Under the Cold, Wan Moon

He does not seek war, but when attacked he knows better how to die than to surrender.

---

Draco Malfoy had been an irritating midge of a boy, an uncreative bully, and a failed assassin of the most shameful variety. So, after his mission to kill Dumbledore had gone miserably awry, it should surprise no one that Draco went on to make a spectacularly reluctant, and very cross, ghost.

The events immediately following Dumbledore's murder were a bit of a blur. Once the dust had settled, Draco almost believed that he had died, too, only to be reborn into his own personal brand of hell: A hell where he was trapped within the unfamiliar, crumbling ruins of an dreary, unknown mansion. A hell where there was no sense of time. A hell where the only fleeting company to be had was the insufferable half-breed Remus Lupin, whose demeanour served only to enrage him, and to fuel within him bizarre, fleeting urges to club Kneazel cubs to death just to be a prat.

"I expect I'm better than no human contact at all," Lupin said. Draco had subjected him to months of outright hostility.

Draco sneered. "Human? That's debatable."

Lupin never rose to this kind of bait. "Be that as it may," he said, "isolation is extremely difficult. Perhaps I could interest you in a game of Wizard's Chess while I'm here?" He conjured a set. "Would you like me to bring you some magazines or novels? Professor Snape insists you're a voracious reader. Why, look at all these books here, ready to keep your mind sharp and exercised." Every time Lupin visited, which was at least three times per week, he attempted to breach Draco's enmity. So far, he had been unsuccessful.

"I don't play chess," Draco said finally, after a sulky pause. "It's tedious and dull." He folded his arms and hoisted his pointy chin, and stared down his nose at Lupin. "Chess is for Weasleys and speccy gits."

"Your marks are quite good," Lupin noted.

"They were good," Draco clarified. "They were always good. But I'm no swot, Lupin. If I wanted to spend hours looking at a chess board, I'd--" Somehow, a clever comeback eluded him. "I'd . . . well, I'd play chess." He turned his back on him.

"Indeed." Lupin said, in tone that suggested to Draco the werewolf was amused. "A most cerebral observation."

"Piss off," Draco replied, glaring over his shoulder. "Why do you have to be the only one to come and see me? Why can't Pansy or Blaise come? Or my mother?" He lost all semblance of formidability then, wheedling like a young child.

"The Order decided I should be your secret keeper."

"Maybe I'd rather be dead!"

Lupin chuckled and looked at him in a way Draco especially hated -- a way that made him feel pathetic and pitied. "Oh, Draco," Lupin said, shaking his head. "For all intents and purposes you are. I shall return in two days." He turned then and left Draco in the fading light, the chessboard a still, silent reminder of his loneliness. Dumbledore's words echoed in Draco's head: We can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine . . .

"I'll take my brand of mercy over yours any day, you old bastard!" The words just burst out, although Draco knew he was talking to no one, really. At least no one alive.

---

He'd had not been outdoors in over five months and this had rendered him grim and unpleasant. He had no idea where he was being kept, but, wherever the place, it was truly an inescapable fortress. Naturally, he had made it his goal to escape this prison immediately; however, whatever spells and charms and hexes that had been cast upon the house had proved unbreakable thusfar. He had been wholly unsuccessful in finding a window he could budge open, or even break, and the floors and walls of the house itself whirled and swayed, and the corridors tilted and tumbled under his feet so sharply that Draco couldn't move freely. He had been reduced to clinging to the banisters and furniture for leverage. The nausea and confusion that came with exploring was a strong deterrent.

The summer had been stifling and oppressive. Draco had prowled the massive house as best as he could, but the place was so thoroughly hexed up that its layout was never twice the same -- it was an ever-changing floorplan. The lone exception to this was the large, imposing study at the top of the main staircase, and the staircase was always opposite what appeared to be the front door.

The manor's rooms were dreary, dusty caves, and their once-treasured antiques were swathed in mouldering shrouds of muslin. Dirty sheets of oilcloth hid generations of portraits and art, and faded tapestries lined the dim corridors. Everything echoed -- even the silence.

That summer Draco took to scouting the house starkers once he had determined he was hopelessly alone, and he searched for a fresh breeze. He was mostly unsuccessful, save for one thing: The dark, empty fireplace in the study at the top of the stairs emitted an occasional stream of stale, hot air. For two months straight he slept right on the hard stone hearth there, his fingers laced behind his head for a pillow and his pale body veiled in a fine sheen of sweat. All this in a desperate attempt to capture real, moving air -- air that might remind him that he was actually alive and that he had survived.

So, there, lying flat on his back, Draco's favourite view of his new world shortly became a small, rectangular skylight, which had been hewn into the roof flush with the chimney. All the other windows in this desolate, maddening place had been hexed; whenever Draco parted the curtains and pressed his face to the glass to look outside, he saw nothing but an occluding whirl of sand and dust, and it was like he was trapped inside a perpetual vortex of grit and ash where time had ceased to exist. But, as he discovered, the sky was always the sky, and so at night he watched the stars through his skylight. There he would revisit his Astronomy lessons to keep his mind nimble, hoping to lose himself in thought until sleep eventually overtook him.

Sometimes the constellation Draco came into view, and then Draco's throat would tighten and burn. The constellation Draco marks the positions of the lunar nodes, he remembered Professor Sinistra lecturing to them during his second year. The points where the paths of the solar and the lunar orbits intersect are where solar and lunar eclipses may occur. Caput draconis is the ascending node, or the head of the dragon, and cauda draconis is the descending node, or the tail. In some Muggle cultures, she had said, an eclipse is thought to be the moon or sun being swallowed by a dragon . . .

Draco is a circumpolar constellation, he remembered from his lessons. For some reason this was upsetting. Its stars never set. Maybe they didn't, but what about him? Draco dreamt he'd been tricked by his namesake, and was now lost within its lunar nodes, in that hopeless, eerie void that hovered between the moon and the sun, swallowed whole by the dragon.

---

He kept track of the passing days as best as he could, roughly gauging the months by the moon through his skylight. Crescent, full, waxing, waning -- it became harder and harder to keep his bearings in check.

He was relieved when autumn came and the summer heat disbursed. Soon there came the sound of scuttling leaves against the roof, and this pleased Draco. When the wind and rain blew, the tree branches would bow and dip sharply, and scratch at the glass. He liked this, along with the high-pitched whistle of the wind buffeting against the panes.

Hallowe'en passed and the house grew steadily colder. Lupin came regularly, favouring Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for his visits, but Draco still hadn't warmed to him.

"I do wish," Lupin said to Draco, one Saturday in early December, "that you'd consider wearing clothing." He'd made tea; however, Draco was having none of that. Instead, he busied himself peeling an apple with his wand -- sans magic. Draco had not cast a single spell or even the simplest charm since he'd failed on his mission at Hogwarts.

"Why? You like looking at my plonker, don't you, faggot?" he accused Lupin, lounging on an antiquated velvet armchair, whose upholstery had long ago faded from red to a strange, muted shade of salmon. Draco looked at him flatly and took a messy bite of his apple, ignoring the thin line of juice that ran down his forearm, leaving a sticky trail over the twisting, serpentine mark there.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Draco said, sliding so low in the chair that his arsecheeks practically hung free. He considered Lupin through his too-long fringe. "Don't think I don't know why you've got money for chocolate, but none for decent robes." He pointed the tip of his wand at Lupin. "You're a fudgepacker!"

"Am I?"

Draco snorted. "Obviously!"

Lupin sipped his tea calmly. "Why would you reach this conclusion?"

"You're staring at me!"

"You are, well, threadbare," Lupin pointed out, reasonably enough. "Is there a reason? Have you outgrown your clothing? You can't possibly be comfortable, not in this cold," he said, gesturing toward Draco with his teacup. "And forgive me, but the cold seems to be, ah, well, affecting you." He raised a eyebrow knowingly.

"A-ha!" Draco said triumphantly. "You are looking!"

"It would alarm anyone to see a grown man reduced to a mere two inches."

"It's not just two inches!" Draco protested, chagrined. He drew up his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, shivering. He felt as if he were running out of ways to maintain the upper hand. Lupin seemed immune to both tantrums and verbal tirades. It had been almost six months that he'd been here, and every day he feared more and more that he might never escape, and that he would never have any life outside this dusty, amnesiac place. If that was the case, why bother to live at all?

"Let me bring you some clothing, Draco," Lupin urged him. "Or, at least a nice boxturtle shell for your bits," he added dryly.

Draco squeezed his legs tighter and fixed his eyes on his skylight. He was quiet for a very long time. "Maybe," he said finally.

"Maybe what?"

"Well, maybe it's a little cold."

"Yes," Lupin said, treading carefully. "That it is. Should you tell me what you'd like to wear, then?"

"Ask my mother," Draco commanded. His gaze wavered as he tried to meet Lupin's eyes. "My mother can tell you what to buy."

Lupin looked at him very queerly indeed. "I prefer for you to tell me yourself what you like."

Draco let loose a petulant tsk. "I don't know," he said. "My mother's always bought for me. She buys me what she likes -- she has impeccable taste, you know. Ask her!"

"I can't, Draco."

"Why not?" Draco was confused. He looked at Lupin expectantly. Lupin was silent for a long moment, and Draco's heart suddenly plunged. "She's died?"

"No. She believes you have, though."

"Why?"

Lupin leaned forward. "Think." It was all he said.

We can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. "Right." Draco stood and then went over to the fireplace. He grasped the lip of the mantel and rested his chin on top of his fingers, castdown. "So. Do I have a headstone?"

"Yes."

"Is it expensive?"

"Likely."

"What colour is it?"

"I don't know."

"Could you find out?"

"Possibly. Under two conditi--"

"Forget it!" Draco glared. "I'm not on for games of tit-for-tat."

"Then make it a more high-minded venture: Quid pro quo."

"Same thing," Draco scoffed. "Semantics, Lupin."

"You're wrong. Tit-for-tat is keeping score," Lupin said. "Quid pro quo suggests reciprocity."

"You don't have anything I want!"

"I might. Now," Lupin said, prompting Draco again, "tell me what you'd like to wear. Second, you've wallowed long enough -- you need something to do, and I'm going to insist that you keep busy while you're here. We'll start with games -- simple games. So, if you would tell me your favourite game I can bring it along the next time I come."

A great desperate feeling came over Draco. He pushed away from the fireplace, trying to stifle his fear. "What is this? Remedial life skills for the dead-but-not? I don't want to play games with you, Lupin." He scowled.

"You'll do yourself no good sitting around starkers, moping." Lupin considered him. "Professor Snape warned me that you would be resistant, but this has gone far enough. You're here by choice, Draco."

"I never chose this!"

"I disagree," Lupin said. "You chose your course of action. And while you won't be here forever, for now this is the consequence you must bear."

"Yeah?" Draco sneered hatefully. "Fuck you, Lupin. It's all the filthy half-breeds like you and the Mudbloods and the other shit-for-brains taking over our stupid world that made my actions necessary."

Lupin didn't budge. "Everyone has their burdens."

"At least some of us might slough our burdens eventually." Draco's grey eyes glittered malevolently. "Food for thought next time there's a full moon."

Lupin remained silent for a very long while. "Tell me what you'd like to wear," he said finally, "or I'll be forced to employ drastic measures."

"Right." Draco rolled his eyes. "What's that? Death by chocolate? Woo," he mocked, waggling his fingers at Lupin, "colour me scared."

"Chocolate? Not exactly, no." Lupin cleared his throat, and then coughed into his hand. "OH, DANNY BOY, THE PIPES, THE PIPES ARE CALLING," he sang, and his voice was so horrible and off-key a flock of doxies rose from the curtains and buzzed angrily from the room. "FROM GLEN TO GLEN, AND DOWN THE MOUNTAIN SIDE! THE SUMMER'S GONE, AND ALL THE FLOWERS ARE DYING--"

"Holy shit!"

"'TIS YOU, 'TIS YOU MUST GO AND I MUST BIDE--"

Draco mashed his palms over his ears. "Bloody hell! What is this rot?"

"My Uncle John used to sing it! It's a Muggle song called Danny Boy . . . 'TIS I'LL BE HERE IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW! OH DANNY BOY, OH DANNY BOY, I LOVE YOU SO--"

"Lupin!" Draco spat. "Shut up!" He made a rude hand gesture. "Black socks!"

"Excellent!" Lupin said, ceasing singing at once. He reached inside his jacket for a quill and a small notepad of parchment. "Very good. Black socks. Quite easy to obtain, indeed." He wrote down Black Socks. "Cotton?"

"What?"

"Would you like cotton socks?"

"I don't fecking know! Just whatever kind my mother would get me."

"I'll bring several kinds for you to try. What else?" he asked, gesturing at Draco with his quill. "How about new underwear?"

"I've already got a pair of underwear." Draco pointed to a wad of fabric by the hearth. "Pansy gave them to me last Christmas."

Lupin nodded. "I see." He jotted down several notes. "Just curious, but are those weasels on your shorts?"

"Yeah." Draco shot a glance at Lupin. "Weasels kissing my arse. Pansy thought them wonderfully ironic," he said loftily. These days, he tried never to think of Pansy, for he missed her too much. Even so, sometimes his dreams of her were so vivid, he'd awaken certain her fingers were stroking his hair.

"Well, of course Pansy would. Now, assuming you might want to change your shorts eventually, what size do you take?"

"Large."

"T-shirts or buttondowns?"

"Do we have to go on about it?"

"Certainly not. I could sing," Lupin suggested, a gleam in his eye.

"Maybe I don't want either kind!"

"I'll improvise, then."

"Fine. Whatever."

"Trainers or oxfords?"

"Oxfords." Draco paused. "Italian?"

"Probably not." Lupin licked his thumb and turned over the page. He continued scrawling notes for a moment before continuing. "I've a limited budget, of course. Trainers would be more utilitarian, actually. What size?"

Sulkily, Draco lifted his leg and extended his foot, allowing Lupin to cast a measuring spell. "Quit trying to tickle me!" Once Lupin finished, Draco dropped his apple core onto the floor and kicked it away with his bare foot. Strings of dust clung to the core as it rolled, like a sticky, reluctant skein of yarn. He stood and collected his underwear. Yanking them on, he glared at Lupin. "Better?" he asked.

"Quite. Jeans or trousers?"

"Don't care," Draco said, collapsing onto the the sofa; a musty cloud of dust erupted from the cushions. He stretched out there and rubbed at his eyes.

"Jeans it is." Lupin closed his notepad and tucked it away. "Now, what games do you like?"

"I don't like games."

"What did you used to do for fun?"

"Fun?" Draco snorted, his tone bitter. "I didn't have time for fun, you ignoramus!"

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Well," Lupin said, "we'll start simply, then. Gobstones, perhaps, or Magic Rocks--"

"I've given up magic," Draco said.

"Have you? For how long?"

"Since Hogwarts -- and I don't want to bloody talk about it--" he made little quotey signs with his fingers as he spoke "--so leave off."

"So noted." Lupin stood, brushing the front of his suit back into place. "We shall start with Muggle games, then."

"Oh, brilliant," Draco protested. "How about you just kill me. Could that be our little game?"

"Nonsense," Lupin said, smiling. "I shan't kill you. At least, not today. Now, as you need supplies, I'll return tomorrow to fortify you. Draco?" he asked, pausing at the doorway. "Is there anything else you'd like? Anything at all?"

"No." Draco studied his cuticle intently.

"All right. Good night, then."

Lupin let himself out of the room and set a five minute locking charm upon the knob, which would allow him sufficient time to leave the premises without the chance of Draco following him or slipping out while the security hexes and charms were refracted. There was no current Floo access to this place.

He drew his wand through the air with a deft slicing motion, and cut right through the curtain of swirling ash and dust, which was actually an advanced optical illusion spell which was blanketing the house. Shaking a bit of sediment from his hair, he donned his hat, and with a crack he Disapparated from No 12 Grimmauld Place.

----

Draco awoke the next morning shivering so violently he wondered if he might have hypothermia. His breath puffed into the frigid air and hung there, and goose bumps rose on his skin. He turned over on the sofa, angling for a more comfortable position. A shadow flashed in his periphery and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. He was being watched. No stranger to espionage, Draco made a great show of pretending to snuggle down, and he closed his eyes and tucked his chin against his chest. He slowed his breathing.

The shadow passed by again, and then felt warmth at his neck -- fingers. Tentative footsteps inched their way up his back and he felt small fingers using his arm for balance. Then, he felt cold fingers prodding about in his hair.

"HA!" Lightning-quick, Draco reached up. The creature shrieked and struggled in vain. "House-elf, eh? What've you to say for yourself, you miserable wretch?! What are you doing, sneaking about?" He brought the elf down from his back and looked. "Har! Oi, you're an ugly bugger!" Draco grimaced, holding it at arm's length. It kicked its legs feebly, its tatty loincloth creeping downward. "Watch your bits, elf," he said. "What's your name?"

"Kreacher!" the pathetic wretch croaked. "Kreacher is humbled, is privileged to be in the presence of the noble Master Draco Malfoy! Kreacher worships the imperial blood of the Malfoys, the kingly ancestry of--"

Draco loosened his grip on Kreacher slightly. "Well, all right, then," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Can't argue with that." He set the elf down on the carpet.

Kreacher prostrated himself. "Allow Kreacher to serve Draco Malfoy." The house-elf seemed almost moved to tears. Seizing a brass statue of a Quintaped from the table, he began to beat ferociously at his kneecap. "Draco Malfoy must believe that Kreacher is not a worthy servant! Kreacher shall break his own leg to prove Kreacher's devotion to the Malfoy family--"

"Shut up, elf," Draco ordered. "I'm not keen on drama. Leave off with the self-flagellation."

Kreacher threw himself to floor, kicking about. "Kreacher has insulted a Malfoy! Kreacher shall punish himself with a Bubotuber pus bath--"

"Look, could I just get a spot of brekkie? I'm a bit peckish." It was a lie, really. Draco hadn't had a proper appetite in months. He ate to survive, but he took no pleasure in it.

"Kreacher will gladly bring breakfast to Draco Malfoy!" He flailed one last time for good measure, and then lumbered slowly to his feet. He stood in front of Draco, his dull grey eyes shining with adoration.

"Excellent!" Draco rubbed his hands together. "I'll start with coffee and pomegranate juice. Then, I'll have kippers, eggy bread, sausages and scrambled eggs." As he spoke, the prospect seemed almost appealing.

Kreacher's face fell; he wrung his hands nervously. "Kreacher can offer the fine, pure-blooded Draco Malfoy a Christmas satsuma."

"Christmas?" Draco asked, confused. "It's only the first of December."

Kreacher cowered pathetically. "Kreacher can offer the bounteous, the princely Draco Malfoy a satsuma . . . from the last Christmas past."

"Oh, for sod's sake," Draco grumped. He got up and brushed past Kreacher. "What kind of a miserable, useless house-elf are you, anyway? A decent breakfast's too much to ask?!" He pulled his dirty t-shirt over his head and threw on his school robes, not bothering to fasten them shut, and he noted the stiching on the front seam was coming loose. He sat again, and pulled on one sock. "Where's my other sock?"

"Kreacher is a bad, bad elf!"

"Shut up!" Draco beaned Kreacher in the head with a decorative pillow. "Stitch that with your bloody stupid orange."

"Kreacher could offer the magnificent, the reputable Draco Malfoy . . . a piece of warm bread." Gazing at Draco hopefully, the elf reached into his dingy loincloth and extracted a mouldering chunk of crumbs. He offered it.

"Disgusting!" Draco still couldn't find his missing sock. "Forget breakfast. Instead, just tell me where I am."

"Regretably, Kreacher cannot say," Kreacher grumbled. "Kreacher's master has instructed Kreacher that Kreacher may not reveal to anyone the name or location of the manor that Kreacher serves." Without warning the elf fell to the floor, and then wormed his way under the sofa.

"What're you doing?" Draco demanded. "Are you a mental house-elf? Because I'm really not good with mental things. You know those kids who have really small heads and buck teeth, and are all withered and hunched over? I can't stand them! Just being in their general vicinity makes me want to vom--"

"Kreacher has been successful!" Kreacher crawled back out, triumphant. Cobwebs and streaks of black dirt dotted his wrinkled cheeks. The elf's ugly face split into a crooked smile, his yellow teeth erupting from his gums like fuzzy nuggets of dried corn. "Kreacher has found the extraordinary, the stately, the aristocratic, the bluestockinged, the lordly sock of Draco Malfoy!" He cradled it lovingly and then rubbed it against his greyish, sagging belly.

"Give me that!" Draco nicked his sock away. "Don't boff my things, wretch." He made to don the sock, but then thought twice. The unsavoury vision of Kreacher's belly had already burned itself permanently into his brain. He let the sock drop back to the floor. "Who is your master, anyway?"

"Kreacher cannot say."

"Why not?"

"Kreacher's master is a bad master," Kreacher muttered ominously. "Kreacher's master is not worthy of this esteemed house! Kreacher is ashamed of his servitude here and wishes everyday for a more noble master, such as Draco Malfoy." The little elf visibly deflated and his shoulders hunched forward. "Alas, Kreacher is bound by--"

"I know how it works," Draco said. "So, how come I haven't seen you before?"

"Master required Kreacher to be elsewhere."

"Where?"

"Kreacher cannot say. Kreacher's master is a blood-traitor, a lover of Mudbloods. Kreacher's master subjects Kreacher to the presence of Mudbloods and dirty half-breeds, and poor Kreacher is forced to serve the unworthy--"

"You're of no use to me, I've decided," Draco said, giving a dismissive wave.

Kreacher looked as if he'd been freed. "Kreacher apologises! Kreacher has displeased Draco Malfoy! Kreacher will punish himself!" The elf began beating himself about the head with his fists. "Mistress will punish Kreach--"

"Who's Mistress?"

But Kreacher had bolted for the door. "Mistress will take Kreacher's head for displeasing the honourable Draco Malfoy! Kreacher shall banish himself to the Muggle world--" He hit the door and bounced right onto his nappied arse with a wail. Struggling, he stood, and then wrenched open the door.

"Wait!" Draco shouted, as Kreacher flung himself through the doorway, suddenly regretting his hasty dismissal. "Wait! Tell me how the house works!" He made for the door himself and skidded into the hallway. "Look, I was just having a go at you, elf! I'm sure I'd have use for you!" He stumbled after Kreacher, ignoring the bucking floorboards. "Just tell me how the house works!"

"Kreacher cannot reveal the magic used in the house or the master Kreacher serves!" The elf paused, as if timing Draco's chase. As Draco rounded the corner, Kreacher wrenched open the door to a room. "KREACHER REGRETS HE IS UNABLE TO ASSIST!"

Draco sprinted after Kreacher and followed the elf as he disappeared inside a room that seemed, in Draco's confused frame of reference, exactly on the opposite side of the staircase of the study where he'd taken up residence. He slammed up against the heavy oak door, smacking it open with all his strength and immediately registered the presence of a massive fireplace filled with a roaring fire. His foot caught under the curled edge of the carpet and Draco sprawled forward, falling against an unknown stranger, and he gasped as the other person crashed down onto him. "Ooof!" The wind was knocked out of him, and for a moment he lay paralysed, gawping stupidly on the rug like a fish out of water.

"WHO'S THERE?!" A male voice called out, surprised, but not panicked.

"Gar." Draco gurgled as his head was crushed under the stranger's knee. He rolled onto his back and looked up, and his heart dropped clean into his feet.

Harry Potter!

Indeed, Harry Potter was circling above him in a defensive posture, his wand trained as he scanned the room. "Who's that?"

Draco was too shocked to contain himself. "Bloody hell!" Adrenaline flooded him and he scrambled to his feet, panicking. The hem of his robes became caught under his foot, and there was a tearing noise as he bolted upright.

Potter turned right to him, his wand steady and strong. "Who's there?" he demanded, looking right at Draco. Draco's jaw slackened, and he must have made some kind of noise. "Kreacher?" Potter advanced steadily, until his wand glanced off Draco's shoulder. Draco bumbled backward. "WHO ARE YOU?!" Potter yelled.

Draco panicked. What the hell was going on? This had to be some kind of horrible prank -- some terrible, cruel punishment for what he'd done at Hogwarts. Draco's foot caught again, and he fell hard onto his arse. "Ahh!"

"Better show yourself!" Potter ordered, turning his back to Draco, still searching. Draco watched, agog, as Potter came closer, and then tripped over Draco for a second time. Draco struggled out from under Potter's weight, inadvertently squashing Potter's glasses under the ball of his hand as he tried to make an escape. He gasped as the lens cut into his flesh. Once on his feet he looked frantically for the door.

"Reparo!" Potter had leapt to his feet and it was then that Draco had a flash of realisation: He can't see me!

Potter couldn't see him!

In a flash Draco flattened himself against the nearest wall, working hard to bring himself under control.

"I know you're still here!" Potter continued, passing so closely the swirl of air left in his wake blew cool against Draco's bare knees.

Draco watched Potter cast one revealing spell after another. Glancing across the room he saw Kreacher there, watching Potter with a loathsome expression on his ugly face, and Draco resisted the urge to laugh out loud. As the minutes passed he relaxed, and after Potter had made his third pass, Draco pushed away from the wall and fell into step with him.

"You're bleeding!" Potter called out. Draco had forgotten about his cut hand; he clutched a handful of his robes to stem the flow. He was careful to keep a slight distance between himself and Potter. It was like dancing in a way, as Draco mirrored Potter's steps exactly, and he grew increasingly emboldened and predatory. Potter finally stopped in the middle of the room, befuddled.

Slowly Draco lifted his wand -- his wand that hadn't cast a single spell, jinx or hex in six months -- and he brushed at the hair at the nape of Potter's neck. Potter whirled, and their wands hit with a sharp clack. Draco jabbed the tip of his wand fiercely into Potter's face, right between his eyes, and then he grabbed up a fistful of Potter's shirt. He pulled Potter in until he was positive the insufferable prat could feel the heat of his breath, and he mouthed silently into Potter's surprised face.

Avada Kedavra . . .

Potter's lenses fogged.

Draco shoved Potter viciously and sent him headlong, and he made sure to kick Potter upside the head as he fled. He slammed the door behind him as hard as he could, confirming his presence, and he couldn't resist waiting in the hall until Potter emerged from the room looking utterly confused. Draco snickered to himself as Potter ran right by him, and then he sauntered back to his study.

Once there, Draco collapsed onto his dirty sofa. Although his breath still hung cold in the air, a warm tingling sensation was now spidering through his body like a lightning current. It was positively exhilarating!

It had been like having his former life back, even if only for several short minutes.

Draco felt alive.

---

Lupin arrived the next day carrying his worn leather satchel. Draco didn't waste any time.

"Why am I being held alongside Harry Potter?" he demanded.

Lupin paused, a stack of clothing in his hand. "Harry owns this property," he said finally, in a tone that suggested he was choosing his words carefully. "But, this house is much more than that."

Draco pulled a face. "Potter doesn't own anything!" he snapped, accepting the pair of jeans Lupin held out to him. He shoved his legs into the soft denim and pulled them on.

"Why wouldn't Harry own anything?" Lupin offered Draco a new undershirt and a warm, wooly jumper, nicely softened from years of use. He'd spent the previous evening with Molly Weasley and together they had raided the Burrow's attic.

"Because!" Draco said, pulling on the shirt. "He's a retarded, speccy git who was raised in a cupboard."

"That was hardly Harry's fault," Lupin said.

"He's a Parselmouth!"

Lupin cocked an eyebrow. "So was Salazar Slytherin."

"His girlfriend's an ugly, freckled hag," Draco said, lost inside his new jumper, "who bloody well sucks at Quidditch!"

"Ah, the penultimate insult!" Lupin continued to empty his bag, which had obviously been charmed to fit an enormous amount of goods. "Taste is subjective, Draco -- be fair. After all, some might not find Pansy attractive, right?"

"What are you talking about? Pansy's fantastic!" Draco proclaimed defensively. "She's loud and . . . she's loud!"

"Loud she is." Lupin pointed a strange object that looked like a flute at Draco, for emphasis. "In fact, having taught both in the past, it's my opinion that Pansy and Ginny are slightly alike in some ways."

"Blasphemy!" Draco scoffed. "Sheweaselby could only dream!"

"I'm serious," Lupin said, smiling faintly.

"You know? I really, really hate you."

"Do you, now?"

"What else did you bring?" Draco asked impatiently.

Lupin turned back to his bag, naming items as he produced them. "This is a set of Muggle playing cards. Muggles often involve whiskey and cigars in their card games, but we'll not start off with those sorts of games straight away. Some people also like to build houses or other structures with playing cards. These are books, obviously. Some sweets for you." He rummaged deeply within the bag and pulled out a strange contraption that had long, wooden tubes attached to some kind of wheezing leather pouch.

"Is that a Muggle octopus?" Draco asked, curious despite himself.

"No," Lupin said. "Muggle octopuses are the same as the Wizarding kind. This," he said, with a bit of a flourish, "is a bagpipe!" He placed the blowpipe in his mouth, clenching it between his teeth as he spoke. "The bagpipe is an excellent tool for annoying others."

"What do you take me for, Lupin?" Draco asked, slightly put out. "I'm not the annoying sort!"

"I see." Lupin blew into the bagpipe and Draco jumped when it emitted a low, flat humming sound so loud that the floorboards vibrated beneath his feet. "Magnificent instrument, the bagpipe," Lupin said cheerfully, as he put the bagpipe aside. "Fodder for excellent mischief!"

Draco remembered something. "There's a bagpipe player in the Weird Sisters."

"Gideon Crumb, that's right!" Lupin unloaded a Venus Flytrap from his bag and a plain rubber ball. "Do you like the Weird Sisters?"

"No," Draco said, too quickly. "No one in Slytherin did."

"How's that? It seems hard to believe an entire House would dislike one band by default."

Draco looked at Lupin as if it should be obvious. "Donaghan Tremlett's a Mudblood."

Lupin peered at him. "You can't be serious."

Draco shrugged, and began bouncing the rubber ball against the heavy brick fireplace. "My parents wouldn't allow it." He looked at Lupin. "That's just the way it is, okay?"

"It doesn't have to be that way."

Draco changed the topic abruptly. "How come Potter couldn't see me?"

Lupin was quiet for a very long time. "It's to enhance the Fidelius charm," he said.

"I don't understand." Draco sat up, holding his ball still in his lap. "Fidelius doesn't work like that!"

"In addition to the Fidelius charm, it was decided that you would be afforded the additional protection of a very rare, and very powerful invisibility spell." Lupin took a seat next to Draco. "Anyone could look right at you, Draco, but they would never see you."

"But--" Draco shook his head. "But, you can see me."

"I can see you because I cast the spell. In conjunction with Fidelius, this particular invisibility spell works similarly. Only the caster of the spell remains privy." Lupin explained. "So, yes. You are cloaked. No one aside from myself can see you."

"Kreacher can see me," Draco pointed out.

"Yes, but Kreacher is a house-elf and his magic is different."

"What's the name of the spell?"

"I won't tell you."

"Why not? Come on, Lupin," Draco wheedled.

"I won't risk you breaking the spell."

"Like I could? I told you, I've given up magic!"

"I won't risk it," Lupin said firmly.

Draco sat still for quite a long time, and then suddenly resumed throwing his ball. Bounce. Thump. Bounce. Thump. Bounce. Thump. "It's like I really am dead."

"I'm sorry, Draco," Lupin said. "I know this is a difficult situation."

Draco snorted. "Understatement, yeah?" He focused on the ball, his eyes smarting.

"Yes, I suppose so." Lupin stood. "I have several errands I need to attend to. However, I shall return tonight." He paused. "That is, if you approve?"

Draco shrugged, his eyes cast downward.

"This is not forever," Lupin said.

"I know, okay?" Draco snapped. He got up from the sofa and stalked across the short distance to the fireplace. He leaned his head against the mantel and hid his face in his wooly sleeve, hoping Lupin would just assume he was being a prat and leave. "I'm very busy, you know. You don't have to wait around."

Lupin nodded. "Very well. I'll see you tonight, Draco. We'll have a game of cards." He let himself out.

Draco took several deep, ragged breaths, trying to regain control of his emotions. This whole thing was bad enough, what with him being held captive in Potter's house, invisible to the whole world -- except for Remus Lupin. A burning anger ignited in his gut. This is it, Draco told himself. This is the worst it can get. If I can survive this, I can survive anything. It can't possibly get worse than this . . .

Embarrassed, he swiped at his eyes. Something caught his attention as his angry, unshed tears soaked into his sleeve. Sniffling, Draco looked down his front, reading upside down.

"What's this giant 'R' for?"

---

Although he'd never admit it, clothing turned out to be a good idea after all. Draco certainly felt warmer now that he was getting dressed every day, although his skin itched from the fabric at first. In an attempt to relieve the dryness, he decided to run himself a bath, and even scrubbed clean six months worth of soap scum using one of his facecloths. He'd never in his life cleaned a fixture, so he felt accomplished when he finished the job in just under three hours. Draco had first considered calling Kreacher to do the job for him, but, truth told, he was wary, and while he wasn't above basking in a few fawning remarks about his family and its bloodline, there was something about the house-elf that Draco didn't quite trust.

He dressed and combed his fingers through his hair. Pocketing his wand, he strode toward the door of the study, confident. However, he hesitated, his heart fluttering nervously. Maybe things will be different this time . . . Draco opened the door and stepped outside of the room.

The moment he was over the threshold, though, the hallway tilted dangerously. Draco's vision blurred and contorted, and he stumbled forward to clutch at the banister. He tried to clear his head; the stairs swelled alarmingly. "Shit!" He screwed his eyes shut.

Draco felt helpless. Was this where he was going to be for the rest of his days? He couldn't possibly bear it! Being trapped on Harry Potter's property with no family, no friends, and no magic was simply intolerable. Even if, he thought darkly, he'd died trying to kill Dumbledore, at least Voldemort would have found purpose in his existence. Nobody would be surprised that you had died in your attempt to kill me -- forgive me, but Lord Voldemort probably expects it. Dumbledore's voice echoed again in his memory, and he recalled how under the eerie green light of the Dark Mark Dumbledore's eyes had been honest and kind -- forgiving even. The shame he felt at having dropped his wand was still so raw. He had always been taught that Dumbledore was sly and untrustworthy, but even Draco knew how to read expressions, and atop the Astronomy Tower that night he'd come to understand that everything he knew and had embraced was, to say the least, ambiguous.

Why had he survived?

Why was it the only person who had seen worth in him was someone he disdained? Would he forever be at the mercy of a dead man?

He cracked an eye, and again the world tipped.

You are not a killer . . .

"What am I, then?" he spat, his breath ragged. "Why am I here?"

Nothing answered.

He tried to look again. Everything whirled, but this time Draco forced himself to keep his eyes open, and he demanded of himself that he face this empty, void existence, for even though he felt disconcerted and alone, the obsfuscated magic in this place had never hurt him physically. It was with this realisation that Draco straightened and let a trickle of meager resolve into his centre.

He was rewarded with a fleeting moment of clarity, a moment that afforded him a clear snapshot of his surroundings. Then, his fear kicked up again and everything warped again, into a magic, cyclonic mess, but Draco felt he had nothing left to lose at this point, so he let go of the banister. He shuffled forward awkwardly, eyes still closed, determined to find Potter's room again.

He knew he could turn around and scurry back to his own room, the study he considered his place, but yesterday's encounter with Potter was luring him too strongly. If only he knew where to go! While his vision was shit, his balance was perfectly intact, so he kept his eyes closed and did his best to recall the details of the room where he'd quite literally ran into Harry Potter.

He remembered the room was vast, and that it was also like a study or library of sorts. There had been a fireplace and the room had the same kind of antique furniture that crowded the rest of the house in towering, ghostly piles. The room had been clean. It had been warm. It had been homey in a way Draco's own quarters weren't. Why this was he didn't know. He also recalled running straight from the room Potter had been in back to his own without even thinking about it, as if it were intuitive, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps intuition was the key to understanding this house all together.

---

In another part of the house, in a dark and closed-off room, an ancient tapestry shuddered and woke. It lifted away from the wall, as if prompted by a gentle puff of air and released several of its golden stitches. They unraveled slowly, until a short length of shimmering thread hung free, and then all was still once more.

---

He stood there unmoving, instinctually keeping his eyes shut, and then he sensed that his left hand was warmer than his right. His left hand felt normal; his right was chilled slightly, the skin mottling slightly. He shifted to his left, step by step, reaching out blindly to feel his way toward the wall, and when his fingers finally brushed it, the brick and stone was warm.

Draco began walking, keeping his hand on the wall. He hoped there wasn't some kind of magic that would keep him going in endless circles, but within seconds he felt the cool rise of trim, and when he fumbled about he found a doorknob. He took care to open the door noiselessly, and when he stepped into the room and opened his eyes he knew he had been successful.

It was definitely the same room. The fireplace was glowing warmly, and there was a large walnut desk vaguely reminiscent of Snape's. A quick glance told Draco he was alone in the room even though the place felt occupied, and he wondered where Potter had gone to. He approached the desk, where Potter's things were obviously scattered about.

There were stacks of books and rolls of parchment littering its top and, rounding the desk, Draco recognised Potter's rucksack from school. It was stuffed full. Shamelessly, he began rooting through the bag. He pulled out a broken mirror with sloppy bits of Spell-o-tape holding it together, as well as various items of clothing. Draco then pulled a weightless, shimmering cape from the bag and instantly he recognised it as an Invisibility Cloak. "Not so good with invisibility, are you?" he asked rhetorically, thinking with fondness back to his last Hogwarts train ride, where he'd had the distinct pleasure of stomping the everloving shit out of Harry Potter's speccy face. "No, afraid I've cornered that particular market." He tossed the cloak aside and continued rummaging. There were several more books, a variety of quills, and pots of black Indian ink. He pulled out a small, plain photo album, which he didn't care to peruse, and then a Bezoar. He felt cool steel against his palm, and recognised it as the hilt of a sword. He extracted it.

"Whoa," he said, unable to keep in a low whistle, as the words GODRIC GRYFFINDOR glinted up at him austerely. "Founders' wear, then?" He looked around the room, and then loped over to one of the windows. He hid the sword behind the heavy velvet draperies there. "Let's see what else Potter's got," he said, returning to the desk. However, the only other object he came across was a woman's locket. He held it up, inspecting the craftsmanship. "This is cheap," he observed. "Not that his Weasley slag would know the difference . . . " He opened the locket and a folded piece of paper fell out.

To the Dark Lord: -- "Fan letters from the Chosen One?" he quipped snidely. "Who knew?" -- I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.

"Who's R.A.B.?" Draco scanned through the note again, and then once more for good measure.

"Is somebody there?"

Draco jumped, and the locket clattered onto the desk. He hurried from the desk and pressed himself to the wall.

Potter closed the door behind him. Stooping, he set the plate holding a messy sandwich that he had been carrying onto the floor. Immediately a whizzing cloud of blue filtered out from under a nearby bookcase. A swarm of Billywigs settled happily onto the sandwich. "Who's there?" he repeated.

Draco watched Potter as he squinted around the room.

"Bloody hell," Potter sighed, and Draco noticed Harry looked exhausted. There were dark, tired smudges under his eyes and he wore the same clothing as he had the day before. Potter crossed the room and immediately noticed the disheveled state of his rucksack. Draco watched as he sucked in his breath, surprised. "What the--?" Potter looked around frantically, finally locating his Invisibility Cloak where Draco had tossed it aside. He scooped it back into his sack and grabbed up the locket. "Accio sword!" he called out, and Godric Gryffindor's sword sliced right through the heavy draperies and hurtled toward Harry. "Shit!" Harry caught the sword by its blade, dropping it immediately as it sliced into his flesh. An angry line of blood welled on Harry's palm, and Draco took a deep breath.

"I can fix that for you," he said, from where he stood.

Harry's head whipped around. "WHO'S THERE?!"

"You keep asking that," Draco said reprovingly. "Don't you know who I am?"

Harry pulled his wand, ignoring his bleeding hand. "No," he said. "Tell me!"

Draco smirked to himself. This was just too perfect! "I can't," he said, somewhat honestly. "I'd be in danger if I did."

"Are you from the Ministry?" Potter stepped closer to where Draco was lurking. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Draco shot back, giving Potter wide berth as he crept behind him and returned to the desk and took a seat. He thought about putting his feet up, but decided against it.

"Don't think you've any right to be asking questions," Potter said flatly. He stepped up the front of the desk, following the direction of Draco's voice. Draco slid deftly from the seat of the chair, and then crawled around the desk on the floor. He stood up behind Potter.

"That so?" he asked.

Potter whirled again. "Yes. Quite." Blood was dripping onto the carpet. "Tell me who you are!"

"I've already told you," Draco drawled, "that I can't say."

"Well, this is--"

"Your house, right?" Draco interrupted, rolling his eyes to himself. "So I've inferred."

"There's only Order business here."

"Fascinating." Draco rocked back on his heels. "You really should fix your hand."

"And you really should reveal yourself."

"Can't do that. But I can bandage your hand."

"Healing charms are better." Potter continued to track the sound of Draco's voice. "Not that you'll be tending to me, mind."

"I'm not magic," Draco said, and he was surprised by how forlorn he felt to say it aloud.

Potter paused. "Yes, you are."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

It was an impasse. Potter lowered his wand, but did not put it away. "KREACHER!" he called out suddenly, his eyes wary. "KREACHER!"

There was a sharp crack and the house-elf appeared. He wore his usual filthy loincloth, but as well he had wrappted a reeking length of withered Devil's Snare about his neck. It was so rancid and mouldering flies were actually buzzing about Kreacher's face. He held a butterbeer bottle in each hand. "Kreacher," the elf muttered, clearly intoxicated, "is not surprised that Harry Potter summons Kreacher at such an undue hour. Kreacher should not expect Kreacher's half-blooded master, lover of Mudbloods that he is, to honour respectable business hours--"

"Shut up, Kreacher," Potter said forcefully. "It's half-nine in the morning. I should bloody well sack you!"

Kreacher's eyes lit up. "Master could do that for Kreacher!" he blathered, letting slip one of his butterbeer bottles. "Perhaps Kreacher would rather be free than serve the vile blood-traitor Harry Potter and his Mudblood-loving friends! Say it is true, Harry Potter! Say Kreacher may serve another, a pure-blooded master--"

"You wish," Potter said. "Look, I just need to know if you can see anyone besides me here in this room. Can you?"

Kreacher's bloodshot eyes flew immediately to where Draco stood. Draco waggled his fingers and silently mouthed Pure-blood while thumbing at his chest. The house-elf's loyalties were clearly challenged. He gazed at Draco with an enamoured expression and wrung his crepe-papery hands. Draco knew he might be able to buy a little time if Potter were ignorant to house-elf management. Sure, most people knew a house-elf could not defy a direct order from their master; however, house-elves were clever creatures and they could be exacting when motivated. Draco glanced back at Kreacher and put his finger over his lips. Shh!

"There is only family in the house," Kreacher said slyly.

"Family?" Potter seemed confused. "What do you mean family?"

"Kreacher sees family!"

"Who?"

"There are few candidates, Harry Potter," Kreacher rasped, tipping back his remaining butterbeer. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "Kreacher regrets Master does not possess the intelligence of the pure-blooded mind."

"Wait a minute!" Potter turned. "You said family -- you mean Bellatrix Lestrange? Kreacher, is Bellatrix here? Has she found the house?"

"Ohhh," Kreacher groaned, clutching at his bottle and holding it to his chest longingly. "Oh, Mistress Bellatrix!"

"Yeah, shut it before I sick up." Kreacher scowled, and Potter continued, "It's not Bellatrix? Tell me if Bellatrix Lestrange is in my house!"

Kreacher looked at Draco apologetically. "Kreacher regrets to inform Harry Potter that Mistress Bellatrix is not in Master's house." He wiped at his eyes with the Devil's Snare. "Mistress Bellatrix is a fine, pure-blooded princess of the Dark Lord--"

"Who do you mean by family, then? There's no family left!"

"Kreacher is loath to correct Harry Potter," Kreacher said, clearly delighted to do so. "Kreacher must point out Mistress Narcissa lives." At the mention of his mother's name, Draco's breath caught in his throat.

"Tell me if Narcissa Malfoy is in my house!"

"Kreacher regrets Mistress Narcissa is not in Harry Potter's house." Kreacher hiccupped, swaying.

"Well, then who the bloody hell is?" Potter demanded.

"Kreacher has already said!"

"No you haven't! Stop beating around the bush." Potter stalked over to Kreacher. "I order you to tell me exactly who's in my house! Right now!"

Kreacher gazed balefully at Draco. "Kreacher regrets to inform Harry Potter that the magnificent, the glorious, the eminently pure-blooded--"

"GET ON WITH IT!" Potter thundered, his face dark.

"Draco Malfoy is in Harry Potter's house!" Kreacher's ugly face crumpled and he began bawling.

Potter drew Kreacher up. "Malfoy's dead!" he said, exasperated, and Draco, still out of sight, felt a rather visceral pang at this declaration. "You're not telling me the truth!"

Kreacher's flies buzzed alarmingly, and he looked at Potter with open loathing. "Kreacher has obeyed Harry Potter's command, yes Kreacher has, and if Kreacher did not obey his Master's command, Master's house would have expelled Kreacher -- and yet Kreacher is here."

Draco found he was holding his breath. Slowly he exhaled.

"You're useless!" Potter set Kreacher down, not exactly with great care. "Maybe butterbeer affects your powers -- I don't know." He tapped the elf on the bum with the toe of his trainer, pushing him away. "If I catch you off your face again, I just might set you free! Got it?" Kreacher gathered up his beloved butterbeer bottles, muttering incoherently. Stumbling sideways, he fell over, disappearing with another loud crack as he hit the floor.

Potter didn't move, didn't seek Draco out further. "I don't know what's going on here, but you know? Can't say I really care anymore. I've never had use for poltergeists." He turned then, and Draco recoiled reflexively as Potter's unseeing gaze pierced straight through him. "Don't touch my things."

---

Later that night Draco and Lupin played cards. Draco took the jack of clubs from Lupin and matched it to his jack of diamonds. He laid the pair down on the table. "Have you got an eight?"

"Hmm." Lupin studied his hand for a moment. "No. A five?"

Draco clumsily handed over his five of diamonds, several of his other cards slipping from his grasp.

"An ace?"

"Damn!" Draco handed over his ace.

"Ah," Lupin said with a tsk. "Remember sportsmanship. You win your fair share, Draco. A three?"

"What I've won in the past doesn't matter now!" Draco complained, sliding the three of spades across the smooth tabletop to Lupin. "One loss can negate a lifetime of wins. Therefore, it's best to always win." He struggled with his cards, tring to contain them. "My father always told me that." Draco hadn't mentioned Lucius since arriving at Grimmauld Place.

"It's challenging for any one person to always win," Lupin noted mildly. "Lucius's sentiments are ambitious. Have you a six?"

"HA!" Draco slapped the table, gleeful. "No six here, you werewolf son-of-a-bitch! Now it's my turn! Give me your four!"

"I haven't got a four."

"What?" Draco's face fell. "But, it's my turn!"

"I'm aware of that. However, I still do not have a four."

"But, I didn't get a card on my turn before the last one!"

Lupin chuckled. "It doesn't quite work like that. A prior loss doesn't entitle one to any future wins!"

"Well, it could!"

"How's that?"

"We could just change the rules!"

"Where's the fun in that?" Lupin asked.

"The fun's in seeing who can top the other!" Draco spoke as if it were obvious.

"Don't you see, though? The goal's the same with the rules intact."

"But those are someone else's rules, not mine."

Lupin shook his head. "Have you got a ten?" And they went back and forth like that until the cards were gone, save one. Draco held the Queen of hearts in his hand, looking sulky.

"Old Maid," he said grudgingly, flicking the card so it hit Remus in the chest. "Wanker!"

"Indeed." Lupin gathered the cards and began to pack them away.

"Where're you going?"

"It's late." Lupin raised an eyebrow at Draco. "And you could say I've had my fair share of winning tonight."

"What's a Horcrux?"

Lupin froze. "Where did you hear that term?"

Draco folded his arms over his chest. "I read it somewhere."

"You couldn't have." Lupin's eyes bore into Draco.

"Yeah? Except that I did!"

"Where did you read about Horcruxes?" Lupin asked, in a very serious tone.

"On Potter's desk. There was a note." He left out the part where he had deliberately rifled through Potter's rucksack.

"I see." Lupin resumed packing away his deck of cards. Once they were secure in his satchel, he rounded the small card table to where Draco was sitting and knelt there. He looked up at Draco. "A Horcrux," he explained slowly, "is the product of perhaps the darkest magic known. Our Order believes Horcruxes may be relevant in the fight against Lord Voldemort."

"How?"

Lupin was silent.

"What does it do, then, this Horcrux?"

"Some believe a Horcrux is an instrument of immortality. It is a magical way to safeguard one's life." Lupin moved to the sofa, watching Draco expectantly.

"How does it work?"

"As I've said, it works through very dark magic. So, if you allow your mind to wander to its darkest recesses, I'm sure you could imagine all kinds of evil deeds that would facilitate magically guarding one's soul."

Draco considered Lupin. "But, what's the point? Why would anyone want to do that?"

"The point is immortality."

"But why?" Draco asked, a touch of his usual contempt creeping into his tone. "Who'd want to live forever?"

"Can you truly not think of anyone?"

Lupin's question hung between them until Draco looked away. "The Dark Lord says it is nobler to die for one's cause than to surrender to mediocrity," Draco said.

Lupin leaned forward. "Tell me what that means."

"That it's better to be dead than to settle for . . . than to settle . . . ?" Draco looked at Lupin expectantly, his face youthful and pure at that moment, and absent of its usual cold sneer.

"To settle for what?"

"To-- just to settle!"

"Oh, Draco," Lupin said, putting his hand on the boy's forearm. "You don't even know what for, do you? You don't even know . . . " He leaned back, shaking his head. Draco remained silent as Lupin continued. "What do you think happens to the human soul when it is broken? What is the purpose of the soul?"

Draco stared for a moment, and then grudgingly shrugged a shoulder.

Lupin spoke softly. "The soul is an individual person's essence -- it is what makes us who we are! It is what makes us unique from any other person on the earth. When the human soul is broken, so becomes the person who owns it. The magic of the Horcrux destroys the very humanity it's touted to protect." He paused. "The process of creating a Horcrux damages and changes the soul. Anyone who creates a Horcrux will become less human. Tell me, Draco, who do you know who is human . . . yet not?" Lupin forced Draco to meet his eyes. "Who -- or what, more like it -- do you serve?"

Draco's heart began pounding. He was unable to hold Lupin's gaze. "It's not true," he rasped, feeling as though he had been shoved over a precipice. "You're a bloody rotten liar!"

"No, I'm not," Lupin said. "Think. Had you ever seen Lord Voldemort before you took your orders from him? I'm assuming your first meeting would have been the summer before this last one? After your fifth year?" He continued when Draco failed to correct him repeating his question. "Had you ever met the Dark Lord in person prior to that day?"

"My father hadn't wanted me to."

"So, what was your initial impression of Voldemort?"

What had been Draco's initial impression? That he was so bloody scared of the Dark Lord that he'd had to concentrate to keep from soiling himself. That Lord Voldemort had smelt vaguely of death, of decomposing flesh, and that his mottled grey skin had been scaly like a snake's, and that Draco didn't like snakes very much. That the Dark Lord had murderous vermillion eyes and a flat slitted nose, and a darting tongue that seemed bifurcated. That when his mother had kissed Voldemort's mouldering, cadaverous hand with the same lips that she kissed Draco goodnight, Draco had vowed to never let his mother kiss him again. That as the Dark Lord held his gaze Draco had known that his life wasn't about choice, but was rather about destiny, and that he had never really understood the ramifications of this before. That his father's war and espionage stories had suddenly not seemed daring or glamorous or courageous, and that when Lord Voldemort had invaded his mind via Legilimency it had seared his brain, like a white-hot poker had been thrust through his skull. That Voldemort had disdained him as He burned His mark into Draco's flesh, saying only You doubt. You shall complete a task for me, and then I will know your loyalty . . .

Draco shrugged. "Nothing, really."

"Sometimes," Lupin said, "people embrace ideals and goals that are not fully their own. That's not to say they might not be what someone ultimately comes to desire, though."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco snotted.

"It means a person should do their own research, so as to make an informed choice."

---

The next morning Draco attacked the mansion's elusive floorplan with renewed gusto. Flinging open the door to his study, he stalked out into the darkened corridor, a rude hand gesture already hoisted. "Go sod yourself, you bloody pisshole," he groused, as the floor wobbled ominously under his feet. "I haven't time for your crap." He paid no mind when the floor suddenly stabilised, for he was focused on Potter's door. He yanked at the knob and flung it open. "Good morning!" he called, poncing into the room.

Potter had obviously slept on the sofa. Draco spotted his horrid, cow-licked mop of hair on the cushion, and then Potter's ugly mug appeared over the back of the sofa. "Who's there?" he called out thickly, shoving his glasses on. He held up his wand.

"Now, don't start that," Draco warned. "I don't really fancy calling up Kreacher this time of the morning to explain yet again, do you?"

Potter rose, keeping one knee on the sofa while planting the other firmly on the floor. He held onto the back of the sofa. "Why can't I see you?" he asked slowly.

"Funny thing, that." Draco crossed the room silently. He stood facing Harry, his hands clasped behind his back. "But, I hardly think it's any of your business."

"How's it not my business?"

"If it were, the Order--" he emphasised this snidely "--would have told you."

Potter shook his head. "This is bloody nutters." He got up and came around the sofa. He looked a rumpled, messy disaster. "Not like I don't have enough on my plate without you mucking about. You're supposed to have died, Malfoy. How is it you haven't?"

"Maybe I have," Draco challenged, stepping around Harry and blowing a cool stream of air against Potter's neck for emphasis. "Maybe I'm a ghost."

Potter whirled. "Back off!"

"Scared, Potter?"

Potter snorted. "Like you matter."

Potter's words were like a cold knife to Draco's gut. "Like your opinion matters!"

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Potter said. He turned his back on Draco, dismissing him. "I've got important things to work out."

Fury took over. Draco launched himself at Potter and tackled him to the ground so savagely that Potter's glasses were knocked free. They skittered across the dull oak flooring and became caught up in the fringe of the area rug. Mercilessly Draco pinched into Potter's throat, his thumb and forefinger digging right under the mandibular joint, and he squeezed with brutish strength. He trapped Potter's biceps under his knees and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, until Potter's head tipped back and he let loose a strangled, gurgling cry.

"YOU," Draco raged, bits of saliva hitting Potter in the face from the force, "ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH A STORY!" He felt like some forgotten, misplaced thing that had been unexpectedly discovered and crushed under the careless heel of indifference. He punched Potter's face until Potter's nose gave way under his knuckles, the blood really spurted then, spattering onto the carpet and floor.

Potter kicked upward and managed to wrench free his right hand. He punched Draco in the gut, knocking the wind from him long enough for Potter to turn over onto his stomach. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he rolled his face into the floor. Once Draco had settled into a rhythm, Potter reached out, lightning-fast, and caught Draco's wrist. Potter bucked up onto his knees, only to then tuck into a semi-roll. He heaved, and flipped Draco right over.

The boys scrambled to their feet and circled each other. Potter stepped on his own glasses and Draco took the opportunity to run behind him, his chest heaving from exertion. "Malfoy!" Potter shouted, angry. "Why are you here?!" He swiped at his ruint nose, soaking up the blood with his sleeve. "WHY ARE YOU BLOODY WELL HERE?"

"I'M HERE BECAUSE YOUR PRECIOUS DUMBLEDORE THOUGHT I WAS WORTH SAVING!" Draco's voice cracked at the end. Potter whipped around toward the sound of Draco's voice.

"What are you talking about?" Potter asked, deadly serious.

"That's right," Draco said, bitter triumph creeping into his tone. "I'm here because old Dumblydore arranged it. You weren't there when--"

"I was there," Potter spat. "I saw everything. I heard everything! I saw you!" Potter advanced, as if determined to find Malfoy and throttle him unconscious.

"Liar!" Draco said, his insides cold at the thought. "Like bloody hell you saw anything!"

Potter stopped then. "I saw," he growled, "everything."

Draco's thoughts began racing and he suddenly felt as if he might explode into a million bits of humiliated insanity.

"Yeah, I was there," Potter continued. "Dumbledore and I'd come back from-- When we came back, the Dark Mark was there, over Hogwarts." Potter paused then, as if remembering something. "It was you," he said, as if oddly surprised. "You set off the Dark Mark."

"You weren't there! You're just having a go at me!"

"I was. Dumbledore had petrified me. I was there, under my cloak." Potter drew off his jumper; the front was soaked in blood. He found a clean bit and held it against his face. "I saw you. I saw Snape. Stay right there." Potter knelt and fumbled around, collecting all that he could of his ruint glasses. "Reparo." He winced as he slid them back on. Draco had managed to hit both of Potter's eyes during his assault; they were already swelling with smudges of purple and blue. Potter snorted derisively. "You dropped your wand, Malfoy. Couldn't do it, could you? Always known you're a coward."

Draco bristled. "Maybe the reason I didn't kill him doesn't have anything to do with that." These sentiments were surprising, as he hadn't allowed himself to think about that night, really. It was too raw, too mortifying. He hadn't considered it anything other than unadulterated failure -- he had failed in his quest, and that was that. There were no shades of grey and no considerations to make.

A lone ember popped on the hearth, the sound breaking through their raspy breaths.

"Harry?" Draco heard a female voice outside the room.

Potter's head jerked around. "Don't say a word," he hissed toward Draco's general vicinity. Hastily, Potter crossed the room and stuffed his bloody jumper down into the cushions of the sofa, and then cast a healing charm on his face. He pulled on a plain t-shirt, pocketing his wand as the door to the room opened.

"Harry?" Hermione Granger peeked around the door, looking as determined and homely as usual in Draco's estimation. "Harry, are you here? Professor Lupin's had the most fantastic idea about where the Ravenclaw Hor--"

"I'm here." Potter interrupted her. "I was just about to go--"

"Harry!" Hermione boggled. "What's happened?" She hurried to Potter and caught up his face in her hands. "Oh, you've always been terrible at healing charms," she clucked. "Who did this to you?"

Potter shook his head as she fussed over him. "I can't explain right now," he said. "I need you to trust me right now, and not ask. I'll tell you later."

Draco could see Granger's brows knitting together in concern, and he guessed she wanted more than anything to further the conversation right then and there. "I think your nose is broken!" she observed.

Potter sighed. "Can you just fix it?" he asked, sounding tired. "Where's Ron?"

"Pursuant to what I was set to tell you about, I'm having him do research on Rowena Ravenclaw." She led Potter to his desk and pushed at the crook of his arm until he sat. "He's downstairs in the kitchen." She perched on the desktop and rested her foot on the chair between Harry's knees as she attended to Potter's wounds. "Luna gave him a lead about a possible Ravenclaw treasu--"

"We can't talk about that now," Potter barked, once again cutting her off.

Hermione pulled back. "What's going on here, Harry?" She lifted her eyes and scanned the room. "Is someone else here?"

Draco watched them, fascinated, and he remembered a similar scene where it had been he who had been injured. He'd been sliced to ribbons by Potter's Sectumsempra, and after Snape and Pomfrey had attended to him, and patched him up as best they could, Pansy had sat with him in the darkened infirmary, touching his face lightly until he'd fallen asleep. The memory didn't elicit any feeling, though. More than anything, at this moment Draco felt cold, clinical -- as if his own history belonged to someone else.

Was he now someone else? For the first time since coming to this place, Draco felt as invisible as he was.

He stumbled toward the door then, not caring if Granger heard him or not, and as soon as he hit the corridor everything tilted sickeningly, and the house seemed to expand, as if taking a deep, fortifying breath. The walls warped and rippled, and then collapsed down upon him, forcing him to the floor with a cry. His heart pounding, he crawled toward his room, eyes screwed shut. It was as if the house were breathing down on him and he felt infinitely lost, and by the time he made it into the safety of his study he was so nauseated he barely made it to the toilet in time.

---

"Draco?"

Draco cracked his eyes open, dimly realising twilight had fallen. He rolled onto his back, pulling his blanket with him and squinted up at Lupin, who was standing over him at the side of the sofa. "What're you doing here?" he asked, yawning. "It's Monday." His thoughts swam, disjointed. "It is Monday, right?"

"Draco . . . " Lupin seemed at a loss for words. He seated himself on the low, long table in front of the sofa. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of his knees. He held something in his hand, something rectangular and smooth and flat.

"What?" Draco asked, sitting up. "What's wrong?" Lupin sighed and tapped the object against his palm. Draco peered, finally discerning it was a letter. "Is that a letter for me? Is it from my mother?" A flutter of anticipation turned over inside him.

"Yes, this letter is for you." Lupin seemed reluctant to hand it over, but he at last extended his hand. "It's from Severus."

"From Professor Snape?" Draco's brow furrowed. He took the letter from Lupin and turned it over. Snape's familiar, meticulous penmanship was etched across the front. "Why's he writing to me? Can't he just talk to me through you?"

"Severus asked me to deliver this letter to you," Lupin said, taking a deep breath, "in the event that something were to happen to him."

Draco's heart plunged into his stomach. "What-- What do you me-- What happened?"

"Severus was killed last night, Draco," Lupin said. "I'm truly sorry."

Draco didn't know what to say. The letter in his hand was heavy; he instinctively knew it was of great importance, although he wouldn't be reading it that night. "How?" he croaked, wondering if he were completely mental. Maybe this was all a dream -- a terrible, endless dream. A punishment for the life he had chosen.

"It is believed he was killed by Lord Voldemort."

"But--" Draco couldn't believe it. "Snape was loyal!"

"Severus was a double-agent. He worked for the Order."

"No, he didn't," Draco said icily. "There's no way."

"Why's that?"

"Because-- because--" How did he know, after all? "He just didn't!"

Lupin flicked a glance at the letter. "Maybe he will address the issue himself," he said. "I don't know, I haven't read the letter."

Draco held it to his chest protectively. "It's my letter!"

"Exactly so. I don't make it a habit to read another's post."

The cold, creeping fear was back. Draco turned his back to Lupin and curled into himself.

"Draco, things are going to get very, very bad," Lupin said. He sounded regretful. "This showdown has been years and years in the making. It's here now. You should know."

"What does it matter?" Draco asked flatly. "It's like I'm dead anyway. No one can see me."

"No magic is impervious. You should be prepared to protect yourself."

"Fine. Whatever."

"I mean it, Draco," Lupin said severely. "This is it. The time is now. You get to decide: shall you be a grown man, or would you rather surrender?"

"Some find death preferable to surrender."

"Ah," Lupin said, a hint of cunning observation in his tone, "Some might. But not you Slytherins! No, never that."

"Sometimes the only way to survive is to surrender."

"This," Lupin said, "is not one of those times. You will either survive, or you will die."

Draco clutched at his letter again, saying nothing. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly, almost as if mocking him: NOtimeNOtimeNOtime . . . He wished desperately for sleep, wanting to escape this wretched reality.

"You're knackered," Lupin observed, after several minutes of silence. "I expect you'll want me to go." He made to get up.

"You can stay if you want," Draco said, shrugging in the dark. "Doesn't matter."

Lupin paused. "All right, then," he said, settling back. "I'll stay a bit."

Throughout the night, Draco checked; Lupin remained. When he awoke the next morning, Lupin had gone. Snape's letter was still clutched in his hand. He got up and laid it on the desk, leaving it unopened.

Draco hadn't undressed the night before, and while he was rumpled from sleep he saw no particular need to change his clothes. He took a piss, and then splashed a bit of water on his face and scrubbed up his teeth. Returning to the study, he flopped down onto the sofa. Snape's letter beckoned to him from the table. Instead, Draco grabbed up his rubber ball and began a game with the wall. Bounce. Thump. Bounce. Thump. Bounce. Thump. "Sod this," he said, unsatisfied and restless. He smacked the ball as hard as he could against the fireplace and let it roll under the sofa. He grabbed up his bagpipe and marched from the room.

---

THWACK! Draco banged open the door to Potter's room. Potter shot up from the sofa.

"Good morning!" Draco said, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

"Brilliant," Potter groused, rolling his eyes. "What do you want now, Malfoy? Come for my spleen?"

"What have you got to eat?" Draco demanded.

"Find your own sodding food."

"I am a guest in your home," Draco pointed out. He skirted the rug until he reached Potter's desk. Stepping up behind him, he griped the bagpipe's blowstick between his teeth and inhaled deeply. He gave it all he had and it was worth it: Potter practically brained himself as the bellows droned loudly, turning too fast in his chair and accidentally tipping it over.

"Blimey!" Potter said, rubbing at the back of his head. "What the hell is that?"

"Lupin gave it to me," Draco said, through clenched teeth. "Said it was great fun!"

"Jesus, Malfoy, just sod off already, would you?" Potter righted his chair, wincing as Draco sounded the bagpipe again. "STOP IT!"

Draco tooted the bagpipe several more times for good measure, finishing off with a ear-splitting squeak. "I'd just like something to eat," he said, laying the bagpipe aside. "So, come on, Potter -- what've you got?"

"Doesn't anyone feed you?" Potter asked, annoyed. "Do you need me to change your papers, too?"

"Aren't you so funny." Draco leaned against the side of the desk, folding his arms. "Except not. Don't tell me you aren't having a well-fortified breakfast, Potter. What, with all the happy Horcrux hunting you're doing?"

Potter shifted his gaze dangerously. "Your father told you about that."

"No," Draco said honestly. "But, I've my sources."

"I'll bet. That snake on your arm whispering secrets to you?"

"You're the bloody Parselmouth, prick," Draco drawled, unconsciously clasping his left forearm and rubbing at it through his worn cotton sleeve, "so why don't you tell me what it's got to say." He pictured his Dark Mark there, sinister and eternal. Sometimes it felt hot to the touch, or tingly, and when this happened it secretly terrified Draco. He didn't know how to shut the connection down. "You left your stuff lying about. How was I to know you're mucking about the Dark Arts now, and hiding the evidence inside ugly pieces of jewelry? Were you planning to surprise Sheweasley with that junk?"

"Don't you say anything about Ginny," Potter growled. "Anyway, big deal. So you read the word 'Horcrux.' Doesn't mean you know any more than that. Fat lot of good a name'll do you."

"Lupin told me all about them!" Draco said triumphantly. "A Horcrux has to do with the soul. My guess? The Dark Lord's required all his Death Eaters to produce a Horcrux, as collateral of sorts." He shivered, tightening his arms around his waist in a self-protective hug. "Bloody glad I didn't get to that part of my induction. Don't fancy the idea at all."

"You're beyond mental. Professor Lupin wouldn't have told you that!"

"He did so, and I know what the Dark Lord's using the Horcruxes for, too!" Draco leaned in, adopting a confidential tone. "When one of his Death Eaters displeases him, the Dark Lord kills him or her, and then he uses the Horcrux--" once again he paused for dramatic effect "-- to conjure an Inferius!"

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy," Potter said, rolling his eyes. He stomped over to the small living area he'd set up in front of the fireplace. Throwing the lid of his trunk up, he began rummaging through its contents. "I don't have time for your hallucinations! Besides, you git idiot, an Inferius is a reanimated corpse, not a cloned bit of someone's soul."

Draco frowned. "Are you sure? Because I'm quite certain--"

"Yeah, I'm sure. When you were skiving off last year, figuring out how to get Dumbledore killed, Snape taught the Inferi in Defence."

Sixth year was a blur for Draco. The stress of his task had practically eaten him alive. He had no idea what had been taught that year. "Fine, it's a reanimated corpse. But, the Horcruxes must be about mind control. Lupin told me, see, that the Dark Lord wants eternal life -- what better way to protect himself than to control people through owning part of their soul? He'll never run out of people to hide behind."

"That's definitely it," Potter said sarcastically. "Good on you, you solved the mystery." He extracted a thick, leather-bound journal from his trunk, and a quill and inkpot. He slammed the lid shut and cast a firm locking charm. "Now, bugger off."

Draco trailed Potter back to the desk. "Why?"

"Don't have time to work, and worry about you trying to kill me."

"You retard," Draco sneered. "I'm invisible! How many times do you think I could've already offed you?"

Potter snorted. "Of all the bloody things likely to off me? Yeah, you're about last on that list."

"I could!" Draco hissed, feeling angry again. "But everyone knows you're the Dark Lord's bounty!"

"I don't think you could," Harry said, ignoring Draco's latter comment. "Pretty much? I don't think you can bloody do anything, Malfoy. You're useless."

"That old prune Dumbledore didn't think so!"

Harry leaned back in his chair and put up his feet. Opening his book to a clean page, he dipped his quill in the inkpot. "You know, that's probably the only thing I didn't like about Dumbledore." The nib of his quill scratched rhythmically against the parchment. "He always gave the wrong people too much credit."

---

January was bitterly cold.

"What are these?" Draco asked, taking a plain white carton with the wire handle from Lupin.

"Open it." Lupin eased himself into the soft, threadbare wingback opposite Draco's sofa. These days his hair was very nearly all grey and his almost always seemed tired. "Now crack one in half."

Awkwardly, Draco grasped the fat, horseshoe-shaped biscuit in both hands and bore down. It cracked open, revealing a slip of paper. "What's this?" He drew the paper out; there were words written across it: You will always come out on top of every situation. He looked at Lupin questioningly.

"They're fortunes," Lupin explained. "Sort of a Muggle novelty biscuit. Honeyduke's had an everlasting tin on sale."

"This isn't a tin. It's a box."

Lupin smiled slightly. "It's good luck to keep your fortunes."

"That's stupid," Draco said, trying the biscuit. It was nicely chewy and tasted of almonds.

Lupin shrugged. "Perhaps." The wind picked up then, moaning its way around the outside of Grimmauld; the candles on the mantel flickered and danced. The fire in the hearth was the only reprieve from the terrible weather.

"No one's ever given me such useless things before," Draco said, not necessarily displeased.

"Not everything has to be deep to have a purpose."

"For my sixth birthday I got a first edition set of The Grindelwald Years by Mordicus Egg."

"Isn't he the author of Philosophy of the Mundane?" Lupin asked.

Draco nodded. "Why Muggles Prefer Not to Know," he finished for Lupin. "Well, The Grindelwald Years is a twenty-six volume set. First edition, like I said. They were bound in the skin of Muggles and tooled with gold."

Lupin conjured tea. "Quite an austere gift for a child," he remarked.

"I couldn't even read when I was six."

"So you read them when you got older?"

"No," Draco said. "I've never read them."

"Tea?"

"I guess." Draco remained silent as Lupin lifted the teapot's lid and checked inside.

"Milk?"

"Milk-in-first, are you?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow at Lupin.

Lupin cracked a small smile. "Somehow I doubt that surprises you," he said knowingly. "Would you like milk, or not?"

"I guess." Draco watched silently as Lupin poured out.

"Sugar?"

"Yeah. Just a bit." Draco's mouth twisted into a cross frown as he accepted the cup from Lupin, and he felt confused. He looked at Lupin for a long moment, his face sour and young. "Thanks."

Lupin nodded. "My Aunt Beatrice would always give me ladies depilatory charms for Christmas, owing to my condition," he said, pulling a knowing face. "Every year my mother would ask her not to, but my Auntie persisted."

Draco snorted lightly, breaking open another biscuit. "My mother uses those charms. They smell bad!"

"Indeed they do. Naturally, as a teen, the last thing I needed was to smell of rancid rose-scented depilatory charms."

"When I turned sixteen, my father gave me a portrait of himself for my birthday. And then he went to Azkaban." Lupin remained silent, but Draco saved him from answering, though, when he continued. "Who's Confucius?" Draco asked, reading his latest fortune, puzzled. "Confucius say: I didn't say that? Is that supposed to be profound?"

Lupin smiled. "It's probably a gag fortune, that's all," he said. "Confucius was a Chinese thinker and social philosopher. Many sayings are attributed to him."

"Bloody useless saying, that one."

"Were we not just discussing the emotional value of seemingly useless items?"

"I guess." Draco shrugged.

"You disagree?"

"I don't really know. I mean, whatever."

"There is value in play," Lupin said firmly. "What else cushions our burdens?"

This was a completely foreign concept to Draco; he thought about it. His cup was still mostly full when Lupin stood and brushed down the front of his robes in the way that he always did. "There are a few more items for you on the table," he said, bundling himself into his cloak and woolens. "Should you like anything for my next visit?"

"No," Draco said, giving his usual response. Unconsciously, he had grown to anticipate the small surprises that were Lupin's offerings.

"All buttoned up and ready to go." Lupin said. He made his way to the door of Draco's study. As he grasped the knob, he suddenly turned back. "Draco," he said, as if the thought surprised him. "I quite liked having tea with you tonight. So, thank you for that."

Draco blinked. "It was all right." He nodded, not knowing how to respond.

"Very good." Lupin pulled the brim of his hat down low. "Goodnight," he said, easing out the door. "Until next time, then."

"Right," Draco said, as the door closed behind Lupin. He shivered and drew his blanket tightly around him, and pretended he hadn't heard the echo of the latch.

---

It was still dark and the fire had burnt down to a pile of embers when Draco awoke with the distinct feeling that he wasn't alone. Adrenaline pulsed through him, as a chillingly familiar voice invaded his senses.

"Someone's here," Fenrir Greyback's voice rasped into the darkness. "I know that scent, know it I do . . . " Draco remained where he was, willing his eyesight to adjust. There were three shadows moving about the room, and he could hear the sound of the Death Eaters moving items, investigating. "Someone's living here, all right." Greyback passed dangerously close to where Draco lay, and Draco's nostrils filled with the sour scent of urine and body odour. There was something else, too: blood. Draco could smell fresh blood, the coppery scent driving a cold stake of fear clean through his heart. "Yeah, I know that scent, but it couldn't be . . . couldn't be . . . "

"You're probably smelling your own arse, Greyback," a man's voice answered, unimpressed with Greyback's olfactory skill. "God knows the rest of us can. Bella, what can you tell from all this?"

Draco's heart was pounding. How did the Death Eaters get into the house? Lupin had told him the house was so thoroughly hexed up that it would be impossible for anyone to find it. Plus, it was under the Fidelius charm, just as Draco was himself. He hadn't seen his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, in almost a year, and she wasn't a welcomed sight. He recalled the endless hours of Occlumency lessons he'd endured under her tutelage, prisoner to her incessant mutterings and rantings about the Dark Lord.

He waited until all three of the Death Eaters' backs were turned to him, and then silently rose from sofa where he slept. Laying his blankets so they wouldn't look disturbed, he edged around the furniture, wondering where he should go. He noticed his breath in the air and realised it was absolutely frigid in the room. Would his breath give him away? Draco crept to the hearth of the fireplace and pressed himself against the warm brick there, hoping it would provide enough warmth to hide the shallow bursts of air puffing from his lungs.

"I know this house," Bellatrix hissed, her pitch-black eyes glittering madly in the dark. "This is my house, oh yes. My house! This house is the Black house -- my wretched cousin was stupid enough to dishonour his family by passing it into the hands of a dirty half-blood, but the vermin lays dying as we speak, and our great and noble family shall be restored to ownership!"

"Yes, yes," Greyback said malevolently. "We've got it, Bella. Enough of your blathering nonsense! What can you tell?"

"Someone's living here, obviously," the other male Death Eater said, stepping under the light from Greyback's wand long enough for Draco to recognise his uncle Rodolphus Lestrange. A heavy scar split Lestrange's face in half, twisting viciously from hairline to jaw, rendering his left eye permanently drooped.

"Potter will want to come back here, to his little nest," Bellatrix said, turning in a slow circle, her wand aloft. "Although, he may have died by now, given the injuries we inflicted." She laughed mirthlessly.

"The Dark Lord will be displeased with you, if you have taken his bounty," Greyback said smugly, as if savouring the idea. He paused and sniffed the air. "There! I smell him again . . . " Keeping his nose in the air, he sniffed and snuffled his way toward the hearth, as if tracking prey. Soon, his cold, wet nose brushed Draco's cheek; he held his breath to keep from gagging at Greyback's smell. "I smell your nephew, Bella. Your nephew, Narcissa's boy."

"Perhaps it was here the Order killed our poor Draco," Bella said, her tone dark and vengeful. "He died a hero, in service to our Lord."

Greyback was still tasting the air. "No, it is not the smell of death," he said. "The boy is alive!"

"Impossible," Bellatrix said.

Greyback turned back toward her, and Draco took the opportunity to shimmy sideways, his socked feet silent as he traversed the flat stone hearth. It occurred to him that perhaps the werewolf might be able to sense the movement of his scent, and hurriedly he divested himself of his jumper. Dropping it in the spot where he had been standing before, he hoped it would provide adequate diversion. He inched away from his fellow Death Eaters, retreating to the back of the room and sunk into the darkest shadows there, trying desperately to control his breathing.

"What of Lupin?" Rodolphus asked, as they completed their cursory search of the room.

"Leave him there," Greyback barked, his voice gravelly. "Let the Order find him." Draco could hear the sneer in the werewolf's tone. "Or what's left of the Order, anyway."

"And Potter?"

"Leave him to die," Bella ordered. "Our Lord is ill, though I do not know why. He will consider it a favour done."

"Don't be so sure, my love," Rodolphus said, not sounding very loving at all.

"I am His favourite!" Bella said sharply. "Even more so, now that Severus is dead." She spat upon the floor, as if to emphasise the point: Good riddance. "He shall not be angry."

"Ah, I do so love the reckless sentiments of the unhinged," Greyback said with a snarl, as the group left the room.

Draco clung terrified to his crevice of shadows, the room's only illumination a thin, bitter stream of moonlight, which filtered dully through the grime-encrusted panes of his skylight. He embraced the darkness, still and alone, until his muscles seized up from the torture of immobility, and there he waited for the bleak, stale crack of dawn.

---

He found Lupin slain over the door-jam of Grimmauld, his body half inside the open door, half out. The relentless, icy wind had blown steadily through the foyer during the night, and Lupin's thin frame lay stiff and frozen there, a slight, sloping drift of snow piling against his side. His hair and face were matted with blood, and Draco could see where Greyback had torn into Lupin's back, through the layers of tweed and wool Lupin had favoured. Draco knelt there, his knees sliding in the snow as he curled his fingers into the scarlet wool of Lupin's scarf. For several moments he just rocked slightly, not knowing what to do. It took several tries before he could speak.

"Lupin?" His voice sounded very small indeed.

Lupin did not stir.

Draco sat there, paralysed, his fingers aching from the cold. Perfunctorily, he stuffed his fist into the pocket of his jeans for warmth; he felt the slight sting of paper cutting into his skin. Draco extracted the offending item.

Pray for what you want, but work for the things you need.

He wanted to rage then, to strike out at everything. He wanted to scream, to ask Why? He wanted to hack and slice the skin from his left forearm and watch his blood steam silently in a seeping, crimson tide over the pure, white snow, and he had never, ever not wanted to be himself more than at that particular moment. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father, his father the portrait.

He didn't know how to pray.

Draco dropped the fortune, abandoning it to the blowing snow. Quelling his rage, he stood shakily; his teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he knew he would have to have to close the house up. He stepped over Remus's body, gripping the door, and peered outside.

Even though it was overcast and stormy, the weak daylight assailed his senses, and his eyes ached and burned as he squinted out from the front door. Muggles walked by, chatting and carrying on, loaded down with packages from the shops, and Draco noticed when a Muggle seemed to cast a glance his way, that person's eyes were unseeing. He wondered what this manor looked like to the Muggles. A run down row home? A garden? No, not a garden, he thought. This place was meant to be hidden. Gardens were attractive, beguiling.

He could keep going, Draco realised. He could just step right over Lupin and he could walk to the pavement and disappear amongst the Muggles there without them even knowing. He could walk forever. He could leave this place, leave this life, and stay invisible and forgotten. He could be swallowed up whole by the teaming mass of humanity lurking just beyond the door.

But.

For once, Draco deferred to his own instinct. He stepped back inside the house.

Gathering handfuls of Lupin's cloak, he managed to drag the body all the way into the foyer, turning his head aside as he did so to avoid the milky, vacant emptiness of the professor's lifeless eyes. He caught his breath and then reached upward as a final swirl of snow blew across the foyer; the heavy door closed, Draco was alone inside his dreary prison with a dead werewolf. The floor lurched violently under his feet.

"No!" he said forcefully. "Not now."

The floors stilled under his feet. If he had had all his senses about him, he might have questioned the fact that he had been able to see the street from the front door, or that light filtered into the house through the windows without the obfuscating whirl of dirt and sand and grit to obscure his view. If he'd been in his right mind at that moment, Draco might have understood that whatever spells and enchantments that had been placed on the house had been, at the very least, altered. Yet these facts didn't even register with him.

Struggling, he rolled Lupin over using his cloak and jacket as leverage, fighting the gorge that rose in his throat when the professor's arms remained frozen by rigor, raised above his head. Draco took several deep breaths, willing his stomach to settle.

"Kreacher?" he croaked, then spoke more firmly. "KREACHER!"

The elf appeared, smiling from ear to ear. "Kreacher welcomes service to Draco Malfoy," he said, seemingly unaware that Draco was standing over a battered, frozen corpse. "Kreacher heard the beautiful voice of Mistress Bellatrix within these walls last night -- ah!" the house-elf sighed. "Kreacher has waited and waited . . . for so long . . ."

"Kreacher," Draco said evenly, seizing control of his emotions, "I need help with Lupin."

"The filthy, werewolf half-blood has at last been killed," Kreacher said gleefully. "The Order dies. Soon, there will be no one, nothing, to stop our Lord from-- Kreacher welcomes the Dark Lord, the servants of the Dark Lord -- my mistress will be pleased--"

"KREACHER." Draco caught him up by the neck, squeezing through the elf's madness. "I said I need help with Lupin. Where shall I put him?"

Kreacher looked puzzled. "Draco Malfoy cares for the disgusting, vile remains of a half-blooded werewolf?" he asked, prying uselessly at Draco's fingers around his neck. "Kreacher doesn't understand why the noble, the illustrious, the pure-blooded, the princely--" He stopped then, his eyes growing dark with suspicion. "Unless Draco Malfoy is a blood-traitor like his cousin Sirius Black!"

Draco suddenly felt that he was in grave danger. Everything had fallen apart. The one human who had been able to see him was now dead. He was now alone and at the mercy of the Fidelius charm, a cursed, sentient manor, and a dark and devious house-elf, now long round the bend. "How dare you even suggest such a thing," Draco hissed, squeezing Kreacher's throat so viciously that petechia begin to pepper the elf's eyes. "Take it back," he commanded, squeezing and squeezing until Kreacher's tongue protruded and his face grew blue. He threw the elf to the floor. "I should kill you right now!"

Kreacher gasped and sputtered, retching dramatically as he clutched at his injured neck. "Kreacher apologizes! Kreacher should not have suggested such a terrible, untruthful, malevolent thing! Kreacher begs Draco Malfoy's forgiveness!"

"Stand up," Draco growled. "A lowly, stupid creature like yourself doesn't understand the human thought process, do you, you bloody dumb elf? You don't understand how sentimental humans are about their dead!" He advanced on Kreacher. The house-elf cowered on the floor. "This is not a tribute," he hissed. "It's an opportunity. Yes, we will preserve the remains of the filthy half-blood werewolf!" He kicked Kreacher, hard enough to bruise, ignoring Kreacher's cry of pain. "So, bloody damn right we're keeping him," Draco ordered. "And you'll be helping me. Don't you see? Soon, the Order will want the body. And then we can bargain."

Kreacher gestured up the staircase, sniveling and pathetic. "Mistress keeps the valuables in the drawing room."

---

The temperature in the drawing room was well below freezing, owing to that particular section of the first floor having been shut off. The drab olive walls rose high from the floor, and there was so much dust in the carpet, that Remus's body left distinct drag marks as Draco pulled him, straining, down the length of the room. He'd ordered Kreacher to bring lengths of oilcloth, snatched down from the largest portraits scattered throughout the house, and several generous lengths of rope.

"Now, go!" Draco ordered abruptly. "And don't come back until I call you again. If you have quarters, go to them now, and stay there."

He was numb. He managed to pull Lupin's body onto the tarpaulin, and he pulled the cloth around the body until it was wrapped as neatly as he could manage, save for Lupin's face. Unsure of how to proceed, Draco finally removed his t-shirt and folded it and laid the soft, white bundle over Lupin's features, hiding the carnage Greyback had wreaked. It was only then that he was able to finish wrapping the body. He secured it tightly with rope, and then decided to add a second layer of oilcloth. He bound and tied and secured, until Lupin was only a shrouded remnant. Standing back, he inspected his work. Still disconcerted, he looked about, and then stepped over to a small moss-coloured settee and grabbed up a round throw pillow. He managed to shove it under the obscured lump that was Remus's head.

Sighting long, velvet curtains over the window that matched the pillow he'd just provided, Draco strode across the room once again, making to tug down the length of fabric, to further cover Lupin. A glint of gold caught his eye. Stopping, he peered closer at a tapestry hanging on the wall.

"Toujours Pur," he said dully, studying the family tree for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Familiar names of friends and classmates jumped out at him, and it was too painful to contemplate. He located his parents' names quickly enough, and studied his own with an air of detachment.

Draco Malfoy: 1980-19

The golden embroidery was incomplete; a sparkling length of thread hung limply from the bottom of the nine, as if unraveling itself.

"Figures," Draco said, taking unexpected umbrage that even his death date on a tatty wall hanging had to be somehow mucked up. He shifted his gaze to the curtains once again, and strode onward purposefully. He took great bunches of dusty fabric within his hands and yanked. The brass rings gave way easily, and a cascade of moss velvet enveloped him in darkness. Struggling out from under its weight, he wrestled with the curtains, stepping backward for space. His foot slammed against an inanimate, soft mass, and he tumbled head-over-heels.

He managed to stand, all the while fighting with the lengths of velvet, until an ominous, mechanical clunking sounded, as if a machine were gearing up. He turned his head sharply, coming face to face with a twisted, sinister grandfather clock -- it was truly vile! Reapers and scythes were carved into the ancient wood, which was blackened with age. The clock tocked angrily. Draco just had enough time to register the words carved above the clock's face -- Death and Life Existing Knowledge: The end is already written -- before a heavy iron bolt shot out from the centre of the juncture of the hands, and beaned Draco above his left eye. "AHH!" He cried out, falling.

"Hells!" he snapped, once again fighting his way out from under the pile of velvet. He sneezed violently from the dust, and then did a doubletake as a hand appeared on the floor. Before he could quite register what he saw, there was a shimmering and the hand disappeared, except for the fingertips. "What the bloody--" Draco crawled through the curtains to the spot where he had seen the hand. Surely the bolt had affected his vision! Poking gingerly at the inert fingers, he found them to be cold, but not dead. In a moment of divine clarity, a scene from a year and a half past flashed into his mind -- a shimmer, a suspicion, a stowaway . . . Draco reached and he felt the liquidy silk of invisibility against his skin. He pushed at the fabric, until a full arm was revealed, then a body, and then, finally, a face.

"Bloody-sodding-hell," he said bitterly, poking at Potter's ashen face. Potter moaned. "Can't anything kill you?"

---

Once he had covered Lupin with the curtain torn from the window, Draco sat next to Harry -- who was still moaning -- and he chewed the skin of his thumb raw whilst contemplating what to do next. Finally, he stood and removed Potter's Invisibility Cloak; it was like stuffing a cloud into his back pocket. He was taller than Potter, and although the months of captivity had caught up with his strength, Draco managed to heave Potter over his shoulder and stagger up the stairs toward his study. Halfway up, the staircase growled and shook alarmingly, to which Draco dismissed the threat with a commanding, "Stop it!"

Draco dumped Potter unceremoniously onto the sofa where he sprawled, unconscious.

"Kreacher!"

"---two years to restore Mistress's manor to its former glory, what with the slime and filth of the Mudbloods and half-bloods infiltrating Mistress's house with their Scourgify and their wicked, black magic! First the murdering, blood-traitor scummy son of Mistress defiles Kreacher's home, then the half-blood thwarter of our Lord is given--" Kreacher stopped short, sighting Potter on the sofa. "The half-blood master lives? Kreacher thought surely Kreacher's master would have died, and Kreacher would have gotten a new master, yes Kreacher would have -- a better, nobler master--"

"Shut up, Kreacher," Draco ordered. "Why didn't you tell me Potter'd been attacked?"

"Draco Malfoy did not ask."

"Why would I think to ask?" Draco said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You would be killed for allowing your master to die -- you know that! It's against house-elf law. Yet, you wanted Potter to die, didn't you? You left him there to die." He advanced on Kreacher. "I could sack you right now," he said. "I could make you leave this place."

"Draco Malfoy is not Kreacher's master," Kreacher said fearfully. "Draco Malfoy could not--"

"Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid, elf," Draco said, interrupting. "I know how house-elf magic works. You're to take orders from family, and I am family." He crossed his arms and glared down at the ancient creature.

"Draco Malfoy would not be so cruel as to free a house-elf, Draco Malfoy would not!" Kreacher burst into great, rasping sobs, the whole of his body shaking and quivering. "Kreacher wonders why Draco Malfoy protects Harry Potter! Draco Malfoy is family, but Kreacher wonders--"

Draco had anticipated this. "You idiot," he thundered, drawing on his best intimidation skills. "Potter's the Dark Lord's bounty! Everyone knows it, but my Auntie Bella tried to kill him herself, didn't she? What do you think will happen to Bellatrix, Kreacher, once the Dark Lord finds out she's betrayed Him?" He eased around Kreacher, forcing the elf to turn his head, to pay attention. "Don't you love your Mistress Bellatrix? Or the Dark Lord? Maybe this is just another display of your disloyalty?"

The question hung between them like a puff of frozen breath.

"Kreacher apologises!" Kreacher finally said, completely breaking down into a blubbering pile of tears. "Kreacher should never have doubted the splendid, the sublime, the nobiliary--"

"Damn right you shouldn't have," Draco said, chastising the elf. "How dare you doubt my nobility, my loyalty to my ancestry, you filthy, disgusting swine!"

"Kreacher is most apolog--"

"Shut up!" Draco said again. "Now, tell me -- how do the Order communicate?"

"Kreacher believes the Order communicates through the casting of the Patronus charm."

"How?"

"The Patronus delivers messages."

"All right," Draco said, nodding. "How else? Tell me!"

"Kreacher has at times himself been required to deliver messages," Kreacher said, clearly shamed.

"Anything else? Tell me now."

"The blood-traitor Dumbledore used the portraits."

"Do I have your loyalty, Kreacher?" Draco asked, fully playing his bluff. "Are you loyal to me, to your family? Can I count on you to help me?"

Kreacher's eyes brightened, and he bowed so low the white tufts of hair protruding from his ears brushed the carpet. "Kreacher does not deserve Draco Malfoy's compassion," he warbled. "Kreacher is loyal to the House of Black . . . "

"I should hope so," Draco said, with finality. "Here's what we're going to do. We shall ensure Potter survives. Then, we will deliver him ourselves to the Dark Lord."

Kreacher's eyes glowed. "Kreacher is loyal," he said.

"Then you must swear yourself to secrecy. And you must follow my direction without question."

Kreacher looked at Potter. "Regretfully, Draco Malfoy is not Kreacher's master," the elf said. "How can Kreacher serve both--"

"You can serve two masters," Draco pointed out. "While you can't disobey a direct order from Potter, neither can you disobey a direct order from me -- I'm family."

"Kreacher is happy to take orders from Draco Malfoy!"

"Good," Draco said. "Go get Potter's Mudblood friend. She'll know how to fix him up."

Kreacher bowed low again. "Kreacher shall fetch the Mudblood."

"Close up the drawing room first," Draco instructed Kreacher. "Make sure no one can get in there. Also, clean up the mess in the foyer. Then you can go after Granger."

"Kreacher shall obey. Thank you, Draco Malfoy!" After Kreacher Disapparated from the room, Draco turned to Potter, who was shivering violently on the sofa. He knelt on the floor by the table there, seating himself.

Snape's letter rested on the table's corner, still unread. Draco picked it up, meaning to move it to a secure place, away from Granger's prying eyes. Impulsively, though, he found himself breaking the sealing wax, and extracting the thick, ivory sheets of parchment. He read the letter intently, taking his time, a cavernous pit forming in the depths of his stomach. While he knew he would revisit its contents time and again, he needed to wrap his brain around the general sentiments and Snape's message to him first. He slid the letter back into the envelope and leaned sideways, shoving it into his back pocket. As he struggled for leverage, he felt something smooth and cool under his hand.

He brought the item up. It was his ball.

The numbness he'd been feeling for the past twelve hours diffused without warning, and a great blackened swell of agony rose within him. Draco hunched into himself, his arms on his knees, his ball still in hand. His head dropped as uncontrollable, wracking sobs assailed his body, his grief over everything breaking open his heart, unbidden and treacherous.

---

Potter had been severely injured the night the Death Eaters had come. Kreacher had followed Draco's directions explicitly, and Granger and Weasley had shown up at Grimmauld within an hour of Kreacher being dispatched. They brought with them a surprisingly small entourage. Draco recognised Mad Eye Moody, and remembered the ferret incident with a pang of embarrassment, but he did not know the Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. The group tried to take Potter to his own quarters, but at the slightest touch Potter cried out in pain, causing the four Order members to hover nearby, plotting their next move.

"Can't Madam Pomfrey come?" Hermione Granger asked. "She's always taken such good care of Harry over the years."

"No," Moody barked, his eye casting about. "It's too dangerous. We can't risk her being followed. If anyone were to find out the purpose of our location here . . . " The grizzled ex-Auror trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid.

"Blimey," Ron Weasley rubbed at the back of his neck. Maybe that's how the ginger git gets his brain going, Draco thought savagely, watching, invisible, from the far corner of the room. "Hermione, reckon you could find out what's wrong with Harry? At least so's we know where to begin?"

"Possibly. I could cast some diagnostic charms. But, they'd be rather rudimentary." Granger looked at Shacklebolt. "Could you help me?"

"I could," Shacklebolt answered, his voice rich and deep. "But, Alastor, you've got to know a professional who can tend to Harry. The boy must be seen."

Moody clomped around the sofa, stopping at Harry's head. "Perhaps Baker might come," he said, after a long moment. "After all he helped during that necklace fiasco last year. Didn't say a word about it to anyone, far's I've heard. He's professional. Keeps to himself." He pulled his hat off his head and scratched around in the sparse tufts of hair there, thinking. "You're right, though. Harry must be seen."

"I expect you're right about Madam Pomfrey, Professor Moody," Granger said, wringing her hands. "It would be too dangerous. She might be killed if she were followed. We can't risk the Death Eaters discovering where Harry's staying. How he managed to even get up here into this room, as injured as he is, is beyond me . . . "

They think Potter was injured somewhere else, Draco thought, surprised. They don't know the Death Eaters were actually here . . .

Granger finished casting her spells. "He's got quite a few broken bones," she said. "And he's in a lot of pain."

"Well, we knew that, yeah?" Weasley interjected, his brows knitting together. "Seeing as we couldn't move him even a bit."

"True." Granger touched her fingertips to Harry's forehead, pulling back abruptly when he cried out again. "I wonder if he's been subjected to Cruciatus? He seems too sensitive to the touch."

"She may be right," Kingsley said, looking up at Moody. "You should go after Baker."

"I'll bring him back, if I have to stun and drag the man." Moody was limping speedily to the door; he paused as his hand touched the knob. "You know, something's different here," he said, his senses as heightened as ever. "Kingsley, check the hexes and protective spells, would you? Something here doesn't feel right."

"Shall do."

"Could be that the Sandryx charm Bill cast around the perimeter's simply blown itself out--" Moody's magical eye roved suspiciously, and Draco felt a frisson of fear slice into him as Moody stared straight at him. He can't see me, Draco chanted to himself. He can't see me. He can't see me. He can't see me. "Something's not right, though. This place--" Moody's voice was a low growl "--is like a candle blown out."

---

Baker came and pronounced Potter in right awful shape. His most serious injury was a compound fracture of the tibia. Not only was it a gross injury, but it had caused Potter to lose a tremendous amount of blood, and Skele-Gro was inexplicably in short supply.

Potter had brief periods of consciousness, although he was unable to recount anything of value regarding the night he was attacked, despite relentless questioning. To relieve his pain, Draco garnered, Granger had surreptitiously raided her parents' dental practise, and had Potter on a strict regimen of Muggle narcotics and a strong anti-biotic. Mostly, Potter slept a heavy, drug-induced sleep, while one Auror or another kept guard just outside the room. Moody, Kingsley and other people Draco did not know had refortified the spells and enchantments guarding Draco's study, for they hadn't been able to move Harry to his own quarters and the house itself had been found to be completely unprotected. Eventually, Molly Weasley had collected Harry's belongings and relocated them to Draco's study, and the Order members moved a massive four-poster into the room, making Draco's space Harry's. Conversation revolved around Harry's condition, the state of their headquarters, and the puzzling matter of Remus Lupin's unexplained disappearance.

Shortly after it became clear that Potter had taken up residence in Draco's study, Draco had attempted to find another part of the house to call his own. However, he found he was unable to leave the room -- as hard as he tried, the doorknob wouldn't turn. The whirling, occluding Sandryx spell had been restored around the outside of the house, again rendering the windows useless. Out of sheer boredom, Draco began reading to pass the time, for he had no longer had anyone to play cards with and his ball made too much noise. He fed flies from Kreacher's Devil's Snare boa to the Venus flytrap Lupin had given him, and sometimes he used the bellows of his bagpipe as a pillow in order to pass more time by sleeping. He was rarely warm enough. If he didn't know better, Draco might have thought himself hibernating.

Mostly, Potter was left alone at night to sleep, and it was under the cover of darkness that Draco felt comfortable enough to lie on the hearth, stomach down, and soak up the heat from the fire. He took care never to fall asleep there, though, as Moody or Granger or someone would usually come in at some point during the night and stoke the fire. But, when he did have a chance to rest there, he appreciated the relaxing lull of the glowing embers, and he wondered how long it would take before the licking flames would manage to thaw his frozen heart.

A fortnight passed, and Draco refrained from reclaiming his spot on the sofa, for fear he might sleep too deeply and be sat upon and subsequently discovered by some unsuspecting visitor to Potter's bedside. He knew he was invisible still, yet his belongings could be easily spotted. He took care to be still when others were in the room, and to not haphazardly strew his things about the room, lest he draw attention to his presence. He ate from his never-ending box of biscuits and whatever bits Kreacher brought, and he didn't ask how old the food was or from where it came.

He came to understand a lot more about the state of the Wizarding World. Hogwarts was not open to students this year; Draco supposed it was being used as a garrison of sorts, although by which side he did not know. Supplies were limited; Diagon Alley was deserted; wizards and witches had gone into hiding within the Muggle world, whole families disappearing at a time. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters wreaked terrible havoc over the whole of England, killing and maiming and pillaging, and the papers likened it to the great second war of the Muggles. The editors called for Potter's head: Where is the Boy When We Need Him? The Chosen One: In Hiding and Scared! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Strikes Down Nemesis Potter! The Wizarding World's Darkest Hour: Abandoned By Our Saviour . . .

"What rot," Draco said, after reading one such headline. "Why don't you go out and fight your own battle, you scummy twats?!" Not that he actually cared, mind. He finally felt comfortable lounging on Potter's bed once the night fell, for it was the one place in the room he'd noticed no one else ever dared to sit. Draco thought their deference ridiculous, and it gave him savage satisfaction to dare to desecrate the sanctity of the Chosen bed. He deliberately kept his shoes on, solely to muss the duvet.

It was on one such occasion -- Draco, comfortable and reading the Daily Prophet upon the bed -- that Potter stirred, and rolled with a groan onto his back. The back of his hand fell unconsciously onto Draco's thigh. Draco shifted his gaze sideways as Potter's hand thunked down onto the top of the bed, and, slightly put out, he scooted further away, resettling.

"Malfoy . . . " It was more a sigh than a inquiry.

Draco glanced at Potter again, and then did a quick once-over of the room. "What?" He kept his tone low.

Potter's eyes were closed and his throat worked, as if he were struggling to swallow. "Still here?"

"Obviously."

"Bugger," Potter croaked, giving a dry cough.

"Ever the gracious host," Draco observed, turning the page.

"Why . . . haven't you gone away?"

"Don't you have a coma to finish or something? Mind your own business!"

"Get off my bed . . . "

"Make me, you gimpy retard."

"Go!" Potter hissed.

"No," Draco said evenly. "I think not."

Potter coughed a second time, wincing from the pain. Draco ignored him, and had just reacquainted himself with part four of the Prophet's current serial when Potter spoke again. "Thirsty," he said weakly. "I need a glass of water."

"What you need is another handful of those Muggle pills, to shut your gob."

"Get Moody . . . or Mr. Baker."

"I'm hardly your nursemaid, Potter," Draco said, vaguely amused. He turned a page, and then called out, "Kreacher?!" He didn't even glance at the house-elf when the familiar crack sounded. "Your master requires your attention."

---

The Skele-Gro was finally procured. Once Potter had been properly dosed up he recovered instantly. Draco tacitly ignored him, keeping to his side of the room, reading or indulging in dark, brooding thoughts. During the day he really paid no mind to Potter, and only registered his presence after the night fell, and he was hogging up Potter's bed.

Another week passed and Draco realised Potter hadn't had any visitors in as many days time.

"Where is everyone?" he demanded, speaking to Potter for the first time in days. "I need the next installation of The Minister's Trousers: Unlined!"

"What are you going on about?" Potter's back was turned to Draco; he lay curled on his side, a pillow wedged under his head.

"The Minister's Trousers," Draco huffed, rolling his eyes. "Don't you read the papers?"

"I try not to."

"Figures." Draco tossed the Daily Prophet over the side of the bed. "Anyhow, the Prophet's running an expose on the Minister's trousers."

"That's bloody stupid."

"It's not stupid! People want to know!"

"Yeah," Potter said acidly. "Priorities and whatnot."

"Silly me," Draco said, settling against his pillow, his fingers laced behind his head. "I forgot! It's all about you."

"Piss off, Malfoy."

"Anyway, people want to be distracted. They don't do that unless it's serious."

"Unless what's serious?"

"Whatever they want to be distracted from, obviously. So where is everyone? Moody, Granger -- the Weasel?"

Potter was silent for a very long time, and Draco figured he was being ignored. Then, he said, "Probably out looking for me."

"Yet, you're right here."

"They think I've gone somewhere else."

"Gone where?" Draco was confused.

"Just . . . gone."

"Well, like I said, you're right here. Why am I not surprised the Weasel can't manage to find you anyway?"

"Shut up about Ron," Potter said. However, his voice lacked inflection, and for some reason this was unnerving to Draco.

"Potter," Draco asked, rising up on one elbow. "What've you done?"

Potter snorted, his voice tight when he spoke. "Remember when I said you're useless?"

"No," Draco lied.

"Well, I was wrong."

"Of course you were wrong," Draco sneered. "Stop being cryptic."

"Let's just say I took a cue from you." He sat up, his back to Draco.

"Oh," Draco said, not quite sure what to think of this. Pretending he knew what Potter was talking about, he continued, hoping more information might be revealed. "Why's that?"

"What I've got to do, I've got to do alone."

"Is this the part where I get out my violin?" Draco asked snottily. "Or I've got the bagpipe -- it's just over there."

"Leave off, Malfoy!" Potter clenched his fists. "Like I'd solicit your pity?"

"You'd never get it."

"Well, likewise!"

"Good."

"Good!"

They fell into a petulant silence.

It finally dawned on him. Ah, he thought to himself. He's talking about the Fidelus charm. Now Potter's hiding, too. "So, who's your Secret Keeper?" Draco asked boldly, unsure why he even cared. Potter rolled his eyes and remained quiet. "And how come you're not invisible, Potter? Didn't want the extra edge?"

Potter looked at Draco. "I'm doing this to keep others safe. You're only in this for yourself."

"I--" For once Draco didn't know what to say, but Potter's words burned his pride for reasons he couldn't even begin to articulate. He'd never cared two shits for what Harry Potter thought of him. "Yeah, well, good on you. At least I don't use only my own context to make character judgments about others!"

"No," Potter said, sounding disgusted. "No, you use bloodlines." He slammed down onto the bed and gathered his pillow against his head angrily. "You're an ignorant prick."

---

Weeks slipped by. The weather remained bitter and unforgiving and the house was like a frozen walk-in. Potter sometimes tuned in to the WWN, and Draco found himself surprisingly interested in the bits of news and commentary that filtered through the sets of mindless pop music. Apparently the Muggles were oblivious to the cause of the dark times, but it was clear to the wizarding world that Voldemort was behind the troubles.

Muggle London struggled with inexplicable, lengthy blackouts, without the benefit of magic to temper the biting, lethal cold. Muggle officials blustered they were "doing all they could" to restore services, but Draco surmised they wouldn't know where to begin. Petrol froze in the pumps. Stores ran dangerously low on food, medicines, and supplies. The Muggles, according to wizarding correspondence reports, were acting like frightened children, and were hoarding and fighting and alleging government conspiracies -- no doubt the residual wounds of their great war splitting open again. The Dark Lord was tightening his vengeful grip without mercy.

At mention of his own name, Potter would switch off the wireless. He began disappearing for days at a time. When he returned he was exhausted and dirty and bruised, and he would fall into a deep sleep. Draco liked this just fine, for he could listen to the WWN unbothered, for Potter never stirred while recuperating.

So, they remained together, holed up in the study. Kreacher brought food at Potter's command which, truthfully, wasn't regularly. However, Draco couldn't be arsed to order Kreacher about himself; he found interacting with the house-elf more and more unappealing.

"Kreacher offers the imperial, the titled, the ever patrician Draco Malfoy three figs," Kreacher said one morning, extending an eggcup toward Draco. Oddly, Snape's voice rose in Draco's memory: Potter, skin Malfoy's shrivelfig. Draco let loose a light snort of laughter at this, surprised he had any humour left in him at all.

"Well done, elf," he said, accepting the figs. He popped one into his mouth, snipping the stem off into his palm with his front teeth.

Kreacher's eyes lit up. "Kreacher has pleased Draco Malfoy!" he said, clearly feeling accomplished. "Kreacher wishes to offer the splendid, the generous, the magnanimous, the wellborn, the pure-blooded, the eminently lofty--"

"Been there," Draco said, through his mouthful of fig. "Get on with it."

"Kreacher wishes to offer the fine Draco Malfoy a book," Kreacher said, wringing his hands, as if suddenly afraid Draco might clock him upside the head. "It is Kreacher's belief this book shall please Draco Malfoy above all others."

"Fine," Draco said, shrugging. "Bring me the book. Have you got anymore figs?"

"Kreacher will do his best to find Draco Malfoy more figs." There was very little food in the house. There was very little food in all of England, in fact, and with no official explanation of the state of things, hoarding had fast become a major problem. "But, Kreacher will bring Draco Malfoy a most important book!" Kreacher scaled the front of one of the towering bookshelves, angling toward the topmost volumes. Draco watched as Kreacher extracted a heavy, gilded volume.

"Right," Draco said once Kreacher handed over the book. He glanced at the cover: Atra Vires. "I'll get to it."

"Kreacher looks forward to the day." The elf sunk back into the shadows. "It is a secret only for Draco Malfoy!"

---

Potter had slept for four days, rising only occasionally to stumble to the bathroom for a piss. It was as if he were drugged, and Draco took full advantage of the opportunity. With Potter basically ignoring him, he lounged freely on the bed, careful to maintain a short distance between them, and filled the time by reading and listening to the wireless.

"God!" he complained, after Potter managed to kick him in the leg whilst returning to the bed. "Watch it!" Harry grunted and turned over onto his belly; one arm slipped to hang over the side of the bed, and he tucked the other up under his pillow. "Don't you have any bloody manners, Po--" Draco noticed Potter's back pocket was lumpy, and he was suddenly filled with an insatiable curiosity. "What've you got?" he asked, under his breath. Potter snored away.

Draco waited a good twenty minutes anyway, just to be sure. Then, stealthily, he rolled over toward Harry and slid his hand deftly into Harry's back pocket until his fingers touched cool metal. Taking utmost care, he pulled the items out.

One was the cheap, brassy locket he'd found in Potter's things before. This time, though, there was a second locket, which was obviously expensive and antiquated. It shone in his palm as he held it up, and he was instantly captivated by the ornate, curving S that adorned its lid. He attempted to open the locket, wondering if there were pictures inside. It wouldn't budge.

He felt mildly jealous then, jealous that Potter had the luxury of thinking into the future, that he had hope of one day again looking into adoring eyes. There would be none of that for himself, Draco believed. In a fit of pique, he rose from the bed, both lockets clutched tightly in his hand, and, like Kreacher had days before, he scaled the towering bookshelf, hand over foot. He pushed both lockets into the crevice left by the book Kreacher had taken for him, sliding them into the space until his fingers touched the wood at the back of the shelf.

Darkly satisfied, he resumed his place on Potter's bed, finally picking up the ancient tome Kreacher had given him. Settling back, he cracked the cover, but quickly realised the pages were so old and brittle he was risking the entire volume turning to dust. He sat up again and laid the book flat on the top of the bed. "Atra Vires," he said, wracking his brain for the Latin translation. "Atra Vires . . . Bloody hell if I remember-- OH!" Understanding blossomed in his mind. "Well, bugger me raw if I haven't hit the mother lode!" He opened the cover again gingerly, taking care with the pages; a growling hiss filled the room, and Draco's stomach clenched with anticipation.

"Whassat?" Potter muttered. His foot twitched.

"Nothing," Draco said softly, wondrous at the potential power within his grasp. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

---

"MALFOY!"

Draco hoisted one lid. "Uhh?"

"My things are gone!"

"Whathings?" Draco could feel wetness against the side of his mouth, where he'd drooled onto his pillow. "Piss off! I'm sleeping."

"You don't understand!" Potter sounded a touch frantic. That's intriguing, Draco thought, continuing to feign sleep. "Look, Malfoy, if you . . . if you just give them back, there'll be no harm done, yeah? And . . . and . . . I'll not kill you this time, all right?"

"You're not killing me, Potter," Draco scoffed, prying himself away from his pillow. He yawned loudly and sat up. "One of the advantages of being invisible, you see! Rather hard to catch an invisi--" He was cut off as Potter blindsided him, forgetting, in his drowsy state, that he was sharing Potter's bed. Reflexively he threw up his hands to protect his face, but nothing came, except the heavy feeling of being sat upon. Draco opened his eyes and peeked through the protective spread of his fingers.

"Just give me the lockets!"

Draco struggled out from under Potter. "Jesus, don't have a-- " He scrambled to his feet and backed away.

"THE LOCKETS!" Potter yelled, his face very red.

"You interrupt my sleep for this? They're just up there!" Draco pointed toward the shelf where he'd secreted the lockets. Realising Potter couldn't see where he was indicating, Draco picked up a bookend made from an Erumpent's horn. "They're just up there!" He shook the bookend, gesturing.

Potter stalked over to the shelves, drawing his wand. "Accio lockets!"

Nothing.

"Accio lockets!" Potter commanded again. "ACCIO lockets!" He whirled on Draco. "Where the bloody hell did you put them?!"

"I already told you!"

"They're not there!"

"Well, I don't know where they went!" Draco said, folding his arms over his chest.

Potter advanced. "I take it back! I will bloody well kill you!"

Draco stepped back. How could Potter see him? He realised he was still holding the bookend. Dropping it, he sprinted around the bed. "Now, there's no need for that!" he said. "I'm sure they'll turn up--"

"I don't have time to wait for them to just turn up!" Potter said. Turning, he flicked his wand with great force. "Accio Horcrux!"

Draco's jaw dropped. "Wha--"

"Accio Horcrux!" Potter repeated, and when again nothing was forthcoming, he suddenly flew into an unmitigated rage. "Malfoy, you unbelievable prat!"

"It's a Horcrux?" This was rather unexpected.

Potter raged. He cleared the table tops and the desk in the room of their contents, hurtling them onto the wood floor where they smashed and rolled crazily, and then he tore at the voluminous, heavy curtains until dust filled the study entirely and the material lay piled on the floor.

"Potter-"

"Shut up, Malfoy!"

"All right, all right! I'll try and help-- Hey!" Draco ducked a marble ashtray.

"YOU'RE ALWAYS THERE!" Potter ranted. "YOU'RE ALWAYS THERE, AND YOU NEVER LEAVE OFF! I DIDN'T WANT YOUR HELP WHEN WE WERE KIDS, AND I DON'T WANT IT NOW!"

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT!" Draco roared back, having had quite enough of Potter's tantrum. He shoved Potter viciously, sending him stumbling backward into the wall. "That's right! This whole thing isn't about what you want -- you're just everyone else's key! You think I don't matter? Look at you -- when you're dead and gone, you'll be nothing but a name on a holiday!"

"Shut up!" Potter said again, clenching his fists.

"Think I care what you think of me?" Draco asked, his voice even. "I can tell you right now at this moment I decidedly don't. What's more, no one has to be just like you or yours to matter!" He turned his back on Potter then, and stalked into the bathroom. "Find your own stupid Horcrux, for all I care," he said over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

Draco sat in the tub for a very long time, finding brief solace in the hot water and clean scents. Something had awakened in him, something new and exciting: He really didn't require Potter's approval. He felt set free and he couldn't explain the sense of it or why it had happened, but there came an awakening in his mind, as if a switch had suddenly been thrown. He would do what he needed to do, but in the face of death he knew he might choose the end of his life rather than to again surrender to another's will. He imagined his mind as a great, towering prison, for which he had unexpectedly found the master key. It was one thing to hold in one's hand a key, Draco mused, but it was entirely another to actually slide the key into a lock and to turn it fiercely.

ClickClickClickClickClick The whirring sound of turning locks filled Draco's mind, reminiscent of the great oak doors at Hogwarts. He slid into the water until only his face breeched the surface of the water, and he lay still, floating in the hot, steaming tub, wondering, now that he had left one conclave of his mind behind, where he might go searching next.

He would go where he could survive. Because really, it was all about him.

---

Potter stood at the mantel, brooding as he stared into the fire. He was wearing warm clothes and his wand and Invisibility Cloak were in his back pocket.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked.

"Out."

"Well, go then."

"If--" Potter stopped. Instead, he drew on his cloak and disappeared. Draco watched warily, ensuring Potter was actually leaving the room. A trail of indented footsteps peppered the woolen rug, making toward the door, which opened, and then shut.

When he was sure that Potter was definitely gone, he climbed onto the bed with his never-ending box of biscuits and Atra Vires in tow. Once settled, he dug in, as his stomach had been rumbling for some time. He cracked open a biscuit. "Watch your relationship with people carefully: Be reserved." He read his fortune, and then popped the cookie into his mouth. A thought occurred to him. "Kreacher!" he called out, crumbs from his mouth falling onto the duvet. "KREACHER!"

Kreacher crawled out from under the bed. "Draco Malfoy is requiring something?"

"Did you nick those necklaces I stashed up in the bookshelf?" Draco asked pointedly. "And do you lurk under this bed all the time? Because that's simply not tolerable."

"Kreacher had never been instructed to not lurk under Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's bed," Kreacher pointed out. "Kreacher has found a lovely space in the boards--"

"It's not Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's bed," Draco protested. "Gross! Anyway, I'm ordering you not to lurk under any this bed or any other piece of furniture in this room -- do you understand? When I'm done with you -- or when Potter's done with you," he added grudgingly, "I order you to return to your usual quarters--"

With a crack Kreacher suddenly disappeared.

"God," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "KREACHER! GET BACK HERE!"

Crack! Kreacher cowered on the foot of the bed. "Kreacher has displeased the glorious, the effulgent, the sublime--"

"I didn't mean you had to go right then," Draco said, cutting the house-elf off. "Stay until I finish giving my order. Now, you're to return to your usual quarters after any task Potter or I've ordered you to complete is done. Understand?"

"Kreacher understands." The house-elf stepped forward timidly. "Kreacher wishes to inquire whether Draco Malfoy is pleased with Kreacher's gift."

"Hmm? Oh," Draco said. He lifted the cover of Atra Vires. "Yeah, it's all right, I guess. I've gotten through Avada Kedavra: Variations; Bogies: Internal Applications; Cruciatus: Undetected Pain -- good one, that chapter." Draco rifled an inch or so of the pages, and then continued. "Deletrius: Committing the Perfect Murder; Entrail-Expelling Curses: Refresher or Olde Crappe, and Fidelius: Seek and Destroy. I'm on Gubraithian Fire: Endless Torture by Fire." He looked up at Kreacher. "Bit of a dry read, but it's all right. Say, bring me something to drink, would you?"

"Kreacher is pleased Draco Malfoy is reading Kreacher's gift." The elf smiled crookedly. "Kreacher will fetch something for Draco Malfoy to drink." Once again, he was gone.

Draco split open another biscuit: Get your mind set -- confidence will lead you on. He picked up where he'd left off in Gubraithian Fire: Endless Torture by Fire, reading until Kreacher returned.

"Kreacher has brought Draco Malfoy Firewhiskey!"

Draco snorted. "I don't bloody want Firewhiskey, you dumb sod." He motioned toward the desk. "Just put it there. Bring something else."

Crack! Kreacher returned immediately. "Butterbeer?"

"No," Draco said, on the last page of the chapter.

Crack! "Kreacher has brought Mulled Toad Mead."

"No," Draco snapped, irritated. "Just bring me some water, elf!"

Crack! "Kreacher has brought water!"

"Yeah . . . " Draco no longer cared what Kreacher brought, for he had finished the chapter on Gubraithian Fire, flipping past the gory illustrations there, and his breath had caught in his throat when the next title loomed. Horcruxes, he read, a strange surge of anticipation fluttering within him. The Spell That Must Not Be Named. Draco looked up at Kreacher. "Is this what you wanted me to find?"

"Kreacher hears," the house-elf muttered, holding Draco's gaze with his mad, loathsome eyes. "Kreacher has served this house for generations, and Kreacher hears. Kreacher has heard the talk of Horcruxes amongst the Order, and Kreacher knows of Horcruxes, although the magic of the house-elf is different! The half-breed werewolf did not tell Draco Malfoy all there is to know of Horcruxes. Now, Draco Malfoy shall know! Draco Malfoy will protect the Dark Lord!"

"Why haven't you protected him yourself, if you've known how to all this time?" Draco asked, his mind wrapping itself around Kreacher's suggestion.

"The Dark Lord's Horcruxes were created with the Dark Lord's magic -- with human magic," Kreacher said excitedly. "Kreacher's magic cannot affect the Dark Lord's dark magic. But Draco Malfoy's magic can!"

"I'm not magic anymore," Draco said automatically, doing a mental calculation. It had been almost nine months since he'd cast any kind of spell.

"Draco Malfoy will again use his magic for the Dark Lord," Kreacher said, nodding, "for Draco Malfoy is a loyal servant to the Dark Lord."

Draco peered at Kreacher queerly. "I see," he said slowly. Kreacher needed to remain an ally. "Excellent points, all."

"Kreacher cannot serve the Dark Lord, for Kreacher is unworthy, but Kreacher can help with the Dark Lord's cause through other means."

"Right." Draco picked up Atra Vires. "Go away, then! Go back to your quarters and let me have a crack at it. Wait!" he commanded, before Kreacher could leave. "The lockets. Bring them back. If they're not back by the morning, I'll punish you."

"Kreacher shall return the lockets. Mistress's lockets, they are -- Kreacher remembers how the thieving, the filthy half-blood Fletcher stole Mistress's lockets and treasures! A shame, an unforgivable shame!" Kreacher bowed. "Kreacher shall sleep well at last. Goodnight, Draco Malfoy!"

Crack!

Draco bit into another biscuit, eating perfunctorily now as he prepared for an extended lie-in, and shortly he found his fortune caught up in his teeth. Reaching in, he managed to extract it intact: Ignorance never settles a question.

"Well then," Draco said, talking aloud to himself, "I should keep reading."

---

So, read Draco did, with the WWN droning on in background, until he had a hard time seeing straight. When he finally looked up, he noticed the fire had died down to glowing embers. He stretched his stiff limbs. The ache in his neck and shoulders reminded him briefly of times spent revising at Hogwarts late at night, and for a moment he allowed himself to bask in his memories of Slytherin and its dungeons.

Draco slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom, the wealth of information he'd read whirling in his head. He turned on the taps and ran a finger absentmindedly back and forth through the flow as he waited for the water to reach a pleasant temperature. The Horcrux, the Spell That Must Not Be Named, shall provide a human with infinite protection against mortality, by secreting a portion of the human soul within an object for safekeeping. The partitioned soul shall remain sentient and alive until it is reclaimed by its owner to stave off the final throes of death. Once spellbound, the Horcrux must be guarded by the most extreme protective hexes and jinxes, for the weakness of the Horcrux lies within the ability of another mortal human to destroy another's Horcruxes . . .

The water to his liking, Draco splashed about in the sink and lathered up his face, doing his best not to breathe in the soapy bubbles.

The binding and encasement of a Horcrux shall be divided into three categories: Object; Being; Accidental. Creation of a Horcrux is most heartily recommended in conjunction with an inanimate object. The inanimate object is most easily hidden for safekeeping. The inanimate object is not savvy or aware. The inanimate object remains under the control of the Horcrux's creator. It is recommended small, irrelevant items be used to create a Horcrux, items that would go overlooked and underappreciated by questioning eyes . . .

He stood, flipping his fringe away from his eyes. A spattered trail of water bisected his reflection in the mirror, distorting his image as he towel-dried his face.

It is possible to secrete a Horcrux within a living animal or being. While this may be an option in dire straits, the use of a living object for purposes of a Horcrux is strongly discouraged. The casting witch or wizard runs risk of the living Horcrux asserting its own agenda, especially if the being in question did not grant its express permission to be utilised as a Horcrux. As well, a living creature shall never value the caster's life in the same way the caster him or herself would, and this is a weakness to be exploited. A person cannot be his or her own Horcrux.

Draco squeezed a fat blob of toothpaste onto his brush and set to cleaning his teeth.

The accidental Horcrux comes twofold: The accidental object, or the accidental sentient being. The accidental sentient Horcrux is the most dangerous prospect of all. The accidental Horcrux is created when the casting of the Horcrux binding spell is interrupted or otherwise goes awry. The accidental Horcrux is unstable, yet sentient. The caster of the Horcrux binding spell shall never be assured of the accidental Horcrux's loyalties or intentions. As well, just as the accidental Horcrux is indentured to the caster's partitioned soul, the magic taints and an unintentional, digressive symbiosis occurs: The caster of the Horcrux binding spell in turn becomes vulnerable to the plights and perils of the Horcrux itself. Neither the caster nor the Horcrux shall live in peace as long as the other remains in existence . . .

Draco spat into the sink and swished the water. He pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it to the floor, and then undid his jeans and kicked them off. After visiting the toilet he returned to the study.

Two lockets lay upon the desk, one gleaming, the other dull and non-descript.

Draco picked up the Horcrux and held it in his hand, considering it silently. Here, he thought, is the Dark Lord. He closed his fingers around the locket and tightened his grip, but he felt nothing. No power, no sense of awe -- nothing. He could destroy the Horcrux, he realised with a start. Or, he could deliver it to the Dark Lord and beg his mercy.

He sat down on the bed and laid the Horcrux upon the top of Atra Vires, quite unsure of how to proceed. He felt burdened, as if in possession of something that not only didn't belong to him, but also a thing he had no desire to own under any circumstance. Frustrated, he reached for his box of biscuits, eating because there was nothing else to do, and he ignored the fact that he had just washed his teeth. He felt the familiar slip of paper against his tongue. Pulling it free, he read: A wise man needs not another's story.

He looked at the Horcrux; it seemed to wink at him under the low glow of the gaslight, and he knew then that the Horcrux was not his story to unveil. Maybe he would matter someday, Draco thought, but it wouldn't be for this. He couldn't help Potter -- he just couldn't bring himself to do that -- but nor could he hinder the possibility of his own survival. The chips would fall where they would, having nothing to do with him.

Draco swallowed his mouthful of biscuit and rose from the bed with new resolve. He placed Atra Vires on the desk with a satisfying thump, and lay both lockets across its top. And then he went in search of something sweet to drink.

---

The stairs popped and creaked under Draco's feet as he descended toward the foyer area, his skin glowing a pale green under the waning gaslights. He stopped halfway down and raised his eyes to the grotty, mummified house-elf heads adorning the wall there, and without understanding why, he turned and climbed back up the stairs.

The drawing room was easy to find, despite the elaborate Confundus charms laid upon the house; Draco didn't take time to analyse this. He grasped the double handles and shivered as a chill crawled up his spine, and he prepared himself for the inevitable gore that lay inside. However, when he turned open the doors, there was nothing out of the ordinary -- no smell, no blood, no clean-up to be had. The room looked the same as when he'd last been there, and it was still cold enough for him to see his breath in the air. The deadly grandfather clock tocked in the dark, and Draco could hear the muffled, sinister clinking of its ancient chains.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, for there was no light to be had there, and quickly observed that Lupin remained where he had left him, and he appeared to be undisturbed. For some reason, this relieved him. He stepped into the room and reached for the nearest light; he touched it and it sputtered to life, the other lights in the room coming on in succession. Draco walked toward Lupin; his eyes caught sight of the mouldering family tapestry on the wall. He barely had time to register that his embroidery was further undone.

Draco Ma

The lights flickered, and then went out, plunging the house into darkness.

"God," Draco muttered, blinking. He shuffled along, estimating his position from Lupin's body, and inched his way toward where he thought Lupin lay. The hair on the back of neck rose suddenly, and he ducked, just as the clock shot a bolt, which hit the wall with a heavy thunk. Draco was sure it must have taken out not only the rotting wallpaper there, but also a good chunk of plaster as well. "Missed me that time, didn't you, you useless piece of rubbish?! I won't be dying today." He knelt at Lupin's side, the canvas tarpaulin he'd wrapped the body in rubbing roughly against his knee.

It was freezing cold in the room; Draco's skin was prickled with goose pimples. He didn't know why he was here, or why he had felt compelled to come into this room at all, and he certainly didn't find any words for Lupin as he sat there dumbly in his boxers and socks.

Crack!

Draco whipped his head around. "Bloody hell, you stupid, spying--"

"It has started!" Kreacher said, apparently excited.

"What?"

"Kreacher has come to fetch Draco Malfoy to come listen to the wireless!" he babbled. "IT HAS STARTED!"

Draco turned away from Lupin. "What are you talking about? What's star-- AHH!" He doubled over as his body exploded with searing pain. "Oh, fuck!" He tried to stand, but instead lurched forward and sprawled onto the dank carpet. His insides convulsed with pain, as if the Dark Lord had reached right inside him and taken up a handful of Draco's guts and had twisted them viciously. He retched onto the floor, readily vacating soggy bits of biscuit onto the rug, and as he steadied himself he saw the Dark Mark on the inside of his arm was glowing red. It burned so ruthlessly that his skin was bubbling and blistering, and thin streams of smoke rose from the mark, its snake writhing through the soulless cavern of the skull there.

He cried with agony, clutching at his arm, and he wanted to fold in onto himself, to roll up into a ball and find a place in his mind where he could escape the torture. However, the Dark Mark burned like a firebrand, and he smelt burning skin as the mark touched his bicep.

"Help me!" he gurgled, and his stomach heaved again, so fiercely that he thought surely his guts would explode from his mouth at any second, and ruin the rug in a sickening splatter of ropey intestines.

"The Dark Lord calls Draco Malfoy!" Kreacher said, prying Draco's right hand away from his left wrist. Straining, the elf managed to drag Draco from the drawing room, another bolt from the malfeasant clock narrowly missing Draco as Kreacher inched toward the doors.

It took hours, it seemed, for the house-elf to drag Draco all the way back to the study, and when they reached the relative safety of the familiar room, Draco insisted Kreacher deposit him in the bathroom -- an order which, naturally, Kreacher obeyed.

Kreacher left Draco to thrash about on the cold tile floor, and he scurried back to the drawing room. "Kreacher welcomes the Dark Lord -- Mistress will be pleased by the turn of events . . . " Kreacher mumbled to himself as he hastily ensured everything was in its proper place. "Mistress will be pleased the Dark Lord is returning, and once back in power the Dark Lord shall purge the world of the Mudbloods and the half-bloods--" The house-elf closed the doors to the room and, still muttering to himself, Disapparated.

The drawing room remained silent and still, less the omnipresent whirling and clanging of the grandfather clock. Across the way, the Toujours Pur tapestry fluttered, and a particular length of golden thread twitched as if being pulled by imaginary fingers, and the tail hanging from Draco's name inched further downward toward the baseboards.

Dra

---

Draco had no idea how much time had passed when he was jolted from unconsciousness by a very loud crash. He felt like he'd been severely beaten, and he had a hard time cracking open his eyes. He felt bloated, and when he tried to move every muscle and ligament in his body protested painfully. "Utt--"

He had sought refuge in the tub, for although the vomiting eventually abated, his guts kept churning. He feared every one of his orifices might suddenly fail, and the tub seemed the only effective place to manage a shit, brain, and blood blowout. Ultimately, that particular fear had been for naught, and now Draco simply lay cold and battered, the bottom of the tub chilling his skin.

"Potter?" he rasped, needing two tries to get the word out.

Draco heard a muffled groan followed by a slapping sound -- like a hand smacking porcelain -- and then a smaller crash.

It took Draco almost five minutes to push up from the bath and work a strong enough grip around the lip of the tub so he could peer over its side.

"Bugger," he said.

Potter lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and Draco could tell he had been through a fight -- a fight far more brutal than his own. Potter's hair was matted against his head, stiffening with dried blood. He was covered in mud and black streaks of ash, and his hands were burnt all over, the skin split and oozing. Potter's clothes were in tatters. He moaned at the sound of Draco's voice and rolled slowly onto his back, and as he did Draco saw Potter's right forearm was swollen to twice its normal size and it was covered in dried blood and what appeared to be some kind of necrotising scales. It looked as if someone had caught Potter up by the arm and staked him clean through; two enormous puncture wounds were readily apparent between Potter's wrist and elbow.

Frankly, Draco's immediate instinct was to lay back down and allow himself to drift back into unconsciousness. He had no energy and no will to do anything. A thin, crimson trail of blood slid slowly down the wall of the tub, and Draco looked at his own arm. His Dark Mark was charred and angry, and he knew -- if he lived long enough -- he would bear scarring. It was with a surprising sense of calm that Draco realised, right then, that as long as the Dark Lord lived he could never hide well enough, and he wondered if Voldemort had waited for last night's moment all these long months, knowing the entire time that Draco was somewhere alive. The Dark Lord's serpentine voice rose unbidden his memory: And then I shall know your loyalty . . . Potter made a gurgling sound then, and a sheer, red spume of blood rose silently from his lips and burst over his mouth and nose. A different voice sounded then: Draco, you are not a killer.

"All right . . . " Draco cried out as he heaved himself up, a new wave of nausea roiling through him. "All right," he said, gasping for breath, "but, only this one time . . ."

Shakily, he found his way out from the tub and stumbled from the bathroom. He felt as if a thousand hippogriffs were stampeding through his head and his left arm hung practically useless at his side. His vision swam, and he was forced to hold onto the bedpost until his sight steadied. He lurched across the room and dug into his stash of personal items. He rummaged through his deck of cards, his ball, his long-forgotten school robes, until his fingers brushed a familiar, smooth length of hawthorn. His heart raced at what he was about to do, the prospect filling him with dread.

There was really no other choice.

Draco brought his wand up and held it against his chin, as if readying for a duel, and he whispered to it as intently as he could manage, keeping the wand pressed to his lips. However, he found himself stuck when it came to casting the spell. Draco wracked his brain, searching for the perfect memory, yet he found himself totally unmoved. He stood there for a moment, and then the simple image of the clear, blue sky rose in his mind and stayed. Something turned over inside of him at this, and so he flicked his wand.

"Expecto . . . Patronum!"

Draco winced, but managed to keep his eyes open long enough to see a shimmering mist materialise from the end of his wand. It hung there for a second, and then formed beautifully into a corporeal form, and the corner of Draco's mouth twitched, although he was too spent to properly appreciate the moment.

He sank onto the faded salmon-coloured chair in front of the fireplace, losing his wand into the cushions as his mind fell into a twilight state of sorts.

Draco's Patronus leapt into the wall with a shimmer, breaking through to the outside of No Twelve Grimmauld Place, and it charged boldly into the dark.

Down the hall, in the drawing room, a golden length of thread fell from the Toujours Pur tapestry to the floor, Dumbledore's final layer of protection irrevocably undone.

---

The Order descended upon the house.

In hindsight, Draco would conjure fleeting images and words, but he would never fully remember the events immediately surrounding his breaking of the Fidelius -- not only his own, but Potter's Fidelius Charm as well. Potter could quickly be hidden again within the confines of the powerful charm; however, Draco knew there was no one else who would keep any of his secrets at this juncture, and he believed himself ultimately expendable in the Order's eyes.

They'd arrived in droves, and he'd felt their hands on him, and he'd been unable to resist or to help himself.

"--go to Azkaban with his father--"

"--how he ever managed to find this place--"

"Nobody's going to Azkaban tonight." Draco recognised Mad-Eye Moody's voice as he felt himself being lifted. He cried out, his bruised body protesting. "But, we'll move him to another room--"

"NO!" Draco screamed, terrified, because if there was a single sliver of comfort in his lonely existence, it was the learned familiarity of this room. "NO!"

"All right, all right," Moody said, doffing his hat and scratching his head as he thought. "Dung, Kingsley, put the boy in the bed. It'll be easier on Mr. Baker that way, I suppose." He directed Draco's transfer. "Bill, grab up his feet, would you? That's right . . . there's a lad."

His head sunk into the feather pillow there, and it was as if the angels had sung. Draco was filled with such relief, he knew, should he ever have reason to again cast the Patronus charm, this very moment would be his new happy thought. He felt something wet fill his ear, but he was too ill to worry about embarrassing tears.

"Oh!" Draco recognised Granger's swotty voice. "Ron, come and look at this! Atra Vires . . . why, this is a highly rare and quite a forbidden book--"

A man Draco didn't know spoke. "Give him the potion. He'll not feel a thing." Draco felt his lips being pried apart, and then he tasted grapes.

Draco heard the sound of the door banging open. "ALASTOR!" an unfamiliar voice shouted, obviously alarmed. "I think there's a body! It's just there, down the hall!"

The black swallowed him whole.

---

Draco awoke on his stomach.

It was obviously night, as the room was very dark and still. He could hear the fire crackling, and he became aware of voices talking softly in the background. He gleaned from the conversation that England was under a final, dark reign of terror from Voldemort, whose wrath had interfered with every aspect of day-to-day living for the Muggles. Food and oil remained scarce, and rolling power blackouts continued, especially in London. The Muggle tube continually jumped its tracks, without rhyme or reason; traffic lights malfunctioned, auto accidents abounded; crime soared, as the Muggles felt the oppressive darkness settling around them, but remained ignorant of its cause.

"Charlie's found a reliable source for the Naga antivenin now," Draco heard Kingsley Shacklebolt note. "Harry's doing marvelously, considering. When he finishes the full course of antivenin, he can hope for a solid recovery."

"Well, I remember when I was struck down," Arthur Weasley said. "Naga venom -- rather awful stuff, that. Sometimes I still feel like it's in me."

"Alastor says there's only one Horcrux left, according to Harry."

"Any idea yet as to what it could be?"

"Not that he's said . . . "

Draco opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision. Harry Potter was gazing dully at him.

"You're still here," Potter said, also laying on his belly. His fingers rested inches from Draco's.

Draco grimaced. "So are you."

"One week."

"What?"

"One week," Potter said, and he sounded resolved. "and this all ends."

Draco really didn't care.

---

Harry completed his antivenin treatment the next day. Draco, as well, had grown stronger under the superiour care of the Ministry medical team. The injury he had sustained by failing to heed the Dark Lord's summons was still extremely painful. He spent quite a lot of time trying to deal with his fear that Voldemort would demand his presence again -- he couldn't survive another round of pain like that. It was surely worse than anything Cruciatus could bring.

The first time he saw himself in the mirror after being bedridden he'd been shocked. His face was thinner than ever and dark shadows smudged the hollows of his eyes. The Order provided him and Potter with excellent food, though, and Draco didn't give two shits as to who might have to go hungry in order for him to stuff his gob.

Draco noticed that Potter, Granger and Weasley spent the majority of their time separate from the rest of the Order members. They met right there in the study, and Granger pored over Atra Vires and barked information at Weasley, who did his best to take notes at a non-retarded clip. Only Granger attempted to initiate conversation with Draco, but he had shut her down immediately with his snotty, elitist barbs, and since then the trio ignored Draco completely.

That was fine with him.

He was playing with his ball, bouncing it as usual against the fireplace, when Granger, apparently, had an epiphany.

"Harry!" Granger gushed. "Look at this!" Draco glanced sideways, still keeping the ball under control as he watched. Granger was pointing to something excitedly in Atra Vires. "Read this! I'm quite sure it . . . " She paused, flicking her eyes up at Draco. He didn't look away. "I think," she continued primly, "it might provide an option for defeating He-Who-- Voldemort."

"Shh!" Weasley hushed Granger, glowering at Draco from across the room. "Don't want Vol--Volde-- you don't want him to be tipped off!"

"Get over yourself, Weaselby," Draco scoffed. "I'm not going anywhere. If the Dark Lord's aiming to obliterate the entire population so he can rule over this miserable, ruint pile of rock we live on, I'll stay right here and wait for it like the rest of you sorry lot, thanks." He bounced his ball extra hard. "Either Potter wins, or the Dark Lord does, and if the Dark Lord does, he'll be coming for me soon enough. So, it's just best to see how it all susses out."

"Malfoy, you're the biggest bloody coward ever," Weasley said in a disgusted tone. "Hiding out here, letting the Order take the brunt of it. If you know something, you should tell Harry so's he can get a leg up in this fight!" Weasley's eyes narrowed. "'Sides, wouldn't it save your sorry arse? Isn't that what you ruddy Slytherins are all about?"

"I don't need that git's help," Potter said, not even bothering to look over. Draco found this slightly insulting -- surely he was worth at least a surreptitious glance, if not a full-blown glare! "He doesn't matter."

"Hey!" Draco objected, rising. "I matter!"

"Yeah, you matter, Malfoy," Weasley said, rolling his eyes. "Except not."

"I know things about the Dark Lord that you'll never know, you ginger git!" Draco's temper was rising now.

"Yeah, like the smell of Voldie's mouldy areshole up close and personal--"

"Ron!" Granger exclaimed, swatting him on the hand. "Don't be vile! Don't even engage--"

"Suck it, Weasley!" Draco beaned his ball at Weasley's head and popped him square in the eye. "Ha!"

Weasley drew his wand. "You slimy, good-for-nothing ferret turd!" He took aim, but Draco held up his hands.

"Protocol, Weasley," he drawled in an oily tone. "I'm unarmed. You wouldn't go up against someone unarmed, would you?"

"You would, you scummy, piece-of--"

"But you're not me," Draco said. "You could be, though, if you go ahead and hex me while I'm unarmed. Imagine it'd be a step up for you."

"That's it!" Weasley's face grew red. He lifted his wand dangerously. "I'm going--"

"Shut up, both of you," Potter ordered. "Ron, forget him. Hermione's really onto something here. Come look at this."

Draco went back to thumping his ball against the fireplace and to ignoring the trio.

He felt unsettled. He'd been unable to sleep the night before, for his mind had been racing -- he couldn't turn his thoughts off. He'd wrestled long into the night with the prospect of either remaining here, or returning to the Dark Lord on the remote chance Voldemort might forgive him and bring him back into his flock. It wasn't that he particularly cared for Voldemort's agenda at this point, and he had concluded that he would be asked to do unspeakable things if he went back to the Death Eaters. Draco didn't know exactly what he had in him, but he did know what he didn't have. So, he had decided he would wait out the week in Potter's house, and if he were still alive once it was all over, he'd think more on it then, and it was only once he'd reached this resolution that he'd finally managed to fall asleep.

He caught the ball and held it long enough to reach over and turn on the wireless. Even still, the trio's voices nattered annoyingly at him.

"You wouldn't use a time-turner," Draco overheard Granger saying to Weasley. "A time-turner can only take you back in time--"

"So why are you even bringing it up?" Weasley asked. "If a time-turner's no use, then what's the point of going on about it?"

"It's this section here," Potter said, taking the book from Hermione. He pointed at the page. "Read this bit here -- it's under the chapter about insanity spells and curses." He waited for Weasley to begin reading. "I've got an idea that might--" Potter cut off abruptly. "I don't think we should suss it out here," he said, and Draco figured he was alluding to his presence. "But--" Potter leaned down and whispered into Weasley's ear for almost a minute.

"Blimey, Harry," Weasley said, whistling under his breath. "But how would you manage it?"

"Well, see, if you read here," Granger said, reclaiming the book and pointing to the page. She began reciting in a tone so low, Draco was unable to catch all the details. "--most powerful form of insanity spells or magic is the implementation of psychological torture involving inevitability. Victims of such magic are driven mad by the knowledge of things yet to come, which includes, but is not limited to the following: manner of death; date of death; a loved one's infidelity; death of one's offspring; personal failure--"

"I still don't know how you'd pull it off. Like Hermione said, a time-turner doesn't work like that."

"Yes, but if you read forward," Granger said briskly, and Draco heard her flipping through the pages again. "Here! Read this, Ron."

It was quiet again for a minute, and then Weasley said, "Ohh!"

"I think it really could work!" Granger said, turning back to Potter. "Let's go down to the kitchen. I don't feel comfortable discussing this further with--" She gestured toward Draco with her head, saying no more.

Draco clucked, rolling his eyes. "I really don't give a shit what you're planning. Just saying."

"Right," Potter said sarcastically. He turned to Weasley and Granger. "Let's go. We haven't much time."

---

The trio remained elsewhere for the rest of the day, and Draco stayed in the study listening to the wireless -- the news being very bleak indeed -- and alternately playing Muggle solitaire and bouncing his ball. He knew the end of his days were near, but he couldn't manage any feelings one way or another about the prospect. Maybe, he thought, it means I really am already dead. That couldn't be, though, he knew logically. One couldn't dream after death, could they?

Draco was reading when Potter returned to the room. He watched from the corner of one eye as Potter rummaged in his trunk. "Going to a party, Potter?" he asked snidely, when Potter took out Godric Gryffindor's sword. "Won't you have ever so much fun! What's the theme -- swashbuckling?"

Potter ignored this. "How'd you managed to tip off your cronies?" he asked instead.

"What?" Draco laid his book down, giving a disbelieving laugh.

"The night the Death Eaters came here. How'd you manage to contact them without breaking your Fidelius protection?"

Draco pulled an indignant face. "What rot," he sneered. "I didn't contact anyone! In case you hadn't noticed--" he couldn't bring himself to say out loud that he was hiding "--I've been keeping a low profile."

Potter stared at him flatly. "How else could those Death Eaters have known where to look for me? How else could they have known?"

"I don't know! I don't concern myself over your business, Potter, believe it or not."

"Yeah, you do!" Potter objected. He laid his sword on the desk and looked around. Returning to his trunk, he extracted a t-shirt. "You've mucked about in my business since our first year."

"Really?" Draco said, feeling angry at Potter's assertion. "If I recall correctly, it was you mucking about in my business all last year! Crabbe and Goyle told me how you and Granger and Weasley were always snooping around, trying to find me. Not like any of that was your business!"

"You were trying to kill Dumbledore!" Potter said indignantly. "Bloody right it was my business!"

"Yeah, well, you didn't know that when you were invading my privacy! So that makes you a sneak and a snoop!" Draco emphasised this. "I don't know who tipped off those Death Eaters," he said, actually meeting Potter's gaze and holding it. "It wasn't me. I'm just trying--"

"Trying what?" Potter asked, when Draco trailed off.

But Draco wasn't about to engage in a heart-to-heart with Potter. "Blow me, Potter," he said, picking up his book again. "You'll have to pin your conspiracy on someone else."

"Blow yourself," Potter barked. He attacked the blade of the sword with his t-shirt, polishing angrily. "I know it was you, because Dumbledore was the Secret Keeper for Grimmauld and the Order. Seeing as you're the only Death Eater being put up here, it had to be you who told!"

Draco was becoming angry. "I didn't even know what this place was until after Greyback and Auntie--" Why was he even remotely compelled to explain? "This is rubbish, Potter. I won't explain myself to you!"

"You owe it to Dumbledore!"

Draco slammed his book shut. "Bollocks!" he objected. He rose to his feet. "I don't owe anyone . . . " But he stopped, a different kind of anger rising, for he knew this really wasn't entirely true. It was something he'd been attempting to avoid for months, although he'd given it some peripheral consideration here and there -- perhaps he did owe Dumbledore . . . something. He came up to where Potter sat worked on his sword and leaned forward, clutching the edge of the desk.

There was no way -- not in a million years -- Draco would ever apologise to Harry Potter. For anything. The water was long under the bridge. But he thought of what he had said when Potter had accused him of being worthless and a good-for-nothing: Your precious Dumbledore didn't think so! And while Draco wasn't sure what he would ultimately do with this rather inconvenient weight on his conscience, he couldn't escape his conclusion that perhaps he owe Dumbledore a small nod. "Potter," Draco said, dropping his usual snide affectation and speaking quite plainly, "I didn't. I did not tell anyone about this place." A comment without condescension was as much as he was willing to give.

Potter looked at him, his hand stilling on Gryffindor's sword, and Draco held his gaze.

Neither looked away and Draco wasn't about to give. Finally, Potter resumed working. He didn't drop his gaze in a way that made Draco think Potter was giving in, but rather in a way that purveyed a tacit acceptance of Draco's denial. Although, just as Draco would never apologise to Potter, he guessed in a similar show of stubbornness Potter would never admit to believing anything he said. "No one else knew," Potter said, after a moment. "At least no one who'd tell."

"Well?" Draco demanded, pulling up a chair. He watched as Potter cleaned his sword's blade. "Who else knew?"

"Ron," Potter said. "Hermione. Other Order members. I know it wasn't them."

"How's that?"

"Because." Potter sounded exasperated. "I know."

"Maybe you don't know."

"I do know," Potter said firmly, glancing up at Draco. "Our Order isn't like it is with Voldemort, Malfoy. Everyone who knows about Grimmauld is loyal."

"As if you know what it's like with Voldemort," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Well, obviously someone who wasn't supposed to know found out."

"But how?" Potter asked, more to himself. He flipped the sword, grabbing the top of the blade through a thick handful of shirt. He began working at its hilt. "No one else knew. There's Kreacher, but--" Potter stopped abruptly. Shocked, his face grew ashen. "Oh, bugger hell."

"Figured it out, have you?" Draco asked triumphantly, feeling vindicated. "So, it was Kreacher, eh?"

"No, not Kreacher. Not exactly." Potter laid the sword on the desk and leaned over it, resting his arms on the top, still clutching his dirty t-shirt. "Last year--"

"Well?" Draco prompted Potter when he seemed to become lost in thought.

"My aunt and uncle--"

"You have living relatives?" Draco asked.

Potter sighed. "Not anymore, I'd wager," he said, letting the implication linger.

"Oh . . . right."

"Dumbledore came for me the summer before last," Potter said. "He brought Kreacher to me. He came to tell me that I'd inherited this place from--" Potter glanced at Draco then, still untrusting. "Anyway, he mentioned Grimmauld in front of my aunt and uncle. He let slip that it was the Order's headquarters." He looked down at the shiny sword in front of him, and his next words were so low that Draco had to strain to catch them. "I wager he didn't mean to."

Draco leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, no one's perfect," he said smugly.

---

"Why wouldn't you shake my hand?" Draco asked Potter the next night. It was well past midnight and he was pretending to read.

"What?"

"First year. On the train. Why wouldn't you shake my hand?" Draco glanced sideways at Potter, who was making notes in the leather-bound journal he had.

Potter didn't even look up. "Because you're a huge prat," he said, as if it were obvious. He continued to write.

"Huh." Draco had never considered this possibility. He shook his head. "You're strange, Potter."

Potter looked up then, staring at Draco as if he'd sprouted a new head. "Right. I'm the mental one."

Draco shrugged. "You said it."

---

With four days to go, Draco was lying on the bed relaxing and listening to the WWN. Granger and Weasley had just left and Potter was reading Atra Vires and making even more notes.

"Why'd you go along with Umbridge?" Potter asked. Draco could still hear the scratch of Potter's quill as he spoke.

"Why shouldn't I have?"

"You're probably the only git idiot who'd ever need that explained."

"Umbridge was an opportunity. That's all."

"An opportunity for what?"

"For power. Information." Draco looked at Potter, wondering how he could be so blind. "Dumbledore didn't look after us, after all." This was what made Dumbledore's mercy so inexplicable to Draco, really. Why hadn't Dumbledore extended it when it might have actually mattered?

"Some power." Potter snorted dismissively.

"Whatever, Potter."

"And still on the losing side."

"Everyone loses. Just one side does it faster than the other. Don't think you're so bloody special," Draco said darkly.

"I will beat your Dark Lord," Potter said, uncharacteristically frank.

Draco looked at him then, his eyes flat. "Do it, then."

---

Three days before the end, Draco hid out in the bathroom and sat in the empty tub, fully clothed, while Potter had his formal goodbyes with Granger and Weasley. Even after he'd heard the door to the study shutting, he didn't feel like coming out. He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd never had a chance to say goodbye to his friends, and how he believed in his heart that the entire world would end in two days time. Unlike Potter, he was not feeling optimistic in the slightest.

When he finally exited the bathroom, he found Potter sitting in the salmon-coloured chair staring blankly into the fire.

"It's a go, then?" Draco asked.

Potter did not answer.

---

The next night, Draco sat on the desk and watched as Potter sorted through his trunk, making piles of this and that. He seemed to be organising his belongings. Potter had been gone all day and had arrived back at the study just shy of one o'clock in the morning.

"Where were you?" Draco enquired. "I'm rather interested in what the Chosen One opted to do for his last hurrah."

"Leave off," Potter said, his mouth twisting into a frown. He was quiet for several moments, and Draco was surprised when Potter spoke again. "Today was Lupin's funeral."

"Oh." Draco was horribly unsettled by this -- it was an unexpected fist to the gut. His eyes lit on the bottle of Firewhiskey Kreacher had left weeks before. Impulsively, he grabbed it up and unstoppered the bottle. He tipped it back and washed a mouthful of liquor down; it burned his throat and caused him to sputter. He'd not had Firewhiskey before; he'd had only Butterbeer, and a few times a bit of the cold Russian vodka that Nott's father favoured mixed with some kind of fizzy beverage. He hacked into the crook of his elbow, his eyes watering fiercely. "Why wasn't I invited?"

Potter looked at him coldly. "Why would you be invited?"

"Because, Lupin--" Draco glared at Potter, hating him for making him explain. It wasn't any of Potter's business! "Why wouldn't I have been invited? Lupin looked after me!"

"That was a job, Malfoy," Potter said, taking on a superiour tone. "You were just a job."

A huge wave of anger rose within Draco. "No, I wasn't!" he hissed, his fingers tightening around the neck of the Firewhiskey bottle. He was suddenly so close to losing control of himself that he hoped the bottle might break and provide a diversion. He swiped at his eyes, glad to hide behind the strength of the liquor. "You don't know. You weren't there."

"What? That bother you? To know you're were only a task to complete?"

"And what're you, then?" Draco shouted, rising to his feet. He pointed at Potter, bottle in hand. The Firewhiskey sloshed over his hand. "If anyone's a bloody task in this room, it's you."

Potter looked up at him then, in a way that forced Draco to take pause. Potter looked like he'd totally checked out.

"God, Potter," Draco said, suddenly feeling very drained. He sighed and took another swig of Firewhiskey, and then thrust the bottle toward the other boy. "Here."

It seemed, teetering there on the edge of oblivion, most things had been rendered moot.

---

The clock on the mantel tocked along like a metronome, and the fire cast long, dancing shadows up the walls. The WWN blathered away, but it went ignored as Draco and Potter sat, pissed out of their bloody gourds, in front of the hearth.

"Admit it," Potter slurred, swaying slightly in his chair. "Your father bought your way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team second year." The Firewhiskey bottle, half empty, lay abandoned on the floor between them.

Draco smirked. "Are you daft?" he asked, blissfully intoxicated. "'Course he did, you moron! That's how things get done."

"That's not the way I did it!"

"There y'go again, glorifying your methods above all others." Draco poo-pooed Potter with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Anyway, you cheated in Potions last year. Everyone knows it."

"I--" Potter struggled to turn in his chair and look at Draco. He jabbed his finger into the air, like a politician might right before making a strenuous point. "I--"

"Cheated like the scumbag that you are!" Draco said, laughing. "Potter, you suck at Potions -- you're almost as bad as bloody Longbottom!"

Potter seemed to be searching diligently for a reply. His finger was still up in the air. "Cheating," he said slowly, as if having to concentrate on forming every syllable, "is a very strong term . . . "

"You cheated -- admit it!" Draco harped.

"Not on purpose, exactly," Potter said, listing slightly. "Blimey, I don't think I can move."

"Oh, you'll be fine. You'll sleep it off. So, 'njoy it." Draco sobered then and gazed into the fire. "How was snoggin' Cho Chang?"

"'Scuse me?" Potter stared at Draco as if he were mental.

"Cho Chang!" Draco said impatiently. "She was rather fit. How was she?"

"Uh--"

"Har, Potter! Don't be shy!" Draco leaned over the arm of his chair toward Potter. "Tell you what -- give me the goods on Cho Chang, and I'll give you the goods on Pansy."

"Pansy?" Potter grimaced. "Parkinson? Think Imumbesick . . . "

"Pansy's amazing," Draco said protectively. A dangerous impulse reared; if he hadn't been completely rat-arsed, he might have been successful in not blurting it out. "Maybe you'd rather hear about Justin Finch-Fletchley?"

Potter's eyes, which had become heavy, flew open. "Wha--?" He boggled.

"What?" Draco asked innocently, knowing he would likely regret the admission in the morning. As of this moment, though, he felt nothing but shitfaced and, seeing the end of the world was imminent, what was the harm, really?

"But--" Potter looked confused. "But, Justin's a--"

"A bloke, yes," Draco said, thinking Potter was being a bit thick.

"No." Potter shook his head exaggeratedly, his black fringe sweeping the top of his glasses. "A Muggleborn," he said, obviously confused.

Draco stared at him in surprise for a moment and then started laughing. "God, Potter, that's rich!"

"Speaking of Potions and bloodlines," Potter said, blinking his eyes several times, as if trying to focus, "What about Snape? Wha'd'you think about that?"

"What about Snape?" Draco asked, still laughing.

"I mean about Snape being a half-blood?" Potter enquired, as if genuinely interested in Draco's response.

Draco stared at Potter, falling quiet.

"Oh," Potter said, giving a wry laugh. "Didn't you know?"

Draco felt as though he ought to be more shocked, but more than anything he just felt plastered and hot in the face. Snape had been better to him than he had been to most. "Do you know how Snape died?" he asked Potter, letting his head fall back against the back of his chair. He closed his eyes, ignoring the whirling feeling that came.

"I--" Potter hesitated in a way that let Draco know Potter had been witness to Snape's death.

"I would really like to know," he said.

"Voldemort sent him and another Death Eater -- I think it was Macnair -- to guard the Horcrux. The Horcrux I went after before Voldemort's companion Nagini," Potter said evenly, and Draco was positive Potter was being this candid only because he was pissed. "It was--" Potter laughed "--a tiara."

"Snape was killed by a tiara?" Draco was totally confused.

"No, git! The Horcrux was a tiara. Lupin had this theory about the Horcruxes -- that they'd be--" Potter waved his hand drunkenly. "Never mind that bit. It doesn't matter. Anyway, the Horcrux was Ravenclaw's tiara, and Snape was supposed to guard it." Potter looked at Draco. "I'm pretty sure Voldemort had decided way before to kill him. I guess he wanted me to see him kill Snape, but I don't know why he thought I might care."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you see him do it, then?"

"Well, yeah, obviously!"

"How'd he do it?" Draco said, pushing Potter to reveal more information.

"He just did it," Potter said. "He just killed him."

"With what spell?"

"Avada Kedavra," Potter said impatiently. "What do you think?"

"So, are you going to die tomorrow when you-- when you do . . . whatever it is you're going to do?"

Potter gave a snort and glanced sideways at Draco, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Yes and no."

"And Merlin wept," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I don't even want to know what that means. Sorry I asked." He lurched to his feet, swaying, and rubbed at his face. "I'm knackered. Tomorrow's the big day!" He lifted his arms over his head and stretched sideways with some degree of difficulty, owing to the Firewhiskey. "So, what's your weapon of choice, Potter? Sword? Naughty spell? Runcible spoon?"

"I'm not telling you a thing, Malfoy. There's still enough time for you to royally mess things up."

"Yeah, like I'm going anywhere in this condition." Draco sauntered into the bathroom, pulling off his jumper as he went. He left it in a heap under the sink and quickly washed up. "All yours," he said to Potter, upon exiting. Draco crawled onto the bed, pausing only to adjust the volume of the wireless before flopping onto his belly.

"--Ministry correspondent Alistair Baine comes to us from an Unplottable location, somewhere near a sea that must at this time remain undesignated, which is allegedly near the reported location of prison the Ministry has for today restricted the WWN from referring to by name. Mr. Baine, what can you tell us tonight?" Draco tried to pay attention, despite his drunken state. "Thank you, Mr. Hodges," the correspondent Alistair Baine went on to say. "Quite a lot of excitement going on here. Reports began coming in just before midnight Greenwitch Mean Time that said prison, which we are forbidden from directly identifying, has experienced a mass exodus. Of course what this means in terms of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, in regard to the sea which must not be named, in reference to the prison that must remain unidentified, is vastly unclear--"

"Turn it off."

Draco felt the bed jar slightly as Potter sat.

"I like it on."

Well, I don't."

"Turn it off yourself, then."

"Fine," Potter said, crawling right over Draco. Draco gasped as Potter's knee dug into his back. "I bloody will!"

"Budge over, pillock!" Draco snapped, once the wireless was off. He gathered his pillow under his head and snuggled down into it. He was pissed all right, but not so bad as to be sick. He breathing evened out as he relaxed.

"Wha'd'you do that night?" Potter slurred from the other side of the bed. "How'd you escape?"

"Hmm?"

"That night," Potter repeated slowly, as if his tongue weren't working properly. "The night you tried-- the night Snape killed Dumbledore. What did you do afterward? How'd you get here?"

Draco had to think for quite a long moment before answering. "Snape took me-- he hid me behind a tree once we were off the grounds. We'd jumped the gates because we couldn't Apparate from inside them. There was no moon." He paused, fighting sleep.

"Then what?"

"Lupin was there, waiting."

"He couldn't have been!" Potter objected. "He was with us in the infirmary!"

"Don't know about that," Draco said. "But it was Lupin. He said he only had minutes to spare."

"Then what?"

"Snape and everyone else Apparated away," Draco continued, once again feeling removed from his own story. "Lupin took me into the Forbidden Forest. He cast a lot of protection spells against predators, and then he ordered me to sit there. So, I did." The memory of that night in the forest came flooding back to him. You're to stay here, Draco, Lupin had instructed him strongly, without a hint of his usual calm. Do not disobey me, or you will be killed. Draco remembered how he had sat on a fallen log in the pitch-black forest, bleeding and bruised from the night's events, in an emotional state of horror and shock.

"Then what?"

"Then, there were Thestrals," Draco said, so low he didn't know if Potter would be able to hear. His eyes burned, but not from the Firewhiskey. The Thestrals had come out from the trees slowly at first, but by the time Lupin had returned for him, the creatures were all around him and were attempting to nip bites of his skin. "And then, Lupin brought me here." He turned his head away from Potter.

"I can't sleep," Potter said, abruptly changing the subject.

"Well, I can. So, shut up already."

"My head is spinning."

"It'll stop," Draco mumbled, letting sleep overcome him.

---

Draco awoke, likely not much later, and was instantly aware that Potter was not asleep.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco asked, without opening his eyes.

"Every time I try and lie down, the room turns over," Potter explained, his speech still distinctly slurred.

"Try a shower."

"Oh. Right." Potter got up from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

---

Draco dreamt hard and fast, of Thestrals and Potions stores and hot mouths with nimble tongues, and all the while voices echoed unseen in his dream: Snape, Lupin, Dumbledore, his mother, his father . . . his dream smelt of Firewhiskey and spruce and the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts. He awoke again, this time on his back, and he distinctly smelt soap.

"Everything's still turning over," Potter lamented.

Draco peered at Potter, the fire having died down to a dull glow. "How long've I been asleep?"

"Dunno," Potter said. He'd taken his glasses off and he had one arm slung over his eyes. He was breathing in an overly controlled manner, which suggested to Draco that Potter was trying to lull himself to sleep. "Long enough."

The remnants of his alcohol-fueled dreams were playing at Draco's senses, electrifying and unreal. He imagined Potter's inability to sleep had little to do with the Firewhiskey. "It's almost over," he said to Potter, leaning in. He wasn't necessarily trying to be soothing.

Potter's voice was very faint. "I know."

Draco rolled onto his side toward Potter. Maybe it was strictly the Firewhiskey that prompted him then, or perhaps it was something inside of Draco that he wouldn't recognise even if he were sober. Or, more likely, it was a strange amalgamation of things, including the fact that earlier Potter had been more surprised that Draco had pulled with a Muggleborn than he'd been put off by the idea of two blokes together at all. "I know something," he said, still drunk enough to not care about any potential ramifications, "that will help." He rucked up Potter's t-shirt and slid his hand across Potter's belly, which was really quite smooth. Potter tensed immediately.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"Shut up," Draco hissed. He rubbed several small circles there, feeling a nice shiver of anticipation as he felt a light trail of fuzz under his fingers, just below Potter's navel.

"Don't!"

"You've already woken me twice." Draco slid his hand into Potter's boxers. "That's just about enough." Potter was flaccid, but warm. He slid his hand further down and carefully took up a circular rhythm there, plying Potter until he was firm under Draco's touch.

"Stop it, Malfoy," Potter groaned, smacking his hand down on top of Draco's. He clutched at him the fabric of his boxers. "This is wrong!"

"Why's that?" Draco asked. He rested his head on his free hand, his elbow crooked against the mattress.

Potter still hadn't removed his arm from his face. "Because!"

"Nothing's wrong anymore," Draco said, giving Potter a firm squeeze. He had hardened nicely. "It's the end of days, Potter. Really, who gives a shit?"

Potter was still tense, but Draco felt Potter's grip over his own hand relax a touch. Taking this as permission to continue, Draco resumed his stroking, pulling and jerking lightly and sliding his palm all around. He worked Potter nimbly, until Potter began rocking clumsily under his touch.

"Ah, God." The words drifted from Potter's mouth, unbidden, and he let his arm fall from across his face onto the bed, and Draco curled in sideways against him and laid his head on Potter's bicep. The knuckles of his free hand brushed over the warm slice of skin at Potter's waist, where he'd pulled Potter's t-shirt up. Draco felt a fine trail of goose bumps rise under his touch, and imperceptibly he lifted his chin until the divergent scents of clean, wholesome soap and Potter's well-worn shirt assailed his senses. His breath puffed warm against Potter's shoulder. "Oh." Potter sighed then, and turned his head, looking down at Draco. The tips of their noses met clumsily, prompting Draco to lift his chin. It had happened reflexively, for Draco neither kissed nor fucked boys, but when his bottom lip accidentally brushed against Potter's, he felt himself grow painfully hard against the sturdy seams of his jeans.

Draco felt Potter's breath hot and muggy against his mouth, and his damp, keening breaths urged Draco on. He established a firm, steady rhythm and then Potter groaned, and Draco thought he heard him hiss, "Yes."

"Yes?" he whispered triumphantly, his own breath coming ragged now. And then Potter brought up his arm, trapping Draco's head against his shoulder, and he felt Potter's fingers in his hair. Potter tugged at him painfully, and Draco felt a telltale shiver against his heel of his fist.

Potter made a small noise in his throat as he came.

Draco let Potter catch his breath for several moments. "Let go of my hair," he rasped finally, and Potter did. Draco wasted no time and rose to his knees at Potter's side. Frantically he unbuttoned his jeans and tugged down the zipper, groaning as he pushed his boxers and jeans down over his hips, freeing himself. He grabbed up Potter's hand wrapped Potter's fingers around him. Sitting back, he clamped down tightly and guided Potter's hand up and down, slamming into Potter's fist shamelessly.

"Wha--" Potter said, resisting slightly.

"Shut up, Potter," Draco said, his eyes closing. He brought his other hand around, firmly trapping himself in the vise-like tangle of their fingers, and shortly his breath was coming in quick, staccato bursts as he thrust wildly. "Won't take long--" He'd gone untouched for almost a year and now everything was whirling and Potter's hand was hot and pliant under his touch . . . "There," he said, feeling his climax spring, and he let loose a strangled cry. He thrust up as he came hard.

Potter immediately pulled his hand away with a regretful moan.

Draco snapped his boxers back up and tugged up his jeans, and ran his hands down his thighs to clean up. He couldn't be arsed to do up his trousers properly. He flopped back onto his side of the bed, belly down as usual, and for a fleeting moment he felt sated and normal.

"Better?" he asked, imagining Potter's faint silhouette.

"Shut up, Malfoy." Potter's voice was perfectly sleepy.

Draco waited until Potter's breathing was steady and even, and when he could hear a light snoring he reached over and turned the wireless back on.

---

Draco actually felt fine when he woke the next morning. Rolling onto his back he looked up through his skylight and saw nothing but white, which meant another bitter snow had fallen. He became aware of the wind then, and the fact that he felt a bit chilled. He glanced over to Potter's side of the bed, but Potter wasn't there. Draco found the bathroom was unoccupied, though, so he went in to wash up.

When he came out, toweling his hair, Potter had returned and was seated in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. His hair was a mess and he hadn't changed his clothes from the night before. He sat leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and he held an orange in one hand. He turned his head and Draco was struck then by the mixture of raw emotion showing plainly on Potter's face. There was resignation and fear and the most gorgeous corruption reflected there, as well as confusion. And there was also something else, which Draco was exceptionally skilled at recognising, and that was a reluctant attraction on Potter's part. He'd seen it a thousand times before -- the averse, grudging interest that came with unwanted fascination. At Hogwarts it had been marked, and it was what continuously enabled the Slytherins' entrenched superiourity complex -- deference and wonder spoke volumes, far more than what color shakers anyone held in the Quidditch stands. It was like a moth to the flame.

He dropped the towel he'd been using for his hair to the floor and walked over to where Potter was sitting and stood there looking down at him, his arms folded. "Want some more?" he asked, never having been one to be segue.

Potter stood as well, forcing Draco to take a step backward.

Draco slid a finger under the elastic of Potter's boxers, digging his knuckle into the soft flesh at his waist. "Over there," he said, propelling Potter toward the side of the fireplace, but not too roughly. "Turn around."

"It's not like--"

"Just shut up," Draco said, stepping up behind him. "I don't really care what your reasons are."

Potter widened his stance as Draco slipped his hands around his waist, and then put one hand high up on the brick for leverage. This time Potter was already half up and he thrust right into Draco's hand.

Draco pushed up Potter's shirt until Potter's back was warm against his belly. He pulled Potter tight against him and buried his face against the nape of Potter's neck. Potter stiffened and Draco exhaled against him, stirring the uneven wisps of dark hair there. "It doesn't matter anymore," he said, low and breathless, ruthlessly extinguishing the cold, fearful feeling rising within him.

Potter sighed and his chest heaved, as if he were stifling a burst of emotion. "Hurry up," he barked in a tight voice, and he rocked his hips impatiently.

Draco bit down viciously into the sinewy flesh of Potter's shoulder, and he jerked at Potter, gliding his hand up and down Potter's length.

"Ah, God, oww-!" Potter gasped, arching his back. Draco tightened his grip around Potter's waist, pulling him back in. The towel around Draco's waist came loose and fell away. Draco thrust right into the groove of Potter's arsecheeks, grinding right through Potter's boxers to circle there, and he reached down to squeeze and tug at himself, eliciting sensations that made him suck in his breath so hard that his teeth ached.

"Mm," Draco groaned, as the tight feeling grew, the thin fabric of Potter's boxers creating a delicious friction. This was going to be fast and furious.

He slowed, pushing at Potter. "Turn around again."

"Why?" Potter asked, looking back over his shoulder at Draco in a way that set Draco right on edge.

"Just do it." Draco pushed at Potter's hip until he complied. He shoved Potter lightly, stepping him backward until Potter's back was pressed up against the wall of the fireplace. Draco jerked Potter's boxers down and stepped right up and grabbed Potter in his hand. He kicked at Potter's instep until Potter again widened his stance. Draco reached down and dug his fingers into the underside of Potter's arsecheek and rubbed and thrust against the soft, warm juncture of Potter's thigh. "Yeah," he said, instantly losing himself in the sensation.

Potter caught Draco up by the wrist, dragging Draco's hand from his arse, but Draco knew Potter was unlearned and stilted, and wouldn't know what to do. He twisted his hand in Potter's grip until their fingers interlaced tightly, and Draco squeezed with all his strength until Potter cried out from the pain. But Potter didn't let go. Instead, he squeezed Draco back just as viciously, until their fingers were white from the pressure of their little game and both were gritting their teeth stubbornly.

Draco scrabbled at Potter's free hand, shifting sideways, and he forced Potter to take hold of them both. Draco urged Potter on, and soon they were moving against one another, thrusting together, skin to skin.

"Oh-- I--" Potter gasped, his eyes flying open.

Draco didn't look away. "Feels good, doesn't it?" He covered Potter's hand with his own and eased them into a steady, wicked rhythm.

Potter's tongue was pink on his lip, and Draco couldn't control himself: he broke his own rule. He caught Potter's bottom lip in his teeth, tasting the faint residual of Firewhiskey there, and he nipped and licked his way right into the hot corner of Potter's mouth.

"What--" Potter stopped then, his jaw slackening, and Draco caught Potter's lips fully with his own, filling Potter's mouth with his tongue. It was a brutal, possessive kiss, but it was what Draco needed, and when he felt Potter's tongue probing back against his tentatively, hot and wet and resigned, it was like something visceral exploded inside him.

"Mm!" Draco gurgled, burying his tongue as far into Potter's mouth as he could manage as he came. "Oh--" he said, pulling away, out of breath.

Potter made a small keening noise. Draco caught his eye. "Gimme a second," he said. Draco shifted and then began grinding against Potter. He leaned in, trapping Potter's arm against the brick to the side of Potter's head under his own -- his ruint Dark Mark against Potter's angry red Naga scarring -- and something waxed inside him as reality again threatened to come seeping through the moment.

Potter's breath was ragged. Draco caught up his mouth again, and this time he felt the curve of Potter's hot, swollen lip fit perfectly between his own, and he ran the tip of his tongue over the swell of Potter's lip there, circling it there, until Potter brought a shaky hand to the side of Draco's neck and held Draco firmly in place as he opened his mouth and kissed Draco back as his climax rushed forth. Draco broke their kiss, trembling, and pressed his forehead to Potter's.

"What was that?" Potter whispered, his stomach quaking under Draco's touch.

Draco lifted his head away, saying nothing, but he paid careful attention to the distant voice in his head that whispered kindly: Quid pro quo.

In the end it was uncharted protocol for both of them, so they merely let go of each other.

---

"I'm going now," Potter said, standing at the door, looking so like a young boy. He held Godric Gryffindor's sword in his hand.

"Aren't you going to use your Invisibility Cloak?" Draco asked from where he was sitting on the sofa.

"It's in my pocket."

"Oh." Draco desperately wanted to ask where Potter was going, what lay in store for him that night. The end, he believed, was here, and fate was proving to be a most insidious concubine. While on the one hand the idea of watching the world come to halt was darkly intriguing to Draco, on the other it was a frightening and bleak prospect. He felt torn and was just on the verge of asking, when Potter looked at him strangely, cocking his head, and then simply left. Draco tried not to listen to the hated, echoing click of the latch closing shut.

Draco sat unmoving for several hours. Finally, he got up and went to the wireless and switched it on. The reporting didn't sound particularly out of the ordinary, but he knew that could change in an instant.

The suspense of it all was threatening to wring him dry of any residual sanity, so he collected the half-empty Firewhiskey bottle and plopped down in the chair by the fireplace. He unstoppered the bottle and tipped it back, and proceeded to get more rat-arsed than he'd ever been in his life.

---

The first thing that struck him when he came to was the stillness of everything, and it sent his heart plunging, for things seemed too still, eerily quiet even. But then sounds began filtering through to him, that washed away Draco's trepidation in a sea of familiarity. The clock on the mantel was tocking away. Voices sounded from the wireless giving news, interspersed with advertisements. Draco cracked an eye and checked his skylight. The snow on the panes had melted away in a small circular area and a vibrant patch of cyan showed through. Draco blinked and rubbed at his eyes, and squinted back up into the skylight. The blue patch of sky was still there.

He rolled over and turned up the wireless.

"--are reporting that Azkaban prison--" Draco recognised the reporter Alistair Baine's voice from the night before. "--and we can confirm it is Azkaban prison in question -- is fully under Ministry control." The WWN cut to a voiceover of Rufus Scrimgeour. "Early this morning an attempted coup of Azkaban prison was successfully averted," the Minister stated, his voice sure and bold. "While we are not releasing any further details at this time, I am authorised by the Wizengamot to this day report the whereabouts of the dark wizard known as Voldemort is unknown. However, the Ministry of Magic fully expects the scourge of darkness wreaked these many years by Lord Voldemort, that evil, vile resident who has been amongst our kind for far too long, to be fully contained--"

Draco dressed hurriedly, pulling on his jeans and 'R' jumper, as well as his heavy cloak, anticipating the rest of the house might be as frigid as the last time he left this room. He paused for a moment as he laced up his trainers, trying to remember when the last time he'd been outside the study actually was, but he could recollect no specific date. He rose and crossed the room to the door, briefly wondering if the room might hold him hostage. However, when he turned the knob the door opened normally.

Draco crept down the hall warily, making no noise as he descended the stairs. When he was halfway down, he spotted a scattering of items at the bottom of the staircase. He trotted down the remaining stairs, a flutter of anticipation turning over in him.

Potter's sword was leaned against the wall in the foyer, and the clothing Draco had seen him in the night before was piled on the floor, spattered liberally with blood. The Invisibility Cloak was folded neatly next to Potter's clothes.

Draco picked up the sword. It was heavy and dense. He turned it over, examining it, and it was clear the blade had been recently wiped clean of blood. A noise came then, from behind him. Whirling, Draco turned, sword still in hand.

Kreacher was lurking behind a forgotten coat rack next to a hollowed-out Troll's leg.

"What's happened?" Draco barked. "Tell me what you've heard."

But Kreacher was considering him murderously. "Draco Malfoy has tricked Kreacher," the house-elf grumbled, in a terrible voice. "Draco Malfoy is not the eminent, the noble, the princely pureblooded wizard that Draco Malfoy led Kreacher to believe."

Draco stared at Kreacher, agog. "What?"

"Draco Malfoy does not serve the Dark Lord like Draco Malfoy claimed." Kreacher crept forward, his shoulders hunched and a predatory hatred in his eyes. "Mistress would not want the deceitful, the lying, the knavish, the two-faced collaborator of half-breeds and Mudbloods Draco Malfoy in the noble House of Black--"

The air whistled sharply across the blade as Draco swung Potter's sword with all his might, and he cleaved Kreacher's head from the elf's shoulders in one fell blow. Kreacher's body crumpled to the ground, jerking involuntarily, and his head rolled, the house-elf's mouth permanently agape with surprise. Savagely, Draco grabbed up the elf's lifeless head and he turned and stalked determinedly up the stairs, taking two at a time until he reached the end of the neatly hung row of house-elf heads that lined the staircase wall. He slammed Kreacher's head against the crumbling plaster and drove the blade right into the house-elf's mouth and through its skull, skewering it to the wall with such brute force that he buried the sword all the way to its hilt, until it was framed grotesquely by Kreacher's worn, yellow teeth.

Draco came back down, taking his time. He sat on the bottom stair, staring at his bloodstained hands with surreal detatchment. The house was silent and abandoned.

Minutes passed. Draco stood finally and walked toward the front door, stepping over the pool of blood that had spread silently across the floor from Kreacher's butchered neck. He cracked the front door open and slowly poked his head outside, blinking rapidly against the assault against his eyes from the sunlight glinting off the snow.

The sky was the most brilliant shade of blue Draco had ever seen, and his heart swelled and he felt as happy just as he thought he might when over the past lonely months he had dreamt of this moment finally coming to pass. He let go of the door and it swung open noiselessly behind him.

Draco stepped hesitantly onto the front patio, coming fully into the light, and he turned his peaked, pale face up to the sun, basking for a moment. Stepping down, he scooped up up a handful of snow and scrubbed at his bloodied hands, ignoring the stabbing, prickling sensations from the cold. He shook his hands, sending a blood-tinged castoff, and then dried his hands on the front of his cloak.

He looked back into the open door of No Twelve Grimmauld Place, and then set off down the stairs leading from the house. He slipped on a hidden patch of ice, but threw out his arms and managed to hold his balance. Draco tottered toward the wrought-iron gates, which groaned when he pushed them open. Stepping through, he gazed about the street.

Muggles were everywhere, and they seemed to be in some kind of celebratory mode. Draco watched as people greeted one another excitedly.

"--have you heard? The Prime Minister's announced--"

"--ships are docking and the trains are coming through as we speak--"

"--I've got my medicine again, I have--"

"Here, Mister!"

Draco looked down. A young Muggle was tugging insistently at his sleeve. "What do you want?" Draco asked, puzzled. The boy was carrying a basket filled with small white paper packages.

"Here," the boy said again, thrusting one into Draco's hand. "My mum's giving them away to celebrate. It's gingerbread!"

Draco looked at the package, and then back up again, but the boy had moved on. This was probably a good thing, as Draco didn't at all feel like being gracious to a Muggle. Turning, he looked back toward Grimmauld, but the house was gone. Now there was only a rubbish-strewn vacant lot where his prison had once stood.

He slipped the gingerbread into his pocket, feeling it mix in with his wand, his ball and the never-ending box of fortune biscuits Lupin had given him. He again looked at the Muggles milling about with mild distaste -- they were everywhere! The urge to self-isolate washed through him, but then it occurred to Draco that there was sometimes nowhere easier to be truly alone than in a crowd.

Draco chose to go left. Walking down the pavement, he was shortly assimilated by the jumbled crowd, released at last from the empty, timeless void of a dragon forever caught between the sun and the cold, wan moon.