Do You Trust Me?

Do You Trust Me?

Chapter Two:

Harry's eyes followed the familiar figure as it pushed its way through the crowded bar.

His fists were clenched tightly under the table and he could feel a sudden rushing sound in his ears. How dare he come back here! What was he trying to prove? Everyone knew he was a Death Eater, why couldn't he just stay forgotten?

"Malfoy!" he heard Ron mutter disgustedly behind him. Harry turned to meet Ron's eyes. Normally bright and cheerful, they were now hard and dark, and Ron's lip was curling in anger. Hermione looked slightly pale but instead of staring at Malfoy she was watching Harry intently, almost as though she were convinced he was about to break.

Malfoy's reappearance in the Wizarding World had gone unnoticed by the rest of the Weasleys; they were still immersed in their chatter, their minds untroubled by the return of former Death Eaters.

Harry could practically feel the heat coming from Ron, rolling off him in waves of anger, and for the briefest of moments he could almost feel a mere shadow of Ron's rage fostering itself in his own mind. The emotion had merely started to rise within him when, just as suddenly as they had assaulted him, they eluded his grasp, fading into oblivion and Harry was left feeling nothing but emptiness. He sagged in defeat.

"Forget him, Ron." He felt rather than saw Ron turn to stare at him incredulously.

"But... but... it's Malfoy!" The last word was spat and seemed to leave a foul taste in Ron's mouth.

"I know," Harry said heavily. "I just want to forget it. It's over."

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but Hermione elbowed him swiftly in the ribs, shaking her head slightly. Ron exhaled in resignation and lent forward over the table when Fred and George drew him into their conversation. It was that easy for him. Harry told him to forget it and he did.

Harry stared at the table top, running his fingers against the grain, up and down the worn grooves. He could feel Hermione's eyes on him. Part of him wanted to look up and meet her gaze, but another, more insistant part told him that it would be pointless. She would try and draw him into yet another deep and meaningful conversation, the kind that didn't go anywhere, that always ended with Hermione getting frustrated at his lack of communication.

She was always after him to talk about his feelings, his memories; her soft brown eyes would find his and she would ask how he was but Harry never knew how to answer. The words always caught in his throat, a solid lump of emotion that just refused to be released. And always, in the back of his mind, there was the lingering thought that even if he managed to articulate the crippling mass of thoughts that plagued him, she wouldn't understand... she couldn't. She hadn't lost like he had lost. She hadn't suffered like he had suffered. No, she wouldn't understand. He still loved her dearly, she was one of his best friends, but there are some things that not even a best friend can understand.

The evening was drawing to a close; Harry could feel it. Bill and Charlie were taking their leave, their chairs scraping slightly against the heavy stone floor as they pushed themselves away from the table to stand. Bill was going home to Fleur, his long-time girlfriend who, even after four and a half years, still didn't come to these family gatherings. The volatile tempers of the Weasley matriarch and her son's part-Veela girlfriend were incompatible at the best of times and Bill had learned early on that confining them both to the same room was not a wise decision. Charlie still found it amusing.

The second Weasley son was a different matter altogether. Now that the war was over, Mrs Weasley divided her time between encouraging Charlie to move back home to England and pestering him about his apparent lack of a love life. Charlie would always smile enigmatically and say that he was happy where he was.

Harry had long since given up trying to follow the arguments that passed between the two of them but suspected that there was more to Charlie's life than he was currently admitting. Ginny seemed the only other one who realised this and she and Harry would often share secret, knowing glances at the expense of the rest of the family.

Charlie would be flooing straight back to Romania from his elder brother's cosy, familiar apartment, and although Mrs Weasley made one last ditch effort to cajole her son into staying the night, he smiled resolutely, bending at the waist to kiss her on the cheek as he said goodbye.

The eldest Weasley sons moved around the table, taking the time to bid farewell to all the members of their family. They each hugged Ginny in turn, Charlie tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear as he said his goodbyes; they embraced their father and clapped each of their younger brothers on the back, faces lit up by happy smiles; they smiled affectionately at Hermione and Bill patted her shoulder gently. Finally, they both approached Harry, squeezing his shoulder in farewell. Harry smiled back at them automatically and wasn't surprised when they both failed to noticed the lack of emotion in his eyes.

The room seemed significantly emptier once they had left. Mrs Weasley ushered her remaining children out of the dinning room, chivying them along with her hands. George's raucous laughter remained in the room for many minutes after he had exited and Mrs Weasley frowned affectionately.

Harry was the last one to leave the dining room. He lingered aimlessly for several moments before crossing the worn threshold and emerging into the bar after the Weasleys. Red hair and smiling faces whirled around him. He felt like he was on a Merry-Go-Round, dizzy and vaguely nauseous. He wondered if he'd ever be able to get off.

Fred and George disappeared out into Diagon Alley, making for the humble flat above their shop premises, and then there were just six of them standing at the bottom of the dark staircase.

Harry let Ron sling an arm around his shoulder and allowed himself to be steered up the stairs. They were all staying at the Leaky Cauldron until the Hogwarts Express left. The Burrow had been destroyed during the war and when peace had finally dawned Mrs Weasley had suggested that they stay on at the house in Grimmauld Place. But Harry had said no.

He had tolerated living there during the war. The house was always full of Order members, full of distractions... with a war going on around them, there was little time to stop and replay the memories that lingered in every corner of the old house. But now Harry couldn't bear to go back there. He was afraid that all he would see and hear in the stillness would be Sirius... would be the ghosts of all the other Order members that had been lost.

Mrs Weasley had pressed Harry at first. She had been gentle and kind in her persistence but Harry hadn't been able to recognise that until it was too late, and he had finally snapped and told her rather sharply to mind her own business. He could still remember the shocked, hurt look on her face and he still felt slightly guilty.

Harry shook his head distractedly as he slowly climbed the stairs. His legs suddenly felt like lead, but he could feel the warmth of Ron's arm across his shoulders and was glad. In spite of all the noise in the stairwell and the constant chatter coming from the bar, Harry could still hear each individual footstep on the stairs and every answering squeak from the floorboards as though his senses were suddenly heightened. It was an unusually disorienting sensation.

Harry stumbled out onto the second floor landing, Ron and Hermione close behind him. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Ginny had rooms on the first floor and Harry could hear their lively chatter on the landing below.

They all stopped by the first door and Hermione fumbled for her key. The door swung open with an uneasy creak revealing the neatly ordered room beyond. Hermione turned back and smiled at Harry, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She might have said something but Harry wasn't sure. He wasn't really listening.

"Night, 'Mione," he muttered before stepping back.

Ron and Hermione regarded each other nervously. Ron gave a shy grin and bent down to drop a brief kiss on Hermione's lips. They were both slightly pink when they drew away.

Ron caught Harry's eye as Hermione disappeared into her room. Harry returned the smile somewhat mechanically and the blush spread to the tips of Ron's ears, staining them a bright pink. Harry rolled his eyes in amusement, jostling Ron with his elbow. The redhead returned the grin sheepishly, massaging the back of his neck with his hand unconsciously.

The affection that had been slowly developing between the two of them had been obvious to everyone except the pair concerned, and when they both finally got up the nerve to do something about their feelings, it had been awkward, neither particularly sure how to cross the line between friend and lover.

Harry was truly happy for them but when he thought about it, he had probably been relieved more than anything else when Ron and Hermione had finally managed to work out whatever had been blossoming between them for years; the tension that had seeped into their triangular friendship had become almost unbearable.

Yes, it had been a relief, but as time passed Harry began to realise that the tension had not been completely erased. Certainly it was different, less noticeable, but it was still there. It had taken Harry several weeks before he had come to the conclusion that, this time, he was the source of the awkwardness. Ron and Hermione still hadn't noticed, but as their relationship deepened, it became more and more obvious to Harry.

He couldn't help but feel slightly left out; the old adage about the third wheel was, at times, overwhelmingly appropriate. He knew they didn't do it on purpose, he knew that the last thing Ron and Hermione wanted to do was exclude him, but it didn't change the fact that they did, however unconsciously. And Harry supposed that was only natural. They were still trying to fumble their way through the newness of their relationship; they didn't need him continually getting in the way.

Harry still loved them dearly; they were his closest friends. He knew that their friendship would remain steady through the years to come; they had simply been through too much together for that to ever change. But Harry still felt awkward when he was alone with them. He was constantly worried that he was intruding upon their relationship, that they were secretly wishing he would give them some space. And so his gradually began to distance himself from them, not enough for them to notice, but enough for him to feel less like he was crowding them, enough for him to feel ever so slightly lonely.

And although he would never admit it aloud, Harry was jealous. Not because he was secretly in love with either of them but because they were experiencing this maelstrom of emotions as they explored each other while he was left feeling barely anything at all.

Harry was jolted out of his thoughts as Hermione's door shut with a click. He followed Ron down the corridor and they paused halfway down, outside the next door. Ron pulled Harry into a quick half hug, the sort of gesture that says 'I care about you' but isn't long enough for things to get weird.

He cast Harry one of his brilliant grins, an expression that never failed to make Harry feel slightly better. "Night, mate!" Ron said enthusiastically, stepping away and fitting the key into the lock.

Harry smiled in spite of himself. "Night, Ron."

Ron disappeared into the mess of his room, the door of number 10 creaking as it swung shut behind him. And Harry was alone in the corridor. He could still hear a faint rumble of noise from the pub below, but otherwise, it was completely silent. He glanced up and down the slightly crooked corridor, suddenly feeling very alone.

He groped in his pocket for his key and hurried to let himself into number 11. The fire was blazing merrily, casting happy shadows around the warm room. They had been staying at the Leaky Cauldron for sometime already and the room showed much evidence of Harry's presence. Clothes were left on the floor, books and other possessions littered every surface, and his precious Firebolt was propped up in one corner.

Harry hadn't really flown since the beginning of the war. Sometimes, in the darkness of his room at Grimmauld Place, he would let his fingers curl around the handle as it hovered beside him, tempting him. But in that time of war, there had been little time for frivolities and so Harry had always put it away again, feeling uncomfortable pangs in his chest.

He wondered vaguely if he'd still know how to fly. He supposed it was like riding a bike, not that he'd ever learnt to ride a bicycle as a child. But as his gaze fell on the neglected broomstick, he felt the familiar rush of anticipation; he could almost imagine that he was back on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, the Snitch glinting in the sunlight, just beyond his reach.

Thinking about Quidditch invariably brought him back to Malfoy and Harry was dragged out of his daydream with a nasty bump. He could still see those cloudy grey eyes, burning right through him. He wondered which room Malfoy was staying in. He could be right next door.

Green eyes widened perceptibly as a sudden wave of paranoia washed over him. He crossed the room hurriedly and pressed his ear to the smooth wooden wall. He listened intently for several minutes before he realised what he was doing. He laughed out loud nervously.

"You're being stupid, Potter," he muttered to the empty room, shaking his head. He was half expecting the mirror to comment on that, but it didn't. At first, the constant commentary from an inanimate object had unnerved him, but by now he was used to it, and it felt strange when his musings were greeted by silence. With one last shake of his head, he moved quietly around the room getting ready for bed.

He slid between the cool sheets with relief. Harry felt overwhelming more comfortable in the quiet sanctuary of his room than he did surrounded by the Weasleys. This was a new development. He used to love the feeling of being swept up in the constant motion that was the Weasley family and now he felt guilty about craving solitude.

But as soon as he was lying in the darkness, wrapped in a protective cocoon of blankets, the guilt faded away. Sleep washed over him and the dreams descended.

Harry was surrounded by darkness when he came to. His head was pounding and his scar was throbbing steadily. Wave after wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him.

He was upright against a cold stone wall, his legs and arms splayed away from his body. He could feel the cool grip of metal around his wrists and ankles. For a brief moment he tried to struggle against his bindings, sharp metallic edges cutting into his flesh, but all strength seemed to have left him and he slumped forwards, held up only by his shackled wrists.

Slowly Harry's eyes grew accustomed to the dark gloom. There were other sets of chains hanging from the walls. And opposite him, a heavy iron door locked him in.

This was the end, wasn't it? There would be no lucky escape this time. No miraculous rescue. He was going to die. Voldemort would kill him and the prophesy would be fulfilled. He had failed.

He closed his eyes, willing the tears not to fall, but they did regardless, leaving thin wet trails down his dirt-smudged face, salty against his lips.

Gradually he became aware of a faint light piercing his eyelids. When he opened them, he realised that the dungeon door was ajar. A lone Death Eater was standing in the doorway, wand in hand. A dull light was issuing from the wand-tip, casting eerie shadows around the stone room.

Harry glanced around taking in his surroundings now that he had light to see by. The walls were covered with thick, dark stains and Harry realised a second later that it was blood. His stomach lurched and he forced down the bile that rose in his throat.

The Death Eater approached him, his wand held high. The footsteps echoed around the small room, bouncing off the stone walls.

Harry tried to shrink back against the wall, desperately trying to avoid the inescapable fate that awaited him.

The grotesque mask covering the Death Eater's face seemed to be laughing at him. It was cruel and harsh; it promised pain and then death. Harry screwed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. He couldn't see the wand as it was directed at him, but he heard the faintly familiar cold, heartless voice as it muttered the familiar curse.

At once his entire body was wracked with pain. He felt like he was on fire, like he was being burned alive from the inside out. His scar was burning now and it felt like his whole body was going to split in two. He could hear endless screams echoing around the dungeon, and realised with a jolt that they were coming from him.

He didn't know how long this torture went on for. He blacked out several times only to be dragged back into consciousness again. His voice gave out after a while. His lungs still screamed and gasped for air, but no sound came out.

Somewhere, faintly in the distance, he could hear the Death Eater speaking, asking questions, making cruel taunts, laughing a sadistic, hollow laugh. Harry tried desperately to decipher the words, but all he understood was the horrific pain that surrounded him and the deafening roar of impending death in his ears.

And then suddenly the pain stopped. It took every ounce of strength he had left to lift his head slightly. The Death Eater had paused and was regarding him. The wand was still pointed directly at his heart.

Harry struggled feebly. Darkness was starting to seep into his vision again. He was just about to succumb to oblivion when a second voice came out of nowhere... "Stupefy!"

Harry looked up just in time to see the Death Eater fall to the ground in a crumbled heap. Harry raised his eyes to the doorway. A second Death Eater was standing there, wand drawn. Harry fought to stay conscious as the darkness gave way to confusion. His first thought was that Severus Snape had somehow come for him, but then the voice replayed itself in his mind and he realised it was very different to the cold harsh tone of the Hogwarts Potions Master.

Slowly the Death Eater stepped forward into the room. His footsteps clicked harshly on the stone floor. Harry watched as the stranger paused beside the body of his fallen comrade. Slowly he reached down and removed the mask. The Death Eater stepped back with a jerk, dropping the mask to the ground. Lucius Malfoy's unconscious form lay spread-eagled on the ground between them, his long blonde hair strewn across his hard, vacant face.

Harry looked back up at the second Death Eater. For a moment, the stranger seemed to falter. Harry looked down at the wand clutched in the stranger's hand and realised with a jolt that the stranger was trembling ever so slightly.

Harry waited, suspended in confusion, as the stranger hesitated. Finally the fingers curled around the wand tightened in determination. The stranger seemed to regain his purpose and skirted around Lucius Malfoy to where Harry was hanging limply. Harry shrank back against the wall instinctively.

The wand was directed at him and Harry closed his eyes and waited for the curse. But it didn't come. "Releaseo!" the voice was soft but firm. It rang in Harry's ears as though it had been shouted and somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, it was strangely familiar.

Harry fell forwards as his hands and feet were released from their bonds. His knees connected with the hard stone with a crack. Harry let out a groan of pain, swaying slightly. He was vaguely aware of the Death Eater hovering above him.

Slowly he raised his eyes. The Death Eater was just standing there. And then, ever so slowly, a pale, almost translucent, hand was extended. Harry's eyes darted from the hand to the mask and back again. Every fibre of his being was shouting that taking the hand of an unidentified Death Eater was not a sensible thing to do.

"Trust me," the voice came from above, oddly calm and quiet and suddenly, almost mechanically, Harry raised his arm and gripped the offered hand; it was cool and soft to the touch, but Harry could feel slight calluses as well, like the ones he himself had from hours of flying and Quidditch practice.

He let himself be hauled to his feet. He swayed heavily and nearly pitched forwards. The Death Eater grasped him around the waist, steadying him.

And then they were walking. Through the door, up steep steps, down a narrow, darkened back corridor and out into the cool night. The breeze swirled around them, the only thing keeping Harry awake. He stumbled over rough ground. The strong arm around his waist was the sole reason he stayed upright.

He could faintly make out a ruined structure looming ahead of them. He was ushered into a room. The air was musty, thick with the smell of age and decay. Harry felt himself lowered onto something hard and wooden. A box of some kind. The wood was harsh and unpolished under his fingers. The Death Eater was moving around him, and Harry tried to follow his movements, but another wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes.

Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour. A sharp snap of fingers woke Harry from his daze. When he opened his eyes, he could see an elegant racing broom hovering before him. The fine gold script on the handle read 'Firebolt II'.

Again the Death Eater offered Harry his hand, the other one firmly grasping the broom handle. Harry eyed the hand warily for a moment.

"Do you trust me?" the Death Eater urged, his hand shaking slightly. Harry glanced at the hand one more time. Yes, yes he did trust this stranger. He didn't know why; it was pure instinct. He grasped the hand again and let himself be manoeuvred onto the broom. The Death Eater slid on in front of him, and Harry slumped forwards over the strangers back, gripping the warm, solid body around the waist.

And then suddenly they were flying. It was terrifying. Harry had never flown tandem before. It was an odd and unsettling sensation, not being in control. The wind rushed past him and every movement the broom made felt exaggerated. Harry screwed his eyes shut, praying to every God he had ever heard of that he would make it through this wild ride. They hadn't been flying for very long when Harry lost consciousness.

He woke again when his feet connect with the ground, jolts of pain shooting up his legs. His vision was slightly blurred and the dark house before them was swimming in and out of focus.

Again a strong arm wrapped around his waist, guiding him to the front door. Loud knocks assaulted Harry's ears and he winced at the sudden noise. The door opened cautiously and then was flung wide. Snape was standing there in his dressing gown, wand at the ready.

Harry heard him say something; asking the Death Eater why he was here. Harry groaned softly and the arm gripped his waist tighter.

"I know you're a spy," the stranger's voice rumbled close to Harry's ear. It wasn't accusing, it was just stating a fact. Snape's eyes widened.

Harry felt the arm slowly retracting from around his waist and he stumbled forwards. Snape hurried over the threshold, catching Harry swiftly before he connected with the floor. Snape hauled him up under the arms, steadying him.

Snape was speaking again but the darkness was descending once more and Harry could barely make out the words. It sounded like Snape was asking the Death Eater to stay. He caught the words 'Hogwarts' and 'safe' but little else was discernible.

Harry watched the Death Eater shake his head, speaking quietly and then he was standing back and gripping the broom once more. Harry raised his hand feebly as the Death Eater swung one leg over the broom handle. He grasped at thin air; he didn't know if he was trying to say thank you or trying to get the stranger to stay.

The last thing Harry saw was the Death Eater rising into the air and then disappearing into the blackened sky. Harry turned his head slightly towards Snape, and then sank into oblivion.

Harry woke with a jolt. He was shivering violently and a cold sweat covered his body. Every night when he closed his eyes, Harry remembered that night in the dungeons and every night, the memories faded as soon as he woke. He tried desperately to hold on to the visions, but slowly they blurred together and all Harry was left with was the sensation of an arm around his waist and a voice whispering something.

He punched his pillow in frustration before flopping back against it. A faint orange glow was peeking through the drawn curtains from the street lamp outside.

The clock on the bedside table politely informed him that it was a quarter to four. Harry groaned. It was early, but he felt wide awake. He fumbled for his glasses in the dim light. Drawing his blankets around him, he rose and settled in a chair by the fire. The fire had long since gone out and there was nothing but smouldering ashes in the grate. Harry sat as still as a statue, staring into the empty fireplace, and waited for morning to come.

.oO0Oo.

Draco woke late the next morning, stiff from an awkward nights sleep spent in a slightly sagging armchair. His stomach grumbled loudly in hunger, but Draco wasn't sure he could face the other patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. The reception he had received the previous night was still fresh in his mind.

In the end, he conjured a plate of sandwiches and ate them, perched on the window sill looking down onto the Muggle street below. Muggles bustled to and fro, up and down the street, unaware of the entire world that lay just metres away behind a shabby, unseen pub. Draco's lips twisted into a faint sneer as he watched the Muggles hurry about their hum-drum lives.

He was tempted to remain in his room all day, safe from the prying, hating eyes of the Wizarding world. But somewhere in the bottom of his trunk, a list of required reading demanded his attention. He really didn't want to venture out into Diagon Alley, but those books weren't going to buy themselves so he geared himself up to face the outside world once more.

"Get it together", he demanded harshly to the empty room. "You're a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake." This statement seemed to leave a rather bitter taste in Draco's mouth. His mind flew back to that witch last night who had spat at him, and he sighed in resignation; being a Malfoy was not the proud and prestigious thing it had once been.

He dressed meticulously. His robes were the finest gold could buy, and they fitted him like a glove, accentuating his fine aristocratic posture and grace. He paused before the mirror, brushing loose strands of hair out of his eyes.

"Oooh, aren't you the pretty one?" the mirror cooed appreciatively.

He regarded himself for a moment. Sharp, refined features. Straight nose, pointed chin, pale skin, high cheek bones and deep mysterious eyes. He had lost that childlike quality, matured and hardened in just a few short years.

His hair was longer than it had been at Hogwarts; it fell below his shoulders now and was tied at the base of his neck with a dark leather tie, adding several years to his appearance. He looked more like his father now; staring at his reflection, it was almost like looking at Lucius twenty years ago. Except for his eyes; his eyes didn't have quite the same hard, icy quality that Lucius' had had.

He turned his head slightly to admire his profile. Ever since he could remember, he had been praised for his looks. He had been called pretty and gorgeous by witches and wizards alike. And they were right of course. He had been pretty.

When Draco was younger he had always considered 'pretty' to be tantamount to saying 'girlish'. Girls were pretty; boys weren't supposed to be pretty, they were supposed to be handsome and dashing, like Oliver Wood or Terence Higgs. But his face was too pointed, his skin too pale to be considered handsome, and that was something that had always been a great dissatisfaction for the young Draco.

But now, when he looked at himself in the mirror, he didn't see pretty or girlish... he was more striking now, perhaps still a little too pointed and angular and certainly too pale, but he was definitely arresting. He saw a face that people always looked twice at because they simply couldn't help themselves. Something about Draco commanded attention, although moments later the looks would be matched to the name and he would receive a very different kind of attention.

He turned his head to the other side. All fine lines and effortless grace. Malfoy traits, proudly passed down through the generations, protected and secured by marrying into only the best of the European pureblood families. He felt a resurgence of that old family pride, a feeling he hadn't experienced for what felt like years.

He almost smiled. "At least I haven't lost any of my vanity," he muttered to his reflection, rolling his eyes.

He placed a series of protective charms over his luggage before exiting the room. It was an action born of paranoia and fear and now maintained purely out of habit.

The landing and stairwell were empty much to Draco's relief. His dragon-hide boots clicked on the stone floor. The sound made Draco rather edgy or was that just the unnerving silence that surrounded him whenever he paused?

The pub was relatively quiet. The few patrons looked up when he entered the dingy bar. Their eyes rested on his blonde hair and arrogant stance, immediately recognising him as a Malfoy. Just as they had done the previous night, the whispers began again. Tom leaned forwards, wiping down the bar with brusque strokes as though merely having a Malfoy in the bar had infected every surface with a ubiquitous malevolence. He didn't engage Draco in conversation like he would normally have done with his other guests.

Draco slipped through the bar to the alley beyond and then through the hidden entrance into Diagon Alley. It was busy. A whirlwind of activity. Everywhere he looked he saw young witches and wizards dragging their parents along, eagerly snapping up everything they needed for a new year at Hogwarts.

There was an air of merriment and joy that hadn't been felt by the Wizarding world for too long, although underneath still lurked that ever present sense of loss.

Draco strode purposefully down the street. He stopped at Gringotts and accessed the Malfoy Family vault. The goblin that served him stared at him suspiciously when he handed his key over for inspection. Draco shifted uneasily under its piercing gaze and was grateful when they reached the safe darkness of the wild rollercoaster ride.

The door to the family vault loomed before him after a short while. It was a heavy, wooden and metal door, re-enforced by countless layers of goblin magic. But the brass plate displaying the vault number and the Malfoy crest was bright and shiny, even after all the centuries it had existed down here in the darkness.

Once upon a time, Draco had needed a letter of approval from his father just to set foot in here, but now he surveyed the vast fortune with a proud smirk. Every single Knut, Sickle and Galleon was his.

But later when Draco walked through Diagon Alley's crowded, twisted streets, wizards and witches avoided him, hurried their children away, sent looks of pure, undisguised hatred at him, and Draco wondered for the first time in his life, whether having a full money purse was worth the fear, hatred and disgust that accompanied the Malfoy fortune and the Malfoy name.

He nipped that thought sharply in the bud. He was a pureblood Slytherin. It wouldn't do to go around thinking like some pathetic little Hufflepuff. He straightened his robes and strode into Flourish and Blotts.

He was served by a timid young wizard with dirty blonde hair and a nervous smile. He would have been a few years older than Draco, but his hands were shaking as he tried desperately to perform his duty without having to look into Draco's eyes. Draco sneered but he felt ill as he swept out of the shop, his books tucked firmly under his arm.

He fled back to the Leaky Cauldron, pushing his way through the throng of busy shoppers. He hated himself for being so cowardly, for not being able to withstand their accusing looks. But he was, he reasoned, a Slytherin not a bloody Gryffindor. Self-preservation was right up there with ambition on the Slytherin list of priorities.

Draco reached the relative safety of the Leaky Cauldron, unscathed. He had thankfully missed the lunch time rush hour and the pub was once more fairly empty. He pushed through the smoky air, making for the staircase and the security of his room.

As he approached the stairs, a jolly group emerged from the private room next door. They reached the entrance to the stairwell at the same time. Draco regarded the hoard of redheads and stepped back unconsciously. Eight pairs of eyes stared him, and for a brief moment Draco felt two inches tall. They're just Weasleys, he told himself sternly, just a penniless rabble. Oh, and the mudblood, can't forget the ever-present mudblood.

Draco surveyed the group with a critical eye until his gaze came to rest on a lone figure at the back of the group. For several moments, he just stared at Potter, holding his gaze. And with a sickening jolt, Draco realised that there was something different about this Potter. It took him several moments to pinpoint the change. It was his eyes; they were... dead. They held no emotion... no hatred... just nothing. And it was like looking into a mirror.

Draco fought the urge to run. He wasn't supposed to identify with Potter. He just was supposed to ignore him, pretend he didn't even exist. He could feel his mask of cool disregard beginning to slip.

Suddenly he became aware of the fact that someone was talking to him. No wait, shouting at him. He tore his eyes away from Potter. The Weasley matriarch was yelling. Her fists were clenched at her side and her face was red with anger. Her Muggle-loving husband was fighting to restrain her, and behind them, three sons and a daughter were glaring at him. The Weasel looked apoplectic as he stared at his hated schoolyard enemy and for the briefest of moments Draco actually believed that spontaneous human combustion was possible.

And all the while Mrs Weasley was still spitting her undisguised hatred at him. Her words bounced off Draco's protective armour, failing to pierce through to his heart. He tuned out her words, staring through her with a bored expression. Finally the tirade ended as she paused to draw breath.

"Are you finished?" Draco asked with false politeness. Mrs Weasley stared at him, gasping for breath, and nodded dumbly before she could stop herself. "Good, well if you'll just excuse me then," Draco drawled, drawing himself up to his full height. He pushed through their ranks, knocking Weasley roughly aside, and strode haughtily up the steps. He could feel their eyes on his back and resisted the urge to look back.

.oO0Oo.

Harry watched as Malfoy disappeared up the stairs. Around him, the Weasleys were muttering in anger and Hermione was resting her hand against Harry's forearm in what he supposed was meant to be reassurance.

Harry felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment well up inside him. He had been hoping, even expecting, that seeing Malfoy again would spark some feeling inside him like it has almost done the night before. This numbness was excruciating and right now, feeling anger and pain would be better than feeling nothing at all.

He had seen the cold, bored expression fixed on Malfoy's face, a look he knew well from previous years at Hogwarts, but when he had looked into Malfoy's eyes he hadn't seen that familiar hatred and disgust that he was used to seeing. Malfoy's grey eyes had been dull and jaded. He looked the way Harry felt, and that had been an unsettling realisation... one that he wasn't really sure he was prepared to face just at this moment.

He waited at the bottom of the stairs with the twins and Mr and Mrs Weasley while Ron, Ginny and Hermione rushed up to their rooms to collect their book lists. Fred and George were joking nastily about the things they would do to Malfoy if they had full reign and access to some of their more dangerous tricks, and Mr Weasley was massaging his wife's shoulders soothingly. Mrs Weasley's hands were still shaking and she looked rather shell-shocked.

Malfoy had been present for the briefest of moments but he had drawn such a severe reaction from the rest of the assembled group and yet Harry's emotions were left untouched. He suddenly felt very tired and his head was beginning to throb, signalling an impending headache.

Hermione and the youngest Weasleys appeared a moment later, and Harry felt himself being swept up and away through the pub towards Diagon Alley. He removed himself from the group politely but firmly. Mrs Weasley turned to look at him, concern evident in her eyes.

"Are you alright, Harry, love?" she asked, worried.

"I'm fine, Mrs Weasley. Just a bit of a headache. I think I'll skip the shopping... have a lie down instead."

Mrs Weasley immediately pressed her hand to his forehead and then each of his cheeks, searching his face for other signs of illness. "Yes, you do look a little pale," she fussed.

Harry fished his money bag and list out of his pocket, pressing them into Hermione's hands. "Will you get my books for me?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Of course, Harry," she said instantly.

He smiled at her gratefully. "I'll see you at dinner," he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the private room where they had just had their lunch.

"Alright," Mrs Weasley gave him a gentle push towards the stairs. "You take it easy, love."

Ron clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, squeezing slightly. "See you later, mate," he enthused before linking hands with Hermione and disappearing out into the street after his family.

And then Harry was alone in the bar. Tom and the few patrons smiled at him. One witch approached him, pen and paper in hand. Harry's stomach lurched at the thought of giving autographs. He stumbled backwards and then escaped into the peace of the dark stairwell.

Back in his room, Harry lay down on his bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes. Hedwig was curled up on her perch in the corner. She had opened one sleepy eye as he entered, before settling back into slumber. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the cool, soft sheets beneath him. And before long, Hedwig was not the only one sleeping soundly.

Harry drifted slowly back into consciousness. His head had stopped pounding and for the first time in several months, he felt calm and rested. He struggled up into a seated position, rubbing his slightly bleary eyes. It was nearly six o'clock. Harry swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat for several moments, perched there, mustering the strength to go downstairs and face the Weasleys for dinner.

He locked the door to his room behind him and set off down the dimly-lit corridor, his fingertips brushing lightly against the rough walls in a strangely reassuring act. His head was down, following the progress of his feet on the floor. He looked up just as he approached the stairs.

.oO0Oo.

Draco Malfoy had just stepped onto the landing. His venture down into the pub in search of dinner had proved a rather spectacular mistake. He could still feel those eyes boring into him. He clenched his jaw angrily, wondering what on earth had possessed him to come back to England. He should have stayed in France; at least there he was spared the hateful looks, the unsubtle Death Eater accusations.

Ah, but you were a Death Eater, a rather nasty little voice whispered in the back of his mind. You're not innocent in all of this.

A faint shuffling sound drew his attention away from what he supposed was his conscience, something he had thought he had managed to destroy years ago. Potter was slowly trundling down the corridor towards him. His head was bowed, his face hidden behind that ugly shock of black hair.

He was little than a metre away from Draco before he finally looked up. Their eyes met and for several moments they just stared at each other. Draco felt a strange pressure against his temples as he looked into the piercing green eyes that weren't quite hidden behind glasses. It was as though he was seeing Potter for the first time.

The hair was the same. Slightly longer but no less wild and Draco wondered idly whether Potter even owned a brush. And the glasses were different. Thinner and more mature than the geeky round pair Draco was used to seeing. The familiar lightning-bolt scar was still there, but it seemed smaller somehow. Fainter, lighter, a faded scar from a long-since passed event.

But the past couple of years had changed the Gryffindor in more significant ways just as they had changed Draco. The Boy-Who-Lived was slightly stockier now. Still lean by normal standards, but he had lost that skinny, little-boy look. His shoulders were broader and he had grown; Draco noted with some satisfaction that he himself still held the height advantage. Potter's features had hardened, and he now looked more like a man than a boy. He wasn't exactly handsome, regardless of what witches magazines enthused, but he did possess a sense of self that was distinctly attractive; he was charismatic without even trying.

But now, hidden behind the carefully cultivated hero-image, Draco's well-trained eye could just discern the real Potter in those piercing green eyes; they screamed of pain and loss and sadness. The image of Potter chained to that dungeon wall flashed before Draco's eyes, jolting him back to reality. He struggled to fix an appropriate sneer on his pointed face.

.oO0Oo.

Harry stared back into those grey eyes, somehow unable to move under their unwavering gaze. Malfoy's face was devoid of any emotion, but something was flickering behind his eyes as though he was lost in thought. Suddenly, Malfoy's lips twisted into a small but definite sneer, an expression that failed to reach his eyes. But Harry didn't notice that.

Instantly he was filled with an overwhelming sense of anger. It came out of nowhere, consuming Harry's entire body. He felt the sudden rush as his heart beat increased in rage. He was taken aback at the sudden intensity of his feelings. After months of not feeling anything, he was now gripped by an emotion so powerful he felt strangely invincible.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry spat incredulously, clenching his fists against his side.

The sneer slide from Malfoy's face, replaced once more by that cold, expressionless mask. He just stared at Harry as though looking right through him. For a moment, it looked like Malfoy was about to say something. Harry could almost see the vicious diatribe on his thin lips, but then he seemed to pull himself back. He stepped forwards and brushed past Harry.

Before he could stop himself, Harry had reached out and grabbed Malfoy's sleeve, whirling him around. Again their eyes met and confronted by those dull grey eyes, Harry suddenly felt his anger abating. He desperately tried to hold onto those feelings and the way he felt overwhelmingly alive when the emotions surged through him, but it was too late. They were gone and he felt empty again.

His shoulders slumped. Malfoy gave him a last searching look before turning away. Harry sighed and turned to go down the stairs. As he twisted, his heel caught on the hem of his too long trousers. He slipped, falling heavily against the wooden railing running across the gap between the top of the stairs and the wall.

There was a sickening crunch as the wood cracked under his weight. Suddenly he was falling backwards, scrabbling frantically. His wand slipped from his pocket and he heard it clatter on the stone floor below.

His heart was pounding in his chest. He was hanging from the edge by his fingertips. He felt a hopeless chuckle well up in his throat. How ironic that he should survive the most feared Dark Wizard only to fall to his death in the stairwell of the Leaky Cauldron.

He tried to haul himself back up over the edge, his muscles straining under the dead weight of his body. Suddenly as he looked up, Draco Malfoy loomed over him. Harry winced internally. He felt stupid and pathetic, hanging here on the verge of slipping and staring up at a calm and collected Malfoy.

For a split second, Harry considered appealing to Malfoy for help. It was a fleeting thought though, and he stared up into those blank grey eyes, stubbornly refusing to beg for the help of an enemy.

Slowly, Malfoy lent down towards him and extended on hand. For several moments Harry just stared at the offered hand, confusion reigning in his mind.

"Do you trust me?" Malfoy asked, his voice quiet but clear.

The voice and the words echoed in Harry's mind and suddenly the dam blocking all of his lost memories broke. Every image and sensation that drifted away when he woke came flooding back. Harry's eyes widened in realisation as he stared up at Malfoy.

Instinctively, Harry's fingers let go of the edge and gripped Malfoy's hand. He felt himself being hauled upwards. He scrambled to pull himself up over the ledge and stumbled forwards onto his knees.

He paused there on his hands and knees as his breathing became regulated again and his heart beat slowed. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to look up. He wasn't sure what he'd see, whether he was ready to consider the implications.

He could feel Malfoy's gaze on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable prickling sensation spreading across his skin. When he eventually did look up, he was instantly taken back to the last time he had been before Malfoy on his knees. Only this time there was no Death Eater mask obscuring Malfoy's identity and Harry was able to stare up into those bottomless silver eyes. Harry shivered in spite of himself.

Malfoy was just standing there, hands in his pockets, looking calmly, dispassionately down at the Gryffindor before him. Harry stared back wildly. His mind was a whirl of memories and thoughts and questions. He felt lost and confused. If there had been one thing that he thought he could always be certain of in this world, it was that he and Malfoy hated each other and would always be enemies. He felt as though the ground had just slipped out from under his feet.

Snape had reluctantly told Harry that he had been rescued by an anonymous Death Eater, but he had refused to reveal anything more. Harry had tried pleading, shouting and even threats, but Snape was resolute and from then on, Harry had assumed he would go to his grave still not knowing who had saved him that night.

Harry shook his head, feeling like his mind was going to implode from the overload. How could Malfoy and that Death Eater be the same person? It didn't make sense. Malfoy was evil; he was just like his father... why would he help Harry?

Harry got heavily to his feet, straightening up under Malfoy's watchful gaze. Harry felt uncomfortable and disorientated. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but just then a shrill cry pierced through the silence.

"HARRY?" Hermione called from downstairs. The sounds of footsteps on stairs followed a moment later.

Harry was jolted out of his confusion, and he suddenly realised that every preconceived idea that he had about Malfoy need to be re-evaluated. He wanted, no...needed to talk to Malfoy, but now the Slytherin was stepping back. "They're calling you," Malfoy stated, nodding towards the stairs. His face betrayed no emotion and Harry wondered how he did that.

Harry watched, dumbfounded as Malfoy drew his wand and with a quick swish repaired the broken banister. "Accio wand," his voice was soft but unwavering and possessed just a hint of the former arrogance it had once held. Harry's wand flew up the stairs and into Malfoy's outstretched hand. He tossed the retrieved wand carelessly towards Harry, who caught it nimbly, his fingers curling around the familiar smooth wood.

And then Malfoy was walking away as though nothing had happened. There were no explanations, no revelations, just... nothing. Harry raised his hand helplessly, trying to get his voice to work. His hand grasped at thin air and he realised with shock that this was the same gesture he made that night as Malfoy had flown away.

Harry waited but Malfoy didn't turn back. He disappeared into the room one down from Harry's without so much as a backward glance. Harry stood for several moments in the corridor, trying to process what had just happened.

A second cry pierced his daze. "HARRY?" Hermione's voice was closer now, on the landing just below. As if on autopilot, Harry turned and descended the stairs, but by the time he reached the ground floor he was once again lost in a barrage of thoughts.

It was only when he had sunk into his chair beside Ron that he realised that he was feeling again. Emotions and thoughts flowed through his entire body. It was a shock to realise that for the first time in so long he actually felt alive.

The emptiness was gone and somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry registered that Malfoy had been the cause. He wasn't sure if this should be regarded as a good thing or a bad thing and he wasn't even sure if he wanted this to be something he was going to accept. In the end, he merely shrugged and asked Ron to pass him the gravy.