Checkmate

This is an all too familiar scene
Hopeless reflections of what might have been
From all sides the incessant and burning question:

"Bearing in mind your predicament now -
- what you did then -
- we're just dying to know would you do it all again?"

But they know full well
It's not hard to tell
Though my heart is breaking
I'd give the world for that moment with you
When we thought we knew
That our love would last
But the moment passed
With no warning, far too fast

Lyrics from "You and I" from Chess by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * *

Beyond the pain, there was green all around him, vivid emerald and jade and viridian, a dizzying swirl of color that gradually shaped and settled into leaves and vines, and towering, overarching walls of forest. Vines pinioned his legs where he knelt, vines encircled his hands and wrists, holding him tightly bound, tethered to the forest floor, immobile. Raindrops, warm and heavy, dripped from leaf-tips, trickled over his shoulders and down his bare chest to mingle with the blood that ran in dark rivulets from the deep wound in his chest. He turned his face up and closed his eyes, letting the droplets roll down his face like tears.

He remembered this place . . . remembered the fear . . . remembered the inescapable, ruthless lancing of his heart with an ivory horn that burned like fire and was as cold as ice, and he knew again the agony of that cruel piercing.

The pain was everything now. Radiating out from the wound in his chest, it seared his throat, ran in excruciating waves along his spine and trembled with a pulsing ache behind his eyes and under his fingernails. Intense and brutal, it consumed him.

Hushed, urgent voices whispered all around him, but were far outside his understanding, fading away into some remote distance.

Except for one.

Why should you live? asked the memory of a soft, insistent voice in his mind and the weeping forest seemed to echo. . . . Live. . . .

But the question had no answer, no meaning for him now . . . nothing mattered anymore. Pain possessed him, filled him, tore at him with no mercy. He could no longer fight and yet was held captive beyond endurance.

"Let me go . . ." he whispered, a dry sound, bare as bone. "Let me go. . . ."

* * *

Harry lay on a bed in the hospital wing, dry-eyed and spent, staring at the ceiling, listening intently and clinging desperately to his awareness of that one fragile connection he held on to - for as long as he held it, he could still hope. The ordeal of getting Draco back to Hogwarts had exhausted him, both emotionally and physically. He felt weak and shattered, hollow inside - had felt so, if he thought about it, since Lucius had cast the Killing Curse. Madam Pomfrey, in her rush to treat Draco, had taken only a glance at Harry's shocked, ashen face, but had thrust a chocolate bar into his hands and ordered him to lie down. He'd eaten half of the chocolate in a mechanical daze and then had dropped wearily onto the bed opposite Draco's. Time had passed agonizingly slowly. All he could do was lie there and wait, stunned and anxious, as from behind the curtained screens drawn tightly around Draco's bed, he could hear Madam Pomfrey talking in low, distressed whispers to Dumbledore.

When a house-elf appeared with a dinner tray, Harry found that he was famished and yet could scarcely bear to eat. Sitting up made him dizzy; the chicken tasted like cardboard, the potatoes like sawdust. He tried to eat anyway and managed to get a little of the food down, along with the rest of the chocolate bar, knowing that he had to keep up his own strength if he was to help Draco. For a short time, he did feel a little stronger, but it wasn't long before fatigue crept up on him again.

Many burning, unanswered questions raced through his mind while he lay waiting as what seemed like hours passed. Everything at the Portkey hub had happened so fast. In one moment, he and Draco had been united, exulting in certain victory, and the in next instant, everything had been shattered beyond belief. A terrible anger, too, simmered just below the surface of his thoughts. He mourned deeply for the loss of the Ti'kira binding; its absence now felt like a great emptiness inside him that could never be filled again. But he had to try to ignore all of that. Nothing mattered except the tenuous connection that fluttered, frail as a moth wing, within him.

It was all he had left of the vibrant magical connections he'd shared with Draco and every ounce of his energy went into saving this last very precious link he still held. He held it in his mind as if he cupped it tenderly in his hands, gently captured and protected, sustaining it only by the exertion of his own determined will to keep it safe, and the effort exhausted him faster than he could gain his own strength back. He began to fear that he was rapidly becoming too weak to hold on; the same blackness that had enveloped him at the Portkey hub seemed poised to overwhelm him again. If he fainted and involuntarily let that precious link slip away . . .

Fighting panic at the thought, Harry closed his eyes and focused on that fragile connection as intently as he could. He had to stay strong. He would not let go.

Whispering every strengthening spell he knew, Harry battled against his failing energy. From across the room, he heard the murmur of Madam Pomfrey casting spells and the baritone rumble of Dumbledore's voice joining with hers. It seemed to Harry as if an eternity stretched out during the next few minutes; the strain seemed endless. Madam Pomfrey was speaking louder, urgently, and then Harry heard a terrifying muffled choking sound.

Oh God . . .

Struggling to sit up, Harry braced himself against the head of the bed and stared, riveted and tense, across the room at the screens concealing Draco's bed. The sudden silence was horrible . . . and seemed to go on forever. . . . Then, as if with the drawing of a deep breath, there was an easing, and Harry felt the drain on his strength lessen. He closed his eyes, feeling lightheaded and shaken, not knowing what it meant.

Dumbledore stepped out from behind the curtains, and his eyes met Harry's. The light blue eyes were sad, strained, apologetic.

"I'm very sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, when he had reached the side of Harry's bed. "Madam Pomfrey has done everything she can, but . . ."

Harry came to his feet somehow, though his legs felt insubstantial and unsteady beneath him. "Is he - " He couldn't say it, and it couldn't be true. He still felt that faint heartbeat. . . .

Dumbledore shook head. "He's still with us, Harry . . . but only barely. Madam Pomfrey was finally able to get him to swallow a very strong Reviving Potion, and that has stabilized him a little. We can't know how long it will last, though," he said grimly. He paused and met Harry's eyes with sincere regret. "Harry, I'm sorry . . . we were all so focused on keeping you safe. We should have protected him better."

"Yes," said Harry tersely. "You should have." He couldn't keep the biting, accusatory tone from his voice as the devastating picture of Draco lying alone and abandoned in the snow rose up in his memory. And with that memory came the angry, wrenching questions that had been tearing him up since they'd brought Draco to the hospital wing. He'd tried not to think about the implications of the presence of the Aurors in the clearing, but . . . "You were in on it with him, weren't you?" he asked in a low, furious voice. "You knew what he was doing! How could you let him risk his life like that?"

"No," said Dumbledore sadly. "I didn't know. Draco made sure of that," he added in a quiet, aggrieved tone. "He sent me an owl with an explanation and an urgent request for help . . . but only at the last minute. I suspected he was in trouble when he brought me that ring you're wearing before he went home, and luckily, I decided to take some precautions then. I asked some of the Aurors we can trust, who don't share Fudge's blindness to Lucius Malfoy's suspected alliances, to stand guard at the Portkey hub, just in case. When I got Draco's letter, I immediately alerted Arthur and Alastor Moody, too, but the three of us barely got there in time."

"You still could have stopped it," protested Harry. "We had our brooms. We had plenty of time to get away before Lucius Malfoy appeared - if I'd been warned . . ."

"This is war," said Dumbledore gently but firmly. "Draco told me in his letter that he knew what he was doing and would not be in danger, although he also assured me that he was willing to take whatever risks were involved to stop his father and expose the Death Eaters. His main concern was for you - that we keep you safe." Dumbledore paused. "We needed this break, Harry. Desperately. And when Draco told me you had the ring that I myself had counter-spelled and that he had put a very strong advanced Hex Repellant spell on, I knew you would be safe from the Imperius Curse. I felt we should trust Draco and let him prove beyond a doubt which side he was on. The plan was brilliant in its conception. His father was the key to the rest of the Death Eaters and no one had been able to get near him before. But I'm afraid that in spite of warning you not to underestimate Lucius Malfoy, that is exactly what I did. We should have disarmed him immediately. I just didn't believe Lucius would actually attempt to . . . kill . . . his own son."

"I think Draco knew," said Harry bitterly, remembering the way Draco had faced his father at the end, chin up, waiting for the curse, unsurprised. "No matter what he told you."

"I expect he did," said Dumbledore with a troubled sigh. "And I have no explanation for how he survived that curse . . . except we found he was wearing this." The headmaster held out his hand toward Harry. On his palm lay a tangled silver chain, a burned, twisted ruin of silver wires and broken crystal and a fractured, blackened stone. "It appears that the curse hit this directly and so perhaps its power was partially deflected, but I don't see how it could have been enough to save his life."

Harry groaned and sank down to sit on the bed at the sight of the ruined pendant. "I gave him that," he said in a barely audible voice. "For Christmas. Just before he left." He reached out and carefully took the once beautiful necklace from Dumbledore, held it cradled in his own palm for a long moment, then laid it gently on the table by the bed. It seemed a symbol of everything that had been destroyed that day. "You were right," he said softly to Dumbledore, "that day in your office - about him being able to hurt me so much more this way than before. He said he loved me and I trusted him . . . and now . . ." Harry's voice broke and he sat in silence for several seconds, staring at the necklace. "He lied and . . . he used me. Now . . . I don't know what to believe."

"There is a great deal that he needs to explain," said Dumbledore, "and it is my deepest wish right now that he will be able to do so. Madam Pomfrey is doing everything she can to keep him with us. But I think you can believe that he did indeed love you very much. He was willing to die to help us win this war . . . and to protect you."

Harry turned away, anger surfacing again . . . and the threat of tears. He bit his lower lip to stop it trembling and said nothing.

"Since Arthur Weasley was there," said Dumbledore after a short silence, "I suspect your friends will hear what has happened and want to come back early from their holiday to be with you."

Harry stared blindly at the floor, struggling to get his emotions under control. "No," he said finally. "I . . . I don't want anyone. Not yet." He looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes resolutely. "I just want to see Draco now, please."

Dumbledore studied Harry's very pale face. Harry looked exhausted and strained, a fact which made Dumbledore recall his previous private suspicions with some concern. He thought Harry should be lying down, but he saw the worry and determination in Harry's eyes, and nodded. "I'll tell Madam Pomfrey that you may sit with him for a time so that she can attend to refilling her medicines," he said, also resolving to tell Madam Pomfrey to keep a close eye on him. "But then you must rest, Harry."

Harry didn't argue, though he knew he'd never be able to rest until he was sure Draco was going to be okay. He walked with Dumbledore to Draco's bed and waited tensely while the headmaster pushed one of the screens aside and spoke to Madam Pomfrey. Harry could see Draco's clothes lying discarded haphazardly on a chair next to the bed, the black wool cloak, the pretty gray sweater, the toe of one of Draco's favorite pair of boots showing beneath an edge of the cloak that trailed onto the floor. A lump filled Harry's throat with ache, and a sudden wash of anguish, of desire, and an acute consciousness of the empty space against his chest and his desperate need for Draco to fill that space flooded through him, followed swiftly by a chilling rush of fear that he would never hold Draco again. He closed his eyes for a second and swallowed hard, willing himself to be calm.

Dumbledore stepped back. "I'll be in my office, Harry," he said in a low voice. "There are people I must contact who need to know what happened this afternoon. Poppy will let me know if I'm needed," he added, and with a solemn nod, started toward the door.

Harry didn't watch him leave, but immediately stepped inside the screens. Madam Pomfrey was bent over the bed, her wand in hand, finishing the chanting of a spell.

"I've just put a Summoning Charm on him," she said wearily, turning to face Harry. "It will alert me instantly if his condition changes." She took one practiced look at Harry and picked up a cup with a small amount of potion left in it from the bedside table. "This is the Reviving Potion I gave Mr. Malfoy," she said. "I had to use a Swallowing Spell to get it down him since he's still unconscious, but even with that, he started choking and I couldn't get him to drink it all." She handed the cup to Harry. "I want you to drink the rest, Harry," she said, studying his face with puzzled concern. "You look almost as pale as he does."

Harry took the cup and drank it. It tasted vile, but made him feel a little better almost instantly. Then Madam Pomfrey stepped slightly away from the bed and Harry saw Draco for the first time since he'd been brought to the hospital wing. She started speaking again, giving Harry the details of the spells she had used on Draco and the reason why she'd used them. She was teaching him even now, Harry realized, and then he understood that she didn't know the real reason why he was there. She had assumed he had stayed to help because he was her student, because he was in training to be a mediwizard himself and this was an emergency. He listened carefully to all of her instructions, but he could not take his eyes from Draco's face.

There was no color in that face at all except for pale blue smudges under his eyes. Even his lips were colorless, nearly gray. Harry's heart constricted painfully. All of the anger he had expected to feel when he saw Draco again had evaporated at the sight of Draco's lifeless face.

"That potion will wear off in a few hours," continued Madam Pomfrey as she gathered Draco's clothes from the chair. "I don't know if he will remain somewhat stable like this when that happens or if he'll be in crisis again." She paused and straightened up, her arms full of Draco's things. "Harry, the truth is, even with everything I did, even with the Reviving Potion, he is still dying. Just much more slowly than before. And I don't know . . ."

Her voice trailed off and Harry looked at her then. Her face was somber, clouded with uncertainty and grave apprehension.

"I don't know if there is anything we can do to save him," she said softly. "I'm afraid all we are doing is prolonging the inevitable. It's a complete mystery that he's alive at all."

Harry looked away before the crushing blow of her words could show in his eyes. "But . . . we'll keep trying, won't we?" he asked, his voice muted with emotion.

"Yes, of course we will. You know I would never give up on him," she answered reassuringly. "I'm going to go down to the Potions lab now and mix up a large batch of the Reviving Potion to have on hand. It will take a little time but it seems to be what has helped him the most."

Harry nodded, his gaze fixed again on Draco's ashen face. "I'll stay and keep watch," he said, sitting slowly down in the chair beside the bed. He felt numb all over and didn't see the questioning and worried look Madam Pomfrey gave him.

"Harry," she started, her tone gentle but chiding, "you look done in yourself. I think it would be best if you lie down . . ."

She didn't press the matter when Harry mutely shook his head. He was slumped down in the chair staring intently at Draco Malfoy in a way that completely perplexed her. What had happened out there this afternoon? According to Dumbledore, Harry hadn't been injured in any way. Then why did he look so drained and pale? She wondered if perhaps he was feeling responsible for Malfoy's injury. That would be like Harry, though Dumbledore, in the little he had explained, had made it clear that Harry had been an unwitting participant in Malfoy's scheme. Still, that didn't quite explain Harry's despondent behavior or why he continued to look ill when there was nothing overtly wrong with him. It was all a great puzzle. She would certainly follow Dumbledore's suggestion and keep a watchful eye on him as well as Malfoy.

But since he was determined to stay with Malfoy, she thought, at least he could be learning something and being helpful instead of sitting and fretting uselessly. "I've been examining Mr. Malfoy with the Aurascope, Harry," she said, nodding toward the small instrument on the bedside table that resembled a pair of Omnioculars. "If you're going to sit with him, I'd like you to continue to monitor his condition with it. He has only a small physical wound, but you can see the . . . real damage . . . quite clearly with the Aurascope. I'd appreciate a second opinion once you've seen it." She paused, not at all sure Harry had been listening, but then he turned to look at her, the first spark of interest in his eyes that she'd seen all afternoon.

"Okay," he said quietly and she smiled tiredly at him.

Harry waited until Madam Pomfrey had left the hospital wing before he moved. He was finally alone and able to do what he had been desperately wanting and needing to do since the moment he'd given Draco over to the nurse's care - to touch him again. Kneeling beside the bed, he carefully smoothed a stray lock of Draco's hair down behind his ear and then took Draco's left hand in both of his own.

He cradled Draco's hand gently, and for a moment was captivated as always by its slim beauty, but the sight of the pale graceful fingers that now curled in toward the palm, limp and unmoving, quickly filled him with an almost overwhelming ache of longing. The touch of Draco's hands was unique and irreplaceable - no one would ever touch him the way Draco had. This touch alone had carried him to places of deep calm and to dizzying heights of pleasure - places where the worries that beset him at all other times could not find him. He remembered, too, as he lovingly stroked the satiny soft skin of Draco's inner wrist, how Draco had responded to his own touch - it had been so entrancing, so incredibly moving to watch, and Harry had no words for the profound sense of joy it had given him.

"Don't you dare die on me," he whispered in a broken voice. "Draco, do you hear? You have to live. You have to. . . ."

There was no response. Draco lay as if already dead. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed - the only indication that he still lived - was itself nearly imperceptible. Harry closed his eyes, his head bowed down, intensely bereft, fearing with a sinking, hollow pain of grief and misery in his chest what he wanted so much to deny - that Draco had gone too far away, far beyond the reach of words, beyond the reach of his touch.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. Why did you do this? he wanted to cry out. He searched back through his memories of the events at the Portkey hub, hoping to remember something that would help him understand. Flashes of memory came to him, all confused and out of order - Draco lying in the snow, the awful green light of the Killing Curse, the wrenching, unexpected end of the chess game, the sudden appearance of the Aurors, Lucius Malfoy's livid face and Draco's terrible, calm surrender. But nothing really helped. Maybe if he started at the beginning, from the time he met Draco and worked through the sequence of events that way . . .

He remembered first how he'd flown over the Portkey hub and how excited he had been to see Draco again; he remembered how Draco had kissed him so fervently but then had inexplicably apologized. Thinking back on that, Harry understood the apology now and, with an effort, pushed that memory to the back of his mind. If he thought about it now, it would just make him angry and now wasn't the time. He remembered next that Draco had pushed a piece of paper into his hand -

Oh God! Harry stood up, shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out Draco's letter. He'd completely forgotten about it. With shaking hands he unfolded the parchment. It had been folded over and over many times, so it took him a long moment to get it open. Then with both anticipation and apprehension in his heart, he sat down in the chair and read:

Dearest Harry,

I hope with all my heart as I write this that you will never see it. But if you are reading it now, then my worst fears have come true and I am no longer with you. I am so sorry, Harry, for so many things.

I hope you can forgive me for leaving you. I never meant to hurt you - I never thought, when I first made the plan to have my father arrested, that you would ever love me back. I honestly didn't think that you would care what happened to me. I only wanted to get you to trust me, to be willing to meet me - I thought all you would want from me would be information.

But after you kissed me, I wanted you to love me more than anything - and I didn't think how much I might hurt you until you told me about that girl. By then, I knew you did love me and it was too late. I tried not to think about dying, about never being with you again, but it was tearing me up to know that that was what would probably happen and that you might hate me when it was over. Harry, please try to understand. Please don't hate me for wanting you to love me, for wanting to be with you, even when I knew it would end. What I did, I had to do, no matter what the risk to myself. I was the only one who could get inside my father's defenses - he trusted no one, but in his arrogance, he never suspected I would actually betray him.

So I hope, too, if you are reading this, that you are safe and my father has been stopped. If I succeeded in having my father arrested, the Death Eaters will be exposed and Voldemort's support will be greatly weakened. You won't have to fight them and my death will have served a purpose. I always knew my death was inevitable - my father would have killed me eventually, because I would have denied him the loyalty he demanded and refused to help him give you to the Dark Lord. But my worst fear was that he would somehow force me to do it anyway. I could not have lived with the knowledge that my father had hurt you, or worse, used me to hurt you. But oh God, Harry, tonight he is forcing me to take the vows to become a Death Eater and I can't live with that either. He'll have to kill me after I betray those vows and I don't intend to prevent it. I can't, but at least this way, I will have ended it on my own terms.

You told me that no matter what happened, you wouldn't regret that we made love. I hope that was true, but I also hope that you won't regret any of our time together. My only regret is that it had to end so soon. God, Harry, I did so want the life we could have had together.

I'm leaving everything in my room at Hogwarts to you, especially the chess set. I want you to keep it, to remember me. Tell Pansy I'm sorry, too. She was on our side in the end.

Please remember that I loved you.

Yours forever,

Draco

Harry read the letter through, then pulled off his glasses and wiped away the tears that had poured down his face while he read. Closing his eyes to hold back the threat of more tears, he tried to make sense of the myriad emotions he felt. He was deeply angered and hurt by what Draco had done and also touched to the heart in a way that was physically painful, as if his heart might truly break in two.

How could you think I wouldn't care what happened to you . . . or that I would hate you? he asked Draco silently. Even if we'd never been friends . . . I would have cared if you died like this, fighting the Death Eaters . . . defending me.

He wanted to both yell at Draco and gather him in his arms and never let go.

It hurt him to know that all the time they had been together, Draco had known he might die. It hurt him bitterly, too, to know that Draco hadn't trusted him to know what he was planning. In all honesty, Harry admitted to himself, he would never have agreed to go along with it, but still, he felt terrible knowing that Draco had suffered through it all alone. And he was furiously angry that Draco had been so careless with his life. If he'd only asked for help, surely a plan could have been devised that didn't involve such a foolish, needless risk.

Wiping away the tears that had trickled from beneath his lashes, then putting his glasses back on, Harry read the letter through a second time. He came back to reread the sentence, "I also hope that you won't regret any of our time together. My only regret is that it had to end so soon," then sat motionless for a long moment before slowly refolding the letter and tucking it into his shirt pocket. He had known how tentative everything about their future was. But somehow the risk had seemed far away, certainly not this immediate, and he ached for how Draco must have felt to know it was so close.

Harry clearly remembered the words he had spoken the day before Draco left. "Don't you know that if anything happened to you now, what I would regret for the rest of my life would be the future we never got to have, all the things we never got to do together?" Sitting here now, faced with the very real possibility that Draco might not live through the night, that they might not have any future at all, he found he regretted nothing. He understood completely. If their positions had been reversed, Harry knew he would have done exactly what Draco had done - that he would have wanted every minute they could have together regardless of how or when it would end. Harry knew he would be heartbroken for the future they might never share, and he wasn't sure he'd ever get over the loss, but he'd also been given a great gift and he knew he would never regret a single minute of it.

He felt stronger for knowing that. Looking over at the still form in the bed before him, love flooded through him, comforting him like the soothing touch of a calming spell, and he took a deep breath. No, even if Draco died, he would have no regrets, and yet . . . Draco was irreplaceable in his life. If Draco died, Harry knew he would never love anyone again - not with his whole self - not ever again. He simply could not let Draco die. Madam Pomfrey's words came back to him, her promise that she would not give up on Draco, and his determination and resolve set in. There had to be something they could do - something he could do - and he would certainly never give up.

The door to the hospital wing opened and Madam Pomfrey came back in carrying a pitcher full of Reviving Potion and an extra cup that she set down on the table next to Draco's bed. She studied Harry's face seriously. "I want you to take a full dose of this potion, Harry," she said, pouring a cupful. "I'm beginning to be quite worried about you."

Harry took the cup and sipped at it while Madam Pomfrey poured a second cup to have ready for Draco if it was needed. Even fresh, the potion still tasted dreadful.

"I'm going to try to get some sleep," she said, "before that last dose of the potion wears off Mr. Malfoy. We may be in for a very difficult struggle when that happens, and I want to be rested. The Summoning Charm will wake me if anything changes," she assured him.

Her hand fell lightly on Harry's shoulder. "You should get some sleep too, dear," she added gently. "I'll lay out some pajamas for you on the bed across there."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry, though he knew he couldn't possibly sleep. He didn't tell her his real fear - that if he slept, Draco would die.

For a few minutes she bustled around and then headed for her office, waving her wand to put out all the lamps except the one next to the outer door. "Drink that, Harry," she called just before she closed her office door.

He swallowed the potion as quickly as he could, grimacing at the taste. When he set the cup back on the table, he noticed the Aurascope. Madam Pomfrey had asked him to use it to examine Draco and he hadn't yet, having gotten caught up in reading Draco's letter and his own troubled thoughts and emotions. But now a fresh surge of energy flooded through him as the potion took effect and he remembered that he was also there as a mediwizard, and that he should be doing everything possible to help Madam Pomfrey find a way to heal Draco.

He stood and picked up the Aurascope. He'd been working with this instrument for two months now, studying the intricate patterns of color in the magical aura, but only in theory combined with magical simulations, not with a real patient. Magical auras, usually invisible to the naked eye, were emanations of magical energy that surrounded the body of a wizard. Because color patterns in an individual wizard's aura reflected not only their personality and aptitudes, including the power of their magic, but the state of their physical, mental, and emotional health as well, diagnosis of complicated health problems was often facilitated by examining the aura.

But his studies had not prepared Harry for the horror that met his eyes when he looked through the Aurascope at Draco. The shock nearly made him drop the instrument and he stared unnerved at Draco with his own eyes for a long time before he was able to steel himself to look through the scope again. When he finally did, he was no less appalled, but this time he continued to look and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Draco was covered with lines of green light, the same glowing green light of the Killing Curse. They wrapped around his body and head, covering even his face, and bound him like mesh, like vines, like a smothering, strangling net bent on choking off his magic and squeezing all the life from him. Here and there, a bit of blue-violet showed through, which Harry instinctively recognized as one of the true colors of Draco's magical aura, but those few spots were muddied and dull instead of vibrant and shining as they should be.

But the most horrible thing of all was the dark, gaping hole blasted in the aura over the center of Draco's chest. Oozing from this great wound were rivulets of red, not of blood, but of life energy - energy that was slowly and steadily seeping away into the air, taking Draco's life with it. Harry understood at once why Madam Pomfrey had said Draco was still dying. Draco was steadily slipping away further and further from them every minute.

Harry was about to lower the scope in despair when he noticed something else that came from just to the left of that terrible wound, from over Draco's heart. It was a thin, translucent, gossamer cord that stretched away from Draco's body and as Harry looked closer, he saw it pulsing gently like the beating of a heart. A steady stream of golden sparks flowed down it, like little shining beads sliding down a string, but unlike the red energy that was seeping out, this energy was flowing into Draco. With his breath caught in his throat, Harry followed the cord outward with the Aurascope . . . and almost dropped the instrument a second time. The cord was connected to himself! To just over his own heart! And the golden sparks appeared to coalesce out of his own vibrant blue and green magical aura before being drawn down the cord to Draco.

But that wasn't all. Because Harry had moved the focus of the instrument away from Draco's body toward himself, he could clearly see the outer edges of his own magical aura. These edges, which were normally smooth, and refracted light in shimmering multicolored swirls like rainbows on a soap bubble, were now rough and uneven on one side, almost as if a part had been recently torn away. Harry focused back toward Draco, looking for the edges of Draco's magical aura beyond his, but saw with alarm, that there was no other edge; there were only tattered remnants, like thin, iridescent wisps of fading light that struggled weakly out from between the strangling lines of green. It looked as if part of Draco's aura had been nearly ripped in two.

Harry sat down hard in the chair, shocked and thinking furiously. Ripped auras always indicated a potentially fatal injury. But there was no spell that Harry knew of to make repairs to an aura. Auras reflected the energy and health of the wizard. And it wasn't only Draco's aura that was ripped, Harry's had been too.

Looking through the Aurascope again, Harry closely studied the edges of his own magical aura, reaching his hand out toward one of the rough spots. He had seen his hands before through the instrument, but it always startled him slightly to see them glowing blue-green, with shining turquoise fingertips, each surrounded by a halo of white light. This, Madam Pomfrey had told him, marked him as someone with an innate talent for wandless healing, even more than his top score on the healing classification exam. While he watched, he saw, to his great relief, that the rough places were slowly smoothing over, repairing themselves, most likely, he realized, as the Reviving Potion restored his own strength.

He realized something else then, too. Their magical auras had evidently been joined before the attack and must have been ripped apart by the Killing Curse. Thinking back, Harry remembered that he had been aware that their magic was joined for most of the time they'd been at the Portkey hub. And yet, now that he considered it, he didn't understand how that kind of joining could happen. He had sensed their magical auras merging when they'd been in bed together, but had believed it to be only temporary because of their closeness and the magic he was doing, and even then had wondered at the strange, inexplicable nature of it. But now, evidently their magic was joining regardless of distance or the actual practice of magic.

Suddenly, many things that had been puzzling or unexplained began to make sense - why he'd been able to cast the calming spell on Draco even when they'd been miles apart, why he'd experienced that sensation of ripping and tearing when Draco was hit with the Killing Curse, why he'd felt so drained after the attack . . . and a much more chilling realization - why he'd lost his vision and felt his heart and breathing stop. With an acute sense of renewed horror, Harry realized that he, himself, had possibly also come very close to being killed.

Thinking back to that moment when the Killing Curse had been cast, Harry remembered now that he'd seen a spray of green light shooting away from his hand just before the blackness had overtaken him. He drew in a sharp breath as this memory sent shock waves through him. The curse had hit him too, through his connection with Draco. He raised his left hand and stared at the ring he was wearing. Draco had said he'd put an advanced Hex Repellant spell on it. That would explain why the Imperius Curse had had so little effect and why . . . Harry's heart constricted at the thought . . . why Draco had made him promise not to take it off. Harry felt a flash of guilt at this, remembering that he'd doubted Draco's intentions about that for a moment at the Portkey hub. But maybe the ring had done more than protect him from the Imperius Curse. Perhaps the power of the Killing Curse wouldn't have been strong enough to actually kill Harry, coming as it was second-hand through Draco, but perhaps, too, the ring had drawn away just enough of that power to save Harry's life.

Remembering the sensation he'd had during that moment of blackness, of frantically grasping and holding on to that precious connection he had to Draco as it began to slip away, Harry was filled with wonder and astonishment. Had this connection between them, because Harry lived and was able to use his healing magic in that critical instant, saved Draco's life? Or was it because they had shared the power of the curse between them that Draco had lived? It all seemed so complex - probably, they would never know the real answer, but Harry was overcome with gratitude for whatever had happened that had spared Draco's life. And though Draco had barely survived and it was still uncertain he would recover, at least this had given them some time, and a chance.

He had to let Madam Pomfrey know about this. Perhaps the magical connection between them, if it could be reestablished, could be used somehow to keep Draco from dying. Harry had been planning to tell her about their magical auras joining, and about the sparks he saw when they touched, after the holidays anyway, but now that information seemed vital.

At the thought of the sparks, Harry reached out to touch Draco's hand. Now that the room lights were so low, he could see the tiny golden sparkles clearly as his fingers brushed Draco's skin - and he caught his breath in a short surprised gasp. The sparks were smaller and disappeared quickly, but they were definitely very similar to the little golden beads of light that he'd seen flowing from himself into Draco. That thin cord was somehow important and he didn't understand what it could be . . . and then, it hit him. A magical binding, heart to heart - it could only be the Ti'kira binding. But . . . he had believed it was lost. He hadn't been able to feel it at all since the attack. . . .

He closed his eyes, concentrating, trying now to sense that connection between them, a connection he'd been able to feel quite vividly before . . . and still felt nothing. Or . . . no . . . maybe not nothing, but it wasn't the same. He'd always felt it as an intimate, secret warmth in his heart, an overflowing of love, both from himself to Draco and from Draco to himself, and as a solemn magical vow that joined them together in that love. Now, he felt nothing in return . . . and . . . oh, God . . . of course! The flow of energy he'd seen was only going one way - from himself to Draco - because Draco was unconscious. Harry felt a deep tremor of elation at this. It wasn't lost after all!

Harry stood, looking down at Draco's pallid, still face, his heart beating fast and a lump forming again in his throat. This was the connection he'd managed to hold onto. The one that was so precious to him. The night of the dance came back to him in all its lovely moonlit grace: the glow in Draco's face and eyes, the touch of his hands on Harry's own, so sure and loving as they wove the patterns of the binding magic together, the delightful revelation of the sparks that had surrounded them in a shower of tiny stars, and afterward, the breathless joy of knowing the depth of his commitment to Draco, of knowing it was returned. This connection, this commitment, meant everything to him, and he would not let it go, not ever.

He pulled off his glasses and bent to press his face side to side with Draco's in a careful but tender hug. "I won't let you go," he whispered in Draco's ear. "I promise you that. Even if you . . ." He had to stop and take a breath before he could say it, and a tear slipped down and wet Draco's cheek. "Even if you die, Draco, even then," he went on, "I will not let go. I promised you . . . forever." He brushed his lips against the side of Draco's face in the lightest of kisses, then raised up enough to look down at Draco, and another tear fell like a warm raindrop on Draco's face. "I will keep that promise," whispered Harry. He stood back up, his fingers lightly brushing his tears from Draco's face, knowing that though he meant that promise, he was going to do everything possible to help Madam Pomfrey and make sure he could keep that promise with Draco living.

To do that, he acknowledged now, to be ready for the time, probably much too soon, when the Reviving Potion would wear off Draco and they might have to fight again for his life, he did need to rest. In one sense, he felt much better than when he'd first come to sit with Draco. The Reviving Potion had helped him a great deal and he no longer felt ill and drained. He was sure, by his inner feelings, that the damage to his magical aura had healed, and his magical strength was quickly recovering. Still, the emotional and physical strain of the day had worn him out. He wouldn't be able to sleep - he was too keyed up and worried for that, but he knew he should follow Madam Pomfrey's example and rest now while he could.

He left his glasses on Draco's bedside table - he didn't need them to cross the darkened room and change into the pajamas Madam Pomfrey had laid out for him. He didn't need them to climb into the bed across from Draco and lie with his eyes closed and his arms folded over his chest, thinking. He'd known he wouldn't sleep, but he found he couldn't really rest either. His own breathing and heartbeat sounded far too loud in his ears as he strained to listen for any sound, for any small warning that might tell him that Draco's condition was changing. The memories of the events at the Portkey hub flashed and replayed disturbingly behind his closed eyelids.

But most of all, he felt alone. And worse, Draco was alone. The fear of being alone was something they had shared and understood in each other, and the memory of Draco, alone and deserted, abandoned to die in the snow at the Portkey hub hurt him deeply, would not let him rest. What if Draco died now, without any warning? Harry had seen that life-energy seeping out - what if Draco simply slipped farther and farther away from them until he silently slipped completely out of life entirely? The thought was more than Harry could bear. He could not let Draco die alone. And he could not let Draco die and never have the chance to hold him in his arms again. The consideration of what Madam Pomfrey might think of that crossed his mind with no more substance than a flitting shadow, and he got up.

The floor was chilly on his bare feet as he tiptoed back across the room to Draco's bed and pulled the screen closed behind him. Skirting around the edge of the bed at the foot, Harry got in under the blankets on the far side to lie next to Draco. Very carefully, very slowly, he eased one arm under Draco's shoulders and shifted himself so that he was lying on his side with his arms around Draco. Gradually, he let the tension out of his body, let his head rest more comfortably on the pillow, closed his eyes, and released the breath he'd been unconsciously holding.

For the first time Harry could remember, Draco felt cold in his arms. The boy whose hands and feet and touch and kisses had always been so warm on Harry's skin, now needed Harry's warmth, and Harry was glad to give it. Remembering, with a pang of longing, the first night they'd slept together and how Draco had let Harry warm his cold feet on him, Harry did the same, pressing his feet against Draco's, hoping that the warmth he had to offer was enough. He shifted slightly closer, gathering Draco as gently as possible to him, to hold him, perhaps for the last time, and tried to relax.

It was hard not to ache at the absence of arms that didn't come around him in return, hard not to desperately miss the way Draco had responded to him with kisses and teasing smiles. Harry's heart was still beating fast and he concentrated on slowing that, and on steadying his breathing for a moment, to try to calm himself. He focused his awareness on that other heartbeat too, assuring himself that he still felt it, pulsing so close, like a faint, frail echo of his own heartbeat. With his focus on his heartbeat and his breathing, it was easy and natural for him to fall into the centering ritual for healing magic which he had practiced so many times that it, by itself, had become a source of solace and comfort. It was very settling to let his awareness rest within that calm center of himself and allow the heightened sensibilities he experienced to take his mind off troubling thoughts.

Lying very still, Harry first became aware of how quiet the room was. He could hear only the far-away, intermittent murmur of the wind outside the window at the end of the room, and the faint, barely audible sound of Draco's soft breathing. The silence seemed to envelop him with Draco, wrapping them together as if in a protective cocoon. His awareness altered to include the unseen energies vibrating around him - the potent, contained energy of the Reviving Potion in the pitcher on the table and the subtle presence of magical wards Madam Pomfrey had set for protection around the room, including the Summoning Charm she had cast on Draco.

Letting the ritual take him deeper, Harry turned his awareness inward to the very center of his magic and felt its power gently vibrating within him, pulsing just below his heart, opening to the mental touch of his awareness. He released this power and felt the magic stream throughout his body, to the top of his head and out to his hands, and to his surprise, all the way down to his feet. This made him feel strong and whole again, and yet . . . he found himself, for a half-second, waiting expectantly for the answering response of Draco's magic, a response he'd become so used to that it seemed an integral part of his own magic now. He held his breath almost, wanting so much to hear the low, musical hum that always signaled the joining of their magic, to feel the intimate way they seemed to melt together into one dual self. But there was no response and Harry felt its absence keenly.

With an upwelling of grief, Harry realized what he had unconsciously done, that he was poised on the brink of doing healing magic, but there was nothing he could do. He had learned so many healing spells, some of them quite complicated, but all of them addressed very specific injuries or illnesses. There was nothing he could think of that would even begin to fit Draco's case . . . and besides, Madam Pomfrey had used every spell she could think of. She had told him all she had tried, and nothing had worked. He thought of the calming spell he had done for Draco, which Draco had loved so much, and wondered if that could help Draco at all. Draco might appear to be unconscious and unresponsive, and yet he still might be aware on some level and be in pain or scared. If that spell could reach him, Harry thought, it might help ease him.

Then Harry remembered the flood of love that had come back to him from Draco each time he had done the calming spell, and Harry suddenly knew that even if there was nothing he could do to heal Draco, he could do that. The Ti'kira binding was still intact between them, at least one way, and if there was any part of Draco that was conscious, Harry wanted Draco to know that he was not alone, that he was loved. Harry could at least try to give him that.

Slipping his hand gently under Draco's pajama top, Harry let his hand rest over Draco's heart, his forearm lying lightly, warm on Draco's bare chest and stomach. With his body pressed against Draco's side all down the length of him, he held Draco's feet between his own feet, buried his face against the side of Draco's face, and whispering the words of the calming spell, let the healing magic stream out of him into Draco. Then, searching within himself, he found the Ti'kira binding and visualized all the love he felt for Draco pouring down that thin gossamer cord between them like a river of golden sparks.

"Draco," he said in a hushed, low voice, hugging Draco as tightly as he dared, "you made me promise that whatever happened, I would remember that you love me. Please . . . hear me now. You're not alone. Whatever you did, whatever happens . . . I'll still love you." He paused to take a ragged breath. "I'll always love you," he whispered, sending this thought, this emotion, as hard as he could, willing Draco to hear him . . . willing Draco to feel his love and the calm peacefulness of the spell.

Harry filled his mind with the memory of their shared loving, with the memory of the deep, still, unfathomable peace that had joined them and resonated in waves between them when he'd cast the spell before . . . and something changed. In Harry's state of increased sensitivity, his awareness included all the subtle nuances of energy around him and he felt now the barest touch of something against the fringes of his magical aura. His heart leapt with elation when he recognized that touch as the first feather-light brush of Draco's magic responding to his own. Oh God. Had the calming spell actually reached him? Harry almost wanted to sob with relief.

If that wandless magic had reached Draco when nothing else had, maybe . . . maybe there was something else Harry could do! Always before, he had used a spell to direct the magic - into healing specific things - and there was no spell he knew that would heal Draco now . . . but suddenly Harry remembered what had happened with the snowball. Draco had pointed out that he'd transfigured it without a spell, with just a thought. Could he do that now? Could he send the healing magic into Draco without the direction of a spell, with only a thought or a wish to guide it?

Hope coursed through Harry at the idea. Madam Pomfrey had tried everything else. Harry didn't hesitate. This was perhaps the only hope they had, and he would try anything to save Draco. He felt strong now, energized with this new hope, as he gathered his focus again into the center of his magic and concentrated on Draco.

Immersing himself in the magic, Harry could sense the wrongness that bound Draco - he could feel the strangling, tangled lines of force that imprisoned him and the terrible, gaping wound that wept his life out. Harry laid his hand over this wound, and with all the love in his heart sent the power of his magic into Draco; with every ounce of his strength of mind, he visualized the wound healed, Draco's magic sealed and whole, saw with his wish the blue-violet of Draco's aura restored and shining, the choking green light failing and faded away. He held this image in his mind and projected it through the magic with all his might . . . and felt the stirring, exhilarating rush of Draco's magic responding.

And what Harry wished became truth. Between one moment and the next, the wound was healed. The binding prison of green light vanished.

Harry's magic joined with Draco's and for a dizzying moment they were the same self. Bonds that were severed healed and joined again and there were no boundaries between them; they were well and whole together. Harry felt that wonderful musical vibration surrounding them, weaving them together; he felt Draco's heart beat, matching his own like rhythm and counterpoint, strong again.

"Draco?" he whispered hesitantly, and then caught his breath when a surge of warmth, intimate, loving and so welcome, flooded into his heart and the boy in his arms stirred slightly and sighed. "Draco?" he called softly, but urgently now, as tears of relief filled his eyes. "Draco!"

* * *

Footsteps sounded in the forest, light and subtle, merely a rustle of displaced leaves, but unmistakably coming closer. Draco shivered and strained against the vines that held him. He knew what that meant now; he remembered this, too. Panting, he had no breath to scream, but the pain was more than he could bear now . . . and the footsteps threatened him with more. A futile sound, a bare whimper, rose from his throat when the unicorn stepped into the clearing.

As before, the unicorn stepped delicately out from between the trees; its white body dappled in leaf-shadow, its long pale mane trailing like ragged silk to its feet. It stood still for a moment, its eyes, hauntingly green and luminous, stared at Draco as the raindrops spilled down Draco's face.

Why should you live? it asked.

Draco trembled at the question, for there was no answer he could give. He had betrayed his father, abandoned his mother and deceived his friends. He deserved this pain, this isolation. And perhaps the unicorn was right . . . perhaps he didn't deserve to live. And yet . . . how could he say the words, There is no reason I should live, and surrender all resistance to this vicious judgment? He was already physically helpless to stop it, but to say those words would condemn him to accept defeat in his soul as well. How could he answer a question that demanded that of him?

The unicorn took a step forward. Why should you live? it asked again, insistent, and the forest echoed with the word. Why?

Draco closed his eyes, but he knew when the unicorn's head came down, felt the perilous closeness of the ivory horn as it sliced through the air that whispered its own echo in his ear.

Why?

He let the question go unanswered still. How could he let his heart submit to this cruel retribution and allow the beast to pierce him again and again and take this last small bit of life from him . . . when it was all he had left?

Think why! said the voice of the unicorn, sharp as an ivory blade in his mind. Think!

Draco tried to think, but he didn't understand this new command. There was too much pain; it scorched his mind dry and blackened his heart to ashes, hollowing him out with its searing fire, and there was no hope of relief. He didn't need to think why. This pain was what he deserved. It held him and he held to it tightly in turn for it was still his own life . . . but . . . oh God, he didn't think he could endure it any longer.

He felt the cold burn of the ivory horn against his throat. It lay against his skin like a flame of ice, poised, deadly, threatening pain beyond bearing, awaiting his answer. The question twisted in his mind, distorted now by the relentless torment of the pain. Why should he live? Perhaps he had misunderstood. Perhaps there was no censure in the question at all, but an offer of release. If he said the words, if he let go. . . . Why should he live, bound and suffering, when the unicorn could set him free? A distant memory came to him, that once, more than for his own life, he had longed for peace. . . .

Peace.

The word drifted like a cooling mist through Draco's tortured mind. Like a soft sigh, peace crept unexpectedly into his heart, easing his hurt with its delicate soothing touch. It poured into him gently and slowly, a liquid caress that flowed out through him from the center of his heart and all the sharp edges of the pain melted away before it. Draco breathed it in, drank it into his bones, drowned in the depths of it and let it wash away even the memory of his pain. And when this exquisite feeling of peace had filled him to the brim, another feeling welled up in his heart.

Warm and profoundly comforting, intimate and dearly cherished, this new feeling was something he had longed for far more than the blessed peace that filled him now. He was not alone; he was not uncared for and abandoned. He was loved.

Draco caught his breath as this knowledge poured into him. Love. The word floated, took shape and formed another word in his mind, a name. Harry.

"Harry," whispered Draco, remembering snow and flying and tender words spoken high in the air in a gloriously painted sky. He remembered smiles and kisses and warm, stirring touches, and loving hands that had woven a solemn vow with his heart in a magical moonlit dance.

Why should you live? demanded the unicorn again, and the horn slid down, the sharp tip a point of freezing fire upon Draco's chest.

The question spun and shifted in Draco's mind, upending itself once more into new meaning. Why should you live?

"Because I love someone," he said softly, awed, as the knowledge filled him with elation. "And . . . because I am loved." He opened his eyes to find the unicorn's shining green eyes gazing back at him with compassion.

Then live, it said, and with those words, the unicorn dipped its horn into the great wound in Draco's chest.

Draco stiffened in alarm, but there was no more pain. Instead, a wonderful feeling of lightness came into him. The vines around his arms and legs loosened and fell away. He looked down and the wound was healed, with only a small scar to show where it had been. Draco looked up to meet the unicorn's liquid green eyes curiously, wonderingly . . .

"Draco?" The voice came from everywhere, echoed faintly.

With a sigh, Draco cupped his hands around the unicorn's face, laid his own face against its furry warmth and closed his eyes. It felt so good to touch, to move, again. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Draco?" The voice came again, calling urgently. "Draco! Wake up, love. Please."

Draco opened his eyes. Green eyes, full of love and shining with tears, gazed back at him.