White Horses

HARRY WOKE UP IN UNFAMILIAR darkness, his heartbeat racing. For that first minute, he was back in the Shrieking Shack again, back with Voldemort and the darkness and the pain. A thin keening sound erupted from him as his heart tried to claw up his throat. He thrashed in the covers that seemed to be choking him. Why couldn't he get free? Why was he here again? Hadn't he escaped? Couldn't he ever escape?

The canopy was drawn back with a sudden wave of light and Harry recoiled from that silver-haired figure.

"Harry-"

Draco tried to reach out to the boy but the Gryffindor was too confined by his haunting dreams. He cried harshly, "Get away from me, Malfoy!"

The Slytherin drew his hand back as he watched the boy in mild confusion. Harry sat there shaking and breathing irregularly, and Draco pulled back more of the canopy, letting the light pour in on the scared boy. It seemed to calm him, and Draco took the chance to sit on the edge of the bed. Only then did Harry seem to actually realize Malfoy's presence.

The blonde was sitting still and silent, as he waited for some signal from his boyfriend. The Gryffindor realized what he had said and he held out his hand in offering, saying, "I'm sorry, Draco. Old habits die hard, I guess." Draco accepted his hand and his apology, but he still seemed distracted by something. There was some hum of tension between them and Harry asked nervously, "What time is it?"

Draco continued to watch him in that unnerving, measuring way he had. His tone was neutral as he said, "Just past seven. You fell asleep, so I thought I'd let you rest a bit before kicking you out."

A faint smile at that, then Harry started to shuffle up and mumbled, "Well, I probably should be going. We've both got a lot of revision to do."

Draco nodded but didn't get up when Harry left. He watched the boy walk away through the enchanted stone wall, pondering this disturbing new development. Maybe Harry didn't trust him as much as he'd thought. Would he even accept the gift from Draco, or would he be suspicious that it might be a portkey or cursed? Can this really work? There are too many variables - there should never be more than one unknown in a plan.

All his elaborate plans and schemes could all fall apart, because they were too dependent on other people's actions. Would Harry accept the gift? Would he really have the portkey on him when it was supposed to be activated? Would he submit to the Dark lord? Would Voldemort really trust Draco? Everything would hinge on those few moments when the portkey was activated and Harry was sent unknowingly to his greatest enemy.

HARRY WAS ALSO QUESTIONING HIMSELF and his actions, though for different reasons. Returning to his common room, Ron and Hermione didn't even bother him about Malfoy when they saw how troubled he looked. They were sitting their regular table, studying. More accurately, Ron was staring at his book in a way that made others around them wonder if the sixth year could sleep with his eyes open and Hermione was augmenting her dutiful revision with shooting concerned looks at Harry. The black-haired boy was flipping through his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook aimlessly, not even noticing what he was looking at.

Now that he had put a label on his relationship with Draco, it made everything seem real. He was Draco Malfoy's boyfriend. Or Draco Malfoy was his boyfriend, accordingly. What the hell did that mean? Hanging out with the boy (and making out with the boy) when no one else knew about it was less real. It was like the dreams that haunted him - as long as no one else knew about them, they weren't so undeniable in the light of day and what they implied about his state of mind wasn't quite as intimidating. But now he and Draco were in an official relationship, and what was more, Hermione and Ron both knew about it.

What did this mean for the future? Harry wasn't even sure that he and Malfoy could get along for more than a couple days, or if they would just end up killing each other. Then he realized that he and Malfoy had been friends (and whatever they had been) for over two months. And they hadn't actually fought in all that time. Well, they had beaten each other bloody and they insulted each other to no end. But they didn't really fight about their beliefs or the war or Voldemort. Surprisingly, they seemed to agree on quite a lot and Harry was always eager to hear Draco's opinion, so different from anyone else that Harry knew.

So if they continued to not maim or kill one another, what would that make them? Harry thought miserably, I'm way too young to be thinking about some kind of future, especially when it's with someone like Malfoy. But... would he want a future that Draco was a part of? He was scared when he knew that he could.

Assuming that the spree of not-killing continued, it was little a year more until Harry and his friends would graduate - so what happened after Hogwarts? If the war was still on after they graduated, Harry wasn't sure if he'd be able to see Draco at all. Even if the war was over, and real life finally began, would they always have to be a secret? (Not that he would blame Draco if the boy wanted to keep it a secret, not once he'd heard Hermione's lecture about homophobia in the Wizarding world.)

Trying to focus on the book in front of him, Harry shook his head in disgust at his own thoughts. What was he thinking about - the future? He was young; no need to be thinking life and death here, no concrete commitments. But then again, Harry wasn't just normal and everything had to be relatively life and death for him, especially when he was dating someone who lived on the other side. If he were normal, there wouldn't have been this confusion. Yeah, he would still have faced opposition for liking a boy, but none of this born-enemies, destined-to-fight shit. They could have been just two stupid boys who liked each other, not two heirs who were betraying everything they stood for just to be together.

Maybe he's just betraying you.

Harry twitched at the unwelcome idea, as if someone had pressed a life wire to his skin. He tried to snatch it back, but he couldn't unthink this one sinister thought. The suspicions started to build in his heart, without his volition. Did he know that Malfoy wasn't betraying him? They hadn't really talked about Draco's position at all, not since that first shocking night when the boy had showed up in the D.A.. It used to be that Harry would pester him from time to time; trying to make Draco take a definite stance, but even that had ceased when Harry had been told that Voldemort didn't want the boy and the Slytherins hadn't wanted him either. He'd assumed that made the boy safe - but it did not guarantee that Draco didn't still want to join the Dark, just because the Dark didn't want him.

Now that he struggled against his doubt, he couldn't remember ever seeing the Slytherin in short sleeves. He couldn't bring to mind any image of those surely white forearms, nothing above the thin, sharp wrists that lead to long, graceful hands. He tried to shut up all his polluting thoughts, shutting them away inside himself where he wouldn't have to examine them again. But he could shut off the niggling little voice that was even now asking him, But have you ever checked his arms? Have you ever even checked, Harry Potter?

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE WAS WAITING IN his round office, ignoring the chatter of the portraits that covered the domed walls and ceiling. He was expecting the young Malfoy heir, having sent a note to the boy that morning to summon him to the headmaster's office. The Slytherin boy was only one of the things that bothering Albus in regards to Harry Potter. The true irritant to the old man was his own relationship with the unwilling young hero.

The headmaster felt a great aching pain when he thought of how much the Gryffindor had come to resent him. For the last four years of Harry's schooling, Albus had truly viewed the boy as he might a beloved grandson. He had loved and admired the boy, feeling a surge of pride every time he saw James' and Lily's son. He had been unsure of his decision to leave Harry with his Muggle relatives, but had been gratified when he saw how well the boy had been raised in their care. He would just have to persevere once again. Just as he had then, he would have to make the best decisions for Harry, even if the boy didn't see it as such himself.

A sudden silence fell as the past headmasters and headmistresses felt an approaching visitor. Dumbledore looked up expectantly as the Malfoy boy walked into his sanctuary. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, smiling as he welcomed the blonde. "Ah, Mr Malfoy, I'm so glad that you could make it this evening." Draco shot him a faintly disbelieving look as he sat himself before the impressive oak desk. It was his fourth time in Dumbledore's office this year, surely a new record for him. He wasn't sure just what was wanted of him now, but he could guess that the old man had some questions about Harry's recent behaviour.

"As always, I'm thrilled by your interest in me." He thought he had kept his voice from being too dry, but Dumbledore's glare told him otherwise.

The old man watched with eyes like blue flame, the cold heart of fire, "And I am touched by your sincerity, as usual, Mr Malfoy. However, I did not ask you here tonight to discuss your manners - or lack thereof."

Draco leaned back in his chair, his jaw tilted up confidently as he watched the professor through hooded eyes, "Then why, pray tell, did you ask me here?"

Not bothering to dance around the issue as he might have with one of his students, the ones that truly belonged to him and believed in him, Dumbledore spoke flatly, "To be blunt, Mr Malfoy, I am concerned about your influence on Harry Potter. I have heard from a number of sources that the two of you are spending unseemly amounts of time together. It has also been impossible to ignore the way you share meals in the Great Hall. I am concerned about just why you are spending so much time with Harry, your reasons for befriending him. I will not have you pouring poison in him when he is so fragile, when he hasn't yet found himself."

Draco stared him full in the eye as he quoted, "'When they say that some young man has not yet "found himself," they are really saying that he has not lost himself as they.'"

He broke off, his unspoken words hanging in the air between them. Yet Dumbledore was as classically educated as the Malfoy heir and knew well enough those long-ago penned words of Thomas Wolfe, which he could not stop from echoing unbidden through his mind:

For men will often say that they have "found themselves" when they have really been worn down into a groove by the brutal and compulsive force of circumstance. They speak of their life's salvation when all they have done is blindly follow through an accidental way. They have forgotten their life's purpose, and all the faith, hope, and immortal confidence of a boy. They have forgotten that below all the apparent waste, loss, chaos of a young man's life there is really a central purpose and a single faith...

"'...which they themselves have lost," Draco finished the quote, as if he had heard it running through the old man's mind.

Dumbledore's eyes were furious as he watched the cocky young Slytherin over the top of his glasses. He dismissed the boy abruptly, saying, "I hope that you know what you're doing, Mr Malfoy. For your sake."

The icy blonde smiled, though Dumbledore could only speculate what caused that cold expression, and told him as he left, "Here's to hoping."

HARRY WAS SNEAKING DOWN TO the dungeons at nearly half-two in the morning. He felt silly and unreasonable, but not nearly enough so to prevent him from going. Where was he going? Well, he was headed for Draco's room down under the Dark Forest. To sneak up on his boyfriend, because he couldn't quell the doubt that was keeping him up tossing and turning. And he couldn't just leave it alone.

He held the Marauder's Map in one hand and a handful of heatless bluebell flames in the other. If he'd had his Invisibility cloak, he probably would have felt more secure, but the Map would allow him to escape notice just as effectively. The flames were the same as those that Hermione had long been in the habit of using, although he'd had to modify the charm a bit to cast it without a wand. Thinking of his practical, determined friend helped his resolve. She would never leave her questions unanswered; if Hermione was all about one thing, it was thorough research and understanding.

The blue fire cast a dim, stygian glow, the eerie light spilling down the hall and only hinting at the doorways and decorations that loomed out of the gloom. It reminded him of the Department of Mysteries and that atmosphere certainly wasn't helping Harry to ignore all his fears. He watched the Map carefully in the flickering light, but the halls were deserted. Even Filch seemed to be abed. Draco was in his room (or, in the blank space of the map where his room ought to be) and didn't appear to be moving.

It was two-thirty in the morning now. Draco was certainly ambitious and spent a lot of time studying, but Harry felt confident that even the Slytherin had probably retired for the night. Not so confident that he wasn't sneaking silently to the tapestry-hidden passage, though. He pushed the door open with a soft breath of power. The room beyond was dark, except for the faint moonlight that was streaming through the false windows. Harry stepped into the room, bringing his hand of fire with him. The door silently slid home.

He could see no movement from the bed as he set the map down on the polished black desk. Harry made almost no noise as he padded across the room; he was wearing just his striped Gryffindor pyjamas, with no shoes to scrape across the untrustworthy stone. His breath stopped, though his heart was pounding even harder in response. Approaching the bed, Harry saw his boyfriend sleeping in the dark.

Draco was lying on his side, facing Harry and the edge of the bed. His silvery fair hair looked white in the cool light - the waves that decorated the pillow and the arching brows appearing shockingly pale next to the down-swept dark lashes, which cast long shadows on his high cheekbones. Of course the boy wouldn't be wearing regular school-issue pyjamas, but seemed to be wearing black silk that pooled around his slender body. Along with the dark bedclothes, the effect was even more unreal: all that luminous skin nestled in a cocoon of black, like the moon peeking out of a cloudy velvet night.

The Gryffindor was distracted from his purpose as he let his gaze rake over the sleeping boy. Draco looked younger at rest than he ever did awake. No matter how relaxed and open he might act around Harry, it was nothing compared to this slack, innocent face that no one was supposed to see. Harry noticed the movement under those papery lids and wondered if Draco was dreaming. Exhaling heavily, the Slytherin shifted and rolled further onto his back, his arm still flung across his body.

Harry edged onto the bed next to Draco. Unable to resist, he sifted his fingers through the silvery strands that clung to the pillow, marvelling at that almost liquid fineness of the blonde's hair. After watching Draco's slim chest rise under the weight of his shallow breaths, Harry couldn't seem to help dragging his thumb across the giving lips. The Slytherin sighed and the feeling of that breath ruffling over his hand sent chills down Harry's spine. He realized that he had been distracted again and this was his only chance. Whether he was right or wrong, Draco would be furious.

He set his little bundle of bluebell flames down on the bedside table and then lightly took a hold of Draco's left wrist. He had stopped breathing again and he watched his other hand move to push up the dark sleeve of the pyjama top. His movements seemed ponderous and heavy, as if he were moving underwater. The flickering blue light, like that at the bottom of the lake, brought back the jeering of the merpeople - when a hand clamped around his wrist. But this hand wasn't grey and rough. It was as cool and as ungiving as marble.

His eyes flew upward to Draco's face and when he saw those silvery grey eyes watching him, merciless and empty, he knew he'd been wrong. Not about his doubts, but about thinking that Draco would be furious. He wouldn't just be furious; he would hate Harry forever. It wouldn't matter who was right.

Harry saw that knowledge in the Slytherin's eyes and felt as if he were suffocating. "I have to know," he whispered and before Draco could react, he shoved up that silk sleeve which flowed like dark water; a sinister curtain revealing what Harry had most dreaded. Because branded into that perfect Malfoy skin was Voldemort's mark.