Silver Eyes

Of Bathrooms and Ferrets

By Poisoned Honey

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived. A boy who would later wish he would die. A boy who wouldn't force himself to hope, who couldn't bring himself to dream, who lost faith entirely in a world that had betrayed him.

A boy who had been taken from a world of love, hope, and magic, into a world of hate, abuse, and deception.

Once upon a time there was a boy who lost himself, who lost his way, who lost a home, who lost hope, a boy who never knew what love was. A boy who never received a hug, or even a gentle touch from those he called family.

Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up much too fast, and who had lived far too long by 11. There was a boy who couldn't smile, wouldn't laugh, and never cried.

There was a boy who felt as though he should have died with his parents, who felt as though his life had no meaning, no purpose, and who wished that he and all his memories could be forever erased, washed away with the sands of time.

Once upon a time there was a boy who hated life, cared for nothing, and was dead inside.

But, on his 11^th birthday, he found something, much too precious to duplicate. He received a new life that had always been there, waiting patiently for him to find it. He received people who loved him without knowing him, who wanted to protect him.

He received, for the first time in his young life, love.

But more than that, he received hope, a hope that would get him through each day, a hope that he had previously been lacking in.

He received a guarantee that, no matter what, every September 1^st a red trolley would pull up to the invisible station between platforms 9 and 10 to take him away to his real home.

At his real home, there were friends, and love, and absolutely no cupboards to throw him in. At his real home, he was free.

And there was no way he was losing his world ever again. He couldn't lose his friend, his life, everything . . . he wouldn't let it happen.

At first he had shied away from this new world, convinced himself it was a farce, protected himself from it.

Now he clung to it, afraid that if he let go for one second, it would be gone. This life he had found was so delicate, a gossamer thread, that he had to touch to be sure it was there.

And now, if he let it out of sight for one second too long, it would fall in on itself, and never be the same world it could once claim to be. So he didn't let it out of sight, and he never let go, and he couldn't ever forget it.

It was his for life.

And his it would remain.

* * * * *

When Draco woke in the Astronomy Tower, lying on the hard, cool rock that was the floor, and feeling the imprint of the stone on his cheek, he felt fairly disgusted in himself. His father had taught him how to hold out under pressure, how to deal with questionings, how to reveal as little information as possible. But, when it came down to it, instead of doing as he had been taught, he had run like a coward, and thus revealed as much information as if he had told Potter every damn detail about his past.

Why could he have not thought of what his father said? But, instead, when in his past his father had been touched upon, his brain had gone first blank, then crazy, a mass of memories that made no sense, and feelings he hadn't known were there that hit far too close to home.

He had acted as a fool, a cowardly fool, not as a Malfoy. It seemed that it had been far too long since he had last behaved as a Malfoy. And now, he would surely pay the price. Potter, do good little Potter, now all he would see was a poor desperate person in need. And he would never let it go, until he had successfully saved him. Of course. Wonderful.

He pulled himself up into a sitting position, back pressed against the wall, and, bending his neck forward, quite suddenly brought it back, hearing the dull thud of his skull cracking against the wall. He was a fool. It didn't matter what his father had taught him, he still remained a fool, a child when put under pressure.

Again, he craned his head forward, and brought it back against the wall. Then stilled, leaning against the wall, frustrated by things beyond his control. Slowly he brought himself to his feet, rather enjoying the pounding that quieted his mind's normal quick workings. Glancing at his watch Draco realized that he had only slept for a few hours.

He couldn't sleep anymore in the Astronomy Tower. He would have to find somewhere else. He was sore, and he was tired, and he was going to avoid Harry Potter if at all possible.

What he didn't realize was, that as he headed away to find somewhere, anywhere to sleep, unconsciously he was moving closer and closer to the Gryffindor Tower.

* * * * *

When Harry Potter woke in the Hospital Wing, he could move. Now, this may seem a small thing to you or I, but to Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Be-Almost-Killed-By-a-Twitchy-Ferret-Named-Malfoy, my, what an accomplishment it was.

Gingerly he raised a hand, and grabbed his glasses off the table, slipping them onto his nose. Apparently, during his sleep, someone had arrived to take them off and place them on his bedside table. Then he stretched, slowly, a little bit disturbed by the crackling and popping coming from places he didn't know could pop.

He felt sore, and he realized, with horror, that somehow, during the period of time he spent not moving, every limb that could, had managed to fall asleep. He grunted, frustrated, then gingerly lowered himself off the bed, and took a few hesitant steps. His feet didn't seem to want to lift, so he dragged them, but at least he was getting somewhere. He had to get to the dorms.

He made his way slowly along, then, all too soon, faced a serious dilemma--stairs. His dragging feet weren't prepared to lift high enough for the tall, stone stairs. He tried pulling on the knee to lift the foot, but seemed to have lost arm strength as well. Finally, he lost every last shred of dignity, and, stooping to his hands and knees, he pulled himself up the steps, haltingly, slowly, but at least he was making it.

Of course, it was halfway up the stairs when he nearly ran into a pair of legs. Slowly, he followed the legs up until he looked into the face of Blaise Zabini who was looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and disgust. "Zabini," Harry said with a cordial nod, and tried to drag himself around Blaise's legs up the stairs. Blaise didn't move, and Harry found that the area between Blaise's legs and the banister was too small for him to crawl past.

"What do you want, Zabini," he finally asked with a resigned sigh.

Blaise smirked down at him, "Enjoying making a fool of yourself, Potter?"

"Not particularly. May I pass?"

"Hm. . . But this is far too much fun." Harry glared up at Blaise, furious green eyes glaring up at black stone. Blaise brushed back some of his dark hair, and looked deliberately forward, not meeting Harry's eyes.

Harry gritted his teeth. "Let me pass."

Blaise looked placidly forward, "I don't think so. . ." then, quite suddenly, he was flying forward, over Harry, down the stairs. Seamus stood in his place, looking grim, but pleased.

"Oh, thank God," Harry groaned, leaning forward, his head in his arms. Seamus looked down at Harry, as though seeing him for the first time.

"You all right, mate?" Harry glanced up, and nodded with a smile.

"Zabini was the last thing I needed, though."

Seamus grinned. "You need some help up?"

Harry looked at his hands, which were, by now, quite cut up from the constant rubbing on the hard stone for, and down at his knees on which the trousers were nearly ripped.

"Erm . . . yes?"

Seamus laughed, and, stooping, picked Harry up, cradling him like a child. "Umm. . ." Harry muttered, suddenly uncomfortable.

"I am thanking every god that there ever was you are small.

Harry lost some of the discomfort. "I am not small!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"Of course you're not," Seamus said, covering a snort with a laugh. "Where are you trying to get to?"

"The dorms," Harry said in an irritated way and remained in silence the rest of the way to the dorms.

* * * * *

Draco Malfoy didn't know where to go. He was tired, and achy, and had a splitting headache, but had nowhere to rest. He couldn't go to the dorms. The others were there, and, though it was cowardly to run from them, he just didn't have the energy to face them. He had never faced such an impasse--he had always felt welcome and home in his dorm, and had never had to go anywhere else. Now, though, it seemed that if he wanted to get a full night's rest, he would have to find somewhere else to go.

He settled on the bathrooms. The bathrooms. A Malfoy would sleep in the bathrooms.

But he really had nowhere else to go.

* * * * *

Harry was sitting on his bed when Ron and Hermione barged in. "Oh, Harry," Hermione exclaimed with a slight quaver to her voice, "I'm so glad you're all right," and with that she swept him up into a hug so tight he was afraid it would break his back just when he finally got out of the hospital wing.

"It's good to see you, mate," Ron said, taking a spot next to Harry on the bed. Hermione was still clinging to Harry, and Harry was slowly turning a deep shade of blue. "Let up, Hermione!" Ron finally exclaimed. Harry gave him a look of relief.

"Oh, before I forget," Hermione exclaimed digging through her robes, "Madame Pomfrey asked me to give this to you." She pulled out a small ampoule of sable liquid; "She said it would make you less sore."

Harry smiled at her, then grabbed the vial, and downed it, wincing slightly at the bitter taste. "I need to use the loo," he groaned with a tremor. Hermione looked nervous, like if he was let out of her sight just for one minute, he would break some other bone.

"Do you need anyone to go with you?"

"I've made it on my own a few times, Herm I think I can manage."

Hermione nodded, but her face didn't lose it's tight, nervous look. "Be careful."

Harry nodded, than got off the bed. Hermione took his spot, and Ron wrapped a comforting arm around her. He saw her shift away from Ron's touch just as Harry made it out the door. Then he stumbled out of the Gryffindor tower. The potion did make him much less painful, and he was pretty sure he could handle the stairs unassisted, but he felt very uncoordinated and clumsy, and his muscles weren't working quite the way he should.

He had never been more relieved to see a bathroom. He opened the door, and realized that it was pitch black. He fumbled around for the lights, and suddenly collided with a warm body on the floor. "Lumos," he muttered, then, "Malfoy?!?"

* * * * *

Oh, of all the rotten luck, Draco thought irritably, "What do you want, Potter?"

"I was just coming to use the loo," Potter said with a suspicious glare, "But what were you doing in the bathroom in the dark."

"I was trying to sleep," Draco said without thinking, then cursed inwardly.

"Trying to sleep?" Potter asked incredulously, "You know, Malfoy, most people do that in a bed."

"Oh, I do other things in bed," Draco said airily, quite enjoying the disgusted look on Potter's face.

"That is completely disgusting, Malfoy."

"What? I just meant I read in bed--what were you thinking, you prat?" Potter glared stonily. "Truth is I happen to like sleeping on bathroom floors. It's nice. You should try it once in a while."

"Why did Crabbe attack you?"

Draco started, taken off guard, but caught himself quickly. He never made the same mistake twice. "Oh, I stole his chocolate frogs on the train. He holds grudges."

"Seriously Malfoy. First Crabbe flings you in the air, a spell that I didn't even believe the stupid oaf could know, and now you're hiding out in the bathroom. What the hell is going on here, Malfoy?"

"Ah, like I said, he holds grudges," Draco said, inspecting his cuticle. Of course. Of all the dumb luck--he had chosen to sleep near the Gryffindor bathrooms. And Potter, of course, had to find him, "If I slept in the dorms, he'd probably strangle me in my sleep."

Potter glared. "There is something going on here, Malfoy, and I'm going to find out what before one of us gets hurt."

"I'm touched by your concern, Potter, but really. People are going to start to think you fancy me if you keep following me around."

Potter sighed, then walked out of the door, apparently forgetting his earlier urge to use the toilet, and left, turning of the light and firmly shutting the door.

Draco was left in the dark.

* * * * *

Harry was furious. Stupid Malfoy. What was wrong with the prat? Why couldn't he look out for himself? And more importantly, why did Harry have to look out for him?

He felt stupid. Didn't he have enough to worry about besides damn Malfoy, the bouncing ferret? He didn't need another problem on top of everything else.

But somehow. . .

Somehow he felt that there was so much more to the story, something that went much deeper than grudges and even deeper than Voldemort. Something very basic, yet insanely complicated. A sort of type of hurt that shook Harry to his very core.

And Harry couldn't just stand back and watch. Never mind that it was Malfoy, never mind that it went against his very instincts. He had to help.

And he would find a way.

* * * * *

Draco never got to sleep. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. He lay in the dark cheek pressed against cold tile, and thought and thought until his head ached. He couldn't figure out what to do about the stupid prat that was Potter.

He rolled over, anxiously. His brain wasn't working very well. He sighed, and huffed, and groaned, and thought. Why did the stupid boy, the prat feel as though he had to get involved? Ah yes, of course: because he was Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Become-a-Menace-to-Society, he couldn't see any problem that he didn't have to get involved in.

Bloody git.

He was just going to have to make sure that the stupid git didn't get more involved than he already was.