Eclipse

The rope that's wrapped around me
Is cutting through my skin
And the doubts that have surrounded me
Are finding their way in.
I keep it close to me,
Like a holy man prays.
In my desperate hour
It's better that way.

(~Melissa Etheridge)

Chapter 5

Nothing to Lose

Draco spent a long, difficult night wrestling with the slew of thoughts, questions, and images that danced unceasingly through his mind. He was desperately trying to make some sense of them all, and failing miserably. There was something strange about Potter, something tenacious, intense, and utterly infuriating, and whatever it was had left Draco dangling from a noose of his own design.

Over the years, he'd told himself he wanted nothing more than to see Potter helpless, trapped, tormented, receiving every bit of punishment Draco had ever felt the other boy deserved. Then he could watch Potter break down. It would be all the proof he needed, to see how pathetic Harry Potter really was, how worthy of scorn, how weak without the rest of the world bending down to kiss his arse. Not once had he considered that he might be wrong; that Harry might have that strength all on his own, and a tenacity Draco was unable to counter.

Harry Potter had been a permanent resident of Draco's most intense thoughts for years. Until now, he had never let himself dwell on the reasons why Potter was such a driving force behind his actions and motives. It had just been the daily routine; wake up, brush teeth, go to class, harass Potter. However, with the current situation weighing heavily on him, he berated himself for not having realized the extent of this problem. It had been a complete obsession, and that obsession was bound to get to him eventually. He had known it all along; he just hadn't admitted it to himself. Somehow, he'd always known.

The only way he was going to be able to sort any of this out would be to talk to Potter for himself, question him, get into his head. The official reason for his assigned guard duty became secondary to his new personal mission. He wanted to know why that little scar on his arm was such a sensitive topic. He wanted to know how the hell Potter could be so nonchalant when he spoke of the Dark Lord. Mostly, underneath it all, he needed to know why he found the boy fascinating.

Until now, his fascination had been from the outside, looking in. Draco's interactions with others, even his family, had always been impersonal. With Potter, he had bridged that gap, even if inadvertently. Now that he'd had a taste of the inside view, he wanted more. Needed more.

He could scarcely admit even to himself that he'd had a conversation with Potter, but that's exactly what it had been; a civil conversation. It had left him jittery, like a child who had just discovered the candy jar hidden in the back of the pantry; afraid that he'd be caught, yet unable to resist the temptation of the sweet things hidden there. He replayed the entire dialogue over in his head, repeatedly, and found that his stomach would jump around uncomfortably at certain points in the conversation.

When Harry had dared him to say the Dark Lord's name, it had scared him without a doubt, but thinking back on it made his breath catch tightly in his throat. He had felt a strange prickle along his scalp when Potter had whispered, "Thank you," and a harsh jolt whenever he'd been unfortunate enough to be caught by one of those intense gazes; eyes that seemed to drill through his brain, to a part of him he didn't want to acknowledge. When he'd grabbed Harry's wrist, or as he'd stopped Harry from falling over backwards when the injuries threatened to cause him to pass out again, the physical contact had felt strange to Draco, like touching a live wire.

Draco cut off the memory of the touch as quickly as possible. Even with his family, physical contact was limited and impersonal. Closeness just wasn't a part of his life, but who would have expected that such a brief contact, with a person he'd been sworn to hate, could put a vulnerable little crack the barricades he'd erected around the part of him that required warmth, touch, and human emotion? Those things just didn't belong in the life of a Malfoy. There was no place for it. It was a liability.

There was a certain way things worked in the world. Draco knew this; he'd taken care to learn his lessons, and he trusted his father. However, his perfect little applecart was now running into some very deep holes in the road, and who on earth would have guessed that Potter would be the one to dig them? Little things, things that anyone else would have missed, were beginning to turn his world upside down. Or, on second thought, perhaps his world was still upright and he, himself had been overturned.

Regardless, he found himself falling inescapably towards a harsh realization. They weren't so different, he and Harry, not really. He insisted to himself that the idea was ludicrous, night and day, Slytherin and Gryffindor. Of course, there were differences, most of which put him at a disadvantage, much to his chagrin, but the similarities were the object of his attention now. His curiosity would no longer let the issue disappear on its own. He had to know more. Of course, if he wanted any chance not to completely blow it, he would have to tread very carefully indeed.

Somewhere in this mess, a new valuable lesson was dangling in front of his face, bait on a particularly nasty hook, but he knew that to miss this lesson, not to bite, would be unforgivable. He spent the night trying to decipher the lesson, to get one step ahead.

However, as he stared at Harry through the night, he only came to one conclusion with any certainty. Harry had not been asleep the night before.

Last night, Harry had been perfectly still, not twitching, not turning over, tucked up neatly against the wall. It would have been a very convincing act too, had it not been for tonight's performance. At some point this time around, Harry must have finally drifted off to sleep. It appeared sleep for Harry was a restless sort of thing, and he was soon tossing and turning on the dungeon floor, muttering to himself, calling out occasionally, caught in the grips of some nightmare. In the slurred words, Draco could make out names, and he began to take meticulous mental notes of the emotions displayed with each new name, each one being a window Potter was opening, unknowingly, into his subconscious.

First, Harry cried out for his Mother. Oh, the poor little boy, he lost his mummy. Draco had expected tears to accompany these cries, something pathetic and laughable to Draco's mind. He hadn't been prepared for the raw fury he saw instead. Despite a complete and comprehensive lack of proof, Draco was quite certain that Harry was dreaming of the Dark Lord, the cause of his parents' deaths. Tears, he could have laughed at tears. This, on the other hand, scared him. At one point, Harry hissed in pain, his hand snapping up to his forehead, causing Draco to jump.

Not long after that, Draco caught the names of Ron and Hermione. Worried about the Mudblood and the Weasel, no doubt, as well he should be. When the Dark Lord begins his systematic revenge with the destruction of Hogwarts, they'll be amongst the first to die. Where he should have been pleased with that knowledge, instead it left his face pinched and his chest strangely hollow. Voldemort killed wantonly and recklessly, and although Draco had told himself many times that he wanted the school to be rid of Mudbloods, the complete destruction of Hogwarts, and the deaths of so many students seemed excessively violent, even to him. It was his school too.

Harry's hand slammed against the ground, though he remained asleep, growling, "No! Not them, not them... Me. Take me... Can't... just make it worse... No! My fault... all my fault..."

Draco's eyebrows knitted together and he leaned forward in his seat, hunching over his knees. Harry continued to moan, and as he rolled to his side and back again, Draco could see spots of moisture on his clothes from the condensation on the stone floor. The sleeping arrangements were definitely uncomfortable, but it seemed apparent that the dreams were worse. Although he could only guess at the images dancing through Harry's mind, Draco felt he was beginning to construct a fairly good synopsis of it.

"Won't let him... use me... get to them. Not goin' to use me... rather die."

Draco was unaware that his lower jaw was beginning to drop open, and that his breathing was becoming erratic as he became totally absorbed in watching this unfold.

"Not them... him or me... alone... up to me... don't kill... don't want this... my fault. All my fault. Sirius!"

With a violent lurch, Harry flipped over onto his stomach and woke up, still gasping. When he realized where he was, he slapped his hands onto the floor with a grunt and raked his fingers across the stone surface as if they were claws, and he were a enormous cat tearing at a plush carpet, before pushing himself slowly to his hands and knees. He kept his head lowered, but Draco could still see the muscles bunching up at the corner of his jaw.

As though completely unaware of the rest of his surroundings, Harry heaved himself back to his spot by the wall, rubbing just beneath a lump in his breast pocket. He reached into the folds of cloth and pulled out his glasses, which, after his night of thrashing about, seemed even more mangled than before. He was about to put them on when he realized how badly they were damaged. With a grunt of irritation, he began to delicately bend and twist the frames into something that might stay on his face.

All the while, he was completely ignoring the boy on the outside of the cell, staring in at him intently.

Draco wasn't going to be the one to speak first. He refused. It would be damaging to his dignity to give in to his curiosities like that, to admit aloud that he actually wanted to talk to Potter.

Harry moved the earpiece of his glasses back and forth on the hinge, producing a high pitched squeak.

Draco bit his lower lip. His questions were pushing at him, demanding attention, and much to his irritation, Potter was still ignoring him.

Fiddling with the nose pad, then once again with the earpieces, Harry screwed up his face in concentration, continuing to pay no attention to Malfoy.

Draco squirmed.

Harry checked the lenses of his glasses against the faint light from the dungeon torches, and shook his head. He pulled out the edge of his shirt and wiped the lenses on it, pointlessly, because you can't wipe away scratches and his shirt was as filthy as the glass. When he finally held them out in front of him again, they were every bit as bad as before, but he sighed in resignation and settled them onto his face. He leaned back against the wall with a heavy thud, and the broken glasses fell off on to his lap.

"Potter, just give me the bloody glasses!" Draco hadn't realized he had spoken until after the words were out of his mouth.

Harry had already begun trying to balance the damaged eyeglasses on his face again when he heard Draco's words and froze. He dropped his right hand so he could see Draco without having to turn his head, still holding the glasses to his face with his left. "What?"

"You're driving me crazy messing with those things," he said impatiently. "Just let me fix them and be done with it."

Harry let his left hand, still holding the glasses, fall into his lap. "Oh, so now it's Mr. Nice Guy, coming to fix everything? You can't play 'good-cop, bad-cop' when you're only one cop, Malfoy."

"What's 'good-cop, bad-cop'?" Draco seemed authentically confused.

"Never mind, it's a Muggle thing."

Draco rolled his eyes. "It figures."

Harry leaned forward, challenging. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco clenched his teeth for a moment. Don't irritate him if you want to question him, he reminded himself. "Forget it. Do you want your glasses fixed or not?"

"I can fix them myself," Harry said obstinately.

"Do you have to make something this simple into a bloody debate? Your glasses are broken, and I offered to fix them."

Harry snatched his glasses from his lap and shoved them roughly onto his face. "They're fine," he snapped.

The glasses tumbled back into his lap.

Draco's face twisted up as a laugh threatened to burst from him.

Harry tried to scowl. The truncated laugh from Draco should have only encouraged that scowl, but as Harry glanced down at the glasses lying in his lap, then back at Draco who was now laughing openly, the corners of his frown shifted into an embarrassed sort of grin. He found himself chuckling dryly; he had to admit, it was a bit silly.

When Draco stopped laughing, he finally asked, "So are you going to give me your glasses or not?"

Harry took a steadying breath and let his shoulders droop. "What have I got to lose?"

Raising an eyebrow as he stood, Draco pondered this. Indeed, what did he have to lose? What did either of them have to lose? He took a step towards the cell, but then reconsidering, reached back and dragged the chair along behind him to sit it next to the bars.

Harry regarded him curiously, but conceded to lean across and hand the glasses through the bars.

Draco appraised the damage as he settled back into his chair. "You did one hell of a job on these."

"I don't think I caused most of the damage myself," Harry said cynically.

Draco nodded as he turned the glasses over in his hands, before announcing in a blunt tone, "You caused some of it." He pulled out his wand and prodded the glasses with them lightly. "Reparo."

With a faint snapping sound, the glasses sat perfectly restored in Draco's hand. He smiled in approval of his handiwork, and then passed them back through the bars to Harry.

Settling the glasses back on his face, he thanked Draco with a silent nod. It wasn't much, but it was an acknowledgement. "What do you mean, that I caused some of the damage myself?" he asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, to disguise the curiosity and slight confusion.

Draco tipped his head. "You weren't even aware of it? Tossing and turning all night while you slept, you probably rolled over on them a few times. What were you dreaming about?"

If Harry had started to relax at all, he wasn't now. His back and shoulders went rigid and his expression turned to stone. "What?" he whispered. Of course, Harry knew he talked in his sleep. Both Dudley and Ron had confirmed this, but still, what on earth might he have said in front of Malfoy? He'd rather let Dudley stand over him at night with a tape recorder than let Malfoy hear one word of his private thoughts, but there was nothing he could do. No matter how hard he tried not to, he'd fall asleep eventually, exposing his thoughts unconsciously to Malfoy, stuck there like some animal on display for the benefit of his captor. Now he really knew how the snake at the zoo had felt.

"You were talking in your sleep," Draco continued, reminding himself to tread carefully if he wanted any sort of answer. "Thrashing pretty violently, too, might I add."

"Well, the dungeon floor isn't exactly the best place for sweet dreams, now is it?"

"Would you like a teddy bear, Potter?" He couldn't resist.

"Shut up, Malfoy!"

"Touchy!" Draco leaned back in mock-surprise.

"What did you expect, Malfoy?" Harry snarled. "For me to gush all my dreams to you? Fat chance. I did that enough in Trelawney's class, and all she ever did was remind me of just how soon I was going to die. Well, we already know the answer to that question now, don't we?"

Draco flinched inwardly. Wrong approach. Definitely the wrong approach. He weighed his next words out carefully. "Well, seeing as you were hollering people's names all night, I'll admit I'm a little curious about what you were dreaming about, in addition to whom."

"Names? I don't remember," Harry replied guardedly.

Draco watched Harry's impassive face through narrowed eyes. A little prod, perhaps? "Something about your mother..."

"Don't you EVER speak about my parents," Harry said with such force that Draco sat back in his chair, verbally stunned.

"God, Potter, I wasn't insulting her, I was only trying to jog your memory, which is apparently quite short."

"My memory is quite good, thank you very much."

"Was that Sirius Black you were yelling for? Isn't he. . .?"

"SHUT UP!" Harry howled, baring his teeth like a wounded animal, and for the first time since he'd been captured, displaying any trace of emotional weakness. "Just SHUT UP about him! You have no right... You can't say..." His voice broke.

Sitting there, at a loss for words, Harry tried to bury the thoughts away, tried to forget. There was nothing he could do, either about Malfoy, or about Sirius. Both were currently well beyond his reach, although he would most gladly exchange their places if he could. Just like everything else, all his life, all he could do was stand strong and handle this on his own. One thing was for certain though, that he would not break down in front of Malfoy. That was the last thing he would ever do. He'd held his ground for this long; he wasn't about to give up. Never give up. Not now, not ever. He steadied his breathing and stared at the far wall, wishing he could make himself invisible, waiting for Malfoy to seize the opportunity of this sudden weakness and pounce.

Draco, however, had also found himself at a loss for words, but for an entirely different reason. He usually wanted to make Harry upset, wanted to infuriate him, but this was different. This time, he hadn't meant to do it, and had completely failed in his attempt not to anger the boy.

Of course, Draco knew Black had died, even though it hadn't been public knowledge; Black had been a relative of his mother's, albeit one who had fallen from favour. He also knew Black had also once been a friend of the Potters, and from somewhere in his memory, he'd been dimly aware that Sirius was Harry's godfather. Was that it? Potter was still in mourning? But hadn't Black been the one who betrayed the Potters? Wait, no, that was the public knowledge. His father had mentioned once that Black had been framed, which made sense, as the man had never supported Voldemort. Did Potter know all this? Was it yet another loss of family for the Boy Who Lived? Strange.

Draco's train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of breakfast.

"Good morning, Master Malfoy, sir!" greeted Biddy cheerfully. "Here is your breakfast, Master Malfoy, sir! And a note from Mistress Malfoy." The house elf indicated a small roll of parchment on the tray. "Will Master Malfoy be needing anything else, sir?"

Draco shook his head and motioned with his hand to dismiss the elf. With a deep bow, Biddy left the dungeons. Casting a brief glance at Potter, Draco reached for the letter.

"Draco, although officially I still have to claim not to know where you are, the Ministry is naturally quite suspicious, and I expect them to arrive to search the Manor tomorrow. You father will be arriving tonight. You will accompany the prisoner to the Dark Lord's base of operations in the north, and will continue to have the honour of guarding the prisoner. Give Biddy a list of the things you will require while there. I am assigning her completely to you for now to take care of your needs.

You've made your father and me quite proud."

No warmth, just business. It was no surprise. That was his mother's way with things. For her to mention her pride in Draco was an extravagant compliment coming from her. He probably wouldn't see her before he left with Potter. Shrugging that off, Draco focused on the matter at hand.

The order to evacuate the Manor was also no surprise. It had to happen, Draco knew. His father hadn't been staying at the Manor, and with Draco and Harry being the two people missing, of course Malfoy Manor would be searched, and as such, Potter would have to be moved. He hadn't been sure if he would be allowed to continue his guard duties once Potter had been moved, and now he was grateful for this in more than one way. First, it meant he had gained at least a shred of acceptance amongst the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers, but also, and in his mind, more importantly, he would have the continued opportunity to speak to Potter.

He rolled the note back up and set it down on the floor. A second later, it burst into flames.

Harry eyed him with dark curiosity.

"No evidence," Draco tried to explain.

Potter merely grunted in reply.

"Right then," Draco mumbled to himself, as he reached for the breakfast tray and began piling food onto two plates.

"How did you know?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco's head shot up. "About what?"

"About... Sirius." His voice was weak and choked on the last word. "It wasn't public knowledge."

"Well," Draco set the plate down. "My family does tend to have inside information, as you know. Always have. Besides, even though he was labeled as a traitor, he was distantly related to my mother."

"Distantly," Harry snorted in contempt. "They were first cousins. That's not exactly distant, although I'd say he deserved better family. The very thought of being related to you."

"Me?"

"Don't be stupid. If he was your mother's cousin, then you're related to him too, you know."

"I suppose. I've never bothered to consider it."

"Of course you've never considered it," Harry said coldly.

"He was a traitor to the bloodline, so it didn't really matter." Draco didn't like the fact that he was unsure where this conversation was going, there were only so many possibilities, and none were exactly pleasant.

"I should have known to expect an attitude like that from you." Harry folded his arms across his chest. "To people like you, family is something you can discard the instant it becomes inconvenient, or threatens to tarnish your bloody image."

Of course, that concept was all too familiar to Harry, having been told all his life that he was nothing but a nuisance, a burden to his aunt and uncle. He was good for nothing, and should have been ignored the day he was placed on the doorstep. Hidden from the world, verbally disowned. By now, it was easy for Harry to ignore the pain that would hit most people upon thinking that their family cared nothing for them. He had grown up with it. However, Malfoy hadn't.

Draco sat there stone-faced, but inwardly stunned. "No, it's not like that."

"No, Malfoy. That's exactly what it's like. If you're not half as brainwashed as I once thought you were, you'd see it plainly."

"He was a traitor," Draco repeated vaguely, but underneath it, he knew Harry was right, down to the last detail. The honour of the family name must be upheld above any individual. That's just how things work. However, the way Harry had said it, the concept took on a whole new dimension in Draco's mind.

"He had his own ideas, Malfoy. Mostly the problem seems to be that he actually cared about people. That made him an inconvenience, a blemish, and then his own family saw fit to wipe his name from the family tree. Is that how it is with people like you, Malfoy? They disown their relatives the instant they become inconvenient?"

Draco's mouth felt dry. He sat back slowly, thinking. Of course a person who brought dishonor to the family would be disowned. Cast aside, because people had no value beyond their particular usefulness to the family name. Draco tried to bury the thought, but it kept bubbling beneath the surface. He had tried to ignore so many things in the past few days that his brain could forget no more.

His time of trial was coming soon, and he could feel it. If he faltered, if he made a mistake, if he failed, would be cast aside just as wantonly? Meaningless to his family? No... his father would never... would he? Besides, he was a true Malfoy. He wouldn't waver, wouldn't make any mistakes.

He gave the idea one last resolute shove out of his way, and replied. "You don't know a damn thing about preserving the honour of a bloodline. Some people haven't earned the surnames they carry, haven't lived up to them. I, however, have. My family does. A name can be a burden."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Draco and gave him a thin, nasty smile. "So proud to be a Malfoy, are you?"

Draco tipped his chin up. "Absolutely. My surname has a proud heritage. It actually stands for something."

"And what exactly does the Malfoy name stand for?" He looked positively malicious.

"The finest wizarding traditions, purity of blood, honour..."

"Some tradition," Harry cut him off with a sharp sneer. "What good is a family tradition if family doesn't matter?"

Not wanting to hear this, not at all, Draco snapped back. "It matters plenty! But that doesn't mean you still don't have to earn you place."

"Ah, I see," Harry nodded slowly, as though pondering this profoundly. "So, Sirius didn't earn his place by your standards, didn't measure up, so he's worthless. Anyone who isn't the perfect model of a pureblooded, Muggle-hating, Voldemort-worshipping, Slytherin isn't worth a damn thing, right?"

"You're such a bloody Gryffindor, Potter. Chivalrous, standing up for everyone."

"Oh, so I suppose it's a Slytherin thing not to care about anyone but yourself?"

"Something like that," Draco replied dryly. "And you're a Gryffindor. I wouldn't expect you to be able to understand what it means to defend a family name."

Harry froze. The funny thing was, he did understand. He hated the way families like the Malfoys worked, he would never take part in something like that, but he understood what Draco was saying. He was proud of his own family name, too. He'd defended it... and he'd been so hurt when he'd realized that not even the Potter name stood blameless.

Looking back on what little he knew of his family, he remembered his own mixed feelings when he had stepped into Snape's memory. Thinking of what his father and Sirius had done, he was almost embarrassed of their behavior, to think that Snape hated the Potter name because of his father's actions. Actions that had seemed strangely Slytherin in their manner. Very Slytherin, actually. He blinked, swallowed. "I almost wasn't," he whispered.

"What are you talking about, Potter?"

"A Gryffindor. I almost wasn't a Gryffindor." His head toppled forward. He seemed almost ashamed of himself.

At this, Draco's mouth opened in surprise, and then he slowly leaned forward, watching Harry very closely. "How could you almost not be in a certain house? The Sorting Hat just chooses one based on what you have, or don't have, between your ears."

"It was going to put me into another house, and I'd heard some stuff about that house, and wanted nothing to do with it."

"Potter, you're not going to tell me what I think you're going to tell me."

Harry nodded, and his voice became slightly distant, as though pulling the words from a vague memory, which of course he was. "You could be great you know. It's all here, inside your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness," he quoted. "That's what the Sorting Hat said to me."

"Then why the hell did it put you in Gryffindor?"

"I asked it not to put me in Slytherin."

"Why?" Draco's voice was a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"Two reasons, I guess." Harry sighed and wrapped his arms around his legs in front of him, staring at the floor. "Firstly, I'd heard that all the wizards that went Dark had been in Slytherin. Secondly," he looked up and caught Draco with his eyes, "You'd already been sorted into that house. Priority not necessarily in that order."

Draco looked back at Harry, dumbfounded. There was no reason to believe Potter was lying. He actually seemed ashamed of the prospect of being a Slytherin, as though such a thing was an embarrassment. The fact that Draco was part of the reason Harry was so repulsed by the Slytherin house just made the idea even more infuriating. Simultaneously, the idea of them almost having been in the same house was... was...

The Sorting Hat didn't lie. It knew. It knew things about people, things they didn't even know about themselves, and for some reason, it had thought Harry was suited to Slytherin, with Draco. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it answered at least one of the questions pressing against Draco's mind. He and Potter weren't all that different, not really. Now that he had that answer, he wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. Regardless, the implications were undeniable.

Looking at Harry now, Draco was forced to recognize the boy as something he had never seen before, or at least, had never allowed himself to acknowledge; Potter was an equal. He would never admit that aloud, of course, but he knew it. It also forced a card Draco found himself playing more often than he liked these past few days; respect.

In another corner of Draco's brain, the other part of what Harry had said was beginning to resonate uncomfortably. He had driven Harry to hate Slytherin before Harry had even been sorted... and it bothered him. He wasn't really that offensive, was he? "You barely knew me, and you'd already decided you hated me. Isn't that judgmental on your part?"

Harry pursed his lips. "The first time I'd ever met you, all you did was make snide remarks about Hagrid, and how anyone who wasn't a pureblood shouldn't be allowed to live, never mind go to school. You boasted that you were going to make the quidditch team, and then you asked my surname as though that decided everything there was to know about me."

"That... that was at Madam Malkin's. You... actually remembered that?"

"I guess my memory isn't so short after all."

"No, I guess not." Draco nodded slowly. "I remember too."

The brief silence that followed was an unspoken admission of something they'd always known. Since the very beginning, they'd established each other as rivals, as marked men. Nobody else dug under Draco's skin like Harry, nobody boiled Harry's blood like Draco. They'd been there since the start, mirroring each other, their rivalry acting as an almost tangible, constant companion.

In a perverse way, Draco realized that were he to lose that, he would miss it, like some part of himself would be lost in that parting. He had been playing off of Harry for so long. He felt his breath catch as it struck him that he was indeed going to lose that companionship; Harry was going to die at the Dark Lord's hand very soon. It was his victory, Draco reminded himself. He should be thrilled, but now, he really wasn't too sure.

It was crazy. He had won. It was what he'd always wanted, since the day he'd extended his hand to Potter, only to be snubbed.

Snubbed. Right. Perhaps Potter was always more Slytherin than he wanted to admit. In that moment, Harry had set the balance of the struggle between them with a very hefty load. The scales that had balanced their power-play had finally tipped, and it was only now, looking back, that Draco realized just how precariously balanced they'd been, what worthy opponents they were for each other.

But Draco hadn't been the one actually controlling this battle. He hadn't won. It was Voldemort's ultimate victory, while Draco was still struggling with his childish rivalry. Harry was like a king that had been carelessly toppled before the checkmate, with no stalemate. Voldemort was holding the power pieces, and Draco was the pawn used to corner Harry. Nothing more. It felt wrong to see it end like this, that something was missing. It felt empty.

Draco sighed, looked over at the breakfast tray, and absently enquired, "Tea?"

"I already told you," Harry replied softly. "I don't like..."

"...tea without sugar," Draco finished for him. "You already told me. Just being polite."

"Why don't you drink it?"

Draco allowed himself a small smile as he looked up at Harry. "Because I don't like it without sugar either."

Harry peered back at Draco with more than a little bit of incredulity, but finally allowed himself to smile back in amusement. "You could call Biddy and ask for sugar, you know."

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Draco muttered sarcastically.

Harry tipped his head back. "Too busy antagonizing me, probably."

"Can you think of a better pastime?" Draco smirked.

"Honestly..." Harry mused softly.

"Don't answer that." Draco poured a tumbler of pumpkin juice. "Marmalade or berry preserves?"

"Marmalade," Harry said easily.

"Not fighting every last thing I try to do now, are we?" True curiosity nibbled at the edge of his sarcasm.

Harry folded his arms across his chest, reclining slightly. "Why bother?"

Draco felt an inexplicably strong flash of hope. Well, perhaps not thoroughly inexplicable, he reasoned with himself. Perhaps Potter was softening up. The prospect of that was quite pleasing. "Starting to trust me or something, Potter?" he asked easily.

"No. Nor do I like you."

Although nothing obvious changed in Harry's demeanor, the undercurrent in his words caused Draco's stomach to twist as though a carpet had been pulled out sharply from underneath him. If he felt he had been gaining ground before, that sensation was gone in a heartbeat. "Potter, I figure I've been as cordial as possible under these conditions."

"You figured wrong. You handed me over to Voldemort to die, and don't think I'm not blatantly aware of it. Every time I see your face through these bars, I remember that you put me here."

"Fuck, Potter! I'm just doing my job!" Without considering the implications of his words, Draco continued to rant. "It's not as though I would even have a real choice in the matter! It's the Dark Lord's work, not my responsibility. I'm not killing anyone here!"

Harry's hard voice was a startling contrast to Draco's frantic tirade. "You really think it's not your responsibility? Grow up and drop your happy little illusion, Malfoy. My blood is on your hands now, no matter how you look at it. That's something you can keep on your conscience for the rest of your life, if you even have a conscience. Which frankly, I doubt."

Draco looked down at his hands and quickly looked away again, balling them into fists and clenching his teeth.

"Worry about your family honour," Harry said in a mock-soothing tone. "It's what you're good at. I've got bigger problems, because if I die at Voldemort's hand, then everyone I ever cared about is going to follow. The ones who haven't been killed already, that is. I already feel responsible for enough deaths, but this time, you started it. You're the cause. The moment you stabbed that knife into my shoulder, you accepted the responsibility of not only my death, but theirs too. I hope you're proud of yourself."

Harry went silent for a moment and looked down, not so much deep in thought, as simply far, far away.

Draco bit his tongue. He hadn't killed anyone. Not him. Sure, someday, as a Death Eater, he might kill a few faceless Muggles and Mudbloods, but he had never actually thought about it. It was something in the far future, and it wasn't actually real. But this, it was blood on his hands... his hands. The knife, in his hands, stabbing, poisoning, killing. This was here, this was now.

Finally, Harry broke the silence again himself. "Still, you were right about one thing. Starving myself won't do any good." His voice was deceptively casual, but Draco could still feel the tightly contained rage and bitterness hidden beneath the surface.

Just when thing had seemed to begin relaxing... Draco closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at Harry just then. He might have pulled the boy back from being a few centimeters short of death after Voldemort had finished playing with him, but Draco had put him there in the first place. He hated to make the admission, but he had no choice. Potter was right. Damned to die by Voldemort's hand, and Draco was the one holding the bloody chains.

But, for god's sake, what was he thinking? It was just his duty! He, Draco Malfoy, was only doing his duty. How could even Potter blame him for that? Once this mess was all over, the confusion would disappear, his tradition-bound fate would be clear again, and he would be able to follow that path with an equally clear conscience. And yes, he had a conscience, damn it, but it was a Malfoy's conscience. He was still a Malfoy. A proud Malfoy.

However, it wasn't the Malfoy in him that suddenly found itself saying, "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." Harry's reply wasn't harsh or bitter, just a mere statement of fact, but somehow, that made it much worse.

"I said it, didn't I?"

"Ever heard the phrase, 'actions speak louder than words,' Malfoy?" You're not sorry. I don't even think you're capable of being sorry."

"Then what the hell do you want, Potter?" Draco threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I think that should be obvious, even to you. I know you can't do it though. You'd never be able to, because your neck is more important than anyone else's."

Draco swallowed against his dry throat and attempted his best contemptuous sneer. "Oh, and I suppose I should put your neck before mine?"

"Not just mine, you prat. Anyone's! When Hogwarts is destroyed, and it will if Voldemort has his way, how many of your friends will die? Or do you not have any real friends? Are they just people you use, in the true Malfoy style? Do they mean a damn thing to you, Malfoy?"

Draco's mind flashed to his housemates. Sure, they were his school companions, but his friends? He had grown up with Crabbe and Goyle, and had known quite a few of his housemates since they were children, but how close was he really to any of them? On a personal level? Closeness had never been part of the equation with his acquaintances, but still, he didn't want them to die. The possibility that they were at risk had never crossed his mind, but now, it seemed unavoidable.

Harry appraised the haunted look on Draco's face with cold approval. "It doesn't really matter. Though. You're too much of a bloody coward to risk yourself for them, even if you did care. That, and it would deprive you of the immeasurable satisfaction of seeing me dead. Doubtless that's the most important thing. You couldn't prove you're sorry. Even if you are; you can't do it."

Draco took a risk and let himself fully catch Harry's stare again. Those eyes were terribly expressive, taunting him, daring him, explaining to him more precisely than words all the hundreds of ways in which he was a coward, but this time, they were also searching him. It was almost indiscernible, but Draco knew Harry's face almost as well as he knew his own, and he could see it. Potter's eyebrows were furrowed just slightly, and his mouth was pulled tighter than it should have been. Under his outward expression of familiar defiance, Draco could see that Harry was begging him, hoping beyond reason, that Draco would say he was wrong. Somehow, Draco might just rise to the heated challenge, might want to prove he was sorry. Mind game or not, Draco felt himself almost wish he could have... but no.

He dropped the stare. "You're right. I can't. I can't be something I'm not, Potter, so don't try to bloody well fool yourself."

"I'm not fooling anybody, Malfoy. I know you can't do it." He spoke flatly, and this time Draco didn't dare to search Harry's eyes for another clue as to what he was feeling. Draco wasn't sure if he imagined the trace of disappointment in the voice.

Harry continued, "But don't fool yourself into thinking you can lay the blame on that bloody, royal Malfoy name. Your choices make you what you are." He laughed bitterly. You said it wasn't your choice. Bull shit, Malfoy. Even by not choosing a different path, you make the decision to be what you are. I chose not to be a Slytherin. For you, Slytherin was exactly what you wanted; your choice. I've made the choices I wanted, whether I live or die. Your choices... are totally up to you."

Draco closed his eyes against waves of emotion welling up in them. Of course he wanted to be in Slytherin, noblest of the houses. Pureblooded, wealthy, powerful, and a Malfoy to boot, there was nowhere else he belonged. Nowhere. The possibility that he could be anywhere else had never really crossed his mind, just as his fate to follow in the family tradition had never come into question. It had never occurred to him that any sort of active choice was involved, and the possibility wasn't comfortable.

Without opening his eyes, he hollered, "Biddy!"

The house elf appeared with a crack. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir! What can Biddy do for you, Master Malfoy?"

"Biddy, please bring me a bowl of sugar and an extra spoon."

"Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir!"

Both boys waited in absolute silence until Biddy returned. "Is Master Malfoy wanting anything else of Biddy, sir?"

Draco considered this. "Yes, actually. One thing. Begin assembling a bag of my warmest basic cloaks and robes, and a few lighter ones, plus my basic toiletries. I'll call you later with a list of other particulars I need, but it must all be packed by tonight."

Biddy bowed obediently. "Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir!"

"You may go. Thank you."

Biddy disappeared, still holding the bow.

Without looking back at Harry, Draco asked, "One spoonful or two?"

Harry hesitated. Malfoy was avoiding any further discussion of the topic, which could only mean he was thinking about what he'd said. It seemed a tough stretch to be putting any sort of hope in the moral pangs of Draco Malfoy, but at the moment, it was the only shot he had. In fact, it almost seemed like a fairly good shot, judging by what he could see. Draco was hunched over the sugar bowl, outwardly focused on the tea, but every other clue Harry could detect in the boy's manner screamed that he was waging an internal battle with himself. Now Harry could only wonder what would win that battle. In the meantime, the tea was beginning to smell quite good. "Two."

Draco poured the cups of tea then ladled two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into each one. He carried one of the cups and a breakfast plate to the slot in the bars, and waited for Harry to meet him.

Harry took his time rising to his feet before walking with slow, measured steps to where Malfoy was waiting for him. As he took his breakfast, he checked Draco's face more closely for clues, hints, and any sign that what he'd said was actually sinking in. It was.

Although clouded by a well-practiced mask, it was certainly there. The question was, would it ever be enough? Some spare shred of humanity, if properly ignited, might fuel something that could cause the boy to snap. Malfoy, he could tell, was simultaneously searching him, with one thing in mind.

As though answering the unvoiced question, Harry said simply, "No, I haven't given up."

By the look on Draco's face, that had been exactly what he'd been wondering.

"You've been studying me all this time... and don't look so surprised, I knew you were doing it... so if you've learned anything about me, you should know by now that I don't quit so easily." Harry turned his back to the bars and began slowly walking back towards his spot, still speaking. "Voldemort had me tied to a gravestone, and I didn't give up. Wormtail had cut into my arm and had taken my blood to resurrect Voldemort's body, and I didn't give up."

He came to a stop at the wall, standing in his usual spot, but didn't turn around. "Voldemort had cast the killing curse at me, for the second time in my life, and even as the spell was coming at me, I didn't give up. That's the only reason I'm alive now. So, until the last split second of that bloody eclipse, whether or not the moon disappears and takes my life along with it, I still won't give up."

Draco, who was frozen in place, hands still by the slot in the bars where Harry had taken his breakfast from, finally let his arms fall to his sides. "I never expected you to," he admitted. "I think I'd be disappointed if you did."

Harry spun around. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but seemed to reconsider. He didn't need to ask what Malfoy meant. He understood perfectly. Letting a soft smile pull the corners of his lips, he inclined his head towards Draco. "Thanks for the tea." He sipped it. "Just enough sugar, too."

Draco raised his eyebrows at the unexpected shift in conversation from death at the hands of Voldemort to tea, but finally allowed himself to smile in return. He walked back the breakfast tray, retrieved his teacup, and raised it. "What do you say? To sugared tea?"

//And to Slytherin and Gryffindor, to never giving up, to good choices and bad choices, to every similarity we've got, and every difference we ever created?//

Harry raised his own cup. "To sugared tea."

The boys tipped their cups back at the same time. When Draco lowered his and looked past the rim, Harry was already settling himself against the wall. He balanced his plate on his knees and set the teacup by his side, then began plowing through his breakfast ravenously.

"Not a little bit hungry, are you?"

Harry spoke around a mouthful of toast. "I haven't eaten since supper the evening before you kidnapped me. I'm starved."

"Oh yeah," Draco said quietly as he settled down in his chair and began poking at his own breakfast.

A few minutes passed with nothing but the sound of clinking dishes before Harry broke the silence. "So why did you send Biddy to pack a bag? Going somewhere?"

"We're moving you to the Dark Lord's headquarters," Draco said simply. "We knew it was only a matter of time before they started searching for you here anyway, and the headquarters is unplottable, so they won't find us there."

Harry leaned back against the wall. "I suppose that makes sense. Is that what that letter was about?"

Draco flashed something between a grin and a smirk. "I guess you are pretty observant. Yes, it was."

"Your mother sent it?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"You're in the same house as her. Why didn't she just come down to see you herself? I mean, she hasn't been here once since you arrived, or not that I've seen her. Doesn't she care to see you at all?" The question held hints of pity, and it was the last thing Draco wanted from his prisoner, but at the same time, it struck a chord.

"She doesn't appreciate 'nasty places like the dungeons.' It's just as convenient to send a note."

"Convenient," Harry muttered softly. "Yes, too inconvenient to come down to see a member of her family."

That was a conversation Draco didn't feel like touching again. "More tea?"

Harry cocked his head, amused by Draco's sudden need to cut short the topic, then smiled. "Sure. Two sugars, if you please."

Draco didn't move. He was too busy watching Harry's face. Draco rarely saw smiles which weren't tainted by a sneer, a smirk, or haughty satisfaction, as though the people by whom he was surrounded felt that it was beneath their dignity to smile properly. The few such smiles he had seen had most certainly not been directed at him. Joviality was not something common to people of his status, and never having experienced it, it's impossible to miss something you've never had. However, Potter had just smiled at him, openly. No smirk, no sneer, just a smile, almost like a friend. It was a beautiful thing, and now, Draco realized what he'd been missing.

Harry's smile fell a little bit. "What's wrong?"

The question snapped Draco from his trance. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Hand me your cup." He took Harry's teacup, filled it, added the sugar, and passed it back through the bars without a single word.

Harry eyed him curiously as he accepted the cup of tea, and tested it with a sip. "Thanks," he said, still watching Draco.

Draco merely nodded in reply and set about pouring himself a second cup.

Harry had almost drained his refill when Draco finally spoke again.

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

Harry choked on the last swallow of tea, sputtering and coughing. "What?"

"I asked if you'd ever had a girlfriend. I saw you take that Gryffindor girl to the Yule Ball in our fourth year, but you didn't seem that interested in her."

Harry started at the very abrupt change of topic. "Where did this conversation come from?"

"Small talk, Potter." Draco blew out a sharp breath in frustration. "It's what polite people do when there's nothing else to say. In other words, I'm trying to have a civilized conversation with you. If that's too difficult, like swallowing tea without dribbling down your shirt, let me know."

Harry wiped his chin quickly, eliciting a laugh from Draco. "No," he finally said. "No, I've never had a real girlfriend."

"That's rather amusing, for the famous Harry Potter."

"Sure," he sniffed. "Especially considering I lived through months of controversy in my fourth year all over a so-called girlfriend that I never had. It's almost ironic, looking back."

"Didn't you date that Ravenclaw girl last year?"

"Don't even remind me about that."

Draco chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

Harry looked up at Draco pitifully. "Worse."

They laughed, and for a moment, both of the boys forgot that there were iron bars separating them, but it was Harry who finally pulled himself back to his senses. "That's not what you wanted to ask me, is it?"

Draco's face fell. "You're right, it wasn't."

"So go ahead and ask. You've got me captive-audience, so you might as well. What have you got to lose, remember?"

Draco bit his bottom lip. "I wanted to know where you got that scar on your arm. Not the one from the basilisk. The other one. The one you didn't want me to see."

"Oh," Harry said neutrally. "I see. The huge charade, and all you wanted to do was to satisfy your curiosity. Is that right, Malfoy? Alright then, allow me to humour you."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I got that one the night Voldemort got his body back. He was using some sort of spell that required the blood of an enemy in order to resurrect himself. I suppose I've always been the enemy of choice. So, while I was tied to a gravestone, gagged, Wormtail took a dagger and cut into my arm to retrieve the blood.

"That scar is a reminder of my failure. Voldemort came back, and there was nothing I could do, tied there as I was. It reminds me that Cedric died, and I couldn't stop it. Most of all, it reminds me of the deaths that are probably still to come, just like this other scar," he pointed to his forehead, "reminds me about the deaths of the past."

Draco stared at him, openly shocked. His mouth moved slowly, as though wanting to say something, but he had no words to offer.

"Is that what you wanted to know? Dig into my mind a little bit? Does that bother you, Malfoy?" he questioned.

Of course, it bloody bothered him. It shouldn't have, of course, but it did. It had always seemed to be such a cut-and-dry fight. Draco knew the Dark Arts were often rather gruesome, but you don't often receive a personal account of someone who had been used in such a manner. Such people don't typically survive after they have been used for purposes like that. Used, like a pawn in a deadly game. Once again, Draco found himself wondering if he was yet another pawn.

Averting his eyes for a moment, Draco quickly collected himself outwardly, but when he looked back, he couldn't hold it, and the pretense faded again. He swallowed, searching for something to say. Finally, he settled on a simple question. It sounded stupid to even his own ears, but he had to hear the answer for himself, from a person who had survived so many unbelievable ordeals. He had to know if Potter was still human underneath it all.

"Did it hurt?"

Harry kept his face neutral as he studied Draco's reactions, that last subtle shift in expression and tone. The drawl was utterly gone. He'd finally broken through. Letting his shoulders relax, he graced Draco with a brief, pained smile. "Yes, it did."

Draco nodded slowly. "I think..."

"Yes?"

"Can we go back to small-talk now?" He attempted a smile of his own.

"Sure," Harry grinned lopsidedly, as though the last conversation topic had never happened. "So... have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Potter!"

***********************************************************************

Harry and Draco spent the next several hours in surprisingly mild conversation. With such a pleasant change of pace, it never occurred to either of them to pick a fight, and for once, neither of them wanted to.

For Harry, life on the inside of the dungeon cell was already unpleasant enough, and after the combination of unsettling thoughts, harsh words, and a particularly lovely visit with a deranged Dark wizard, he welcomed the relative quiet. It gave him a moment to breathe, if nothing else, but it also presented an opportunity to see something he'd never seen before: Draco Malfoy, acting like a human being. Who would have expected that? Still, there he was, laughing and talking, asking and answering questions without the sly edge, the thinly masked cunning, or the double-motives. Whether or not this was an act Harry didn't know, but if it was, then it was a damned good act, and Harry would take what he could get. Even if it was only a figment of his imagination, he could almost let himself believe that Malfoy was the closest thing to an ally he would find until he escaped, if he escaped, and he could certainly use an ally.

Draco, for his part, was both fascinated by the conversation, and also quite tired. Fighting would only exhaust him more, and he had no desire to do that. Sleepless Nights potion could keep a person awake and functionally alert, but it was a far cry from real sleep, and he could feel the fatigue wearing on his bones. He wouldn't leave his post. It was his honour, his duty, and now, it had become something else, almost a pleasure. In spite of his exhaustion, his conversation with Harry had been more than an adequate distraction to make the experience worthwhile.

"So that's what it was?" Draco asked, eyes just a bit wider than usual.

"Yup," Harry said proudly. "A stag."

"Do you have any clue why yours takes that particular shape?" Draco tilted his head curiously.

Harry pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to tell anyone now, but my father was an Animagus, and his form was a stag. I didn't know that until after I learned to produce a Patronus though."

"Interesting. Well, all I can say is that bloody thing was huge. I suppose I've got to hand it to you, it damn near shocked me out of my skin."

"It's not like you gave me too much of a choice, you know."

"True enough, but you've got to admit, it was a pretty clever idea." Draco grinned mischievously. "We obviously had you fooled, if you had to use a Patronus charm to ward us off."

"Touché." Harry conceded the point.

At that moment, the latch on the dungeon door shifted, sending a loud thud echoing through the dungeons. Draco was immediately on his feet, followed a split second later by Harry.

Lucius Malfoy came breezing into the dungeons, cloak billowing. "We haven't much time. I suspect the Ministry might try a night-raid. Draco, are your things ready?" he said in a rush that overrode the usual decorum in his voice.

"Yes father," Draco replied automatically, slipping back into his well-practiced manners, indicating the two small bags next to his chair.

"Excellent. Biddy!"

The house elf appeared with a crack. After her bright behavior during her last few visits into the dungeons, it almost shocked Harry to see how miserably she cowered in front of Lucius. Almost shocked, but not quite. Instead, the sight infuriated him, and it was with great difficulty that he kept quiet.

"Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir?" she squeaked.

"Take Draco's things to the headquarters at once." Lucius snapped.

In a panic-borne rush, she grabbed the bags and disappeared.

"Now you," he spun around to Harry, "don't try anything smart, or I shall take great pleasure in making your miserable existence even more miserable until the Dark Lord is ready for you."

Harry's eyes flicked subconsciously to Draco before he tipped his head to the side, rolled his eyes, and said lazily, "Whatever."

Draco had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. A day ago, he would have been furious to see Potter address his father in such a disrespectful manner. Now, it seemed ridiculously funny. Instead of snickering though, Draco set his face into its familiar mask, and remained silent.

Lucius continued to glare at Harry, never quite making eye contact, as he instructed Draco, "Unlock the cell."

Draco retrieved the key from his robe pocket and turned it in the lock. As the door swung open, Lucius carefully trained his wand on Harry. "Out. Now."

Standing as tall as he could, Harry obliged the order, but as he walked past Lucius, the older man jabbed his wand at Harry's arm. Harry jerked away with a hiss of pain, as though he'd been stung by an electric shock.

Draco felt a strange upwelling of protectiveness. He had spent quite some time patching up Harry's injuries, taking time and care to prevent further pain. It seemed strange now to sit by and watch his own father inflicting such pain. In a sudden flash of inspiration, Draco stepped forward. "Father," he let a devious smirk pull at his mouth, "please allow me to direct the prisoner."

Harry's head snapped to the side in surprise, locking eyes with Draco's, and although Draco's face remained cold, an understanding passed between them.

"Draco," Lucius smiled as though satisfied, "It is pleasing to see you taking your duty so seriously. Yes, you may, but I warn you of one thing."

"Yes father?"

"Never look into the eyes of the enemy," he growled. "You might accidentally mistake him for a human being."

Draco's breath caught tightly in his throat, and it was probably a good thing that it had done so, because otherwise, he might have blurted out the insane protest that Harry was very much a human being. Her father's stern gaze stifled the thought quickly, pushed it away from his tongue, but it didn't disappear. After what he'd seen and heard, as much as he respected his father, it was impossible to believe that anymore. Reassuming his practiced behavior, he bowed his head slightly in obedience. "Yes father." He pulled his wand from his pocket and aimed it at Harry.

"Very well, Draco. The prisoner is yours." He reached into his robes and extracted a small metallic pyramid. "This is your Portkey. You can't Apparate into the dungeons beneath the headquarters. I shall personally Apparate at the entrance by normal procedures and will be meeting with you in the dungeons later. If you need anything, call for the house elf. It's yours now."

Lucius paused and looked briefly between the two boys, bringing his eyes back to rest on Draco. "You will be under the direct scrutiny of the Dark Lord at some point during the time you are at Headquarters." His voice was cold. "Be certain you do not falter in your tasks."

Draco jerked his head in a stiff bow. "Yes father. I will not fail."

Nodding once, Lucius placed the Portkey on the floor and activated it with his wand. "Now go."

Draco's wand was still tightly trained on Harry, but he could feel his hand shaking imperceptibly against the smooth wood. He carefully avoided eye contact as he indicated the pyramid on the floor. "Nice and easy, Potter," he said, his voice carefully measured. "No fast moves."

Taking his own instructions to heart, Draco slowly bent his knees and extended his free hand towards the Portkey. Simultaneously, he tried to calm his heart, which had begun to pound a wild pattern in his chest. His father was watching him. He needed to be calm, level-headed, in total control of himself and his captive. He had to be every bit the Malfoy that his father expected, not the curious, nervous, uncertain Draco that had begun to emerge in the last few hours.

Mirroring his captor, Harry crouched down and reached his hand out for the Portkey, not allowing himself to look up at Draco. He could feel the wand pointed at him, but also the barely discernible tension radiating off the other boy. No wonder. Malfoy was probably no more keen on stepping into Voldemort's lair that he was. Who would be? Still, there was another cause of Draco's nervousness, Harry realized. He could feel Lucius's harsh glare on the both of them, realizing with interest that Draco was under more scrutiny than he was just then.

Draco's hand was mere inches from the Portkey, and he counted aloud slowly. "Three... Two... One."

The boys' hands dove simultaneously for the small target. In the short time and space of that motion, their hands collided just a hair's breadth above the surface of the Portkey, the tips of their fingers intertwining loosely out of pure reflex. The unexpected contact of skin on skin, hand to hand, sent an alarming jolt running up Draco's arm. Even as he felt his palm contact the Portkey, his entire awareness was centered on the brilliant feeling running from his fingertips to the base of his spine. It was all he could do not to gasp in shock as his head shot up, locking eyes with Harry.

In the last fraction of a second before the Portkey took him, he saw the same wide-eyed look of surprise he felt being displayed perfectly on Harry's face, and he knew that Harry had felt it too.

Draco didn't have time to consider whether or not his father had noticed his reaction to touching Harry. The incredible feelings from the contact were quickly overtaken by the familiar pull of an activated Portkey. There was the sensation of invisible hooks grabbing them behind their navels, and the rushing of their feet leaving the floor, as the Portkey sent them hurtling into the epicenter of it all, straight into the serpent's lair.