Of Snow and Dark Water

"The sympathetic connextion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 2 - REFLECTIONS

AUTUMN, 1997

It was their seventh and last year at Hogwarts and they were supposed to be focussing on their studies. Some, like Hermione Granger, did. Others, like Harry Potter, had a harder time concentrating.

He had a hard time sleeping, too. The two were linked together, a snake biting its tail. The less sleep he got, the less he was able to concentrate, and the more he prowled. And the more he prowled, the less he slept.

There was no other word to describe what he did: Prowl. And he was deeply grateful for his Invisibility Cloak which allowed him to do it. He would have gone mad if he'd had to stay in his room all night.

He was also grateful for having his own room. From their sixth year, the students no longer slept in dorms but had rooms of their own. With a bit of luck, if he didn't go out until McGonagall had done her rounds, no one would notice that on most nights his bed was empty for hours.

He imagined Insomnia as a person; a cold, pale lady who silently ruled his world and paid him random visits to demonstrate her power over him. Her first visit hadn't been long after Sirius had died. As if Harry, subconsciously, was afraid to go to sleep - after all, he had seen that terrible things could happen when he was asleep. He could do terrible things.

Absurdly, Harry enjoyed walking around the grounds late at night; he enjoyed the absolute stillness that prevailed. He didn't walk very fast but with a long, smooth stride; it had a meditative quality about it that calmed him. He imagined he could hear the soft, even breathing of people asleep. People who had never met Insomnia and had no idea who she was.

He would stop occasionally to view the silent form of the castle. Hogwarts was home. It had been home ever since he first arrived as a wide-eyed eleven-year-old, still overwhelmed by the amazing revelation that he was a wizard, still bowled over by Hagrid's spectacular rescue of him from the island and by the following visit to Diagon Alley. Still breathless from the adventure of going to Gringott's, trying out a wand, suddenly being the owner of an owl and finding a friend in Ron Weasley.

And an antagonist in Draco Malfoy.

Hogwarts was the first real home Harry had known. He didn't remember his parents, and his life with the Dursleys didn't count. In fact, his memories of Privet Drive had faded, and they only came back to him in flashes triggered by a noise or a smell. It was all in the past now, anyway. He wouldn't go back to the Dursleys again - the times had proved to be too dangerous, and the Order could no longer spare half an army of people to be his private guard. Also, Harry had had too many people die for him already. He didn't want to risk the lives of oblivious Muggles simply by living among them.

The house at Grimmauld Place was as bleak as ever. In fact, it was worse. It would never be a home. And after Sirius had gone, it was as if the fires in the grates in the House of Black only gave a faint, reddish light, too weak to reach very far from the fireplace, and no warmth at all.

That was how everything felt, with Sirius gone. Darkness and no warmth.

Now and again, Harry's thoughts wandered to his Aunt Petunia - he was intrigued by the knowledge of the wizarding world she revealed to have had, and also of her connection with Dumbledore. It was strange - he would never have thought he'd want to know anything at all about Aunt Petunia, at least nothing but her memories of his mother. But as he got older, he did begin to wonder.

Lily and Petunia. How could two sisters be so different? How had Petunia become what she had become? What had made her so rigid and so afraid, and what was the real reason she hated her sister so much, even sixteen years after Lily's death? Was it all jealousy?

If it was - what a waste. What a waste that anyone with a shred of decency - and Aunt Petunia did, after all, seem to have at least a shred - should have married someone like Vernon Dursley, who was certain to quench that last small flame with his oafish lack of imagination and his hatred of anything that was the slightest bit out of the ordinary.

Harry was sure Uncle Vernon was still muttering about Harry's ingratitude and about the lack of financial compensation for all the years of feeding and clothing a growing boy. Well, he could just give up that thought, once and for all. There would be no compensation from Hogwarts.

Hogwarts...

Harry let his eyes wander over the castle. The people dreaming inside... Dreaming - or pacing sleeplessly, the few of them who had encountered Insomnia. Sometimes, at night, when he prowled, Harry felt a strange tenderness for them all; a tenderness that was rarely present in the daytime. Probably because at night, they were quiet. No chatter, no admiration, no demands.

In his fantasies he was their angel, strong enough to provide a barrier between them and the outside world, stronger than the protective spells that surrounded the school grounds. Strong enough to be what they all expected him to be. In his fantasies he had the power to protect them against the evil that had uncoiled and was sliding along the outer walls, a gigantic reptile waiting to strike. The shadow of the basilisk half a lifetime ago, but more terrifying even than that.

Well, he had killed that, hadn't he? With the aid of a songbird and an old hat. And his childish faith.

What was left of that faith now? How strong was his willpower?

Imagination was a blessing and a curse. It thrived on darkness and solitude. At night, when he walked around alone like this, he could almost believe he was the hero they all wanted and expected him to be. In the daylight world he was just Harry, angry and confused, tired and sad, desperately brave with a brittleness he hoped nobody would see or recognise. Tortured by dreams and memories darker than anything most of them could even imagine.

Harry was no optimist by nature, but he had always had a gift for hoping against hope. He had always been brave enough to face the things he was afraid of. But the expectations on him were so high, everyone set such high standards for him, and most of the time he was heavy with fear he wouldn't live up to them.

It was necessary to try to avoid bitterness, but it wasn't easy. There were so many questions to ask, futile questions, and no answers to be had - except perhaps for the prophecy. But that answer was too big, too heavy, too merciless, and in itself created bitterness. Sometimes he didn't even want to reason, he only wanted to rage. He wanted to scream WHY ME? and beat and kick and spit at everything within sight, yell and wail at the unfairness, like a five-year-old would. But bitterness didn't help, no more than screaming and kicking did. Being bitter only affected himself. It made him miserable and didn't solve any problems.

But there was no denying that life was unfair a lot of the time; unfair and cruelly ironic. When he thought back, he knew that all he had ever wanted was to blend in. Not be seen. Not necessarily go with the crowd, but go his own way quietly.

He removed the Invisibility Cloak as he left the castle to go down to the lake. No one would see him here anyway. He sat down on a rock, distractedly throwing pebbles into the water. Memories of his Muggle school came back to him in torn fragments and made him shudder with discomfort. He had been bullied there, verbally and physically. For being such a scrawny little kid. For wearing glasses. For wearing Dudley's cast-offs that he practically drowned in. For not being good at this or for being too good at that.

Being at home with the Dursleys had been bad, but going to school had been worse. When he hadn't been bored or scared he'd been furious, and the fury had unleashed his magic. He hadn't understood what it was. It had sent him flying up on the roof, or it had made windows shatter or turned rubbish bins upside down over the heads of his tormentors, but he hadn't understood that all this originated from himself, from a power within him. All he had known was that these strange things seemed to happen to him and only him, which was definitely not been a good thing when all you wanted was to blend in and be inconspicuous. Invisible, even. And then he had come to the wizarding world, and suddenly he'd been The Boy Who Lived and The Boy Who Did This and The Boy Who Said That and there hadn't been a chance in hell he would be anonymous or left alone ever again. He was still followed by eyes wherever he went, which was probably one reason why he loved his Invisibility Cloak so much. It was what he had wanted all along, without knowing.

It got worse every year. The attention. The expectations and the demands. And the criticism.

Indirectly, he had caused several people's deaths, including his godfather's. Harry shivered and put the Invisibility Cloak back on, for warmth this time. He had killed people. It hadn't been his wish or intention, but that didn't change the fact. There was no trying to deny it or explain it away - they had died. He couldn't have prevented any of the deaths any more than he could have prevented the deaths of his parents, but perhaps that didn't matter. Harry wasn't entirely sure, and that was part of what kept him awake at night, part of what Insomnia held up before his eyes when he tried to sleep: The guilt, and the gnawing doubt that perhaps there had been something that could have been done. Something to prevent things from happening the way they did. If he hadn't said that, if he hadn't gone there, if he had worked harder at Occlumency...? His head knew that he wasn't really to blame, but his heart refused to listen.

He got up and stood looking at the full moon for a while; saw it glitter on the surface of the lake. He thought about Remus Lupin, who was back at Hogwarts as a teacher. Right now he would be curled up in a ball on a cushion in his office, beast tamed into mere wolf by a potion. How ironic, Harry thought, that one of the best people he had ever known was also a werewolf. It just showed you that nothing was ever simple, and you needed to be careful about taking things at face value. Harry tried to send warmth and comfort to Lupin in some sort of telepathic wave and smiled a little at himself for being sentimental. But it was one of those nights, one of those soft, sad nights.

Perhaps he could sleep now if he tried. He turned his back on the moonlight on the lake and began to walk back to the castle. Just before he went inside, he stopped and looked at the full moon one last time. Something ached in his chest and obstructed his breathing, something he was unable to identify. A desperate longing for something he couldn't define. Perhaps it was just a plain, simple wish for all this darkness to come to an end.

"Good night," he whispered, but he didn't know to whom.

* * *

Draco lay awake in his room. He had always found it difficult to sleep when there was a full moon, and tonight was no exception. But it wasn't only the moon - he had a lot to think about.

He had been called to Dumbledore's office today. No reason had been given, and a long talk had ensued where nothing was explicitly said. Draco frowned at the memory. Dumbledore had been as annoying as ever with his hints and intimations. Questions had been asked without being asked and advice given without being given. Everything had been so vague it could just as well have existed only in Draco's imagination. But he had tried to play along, and had replied to the never-really-asked questions in the same indefinite manner. Dumbledore was good at these riddle games. No doubt he now knew that something had taken place during the summer holidays, something that involved the Dark Lord, and also that Draco had refused to acquiesce and was more or less banished from his home.

What annoyed Draco most of all was that he could have sworn Dumbledore had already known. He had only wanted confirmation from Draco himself.

After a while Draco gave up trying to sleep. He got out of bed and climbed up the beautifully carved stepladder he had ordered from a shop in Hogsmeade when he had finally got a room with a window. Actually there were two windows, two small ones almost at ceiling level, which was odd but a great improvement compared to the windowless Slytherin dormitories. Draco always wanted to see what was going on.

Moonlight made everything unreal, undefined, as if the world was either half-finished or about to dissolve. Nothing was certain. On full-moon nights he felt that anything could happen.

He started as he saw a shadow glide out of the deep darkness under a vault and move slowly down towards the lake. The shadow stopped and turned, and as moonlight was briefly reflected on glasses, he saw that it was Potter.

Draco's jaw set.

Harry Potter, blatantly breaking school rules again. Some people were certainly given special treatment at this school. Potter, the Weasel, Granger-the-insufferable - constantly receiving house points for breaking rules and being nosy. Exceptions were always being made for them.

Draco shook himself irritably.

There was no denying the fact that Potter had been central to Draco's life ever since they'd met in Madam Malkin's robe shop, but it wasn't by choice; it certainly wasn't from liking. Draco still felt the same astonishingly painful mixture of resentment and reluctant appreciation towards Potter that he had always felt; a shadow of the admiration, rage and humiliation that had swept over him on the Hogwarts Express when Potter had refused to take either his proffered hand or his advice. A shadow that had stretched over all their years at school.

A bleak, cold sense of hopelessness, of futility, of inevitability, closed around his heart. He wanted to protest it; he wanted to break its deceptively soft grip.

Why does nothing ever change? Why is the focus always on him? Look at us now. I watch him, and he is the one moving. Why do I do it? Why do I accept it? Why does anyone?

It wasn't a new sensation, or a new thought, but the why do I accept it was less vehement than it had been. It had become more of a real question than the furious banging the wall with his fist that it had been at first.

Draco watched as Potter's dark figure melted into the darkness under the trees and disappeared, and he thought that perhaps he and Potter weren't as different as he used to think. Or as different as Potter apparently thought. They did have things in common, however badly they had always tried to stress their differences. They had both met evil, although in different ways. And in their own way they had both opposed it.

Draco couldn't help wondering how Potter would have acted today, if he had been the one in Dumbledore's office instead of Draco. No doubt Potter would effortlessly have guessed and interpreted the old wizard's hints and riddles. But they knew each other well, of course, and Dumbledore was obviously very fond of Potter - too obviously, and unfairly so. Unfair to the other students.

It's all hypothetical. Dumbledore simply wouldn't have had that kind of conversation with Potter.

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. He hated confusion. He hated not knowing.

And right now, he wasn't sure of anything. Because... the most confusing thing today had been... Dumbledore had somehow made Draco feel... no, it really was ridiculous... but he had made him feel almost... almost safe. As if there could really be a place for him here if he wanted it. As if Dumbledore really cared about Draco's welfare, really cared whether Draco joined the Dark Lord or not. Cared on a personal level, not only as a matter of politics or principle. But why should he care? Everyone knew Dumbledore's dislike of Lucius Malfoy. Why should he care what Lucius' son did, if not for the triumph of winning the son over to his own side?

Draco really didn't want to think about it. He didn't even want to try to understand. Dumbledore was a strange man; he always had been. Lucius had often questioned whether Dumbledore was in his right mind, and now he was probably so old he was getting senile.

Draco shifted uneasily and stared into the darkness under the trees. There was no movement now. What was Potter doing out there in the middle of the night, anyway? Did he have problems sleeping, too? Draco would never have imagined Potter suffering from insomnia. He wouldn't have imagined Potter having any problems at all. The Golden Boy. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who was worshipped by everyone without even having to make an effort. Potter kept being praised for things that ultimately were no merit of his own. He hadn't really done anything, had he, that first time he met Lord Voldemort? He had been too young to take any kind of active part in the events. He had just - well, he just hadn't been killed.

Draco straightened up. That was it, really; the core of it. What he hated most about Potter was everything he got for free. The things he got without even trying. People's respect, their admiration, their attention. Exceptions were always made for Potter. Like his being Seeker for his House team in their first year. They had been forbidden to fly and they had done it anyway, Potter and himself. Draco had thrown Longbottom's silly Remembrall through the air and Potter had caught it. And been made Seeker for the Gryffindor team, the youngest Seeker in a century.

That was the way it had always been. Potter was rewarded for breaking rules, or at least allowed to bend them. Everything Potter did was regarded as sensational.

But Draco had to admit that he, too, felt a certain amount of admiration for Potter, however unwillingly. He admired Potter's strength. But perhaps being strong was easy when you were Harry Potter. Because then you knew there would always be people who loved you and looked up to you, whatever you did.

Surely Draco couldn't be the only one who felt this way about Potter. He couldn't be the only one to feel this curious mix of resentment and admiration. Perhaps this was how most people felt towards Potter...?

Draco remembered the commotion in their fifth year, when Potter had stubbornly claimed that the Dark Lord had returned. Dumbledore had believed him, of course, but the Minister of Magic, that bumbling idiot Fudge, had not wanted, or dared, to listen. Draco remembered it so well, the silence in the Daily Prophet about anything connected to Lord Voldemort or his followers; the newspaper's campaign to depict Potter as a deluded attention-seeker... the anger in Potter's eyes, and the warm, glowing satisfaction that sat like a small sun in Draco's own chest each time Potter was publicly humiliated... Draco's knowledge that Potter was right, and his triumph, on more than one level, when no one believed the truth.

And now, Draco found he saw Potter's situation from another angle. As he stood there looking out at the strangely liquid, moon-drenched landscape, he began to understand that Potter's situation wasn't an easy one at all.

What choice had Potter ever had?

Draco's heart was pounding in his chest for no reason he could understand. He frowned and bit his lip, resting a hand against the window frame.

The dark figure out there had looked so lonely. A helpless slant to his shoulders, as if he carried weights too heavy for him and was tired to the bone. But Potter wasn't the kind who ever asked for help, and now Draco thought he understood why. Because if he did ask - who would be able to help him?

* * *

The planning, construction and organisation of the new Hogwarts Academy was a gigantic project. It was surrounded by a vast, advanced security apparatus and a great deal of secrecy. The Steering Committee had held regular meetings at Hogwarts for the past two years, and the construction of the actual buildings was well under way. As it needed to be, since the Academy was to be opened less than a year from now.

Today's Committee meeting was held in the usual windowless room, which was getting increasingly airless and warm. Dumbledore's initial speech had been short and to the point, presenting the day's agenda with its focus on the intricate system of protective spells and wards that was to surround the Academy. Even the construction site itself was heavily warded and Unplottable, hidden not only from Muggle but also Wizarding view.

Snape let his eyes wander around the table, critically scanning the meeting participants without too obviously doing so. Oddly, the most noticeable thing about the meetings for the past year had been absence, not presence. Sirius Black's chair had deliberately not been removed from the table after his death. It was still there, to remind them, to let its bare wood and its silence speak to them all. How typical of Dumbledore - a simple, sentimental gesture that proved most effective all the same.

Snape had disliked Sirius Black intensely and had objected strongly to having him on the Committee at all, even though he had known for a long time about Black's innocence to the charges against him. But when Snape looked at that empty chair, he felt a strange chill. It certainly wasn't loss or grief or anything even remotely resembling pity - he had never harboured a single emotion towards Sirius Black that was warm enough to elicit those feelings. And if that chill was fear, fear of darkness and the power of evil, he would do best not to think about it. He was already doing all he could in their struggle against the dark side, and no one could deny that he could do a lot, more than most.

Snape forced his eyes away from the empty chair and let his gaze rest for a moment on the attentive figure of Remus Lupin, in robes with the Hogwarts crest. Lupin's face was tired and drawn, but awake. He probably grieved for Black, and he didn't seem to have recovered fully after the latest full moon. Dumbledore was an excellent man in many ways, sentimental or not, but sometimes his judgement was sadly skewed. A werewolf on the Committee was no recommendation for parents to send their offspring to the Academy. As for Lupin's role at Hogwarts School, the same went for a werewolf on the staff. But despite Snape's deep and genuine dislike of the man, he had grudgingly had to admit that Lupin was intelligent, and an acceptable teacher. Their renewed acquaintance, forced by their presence on the Hogwarts faculty and by Snape being Lupin's potion provider, had led to a kind of truce even if it would never lead to friendship.

Next to Lupin was little Flitwick, whose chin just barely reached above the table in spite of his sitting on two cushions. On Flitwicks' other side was Madam Hill, a tall, elegant witch from the Ministry's Security Charms department. She had miraculously proved to be both efficient and intelligent, qualities not generally found in Ministry employees. Beside her sat a nondescript man named Kelly from the International Board of Magical Education. Then there was Dr. Jones, who, as head of the Treatment of Dark Injuries unit at St Mungo's, had been brought in to consult on the Academy's Mediwizardry programme.

Finally, facing his audience and drawing unintelligible sketches on the blackboard, was the current speaker, that conceited idiot Browne from the Ministry. Merlin alone knew what obscure position he held there. Knowing him, he had probably made it known several times over, but Snape usually managed to tune him out.

He wished he could do it now. He stifled a yawn and a fervent wish to cast a Silencing spell on the man. Browne shouldn't be given permission to speak, ever. Once he had it, he bored you to tears. It was the third time he'd gone over the description of the protective spells now, with slight variations, basking in his own alleged cleverness. Trying to take credit for it all, although everyone present knew that it was mostly the work of Dumbledore, Flitwick and Madam Hill.

Merlin, would the man never finish? May his tongue rot in his mouth. A healthy dose of Putridus potion would do the trick. Snape had to repress a smirk at the thought. Failing that, perhaps a few days in the hospital wing with Veritaserum administered every hour...? At least it would put an end to the mindless bragging.

"...will stop intruders halfway across the lake," Browne was saying. "Attempts to Apparate in or out will have no effect - we're using extended and more complex and efficient versions of the Apparating blockers that are used here at Hogwarts School. There will be channels to allow owl traffic, but they will be few and heavily protected by scanning spells and hex sensors, stopping owls carrying anything that is not perfectly clean and innocent." He looked around with that unbearably self-congratulating expression that always reminded Snape of Lockhart (may his confused soul be at rest at St. Mungo's). "Any questions?" When no questions came, having all been asked during the first round, he said: "Well, then, I thank you for your time," on a particularly irritating, triumphant note, and finally sat down.

"Thank you for that detailed account, Mr Browne," Dumbledore said with his usual mild irony. "Now I suggest we all go over to inspect the progress on site. As we have just had explained to us, there will be no access to the Academy by Floo system once the whole physical and magical structure is in place. But at present there is a single route that can be opened for occasions like this one. "The Academy" will be sufficient as a directional command. It will take you to the Main Library."

He gestured towards the generously proportioned fireplace, and one by one, the meeting participants began to step in and disappear in green flames.

* * *

It was a clear morning with glorious colours, sky washed clean and postcard blue and trees like flames. The stands were buzzing with excitement as usual, but this was Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw, and the general atmosphere was less charged than it would have been at a Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match. It would probably be a fairly easy game for the Gryffindor team, Harry thought. The Ravenclaw Chasers were not at all bad, but the team hadn't managed to find a really good Seeker since Cho had resigned after her sixth year.

Harry adjusted his grip on the broom as he hovered over the pitch. The air was crisp and chilly, with gusts of wind whipping colour into his cheeks. He watched the game take on its own pace below him, watched it billow back and forth while he soared like a bird of prey above the clamour.

A Hufflepuff fifth-year named Summers had taken over the role of commentator after Lee Jordan, and his magnified voice boomed through the air: "Ravenclaw Beater Terry Boot comes to the rescue of Chaser Mandy Brocklehurst as she's nearly knocked off her broom by a Bludger... No glimpse of the Snitch yet... The Seekers are hovering... good view from up there..."

Harry still loved Quidditch as passionately as he had from the very beginning. It was the best thing there was when it came to forgetting his problems, forgetting about the threats against Hogwarts and himself, forgetting about the increasing number of worrying reports about attacks on Muggle-borns. Quidditch was a much better diversion than talking to Hermione or playing chess or Exploding Snap with Ron.

It provided a small universe of its own, with its own inherent rules and hierarchies and roles, its own excitement and events. A small, finite world to take refuge in when his head hurt from trying to make sense of things and the real world was turning into chaos.

"And Gryffindor Chaser Ginny Weasley has the Quaffle... Aah - she's being attacked by two Ravenclaw Chasers... but she - ooh, Woollongong Shimmy! Woollongong Shimmy! And Gryffindor scores!"

Summers, clearly impressed, was yelling at the top of his voice. Harry shouted congratulations to Ginny who whizzed past below him, grinning madly.

The game gathered speed. Harry ducked for a Bludger and kept a wary eye on the Ravenclaw Seeker while he scanned the vicinity for the Snitch. He cut smoothly through clear air that was sharp with the first bite of frost. He watched the upturned faces below, like flowers opening to the sun, turning this way and that as if swayed by the wind.

And then he caught sight of a face, turned upwards like the others, all by itself on an unused part of the stands. Harry stopped and his thoughts ground to a halt. This face wasn't part of the crowd, never part of the crowd. It was one he had been forced to take notice of ever since they were children. A pale, pointed face with strange, hostile grey eyes that had been following him for years, following him wherever he went.

If the upturned faces were flowers, this was the whitest one of them all, white in a way that would always single it out, even when it was one in the crowd.

There - ! Harry was jerked out of his reverie by a flash of gold at the edge of his field of vision. He felt the familiar, hot rush of adrenaline as he made a sharp turn and began the chase. Air sang in his ears and whipped his face. The Ravenclaw Seeker was way over at the other side of the pitch and went into desperate pursuit when she realised that the Snitch had been spotted. But Harry knew she was too far away. The game was won, and pure wild joy shot through him. He balanced on the broom to lean forward at a dangerous angle, and after some endlessly long moments where he was practically suspended in thin air, the Snitch thwacked into his palm hard enough to make it sting. He heard wild shouts and cheers rise in a wave and looked down to see wide grins split the faces of his fellow Gryffindors on the stands, and he thought that nothing, nothing could equal this.

Ginny was the first one to reach him. She hugged him madly, beaming.

"You were brilliant, Harry! Just brilliant!"

He hugged her back and smiled into her radiant eyes.

"You weren't so bad yourself, Ginny."

But while the other team members slapped his back and cheered around him, while his eyes and hand held the golden flutter and his ears were washed by waves of excited shouts from the audience, Harry's mind still lingered on the image of that one face. The one that was whiter than all the others and never part of the crowd.

* * *

The image stayed with Harry all day and all through the small, illicit party held in Dean's room in the evening, after the official celebration in the Common Room. He was a bit drunk, but it didn't help; it only made him tetchy and irritable.

"But you should see them! Ask Diarmuid O'Reilly to borrow his Omnioculars, and play the last ten minutes of the game against the Kenmare Kestrels in slow motion. That'll be enough to shut you up."

Ron had launched into his favourite subject again. The Arklow Arrows were an Irish team that had recently begun to rise like a bright sun in the Quidditch sky and were Ron's new object of worship, to the point where he was ready to abandon his great childhood love, the Chudley Cannons.

After a while Harry couldn't stand his enthusiastic lecturing any longer, or the heat or the guffawing. His head was buzzing with alcohol and noise and he needed to clear his thoughts. He got up from Dean's only chair and headed for the door, brushing the comments aside, both Ron's concerned questions and Seamus' gleeful remarks about low alcohol tolerance. He managed to give them a smile before he fled.

He went down stairs and along corridors and finally stopped on the steps outside the main front doors, desperately filling his lungs with cold evening air. What the hell was wrong with him? Unable to enjoy a bit of drinking with the lads because he was thinking about Malfoy? He had thought it would go away, but it only seemed to get worse. It was just so wrong. As if he didn't have enough to think about. Serious things. Real things. He should be using his energy on those.

Malfoy wasn't worth the time of day; never had been. He was the wrong person to be interested in for any other reason than keeping an eye on him for caution. The wrong person for everything.

Interested in, indeed.

Harry's hands were shaking and, not for the first time, he wished he had acquired the old Muggle habit of smoking. It gave you something to do with your hands when you didn't know what to do with them.

He went down the steps and began to wander slowly and aimlessly around the gardens, the image of Malfoy's lonely figure on the stands still in his head. After a while he began to notice how cold it was, but he didn't want to go back inside for his cloak. What was that warming spell Hermione had used in the dungeons the other day...? And did he have his wand with him? Oh, yes, he had. God, he really must be a bit drunk.

"Calida."

A soft warmth crept around him like a woollen blanket as he continued walking. It was very dark, so dark that he didn't notice the cat that suddenly darted across the path in front of his feet and very nearly tripped him. The next moment, McGonagall stood in front of him.

"Lumos."

Her voice and her face were stern as always, but her eyes were worried.

"What are you doing out here at this hour, Potter? Why aren't you at the party?"

"Er... party? I..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Of course I know there's a party going on. You'd have to be deaf and blind not to. I'll break it up if it gets too rowdy, or when it's getting too late in the evening." There was a shadow of a smile on her face. "Which will be soon, I may add. And you haven't answered my question. What are you doing out here?"

"I just needed some air, Professor."

She studied his face closely in the light from her wand and didn't seem reassured by what she saw.

"Is something worrying you, Potter?"

Oh, no, Professor McGonagall.

The man who murdered my parents and wants to take over the world is trying to find me and kill me, not caring whoever else he'll happen to kill along the way. I can't sleep. When I do sleep, I have bad dreams. I worry that I won't catch the Snitch next time and will disappoint everyone. I miss Sirius; I think about him every day. And now, to top it all, Malfoy is invading my brain.

So what could I possibly be worried about? Everything's just fine.

"No, Professor. I just needed to breathe."

"Very well, Potter, but you should go back inside now. And tell your classmates to break up the party before lights out. I want to see everyone in their own room when I do the rounds."

"Yes, Professor."

Harry sighed, turned around and walked back to the castle. He really didn't want to go back to Dean's room, to Butterbeer and body odour, bad jokes and loud laughter. He just wanted to go to bed.

"Snidget wings," he said wearily to the Fat Lady.

He went inside and was surrounded by soft light and warmth, laced with the smell of woodsmoke from the fireplace. The image of Malfoy's face still danced in his head. He wasn't sure, but he thought it was laughing.

* * *

Harry slept well that night, despite Malfoy and alcohol. The next day was Sunday and he woke up early, feeling better than he had for a long time. He went for a run, revelling in the glorious chilly morning sunshine. When he came back, he sang in the shower and swatted Seamus with a damp towel for calling him a rubbish singer and complaining that his sensitive Irish ears hurt. At breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry entertained his fellow Gryffindors with a Rita Skeeter impersonation and was moved by his classmates' obvious relief at seeing him happy. A relief that made some of them overdo their mirth slightly. Ron choked on his pumpkin juice and had to be yanked up from his seat and slapped on the back.

But while everyone grinned at the red-faced, coughing Ron, Harry's gaze wandered over to the Slytherin table. Some of the other Slytherins had turned around to see what was going on with the Gryffindors, but Malfoy's head was bent down as he poked at something on his plate with his fork.

Harry's thoughts seemed to stop, and the noise around him receded.

Silence. It seemed to have become a theme in his life. A sudden silence in his head, silence around him in a crowd, the silence he walked through at night. And the silence that seemed to surround Malfoy.

Because Malfoy didn't seem to speak much to anyone these days, and certainly not to Harry. A couple of times, late at night, Harry had seen him fly all on his own, circling the Quidditch pitch and getting dangerously close to the Forest. It didn't look as if he flew for practice or even for pleasure - he just looked very lonely. So lonely it was almost painful to watch. He had stopped having Crabbe and Goyle at his heels at all times. He very rarely got owls. When the mail arrived, he just looked down at his plate and quietly finished his breakfast while people around him opened parcels and read aloud from letters and commented on the Daily Prophet's front page news. Like now.

But Draco Malfoy had a position that allowed him to get away with a good deal of odd behaviour without getting whispered about. Perhaps he wasn't the natural leader of Slytherin House any longer, but if he wasn't it had been entirely his own choice; no one had stepped in to take his place. The other Slytherins just seemed to leave him alone; in fact they seemed to be a little scared of him. It was as if he were surrounded by a vacuum. The others kept their distance. They respected him but they didn't understand him.

Harry's eyes had lingered thoughtfully on Malfoy's bent head, watching it without really seeing it. When Malfoy looked up, he was unprepared. Their eyes met, and even though they only looked at each other for a moment, Harry felt that silence again. It was as if the entire Hall had gone quiet. All movements stopped. His heart seemed to stop.

Then Malfoy lowered his eyes. Soon after, he got up and left the Hall. He took the silence with him, and everything was back to normal.

* * *

But Harry had been wrong. Things seemed to refuse to go back to normal.

With Malfoy, "normal" would equal "antagonistic", but there wasn't much left of the former antagonism. What was left was expressed very mildly - Malfoy smirked at Harry being at the receiving end of Snape's sarcasm, and Harry snorted at Draco transfiguring an angelica plant into a coffee pot instead of the crystal decanter it was supposed to be turned into. But apart from that, there was nothing. Nothing but silence.

Harry ought to have been relieved. But instead, the absence of animosity caused an unexpected problem: he actually missed his fights with Malfoy. As simple as that: he missed his enemy. The Malfoy Malevolence had been a constant in his life, something he could always count on, unpleasant as it was. A twisted kind of security.

A safety-valve. When the pressure had become too strong, he had always been able to challenge Malfoy to a verbal duel. It had been a good way to channel aggression and frustration, spitting and hissing and finding ever more venomous comments to throw at each other. But now Harry had to find another outlet.

It gradually took the form of physical training. Running, fencing, boxing, Quidditch, anything. It occupied more and more of his time. It interfered with his studies, which was unfortunate as this was his final year. But he found that the physical activity was absolutely necessary for him to be able to concentrate at all during lessons.

He never talked to Malfoy, but they were always watching each other; they practically stared, when they thought the other wasn't looking. Sometimes their eyes met, but never for long. One of them always lowered his eyes, or turned his face away, or left the room. But backing off wasn't in character for either of them, and it made them both grouchy and irritable.

* * *

Harry was deeply worried about this sudden, weird obsession with Malfoy. He hadn't given this much thought to Malfoy in all their years at Hogwarts taken together. Now he seemed to think about him all the time, and not only during the day - Malfoy was there at night, too, invading his dreams.

So what did this mean?

Earlier, when a certain object or vision or person had begun to appear and reappear in Harry's thoughts or dreams, it had always been ominous. He had dreamt of bright green light, of snakes, of blood and violence and pain. He had slithered through dark corridors in snake form; he had been inside someone else's head.

But his scar didn't hurt now. He didn't wake up at night with his head throbbing so painfully he had to be sick. His scar wasn't hot to the touch.

So what did it mean? Why was this happening? If there was no connection to Voldemort, what was it then?

Harry had always loathed Malfoy, loathed him for his boasting and his loud obnoxious comments about Mudbloods. Loathed him for his open, unreflective support for the Death Eaters. Malfoy had been a spiteful, spoilt brat who admired his arrogant father to the point of adoration, repeating his views and opinions and throwing them in the face of the other students at every opportunity. As if that would gain him respect. He had always seemed to confuse respect with fear.

And now...

Now there was silence.

There was a look in Malfoy's eyes that Harry couldn't figure out. As if he expected something from Harry, or perhaps was asking for something, or wanted to ask. There was no challenge in his look, as there would have been once - it was questioning, grave, and rather puzzled.

This couldn't come from Voldemort. The signs just weren't there. If it had anything to do with the Death Eaters, if Malfoy's interest in Harry was on their behalf, there was nothing to suggest it.

This didn't make Harry sleep any better. He prowled more than he had ever done. Prowled, and thought, and worried.

* * *

Harry walked along the lake with Ron on a slow, still Saturday afternoon in November. They had just had a fencing lesson, and it hadn't been Ron's day; he was still a bit grumpy. Stones skipped from their hands onto the water, causing irritated squid arms to appear and ripple the smooth, dark surface. The slanting sun was a warm red on their faces, but the air was icily cold. They sat down on a rock.

"At least school is nearly over," Ron was saying. "I can't wait to leave. Just think - no more endless sessions trying to read tea leaves. And no more chopping bat spleens in the dungeons just after breakfast." He flung a pebble into the lake as if it had bitten him. "I want to go out to Charlie in Romania next summer. He says he can probably fix something for me there. They're trying to find ways to use dragons, or at least dragon fire, for defence. All this nonsense they're cramming into our heads here... History of Magic... Divination. I want to do something real."

This was unsurprising - Ron had never been very theoretically-minded. Harry nodded vaguely, finding it difficult to concentrate. It wasn't that he was uninterested in what Ron had to say. What to do after leaving school was a hot topic. It was also one that Harry had actively avoided thinking about, because it scared him. He didn't want his Hogwarts years to be at an end - he felt like a baby bird about to be pushed out of the nest. Did he even have a future? When he tried to look forward, he only saw Voldemort.

He was distracted in his replies, but Ron was too caught up in the subject of dragons now to notice the vagueness.

There was a distinct reason for Harry's distraction, and it wasn't just his worry about the future: He knew he was being watched. He could feel it; he had felt it the whole time they had walked along the lake. It made the skin on his back tingle, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

When he turned around, he saw an immobile figure under one of the old chestnut trees further up in the garden. He couldn't see the features clearly, but there was no mistaking the blond hair. The figure didn't move and Harry turned back to Ron, even less able to concentrate now.

He looked down on the smooth, flat stone in his hand, and wished that everything in his life could be as smooth, as simple, as beautifully uncomplicated. He stroked it with his thumb before sending it out over the water with a flick of his wrist. It skipped once, twice, three times before it sank.

Harry watched it sink and knew that the silent figure under the tree was watching, too.

* * *

DECEMBER, 1997

It was a Saturday morning just before Christmas, and a slow river of voices floated and rippled through the Great Hall. The Christmas decorations were as fantastic as always, but Harry didn't take them in. He just sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped himself to some toast.

His loneliness only seemed to grow.

The other students were getting into the Christmas spirit. Many of them were going to Hogsmeade today to buy presents, and they were looking forward to going home to their families. Harry was going to Grimmauld Place, to celebrate Christmas with the only family he had now - the Order. Tonks would be there, Lupin, the Weasleys... They were people he loved and respected, so where was his enthusiasm? He felt guilty towards them for not being as expectant as he ought to be. He did want to go; he just seemed unable to feel enthusiastic about anything any more. Quidditch was still the glorious exception, but there was no Quidditch at the moment.

There was an ongoing, excited discussion among the final-year students about future plans, what to do after leaving school - everyone seemed to have grand plans, but Harry never joined the discussion. What would be the point? He felt he didn't have much choice about his future - Voldemort had decided it for him sixteen years ago. And then he hated Voldemort as much for having stolen his life as for anything else. The strength of feeling scared him. He hadn't believed himself capable of that kind of white-hot hate.

It also made him ashamed, because it implied that he wished this burden had been placed on Neville instead of on himself. How would Neville have carried it? How would he have handled it? Would he have coped? And at that point, Harry's feeling of guilt and shame dug even deeper into him, because he obviously thought himself better than Neville. He saw himself as stronger and more capable. What right did he have to do that? He glanced guiltily at Neville, who was heaping bacon and mushrooms on his plate and grinning at something Seamus had said.

Moreover, the budding love between Ron and Hermione had finally begun to blossom after a long series of misunderstandings and attempts at denial from both parties. While he was very happy for them, he also inevitably felt left out.

Harry had gone to bed early the previous night, preferring sleep to brooding. And he had slept, for once.

So while his best friends made plans, sneaked off to meet, shared close spaces and exchanged endearments and saliva, Harry slept. He knew he could have had company if he had wanted it, but he wasn't interested. It worried him that he wasn't interested in much at all, that he seemed to be drained of energy. The only person who could attract his interest was Malfoy.

But they still didn't talk. They didn't seem to get anywhere.

Harry let his eyes wander over to the Slytherin table while he waited for his scalding hot tea to cool. Malfoy sat with his head slightly bent as always, eating his breakfast in silence. Crabbe and Goyle started a bread pellet war that made Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode scream and giggle, but Malfoy acted as if they simply weren't there.

Harry straightened up. What if people had noticed the way his eyes always sought out Malfoy? He cautiously looked around.

But Ron and Hermione were busy looking deep into each other's eyes and feeding each other bits of food. They wouldn't notice anything short of an Avada Kedavra flash. Seamus was trying to teach Dean and Neville some Irish phrases. It didn't seem to be going very well, but they were laughing a lot.

Harry closed his eyes. Why couldn't he be happy, too? Why couldn't he just shake off his misery like a wet cloak and laugh with the others? It was Christmas, for Merlin's sake. Bright stars, snowflakes, angels singing. Joy to the world. But here he was, finding it difficult to swallow because tears ached in his throat. How was it possible to feel lonely surrounded by so many people?

Suddenly he felt someone watching him, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was - he would have known that feeling anywhere. It was as if the grey eyes burned his skin.

He realised he'd become addicted to having Malfoy's gaze on him. If Malfoy was in the room and didn't look at him, he lost his concentration and began to fidget, as if something was irritatingly wrong and needed to be put right quickly, like a pebble in his shoe.

He opened his eyes, carefully not looking over at the Slytherin table, and poked listlessly at the half-congealed eggs on his plate with his fork. He pushed the plate away with a grimace. Perhaps he should go to Hogsmeade after all. To take his mind off things. Besides, he hadn't bought a single Christmas present yet.

He got up and went to get his cloak.

* * *

The Monday before Christmas, a dark, gloomy day with a few hesitant snowflakes slowly dancing down from a leaden sky, the seventh-year students gathered in the Transfiguration classroom. The Headmaster was there, as well as Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Lupin.

Snape looked out over the students as they filed into the classroom and sat down, unusually quiet. Draco Malfoy's blond head was in the first row, eyebrows drawn together over the straight nose, eyes wary. There was something the matter with the boy, quite apart from whatever trouble he was having with his father. It must have been a serious clash if Lucius had forbidden him to go home during holidays. But Snape could sense there was something else troubling him, too. He had tried to get the boy to talk, but Draco had given as little information as he could within the limits of politeness. He had apparently said more to Dumbledore, but still not much.

Behind Malfoy was Potter, hair wild as usual, same frown as Malfoy had, eyes fixed on the back of Malfoy's head. And Malfoy was fidgeting, moving uneasily in his seat, as if he knew he was being watched. It looked odd - he wasn't a fidgeter; he usually had a poise few teenagers possessed.

Dumbledore stood, welcomed everyone and broke the news about the Academy. Snape saw Potter's eyes move abruptly from the back of Malfoy's neck to the Headmaster's face, all attention now. Dumbledore informed the students about applications and entrance exams, about the range of subjects (from Practical Divination to History of Magic to Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts and Mediwizardry) and about the facilities.

Snape watched colour come into Potter's cheeks and realised that there would be no need for Dumbledore to persuade Potter to apply. He was obviously pining to go already. Snape had to hold back a snort. Potter! He certainly knew his role. He would go straight for the Advanced DADA course, like an arrow to a bull's eye.

It was harder to know what was going on inside Malfoy's head, as it always had been. The eyebrows were still drawn together above his nose, and his eyes were intent on Dumbledore's face. He had regained his poise; hands resting on his thighs.

As Dumbledore rounded off the meeting with some general good advice and the students rose to leave, Snape saw Malfoy's robes brush against Potter's hand. It could only have been a mere whisper of fabric against skin, but Potter winced and flushed. The two boys' eyes met, but Malfoy quickly looked away and went out of the room ahead of Potter.

Snape frowned.

* * *

Harry closed his trunk and put a levitation spell on it to get it down the stairs. In the Common Room he saw some of the younger students chatting in front of the fire; apparently, they weren't leaving for Christmas. Ron was struggling to get his trunk through the portrait hole.

"Our last Christmas holidays," Ron said, groaning with the effort. "Weird, eh?"

"Oh, don't," Harry said. "You're making me all sentimental and sniffly."

Ron threw him a brief glance, obviously thinking for a moment that Harry was serious before he caught his grin.

"Oh, you'll be going on to the Academy of course," Ron said. "So for you it isn't really the last one anyway."

No, Harry thought, it wouldn't be the last one, provided he was accepted. It was amazing how much better he felt after getting the surprising news about the Academy. The weight on his shoulders and the cold fist around his heart had dissolved and disappeared. If he managed to get his marks up - and he knew he could do it - he wouldn't have to leave, after all. Things would be different, of course; more serious and more demanding. But at least he'd get to stay. He'd get to continue studying. Part of his earlier worry had been insecurity and a feeling of inadequacy. He wasn't properly prepared yet to go out and take on Voldemort single-handedly. He still had so much to learn. And there was no doubt in his mind that the next time he met Voldemort, it would be the last time. It would be the final encounter where one of them would die. One of them - or both. And he wasn't ready.

Ron climbed out through the portrait hole and helped Harry with his trunk.

"You're sure you're not going, though?" asked Harry as they stood in the corridor. "To the Academy, I mean?"

A shadow crossed Ron's face and he looked down at his feet, shaking his head.

"I don't have your talents, Harry. Not to mention Hermione's brains. You both know that. I'm worried enough about my NEWTs - I'd never make it at the Academy."

"Ron, it's not your brains - you know that. It's about how hard you want to work. And you'll be fine with the NEWTs - Hermione's probably going to chain you to a chair in the library with an unbreakable spell for the entire term."

Ron shrugged.

"Yeah. But the Academy... I'm not the intellectual type. And Hermione will have enough with her own work then, without having to coach her thick boyfriend."

He almost spat out the last words. Harry stopped fastening his cloak and gave Ron a worried look. What was the matter? Definitely something wrong here. He had never heard that note of resentment in Ron's voice before, and felt a twinge of guilt at not having noticed anything earlier. He had been too preoccupied with his own obsession with Malfoy. He stretched out a hand and squeezed Ron's shoulder, shaking him a little.

"You're dense enough about girls sometimes - I mean, just look at how long it took you to get together with Hermione." Ron scowled, and Harry grinned. "But for Merlin's sake, you've got a brain. Of course you'd be accepted for the Academy if you tried. You don't have to take Arithmancy. There are other subjects."

"Yeah, I guess. So what are you going to take?"

Ron looked up and their eyes met.

"Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said quietly.

There was a sudden look of pain in Ron's eyes, and Harry knew it was reflected in his own.

"I needn't have asked," Ron said grimly. "I'm sorry, Harry. Do you mind me asking if you're taking that subject because you want to, or because... because you feel you have to?"

Harry had to swallow. Ron might not be the most eloquent person when it came to complex emotions, but he did understand. He always had. And he had been loyal and supportive and courageous in a way few others had.

"It's not as if I have much choice, is it?" Harry said. "Voldemort's out there, and he wants me dead. It's bloody hard, Ron. I know people will die out there while I shut myself in at the Academy, but there's just so much I don't know yet. If I could focus on DADA for a while... What do you think? Should I just scrap the Academy and go out and meet him now? I know he's waiting for me. And next time we meet, either I'll die - or he will. There's no other way to stop this."

Ron kicked the wall so hard that sand trickled from a crack in the mortar into a little heap on the floor.

"The bloody bastard. I wish he could just be killed like any other human being," he muttered between his teeth. "By anyone. I'd kill him with my bare hands - I really would. I think I'd even enjoy it."

There was an awkward silence between them for a second. So many things wanted to be said, so many words of affection and fear, of hate and friendship and love. None of them were voiced, but both boys felt them in the air.

"I'll really miss you there, Ron," Harry said in a low voice. "And Hermione will, too. Are you really going to Romania?"

"That's what I want to do. Something real, something that matters. Where I can be someone. Charlie's coming home for Christmas and we'll talk more about the details then."

There was nothing more to say for the moment. They put levitation spells on their trunks again and went down the stairs and through the Entrance Hall, where some ghosts drifted past them humming Christmas carols.

The boys stopped outside the heavy front doors. It was snowing and the gravelled yard was full of students waiting for the thestral-drawn carriages to take them to the train station.

It made Harry depressed again, to think of the number of students who would now be able to see the thestrals. And when they entered open war, there soon wouldn't be a single person, wizard or witch, adult or child, who couldn't see them. He wondered whether Malfoy could.

Ron was turning to look down the driveway. "Looks like it's time to go. Oh, by the way, that bastard... Malfoy..."

Harry nearly jumped, confusedly wondering for a moment whether his thoughts were written on his face. But Ron just went on:

"I heard him tell Goyle that he's going to the Academy, too. Bloody fantastic news, isn't it? You can look forward to another couple of years with Ferret Boy."

There was a silence inside Harry's head again, and a numbness in his hands that wasn't caused by the cold, but they both gave way as Harry began to take in what Ron had said. He shook his head unbelievingly, a grin spreading across his face in spite of everything, and he bent his head down to conceal it. Malfoy would be at the Academy?

The thought really shouldn't make him feel so pleased. It really shouldn't. But it did, and when he climbed into the carriage after Ron, he felt quite cheered.