Shattered Glass

Shattered Glass

Day 7:

Harry awoke the next morning gasping for breath, his chest painfully constricted. There was what felt like a ton weight resting on him, making breathing properly impossible. He opened his eyes, which protested against the sudden, harsh light. He looked down, reaching for his wand to set off some sort of warning to Madame Pomfrey; he didn't think he could yell for her. But, to his surprise, there actually was something on his chest, actually a someone. How he had gotten there, Harry had no idea, but there was Draco, kneeling on the floor beside his bed, his head resting on his chest. He looked much younger and much more peaceful when he was asleep.

"Draco?" Harry murmured softly, gently pushing at him to get off. Draco half awoke, his grey eyes, blurred with sleep, opening part way. He reached his hand out and grasped for Harry's, muttering almost incoherently as he did so.

"It's all right; it's just a dream. Go back to sleep."

"Draco get off," Harry commanded. He didn't want to disturb his slumber but he really couldn't breathe. Each gasp felt like miniature daggers in his lungs. Draco blinked rapidly, confused. He looked at Harry's face and realized it was much closer than it should be. At the same moment he became aware of the fact that what he had thought was a pillow was warm and moving slightly. He shot up, rocketing backwards on his heels.

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "How did I manage that?"

"You should have warned me that you were going to make a habit of falling asleep in odd places," Harry said, amused, as he rubbed at his chest.

"Sorry." Draco wouldn't meet his eyes and his face was very red. "You were having nightmares again." Harry felt almost happy in what felt like days. His mood was light, the evil voice temporarily banished to the outer reaches of his consciousness.

" 'S all right. But please try not to do that anymore. It isn't very conducive for breathing."

Draco nodded, his face still an interesting shade of red. "Sure."

"Thanks," Harry said softly. Draco looked up in surprise at his sincere tone. "I remember during the night... with the nightmares. And you were there." He paused, fiddling his thumbs. "Thank you." Draco nodded. He stood up suddenly.

"I'd better go. We don't have much time." And he left quickly, only stopping to throw his bag over his shoulder. He didn't even bother to waste the time to change into clean, unwrinkled robes.

'He said we,' Harry thought as he stared after his retreating back. 'Not that you don't have a lot of time, but we don't. Like he's dying too. Like when these ten days are over we're both going to die.'

Draco walked hurriedly through the hallways, trying to push that feeling away. That feeling he should not be feeling. When he'd woken up and realized he had used Harry's chest as a pillow, when he saw Harry looking down at him, confused, surprised and... something else he didn't recognize, he had felt... wanted, cared for. He had felt warm and... ugh, fuzzy inside. In that one moment where he was conscious he hadn't ever wanted to move. But he had, of course. That would have looked weird, oh yes, I fell asleep on top of you on purpose and I'm not moving.

'What the hell is wrong with me?' he asked himself in despair.

* * * *

There was something wrong with Draco. Hermione watched him carefully as they worked, shocked by the sudden change that seemed to have come over him. He had been getting better, health once more returning to his pale, emaciated form. But now he seemed just as bad as when the poison had run through his system. And he wouldn't tell her what was wrong.

"Malfoy, if there's anything wrong I need to know," she said for what felt like the millionth time.

"As I keep telling you, there's nothing wrong. Now leave me alone." He glared up at her, but without his usual fierceness and determination. His mind was obviously elsewhere. And Hermione thought she knew where.

"Look, you're not going to be of any use to Harry if you kill yourself trying to find a cure for him."

"As long as I find one first, what does it matter?" Draco shot back. But the mention of Harry had had the opposite affect then the one she'd expected. He went, if possible, even paler and he became extremely interested in a point just past the wall, which he was trying in vain to see. A twisted pain and unsurety shown through in his eyes, no matter how hard he'd trained to keep his emotions hidden.

"What happened?" she asked gently, moving the books from between the two of them. Draco refocused his eyes, giving her a searching look. His eyes then fell to his hands. Hermione didn't say anything more, giving him time to try and think of a response.

"Harry," he finally murmured, "He's dying. And... and I care." At this pronouncement he went silent once more.

"Of course you do," Hermione answered, knowing there was more to it than just this.

"No, you don't understand. It's not just caring whether he lives or dies because I got him poisoned to begin with, I actually care about him. Like a friend. And I'm not supposed to. I can't..." His voice faded away.

"And why can't you?" She added a hint of reassurance to her voice.

"My father, he won't like it."

"Is Harry more important then that?" This was the question that she'd wanted to ask since she'd figured out... well, since she'd figured it out. His answer would affect everything.

With barely a pause he answered softly. "Of course. But my father controls my life. I don't... I don't want him to hurt me... or him." Hermione smiled.

"I'm sorry, but if the Dark Lord couldn't kill Harry I don't think your father could." Draco let himself smile at this, but it was a wry, wistful one, not happy at all.

"He'd find a way. And I didn't say kill. There are worse things then dying. And I can't let him." He raised his voice slightly, sounding almost hysterical. "I can't let him. But it doesn't matter anyway, if I can't save him. I need to save him; I have to. He can't just die."

"Welcome to the club of people who follow Harry around, trying to save his arse." Draco grinned at that one.

"Am I really welcome?"

"If Harry said you're all right, then of course you're welcome. It is Harry's club, after all."

"Does he know about this?"

"No, we just made it recently. We were thinking of making buttons so we could identify each other. What do you think, red with a lightening bolt down the middle?"

"What about green, like his eyes? Gryffindor is just his house, not who he is." The joke lightened the mood and they sat discussing these so called plans as they worked. The frantic edge faded from Draco's face, leaving him looking weary. And they continued their work.

* * * *

The next time Harry woke it was to see Ginny peering down at him, her blue eyes alight with worry. Harry cursed silently, the poison whispering angry words in his mind. When Ginny saw that he was awake she gave him a relieved smile and began babbling about how worried she'd been, and what was going on, and when would he be better, and...

"Ginny," he said hoarsely.

"Yes? Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, you can shut up," he snapped. "Now go away and let me die in peace." Ginny stared at him, hurt, her eyes brimming with tears. He opened his mouth angrily to yell at her some more but she fled the room with a strangled sob. Harry glared after her.

Madam Pomfrey observed this from the doorway to her office. Her heart stirred painfully inside of her. She remembered when she was a student, a first year. There had been an accident in potions and she had come up to the hospital wing to be healed. She remembered looking over and seeing the headmaster, Professor Dippet, laying on one of the beds, glaring at her through his sunken eyes. He'd died two days later. She had had nightmares for weeks.

And now a student was poisoned, stuck in the same position, and she could do nothing to help him. He was too young, too full of life, to become a crotchety old man. And he yelled at his friends, hatred for them filling him, as he ruined their memories of him. As he tried to destroy their love for him just before the end.

Like her husband. An Auror with the Ministry in the dark days of terror, he had been caught by Voldemort pretty early on in the fighting. He had stumbled into his office two days after his disappearance and fainted. He'd died eight days later, cause, a rare poison by the name Soul's Fire. There was no cure then and there wasn't one now. If it could kill important people like the headmaster of Hogwarts and an Auror, then what hope did a mere student have?

* * * *

A steady stream of people came up to the hospital wing that day, trying to find any truth to the rumors. But they were all turned away at the door by Madam Pomfrey. After the first handful she stationed herself in the doorway with a broom in her hand, ready to beat at the persistent ones. All fled before her wrath.

Harry watched this, thinking dark thoughts about being watched like an animal in a zoo. Now he knew what that snake had felt like when he was ten. If only someone could free him, like he had the snake. His mind became consumed with these odd fancies. Thoughts drifted through his mind like wisps of fog, and as insubstantial as such. Everything had taken a feverish quality, alternatively over-bright and dim grey. Little details stuck in his mind while the edges dissolved into shadows.

Death had become a thing, stalking him through the shadowed recesses of his mind. He could see it in especially dark moments, a figure cloaked in the darkness from between the stars and the deepest night. All that was clearly visible were two eyes, glowing like red coals through the blackness. They brought to mind his archenemy, Lord Voldemort. But the two had always gone hand in hand anyway, Voldemort and death.

When the voice melded perfectly with his own, whispering things that had now become his thoughts, when he began to succumb to it completely, then death would surge forward. He would cry out in his dream, delirious in his fever, and pull away. Death would smile at him, stalking around him patiently. It would wait. And he would fall to it in the end.

And in these moments when the world was gone as if it too had been but a dream and Harry fell to the nightmares, when all was pain and misery, there was no one there to comfort him. There was no cool hand resting against his brow, whispering to him that it was all a dream, it would all be all right. And the part of him that remembered the world yearned for that and wept for what was no more. Or was that all a dream to begin with? Were those clear grey eyes, full of concern, just a dream, a fantasy created to help free him from the darkness? He no longer knew. But part of him wept for it and waited for it to return. It was the only rock in the darkness and fog that had consumed his mind.

* * * *

Harry was awake when Draco returned. At first he thought he was death, come once more for him, and he shrank back against the bed, whimpering, begging to be left alone. But he had glanced up and met the grey eyes, full of concern and pain, and the darkness retreated slightly.

"Draco?" The name came to him in a burst of light, and he remembered.

"Harry, what's happening to you?" Draco sat next to him, his hands reaching for Harry's. Harry gave a happy cry and flung himself at Draco, burying his face against his chest, tears pouring down his cheeks.

"You're real," he sobbed. "I thought I made you up. But you're real." He raised up his hands, resting them tentatively against his cheeks as if expecting him to disappear. Draco had no idea what to say. The boy in front of him was not the one he had left behind that morning. He was broken and alone, living in his own, dark world.

"Harry, it's all right. It's going to be all right." Harry just held onto him tightly, crying against him.

Finally, exhausted, he slipped into slumber. Draco gently unwrapped his thin arms from around him, laying him gently back down onto the bed. He sat watching him sleep for a while before getting up with a weary sigh. He still had to pack his things for his return to his dorm. He was going to have to leave Harry again.

This thought accompanied him as he opened his trunk, stuffing clothes and loose objects into it. He reached the side table and stopped, looking down at an object resting there that he had completely forgotten. The little hairs on his arms and the back of his neck went up and chills ran down his back. He suddenly knew that this was something. He picked it up reverently, brushing dust off its slim, red cover. He looked down at the title for the first time.

Journal and Notes of Sir Martin Pichard, Potions Master. His hands began to tremble as he flipped open to the first page. The writing was clear, very similar to his own, but a bit more cramped. The parchment was old and crinkled as he turned the pages, but it was still readable.

I, Sir Martin Pichard, hath dedicated mine life to the study of Potions. Throughout my rather Brilliant Career I hath created no less than Thirteen separate Potions, three of which art Poisons. Mine prized Creation, the Jewel of the whole bunch, is mine most recent Creation, Soul's Fire. I hath for some time toyed with the idea of a Poison that worketh not only on a Physical level but also on an Emotional and Psychological one, turning one's Mind against itself. Soul's Fire is the reality of this Dream.

It went on and on about his many potions and his brilliance for a few more pages. Then came the detailed notes on the uses, creation and, where applicable, the antidotes, for his potions. Draco scanned them quickly, barely interested. He came to the last few pages. He knew that the next one was the section on Soul's Fire but he couldn't bring himself to turn the page. This was it, if there was no cure here then he was never going to find one.

He turned the page. There was a small sketch of green fire, flowing smoothly across the whole top of the page. Beneath it was at least two pages of notes, all detailed. But whereas before everything had been clear and concise, now Draco found that the style of writing had changed, causing him to puzzle over the meaning of what was being said. He read quickly through the top, stopping at the word cure.

Soul's Fire hath no readily available cure. To my Knowledge, as to my Research, I have found only one way to reverse the actions of this Singular Poison, a most Unique Cure at that. The prerequisite for this ys so Rare, so Different, that I fear (or shall I say yt? rejoice,) that very few, yf any, persons would be able to find yt. The idea ys so absurd, so preposterous, that I believe none may expect yt and none will be able to understand yt. To further confound the Searcher I have decided to never fully explain my Findings. This will remain a Singular Poison that all shall fear and my Name shall always be remembered. But for the Ardent Seeker I give thee thus:

When filled with emerald fire's pain

Know that happiness is its only bane.

Life continues with only the purest thought

And another who to love you've taught.

With his sacrifice of love and life

No more will you feel this poison's knife.

There, I have said all that I may, under the circumstances, allow myself to. Remember this, when searching beware what thee shall find. What must be asked of thee shall vex thee and try thy soul. Ask thyself what thou wouldst do, to what Lengths thee wouldst go. And yf thou art pure yn Heart and Spirit, and yf thou art Sharp yn Wit, and yf thou Lovest Mightily then thou might find that a Cure ys not so far off as thou might Fear. But ask thyself yf yt ys worth yt. I fear yt will not be so.

Draco read the poem over and over again, his mind moving around it sluggishly, unable to comprehend what he must do. The words that the author had used filled him with the fear that, this close to a cure, he would fail to procure one. He looked over at Harry, sleeping peacefully for once, and was filled with a deep resolve. He answered the question that was being asked of him.

'I'll do anything, absolutely anything, I have to.' He read the poem again, and the notes accompanying it, and again, and again.

When filled with emerald fire's pain. That would mean the poison, right? And no more will you feel this poison's knife, would mean being freed from it. It was the whole middle part, the actual curing, that he didn't understand. A sacrifice and happiness? What did that have to do with anything?

Madam Pomfrey came in as he mulled over this. She looked at him and then over at Harry, then down at his half-packed bag.

"Are you ready to return to your dorm yet?" she asked, making him jump. He looked up at her sheepishly.

"Sorry, I started packing but I got distracted." He closed the book firmly. For some reason he didn't want her to know he was so close. Before, if he had found nothing, it was because there was nothing to find, but if he failed now, with this book, it was because of sheer stupidity.

"Well you'd better hurry. It's almost curfew."

"Can't I stay here?" he begged. "With Harry?" She gazed at him sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, it's against the rules. You aren't allowed to stay here when you're healthy. You have to leave."

So he packed quickly and was escorted down to his room by the nurse. Before he left he gave Harry's hand one last squeeze and looked back until he was out of sight. When he entered the common room silence fell. Everyone stared at him. In the space of a week he'd become an outsider. He hurried to his room, dropping his things beside his bed. He carefully removed the broken vial from his bag and placed it on his bedside table along with the book.

He fell asleep that night with thoughts of emerald fire and shattered glass running through his head. And Harry; Harry was always there. And dreams added a new dimension to the words of the poem.

Love, love was mentioned twice. There had to be something to that. And he was the only one who could save him.

AN: Draco's actually beginning to get a clue, shock! Time is running out. Can he figure out how to cure Harry before it's too late? And where does love factor into all this? Sorry if my old English style wasn't exactly very old, but I really tried. If anybody has any suggestions for it, I'm all ears. (not literally of course)