves?" Dumbledore's voice was steady and clear, a remarkable achievement considering his mouth was full of chocolate candy.

Harry crossed his fingers and sent out a brief prayer to any benevolent deities that might have been paying attention at the moment. It had been over a year since Remus Lupin had set out for his wilder brethren, bearing only pleas and a slender olive branch as his introduction; over a year, and nothing to show for it but the werewolf equivalent of red tape.

McGonagall nodded and unrolled a thin scroll, her jaw tightening as she skimmed the contents. "I am sorry to say that he is still caught between pack leaders in their never-ending turf wars. They have come no closer to a unified agreement than they were at our last meeting."

The escalating tension in the room reminded Harry of a Muggle saying about rooms full of dynamite and lit matches. He wondered if Professor McGonagall's words would be the catalyst that set off an explosion.

Dumbledore sighed and thanked McGonagall, waving her back to her seat, swallowed the last of the MeltyKisses and then rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That is very unfortunate. The werewolves would make formidable allies."

"Or enemies!" someone shouted from a darkened corner.

"Or enemies," Dumbledore admitted. "However, it is very doubtful that they will pay more attention to Voldemort than us; the Highland Hunt will not be so easily forgotten."

The same voice rang out, and his hostile tones made Harry wonder if they didn't have a plant present. "That was over eighteen years ago."

McGonagall came forward again, lips pressed tight around each word she uttered, "Let me assure you, my dear Amos- it will take at least a century before those affected forget the Hunt."

Dumbledore nodded at her and then turned to Hagrid, his geniality slipping for a moment to reveal a haggard visage, "And what of the giants, Hagrid? Are they still committed to our struggle?"

Hagrid shuffled forward, fingers twiddling nervously against his coat as he made his report. "An' yes they are, sir. With those, uh, reservayshuns, a' course."

"Of course, Hagrid. We could not forget their conditions."

From what Harry remembered of the giant's conditions, they would have a long wait before any of the demanded changes went into effect.

Dumbledore turned towards the fireplace, "Which brings us to you, Arthur. How is the legislation moving on?"

Arthur Weasley was like a firebrand in the light of the fireplace, his obvious determination shining brighter than fire ever could, certainly outshining his threadbare clothing and unimposing demeanor. Harry hoped that Ron appreciated how wonderful his father really was.

"I'm trying my best, Albus. My office is technically not involved in the proposed bill, but it seems to be moving along. Our main impediments are currently Lucius Malfoy," the elder Weasley bit out the name, "and, unfortunately, Fudge. Malfoy seems intent on stirring up prejudice. He has been appallingly effective. And Fudge is as blind as always. This last year has done nothing to change that," Mr. Weasley spat as he spoke, skin flushed an angry red all down his neck and into his shirt.

Harry wondered if he had ever seen Mr. Weasley so furious.

"Keep trying, Arthur. No one needs to be told how important this is. And thank you. Now, where is Severus? We would like to hear your report."

Snape emerged from one of the corners, his trademark sneer muted as he addressed the council, "There have been few changes among the Death Eaters, and those that were made are for the worse. As I stated in previous meetings, there is obviously something that Voldemort and, originally, his inner circle have been working on for the past year. What that is, however, I do not know."

Diggory snarled up again from the corner, "Fat lot of good having a spy does us then. Cedric won't be alone for very long at the rate you've been moving at."

Snape looked down the path of his nose at Diggory, his words liquid poison that dripped off his lips, "Well then, perhaps you would be willing to take my place. Seeing as spying is so obviously something that you are suited for."

"Just what are you implying, Death Eater?" Diggory blustered.

"I think you know exactly what I am implying," the poison was administered in a precise dosage.

"Amos. Severus. Please. There are no enemies within this room. Not unless you count my saber-toothed bunny slippers," Dumbledore twinkled warningly. "Please go on Severus. You said, 'originally'?"

Snape was obviously dying to tear pieces out of Diggory, but instead he just pinned the man with a glittering look and continued, "Originally. However, there currently only seem to be three people with the full details for Voldemort's plan: Voldemort, Wormtail, and Lucius Malfoy."

The room rustled as people stirred in discomfort.

"Any other people who knew more about the 'Fabula Project,' as I have heard it called, have either been killed or subjected to memory charms. I will do my best to discover more of the plan's details, but I do not promise anything." Snape's dry voice indicated that he doubted his best would be enough.

Dumbledore smiled tiredly. "That is all we can ask."

"There is, however, one solid piece of information that I can give."

"And what could that be?" Diggory's antagonistic attitude tainted the room with suspicion.

"The Death Eaters are mustering for war. They will be making their first attack within a month. But there is one thing that is certain: the peace is over."

"Christmas," someone whispered. The fear in the room was almost choking, like cigarette fumes or industrial smog. It tore at the lungs.

"Perhaps," Snape's dry tone made the possibility sound commonplace, like Christmas was just another day on the calendar. In times like these, maybe it was.

***

"'What that is, I don't know.'" Ron curled his lip as he paraphrased Snape. "Annoying git isn't even useful! What good's knowing about a plot when you don't even know what the plot's about? Of course there's a plot, there's always a plot!" Ron thumped down to the floor, his knees cracking at the impact. Harry and Hermione followed him to the ground, carefully sliding to their knees.

Huddled in a corner of the empty Charms classroom, their muted whispers echoed as the trio discussed the night's meeting. Harry lolled against a conveniently nearby wall, his back cold and damp from the press of the stones. He gnawed absentmindedly at a hangnail and waited for Hermione's inevitable response.

"Ron, how could you? Professor Snape has been risking his life trying to bring us information. The least you can do is respect his bravery. Besides, he brought us a very valuable clue tonight," Hermione whispered.

"What, that the Death Eaters are going to attack soon?" Ron replied, sarcastically.

It seemed that Ron was perfectly happy lying in his ditch, thank you very much. And Harry was too busy fighting a losing battle against the weight of his eyelids to help his friend out.

"No," Hermione hissed, "not that. The name of their plan. Fabula, That has to be a clue."

Harry propped open his eyes and stared at Hermione for a moment. She had, he suddenly realized, grown up. Granted, she was still 'Hermione,' just. . . different somehow. More comfortable with herself, like she wasn't so tightly wound that you worried she might rip out of her skin at any moment. Eyes closed, Harry could almost pretend it was first year again and the person before him was nothing but a heart of gold capped with brown frizz. Eyes open, and there were nothing but changes. Hermione's teeth gleamed momentarily in the candlelight before her lips closed off the end of her statement. They really were nice teeth.

Harry yawned, "It just figures that they think their plan is bril. I mean, who'd name an evil attempt at world domination the 'Fabulous Project'?"

Ron snorted, "You-Know-Who, apparently."

Harry managed to make out Hermione rolling her eyes from under heavy lashes.

"Not 'fabulous,' 'fabula.' I'm sure it's Latin."

"For what?" Ron sounded a bit more interested now.

"That's what I'm going to find out."

Harry didn't have to open his eyes to see the compulsively determined look in Hermione's eyes. He wondered if she'd rolled up her sleeves yet. Voldemort didn't stand a chance against Hermione in research mode. So, no one would mind if. . . he. . . just. . .

"Harry. Harry! Wake up!"

Harry squirmed away from the nasty sharp things that seemed determined to poke a hole in his side.

"HARRY!"

Harry sprang awake and rubbed at his ringing ear, leveling as powerful a glare as possible at Ron. However, from the look on Ron's face, it was none too effective.

"What?" Harry grumbled.

"Harry, have you been getting any sleep lately? You look like something Fluffy's spent quality time with."

Trust Ron to get to the point.

Hermione glared at Ron and placed her hand over Harry's, pressing down a bit for comfort. "What Ron means is- we're worried about you. If you have a problem or are worried about something, you know you can always tell us. You look tired all of the time, come back to the dorms after hours- you're even skipping classes."

Harry doubted there was any crime greater in Hermione's book.

Ron piped up, "You've lost Gryffindor over one hundred points for skipping classes. Even Neville's never been able to lose that many points! Merlin knows the only reason we're still in the running for the House Cup is because Malfoy's been playing hooky too."

Harry felt the now-familiar lurch of guilty fear in his stomach. He'd told Malfoy that cutting class was going to get them found out. Not to mention endanger both of their chances at the House Cup. Looking at Ron and Hermione, their open worried faces- that ball of lead that hung around his throat nowadays suddenly felt so heavy he thought it might tear him apart. It would almost be better to tell them, tell them about

Breaths melding throbbing deep inside nails scoring lips bared and bloody against white skin so white so very white now red and marked and perfect his always his hateful eyes taunting eyes filled with something else what was it what could it be but his mark scalding feelings overflowing there in his chest but not his foreign emotions Draco's always but his only his just his. . .

No.

"What we're trying to ask you, Harry, is if you've been,"

No.

"Having any dreams lately."

Harry blinked, his chest loosening in relief. Was that all?

"Because if you have been, you should've told us! We could help- well, maybe we couldn't, but that's not the point- and we have been worried about you." Hermione squeezed his hand gently as she spoke, her eyes aglow with worried compassion. Compassion which he didn't deserve.

Harry's throat clogged up his answer, a guttural sigh. "No, I haven't had any of those dreams for a while."

Ron chewed the inside of his lip, "None?"

Hermione's hand tightened over Harry's, her fingertips worrying at his knuckles. She looked a little scared. "How long has it been since you've had one, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. It was a movement that had nothing to do with relaxation. "Since the beginning of this past summer, I think."

"And you didn't think to tell anyone!?" Hermione's shrill screech pierced Harry's eardrums.

"Hermione, there have been months when Harry hasn't dreamed about him. You know that," Ron pointed out tentatively.

Thank you, Ron.

"But before summer hols he'd been having them at least once a week! Weren't you, Harry?"

Harry looked away from Hermione's too-bright eyes and traced the breaks between stone panels on the floor. "Yes, but I thought he'd decided to lie low again."

And anyway, Harry didn't think that seeing people tortured nightly was something to celebrate about. Hermione just didn't understand how much those dreams hurt. Having them stop had been like an early Christmas, even if he had been with the Dursleys at the time. But if he was being completely honest, he had to admit that he'd been preoccupied lately.

Close tight feelings welling tugging at hair lips teasing endless silver bloody games pounding against cold stone night air murky on skin tasting like sweat strawberries kisses everywhere never there kisses liquid tattoos patterning skin kisses. . .

Hermione's voice was cross, "Well, obviously not anymore. And if you do have any of those dreams, tell us, alright?"

Harry sighed, "Okay."

But Hermione hadn't yet let go of his hand. It stayed there, pinning him down for her last question. "Harry, what have you been dreaming about lately?"

Draco.

"Nothing."

***

"Where were you last night?" Malfoy rumbled against Harry's chest.

Harry tightened his arms around Malfoy, careful not to jar the other boy too much as he flipped them to their sides. Snuffling at Malfoy's neck, Harry ran his hands along Malfoy's body, fingers lingering over bruised and chafed skin.

Draco arched against Harry, eyes alight with malicious curiosity, and purred into Harry's ear, "Admiring your handiwork, Potter?"

Harry blushed and, hiding his face in Malfoy's shoulder, mumbled out a negative. For a moment the scent of rosewater surrounded him, clung to the back of his tongue as he sucked at pale collarbone.

Malfoy jerked back and bit out a dry reply, "I rather think you were. It hurts, so you can stop it." He shuddered as Harry's lips moved to his throat, grating out, "And you can also stop trying to distract me, Potter. Where were you?"

Harry pulled back from Malfoy's neck and saw silver eyes staring sulky and savage. Malfoy's breath wafted across his face, perfume of sweat and pumpkin juice.

"Why do you care?"

Did he care?

"I don't care, I'm merely curious. You usually show up for at least a quick shag before doing whatever it is you Gryffindors do on Sunday nights. Exploding Snap with the Weasel?" Draco grabbed a handful of Harry's hair and yanked at it, vainly trying to distract him from the wet path he was trailing up Draco's neck.

"Something like that," Harry muttered, his attention captivated by Draco's ear and the noise he made when Harry blew on it. Just don't ask, Malfoy.

"'Something like that.' Well, with witty converse such as this it's no wonder I chose to skip Double Charms," Draco pinched Harry's side, producing a light squeal and a shudder.

Harry bit Draco's ear, hard. Stupid git was just trying to provoke him. As usual. He reached between Draco's legs, groping, stretching; glorying in the way Draco trembled around him.

"Potter, stop. Where were you?" Malfoy pushed Harry away, his hands pressed against Harry's chest as he glared up at the other boy from under dusky lashes.

Bollocks.

"I told you, I was with Hermione and Ron," Harry grunted as he followed the curve of Draco's body. A firm hand at the base of his spine and Draco was trapped once more.

"Of course. Why didn't I see it before? You stayed at home and knit, just like you do every Sunday evening. That must be where those abominable sweaters come from."

Harry could feel Malfoy's sneer pressing into his skull, his thick hair scant protection. He pulled away and glared.

"They were presents, you git. And what do you care, it's not like it matters to you, anyway."

Does it matter?

"You are right, of course," Malfoy's voice was wry and angry and wistful and so, so full of contempt that Harry could almost explain away how much it hurt. Almost.

And then Draco's inevitable collapse into Harry, curled lips soft and skilled against Harry's skin. Harry loved Draco's tongue, if only at times like this, loved the way it-

"But I can't help being curious." Draco hovered over a nipple, a strange smile slipping over his features. A blink later and it was gone.

Curious? What did Malfoy want from him- more fuel for their games?

Harry groaned, "Malfoy, just forget it.

"Make me."

Harry proceeded to do just that.

Later, when Harry was lying half over Draco, his ear pressed to the drum of the other boy's chest, he let out a shallow sigh, the sensation of Draco's arms wrapped loosely around him a form of contentment. He was so close to sleep that he almost missed the slight tightening of those arms, the way they drew him closer. Almost. It was like some other sensation, some long forgotten memory that kept flitting at the edges of remembrance-

"Malfoy, tell me a story." Harry blushed the moment the words dropped from his mouth and shattered the silence. Where had that come from? Not from Aunt Petunia; the only stories she had ever told him were those that involved twisted metal, smoking rubber, and dead parents. In fact, Harry could not remember anyone having ever telling him a bedtime story, his dream of hands smoothing sheets as cool lips pressed a loving prayer onto his forehead one which would never be granted. Why then, had he asked Malfoy, of all people? Was the sensation of arms wrapped around him all that was needed to break him in two?

"'Tell me a story.' Are we five years old again, Potter?" Malfoy's chuckle reverberated against Harry's ear.

Harry felt like a right idiot, a broken fool. "Malfoy, never-"

"Alright."

Alright?

"Alright?"

Harry jumped as cool hands slid across his scalp, massaging away the tension at the base of his skull. He liked the way Malfoy's fingers felt in his hair, the way they played with the skin at the nape of his neck. It was strangely tender, suspect. Why was Malfoy acting this way?

"Yes, alright. But first you have to choose. Do you want reality or fantasy?" Malfoy's voice was so soft there was something nearly sacred about it, about this strange connection they were building with words and skin rubbing against skin as twin hearts banged against the walls of their cages.

"Why do I have to choose?"

"Because the truth is never one-sided. Because everything in life is a choice. Because I say you have to. Now choose," Malfoy whispered as he trailed his fingers along the shivering ridge of Harry's spine.

Harry snuggled closer to Malfoy, dug his chin into the spaces between Malfoy's ribs, the corners of his mouth crooking upwards at Malfoy's low grunt. "Then fantasy. I want a story, not a history lecture. Although I've missed enough of Binns' classes now that maybe I should."

Malfoy dropped a kiss in Harry's hair, smothering a quiet sigh, and, ignoring the sudden tension in Harry's hands as they clutched at his sides, began. "Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, so lovely that even the stars themselves sighed whenever she passed under them. From one look into her eyes, hardened murderers would begin their lives anew, artists would go insane, and inspired ballads would spring fully conceived from the mouths of bards and minstrels. She was simply that exquisite. She must have been part Veela."

Malfoy's storytelling voice was a shade lower than his speaking one, like caramel transformed into chocolate: sweet, rich, and arousing. Harry stirred.

"This princess was betrothed to an equally handsome prince, and everything was going rather well in their lives until she was captured by an evil wizard who was smitten by her beauty. Enamored of her star-like eyes, her ivory throat, her midnight hair, he demanded her love and her hand, which was really quite understandable considering her herita- age."

Harry was working the hollow of Draco's throat, his hands rough beneath him, the tremor in that heady voice spurring him on.

"Potter, do you want me to. . . continue?"

Harry grinned at the peevish set to Malfoy's face: that bit with his thumb had been even more effective than he'd thought. He stopped sucking on Draco's skin long enough for a brief grin and a request to continue, please.

"Mordred Potter, you just- oh, very well. Continuing- but the princess was heartbroken, and she would have none but her prince. She spurned the advances of her captor, and soon was thrown into a cell until such time as she became amenable to the wizard's suit. Denied proper food, clothing, and care, despairing of ever gaining her freedom, she languished in the wizard's dungeon, praying for her prince to come save her." Draco paused. "Stupid girl must have been a Hufflepuff."

Harry burrowed into Draco's armpit, smothering a chuckle. He pulled back, laughing as Malfoy swatted at him irritably. "So you're saying loyalty like that isn't admirable?"

Malfoy growled, "What I'm saying Potter, is that that type of loyalty is a level of idiocy that has not been plumbed by even the stupidest of Hagrid's monstrosities. Now, do you want me to go on?"

"Please, continue." Harry shoved aside Draco's comforter; it had gotten tangled up between their legs and was only in the way.

"Well, one day after months of what must have seemed like futile waiting, her prince finally did appear. He burst through the dungeon doors and swept her off her feet, forestalling her queries with fervent kisses. It was not until they came to the sorcerer's throne room and the princess saw the sorcerer's broken body that the prince began to explain."

"So the wizard died?" For some reason Harry found this oddly disturbing; satisfying.

"Of course he did, Potter, this is a fairy tale! You were the one who wanted fantasy. And stop that if you want me to finish." Malfoy glared up at Harry, their bodies flush and the mattress bowing under their weight.

Harry removed his hand.

"Yes, well. The wizard, in an attempt to transcend death, had captured his life force in a precious ruby. He then hid the jewel in the lair of a dragon on the top of a mountain of glass which was surrounded by a lake of liquid fire. Bloody overkill, if you ask me. Anyway, with the power of love," Draco snorted, his opinion on that part quite clear, "the prince was able to surmount all of the wizard's obstacles and destroy the jewel, freeing his love from her captor forever. The prince had been aided in his adventures by a small elf, former retainer of the abusive wizard.

"House Elves can be so unreliable, you know." Draco favored Harry with a sly smirk, and Harry had to wonder exactly how much Malfoy did know.

"Just get on with it, Malfoy," Harry forced out a grin and scraped up against Draco.

"You- fine! Upon hearing of her prince's trials and adventures, the princess wept with joy, and together they triumphantly returned home. Fa la la la la and they lived happily ever after, the end. Now get off me, you poncy git!"

Harry laughed, and was about to investigate an unreasonably intriguing spot on the inside of Draco's knee when he heard a rapped scraping at the window. Malfoy sat up sharply; Harry's quick reflexes the only thing that saved him from a knee to his chin.

There was an owl hovering outside, cold glass making a blur of everything but its eyes. Malfoy swore and ran towards the window, cool air raising goose pimples on his skin as he sprinted naked across the room. The flick of a latch, and frigid wind flooded the room, causing Harry to burrow under the covers and hide himself in Chaos. Yet Malfoy just stood there, flesh shrunk and features sharp as he removed the scroll from the owl's leg. The bird's glassy eyes watched Malfoy carefully as he unrolled the missive, its claws gouging red trenches in Malfoy's shoulder. Streams of scarlet ran unchecked down Malfoy's chest, but he stood there without so much as a word of reprimand; just his lips tight and angry, obviously lost in rage as he scanned the length of the parchment.

Harry opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, to warn Malfoy of those talons- the tips seemed too close to his heart. And then it was too late- the owl had taken off, was in the air, now out the window. Red spots trailed to the wall, almost like bloody mockeries of the stones that Hansel and Gretel had used to mark their path home.

Harry looked back at Malfoy, flinching at the shuttered look in Malfoy's eyes. "What did the letter say?"

"It was my father. He has commanded me to spend winter hols here, at Hogwarts. I am forbidden from returning home." Malfoy ground down the words, reducing them to a fine dust that he spat out over the room.

Harry slid out of bed and approached the other boy, his outstretched hand coming to almost naturally press against the wounds in Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy gave out a sharp gasp and glared, but made no move to shake Harry off.

"Will these be alright? You should head over to the Infirmary."

Wasn't it Snow White's lips that were supposed to be red as blood?

"I'll be fine, Potter. I want you to leave me now." Malfoy fisted his hand, the sounds of the letter crumpling like firecrackers set off in a museum.

Harry tried again, "Well, I'll be staying here for hols as well, so-"

"Leave me, Potter," Malfoy said.

"Malfoy. . ."

"Just go."

Harry dressed silently, his eyes locked on Malfoy's statue-like form. Who did not move, even though his toes were now stained red from the puddle of blood slowly forming around them. The slow and steady plop of liquid crashing against stone rang in Harry's ears until he thought they might burst; it was almost with relief that he pulled the hood of his Invisibility Cloak over his head and exited the room. But the sound of splashing blood followed him as far as Gryffindor Tower, and he wondered.

What else had been in that letter?