Of Snow and Dark Water

OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion 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 5 - NORTHERN LIGHTS

September, 1998

The very first term at the Hogwarts Academy began with subdued pomp and festivities. A few journalists and prominent guests had been invited to the grand opening, but mostly the crowds consisted of students and staff.

The Academy buildings were very different in style from those at Hogwarts School but were no less impressive. And, as Hermione pointed out to Harry when they seated themselves in the Assembly Hall for the opening ceremony, there would be a wonderful absence of disturbing elements of the Myrtle or Peeves type.

"Unless," she said dryly, "Dumbledore has talked some of the ghosts into moving here from the castle, for atmosphere."

Harry laughed.

An extremely nervous man from the International Board of Magical Education held the inauguration speech. His hands shook so badly he kept fumbling and pushing his sheets of parchment to the floor and had to Accio them back up, his face turning redder and his voice more tremulous each time. When he was finally done, he collected his sheaf of notes and descended from the podium with immense, visible relief. Harry wiped sweat from his brow.

"I barely heard a word of that," he whispered to Hermione. "I was too nervous watching him being nervous."

"You didn't miss much," she whispered back. "It was a lot of nothing in a lot of words."

"I'm not surprised."

"International Board of Magical Education...! If he ever used to teach, I feel really sorry for his students."

From a back row, Draco watched the bushy brown head lean towards the untidy black one.

He had spent his summer at Hogwarts, sometimes helping the Academy librarian shelve books, sometimes having tea with Dumbledore, but otherwise being left pretty much to his own devices. It had been a lonely, depressing, frustrating, and occasionally brilliant summer. In a way, he'd had the kind of summer holidays he'd dreamt of as a child: no one to tell him what to do or when to get up, leaving him to pursue his own interests all day long and stay up all night if he wished... but ironically, it was too late for anything to be simple or purely enjoyable any more.

Draco watched as Granger whispered a comment in Potter's ear and made him laugh. Something in Draco's stomach twisted itself into a tight coil. Fear, anticipation, excitement... it was all there. Draco had wanted to get to know Potter, and this would be his chance. They were at the Academy now, and in the same programme.

Dumbledore, beaming, cut the silk ribbon with a pair of enormous old scissors and pronounced the Academy officially opened. There was a burst of applause, and the ribbon, instead of falling limply to the floor, transformed itself into hundreds of butterflies in all colours imaginable. They swarmed and whirled in a bright, gaudy cloud towards the glass dome ceiling, and vanished.

As the audience filed out of the impressive, glass-walled Assembly Hall, Draco waylaid Potter and Granger and had the satisfaction of seeing Potter blush.

"Malfoy!"

It was no calm and measured greeting - it came out more like a startled squeak. The coil in Draco's stomach dissolved into warmth. Was it possible that Potter, too, had been nervous about their first meeting...?

"Potter," he replied, more amused than nervous now. "And Granger. Nice to see you." A hint of irony was present in his voice, too; identifiable though swathed in politeness.

"Hello," Granger said stiffly, looking more than ever as if she'd just swallowed her wand. "How come you were accepted for the Academy, Malfoy?"

Blunt as ever.

"On the same grounds you were, I assume. Good grades and talent."

She opened her mouth and closed it again. Draco could see how much it annoyed her, not knowing how to respond to a combined insult and compliment, and he gave her a lazy smile.

Potter was still flustered, and the combination of his confusion and Granger's silent fury filled Draco with quiet, triumphant joy. For all his own insecurity, he still knew how to play people.

"What rooms are you in?"

Granger's eyes were shooting dangerous sparks, and she looked ready to stamp her foot like a little girl and say "I'd rather die than tell you!" but Potter pulled himself together and said, "I'm in building C, top floor. You?"

"One floor below you."

Draco had to make a conscious effort not to make a face as he said the words. Some things never changed. No matter how hard he'd tried, no matter what position his family's social status gave him, he'd always been one floor down from Potter.

Potter didn't seem to recognise the symbolism, or at least he didn't acknowledge it. He only nodded and smiled, flushing a little again with what seemed like pleasure. "Great."

What's so great about that? Granger's expression clearly said. She looked at Draco as if he'd been one of Hagrid's beloved venomous toads. He smiled at her again.

"Coming to the reception?"

"I never miss out on champagne if I can help it," Potter said, and grinned. "Sad, eh? But that's what comes of growing up poor."

The casual comment interested Draco.

"Your Muggle relatives, are they poor?"

Granger gave a contemptuous snort, but Potter explained, patient and unashamed: "No, they're not poor. They're not rich, either, but sort of comfortably off. I just meant they didn't spend much on me."

Draco glanced sideways at Potter, thrown by the information. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had never understood. He wasn't sure whether he was mostly scared or interested.

"Well, get some compensation now, then," he suggested. "It looks quite impressive, at least from a distance. I'll see you later."

He gave them a nod and left in the direction of the laden tables, where people were forming little groups, and trays with champagne glasses were slowly gliding through the air.

Harry turned to Hermione, whose eyes were dark with fury.

"Oh, go on, Hermione! Is it really that bad, that he talks to me?"

She gritted her teeth and refused to look at him.

"Why are you so taken in by him all of a sudden?" she threw back.

"I'm not taken in. I'm only giving him the benefit of the doubt."

Hermione snorted. "The benefit of the doubt...! You're like a puppy bounding in front of his feet and stumbling over its own paws, so eager to please that... that...."

Harry's face went hot with anger and embarrassment. "That's not fair!" he said, blushing even deeper at the childishness of his own words. "I don't... it's not..." He stopped and took a deep breath. "Why are you like this? I didn't think you had a problem with it - with my talking to him. What about the Leavers' Ball...? You even encouraged me to talk to him then."

"But I didn't... I didn't think it was serious!"

"Serious!? What's that supposed to mean? Have you forgotten Malfoy came to see me when I was ill? That he was actually the one who made me... you know, get out of bed. Get back to life." Harry blushed again. He hadn't meant to say anything quite so pretentious. "Even you didn't manage that!"

He regretted the words the moment they were out. How could he have said something like that to Hermione, of all people? Hermione who had been as devastated by Ron's death as Harry had, Hermione who had come to see him every day, and told him over and over again it wasn't his fault, although she'd have had more reason than anyone to blame him...? He stretched out a hand to her, pleadingly.

"I didn't mean that, Hermione - I really didn't mean it. I'm sorry!"

She was staring at him, white-faced.

"I - I can't believe you said that." She had to swallow. "I can't believe you're taking his side against me!"

"I'm not taking anybody's side, Hermione! And I'm sorry I said that. I really am." He tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she angrily shrugged him off.

"He's Malfoy!" She caught herself. "Every time I hear that self-important, stuck-up voice of his, I hear it say 'you filthy little Mudblood'." Her voice was shaking with repressed emotion. "He hasn't changed, Harry! Why do you think he has? Why do you believe him? His heart's still with the Death Eaters. He's only learnt to hide his sympathies better!"

"He's hiding them so well that even Dumbledore is deceived?"

"Maybe Dumbledore only wants him here to be able to keep an eye on him! Maybe he thinks Malfoy can be... saved, or redeemed, or something!"

"But you don't, obviously?"

Hermione's face was still white. "Perhaps you're right," she said in a tight, hard voice that belied her words. "Perhaps I just hate him too much to be fair. If you'll excuse me, I don't think I'll go to the reception after all."

She turned on her heel and stalked off, chin held high. Harry stared helplessly after her, wondering what would happen if he and Malfoy... if they ever... He couldn't finish the thought, wouldn't finish it, afraid it would never come true if he articulated it. Perhaps if they ever became friends was a neutral enough phrase not to jeopardize anything. Hermione was his closest and dearest friend, and he didn't want to lose her, but there was something so intriguing about Malfoy that he couldn't just let go, whatever way Hermione felt.

But what if she was right? Annoying as it was, he had to admit she usually had a point. What if Malfoy really was here to be under Dumbledore's supervision - because Dumbledore thought he'd do less damage here than anywhere else?

Harry sighed deeply, took a glass of champagne from a tray that was hovering near his elbow, and emptied it much too quickly. Malfoy had disappeared in the crowd, and Harry went back to his room in a defeated mood, wondering whether the Academy would really prove to be the success he had expected, on any level at all.

* * *

"Welcome, welcome, my dear Lucius."

Lord Voldemort was waiting on the other side of the hex-proof, sluice-like gates as the terrifying half-troll guards let Lucius Malfoy through.

"Thank you, my lord," said Lucius, glad to be there finally but unable to suppress a slight shiver of fear at the tone of voice. Few things were as unpleasant as Lord Voldemort's putative cordiality. "I'm honoured to be here."

"Precious few know about my laboratories," Voldemort said, "but you have always had my full confidence, as you know. And if we are to move some of my research units to your property..."

He left the sentence unfinished, and Lucius shivered again as they walked briskly along steel-bright corridors. Cold, white light fell through regularly spaced windows like narrow slits, floor-to-ceiling, letting in light but allowing no view. Their footsteps thudded dully on the polished, slate-grey floor. The occasional glimpse of the red satin lining of Lord Voldemort's robes was the only splash of colour in the stark environment.

The laboratories were built smoothly into a mountainside, following the profile of the mountain so well it was nearly impossible to tell it was there. Not that there were many people around to see it - it had been built in this craggy, forbidding and largely uninhabited part of northern Albania for a reason.

"We have some of the world's finest alchemists working here," Lord Voldemort said with smooth satisfaction.

"Are they here of their own free will?" Lucius blurted out and instantly bit his tongue.

But there was no retort from Lord Voldemort. He appeared only to have half-heard the question.

"What does it matter," he said absently.

They stopped at a heavy, steel-grey door at the end of the corridor. Lord Voldemort pulled out a small, green, gem-like stone attached to a chain around his neck, and held it up to face its counterpart fitted into the wall by the door. There was a surge of green light, and the door slid open noiselessly. Voldemort's eyes were awake again, awake and alight.

"Look around, Lucius! Enjoy the sight. You have to admit you've never seen anything like it before."

Lucius Malfoy looked around obediently as the door shut behind him. He had, indeed, never seen anything like it. It was like standing on the brink of the future and looking into another, unfathomable world, the world of tomorrow.

The room was enormous, tiled in bright white, sharply lit and gleaming. The entire ceiling seemed to radiate light; it seemed to be made of light. Along the walls ran narrow worktops, fitted with steel sinks at regular intervals, and the floor space was divided into work areas that each seemed to be designated to a particular experiment or project. Some areas had enormous tiled tubs in the floor, where gigantic potions experiments seemed to be carried out, and some were equipped with complex instruments and machinery the use of which Lucius Malfoy couldn't begin to imagine. Other areas again had steel slabs for dissection. On the nearest slab, a tall, olive-skinned wizard with a hunch and very long, thin fingers was gloomily dissecting something that looked like human remains. Another shiver trickled down Lucius' spine.

"We will need to move some of this equipment to the Isle," Lord Voldemort was saying, wrinkling his nose a little at the unpleasant smell from the dissection area. "Nothing from the potions division, obviously, but I think some of the tissue experiments and similar research would be suitable for transfer. Ah, there he is." Voldemort picked his way across the enormous room. "Come, Lucius. I will let you speak to Zeke Smith - over there, in the green protective robes. He is in charge of the experiments on organisms."

They walked over to a tiled tub, where a tall, sallow-complexioned wizard was stirring a violently purple potion bath with a steel rod. His thick, dark eyebrows were drawn together above his nose in concentration, and he seemed less than pleased with the interruption.

"Zeke, this is Lucius Malfoy, who will be providing the space for our long-awaited mini-lab in England. I will leave you two to discuss logistics and practical arrangements." Lord Voldemort gave a small bow. "Gentlemen."

They bowed to him, and he left them and went over to a small group of wizards who were looking at a set of blueprints tacked to a large board on the wall, animatedly discussing some detail in the depicted construction.

Mr. Smith pulled off his stained dragonhide glove and proffered a claw-like hand.

"Delighted," he said with an expression that couldn't have contradicted the word more. "I have heard of you and I am sure we will be able to work out a solution. Shall we use one of the conference spaces for our little chat?"

* * *

Lectures, seminars and classes began, and the pace was set high from the start. Hermione was in her element, as was only to be expected, but even Harry found himself stimulated by the atmosphere of serious dedication and enjoying it more than finding it a pressure. His earlier, unusual experiences made some subjects easier for him than for most other students. He was well ahead of his peers in Occlumency, for instance, something that made Malfoy grit his teeth. On the other hand, Malfoy excelled at Advanced Charms, one of Harry's weaker subjects. Luckily, Harry had opted for Transfiguration rather than Potions. This meant that he didn't have to put up either with Snape, who had been transferred to the Academy from Hogwarts School, or with Malfoy's superior skills. Instead, Harry studied Advanced Charms intensely with Hermione, and was beginning to find it intriguing.

There were a number of entirely new subjects, too, such as Magical Tracing. MT quickly developed into Harry's favourite subject, partly because of the novelty of it but also because he found it genuinely interesting.

Now that he had his energy back, he took up physical exercise again. Running, boxing, fencing... It offered great stress relief and helped him focus better.

The one thing he really, deeply missed from Hogwarts School was Quidditch. The Academy would have been perfectly capable of finding enough good players to put together a competitive team, but current circumstances did not allow for much play. Wizarding universities were few and university Quidditch tournaments were bound to be an international affair, which called for a vast security apparatus even under ordinary circumstances. In the current political situation, Quidditch tournaments were simply out of the question.

Harry and other students occasionally went over to Hogwarts School to watch a House Cup match, and sometimes they practiced flying or played for fun at the Quidditch pitch when it happened to be free, but it wasn't the same, not the same at all. Harry missed the rush of adrenaline, the shouts and cheers from the audience, the wind whipping his face, and his own single-minded focus when he had spotted the Snitch. There was still nothing that could beat that, nothing in the world.

* * *

October, 1998

The MT classroom was so dark and quiet you could hear a breath and feel a movement in the air. They had started out with theory, but now they were in the middle of their first practical class. Two students had already had a go at detecting spells used. They had done quite well, and the air was thick with nervous anticipation. Harry felt warmth radiating from the bodies of the very still and attentive students on either side of him: Hermione to the left; Malfoy to the right.

"Your turn, Miss Granger!" Professor Sharpe's voice said somewhere in the dark. "Wand at the ready."

"Yes, sir," said Hermione tensely, and Harry could feel her straighten up.

"Patefacio! Rei recreo!"

The room lit up with a flickering light and filled with the crackling, hissing noise of unravelling magic. The light went from faintly yellow to a clear red, with trails of something smoke-like swirling slowly at its centre, or source.

"This... this is not a spell or a charm," said Hermione nervously.

"Develop that statement, Miss Granger."

"The changing colour... and the swirls... indicate shape-shifting."

"Very good. Is it possible to tell what kind of shape-shifting has taken place? Could it be a Boggart? Is it a change from human to animal form, or vice versa? And in that case, is it even possible to see what animal?"

"It's not a Boggart - Boggart shape-shifting doesn't leave this kind of trace; it's vague and vapour-like without discernible colour." Hermione was beginning to sound more sure of herself. "The human form generally has stronger colours than animal forms, so this would be a transformation from animagus back to human. Research into detection of specific animal forms is ongoing."

"Very good," Professor Sharpe said again. "Catena repeta! Proxime incantata!"

The light shifted, and there was a shower of bright, yellow-white sparks spreading evenly from the centre, like a luminous ball of dandelion seeds.

Hermione hesitated, uncharacteristically. "I - I'm not quite sure."

Harry could hear how much she hated not being sure, and having to admit it. He wasn't used to outshining Hermione in anything academic, but in this particular subject he did. This was telepathic magic; he could tell instantly by the shape and pattern of the sparks. It was a revival spell. But it wasn't only that he remembered descriptions from the coursebooks - it was as though he could feel the spells, an instinctive understanding of their nature and basic structure, their internal relation and order. Hermione didn't seem to have this instinct; she solved the problems through knowledge and memory, and although her mnemonic capacity was impressive, she lacked Harry's edge. Only one other student had an instinct that matched Harry's own: Draco Malfoy.

"The shapes here are very characteristic," said Professor Sharpe pointedly, and it was all the prompting Hermione needed.

"Oh, of course!" Her words tripped eagerly over themselves. "The bright sparks, like tiny parachutes, are characteristic of telepathic magic. The colour tells us it's not a hostile spell, but one with positive energy, in the category of revival spells. "

During one of their study sessions, she had said to Harry she remembered things more easily if she could visualise them inside her head as words, as black text on a white page, as descriptions rather than images or abstract concepts. No wonder she always sounded like an encyclopedia.

"Correct. Catena repeta! Proxime incantata!"

Professor Sharpe was an experienced Auror, who, according to Dumbledore, had been both honoured and relieved to be offered a position at the Hogwarts Academy. He had worked in the field for many years and seen too much horror, and was glad of the chance to do something constructive and less stressful. Teaching and coaching young, enthusiastic students seemed to sooth his soul.

Magical Tracing was a relatively new field. The Aurors had used different primitive spell detection methods for many years, until the real breakthrough had come some ten years ago, when a research laboratory in Romania had cracked a core problem. New developments had avalanched from there. Now, it was not only possible to see what charms, hexes or spells had been cast, but also in what direction, in what order and if and how they had been affected by crossfire.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said Professor Sharpe. "That will conclude the practical session for today."

Harry started. He hadn't heard a word of the last part of Hermione's analysis. Professor Sharpe opened the blinds, lit the chandeliers and turned to the students who were blinking like owls in the sudden light.

"When we first met, at the beginning of the term," he let his gaze sweep over them, "the curriculum only included two terms of this subject. But as Professor Dumbledore and I both consider it a fascinating and important one, we have included a week-long intensive module in the schedule. You've had some preliminary information about this earlier, and now the practical arrangements have finally been made. As darkness is a great help in spell detection, the intensive module will be held in Scandinavia."

Whispers and mumbling spread like a wave among the students.

"You will go two at a time," Professor Sharpe continued, raising his voice a little, "starting from the last week in October. There will be theory classes and practice sessions. I will be handing out the lists of times and pairs as you leave."

They filed out of the classroom past Professor Sharpe's desk, looking for their names on the lists he gave them.

"Seems we're going together, Potter," said a low voice in Harry's ear. "How interesting."

Harry's eyes had just found his own name on the list, and when he saw the name next to it, a small shiver ran down his spine. He was unsure whether it was mostly at the thought of spending a week entirely in Malfoy's company, or at Malfoy's warm breath on his ear and cheek.

"Late November," Malfoy was saying. "Doesn't get much darker than that, does it?"

"Scandinavia... Have you ever been there?"

Malfoy shook his head. "No, and never wanted to. All that snow and darkness...!"

Their eyes met. Malfoy's were focussed and intense, and Harry felt that little shiver again. A week with Malfoy...? It opened up almost frightening possibilities.

They hadn't spent much time in each other's company so far, and Harry had to admit to being disappointed that Malfoy hadn't yet made use of knowing where Harry's rooms were. On the other hand, Harry hadn't made use of his knowledge either. He just didn't know how to go about it. He went to other people's rooms all the time, for studying or partying or just chatting and having tea; he probably went to Hermione's rooms at least once a day. But with Malfoy, it was different. He couldn't simply go there and knock on the door.

"I wonder how we'll travel," Malfoy mused. "Apparate?"

"Probably too risky to let students Apparate that kind of distance. Portkey?"

"Actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to feel it's not a bad idea, going to Scandinavia." Malfoy grinned. "I'm better at MT than you are, Potter. That week will confirm it."

"You? Better than me? Excuse me if I laugh." Harry laughed heartily and marvelled at his own acting skills. "Prove it, Malfoy."

"I will."

The smile left Malfoy's eyes. The intensity didn't. Harry felt a shiver down his back for the third time.

* * *

November, 1998

"Zabini, wait!" Harry sprinted down the corridor towards Blaise Zabini's black-robed back. "How was it? Scandinavia, I mean. MT. What was it like?"

Zabini turned around, surprised at hearing Harry Potter call out to him. They had known each other, or at least known about each other's existence, for more than seven years, but they had barely exchanged ten words. The trend had survived their transition to the Academy.

"It was okay, I suppose," Zabini said with his usual, slightly haughty air. "A bit boring to spend a whole week in that horrible grey darkness, but I guess it was reasonably useful."

"Was it mostly theory or practice?"

"About fifty-fifty, I'd say. But," and Zabini looked Harry up and down, "you're really more of a practice man, aren't you?" And with that, he gave Harry a small, close-lipped smile with his mouth turned down at the corners, and walked off.

Harry felt like an idiot, standing there with a stack of books tucked under his arm and his mouth open, ready to ask the next question. He stared at Zabini's retreating back for a second, shrugged and turned back towards the library.

* * *

Harry had been looking forward to the MT week with equal parts curiosity and nervous anticipation. Now he'd finally get the answer to all his questions.

Sunday evening was dark and still, with a faint tang of frost in the air. After dinner, Harry met Malfoy in the Entrance Hall to catch the carriage to Hogsmeade. They barely talked during the fifteen minutes or so it took for them to reach the village, and Harry could tell that Malfoy, like himself, was a little nervous. His face didn't show anything - it rarely did, but his fingers were moving restlessly over his cloak, plucking at the hem, brushing off invisible dust.

They easily found the Portkey that was waiting for them at the station - a pointy old hat on the bench at the south end of platform 3. They looked at each other and took a deep breath, and Malfoy nodded.

"Now," he said, and they both reached for the hat.

The journey was as unpleasant as ever - Harry had almost forgotten how much he hated travelling by Portkey. Dizzy and nauseous, they landed on the snow-covered platform of a train station. Harry bumped his knee as they hit the ground, and Malfoy groaned something about his elbow. They got up, muttering and rubbing at sore spots, and looked around. They couldn't see much except for the lit platform and a small brick building that must be the station house, and they went inside, carrying their trunks. It was warmly lit but completely empty, as far as they could see. They looked at each other and shrugged, then crossed the waiting area, went out through the other door and stopped on the steps. There was a narrow street lined with buildings, lit by a row of street lights and a few neon signs and shop displays, but outside this little scene there was darkness, a strangely deceptive darkness. Deceptive because it was made to seem like dusk by the light reflected off the snow, but was still as impenetrable as any subterranean darkness.

The cold made everything sharp and jagged, brittle enough to be shattered by a breath. They looked at each other again, and Draco's left eyebrow went up. Harry opened his mouth to say something when they heard a cheerful voice behind them.

"Mr Malfoy? Mr Potter?"

They both jumped. They hadn't seen anyone inside the station building.

"Welcome to Långlien," the man said. "I'm Vebjörn Dal. Pleased to meet you."

He was perhaps thirty, tall, blond and healthy-looking with a wide smile. He held out his hand and they shook it in turn.

"And please don't call me sir, or Professor Dal - we're not that formal here. I'm Vebjörn."

Both boys repeated it, trying to get their pronounciation as closely to his as they could: "Veb-yern."

He grinned amiably at them. "Excellent. I hope you don't mind me calling you by first name, either."

They both shook their heads, politely wanting to adhere to local custom.

Harry was beginning to feel painfully cold even though they'd only been outside for a minute. Vebjörn saw them shiver in their thin wool cloaks. "There's warm clothing waiting for you up at the cabin. The cabin where you will be staying." He pointed. "Look. You can see the village. Up there, on the mountainside."

They followed the line from his finger and saw a small cluster of distant lights glitter through the blue darkness like a jewel on display.

"We were told it was small, but - there can't be more than... ten, fifteen buildings there," Malfoy said, an edge of panic in his voice.

"Twelve," Vebjörn confirmed, unperturbed.

"Where's the nearest town?"

"This is the nearest town."

"But - !"

"But what? Are you saying this is not a town?" Vebjörn was grinning. "Relax. We know how to look after ourselves up here, trust me. I assure you, you will have everything you need. Haven't the others told you they've been well cared for?"

Harry glanced at Malfoy and couldn't tell if the blush on the pale face came from anger or embarrassment, or if it was the cold that made his cheeks glow pink.

"How are we going to get there?" he asked Vebjörn.

"The Portkey is over here," Vebjörn said and went over to a wastepaper basket. It was lidded and crowned with a cap of snow. "We should leave straight away. You're cold. Are you ready? Okay, hold on now." He opened the lid and pulled a newspaper from the wastebasket.

Even colder, and nauseous from a second journey by Portkey, they landed in a small village square surrounded by low wood buildings. It was a relief to finally be there. As they brushed snow from their clothes, Vebjörn nodded towards one of buildings.

"That's your cabin there. Like I said, I think you'll find everything you need. But if there's a problem of any kind, I'm over there. Just knock on my door." He pointed to a building at the other side of the square.

"Is the village Muggle protected?" asked Harry.

"Yes. Protected by location spells, and Unplottable. So is Långlien, where the first Portkey took you. The nearest Muggle village is about a hundred and fifty miles from here." Vebjörn grinned at the look on their faces. "Go inside now and get warm. You'll find food and clothes and beds and a good fire. Sleep well, and I'll see you at nine tomorrow in the Hall - over there." He pointed again. "Good night!"

He set off across the square with a swift, powerful stride, snow creaking under his heavy boots. The boys were both stamping their feet against the cold. They looked at each other, and Malfoy shrugged. Harry felt something odd going on with his nose.

"Your nostrils freeze together when you breathe in!" he said, sounding like a little boy.

"Urgh, Potter." Malfoy's nose was unfrozen enough for him to wrinkle it.

"But they do!" Harry was laughing now. "Bet yours do, too. It's like there's glue..."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks so much for sharing that!" Malfoy gave him a shove. "Let's just get ourselves indoors."

* * *

The cabin was warm and welcoming, with woodfires blazing in each room. The beds looked comfortable enough, and the bathroom had a sauna. Neither of the boys had ever been in one, but Harry at least knew what it was and tried to explain it to Malfoy, who took a step back at the mere thought.

In their bedrooms they found scarves and mittens and heavy boots, and fur-lined, hooded cloaks of fine wool. Even Malfoy looked appreciative, and when he tried the cloak on, it suited him so well that Harry's breath caught in his throat. He turned away and coughed to hide it.

Hunger drove them into the kitchen to raid the fridge. As Malfoy opened the fridge door, food came dancing out and arranged itself into a slightly odd evening meal. They both laughed, astonished and amused.

They were too tired to talk much, and perhaps a bit shy, too. Harry found he was looking at anything, everything except Malfoy, though Malfoy was the only thing he wanted to look at.

They finished their meal and went quietly to bed.

Harry lay awake listening to tiny, unfamiliar sounds and staring into the warm darkness that was fragrant with burning wood and hot resin. It was so strange, being here with Malfoy. He was glad they didn't have to share a room, at least - he wouldn't have been able to breathe.

Malfoy trying on that cloak... fur brushing his face...the underside of his chin...

No, he had to stop thinking about it. He just couldn't go on having shivering fits like that. Malfoy would be wearing that cloak for the entire week; Harry would just have to get used to it.

A week! Anything could happen in a week. It would be the perfect opportunity for them to... well, to what? Harry couldn't help wondering if it really was coincidence, that they were there together, or if it was part of some plan or other of Dumbledore's. A plan to get them together, to give them time to get to know each other, outside of the Academy...? Dumbledore always has hidden agendas. And he probably knew or at least guessed how Harry felt about Malfoy... Harry blushed uncomfortably at the thought.

Dumbledore knows everything. He always does. Well, except for the flavours of Bertie Bott's beans. He always picks the worst ones.

Harry had to smile at this, but the smile died on his lips as he heard a small sound from the kitchen and realised that Malfoy was quietly moving around. He sighed deeply. He was so tired he could die, but it would be impossible to sleep with Malfoy wandering around like that. It made him want to get up and... well, what? He could pretend he needed something from the kitchen, perhaps...? Then he'd catch Malfoy there, very casually, and they could sit and talk... but he didn't know what he wanted to say. He would just like to sit there and look at Malfoy.

It was strange that he hadn't been able to do that earlier. He wasn't usually that shy, but then everything to do with Malfoy seemed extraordinary. Harry wanted to stare and stare at him and never stop....

God, this way he'd never be able to sleep.

He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of thick socks and went to the kitchen. Something about the light and the smell of woodsmoke suddenly reminded him of Ron, of Christmas mornings with him in the Gryffindor common room when they were younger, when they opened presents dressed in their pyjamas and the latest version of the Weasley jumper... So familiar and safe and relaxed...

He was getting very skilled at shutting his mind down before the enormity of Ron's death hit him full blast. He did it now: he shut his mind just as pain was about to strike. It was like warding off blows; like boxing. You needed practice, but you did learn how to do it. This time it only touched him briefly.

Malfoy was standing by the kitchen table, looking out the window into the impenetrable darkness outside. The kitchen was dimly lit by the fire.

"Hey."

Malfoy turned his head a little but went back to staring into nothing. "Hey."

"Something wrong?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Not really. I just think this place is a bit... creepy. I've never liked being in the middle of nowhere. I'm not even sure exactly where we are. I haven't seen a map or anything."

"Hogwarts is sort of in the middle of nowhere, too."

"Yeah. But not like this. It's so fucking dark. You can't see a thing, so there's no sense of distance or direction or anything. I just get the feeling you could... you could die here and no one would ever know."

Harry looked in surprise at the tense, pyjama-clad back and took a step forward so he could see Malfoy's reflection in the dark window-pane. His arms were folded across his chest, in defiance or as protection.

"I get the feeling that this is some kind of... test." Malfoy turned around sharply and met Harry's eyes. "Is it?"

Harry shrugged, looked down and began to draw an invisible pattern on the table with a fingertip. "Not that I know of. We're here for special training, just like the other students either have been or will be."

He faltered as Malfoy's hard eyes refused to leave his face.

"Do you really believe it's a coincidence that you and I are here together? Or is it part of some plan or other of Dumbledore's? And who is Vebjörn really? Do we have a single reason to trust him?"

"You're seeing ghosts, Malfoy. Dumbledore sent us here. That's enough for me. At least I trust him completely."

Malfoy made a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a contemptuous snort.

"Yeah. But it's not enough for me, Potter. Not for me. Dumbledore's getting old. He won't be strong forever."

"I know there were some rumours last year, but I didn't believe a word of them then and I still don't. I've seen no signs of him being either senile or weak." Harry looked intensely at Malfoy. "If I didn't know better, Malfoy, I'd say you're scared."

Malfoy didn't reply for a long while. "Not scared exactly, Potter. Let's just say I'm not comfortable."

"And that's why you can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"I couldn't either."

"Why, if you trust Dumbledore?"

"I just couldn't. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, especially in a new place. All those unfamiliar smells and sounds and... And then I heard you move out here."

"You heard me move. And you don't trust me." It was a statement.

Harry found nothing to say, and he asked himself whether it was true that he didn't trust Malfoy. It probably was. He wanted to trust him, but he still didn't, quite. The echo of Hermione's voice from the first day still rang in his head: He hasn't changed, Harry! His heart is still with the Death Eaters. But Malfoy had been accepted to the Academy, after all, and Dumbledore and Lupin and all the others who had made the decision must have had a good, solid reason for accepting him. He certainly seemed to take his studies very seriously. And he hadn't been home for his holidays for the past year and a half.

Malfoy was still looking intensely at Harry.

"What do I have to do to make you trust me, Potter?" he said in a low voice.

It took a second for the question to sink in, and then Harry blushed, partly with pleasure and partly with discomfort. He didn't know what to reply. He studied the earnest face with firelight playing over it, the look in the grey eyes. Malfoy folded his arms across his chest again, as if to shield himself.

"Do you trust me?" Harry finally said.

"Yes."

Harry had to stop his mouth falling open. The reply had come so quickly, so firmly, without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, Potter, I trust you. Does it ever occur to you how transparent you are? You're so obvious there's no reason for me not to trust you. The whole world knows what side you're on and where your loyalties are. And moreover, Potter, you don't have enough of an imagination to be deceptive."

Only Malfoy could deliver a compliment that was an insult. Or an insult that was a compliment. Harry didn't know which, but everything Malfoy said caused a reaction in him, and this time, he was instantly incensed. He felt his eyes flash and his hands balling into fists. Malfoy laughed.

"Sensitive, are we, Potter?"

He really couldn't let Malfoy get the better of him. Why was he making everything so damned difficult? Some things really didn't change. He relaxed his hands and took a step back, letting out an infuriated sigh.

"Malfoy," he said with deliberate calm. "Why are you always trying to piss me off? We have to share this cabin for a week, whether we want to or not. Could you just try to be civil, do you think, so this can be bearable for both of us? I'm trying, but you're already making it difficult for me."

Malfoy's face shifted, and his gaze wandered over to the fireplace. He was quiet for a long time before his eyes returned to Harry.

"I'm sorry," he said curtly.

Harry blinked. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Malfoy apologise before, or make any concession at all. It sent a wave of warmth through him, and as he walked past Malfoy up to the kitchen counter, he put his hand briefly on the other boy's shoulder. He thought he felt Malfoy try not to wince.

"Okay," he said lightly. "Just as long as we know where we stand. I'm going to make a cup of tea. Want one?"

* * *

It was still dark when they went over to the Hall a few minutes to nine the next morning. Harry looked up at the sky and as he couldn't see a single star, he concluded it must be cloudy. Perhaps there would be more snow. The cold air had an unfamiliar, dangerous note to it - a smell, not sharp or distinctive, barely noticeable but definitely there. Perhaps it was the smell of darkness, or snow, or cold. Or all of those.

The Hall was warm and brightly lit, with honey-coloured wood flooring and high windows. They were greeted by Vebjörn, healthy-looking and annoyingly awake, grinning at them and asking if they'd slept well. They both said they had, avoiding looking at each other, both of them thinking that a white lie for politeness' sake wouldn't hurt.

"We'll have a theory lesson this morning," Vebjörn said, "and then you have the afternoon off. I suggest some exercise while it's still light. Do you ski?"

They both shook their heads.

"Well, find something to do. Go for a walk, or go tobogganing, or something. You need the daylight. You'll need to go to bed early, too. I'll wake you around midnight for some hands-on outdoor practice, when there's no artificial light at all, only the stars and the snow. The darkness - that's what you're here to use."

Harry threw a glance at Malfoy, who looked back, raising an eyebrow. If Vebjörn noticed it, he made no comment.

* * *

Just like Vebjörn had said, he woke the boys up at midnight. They dressed warmly according to his instructions and sleepily went outside. The sleepiness was instantly swept away by the night air. Neither of them had experienced cold like this before, or even thought it could exist.

"It's not that bad, honestly," Vebjörn said, grinning a little at their stunned faces. "It's -19; it could have been a lot worse. You've got warm clothes on and we'll keep moving. You won't die, I promise."

Harry couldn't understand how this could be classified as "not that bad". He'd never felt anything like it. It was so cold it was impossible to tell whether the sensation on his few bare square inches of skin was cold or heat - the air was burning his face.

Malfoy seemed to be making the same discovery. He was gasping and groaning behind Harry as they trudged and plodded after Vebjörn along a small, winding path. The path seemed to have been cleared of snow time after time; snow was piled high on either side of it, as high as the boys were tall. The effect was slightly claustrophobic. All they could see was the shadow of a back in front of them between walls of snow.

After a few minutes' walk on creaking soles, with their breath like clouds around them, they entered a clearing.

Vebjörn turned around to smile at them. "Are you okay?"

They nodded, slightly out of breath from the icy air burning their lungs.

"Before we start, I'd just like you to look up at the sky for a few moments. Not part of the training - only for the beauty."

The boys obediently turned their faces towards the sky, both gently rubbing at their cheeks and noses with wool-clad hands.

Harry found himself gasping again. He saw why Vebjörn wanted them to look - he'd never seen anything like it. How was a night sky like this even possible? Vast and black, with a chalky grey-blue circle around the moon, and millions, millions of clear, sharp stars... Harry had never understood before just why the bridge of stars across the sky was called the Milky Way, but he saw it now. The name was too prosaic; it ought to be more poetic, more fantastic, to convey the diamond brightness of the unfathomable number of stars... but he did understand. He heard Malfoy breathe "oh" next to him, and turned his head.

Malfoy's face was turned upwards and what was visible of his pale skin shimmered blue in the moonlight, almost like the snow. His mouth was slightly open and a mitten-clad hand rested against his cheek, a childish gesture of awe. Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Harry looking. He turned his eyes away from the stars and met Harry's. They were standing so close together that their arms touched, and Harry had a nearly irresistible impulse to lean in and kiss the slightly parted lips.

Suddenly, jets of bright green light flared up in the sky. They moved and fluttered, changed shape and colour and intensity, blue, green, white, like curtains billowing in a breeze, moving over the sky. Both the boys and Vebjörn watched, wide-eyed, for the few seconds the show lasted. Then the light died down as suddenly as it had begun, and the sky was as quiet, black and brilliantly star-studded as before. They stood for a while staring at the blackness, not quite grasping what had happened, willing the fantastic, eerie light to come back.

Finally, Vebjörn turned his head and smiled at them. He must have sensed their reluctance to leave the breathless mood.

"It's an impressive sight, isn't it?" he said softly. "You certainly got good value for your efforts tonight. Moon, stars and northern lights! Sorry to break the atmosphere - but we have work to do. And we've got to keep moving; we'll be too cold if we stand still. Like I said, I've prepared a kind of obstacle course for you tonight, or rather it's a chain of events where you have to find and identify all the separate links - in the right order. One will take you to the next. It's really like a crime scene, and you two are Aurors who have just arrived at the scene. You have been called out on the field to find out what has happened to one of your colleagues who has mysteriously disappeared. So, your task is to find out what happened here, and report your findings, your results and your conclusions to me when you're done. You can use an autoquill to take notes. You've used one before, haven't you?" They both nodded. "Good. I'll be here if you need me, but you two will do the work."

"Where do we start?" Malfoy asked.

"That's the question, isn't it? A real problem for Aurors." Vebjörn grinned at them. "Well, there is some help. Your colleague managed to send a brief mental image to his Auror partner - an image that looks like this." Vebjörn waved his wand and a ghostly, pearly white image appeared in the darkness, like a photo negative, Harry thought. It showed something that looked like a high, pointed rock with some bushes next to it.

The image faded. They blinked and looked around, their eyes finding the rock but with only a heap of snow next to it. Vebjörn nodded approvingly, smiled at them and left them.

Harry glanced at Malfoy who gave a small shrug, and they set to work, efficiently and in surprising accord.

"Patefacio! Rei recreo!"

A faint but warm, brownish red light began to flicker before them, sending out spike-like rays.

"It's a levitation spell."

"Yes - leading to... it's really strong, look at that ray... it points all the way over to the shrubs over there. They are shrubs, aren't they? Hard to see with the snow..."

"Hey, wait, what's that? At the edge of the red, just there, like the edge of another spell or something...The blue thing there... Do you see it?"

"Yeah, I see it... Can we make it clearer?"

"Claritas!"

They waited.

"Augeo!"

"No, it doesn't work... let's make a note though. You activated the autoquill, didn't you?"

"It's right here. Stilus autoscriptus! Blue showing at edge of auburn light, small crescent shape, fixed light, no sparks, clarifying or intensifying spells without effect, can't tell direction. - Is that enough?"

"It's all we have. Finite autoscriptus! He was dumped here, I think - do you see that? And here's a... a what - a revival spell?"

Ten minutes into the "obstacle course", Harry found himself thinking, if I could go on working like this with Malfoy, I'd really improve fast.

He was surprised to find how smoothly they worked together, and how interesting it was to work with someone who was as intuitive as himself but had the mnemonic capacity of Hermione Granger. Their thought processes seemed to be similar and work in the same general direction, but still not quite - one of them always saw something the other hadn't, or saw it from a different perspective.

They moved on, and they simultaneously spotted a black shadow on the snow, a small, huddled animal shape.

"What is that!?" Malfoy sounded almost frightened.

Harry cautiously poked at it with a finger, turned it over in the snow.

"It's a... it's a squirrel. It's dead." Harry's voice, too, held a slight note of apprehension. He poked again. "Look. Stiff as a board."

"Stop touching it, Potter! - No wonder it's stiff as a board in this cold. I'd be worried if it wasn't."

They stared at it for a while, feeling sorry for the poor little thing with frost crystals in its fur, and then began to examine the surroundings for spells.

"I think it must have died of shock, or something," Malfoy finally said. "I can't find any spells."

"Me neither. It must be a red herring."

"A very dead herring."

"And really weird-looking, to be a herring. Where are the fins?"

"Perhaps it was a fin-removal spell."

Their intense concentration dissolved into giggles, their breath transforming into clouds in the icy air.

"I wonder what colour a fin-removal spell is?"

"Pale green."

"No, that's the gills one."

It felt good to laugh and thaw their facial muscles a bit. Vebjörn came towards them with a curious smile on his face, and they straightened up and tried to be serious.

"How are you doing? You're having fun, apparently?"

"Sorry, sir. We got stuck for a bit," Malfoy said.

"Less of that 'sir' thing, Draco! Where did you get stuck? Or rather what got you stuck?"

"We found... this." They gestured vaguely at the dead squirrel. "And we couldn't make out whether it was part of the crime scene or not. We haven't been able to find any spells, so we think it probably isn't."

Vebjörn nodded approvingly. "Good work. It's always a problem, judging what is relevant for your investigation and what isn't. You're right, this poor little creature is nothing to do with your task tonight." He grinned at them. "Get on with it, then. It's a bit chilly out here, in case you haven't noticed."

He wandered off again, and the boys went back to their task, working quietly but intently side by side. And while they worked, Harry kept glancing at Malfoy's moonlit face, the dark smudges of his eyes, the shadowed mouth... He found it made him far too unfocussed.

Stop it, he told himself. Concentrate on your work.

But he still wondered, like he had when they were watching the aurora borealis, what it would be like to kiss Malfoy, to kiss those soft, cold lips.

* * *

Their week in the dark and cold was filled with hard work, but Draco found he enjoyed it. It was both annoying and motivating to be on a level with Potter - they egged each other on. It was interesting, too, to see how well they actually could work together and how they seemed to complement each other.

But they didn't only study. There were other things to try out, too - like skiing. Thursday morning arrived with brilliant sunshine, and Vebjörn offered to take the boys out and instruct them, leaving the MT theory lesson for the afternoon darkness.

Draco had never tried skiing before and wasn't sure he'd ever like to. But Potter was enthusiastic at the suggestion, and after Draco had thought for a minute, he agreed to go.

Now they were here, in the snow and blazing sunshine with skis like unfamiliar weights on their feet, and Draco wondered why he'd let himself be talked into this. The only consolation was that Potter had never done any skiing, either. Or perhaps that really was no consolation. What if he proved to be Wonderboy again, just as he had with flying?

Draco was more and more convinced that this wasn't going to be a good day. His feet felt steeped in concrete, and he couldn't control them. When he tried to move, they slid away from under him in all kinds of impossible directions.

They climbed up a little hill, slowly and painstakingly, and when they finally reached the top their arms were trembling. Vebjörn grinned at them as he leant on his poles.

"We'll practice on this little slope for a bit first," he said, "before we try anything steeper. Okay, guys. You have to balance your body weight..."

He had barely begun his instructions when Draco lost control over his feet again. They took him for a short but quick ride down the hill, wind biting his face, skis making a swishing sound in the snow. A very short ride. The world turned a somersault and a cloud of snow glittered around him, and for a moment he had no idea was up and what was down. He landed with a thud. When his vision cleared, everything was white and blue and criss-crossed with skis and poles, and he was spitting snow. Somewhere above him he heard Vebjörn's laugh ring through the silence, and then another laugh, slightly muffled by clothing. Potter.

If he turns out to be a good skier, I'll kill him. I swear I will.

But he wasn't - at least, not yet. Potter managed to get halfway down the slope, tried to make a turn and fell over in a spectacular way, poles flying. Then he was on his back in the snow, laughing like a maniac. Vebjörn shouted something at them and made a perfectly controlled S-shaped sweep down the slope, coming to an elegant halt about a foot from Potter, who was still giggling like mad, his black hair dusted with snow. Draco couldn't stop his own grin. Potter, you geek.

"Okay, get up! Get out of the snow - you mustn't get cold. Go back up there and give it another try. You were doing fine, Harry, excellent, until you leant too far back when you tried to make that turn. You have to keep your body weight balanced. Now, your mountain ski..."

Draco let himself fall back in the snow, looked up at the dazzlingly blue sky and let Vebjörn's words brush past him and disappear like the clouds of their breath. He knew that skiing would never come to him the way flying had.

* * *

Nor would ice skating, he thought late next afternoon as he sat in front of the kitchen fire, pulling off thick wet socks. Skating was easier than skiing, though, and being out on the frozen lake in golden winter sunshine, feeling the sharp steel under your feet cut through the feather-light, untouched snow that covered the ice - that was brilliant. But that burning pain in his ankles, and the unbelievably icy wind stinging his face...! He had lost count of the times he'd fallen over; he was bruised everywhere and his muscles were aching. He grimaced and straightened up, fists pressed into his back.

Ouch. I really do ache all over. And I wonder if I'll ever get warm again.

"Your turn in the shower, Malfoy." Potter stuck his head around the bathroom door. "The sauna is hot now. You joining me?"

Draco groaned. "Sauna? You're not serious, are you? Why would you want to be in a claustrophobic room where you sweat and can't breathe properly?"

"Come on, Malfoy. Vebjörn says going into the sauna is the best thing you can do when your muscles ache. Soothing and relaxing and all that. Well, do what you want then, Malfoy. I'm going in now."

"Good luck with the Scandinavian madness, Potter. If I haven't seen you or heard you make a sound in half an hour I'll check on you. To see if I can revive you from that cardiac arrest."

The annoying Potter grin disappeared into the sauna. Draco shook his head and limped into the shower. Of course he would go into the sauna. He just didn't want to admit he was going to take someone's advice.

He stayed in the shower much longer than usual, closing his eyes and letting the hot water spray over him, trying to ignore that irritating, gnawing sensation he always had in his stomach where Potter was concerned. Nervous about going into the sauna. How ridiculous could it get?

He wasn't shy or self-conscious. It wasn't that he felt awkward about being naked. He had spent seven years at a boarding school, after all. He played Quidditch. He was used to taking showers with other boys, seeing them in all states of undress, wrestling or running around the locker rooms trying to swat each other with wet towels twisted into ropes. It had never bothered him; it hadn't been a big deal. It was just normal.

A brief flash of memory: Lord Voldemort's eyes licking his naked back like flames. A poison-cold finger touching his tailbone...

He shuddered violently and turned the heat up.

No. It was the fact that this was Potter. This was Potter, and they were alone.

Should he go into the sauna naked? Was that what you did? Or should he wear a towel? He hated silly problems. He frowned and quickly decided on the coward approach. Towel.

He gasped at the dense wall of heat that met him when he entered the little room. Potter was stretched out on his back on the top bench, one towel spread under him like a beach towel and one around his hips. Draco near-smiled. So they had both chosen the coward approach. Did this mean Potter felt awkward, too? Or was it just the Gryffindor way? He could imagine them being prudes. Undressing stealthily in the dark.

Well, Potter certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Draco tried to look without being obvious as he climbed up to sit at the end of the bench by Potter's feet. He realised that even if he had seen the Slytherin boys naked a thousand times, he had never seen Potter without clothes. Nice chest, strong shoulders, well-developed muscles on his thighs... Draco, stop. He rested his elbows on his knees, looked down at his feet and was glad his face was already glowing from the humid heat.

"So you decided to risk that cardiac arrest?"

"I'm a Malfoy. We don't die from trivial things like heat stroke."

He leant against the wall, wincing as his back met hot pinewood. As he closed his eyes he felt heat surround him like an embrace, hold him and relax his muscles. He had to admit that these Scandinavians knew what they were doing. Well, at least some of the time. He opened his eyes again as he heard a groan of pleasure from Potter, echoing his own sensation.

"Mmmhh. This really is good." Potter stretched luxuriously and wiped a hand across his face where bright pearls of sweat and water had formed. "This is so fucking good."

Draco swallowed and tried not to imagine Potter saying that, exactly that, in response to... something else. Potter sat up and leant against the wall, replicating Draco's position. He stretched out his legs and grimaced.

"I don't think my feet have ached this much in my life."

Draco laughed.

"I know what you mean. Feet, calves, ankles... But it's easier than skiing. Much as I hate to admit it, Potter, you were pretty good on skis. I'll never learn to do it properly."

"You will," Potter said, surprisingly. "Vebjörn says you're graceful - you'll get the coordination sorted out. He's right, you know. I can see what he means. You are graceful." Potter looked down at his hands, looking embarrassed suddenly. Awkward. He hurried to continue, "I've always thought... well, perhaps not always, but from our sixth year or so... that you move... like a cat."

It wasn't the first time Draco had heard this. People apparently thought of him as feline, which he resented, as he had always regarded cats and felinity as feminine and deceptive. But he had never expected to hear it from Potter, and he was disturbed by the fact that he was almost pleased. Perhaps pleased to know that Potter had studied him that closely, and for so long. Somehow it was a very personal thing to say, by far the most personal comment Potter had ever made about him. And it was obvious from Potter's discomfort that he thought so, too. Draco had to smile a little.

"Like a cat? You mean I always land on my feet?"

Potter glanced up at him, disconcerted for a moment. But then he grinned, that slightly lopsided, annoyingly disarming grin.

"Judging from the past few days, Malfoy, I'd say you usually land on your arse."

Draco surprised himself by laughing. He seemed to have surprised Potter, too; the grin broadened.

And then there was something else underneath their smiles, an earnestness and a prolonged silence that held something neither of them could have described.

Draco looked into Potter's eyes, unshielded and unobscured by glasses, looked at the glowing face and the glistening drops of water, at the black hair pushed back from the forehead and curling damply, revealing the scar. Looked at the curve of his neck; where neck joined shoulder... And at the green eyes again.

They had a question in them now, a puzzled look that made Draco want to catch his breath. He looked at Potter's face and wondered what Potter saw in his.

He wasn't sure what made him do it, but he lifted his hand and touched the scar. Potter's eyes widened but he didn't move. His skin was wet and smooth under Draco's hand.

"Does it hurt...?" Draco asked quietly.

He traced the scar with his fingertip and Potter drew an unsteady breath.

"No," he whispered. "Not now. Only when... when he is there."

Draco's fingertip slowly traced the scar again, and then a third time, as he tried to analyse his feelings. They were new to him. He'd never wanted to pull someone to him and hug them tightly, to hold them and protect them, although he didn't know against what. It was so intense... too intense. It hurt.

They were still looking into each other's eyes. Potter's were worried now, and Draco wondered again what he saw.

His fingertip traced Potter's eyebrow and then slid lightly down his cheek, slowly drawing a path through drops of moisture. Potter was still like a statue, his hands in his lap and his eyes very wide.

Draco pulled away and let his hand fall down on his knee. He lowered his eyes. Somehow he didn't dare look at Potter any longer.

"I can't breathe in here," Potter murmured and scrambled down from the bench. The door closed behind him in a sigh of cool air.

Draco stared after him for a second and then leant back against the wall as he heard the sudden hiss of the shower. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall heavily onto the pinewood bench on either side of him. His palms stung with heat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I've made a complete bloody idiot of myself. I'll bet he hates me now. How the hell am I ever going to face him again?What the hell am I going to say?

He covered his face with his hands and stayed in that position until he heard the shower switch off and the door to the bathroom close.

* * *

Harry was shaking as he got out of the sauna. His hand trembled when he turned the shower on and bit back a yelp as cool water hit his burning skin. He stood under the flow of water with his eyes closed and face turned up, wanting to wash away the tingling of his scar as he imagined Malfoy's finger tracing it again and again...

It had just been too much. Sitting there, being touched... his scar being touched. Hardly anyone had ever done that, and it was as if his scar, contrary to scar tissue in general, was more sensitive to touch than the rest of his skin. Sitting there looking at Malfoy's flushed face, his lips so close... Sitting there looking into those beautiful grey eyes that held something that could only be described as... no, it couldn't be described.

Harry swore softly, soaped himself in quick, jerky movements and rubbed shampoo ungently into his hair and scalp. He inhaled the sweet-fresh fragrance and tried to make his arousal die down; tried not to think about flushed white skin or soft mouth or that hand touching him again and again.

Why did you do it, Malfoy? Fuck you. Fuck you for making me feel like an idiot. For making me feel like this.

Back in his room, Harry pulled on jeans and a jumper and heard Malfoy turn the shower on. He sat down on his bed with his head lowered, elbows on his thighs and hands hanging between his knees. Why was he making such a big deal out of this? Malfoy had touched him. Fine. They had been sitting very close, they had actually been laughing together, they had only had towels on. They had been glowing hot and dripping with sweat and moisture. It was a situation that called for intimacy. And Malfoy had touched him. It didn't mean a thing.

But it did for me! He was so close, and... and...but to him it only meant he got to touch Harry Potter's famous scar. He's probably wanted to do that since we were eleven. He didn't touch me. He touched legend. He touched myth. He touched someone who doesn't exist.

He stood up abruptly and kicked the leg of the bed so viciously he nearly cried out from the pain.

* * *

Draco went through the kitchen to his room, still with only a towel on. He brushed past Potter, who came out from his room, dressed and with wet hair dancing around his face. Avoiding his eyes. Draco shut his door harder than necessary, pulled the towel from his hips and started rubbing at his hair.

Anger blazed through him and pulsed through his veins in hot, rhythmical shocks. He knew it was embarrassment; he knew that the whole thing wasn't Potter's fault but his own. That didn't make him less angry. He dressed quickly, couldn't find his hairbrush, irritably pushed his fingers through his hair and met his own dangerously blazing eyes in the mirror. His eyebrows were drawn together and his skin was still flushed from the sauna.

Okay, so I don't look bad. All the more fool him for not wanting me.

It occurred to him that he could stay in his room and not leave it until the next morning, skip breakfast and not have to meet Potter until they were in the Study Hall with Vebjörn present. That way they wouldn't have to be alone. But the need to see how Potter would act with him was stronger than this cowardly impulse.

He went back to the kitchen.

Potter was sitting at the kitchen table with his textbook on Magical Tracing, parchment and ink next to him. The quill in his hand was poised over the parchment, but his eyes were turned to the dark window.

"How can people live here?" he said quietly. "It's dark all the time. Your internal clock would be shot to pieces."

Oh, so that's how it's to be.

Relief and disappointment washed through Draco as he sat down opposite Potter. Neutral. Conversational.

"Mine's shot to pieces already," he said. "Especially with all this waking up in the middle of the night to go tracing."

"I like it though," Potter said. "Not the dark, and not having to wake up in the middle of the night, but the actual tracing. I enjoy it."

"You're good at it."

"So are you."

Draco looked at Potter's hand holding the quill. He had powerful hands, not big but strong and sinewy with square fingertips. His face was calm and a little sad as he looked at the impenetrable darkness outside. His hair was drying and curling softly around his face, and Draco wanted to reach out and touch him again, touch his hair and find out if it was as silky as it looked. Potter suddenly turned his head and looked straight at him. Draco caught his breath.

"Draco."

"Yes?"

Potter was looking at him very steadily and very directly, and there was a determined look on his face. He seemed to have come to a conclusion about something he had pondered on.

"I just wanted to say..." He put his quill down as if it was distracting him. "You know you said the other night that I don't I trust you. That's not true. I do."

It wasn't what Draco had expected, but somehow it was the most perfect thing Potter could have said. The choking feeling was there again, the constricted throat, the same feeling he had had in the sauna when he wanted to pull Potter close and hold him.

Neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other for a moment before Potter looked down into his book, turned a page and dipped his quill in the ink bottle. Draco quietly went to get his own book. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure the sound reverberated in the room.

* * *

Two young men were sitting opposite each other with their heads bent over books and their elbows on the table. Now and again they turned pages or one of them made a note. Light fell from the paraffin lamp above their heads, the smooth blond one and the messy black one. They didn't speak. The only sounds heard in the room were their breathing, the occasional scratch of a quill and the soft thud and crackle when a log fell in the fireplace.

They sat there in silence for about an hour. Then the dark boy put down his quill, closed his book and stretched. He went to the bathroom to clean his teeth, said goodnight and went to bed. The fair-haired boy sat on for a while, staring into darkness. Then he too went to bed.

Neither of them remembered a single word of what he'd been reading.

* * *

Harry woke up to darkness, as always, but the sleepy heaviness in his body told him it was too early to be morning. He also knew that something had woken him. A thud. And there it was again, repeatedly, like something soft and heavy against the window. The kitchen window.

He scrambled out of bed, quickly pulled on a pair of socks and padded out into the kitchen. The door to Malfoy's room opened the same moment. Malfoy's hair was ruffled and his left cheek pillow-creased, but his eyes were sharp and awake.

"What was that?"

"I don't know," said Harry, but then he heard a sound he would have known anywhere. "Hedwig!"

She was there like a ghost outside the window. Harry fumbled the door open and caught her.

"Hedwig! What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

She perched on his arm and stared innocently at him with round yellow eyes. She didn't look upset or even tired, but rather as if she would have purred if she could.

"Hedwig...? Don't you have a message for me?"

He looked at her, checked her feet and under her wings, but there was nothing, not even the smallest note. She just blinked contentedly up at him. He heard Malfoy laugh softly.

"You know, I think she just missed you."

Harry stared at Hedwig. She made an affectionate little noise as if confirming Malfoy's theory. When Harry stroked her feathers, she turned her head and pushed her beak against his palm.

"Silly bird," he said, pleased and half-embarrassed. "I've missed you too."

He carried her into his room where she settled happily. When he returned to the kitchen, the sharp look in Malfoy's eyes had gone and he seemed amused.

"Have you no control over your animal, Potter?"

Harry blushed and hated himself for it, and laughed to cover up his discomfort. "Sorry she woke you."

The image of Malfoy seemed to burn his eyes. Harry thought he had never seen him so beautiful. Or so - if it hadn't been too ridiculous - so sexy. Oh, it was ridiculous. Malfoy was dressed in slightly rumpled blue pyjamas, he had pillow-crease imprints on his cheek and his face was still a little flushed from sleep. He had pushed his fingers through his hair but it was still ruffled. Why did this sleepy image seem even more gorgeous to Harry than the near-naked Malfoy in the sauna?

"Don't worry," Malfoy was saying. "Like I said, my internal clock is shot to pieces anyway. I could do with a cup of tea. Don't they have house elves in this backward country? Want some tea, Potter?"

"Yeah, why not. I'm wide awake anyway. Silly bird."

"She's nice," Malfoy said with his back turned as he dug for the tea tin in the cupboard. "And this is her natural environment, after all."

"I didn't think of that," Harry said, feeling ridiculous.

"You've had her ever since we started at Hogwarts, haven't you?"

"Yeah. Hagrid got her for me, for my birthday when I turned eleven. - Use Accio if you can't find the tea, Malfoy."

"Gah. ... Accio tea tin."

The tin came flying out of the cupboard and very nearly missed Malfoy's hand, but he saved it with the tips of his Seeker's fingers. He muttered "stupid..." under his breath, and Harry grinned. Malfoy's turn to feel ridiculous - it was only fair.

"You know, I was almost a little scared of Hedwig at first," he offered as an apology for grinning.

"Were you?" Malfoy gave him an amused glance. "Why?"

"Well." Harry took a deep breath. "I grew up with Muggles, as you know, and Muggles don't have owls as pets. I don't think I'd ever seen a real, live owl before, and suddenly I was the owner of one. It was very strange. But then, everything was new and strange to me. I didn't know anything at all about the Wizarding world."

Hedwig had only been one of all the surprising, amazing things happening. There had been so much to learn and get used to; so many things that people like Malfoy took for granted because they had known them since they were born. Like Ron did. He helped me so much, with everything. Harry couldn't believe he was telling Malfoy about Hedwig. Ron wouldn't have believed it, either.

Malfoy turned around and handed Harry a steaming mug. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and their eyes met.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The atmosphere was suddenly charged. Harry set his mug down on the table and looked at Malfoy's face in the firelight, at the shadows playing over his throat and hair. His eyes looked huge.

"Malfoy."

"Yes?"

"Do you dislike me?"

Malfoy started and quickly put his mug down as if to stop the liquid from betraying the sudden tremor of his hand. The grey eyes returned to Harry's face, firelight flickering in them.

"That's a weird question, Potter. I don't know. I don't really know you."

"That's an even weirder answer. We've known each other since we were eleven."

They stared at each other before Malfoy countered:

"Do you dislike me?"

"I..." Harry had a big lump in his throat. It made speaking difficult, and he thought it wouldn't go away until he could touch Malfoy, touch his face, run gentle fingers through the blond hair. "I don't... know. I thought I did. But now... no, I don't think I do."

Malfoy's eyes looked radiant in the firelight and he seemed to be waiting for something.

Can I touch him? He touched me earlier. Does that mean I can touch him the same way, and he won't back away...?

Harry's heart beat in his throat and pounded in his ears as he took a step closer and reached out a hand. This took more courage than fighting Voldemort. Or perhaps just a different kind. His fingertips met Malfoy's hair, so silkily soft it was like a breath. He touched Malfoy's cheekbone and gently let his palm cradle the cheek. His heart nearly stopped as Malfoy closed his eyes and leant into the touch. It was only a minute movement, but Harry felt it.

Harry was trembling now. He moved closer, so close he had to move his feet sideways not to step on Malfoy's. He still held Malfoy's face as he lifted his other hand to touch Malfoy's lips. He couldn't believe it when the tip of Malfoy's tongue came out to meet the pad of his index finger. Heat uncurled in his stomach and spiralled downward.

As if he'd had an answer to his unspoken question, he removed his fingers from Malfoy's mouth and kissed him, very gently. It was only lips brushing against lips first, gliding tentatively, as if they had to get used to the fantastic feeling of warm touch and warm breath. Then a firmer touch, more pressure, soft sucking on a lip... When tips of tongues met, Malfoy's hands at the small of Harry's back told him that the kiss was neither a surprise nor unwelcome.