A Plague of Legends

Chapter Thirteen: Voiceless Screaming

Or, The Five of Wands, Reversed

After it was over, the students came to wonder exactly who had informed Dumbledore. The rumors spread and multiplied, gorging themselves on the tails of the shadowed whispers that had come before them, dark and voracious and dead within a week. But that was later- much, much later. That was when those who had gone home for break returned; flushed from the holidays and the eggnog and the warm loving embraces that were perhaps a little bit too tight. Their parents knew, you see, had known almost within a matter of hours. Everyone had, except for the students. The children. The ones perhaps most involved.

For those children who were at Hogwarts when it was found, the day passed in a dark blur, like paper stained by watercolor paint that is just a bit too thin. Just a bit too dark. There were very few students left at Hogwarts, and their footsteps did nothing to fill the empty halls as they paced from bed to dinner to bed again, heels thumping listlessly against stone and carpet.

So everyone heard when the screaming began.

How it filled the empty halls.

Scattering shades of blood and tears over a frozen canvas.

Then faded away, until the sound of bitter weeping was no more.

And everyone was there to see Dumbledore lift the body off of the main castle steps, his skin transparent and grey as he wound his way to the Infirmary, blood dotting the path behind him. So they saw the body, saw the gaping throat, saw the chunks of flesh and crusted blood clinging under polished nails. Saw the pale rictus, the face's features twisted into something beyond horror, beyond pain. They saw every feature, every gory detail. But what they did not see was how they had come to be there.

Some students claimed that it had been Mrs. Norris, her maw dripping red and sweet as she wailed out her discovery to the school. Those students were never able to look at her again without shuddering at the memory, without whispering the charms that kept cats at bay. After all, everyone knew that cats would suck the breath from babies if you let them. How was this any different?

Some students claimed that it was a first year Slytherin, her face marked almost unrecognizable by tears as she stumbled over parted robes and frayed dress. The gingham had been a wash of scarlet, woven patterns turned grim and glistening in the dim candlelight. No one could tell for sure, though, because the girl left for home the next day. She was never seen at Hogwarts again, although rumor had it that she transferred to Beauxbatons.

And then some few students claimed that it had been Blaise herself, fingers dripping wet as she screamed voiceless through the remains of her throat. That Blaise herself had gone to the Headmaster and begged for justice as the floor filled with phantom blood.

***

To say that the corpse was like something out of a nightmare would have been an understatement of unthinkable proportions. Blaise's throat had been ripped open and peeled back, almost like the top of a tin can, its ragged edges shining red in the morning light. Her mouth and eyes were frozen open, rigor mortis lending a statue-like artistry to the gory details. Even worse were her nails, their dark coating silent testimony to the manner of her death. But perhaps the most horrific sight of all was the simplest, the easiest one to overlook. Harry did not doubt that most everyone missed it, too transfixed by the blood and the skin and the protruding eyes to see, so subtle and faint were the traces of salt on cheek and chin.

But Harry saw them, and it was they that sent him scrambling to the tufts of nearby bushes, to care about the still, frozen look on Draco's face. Too traumatized to even notice Ron at his side, supporting his weight, Harry heaved his stomach onto the ground, gasping as the acidic remains of his breakfast came hurtling up and out. He trembled then, bent over and coughing; traces of pumpkin juice and pancakes clinging to the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. In a moment of distanced clarity, Harry realized that he could still taste the pancakes' blueberries, mutilated as they had been by his stomach. It was then, when Harry seemed farthest from the world, mouthing rotted blueberries as the sounds of fragmented weeping flew over and by him, that Dumbledore arrived.

Harry would have known who had come even if Ron had not lightly thumped him in the side and muttered, "Dumbledore," like the name was a warning or the sign of a prophesied savior. He would have known by the way everything stopped and quieted until there was no sound but the soft choking noises of a tiny Slytherin, her mouth open and working before she suddenly hurtled forward and buried her face in the folds of Dumbledore's robes. After that silence reigned, like Dumbledore's cloak had the power to muffle sound, like even the birds and trees were honoring the dead; as though everyone knew that to move would break the spell, send them out of this dream, make everything real. But for now, if no one moved, if not a sound was made then just perhaps none of it was true.

Then Dumbledore spoke. "Does anyone here know what happened?" he said, and he looked at Draco.

And suddenly, it was too much. All of it. The suspicion and death and maneuvering and numbness that like a flipped coin turned from blessing to curse. The dead bodies that he had dreamed, piling up unburied, in the moments between wakefulness and sleep. The faces of people gone: forgotten except in calls to battle and the crying of their loved ones. One more map of stiff flesh to add to the collection.

Would Cedric and Zabini dance in Hell before the night was over? How many others would join their waltz before it all ended?

Harry was moving forward before he knew what he was doing, unsure of what to do but knowing that something had to be done- and then was cut off by a fifth year Hufflepuff who jumped out, intercepting the line of the headmaster's vision. The Hufflepuff's voice was firm, even harsh as he answered Dumbledore, but Harry saw the boy's fingers, how they shivered and trembled as they clutched at his robes. Like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go, as if fabric was not the only thing he was grasping in his fingers.

"We all arrived here at about the same time, sir, and the body was already like this. The screaming, sir, it-" here the boy's voice lost him, like he had been the one screaming, and not- just, not. He looked at the body and then Draco, his mouth stunned into momentary slackness. He seemed like he was about to cry, appeared so lost that Harry forgot his own discomfort, was on the verge of rushing out and- hugging him (hitting him?), perhaps- when Draco gestured, waving the boy away, relieving him of any further responsibility. Draco, it seemed, would take care of it, handle all of the headmaster's questions. Looking at him standing there, lips blue from the cold but still in that same familiar smirk, Harry would not have doubted it for an instant if not for the foreign roiling in his gut.

But the Hufflepuff shook his head, mouthing something at Draco, the tilt of his chin belied by the trembling of his lips and fingers. Draco waved again, now more forcefully, eyes locked with the Hufflepuff's and his mouth turned ever-so-slightly downwards. Again the Hufflepuff shook his head, and this time Harry caught the words dancing silently over set lips.

You shouldn't have to do this. You, of all people, should not. And Blaise would not have wanted you to. Not like this.

The Hufflepuff turned his back on Draco and faced Dumbledore, "The screaming called us here, sir. But it looks like she's been dead for hours; her body's already stiff, and the blood has stopped clotting."

Piece said he carefully stepped back, an obvious impediment between the headmaster and Draco. What, Harry wondered, had Draco done to merit the loyalty of a Hufflepuff?

Dumbledore sighed, his hands gentle as he wiped the tears from the shuddering bundle in front of him, "Why don't you go see Madam Pomfrey, Miss Parkinson? She'll help you get cleaned up-"

It was then Harry noticed the blood staining the girl's clothes.

"And perhaps give you a nice mug of hot chocolate, hmm?"

Dumbledore turned back to the Hufflepuff, "Gavin, my boy, would you please take Miss Parkinson to the Infirmary?"

No one present missed the quick look the Hufflepuff sent back to Draco, nor the Slytherin's sharp, quick nod of approval. They all watched silently as Gavin took the young Parkinson girl in hand and led her inside the school, white hands wrapped tightly around each other. And no one said a word as Dumbledore, face ashen and looking far older than his years, cast Wingardium Leviosa and an invisibility spell on the body. It was so quiet that Harry could hear the frost on the ground melting; everyone watched as Dumbledore walked back to the school, his invisible burden casting shadows on the ground behind him.

After that the crowd began to dissipate one by one, each person seeking solace from the image now burned into their retinas, until only Harry, Ron, and Draco were left to stare at the blood-stained stone before them.

They stood there, locked in a silent tableau as the wind bit at their fingers and cheeks, not even Ron willing to resume hostilities in the bloody light of the morning sun. Wind-whipped and freezing in the thin cloak he had donned in a hurry, Harry let out a deep breath, a sigh really, and considered Draco.

Draco stood closest to the spot, his head tilted to the side, lips compressed and the something else in his eyes shining more brightly than Harry had ever seen before. It was almost always there, to be sure. The only times Harry had ever seen it completely absent were in those last moments of sex, when Draco lost grip of everything but Harry's shoulders and skin and the rhythm between them. It was in those moments, the ones when Draco lost control, that he was at his most honest. Harry wondered what it meant that he was never more clearly reflected in Draco's eyes than at orgasm, wondered if it really meant anything at all.

He sucked Draco in, devouring every strained feature (they were strained, you just had to know what to look for), every shift of the eyes (that something else shone like quicksilver in the dull red light), every puff of mist that rolled over thin, pale lips (Draco resembled his namesake most at times like this, when he issued ivory smoke from his mouth). Weeks of sex, of supposed intimacy, and Harry still could not stop looking at this silent pale boy, this boy who talked of possession and dark wizards and could be stained red by sharp talons and harsh mouths alike. Sometimes he felt like he was wearing a collar, mastered by the moods and sighs and taunts of this boy who he still hated (hated), didn't even like, who would as soon spit on his friends as touch them. Who was alien and hard and cruel, who cast Imperius on mice and laughed as he commanded the mice to offer themselves to Crabbe's owl, as he watched Harry rage. How Harry hated him for that, hated Draco even as he drank in those sparking grey eyes, that much closer to understanding. And then not. Just utterly confused by Draco's sudden gentleness when he kissed the tip of Harry's nose and fed him Chocolate Frogs.

But there were the other times when Harry saw a collar, and the neck it circled was not his own. He knew, knew that Draco watched him when he thought Harry wasn't looking. It had all come undone, though Harry had no idea when. Draco watched Harry, Harry took Draco, and their games had only become deeper and more warped with each day. Draco sought Harry out between and after classes, even on days when they had no classes together, ate at different mealtimes, did not see each other- days when there was no excuse. There were no excuses anymore, even though Harry had yet to hear his name from Draco's lips, the same lips that haunted his dreams. Just as Draco had said they would. And yet Harry couldn't stop himself, couldn't stop looking, not even with Draco so here and cold and tempered and tense.

Draco must have felt Harry's eyes on him- he always did- because he looked up, glaring at Harry (for intruding on his grief, maybe?), unreal irises thinly rimming engorged pupils. Draco's lips curled back, and Harry was reminded of that morning in the dining hall, before this had all begun, when Draco had stood, his eyes almost identical to how they were now, and told him to fuck off. This time, however, Harry was not startled by the white beast and its antics; he was all too familiar, now, with the games this one played. So with the slight roll of a shoulder indicating dismissal, and the presenting of a too-stiff back, Draco began his way up the steps and into Hogwarts.

Winning the game was an empty feeling, Harry found, without Snitch grasped in hand.

Draco left- at least, he would have if not for Ron's too-loud mutter that shouted its disbelief to the stone steps. "She was your girlfriend, you shallow prick! Don't you even care?!"

Harry rushed forward, gripping Ron's shoulder so hard he must have cut off its circulation, "Ron, we have no idea how he feels. Just leave him alone. Leave it." Harry tightened his grip with each word, all too aware of Draco's eyes thick on him. On Ron.

Ron looked at Harry, staring in complete awe. "Harry, the git's girlfriend is dead, and all he does is shrug. You saw it. How could he?" Then, turning back to Draco, "How could you, you unfeeling, monstrous, cold-blooded, disgusting son of a she-devil?"

"Ron, stop," Harry hissed. He couldn't let Ron hurt himself.

And somehow, Ron did stop. But it was too late, because Draco had come forward, was so close to Ron now that Harry could feel the heat pouring off him. Draco lifted his upper lip in a sneer, a perfect vicious smile, yet all Harry could see were those silver eyes and the dangerous promise held within. Harry yanked at Ron, but it was too late.

"What do you know about it, Weasel?" Draco's voice spoke of darkened corridors and heavy fists pounding into flesh. Not his own fists, no. But fists all the same- huge and hard and able to break bones with the smallest of effort.

Like Hell Harry would let that happen.

"Don't. Call. Him. That," Harry said softly, seriously.

Draco glanced at Harry, eyes mocking, and tossed out, "Or what, Potter? You'll punish me? Hurt me? You? Please. Now why don't you be a good little kitten and go play with some string, hmm?"

"Malfoy. . ." Harry stepped forward.

Draco rolled his eyes. "And today's flavor is apparently The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Butt-In. Just fuck off, Potter." He turned back to Ron, Harry forgotten, and laughed, "What could vermin like you know, anyway?"

"Enough to see that you didn't care about her, asshole," Ron snarled. "Is this how you feel about all of the people you fuck?"

Draco seemed on the verge of saying something back, of ripping Ron's mouth from his face, when he stopped. Just stopped. And then, with a change so slow it was excruciating, curled his lips into a smile.

"Yes, it is."

***

The fire was burning steady in the common room, there was a stack of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts' Beans on the tea table nearby (courtesy of Sirius and his latest care package); Harry had even been able to get Dobby to bring steaming pumpkin juice up from the kitchens. Even so, the events of the day sat raw and spoiled on the tip of Ron's tongue.

Zabini's body had been one of the most awful things he'd ever seen; truthfully, Ron had never seen anything like that, and even if he might have wanted to before, in ignorance, it was not something he wanted to see again. Ever. Zabini had been a very pretty girl, completely wasted on Malfoy. The days when he and the rest of the Gryffindor guys had sat down to talk about girls she'd come up, and more than once. Wizard robes hid the best of a girl's attributes, but Zabini had been much 'admired' in Gryffindor. She had a way. . . had had a way of tilting her head perfectly, so that the line of her neck, and how it disappeared into her robes, was accentuated.

Ron remembered once, how Dean had talked about what it would be like to bite her neck and follow its curve to the breasts below. Only the next day Malfoy had acted out their fantasies, right before Snape had called class to order. He'd worked his way down that neck, all the while grinning madly at the Gryffindors. They'd all been put out by that, Harry especially so, and spent the rest of class staring daggers between Malfoy's shoulders.

But now that neck was ruined. None of it mattered anymore, except perhaps Malfoy's not caring. The thought of it still made Ron mad, flooded his vision with red sparks until he thought he might pass out from the rage. You don't use people like that, care so little that fucking means the same as. . . as. . . as putting on a sock! Ron scowled and kicked his heels against the base of his chair, so preoccupied that he almost didn't hear Harry scolding him.

"Ron, you need to stay away from Malfoy for a while. He's sure to be upset over this, and you don't want to-"

Well, that just took the cake, presents, and guests to boot. Malfoy, upset? He hadn't been upset today, that was for sure. And why was Harry so worried about Malfoy, anyway?

"Oh, right. Because he was so broken up about it this morning," Ron returned sarcastically. "Face it Harry, Malfoy's nothing but a first-class prick. From what I've heard he and Zabini were practically raised together. He doesn't care about anyone or anything but himself and his family- he proved that today."

Ron turned to the tea table to snag a Chocolate Frog and almost missed the look that sped across Harry's face. It was that strange shuttered look Ron had been seeing more and more lately, and Ron knew exactly what it meant. A secret. Not just any secret- this one was pretty old and just waiting to explode. And if Hermione had been here, it very well might have. Girls could be funny about things like this. As it was, Ron knew just how to handle the situation, now that they were well and truly alone. This year he and Harry were the only Gryffindors around for Christmas- but it was a blessing.

Ron settled back into his seat and grinned at Harry, hoping to Merlin that all of the chocolate was gone from his teeth. Harry smiled back tentatively over his steaming mug, obviously waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't take long; Ron was never one for subtlety or suspenseful silences.

"So," Ron drawled, "Who's the girl?"

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice, "What?!"

This was obviously a completely different shoe than expected.

Ron grinned again, painfully. "I said, who's the girl you're with?"

Harry gaped at Ron then muttered, "I can't believe we're having this conversation at a time like this."

Ron sighed and settled back into his chair. Part of him couldn't really believe it either, and he said so before continuing, "But you know life isn't going to stop because Zabini's dead. And I don't think she'd want it to, as much of a bitch as she might have been at times. She'd more want us to move on, and roast the bastard who did that to her."

Who made her do that to herself, Ron thought, and was about to continue when Harry ground out, "So that means that we can just merrily go from looking at her dead body one moment to talking about girlfriends the next!?"

A pause.

"No," Harry said, like the word itself was an epiphany.

Ron stared.

"No. A person's life has to mean more than just that. It just- it just has to. Zabini- Blaise- died, Ron. She's dead. She's dead, and all of her dreams, everything- they're all gone." Harry glared. "She has-" Harry paused, swallowed. "Had parents and friends and maybe a pet and dreams and Malfoy, yes, so who cares if he doesn't care about her? Who cares what we thought of her? She had a life and it's over now! Over! What if she wanted to have children? Even if they were Malfoy's? What happens to her life, Ron?"

Ron tried to speak, his mouth working voicelessly. He hadn't meant it like that. He hadn't meant. . . anything, really.

"We know who killed her, and even if it wasn't Voldemort-"

Ron twitched at the mention of You-Know-Who's name.

"-it was his fault. So now there's someone else dead, just like Cedric. Only not, which is the funny thing. Except it's not funny, because I doubt we're even going to be raising our glasses to her any time soon. She's not a hero, just a side casualty, and really we don't know who killed her.

"I don't know who killed her," Harry finished, whispering, looking at his hands like he expected Blaise's blood to appear on them. Like he didn't understand they were connected to his own body.

Ron reached forward, gripping Harry's hands in his own, "Harry, if this is about your not dreaming- that's not your fault. You can't help when you have those dreams."

"No, it's not my fault, is it. I can't help anything," Harry pronounced through dry lips, his eyes dark and angry.

"No, it isn't," Ron said. "But you can help. We can help. We helped before, didn't we?"

"Yes," Harry said, like he almost believed it, despite himself and all of the objections there were no point voicing.

Like Harry.

Ron felt himself smiling as he tightened his grip on Harry's hands. They were warm, and rough, and slightly dirty. But there. Finally.

Hullo again, Harry. I've missed you.

"So we'll help. But for now we've got to live, just keep on living. Um, and mail Hermione. Okay?"

Harry smiled. It was small, and painful, and even a bit bitter. But it was a smile: a real smile. "Okay. But we should definitely mail Hermione about all of this."

They sat there for a bit, silently, just looking at each other and smiling. It really had been a while, hadn't it?

Ron snapped first, letting out a relieved whoosh of breath before sending a quick apology to Zabini and grinning conspiratorially, "But are you going to stop shagging your girl because of this?"

Harry turned scarlet. He looked like a cross between having been hit with a particularly nasty curse from Mad-Eye Moody and being caught wanking off in the Restricted Section with a stack of racy magazines.

"Not this again," Harry moaned, but almost jokingly.

Ron forced out a snigger, his chest still tight from before. "But you're not denying anything. Slick."

"Can't we talk about something else?" Harry asked, obviously still uncomfortable- he kept tracing patterns onto the rug with his feet.

Ron forced back his own discomfort and smiled, saying, "This is life. And we're going to be having this talk no matter what. Of course, we could always wait until Hermione gets back and do this together. . ."

Ron waited, hoping that Harry wouldn't call his bluff. Even though Ron had little desire to pursue the conversation now, doing it with Hermione would be like handing doom an open invitation. Anyway, Harry had been strange for weeks, running from every potential confrontation Ron instigated, and enough was enough. The day's events had already broken some of Harry's barriers. Maybe this conversation would break through the rest. Sometimes a wild gambit was the best move of all.

"Fine," Harry scowled, and knocked back the rest of his pumpkin juice like it was a shot of alcohol.

Well, at least they both agreed that Hermione's involvement would be a colossally bad idea. Ron waited, staring.

Harry stared back.

Ron smoothed away a grin. "So?"

Color hovering somewhere between tomato and strawberry, Harry managed to get out a guilty, "So, I'm not- not shagging anyone."

Ron noted that Harry was very careful not to make eye contact with Ron. Or anything, for that matter. Heh. Well, most people might believe that, sure. It was just- Harry exuded purity the way unicorns do. He made you want to lock him up and keep him safe, maybe even screen anyone who wanted to see him. And that could be very easily confused with innocence. Really, Harry was still very innocent. You could sense it. But not in 'that' way. Not for a while now. Not that it mattered.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Right. So I suppose those marks on your neck are from Quidditch?"

Harry nodded assent, his eyes suddenly reminding Ron of the way rabbits look when it's dark and you shine a light on them. Paralyzed, and just knowing the end is near. "Um, where else would they come from?"

Did Harry think he wasn't allowed to be with someone just because of who he was, what he'd gone through? Prat.

"Mate, I have five older brothers, and while I might be a tad oblivious," Ron scowled at Harry's sudden (unwarranted!) smile, "there's only so much a bloke can miss."

Actually, there was a whole lot a guy could miss, but last summer Ron had been forcibly enlightened when he'd accidentally interrupted Percy in the middle of a passionate snog-fest (if you could even call it 'snogging,' ugh) with Penelope Clearwater. And it really hadn't been his fault! Percy, of all people, should know when to lock the door; especially if it's the bathroom. After that the signs'd been easy to spot, although Fred swinging one way and George the other had been a bit of a surprise. The fact that the twins had not been united in this, as in all other things, had caused more of a commotion than the difference itself. The night Fred and George had brought home their significant others had been very eventful- Ron's favorite memory from the evening had been the look on Percy's face right before he got hit with the cream pie. Mum had been right hopping mad at the waste of good food. Ron was reliving that (glorious) moment when Harry's low voice called him back to the present.

"I'm not shagging any girl," Harry said, suddenly sitting stiffer than Snape in his chair and pronouncing each word so carefully it was like he felt the world might shatter if he rushed. Like the phrase was a spell, and instead of Transfiguring a chair to an owl he might get a Harpy.

Ron blinked. There was no doubt in his mind that Harry was shagging someone. And Harry didn't lie. Couldn't. Not to him, at least. Which meant- but Ron could've sworn that Harry liked girls. But if that's how it was, then-

Encouragingly, "So who's the lucky bloke?"

And hopefully Harry had never checked him out.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Well, if it's not a girl, then it's a guy. You've definitely been shagging someone."

Because Ron did not swing that way.

Harry mumbled something low and not incriminating.

"It doesn't bother me, if you're worried."

Yes, Ron loved Harry, but not like that.

Harry flushed, squirming in his chair, and Ron had to ask himself if even he could have attained such a pure shade of red. Ron was absently wondering whether Colin might have left his camera in the dorm (small chance of that) when Harry ventured, "You don't mind?"

"Mind? No!"

Because if he did, George would kill him; and that was only if Fred didn't get to him first. "It's just- you always talk about girls, so I thought-"

"I like girls." Harry's voice was just a bit defensive, but his eyes were strong on Ron's face.

"Oh."

There really wasn't much to say to that. For some reason Ron had the (admittedly) stupid urge to say, 'Congratulations', like Harry'd just won the double lottery or something; but he had no trouble tossing that thought into a mental dustbin. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

"So. Who is he?" Ron asked.

Harry, who had been very close to returning to a normal skin tone, lit up like a torch and mumbled something incoherent about Shrivelfigs.

"Because whoever he is, you're looking better than you have been in a long while. Happier. More here. We've been worried about you, you know."

Harry did know. They'd told him. Ron suppressed a grimace. Sometimes he was wonderfully redundant. Ron smiled weakly and suddenly missed Hermione. This was the part that she was good at: knowing just what to say when the moment got tense. She'd give them that look, the one that said they were stupid for even thinking of doing anything without her, and then say exactly what was needed. Ron missed that look, today especially. This might have been better handled by himself, but earlier. . . earlier Ron would've given a lot to hear Hermione going on and on about homework, or school, anything really, in that insufferable know-it-all voice. To have had her there for Harry's smile.

"I- I can't say," Harry said, his voice hoarse, asking (demanding?) Ron's forgiveness.

And that hurt, that Harry had a secret he was refusing to share with Ron. Of course, they all had their secrets, especially Harry as of late. But it still hurt, that Harry wouldn't- couldn't- tell him. Because there was really nothing that Ron wouldn't or couldn't tell Harry, if asked. So it hurt.

But Ron smiled and said, "Alright. If you ever do need to talk, though, I'm here."

***

The room was pitch black, its only source of illumination the sickle moon that hung in the sky like a dying lantern. Harry jumped awake, gasping out the remnants of a fading nightmare as the moon was shrouded by a passing cloud. Harry woke in darkness, clutching at his sheets in something more than fright and less than terror, preternaturally aware in his temporary blindness. Ron's soft snores were muffled by his pillow, and Harry sensed him burrowing deeper beneath his covers, away from the chill air that had crept into the room despite warming spells and locked windows. Harry sensed the minute movements Ron made, even felt the activities of a fugitive spider that huddled in the room's left corner, half-frozen and eager to build a new home. And he sensed Draco, impossible as he knew it to be. Draco, far away in the bowels of the school, was on the move. Harry knew it; somehow he knew. So when the moon peered out from behind its cloudy mask Harry was already halfway out the door, Invisibility Cloak pulled over his head and Marauders' Map clutched in hand.

Ron was such a heavy sleeper it was easier than breathing to sneak out of their room and into the common area. After all, neither he nor Harry's other roommates had ever noticed his morning escapes. There Harry whispered a soft Lumos to his wand and lit up the Map, scanning it for a sign of Draco's whereabouts. And there it was, a small dot labeled, 'Draco Malfoy' making its careful way from the Slytherin dormitories in an unmistakable beeline for the Infirmary. Where the body was being kept until Zabini's parents came to retrieve it.

Harry was speeding off to the Infirmary before he had a chance to consider his possible courses of action; his path controlled by a tense compulsion that Harry could not have put a name to if he'd tried. He had no idea what he would do when he saw Draco- all he knew was that he wanted, needed, to see Draco To see the expression his face would assume when he looked at Zabini's- Blaise's- body. Just one more time, with no one else around. And maybe, just maybe he could help.

Harry was still running when he heard the sound of raised voices echoing distantly. Moving slowly now, carefully, Harry made his way towards the Infirmary, modulating his breathing until it was shallow and soundless. The voices became louder and louder, until they clarified and Harry was standing a scant meter away from their owners: Madam Pomfrey was scowling, her mouth turned down in unmistakable displeasure as she absentmindedly patted at the night cap perched precariously on her head. Draco was glowering back, his fisted hands half-hidden in the folds of his robes. Harry was amazed at Draco, that he would take the time to dress for a midnight prowl. Even now, in the early hours of the morning, Draco was perfectly groomed and composed. His composition was an affront to Pomfrey's flustered appearance.

"Mr. Malfoy, I will have you know that no one is being let in to see Ms. Zabini's body unless they are family members. I am sorry for your loss," Pomfrey sounded close to delighted, "but you will simply have to wait until the funeral to see the body. And although I understand that these are extenuating circumstances, this is not the way in which a prefect should behave. Unless you would like to lose that position, you will return to your bed posthaste," Pomfrey clipped out the words, obviously eager to get back to her own bed and out of the cold. From the sagging skin under her eyes, Harry guessed that she had had a very long day.

Draco narrowed the space between himself and the teacher, smirking at her slight discomfort as he invaded her personal space. "I am a family member. I formally request that you let me in."

Pomfrey shook her head, exasperated. "Mister Malfoy, let me remind you that boyfriends do not count as family memb-"

"I was not her boyfriend," Draco said quietly. "I was her betrothed. We were to be married after graduation."

Married? Harry wondered at the unreasoning twisting feeling in his chest; it was something beyond jealousy, above pain. Dullness stole over him like anesthesia, and he entertained no more (admittedly foolish and naïve) thoughts of removing his cloak and comforting Draco. There was more to be learned this night by staying hidden in shadows.

Pomfrey gasped, then recovered, "If you are saying that simply to get in, I must warn you-"

"You may administer Veritaserum if you wish. My words will not change. She was my fiancé, and as such I formally request that you let me in to see my murdered bride," Draco snarled and stepped forward, right hand clenched around what must have been his wand.

Pomfrey danced back away from Draco, but the set of her mouth had altered, dipping in a trembling smile that pitied- oh, how Draco must have raged at that- before unlocking the door, clucking, "Of course, dear. It's simply a wonder that the Headmaster did not tell me anything."

Draco entered the Infirmary with Harry on his heels, Pomfrey's light apologetic chattering following them as they approached the body, "Now if you need anything, just call for me, dear." Then, having filled the room with light (an unnecessary cruelty, that), she left.

And then they were alone with the body, and Draco's expression changed not one whit. He loomed over the corpse, posture ramrod straight and ungiving, his eyes masking everything but the something else that danced like faerie fire. His lips did not tremble, nor did his hands clench, so composed was this grieving lover. He simply looked, observing the body just as he accused Harry of observing him, the only signs of life or emotion the red shadows clinging angrily to his cheekbones.

Harry was not sure how long they had been standing there, a circle of eyes, when the door to the Infirmary opened. The sound of footsteps rang hollow as the new arrival entered the room, eyes blinking from the harshness of the sudden light. Harry let out a soft breath that died a sudden stillbirth as Dumbledore sent him a brief warning look. Harry watched as, heartbeat pounding in his ears, Dumbledore came to stand beside Draco, shadowed blue eyes offering condolences.

Then silence again, longer and more painful now that Draco was no longer 'alone', and finally broken when Dumbledore said, "A horrible way to die. We are still unsure of what forced her to such an extreme."

Draco turned from his contemplation of the corpse to stare disbelievingly at Dumbledore. In a low, accusing tone, he asked, "Can't you feel it? It was Cruciatus- the pattern is clear."

Harry sensed nothing. Just death and flesh on the cusp of rotting.

Draco's challenge hung in the air, but Dumbledore's next question circumvented it like it wasn't there, like Draco hadn't practically spit the words out. "And you can sense this? That this was all a byproduct of Cruciatus?"

"It's obvious, sir. Someone cast Cruciatus on Blaise and watched as she clawed out her own throat." Draco's tone shifted, became less antagonistic, "How long would it take for someone to do this to themselves? How long under the spell?"

Dumbledore visibly hesitated before answering Draco, "Ten, fifteen minutes perhaps. Maybe longer, depending on the victim's strength of will.

Harry felt ill. Thankfully the memory of Cruciatus' pain had worn old and thin in the interim since he had been Voldemort's victim. But he could imagine Blaise's final moments, imagine her nails ripping at her throat as she hurtled towards insanity. Remember the pain. Harry only hoped that it had not lasted too long, even though he knew that a single second under Cruciatus was too long. No one deserved to die like that.

Draco stared up at Dumbledore with eyes flaming as he asked his last question, "Can't you feel it? The mark the curse left behind?"

Dumbledore regarded the Slytherin with a heavy gaze before answering. "Although I can feel the remnants of the Dark Arts congealed about Ms. Zabini's body, I do not have the ability to determine which curse was used. You have performed an invaluable service this evening, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you. I will leave you to your grief."

With that Dumbledore reached out a hand and pressed down on Draco's shoulder once, firmly, before shooting a look at Harry and exiting the room. Harry trailed after him.

Dumbledore led Harry a rambling chase, over pathway and up stair until Harry no longer knew where they had been, and certainly not where they were going. Dumbledore stopped in an empty room, cavernous and strangely familiar, and gestured for Harry to remove the Invisibility Cloak.

The following minutes passed in silence as they stood there. Dumbledore looked curiously about the room, his features cast in strange blue shadows. Harry watched the headmaster, waiting.

"It has been several years since you last encountered Erised. Do you think back on it much?" Dumbledore asked Harry, his gentle eyes somehow alien and distant.

Harry swallowed and took a short step back to look at the room. Of course. This was where he had found the Mirror of Erised. Where he'd met his parents. Harry remembered the way his father's hand had touched his shoulder, how real the mirror's illusion had seemed, that in those moments reality had had no choice but to conform to the reflected visions. And not, because for all that he had seen that hand, those smiles, the way his mother's hair brushed at her cheeks, there had never been a weight on Harry's shoulder. And that hair had never brushed against his forehead along with a bittersweet goodnight kiss. Not really.

"No sir, I don't."

And that, at least, was thankfully true. Yes, there had been a time when Harry had wanted his parents more than anything in the world- wanted them enough that he would have traded anything for just one touch. One real touch. But now. . . now there was Ron and Hermione and his future, Quidditch and his studies. There was the upcoming fight against Voldemort- the upheaval that might be easier because he didn't have parents, painful as the thought was. What would it be like to lose a loved one? Harry didn't know, couldn't even conceive of a pain different from the dull ache inside that was his parents' lack. But it was there, the difference. Raw and sharp like the twist of Mr. Diggory's mouth, or the look in Draco's eyes.

Would he look like that if he lost Ron or Hermione? Would their absence shatter him like that? Or the other Gryffindors: Seamus, Dean, Parvati, Lavender, Neville? Colin, even. People closer to him than Cedric had been; people for whom he felt more than simple responsibility or kinship. What if they were killed? What about Draco? What if Draco was killed; worse still, what if he chose to side with Voldemort? Could Harry face that possibility, now that there was yet another maimed corpse lying in accusation on an Infirmary bed?

What would the sight of Draco's broken body do to him?

"I was a tad startled to see you in the Infirmary, Harry," Dumbledore murmured.

Harry blushed. How was he supposed to explain this? 'Oh, I'm sorry for being up, sir. I just sensed that Malfoy was upset and decided to go see what was wrong. Well, I'm not exactly sure how I felt it, Professor. Maybe shagging has unexplored psychic benefits.' Or maybe, 'Well, it's been a while since my last illicit late-night stroll, so I thought I'd get back in practice.' Or not.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at Harry's discomfort. He said, "Of course, if there is anything you are, it is inquisitive, so I suppose I should not have been surprised."

Harry scuffed his shoe against the floor, oddly disappointed that the headmaster had not questioned him further on his presence in the Infirmary. It was at moments like these that his continuing duplicity weighed most on him; the evening's earlier conversation with Ron had been painful, the betrayal of Ron's trust almost heartbreaking. Yet how much worse would it be to tell him? Harry could not even guess. Too late to confess, and too late by far to begin considering the ramifications of their. . . liaison. Was it too late, even, to stop?

Harry was still toeing the floor when Dumbledore said, "However, I think it best if you were to refrain from going near Mr. Malfoy in the near future," his voice soft and solemn.

Harry looked up, startled. Dumbledore could not possibly know. "You think that Malfoy did it, sir?" Harry enunciated each word carefully, as though each syllable was potentially incriminating.

If he did, Dumbledore was wrong. Harry opened his mouth to protest, to maybe protect Draco (that would be stupid, then Dumbledore would know- but Draco wasn't a murderer), only to shut it again at the headmaster's next words.

"No Harry, I do not. But it is a strange thing, this perception of Mr. Malfoy's. Not even a trained Auror would have been able to get such a clear reading of the curse, yet young Mr. Malfoy was able to with no effort involved. He must have had a very deep bond indeed with Ms. Zabini-"

Harry flinched.

"-for him to be so aware. Truth be told, there are usually only two groups of people who could do what Mr. Malfoy did today. The first are seers; and while Mr. Malfoy has shown no aptitude for Divination, it might be wise to have him tested more. . . thoroughly. He may have been having prophetic visions for quite some time and simply been labeling them as dreams or fantasies."

"Are seers so very rare, sir?" Harry asked, unable to imagine Draco Malfoy with such a gift- such a dangerously manipulative gift.

"Yes Harry, they are. True seers are as rare as Parselmouths." Dumbledore smiled kindly, taking the edge off of his words.

A sudden thought struck Harry, "Who are the other people, Professor? The others who would know, I mean?"

Dumbledore's eyes darkened, and he suddenly sounded very, very old, "The caster of the curse, Harry. The person who killed her."

***

It has been said that Voldemort's initial rise to power was marked by disappearances. Almost two decades ago it began, first in ones and twos. Then in larger numbers, until whole families, clans, and villages were destroyed in the hours between sunset and sunrise. But in the beginning- in the beginning it had started out so quietly, so imperceptibly that the disappearances were easy to ignore. Not so this time, with a sheltered princess ripped from home and family, ripped apart and then left to rot on the steps of Hogwarts. The safest place in all of Britain. Safe indeed, that such a precious package could be delivered unseen and unhindered. Huddled in front of hearth and at tables, people whispered that Blaise Zabini was the first disappearance, her recovered body the herald of a war that would paint the skies red.

The second person to disappear was Lucius Malfoy.

**tbc**