Author: Zarah

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Rating: R

Warning: Slash Romance, meaning that it deals with a male/male relationship! Please don't read if you can't handle.

Pretty Version: [Here]

Note: I choose the most random pairings ever. That's the joy of blissful insanity!

Thanks to: Ria. Now, I won't say that she's the best editor ever. All I can say is that to me, she is.

Summary: Wherein the clock in the Great Hall is always late. Harry is late as well, but only for breakfast, and Draco... Well, Draco understands. The clock, that is.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. - This disclaimer was borrowed from [Schnoogle]

Crossroads

Part 1: Fragments

The clock in the Great Hall was slow, the silver hand always separated from reality by exactly one step. With the beginning of the morning lessons, it moved from Get up, sleepyheads! to Dig in, when lunch was ready, the hand moved to Time to do something about that empty brain of yours. It was one step behind reality, always.

Lately, Draco Malfoy understood.

Every morning, it was like waking up to a new world. New reports, new information, new alliances, new revelations about who supported the Dark Lord and who didn't. Everything was moving so fast, and sometimes, Draco felt as if he just couldn't keep up with the pace the rest of the world had set for him, no matter how hard he tried. He could pretend, of course he could - his years of practice at the Malfoy Mansion hadn't been wasted -, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. It wasn't that he wanted to stop the world from turning, but he wished it would revolve around him, only from time to time. Only long enough for him to sort out a few things, his future being one of them.

Chewing on a biscuit, left over from yesterday's Christmas dinner, Draco let his calm gaze drift through the Great Hall, ignoring the annoying chatter of the few other students that were spending their holidays at Hogwarts. There weren't many of them, only nine. Most parents preferred to have their children with them for Christmas, especially in times like these. It was ironic, in some ways; Hogwarts was most likely the safest place there was, yet parents were afraid to let their children stay.

It was probably more sad than ironic.

Teachers and house elves had put all their effort into making it easier for the few who stayed (for whatever reasons); ever-glowing colour-changing candles, sparkling Christmas trees and singing Christmas angels had been placed all over the castle, and the scent of baked apples and cinnamon lingered in the air wherever they went. Grey clouds overcasted the ceiling in the Great Hall, barely visible through the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes that melted in mid-air, before coming even close to the floor. Fake ice decorated the walls, glistening in the glow of flickering candles and the few rays of light which made it through the falling snow; a thin layer of ice also spread over the table at which they were sitting.

Draco rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow propped up on the table, and lowered his lashes, eyes studying the pattern the ice made on the table. Swirls of white mixed with half-transparent grey, gradually modulating into complete transparency, only reflections of light betraying its presence. He felt as if he were staring into a crystal ball and wasn't able to recognise any clear shapes, maybe because his mind was - as Professor Trelawny would have put it - too mundane.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly in annoyance as one of the students near him laughed out loud. In an abrupt move, he pushed his plate away and got to his feet, his robes rustling because of the sudden commotion. He felt rather than saw Dumbledore's forehead furrow in thought as he made his way towards the door leading to the marble stairs. He didn't care.

Harry Potter squinted into the blinding white, the hood of his coat and the scarf he had slung around his neck covering most of his face. He should have waited for the wind to die down, for the snow flurry to let up before leaving Hagrid's hut to make his way back to the castle, where the present students and teachers were already having breakfast. But he hadn't, of course he hadn't. Assuring Hagrid that he would be fine, that it was a walk of merely five minutes, he had left the safety of the hut and stepped out into the snowstorm.

In retrospect, it had been a rather stupid decision.

Harry cursed quietly as he stumbled over something he hadn't seen because quite frankly, he couldn't see anything; the snow being blown against his glasses obscured his view, reducing his visual range to about three feet around him. It would be somewhat easier if he had remembered the water-repelling spell Hermione had used for his glasses once. Harry half-heartedly dusted the snow off his coat, knowing that it was only a matter of seconds until it would be covered in white again.

He shielded his eyes against the snow, trying to gauge how far away the castle was and whether it would be safer to return to Hagrid to wait there until the blizzard was over, but it was hopeless. He had no idea which way he had come, his footprints disappearing the moment he took the next step, leaving no trace that could lead him back to the hut. His only choice was to move forward in what he suspected was the direction of the castle. It was hard to tell, and a Tracing spell wouldn't work since part of the Unplottable spell surrounding Hogwarts was that it was impossible to assign a certain direction to the castle.

Again, Harry stumbled over an obstacle in his way, and it was mere instinct that made him stretch out his arms just in time to catch his fall. Under his palms, he felt a smooth, cold surface which surely couldn't be frozen grass. It felt more like frozen water, which would mean... The lake? Had he really lost track of direction enough to get himself onto the frozen lake without even noticing? It sure seemed like it.

He shuddered slightly, more out of reflex than because he was really cold. Ever since the Triwizard disaster three years ago, he had, well. Not exactly avoided the lake, but regarded it with no small amount of mistrust, in much the same way as he would have observed a blind basilisk. He had even more reason to be wary now; Dumbledore had warned them not to set foot on the lake because no matter how safe it looked, it wasn't. The layer of ice was mostly thick enough to carry the weight of a not too heavy human being, but not everywhere; there were still places in the middle of the lake where the ice was barely enough to conceal the icy cold water underneath.

Harry reached inside his pocket, numb fingers searching for something solid, until they finally closed around his wand. A wave of relief washed over him; just the simple feel of his wand in his hands reassured him immensely. 'Lumos!' he yelled, the howling of the wind reducing his voice to a whisper. The thick clouds of whirling snow almost smothered the golden glow emanating from the wand, but the friendly light still calmed his fluttering nerves.

He took a tentative step forward in what he assumed to be the direction of the castle, not putting his full weight onto his leg until he was sure that the ice would bear his weight. His knees, bearing a strange resemblance to Jell-O, probably weren't supposed to tremble that much, but there was really nothing he could do about it - besides get himself off of that disturbingly thin layer of ice. Fast.

It would have been so much easier if he had been able to see where the castle lay. As it was, all he could do was trust his instinct and hope that it would guide him right into the Great Hall, or, even better, into the Gryffindor Tower. A hot shower sounded like heaven.

His eyes narrowed to slits, one of his hands still shielding his glasses, the other holding his wand, he took another step which would - hopefully - bring him closer to the safe shore. The ice seemed to carry him.

It was common knowledge that the clock in the Great Hall was always one step behind reality, and it was merely a coincidence that Draco glanced at it on his way out. The hand pointed at Dig In.

Dig In.

There were only three things important enough to interrupt the usual routine of the clock: The scores whenever the English Quidditch team was playing a match, a warning when a student was in danger, or, worse, when a student was dead. The last one was a simple black surface, only the name of the student written in white, ornate writing and the date of his birth and death appeared. The hand had pointed at it too many times in the course of the last years.

Still, there were three possible explanations as to why the hand had moved already. Three possibilities.

The next match of the English team was almost one month ahead. Which left two. Two possibilities.

It took Draco a moment of startled realisation, then he whirled around, grey eyes sweeping over the heads of the students occupying the table in the middle of the room. There were seven of them, not counting Draco himself. Seven. Not eight. Seven.

"Where's Potter?" His voice, intensified and echoed by the walls, sounded much too loud to his own ears, and he flinched, shoulders hunching slightly as his eyes met Dumbledore's searching gaze. For a moment, they stared at each other, then, at the same time as Dumbledore's eyes settled on the clock, Draco turned and left the room, his movements, though radiating the elegance and confidence that were said to be typical for him, lacking their usual concentrated precision.

Another step.

Harry had long since lost count of how many he had already taken, the ice threatening to break under him with each single one he took. It was like having to stroke a Blast-Ended Skrewt, never knowing when it would explode.

Another step.

He heard the ice splitter before he actually felt it give under his feet, and in his instinctive attempt to throw his body backwards, he put even more weight on the too thin layer beneath him, making it break with a sickening crack. For a breathless moment, he hung in mid-air, the ground under his feet suddenly no longer where it had been before. Then he came crashing down, icy cold water swallowing him with a gurgle, closing in on him, the brutal cold making him gasp for air as his wand slipped out of his fingers, rolling a few feet on the ice before coming to a rest. His arms braced on the ice, supporting his body to keep from sinking completely into the black water, he reached for it even as it rolled away, but it was hopeless. The wand lay close, so close, its golden glow friendly and promising, yet it was completely out of his reach.

God, he should have stayed with Hagrid.

In an attempt to stop the dark, merciless panic rising in him, Harry forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, consciously blocking every thought of his quickly numbing lower body. Breathe. In. Out. Yes, like that. It was hard to tell how long ago it was that the ice had broken under him; not more than a single minute probably, although it felt like hours already. He slowly put a little more weight on his arms, cautiously testing whether he would be able to pull himself out, but the dangerous cracking sound made him ease the pressure immediately.

If only he could reach his wand.

Draco was fighting his way through the snow towards the broomshed, rationality put aside. Nothing made it through to his consciousness; not the thought of how dangerous flying, in this storm, would be; not the objection that he was supposed to hate the person he was trying to find so desperately. Nothing but a consuming fear that made his stomach twist and caused his breath to come out in short, painful gasps, the cold air burning in his lungs.

He didn't know what it was, but there was something inside of him that pushed him forward, through the falling snow and against the wind that changed direction every five seconds. A dark, blurred building slowly emerged from the white as he came closer, and although there was nothing to prove his suspicion right, Draco was sure that it was indeed the broomshed.

It was. Closing the wooden door required a lot of effort as the wind blew into the small shed with full force, and when Draco finally succeeded, he leaned against the wood, panting, trying to catch his breath. His broom was locked in a cabinet along with the other brooms of the Slytherin Quidditch team, but the door to the cabinet burst open when he yelled the password, Draco's broom zooming into his hands in reaction to the Summoning spell he muttered.

For a few moments, he stood in the middle of the small room, unmoving, staring down at the broom in his hands. Something wasn't right. Something had changed since he'd entered the shed, and he tilted his ear against the door, listening. He didn't hear anything, no sounds coming from the outside, and it took him precious seconds until he realised that it was the wind that had changed. Everything was calm, and instead of the rattling windows and howling snowstorm from before, there was only silence, eerie and thoroughly unsettling.

He cautiously opened the door, but the snow was still there, falling in thick, heavy flakes. Only the wind had blown itself out. Using his heel to close the door behind himself, Draco mounted his broom, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness of the snow, so different from the dim illumination inside the shed. Then he kicked off from the ground, soaring up into the sky and providing his eyes with the almost impossible task to find one dark-haired, slender figure amongst the blinding white.

He was not supposed to feel sleepy. Frightened, yes. But not sleepy. He couldn't allow himself to close his eyes, or rest his chin on his arms which were still braced on the ice. But somehow, none of that really seemed to matter.

Shaking himself out of his unnatural fatigue, Harry raised his head and looked around. The snow was still falling, but the storm was over, and Harry supposed that it wasn't quite as cold as before. With an immense effort of will, he twisted his body around, forcing his legs to tread water as he slowly braced himself on the layer off ice. He inched his way up, his upper body gradually moving out of the water and onto the rather thick, slippery ice, his breathing calm and controlled. No sudden movements, he repeated to himself, over and over again, like an incantation. No sudden movements.

His eyes were fixed on his hands, knuckles white from the effort it took him to pull himself out of the water without having anything really solid to hold on to. No sudden movements. Trying to move as little as possible, he inched a little higher up, doing his best to control the violent shuddering of his body. Then, suddenly and without warning, the ice broke under his hands, and for panicked moments, he felt himself being pulled downwards, beneath the dark surface of the water, until he got his legs to work enough to propel him back upwards, his hands blindly reaching for the edge of the layer of ice and finding it, finally. Suppressing a frustrated sob, he raised his head out of the water, feeling his hair freeze almost instantly.

The force that lifted him up, out of the water and up into thin air, where he hung for a disorientated second, came as a surprise. Exhaustion suddenly overtaking him, he was only distinctly aware of floating, of gentle hands welcoming him, of a blanket wrapping itself around him. The last thing he saw before collapsing was a worried, white-bearded face bending over him to place a hot, much too hot hand on his forehead.

"Thanks," he managed to mutter, not sure if Dumbledore heard it, and then darkness swept away his every thought.

I'm sure that some of my regular readers are about to shoot me. But they don't know where I live. J Well, uh... Most of them don't. Hum.

My Writings: [What It Is...]