The Cellar door

author: Bitter Sweet Symphony

Translator (from Russian): Lisichkalera aka Lonely

Beta reader: Salwater

Original story: .

Prologue

"Hold me," spoken very quietly in the darkness, the smell of flowers and fresh rain in the air. "Hold me and make me feel protected," whispered gently, " Make me feel strength and resolve," fervently, "Imbued me with faith and make me burn with hope," pleadingly, "Make me feel…" he stopped.

"Make you feel – what…?"

There was a sharp sigh, and he choked in his arms.

"Love…"

"I love you, pet. And you don't need my protection. You are the strongest. You don't need that hope, because you are the hope for resigned and furious souls. Forget about your fear. It can be placed with your lion's braveness and wolf's devotion. You should always remember you are the winner."

"They all say the same here " A quite sob. "Everybody says the same – the winner, the savior, the damned hero… It's too affected, too simulated, you know… There is no soul. D'you see…?"

"They remember you. They love you."

"I don't want their empty love! It means nothing! I need you. Only you. Your love. Not their confession, devotion, or the servility in their puppy eyes… What else should I talk about and do…? Should I give a false smile, shake the bony, clammy handsof the rabble, blot on their papers? For what…? Can it change the world for better? Or can their callous hearts do it? Or can mine? I am not hope, my heart, I am… just a weapon. Because once, someone backed the wrong man… And now I can't refuse this burden, because those people trust me anyway. But the most offending part is that they go on speaking of me as if I'm some unfortunate hero who has been drooped in an unequal battle. They will never know about…"

"Come on, pet, calm down…" with his face drowning in the disheveled tangles. "I am with you. I love you. Forget them. They simply don't exist anymore. Imagine that you lived and live not for the sake of this world, but only for the sake of me. And you haven't got any missions but to love me. Agreed…?"

A smile, like a happy child:

"Agreed." He snuggled into his warmth. "I am…"

"I know…"

"Let's…" He stopped suddenly, lowered his eyes, "No we shouldn't," said with embarrassment.

"Anything you wish."

"Let's pretend we will never die…? And when they come to take us, we'll join hands and look at each other…?"

"Certainly. You know you smell of spring, my sunlight boy.

Chapter 1. MY ENEMY

Keep the mask.

"Good morning, Mother." Spoken with restraint, coolness.

An icy secular smile.

"Good morning, darling."

"Where is Father?" An inappropriate question for breakfast time.

"In his study. "He's doing business." A sharp look. You know what business it is.

A brief nod.

There is intense silence during the meal. The dense wet fog spread behind the windows, rain likes tears of a summer's end, breaking apart at the stoned road and roof. The hunting dogs could be heard barking loudly nearby, along with the horses' neigh. The blond at the table shuddered and tuned out the sound, feeling his mother's disapproving glance.

"Keep your back straight, son." A slight reproach. Caustic blue eyes gazed at impenetrable grey ones, blinked a bit, but didn't catch any weakness and slipped away again, with a movement as slight as invisible silk.

The slim young man with eyes akin to expensive pearls liked to go fox hunting with his father. Sometimes they spent hours near the castle where the fresh forest smelt of green damp leaves and earth, the forest full of the shrill whistles of birds mingled with other mysterious noises. His father would go along proudly and with perfect bearing, riding his magnificent bay stallion as his son followed him only a step behind, driving his excellent white horse with the glossy mane, as his eyes shone with patrimonial arrogance that belied the warm-hearted friendship he felt.

The blond loved his horse but nobody – especially his father – knew about it.

"I beg your pardon," the boy said without any emotion, as he stood neatly from the table. "I'm going to be in my apartment. Have a nice day, Mother."

"Thank you, darling." No emotion tarnished her face.

This is the relationship of an ideal family, automatic and rehearsed, seeming to be a habitual spasm.

Upstairs in his bedroom there was visible luxury, which matched the excellent style seen in the rest of the house. It was dark and cold. He walked up to the fireplace, lit it and stretched his frozen, almost wooden fingers to the fire. The logs were cracking,

sizzling with hot sparks, burning his pale skin. He didn't feel any pain. He desperately wanted to be warm.

A house elf suddenly appeared in the room with a quiet clap. The creature, who was wearing a towel with a familiar, so familiar symbol, stared at the boy on his knees in front of the fireplace with fear, before squeaking with devotion and a trembling voice.

"The Master is waiting for you in his apartments, young lord."

One more clap interrupted the booming silence – and the elf disappeared.

Swearing quietly, the young man rose and came up to his mirror to fix his hair, to straighten his cuffs and his collar, and to check his mask. Cold eyes, bloodless lips. Not human, but not yet a beast. He had another face. The ideal son didn't have a heart, didn't have prejudices, but he did have respect, almost to the point of fear, and felt proud of his own famous name.

Keep the mask.

"Good morning, Father. Did you want to see me?" An eyebrow raised politely.

He entered the study where shadows from the lamps curved over the fixtures and on the walls, which were upholstered with red wood and expensive velvet. There was smoke from the candles. He stopped at the fluffy handmade carpet in front of the table, where the seemingly young man with long blond hair and passionless face was sitting. He sent a quick look of awe at the slim facial features, at the hardly noticed wrinkle between his eyebrows, at the gloomy look – he seemed to be completely busy. Manicured hands twirled a magnificent black feather, which touched the thin lips from time to time. There was the strong awareness in his mind: Father had called him, so his appearance wasn't unexpected.

The fire was calmly burning in the fireplace, there was still unpleasant smoke from the candles. The man who was sitting at the table was obstinate, and continued not to pay attention to his guest. The clock boomed the arrival of the afternoon when his prickly, strict grey eyes suddenly looked at his son, and they showed slight approval.

"Good afternoon, son." A wide gesture at the large armchair. "Make yourself comfortable."

The boy nodded and obediently sat down, feeling unclear alarm, anxiety and fear, which he strangled as he took a step over the threshold. Demon…

"I called you to discuss something important. This is a real problem and an unpleasant itch for our Lord. I hope you know of whom I mean."

"I think I do, Father."

"Great. You're probably wondering why I am discussing this question with you? We aren't progressing these days. All our absolutely perfect plans have failed, either earlier or later in the game. To avoid any more unacceptable failures we have decided

to act in an untraditional way. We are not going to lure the enemy with a bait rather than with magic, which is a rude and unpredictable force. The emotions of our enemy are more open and exploitable. If you earn their trust, you will get their life. If you earn their friendship, you will get their soul. I want you to take these things away from our enemy. "

There was no emotion on the boy's face. He seemed as cold and unapproachable as a lonely, lifeless rock. He was ready for such a conversation. He knew it was the price of recognition and devotion. He knew that the task could turn out badly, and may be nearly impossible. But he wanted to do his duty and deserve his Lord's trust. He wanted to diminish and crush the enemy. He wanted to break down his enemy's will, dry out their soul, take their lives away. He was able to do it, he had fantasized about it in his nightmares. And he would do it.

"I am ready, Father. Just tell me what to do, and I will do my best to make it a reality."

"A right choice, Draco." A thin pleased smile. When that smile comes, the boy always thrills unconsciously.

He was a slave of his father, who was the slave of his Lord. Just a miserable pawn in the ruthless hands of tyrants and falsely righteous men. He wore different masks for different people, there was no real face under them anymore. He had a dirty trite habit of smoking and hated his own house, where it was dark and empty for him. But the offspring of an ancient genus daren't complain and not be pleased with his destiny. Accepting the circumstances around as owing, he must be glad, proud and happy. But he felt none of these. There was a frozen, empty turmoil in his mind. And all was covered with pretence, which was his original skilful protection, because in these conditions nothing is left but survival.

And he accepted his fate. His heart had become an icy stone after all these long years. And all the wrong, inappropriate, reprehensible thoughts were hidden up with his scorn, hidden deep inside his mind, and there they were frozen with the help of ruthlessness and composure, which had taken root from birth. A hereditary aristocrat, magical intelligence, all those empty and lifeless words; you could find only dirty, low acts, rudeness and disgrace in them which never strayed beyond the boarders of the house, it was never talked about loudly, it would always contain "little secrets" which were carefully hidden into the cold darkness of the family crypts.

Draco Malfoy, the son of his father and an heir of the Malfoys' great riches, knew about locking up all the broken down feelings and criminal thoughts, and kept the mask.

… … …

Harry Potter had woken up suddenly and all at once. He rushed away from his cool sheets and breathed heavily, looking ahead of himself with scared, wide emerald-green eyes. Some endless moments he stayed in bed without moving, and his nervous, agitated gaze rushed rapidly around examining the cold, dark room.

It was nothing. There was no sound. The silence was shrill.

How could silence be shrill? As a numb scream. Calling for help. It was full of pain and desperation. What can I do for you?

Why had he had this dream? Why had it been tonight, this cloudless quiet night, why was it about his foe, to whom he was ready to give his life for?

It was a blond-haired young man. A beautiful, haughty face, icy pearly eyes, a platinum bang which covered perfect skin with accuracy. He seemed to be perfect.

It is an enemy. The sworn enemy. He is on the other side. The war is going on. Do you still remember..?

I do, answered Harry. No, not the-boy-who-lived, not the hero who was bonded with the heartless prophecy, not the hope of the whole wizarding world, not the legendary and very famous young man to tell you the truth. No, it was simply Harry who said it, a little naïve boy, an orphan, the boy who always wanted to live, love and be loved. He wanted to smile and weep, not to be expecting some lie, some betrayal, a sudden footstep, a stab in the back, a reproach, loss and pain, he didn't want to suspect friends and sweethearts, or pretend and wear masks, not to be thinking he shouldn't do some things because it was wrong and he could be condemned for it, not thinking he mustn't look this way or talk that way, to be afraid of his own smile because it can cause envy. His smiles may cause danger, make him hide, escape, his tears are for dead shadows, all of them are going to die for him, because of him…

"Yes," repeated Harry in his mind, "I remember the war. I can't forget it even for a moment, because I have been involved in it, I am a hope for the Light Side, an absurd faith for the saving, fucking hero, I am… the weapon, aren't I? But in this dream, the only happy dream, YOU made me believe in my strength, in myself. No, not only believe but realize that it must be so, it simply mustn't be another way. One day I'll win this war. And then… If you thank me? If I exist to listen to it...? You are my enemy. The sworn enemy… "

When Harry went downstairs to the kitchen, the Dursleys were there, all of them. The immensely fat uncle Vernon reading today's paper, watching TV, blinking his little pig-like eyes and commenting on the announcer. And thin aunt Petunia, singing an obscure tune and rushing between the gas stove and dining table, touching the hair and kissing the red cheek of the fat boy who was the copy of his father, or a fat hog. Harry's cousin Dudley was in a dark mood again because of an endless diet, and he gazed at the lettuce on his plate with hate that seemed to be absolute.

"Good morning", Harry said indifferently, the brief greeting phrase which was learnt by heart. The reply was expressed with an intense, long silence. But he didn't expect another reaction. The lettuce in his own plate seemed sicklier and more rotten than a disgusting, slippery something in Snape's laboratory. Harry felt very sick and emphatically removed his plate from the table. Aunt Petunia sent him a furious and condemned look, before turning away to the sink.

"Bon appétit!" said Harry gloomily to his relatives, as he rose and left the distressingly sparkling white kitchen.

Back in his room, he got down onto his bed and leaned cross-legged against the cold wall, with only one thought in his mind: these people didn't deserve his hate, even though he despised them, they were as loathsome as mud under his nails, he would have liked to squash them like something disgusting and disturbing, he would have liked to learn how to love. He would have liked to find someone who would be able to return his affection. But in that moment he could only despise and hate. But you can only truly hate those who treat you as your equal. He had thought about this many times, it made him thrill every time the savage hate came to his mind and body when he gazed (just once was enough) at Draco Malfoy's icy, silver-grey eyes.

Let me out, prayed Harry, nearly ready to weep desperately. He had never wanted to have enemies. Especially sworn enemies. He would almost be ready able to accept it if the pale-faced Slytherin, the Silver Prince, heir of an ancient pure-blooded genus, had been just an envious person or his quidditch opponent, but not his enemy in this war. No. Not this. We'll have to fight not till first blood, Malfoy!" – He wanted to cry to the haughty snob's face every time he – Why? For what? – met him. "'Til the last breathe, you know? We'll fight to the death, you arrogant idiot! For what? Why do you follow your father? Why does he lead you to your death, to the slaughter? Why does he, himself, follow that half-dead dolt? The stooge of Voldemort... Oh, yeah, I know why this son of a bitch needs it... And I know why your beloved daddy needs it! Both the red-eyed monster and his venerable servant yearn for abominable, banal power... And you… you are just a pawn in their hands, active storage, the player who is too weak, though you desperately want to look strong, frightening, powerful,... But you don't admit it, understand that you… you don't need it, do you hear? You will die there. You will die on the field of honour. You will drop not like a hero but a rat. Isn't that the meaning of your life? Or do you want nothing in this life? Just to be worthy of your father's name, to serve the red-eyed half-blood, to make the expectations legitimate. Maybe… maybe you are fed up with everybody's opinion and instead of putting all the masks away, stopping this absurd game, changing the world, adapting it for yourself, you decided to justify false perfunctory words, to become the one who blind people and idiots want to see, and pretend such a man exists till the end, but deep inside under the shell of a frightened apostate you will be real, the reality nobody sees and knows, you will be the man whose reflection may be seen in the cold mirrors of Manor. But you are afraid of saying words from this icy shell, of looking out of your mask with warm-hearted eyes and a smile to the sun, and of crying for your own helplessness. You always keep your mask. And I always keep watching you… Why...?"

… … …

"Potter… Potter… Potter…"- the thought rushed in confusion in the blond's mind as he stood at the stoned balcony. Leaning against the cold barrier wall, he was smoking and catching the noises of an ancient castle. There was nothing. Nobody would know about his silly muggle habit. "Why is he…? Always and everywhere. He poisoned me. I remember his face from my childhood, I hear his name ringing in my ears. A national hero! The-boy-who-lived! Demon! Let the odd rabble, mudbloods and muggle-lovers take their words back when they choke with on their own blood by my Lord's feet! When the death cramps come, they will be sorry they trusted their lives to the silly, naïve boy who will have been broken down by another boy – no, not a boy but a young man, smart and reasonable, cruel and imperturbable, sly and mendacious." The ideal servant of his Lord. The ideal son of his father. He could. He wanted to. He would. And he would enjoy seeing their death throes full of pain and betrayal, bitterness will tarnish the enemy's face. "You will die, Harry Potter. I will help you. I will be very close to you, and will be able to read you as an open book. I will become you're everything, more than the beggar Weasley and that mudblood. I will be not just your crafty shadow, but your life buoy. You will trust me. You are always sure of your enemies. You will follow my words, you will believe me. I will repudiate my Lord in public. I will go to Dumbledore for help. I will pretend to be your friend, Harry Potter. I will be the world for you, everything for you. I will take everything away from you. Your friends will leave you thinking you betrayed them because of me. And when you are more lonely than ever before, weak and unprotected, obsessed with me, I will stab you in the back. And I will be the last man you will be expecting this stab from. And then I'll take you to my Lord, I'll offer you up a sacrifice to deserve trust and show off morally low and banal as my mother's luscious perfume or artificial flowers in our dining-room, as heavy the odour of my father's toilet water, as my simulated masks, expensive dresses and prepared phrases - polite for my family, humiliating for you… I've never been sincere. In plain words I am afraid of my true feelings. And I lock them up deep inside myself. And you will die before I give in, Harry Potter. I will dance on your grave. I'll be able to pretend triumph. I'm already used to pretending. Believing it is the only truth, I will send vindictive and triumphant smiles to everyone. But… Why and for what…? For the sake of… whom? Of what…?

Where does my hate for you descend from, Harry Potter…? It began to burn in the freezing heart of the little boy. How can it be this way…? Why…? I see it again… like a dream… a stretched hand… the sharp look of green eyes… it must be so, it is the right way… he will accept the handshake, he'll become my friend, he'll follow me… why is he refusing…? Like a stab, an attack on my soul, as if it's a dishonor, a deceitful slap to my face. My face is still burning, as if I still feel your fingers on it. There is an avulsed wound, an eternal mark, a scar somewhere near the heart… Have I got a heart…? What is it…? How does it exist…? It is fed with strong hate… I live… No, I exist only because of you, Harry Potter. It means that Draco, the boy who is still able to hope will die soon, and give way to someone stronger but, alas! the lifeless heir of the Malfoy' genus, Death Eater, a sly and foul snake. Isn't that the meaning of my life…? Isn't it what I've dreamt of, cleaving through the golden wheat with my horse's broad chest, feeling the warm fragrant wind tear at my white shirt, messing my hair and throwing it into my shinning eyes full of life…

And blind fury, passionate triumph, joy, happiness, madness run through my mind and lithe body, my lip is bitten through and it's bleeding, I feel all these feelings gripping the prey in my hands… the fox is caught and torn by cruel foxhounds, stricken with my efficient shot though it desperately wants to live, as it creeps toward bushes bleeding and dying but it is still alive… alive… infinitely alive… Won't I be able to do the same…? To go ahead without thinking about my enemies? To love… To live… In this way I am not frightened of death and it's nothing I will be sorry about. My disfigured flesh at your feet… the phantom of my soul… I would like to forbid myself from loving you, my stranger. But I can't. I don't want to at all. I can betray and take lives away, I can injure, hit, crash, lie and feel no shame, I can destroy with one word, one contemptuous look, I can hate passionately, fervently… but… why…? why… why… Why can't I love…? Potter... Potter... Potter... Why is it you...?"

… … …

There was noise as usual at the wizarding station 9 and 3/4, stuffy and windy at the same time. A heavy gust was gushing from the enormous exhaust pipes of the red iron monster. The agitated, excited crowd was rushing back and forth disorderly near the train. Most of the people were wearing long, multi-colored robes, men and women, boys and girls. Barking loudly, a screamingly bright, violet dog swept pass Draco and suddenly became an eccentric woman, who became hidden from view at the moment. The blond screwed up his face and pushed the heavy luggage trolley, laden with several improbably bulky cases, to the closest carriage.

He found a free compartment at once and hoped sincerely that his mates had already taken their seats and wouldn't look for him there. He didn't want any company. And though the rules of good form should have made him go up and greet not only the representatives of his school house but direct followers, Draco Malfoy felt his mood was too resentful, rude and impetuous. He must always keep the mask when he was with them, but now he could say anything in a fit of anger and arouse suspicions, lose devotion, admiration and fear from his faithful servants and followers. No, he was not that foolish. He was going simply to sit alone on this hard bench and breathe deeply, to stop his tiny and icy heart from bursting and breaking down into invisible pieces. He would think about other things. Not about Potter, not about sincere, real, little Draco. The first one would die soon, the second didn't exist anymore. He'd just invented him to adjust future mistakes and failures. That idiot.

… … …

Being surrounded by kind, loving people, sitting in a warm compartment next to his best friend, who was telling another one of his usual if not-so-funny jokes, Harry Potter was beaming and thought he was really happy.

The station was overcrowded as usual. He arrived there with the other Weasley's and met with the always bushy-haired Hermione, who was smiling at him. Embracing her he smelled vanilla and sweet berries, and he thought he was really incredibly lucky with his faithful, loyal true friends… Although she was unbelievable boring, although sometimes he wanted to shout at her for relating so standardly to his thoughts and actions, he… probably loved her… That was his usual Hermione, the best Hogwarts pupil, a dishevelled but useful scarecrow. In addition his best friend Ron loved her. Not in such a way as Harry did, but loved. Harry trusted Ron and his opinion. That meant it was something he should trust his friend for. Once he had obeyed Ron and rejected the slender hand stretched to him. Seemed it was right then, wasn't it...? But every night he asked himself again and again: how would it have worked if we were friends…?

Harry Potter is Draco Malfoy's friend, who is a pupil of the serpent's house Slytherin, Severus Snape's apprentice, Gryffindor's frantic foe, lowdown stinker, Voldemort's follower… No, the last one was beyond any common sense. The likelihood is that Draco is Voldemort's victim. Betrayed by his own people.

He thought of it again and again. And even today being at the station embracing Hermione, he caught impossibly bright, shining glares at the carriage's entrance. Hunching up the slim figure tried his best to push enormous cases in. And Harry felt a strong desire, almost a physical pain, near giddiness to come up to the blond haired boy and help him. You know everything is easier when there are two. For example to to survive. Or… love.

He shook his head to make all the wrong thoughts clear out of his mind. He certainly didn't go up to help. An enemy is an enemy. Nothing had changed. Even if he could overcome himself, offering his hand to his foe before an indignant crowd's eyes, nothing would change anyway. Maybe something on the surface would appear to change, but deep inside their feelings would remain the same. Draco Malfoy would be Draco Malfoy. And if Draco wouldn't reject someone's hand in help, especially his, no grateful word would escape from his lips, he would leave without turning back and forget his weakness, and probably begin to hate Harry more for catching him in this weak moment and demonstrating to everybody his all-too-human foibles, his imperfection, his scared helplessness, his need not to be lonely.

Harry sighed sadly. But nobody noticed his heart was heavy. Even his friends. He loved them… Damn... He still loves them. Why didn't they see he felt bad...? He inspired them with hope. And they would be smiling 'till the last breath. But what would remain for him...? If Voldemort didn't kill him, if he won but there were innocent victims he would go and crush his head himself. Let it crack exactly along his scar! His hated scar! The mark scorched by absolute evil. They imposed this glory on him. But he did nothing to tell you the truth. He just existed. And he still simply was here. A useless child. What did they want him to do...? To die for everybody's sake...? Let it be! He was tired of feeling their curious glares burning a hole in his back, he was tired of facing the questioning gazes of silly and naïve wizards! They didn't understand he was just a boy. He could nothing. He was not able to carry this heavy burden which was beyond his strength, because of the idiotic prophecy! It would be better he had snuffed it sixteen years ago!

Then everything would have worked out another way. The world would have submitted to Voldemort's power. People would have lived feeling not fear, but resignation. They wouldn't have known another life, another destiny. Probably Hermione and her parents wouldn't have been alive at this moment. They would have been killed for their mud blood. Perhaps Weasley would have been spared. Pure blood met rarely in the wizarding world. And the Malfoys would have gone on with the pride of their famous and noble genus, of the ability to be so close to the Dark Master and their great riches. And Draco Malfoy would have been so happy. He wouldn't have been afraid of making a wrong step, failing in his father's eyes, he wouldn't have been afraid of his Lord's angriness, he would have had everything besides Harry Potter's friendship. But if he would have known of this possibility being in the other reality...? What would Draco have actually known about the one year old child who had died many, many years ago? And Draco Malfoy wouldn't have felt pity. Even for a moment. And there wouldn't have been any hate, which is still his fixed idea. The hate caused by his rejection. Nobody had rejected Draco Malfoy before.

But Harry felt ashamed that he had done it, he was sorry he hadn't accept the pale, cold Slytherin's hand. And if he could not change the destiny but cut the time back, he would act another way. He would have squeezed the icy, slim fingers in his own ones, warm and swarthy. He would have shared this warmth with another man. Dying,on death's watch Draco Malfoy. Then Harry had a chance to save an innocent and hesitating boy. But now…

He closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness he saw Draco from his dream again. He was perfect. Cold in the eyes. No, it was a caustic freeze. Winter. White shining snow like his skin and hair. His eyes were shimmering stars. He was cold and haughty. But… alive...?

I can't turn the tide of the war with my smile or some silly words… But I can turn myself and you with this. I want it. If you want it too – what is the question… He couldn't stand being in the stuffy compartment anymore. He raised dramatically and didn't answer his friends' "Where are you?", he opened the door impetuously and dropped out into the corridor, feeling excruciating pain, bloodied hammers in his temples, and unbidden tears burnt his eyes and pressed against his throat. Where are you...? It seemed as if light shadow flickered at the end of the corridor. Where are you… I was close to you but a stranger for such a long time, I didn't notice that happiness was so close...

… … …

He just chose the easiest way. It was much simpler to hate Potter than…

He stopped those awful thoughts interrupted himself, became oblivious to his surroundings as he gazed unseeingly through the window. It was empty and dull there. Like in his eyes and soul. He dropped his heavy eyelids for a moment to calm down, sighed deeply, and gave a quick look round the empty compartment. The look stopped at the sliding door. He saw a flickering male figure through the dusty glass. And he recognized this figure at once, as if that man had stopped for ages to let him know who he was. Draco certainly recognized him. He whom he watched during long years, every hour, past every stressful moment and through all the curious gazes, he watched him every minute he was able, every here second…

Dark shaggy hair, piercing green eyes, a swarthy face, a famous scar. Harry Potter. Frowning as he passed rapidly like an arrow by Draco's compartment, a thin string in his soul was touched, something infinitely important and fragile broke down, made him doubt everything at once, rumpled all his thoughts and feelings except the last one, frightening and scared, what couldn't be named by Draco because he was afraid of it. Little by little the storm in his soul was overcome. Draco blinked and remembered who he was and who Harry Potter was. This helped him to pull himself together and put on the familiar icy mask, restraining from impulsive actions. But he was… he was about to rush after Potter, touch his warm shoulder impatiently, get lost in those eternally green pools and confess… what…? To whom…? Draco, come to your senses, please… Are you bored with your life? Aren't you ready to finish all, betray everybody, to turn everything to dust, to break the brittle balance, to vitiate your holies, to deny your faith and truth…? You know to whom you serve? You know whose enemy he is. You know what you are to each other. You know your order and fate. A betrayer… A venomous and bitter word. It is the mark on your life. On your wounded spirit. You have already died, fool. You had died in that moment you stretched your unhesitating hand to the dark-haired boy, you were sure in the rightness of your actions and devilish feelings then. Then you made something more than just a friend out of everybody's favorite and your Lord's sworn enemy, of whom you'd heard a lot but knew nothing at all.

You have destroyed everything yourself. You have killed yourself. And it is time to kill him. It is your last chance to rise from your grave. Haven't you got any choice…? Haven't you ever had it…? Your parents, teachers and Godfather always made the decisions instead of you… But now you are fed up with it, with the adamant obedience that bubbles furiously in your throat, you are an uncontrolled rebel, you are fed up and bored with everything, which is hateful and sickening, you are ready to go against dispensations, destroying the borders and stepping beyond. You are ready… to betray everybody and yourself committing something unexpected and thoughtless. Potter… Potter… Potter… He is your curse, the name engraved on your marble inter vivos. But he will not be your deadly sin, Draco. He will be your savior.

… … …

"You've stopped saving the world and now your friends fling you aside like an old boot?" he asked with a mocking voice, the familiar gnashing of his teeth and a happy, triumphal smile at the same time. His foe's head was thrown up sharply, there was confusion, fright… and… hope – why was there hope…? – in his big, smooth-as-a-lake, clear green eyes.

"Malfoy…?" said with the same absolutely inappropriate hope.

"Potter," said heavily and tonelessly. He felt half-hearted inside.

Why had he gone up and addressed him…? As if he needed one more sophisticated dose of absolute hatred. But gazing at the steady bright light of his emerald eyes, hearing the thrilling and hesitating voice of his enemy, he didn't feel his former sense of emptiness but relaxed and free. He always won their battles of words. He was better with words, more biting with injures, ruder with his venomous jokes. And he very much liked the fury that bubbled in his green eyes; the clenched fists gone pale, the voice raised to a shout out of hatred. He wanted to injure and hurt the way you do, but couldn't because it's you who was born to make the others suffer and feel pain.

But now going up to Harry, he had a strong, sharp desire to justify his last opinion, prove to himself that all between them was still the same, to suggest the false truth, Draco made himself freeze again and resist a momentary impulse of his suddenly melted heart, he found there was no affection in the Golden Boy's eyes and voice.

There wasn't that familiar, dearly loved and cherished yearly, daily hatred. Without feeling that he couldn't hate Potter in vain. He couldn't spit poison, hiss injures, lie, lie, lie and lie again... Everything rushed infuriately in his mind, getting rumpled, burning out, reducing to ashes… The heart ached with unknown feeling.

"Why does it work this way, Potter…?" Draco said suddenly. And Harry caught a deadly dull, a tiredness in his voice…

"What do you mean?" he asked in a strained and refractory voice. His green eyes stared keenly at the beautiful, arrogant face. Now Draco looked the same as in Harry's dream. Hiding all his emotions up skillfully he didn't look dangerous and wicked, but perfect. In his dream they were nipped and tucked together. Their hands were linked furiously and fingers interweaved tenderly.

"Doesn't matter. Forget it." Blinking away, Draco Malfoy came to his senses. Giving Harry a sharp look, he turned away and was gone.

Harry followed him with his sad and thoughtful eyes.