Darker Magic

Chapter 5:

Expelliarmus

Draco's dreams were getting worse.

He knew Harry trusted him completely when he let slip the Gryffindor Tower password. Because Harry would never give over anything that could be used to harm his friends. That was when Draco felt the terror most keenly. He told himself it was because he still could not trust himself, and to a certain extent, that was true. But it went deeper than betrayal to Voldemort. It was fear of what he held just out of thought's reach, for as long as he could manage.

It was hard at night to push it away, especially when he woke gasping in the chilly pre-dawn hours, holding his pillow to his face to muffle the sound lest Nott be awake and listening yet again. When he closed his eyes against the looming darkness of his room, darkness that pressed and shifted, he saw candle-lit skin and felt the smooth touch of it under his fingers, the harsh ache in his body. He smelled lemons.

There was no question of whom he dreamt about anymore. But he could still ignore it.

He moved through his days automatically, sneering and frozen to everyone; perhaps overly so, but Draco was not one to care what others thought about him or his motives. It was one of the things he found most interesting about the Hufflepuffs and the Gryffindors, a detached sort of interest, as if he were studying a rare potions recipe or a strange magical creature. Members of those houses were always looking about themselves, ever conscious of the presence of their schoolmates, the passive stares of their professors. Caring for others was not a Slytherin trait. Oh, Slytherins were not devoid of it, but they rarely allowed their vulnerable points to be touched upon enough to goad the concern forward. Draco had no qualms about this, no regrets. He felt no need to worry about the fate of his schoolmates. They would either be clever enough to take care of themselves, or they would learn a hard lesson each time the subject arose. Lessons were taught again and again until one learned from them, or died from them. Draco found the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff inability to let everything go rather disgusting, and highly amusing. One must always take time for oneself, he reasoned - had reasoned, ever since he was a child - for if one were not safe and whole, how would concern for others make any difference at all? Draco laughed at all Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors silently to himself.

He laughed at them all, except for one.

Somehow Harry was different. The usual rules did not apply to him and Draco often cursed the boy in the dark quiet of his mind for bending the laws of the world to fit his perverseness, for not conforming to the simple equation. Harry cared about others more than himself. And for some reason, Draco did not find it disgusting, only soothing. Harry cared what others thought of him, his appearance, his actions. And Draco did not find it foolish, just difficult to understand. Harry traveled through the everyday world uncertainly, taking the time to step aside and ponder his moves for a long while instead of just calculating them quickly and easily on his feet, and striding to meet them with confidence and, in Draco's case, a certain disdain. For Draco, who had never bothered to remove himself from the flow to think things through, who had always considered his options while already slinking carefully toward them, this was wholly unheard of. The Gryffindor did not quite fit into Draco's world, and it made Harry not detestable, but exotic, rare and somehow... needed.

And then the dreams would come and Draco would push it all away until it came back for him to ponder once more, convincing himself that it was discomfort he was feeling because he could not define what it really was.

But he suspected Harry was catching on.

They met the nights of November, as always, furtive, stolen encounters in empty hallways, or out by the trees. Wherever Harry was, Draco felt himself drawn as if by the tug of invisible threads, yet when he got there, it was all he could do not to tear himself away. Harry's eyes searched his face, fingers touching his cheek, and Draco answered his questions in stilted tones. He heard the loss growing in Harry's voice each time. Desperation there, but it was giving way to despondency. The dreams flowed over Draco even in wakefulness, forcing a rigidity of body and mind to keep them from consuming him and driving him to something he would always question, always curse himself for. He was avoiding kissing Harry again. He was avoiding holding him.

And then one night, quite suddenly... he was avoiding Harry altogether.

* * *

It began with a letter from his father. Not as simply as Draco opening the envelope, casting the spell, and finding the words I demand that you stay away from one Harry Potter for the remainder of the term there on the crisp, off-white parchment. That would have finally convinced him that his father had gone insane. But perhaps that sort of letter would have been easier than the reality. At least then Draco could excuse himself from the guilt gnawing at his insides.

But it was the letter that did it in the end. Draco told himself that as he slid his finger under the flap yet again and opened the envelope delicately, as he pulled the folded parchment from its pure white casing, as he drew out the runes and symbols to bring the true message to the surface. He pushed it from his mind as the clock ticked past the time he should have left the common room and gone out into the chill wind of the grounds.

As the minute hand glided over the last possible moment he pictured Harry waiting before returning to the castle.

Draco read the letter for the sixth time, committing the abrupt words to memory. He could see his father's hand poised over the parchment, quill balanced delicately between his fingers, his other hand smoothing the already perfect sheet. The thoughtful angle of his neck. Perhaps his hair was down.

Infallibility is not as impossible to achieve as one might think. A person may indeed become immune to all forms of vulnerability, and therefore become the most powerful person in the world.

Even now, knowing what I know, this sounds vaguely flawed to me. Every human being has a weakness, every creature contains within itself the thing, or idea of the thing, that can bring it to its knees. We carry the seeds of our own destruction inside our hearts and minds, and it takes but a word, a look, to condemn ourselves to the fate earned by such weakness. But it does not have to be so; a person may indeed become invulnerable, may do away with that which makes him prone to an inevitable fall.

As the Dementors bring one face to face with what may destroy him, so too do they teach him the most important and least well-known realization of all: If sought for, a moment will come when the Dementors become nothing but worrying shapes in the mist. We choose our own weaknesses. We feed the Dementors even as we attempt to struggle against their powers, by calling to the surface that which makes us most happy, and therefore that which can be used against us. What hurts us does so because we allow it to do so. What breaks you, what can be used against you, only has this ability because you have given it that amount of control. Greed and vengeance are two emotions that come to mind as harbingers of destruction. But love is another such weakness oft chosen over the alternative of invincibility.

I shall let you draw your own conclusions as to love's uses. I myself have made my choices concerning it. Your mother no longer holds the space in my heart she once did, leaving it to scar over in thick folds of flesh. I have thrust her from me, but in so doing I have saved us both from each other. Her life, her actions, thoughts, beliefs, will no longer be constrained by my presence, nor mine by hers. And in this way we both gain strength, another lonely step toward perfection and infallibility.

As you know already, my choice concerning you is not the same, and I fear I may live to regret it, and that you certainly will. But I have no desire to change it.

Choose carefully the things you will allow to have power over you. I do not speak of the people who seek your service, nor those who attempt to sway your loyalties. Look to the ones who ask for nothing, and in so doing, receive all you have. They are the most wonderful, the most tempting; they cause the greatest of imperfections, and they remain, always and forever, the most dangerous.

"Ah, the prodigal son."

Nott's voice was soft, high and poisonous. It slid like velour, each word riding on a breath that concealed a thousand meanings. It was a voice of luxurious dream and horrid nightmare. And Draco could tell Nott was well aware of that fact.

Draco suppressed a shiver. He tucked his father's letter away calmly and stretched his fingers over the armrest, feeling out the smooth sheen of the leather. Closing his eyes, arching, taking his time to uncurl his stiff muscles, Draco waited until he felt Nott in front of him. He opened his eyes again and rose to his feet in a slow, graceful movement.

Nott smiled ever so slightly. Ever so coldly.

"You look tired, Draco," he said, his voice sounding like the slide of snakes' skin over the earth. Draco cocked an eyebrow at him, grateful for the many years of schooling his body to do what he demanded of it, thanking the ease of instinct. Inwardly, his stomach clenched. Nott smiled serenely.

"Haven't you been sleeping?"

Draco gave a curt nod, smoothing his clothing with one hand. "Haven't you?"

The other Slytherin fixed his eyes on him, that odd smirk still hovering just around his lips. Those were eyes you could not look at for very long. They pierced, dove inside and turned your innards. Draco knew his own eyes were very similar, but instead of soft, pale grey, these irises were sharp, cutting blue. They glowed, their pigment too light to be real. Intangible, yet heavier than any cloak. Draco stared back, fighting with himself to keep from looking away.

Nott kept his eyes on Draco, but nodded to Blaise Zabini where he stood just inside the partially open portrait hole. "Go on, then, Blaise. I find I'm not as hungry as I thought."

Blaise smiled uneasily at Nott, then turned a derisive sneer on Draco before striding from the room. Draco moved his gaze back to Nott, unconcernedly, but in reality his attention had never left the lean Slytherin in front of him. He was not that stupid.

Nott stepped backward with an elegance that contrasted with his hollow cheekbones and angular frame. He settled himself into his chair of choice directly across from Draco's, sinking down as one who has found the familiar peculiarities of an old habit only just remembered. He smiled up at Draco, the twist of his lips not reaching his eyes.

"Are your nightmares really that disconcerting, Draco?" he asked mildly.

Draco sat back down in his own chair, taking time to arrange himself into a comfort he was far from feeling. "I would hardly call them nightmares, Nott."

The Slytherin's eyebrows rose at the use of his surname, and Draco felt inexplicably content. It seemed Nott still had reservations about his own place. Or maybe about Draco's. No matter. The results were the same either way.

He needed Nott off his guard, because he himself was shuddering on his feet right then.

Nott cocked his head thoughtfully and nodded to Draco. "Letter from home?"

Draco touched his breast pocket with one finger, feeling the stiffness of the folded parchment there. "Curious?"

The Slytherin let out a hissing snicker and shook his head slowly. "Not nearly enough to try to take it from you. I assume your father has hexed it so that if anyone other than his dear son reads it, he will go insane."

Draco smiled blandly at him. "I had no idea you knew my father so well, Nott."

The Slytherin's smile dropped from his face, replaced by an intent look. "You've no idea how much I know."

"I might." Draco reached over and picked up his Charms book where it lay on the nearest table. "Now, if you're finished chatting, I have reading to do, and you are depriving Blaise of your incomparable company."

He opened his book to a random page and set himself to reading, not taking in a word, still very aware of the proximity of his dorm-mate. Nott sat in silence for a moment, just watching as Draco turned the pages. All at once he leaned forward, thin fingers curling around his armrests like buzzards' claws.

"I'd hate to think you've been dreaming about him, Draco." His voice was deadly hushed.

Draco's heart stopped in his chest and he barely restrained his sudden, piercing panic. Harry's face flickered in his mind as he raised his eyes to Nott's, hoping they did not betray the turmoil thundering through him. He managed - gods, he had no idea how - to look nonplussed. Nott just looked at him from hooded eyes. Draco stared back and saw darkness there. He could not breathe.

And then, so swiftly Draco's heart shuddered, it clicked, a bolt slamming into place, and he realized exactly who Nott was talking about.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no."

A shadow passed over Nott's face and Draco thought his housemate must have heard the shiver in his voice. He could not keep it silent, though he had tried. His body wanted to writhe, attempting to settle back into itself, and it was only with a supreme effort that Draco forced its obedience.

"You met him last summer?" Nott asked. Draco sneered.

"Summer before last."

Nott inclined his head. "You know," he said, his tone that of someone commenting about the next Potions assignment, "I think he's at least part boggart."

Draco couldn't stop himself. He snorted. "What?"

Nott looked at him and raised his sharp shoulders in a shrug. "You must have felt it. When you first saw him, it was not really him you saw, was it?"

Draco frowned. He had no idea where this was going and the lilt of Nott's voice was threading through him, tendrils concealing razor sharp points.

"No, I didn't see him until I looked again," he conceded in an impatient tone.

Nott smiled and nodded, almost to himself. "Scared you, did it? I think it's a marvelous trick."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I don't remember being particularly frightened by what I saw."

"What did he look like to you, Draco?" Nott's words caressed him in cold waves.

"A man."

"That's what I thought I would see, too, but then I realized there are no men in this. Only what men fear. You saw a man. You fear a man, Draco?"

Draco stiffened and glared at the rake-thin Slytherin in front of him. "What did you see, then?"

Nott grinned, his teeth looking strangely sharp in the shadows of the room. "I saw nothing."

Draco felt an icy slither down his back. He grunted noncommittally and looked down at his book again. Nott eyed him, face blank and doll-like. Draco finally jerked his head up and glared. "What?"

"You should exorcise your demons before they take shape and kill you." A slow, cancerous smile slid across Nott's face. The shadows shaped his features into a Death Mask. "Or perhaps... get you killed."

"Is that a threat, Nott?"

"Threats are for those who fear to act, Draco," the Slytherin returned in a flat voice. Draco stared, his body going rigid. He could not look away from those eyes. So pale, almost white. He wanted to look away. He wanted...

Nott rose from his chair quite suddenly. "Enjoy your book," he said before crossing behind Draco, trailing his fingertips over the leather of his chair. Draco heard the portrait open and shut. But still his body remained fixed there, staring straight ahead.

* * *

Some days Draco felt the danger intensely.

One night, Draco dreamed of Harry bound to a pillar of obsidian black, eyes staring straight forward unblinkingly. There was something in the room with him, moving around him, treading slowly, but Draco could not see it save for a faint outline. There was a high-pitched sound and it rolled over them both in that room, but it was unrecognizable... except that Draco felt cold.

He woke from that dream to the whispered presence of something familiar, somewhere he had been before.

The next night he dreamed of Harry and woke gasping and throwing the hot blankets off, candlelight still flickering over his retinas. He could still smell him, still feel his body under his fingertips. Draco wrapped his arms around his torso and shivered himself into submission, knowing somehow that Nott was awake on the other side of the closed curtains.

He almost went to Harry the following evening, was halfway out the huge front doors before he stopped himself and turned, striding back to Slytherin House steadily, determinedly.

That night, the thestrals returned, glaring at him in his sleep, acid dripping like water from between their ribs onto the cold limestone under his bare feet. He was pressed against the bars of a cell and behind him something had died and was inching its way inexorably across the floor toward him, but all he could see were glazed, pale moons of eyes.

Draco woke knowing that whatever he was doing with Harry had to be stopped, and the certainty of it stung him deeply but not surprisingly.

His father's next letter arrived the following evening, clutched in the piercing talons of his eagle owl.

It is a sad day when one discovers he has been betrayed by his own flesh and blood, Draco.

Draco stared at the words. His heart began a dull drumming in his chest.

I do not require the knowledge of who or what you have turned from me to embrace. It was there in your very manner this summer, a glimmer in your eye that was not present before. You disguised it well; for a time I thought it meant for me and allowed myself to be flattered in my stupor. But you do not hold your veils in place adequately. It is a failure you have never taken the time or effort to correct.

Your body is only as strong as your mind, and that in turn rests on the strength you employ to chain yourself together. We all contain parts, pieces that threaten to fall away if not reined in properly. The voice sets them loose, as do the eyes, for all to witness. I am repulsed and disgusted to see that my lessons have come to nothing, my teachings lost in whatever folly you amuse yourself with. The chains I helped you to build are free of rust and disrepair, strong as befits a Malfoy, but you trust too much in your ability to conceal, and that certainty is neither earned nor warranted. You have let one link somewhere grow thin and malleable, and your abominable weakness shows in your entire frame.

You have blinded me deftly, and for that I begrudgingly applaud you. Your self-sustained place outside my world has been well-maintained, carefully guarded with the strength that rides in our family. But though you see fit to deceive your father, all the powers of subtlety will not mislead Him. You have chosen how to best weaken yourself and let the one who would take advantage of such vulnerability peer through the chinks.

You were not supposed to have chinks, my son.

Make no mistake, it will be discovered, this weak link you've created for yourself. It will be broken like fragile eggshells, cracked under the heel of the Dark Lord's boot until you are forced into your place by his side. He will find it, and he will use it to claim you, and you will have the well-deserved agony of knowing that you have let it happen through your own astounding foolishness.

Draco's face flushed. He tore the parchment into pieces, and the words bled away, leaving the scraps pale and faded even as he ripped them apart.

* * *

It was perhaps the most unintelligent thing Draco had ever done. Yet here he was, sitting with his legs crossed beside the small jutting stone at the edge of the forest. The dew of oncoming night soaked his trouser legs, the wind sucked at his forearms and face, biting through his thin shirt. He stared into the trees, not thinking, not seeing, not questioning why he'd chosen this spot. If he really thought about it--

But Draco wasn't going to think about it. He was here because he felt most at ease among the trees and wind, because this was his place, and had long been his place for thought. His place to be alone.

But he wondered if some part of him didn't want to be alone this evening.

He barely heard his approach in time to stand and watch him come. And suddenly, Harry was there in the gloom, eyes blazing, shoving Draco's shoulder hard with one hand.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Malfoy?"

Draco glared furiously at the Gryffindor, relishing the violence with such desperate relief that it startled him. But even then, still reeling from the push, he could see Harry's heart was not in it. The other boy's eyes were wide and full of confusion, his body slumped in defeat, and there was a pleading look on his face, an ache that belied the anger of the previous moment.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he muttered in a sour voice. Harry's eyebrows rose at this and he stepped closer. Draco backed up a step in response and Harry stopped.

"I've been here every night. You bloody well know that."

Draco frowned and turned away. He couldn't argue and he did know it. He hated not having the upper hand, something to use against even this Gryffindor.

A moment of silence, then Harry's voice came, softly. "Do you want me to go?"

No, he really didn't. Draco clamped his teeth down on his own tongue, biting until the pain drove the rebellious thoughts from his mind. He tasted something tangy, metallic, but he did not think he was bleeding. Just a foretaste, a warning of what was to come should he continue. He'd always liked that taste, savored it, rolled it around his mouth. It was calming, and it drove his mind into intoxicated submission.

"Go away," he said flatly, curling his lip at Harry. He saw the anger rise back into those green eyes and wanted to laugh. Righteous fury, tinted with a little concern, but really, all of it was still for Harry. Possibly one of the few times the Gryffindor put himself before others: when he was angry enough.

Of course. Hadn't Draco been using that against him for years?

Harry strode closer and jabbed a finger into Draco's chest. "Alright, spit it out then. What the hell did I do?"

Draco sneered at him and shook his head. "It's not always about you, Potter."

Harry blinked at the familiar words, his face going slack. Then it twisted into something Draco didn't recognize, ugly and threatened. Draco stilled, watching.

"You want to tell me why you've been avoiding me?" Harry spat. The words were hard, soaked in dark emotions Draco would have shivered at, had they not dwelt inside him much of the time. As it was, he only smiled, feeling for the pungent rage to find his energy.

"Alright. I don't want to be near you anymore."

Instead of filling with the anger Draco had been counting on, Harry's face went stark white. His mouth opened and closed once. The Gryffindor stepped away and rocked back and forth on his feet, looking at Draco, then the ground. Then at his hands. Back at Draco, and this time his lips were set in a thin line. Draco frowned, forcing himself to keep still.

Harry peered into his face; Draco knew he would find nothing there and was relieved. Harry's gaze traveled over him. "You don't want to be near me."

Draco smirked. "You asked. I never said you'd like the answer, did I?"

Harry startled him by darting a hand forward and grabbing his collar. Draco jerked backward instinctively, but Harry's palm was against his throat, warmth flowing into his skin. Draco froze at the all too familiar touch and met the Gryffindor's eyes before he could stop himself, and it was then that he fell. He had a fleeting sensation of failure, because Harry could see now. He knew it.

Harry stared hard at him. "I don't believe you."

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry's fingers were there, brushing his lips, the look in his eyes almost reverent. Draco drew in a startled breath and Harry's scent was there, light and indistinct, but Draco knew it, oh, he knew it, his whole body knew it. He shuddered. Harry's eyes widened. "Draco--"

"Shut up," he hissed, jerking Harry to him, kissing him for all he was worth. The other boy made a soft sound of surprise, bringing his arms up to steady himself against Draco's body. The Slytherin felt weak-kneed, light-headed, as if he were doing something he was not supposed to be doing, but it felt good, it felt right, and he pushed the intruding warnings away. They died quietly in the back of his mind, and Draco let himself drift down, pulling Harry with him to kneel in the grass. Harry grabbed his head earnestly, threading fingers through his hair, twisting the strands until his scalp twinged, and rose up against Draco, leaning into him. Draco felt off balance, frighteningly so, but it didn't matter, he had what he'd been without and he was only just beginning to feel the real sting inside, raw and untended. He found strength to right them both, and Harry breathed into his mouth, arms wrapping around him. His hands slid up and down, clutching at his clothing, and Draco's body heated at the touch. So warm. He had to move, needed movement, and he gripped Harry's waist, his hips, pulling him closer, pushing him back, going with him.

They fell to the ground, Harry beneath him, and Draco thought the movement was rather slow, considering their haste. He had time to taste the other boy, to smell his scent, and it was heady, everywhere, filling his mind. He wanted more. Harry landed on his back, knees bent, and Draco fell with him, sliding between his parted legs until he was on top of the other boy, pressed against him chest to groin, and Harry's eyes were wide and staring, and yet clouding quickly. Draco shifted, moving higher, feeling Harry's body hitch and tighten against his, wanting to be closer, wanting to hear the frantic breaths from that mouth, wanting to feel again what he'd felt before and hidden from. Their bodies moved against each other and... there it was. Fire, hot in his belly. Strange... it was not uncomfortable, just there, insistent and burning, eating away at him. He moved his hips again.

Harry gasped and surged up to meet him, fastening their mouths together. His heat was scorching and full; it seared Draco everywhere, through the thin material separating their heaving chests, from the lips and tongue desperately seeking him, from the hands running over his skin. From the hips locked against his, moving, moving... Draco moaned deep in his throat and felt his control slip another notch, pressing himself to the heated body beneath him. He couldn't get close enough to Harry; he'd lost sight of the other's glow somewhere in the murk of the past few days and his whole self, body and soul, ached with the smothering darkness. Harry's lips broke from his and Draco heard his name spoken in the breathless hush of that voice. It tore something wide open within him and took all his strength to pull from the fear and need, the rising pulse of it. He clutched Harry to him because suddenly it seemed only he could fill the hole, calm the cacophony, and he needed him, needed his touch, his kiss, his voice, his life moving against his body, telling him he was still whole, that he hadn't been shattered into fragments.

Harry's hands were against his back under his shirt, sliding and clutching with such frenzy it hurt. Draco moved his mouth to Harry's throat, edging the buttons of his shirt open. He felt Harry's lips against his forehead. It sparked something both hot and fearful in his gut and he abandoned the tender skin of his throat and kissed his mouth again instead. Harry's body was shuddering against his, and the smell of grass and lemons and Harry was flowing through him. Draco spun through a windstorm full of hot, dry air, but he had Harry now, and he would do anything to keep this, anything to keep hi--

It will be discovered, this weak link you've created for yourself. It will be broken like fragile eggshells, cracked under the heel of the Dark Lord's boot until you are forced into your place by his side. He will find it, and he will use it to claim you, and you will have the well-deserved agony of knowing that you have let it happen through your own astounding foolishness.

Draco tore himself from Harry with a strangled sound. The Gryffindor was breathing heavily, eyelids fluttering open, fingers still clenched around his shoulders. Harry's face was flushed with arousal, lips swollen and trembling. He turned slowly clearing green eyes on Draco in confused helplessness.

The need to protect that helplessness spiked through Draco and revealed to him at last just how brittle he was and how deeply this frailty had been forged within himself... without his knowledge.

He shoved Harry down onto the grass and jerked backward, reeling. Harry blinked at him, but Draco was already scrambling to his feet. The cold wind bit into him, leaving him gasping. He stared down at the Gryffindor. Harry had risen on his elbows, eyes filled with worry. He reached out a hand and brushed Draco's arm with his fingertips. Draco turned and smacked his hand away. "No!"

Harry's face crumpled and he rolled over in the grass, one hand held shivering just inches from his mouth. "Draco, please, please tell me what's wrong!" he cried in a cracked, broken voice.

Draco stared at him for a beat, and then backed away, grimacing. He heard Harry's weak cry behind him as he ran. He didn't know where he was running to. Just running.

But everything had fallen into place at last.

* * *

The next morning, Draco rose from dreamless sleep and recognized himself. It was cold recognition, a hiss of icy air through his veins the moment his eyes opened. Silk against his insides. He felt oddly empty, but it was not a space created as much as a silence he had long missed.

His day went by, sharp and memorable for its regularity. He went to breakfast. He went to class. His attention did not waver or skirt around the professors' topics of choice, and though he did wonder about that vaguely, it was easy to blink his eyes and let it go.

He felt lighter. More hollow, yes. But hollowness meant the loss of something heavy, and it was a relief to throw it from himself and feel tentatively at the space it left behind. He could not quite comprehend it, but it felt familiar and that in of itself was comforting enough.

He left Transfiguration ahead of most of his class, and saw Harry standing there toward the end of the hallway with his hands shoved into his pockets, leaning against the wall. When he saw Draco, he pushed away with a jerk, but did not approach. Draco waited apprehensively for the tell-tale fluttering of uneasiness in his gut at the sight of Harry, the disconcerting, frantic quality of needing, wanting something without knowing how to get it... but it was not there.

All he felt was flat clarity. And the certainty of himself.

He turned down a dingy corridor, jerking his head ever so slightly at the Gryffindor. Harry followed soon after, weaving through the bustle of students until they were alone. The noise of their classmates died away and Draco looked at Harry expectantly through narrowed eyes.

"Did you want something, Potter?"

Harry flinched at the name, but met Draco's eyes searchingly. He licked his lips. Draco noticed the flush creeping up Harry's throat with something akin to curiosity.

"Are... are you alright, Draco?"

He studied the Gryffindor. "Never been better."

Harry's gaze traveled over his face. Draco began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He took that emotion and molded it into irritation, and the shift came easily enough.

Harry spoke again, his voice firm, but questioning. "Draco, why did you... Are you not okay with..."

He stuttered to a halt and Draco raised an eyebrow. "With?"

Harry looked him right in the eye. "Us."

Draco stared at Harry for a long moment. He expected turmoil, some sort of indecision inside himself. But all that was there was the empty cavity left by... whatever. A small part of his mind struggled feebly for one instant before wisping away completely. Draco could not even remember it once it was gone.

"Us," he said flatly.

Awareness dawned in Harry's eyes. His mouth opened slightly and he looked Draco over with a restlessness that showed his fear. "What's happened to you? You've gone back to the way..."

Draco snorted. "I don't need this, Potter. You, or anyone. Just took me a while to realize it."

Harry swallowed. "Not true. That's a lie."

Draco stepped forward until their faces were inches apart. "A lie? Look me in the eye and tell me I'm lying."

Harry's eyes flickered and Draco could feel him searching feverishly. He stared right back. The Gryffindor swallowed visibly and stepped away. Draco curled his lip. "Well, well. For once, the great Gryffindor can't find a suitable argument."

Harry's face blanched. He darted a hand out and grasped Draco's sleeve. "Stop it. What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this?"

Draco sneered and pushed Harry's hand away, brushing his sleeve off carefully with his fingers.

"Oh, grow up, Potter. You'll thank me for coming to my senses, even if you don't have that capacity. Bloody Gryffindors. You always think everything will come up nice, sweet-smelling roses."

Anger flashed in the depths of Harry's eyes. He stepped closer, almost touching. But Draco's body remained still, cool and collected. No spark of distress in his mind, no flutter of a too-swift heartbeat in his chest. It was wondrous and intriguing. Draco smirked at the Gryffindor.

Harry lowered his chin and reached his hand out, pressing his palm to Draco's chest. Quite suddenly the faintest of shivers coiled in Draco's stomach. His eyes widened and he had to fight hard not to step back. It burned. The rift inside him stung like an aggravated wound.

Harry's eyes flickered abruptly to hopeful. "You can't tell me this does nothing to you, Draco."

And then... the faintest of touches... For the first time, Draco felt Harry's magic. It reached out a tendril and stroked him lightly. Tenderly.

It was something he'd felt before, but not from Harry. He'd felt it from... Dumbledore.

Fury erupted in him, clouding the boy from his sight, and he forced Harry's magic back, sending him reeling. Harry stumbled, found his footing, and looked at Draco with surprise and sorrow written on his face. Draco clenched his fists and spat words at him.

"Back off, Potter! It's over! It does nothing to me because I choose for it to do nothing to me. You mean nothing. I suggest you find a way to live with that."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words sounded from between his quivering lips. Draco stalked away, straightening his robes, smoothing the woven symbol of the snake with a deft flick. He heard Harry say his name, a sad, broken little word. But he felt no need to turn around, to confront what was hurting the other boy. Not this time. This time the anger overrode everything and he found quiet stability there. He knew himself again, all facets, because this was familiar at last.

Draco had no idea how long he had been without this sense of self-awareness, but its return felt gentle and soothing, and the absence of that accursed heat as if it had never been made him close his eyes and breathe. His body felt mint-cool; poisons leeching away. He had returned to a place he thought he'd left behind in the dark, and it was green and silent and empty of voices. There was only room for one here; he'd known that all along, and now it was peaceful and isolated once more.

Nott looked at him thoughtfully in the common room that night, then smiled and nodded. Draco just eyed him until Nott's attention was drawn away from him.