Stars As Bright Spots Only

by Slytherincesss

Draco Malfoy is struggling to maintain his sanity while carrying out his duties as a sixteen-year-old Death Eater. The events of Half-Blood Prince as told from Draco's POV *NEW* HP/DM DM/PP PP/GM *SLASH* *MULTI-PAIRINGS*

Title: Stars As Bright Spots Only
Author: Slytherincess
Pairing(s)/Characters: Harry/Draco; Draco/Pansy; Pansy/Montague
Summary: Draco Malfoy is struggling to maintain his sanity while carrying out his duties as a sixteen-year-old Death Eater. Draco tries to take solace in Polyjuice, a loyal friend, and an enchanted hand mirror, and finds there's more than meets the eye in the Mirror of Erised. The events of Half-Blood Prince as interpreted from Draco's POV.
Prompt: "I say there are spots that don't come off . . . Spots that never come off, d'you know what I mean?" Mad-Eye Moody Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
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.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 66,600
Warnings: Please take a moment and note all the listed pairings and the fic rating of NC-17/Adult, and all implications therein. Spoilers for Pottermore in the Author Notes.
Spoilers (Highlight to read): Post-OOTP AU; Explicit Sexual Content; Unredeemed!Draco; Bisexual!Draco; Death Eater!Draco; Bisexual!Harry; Mental Illness; Depression; Hallucinations; Altered Reality; Character Death (as it happens in canon Half-Blood Prince); Romance; Angst; Polyjuice Sexual Activity; Epilogue Compliant; Happily-Never-After; POTTERMORE SPOILERS IN AUTHOR NOTES.
Author notes: Canon for purposes of this fest refers to book canon and secondary canon (i.e. interviews with J.K. Rowling and information available from her and her personal website, as well as the new Pottermore site); movie canon is excluded. Please note that this fic explores an H/D relationship during Half-Blood Prince and also equally focuses on Draco's relationship with Pansy during the same time. Note the rating of NC-17. This fic tells the story of Half-Blood Prince from Draco's POV; therefore, in numerous instances, I have directly quoted canon dialogue and exposition from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Please refer to my disclaimer. Consider all these instances sourced and fully credited by me. I cannot thank enough my beta readers: Allysonsedai and Groolover. You guys rock!

Stars As Bright Spots Only

Do not look at stars as bright spots only. Try to take in the vastness of the universe. Maria Mitchell

"I say there are spots that don't come off . . . Spots that never come off, d'you know what I mean?" Mad-Eye Moody Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Tamper with the deepest mysteries
the source of life, the essence of self
only if prepared for consequences of
the most extreme and dangerous kind . . .

Adalbert Waffling's Fundamental Laws of Magic The Tales of Beedle the Bard

No matter where it's moved to, the invisible tendrils of the mirror snake about the castle at night, culling the vulnerable through their dreams, beckoning subconsciously even to the haughty and impervious. Inevitably, here comes one who can no longer take the torture, the pain of the heart's deepest desire, the taunting of the unattainable, and that one grabs up an object a forgotten palantir from the Middle Ages, or an iron bookend, or perhaps a lopsided Quaffle, hardened and its leather disintegrating and cracked from years of disuse and hurls it straight into the mirror's smoky centre, shattering it onto the cold, cobbled floor in a million tinkling shards. Somehow Dumbledore always knows when this occurs, and he and Filch come straight away and collect the pieces into a specially charmed sack, so they may be destroyed. They hurry the remnants of glass away to Dumbledore's office, and the mirror is relocated yet again.

The mirror rebuilds itself at night, alone and unsettled in its new home; its glass stitches itself back together in the mirror's frame with a faint creaking sound, like a distant ice floe bending and groaning in unyielding, frigid waters. It never feels at home; it cannot help what it is, or what it reflects to those who happen upon its deceptively benign pewter reflection. Its surface is faded and streaked with charcoal spotting, and it matters not how many times it regenerates anew the human spirit shall never be sparkling and bright, or without flaw; the mirror would be disingenuous if it presented itself thusly.

Dumbledore is wise to seek every last shard.

It comes to pass that a lonely, despondent seventh-year finds the mirror, and after a week or more of gazing into its tainted impressions, the hulking boy uses not an object, but his own hands to destroy the mirror. He pushes against the mirror's flat, cool glass, screaming and crying until it topples over backwards, spraying the room in all directions with raining fragments of glass. Dumbledore hurries, but this time it's a right royal mess, and the timing is all wrong the headmaster hasn't time for mirror games this day. No time for games on the day one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes lies in wait. He collects the glass, Accioing, his heart half in it. Filch is down on his hands and knees, collecting, and Dumbledore decides to place the mirror in the Room of Requirement until he has adequate time to deal with it. He slings the bag of glass at his side as he makes his way down to his office, and he conjures a flame strong enough to obliterate the traces of the broken mirror forever. This time he sends Snape to relocate the mirror, and he hastens to attend to the ring the ring and the mirror itself understands it is in great danger right now. Fear drives the little ones to seek their solace in fantasy. Erised is on alert.

In the attic where Erised had been housed just before, a single, undiscovered shard of glass twitches once, twice, and then falls free from underneath the couch, where it had become impaled during one of Dumbledore's perfunctory Accios. It falls but four inches or so to the floor with a hollow tinkling sound and, like the splintered remnants of an enchanted broom hacked to bits might, it turns over on itself as it seeks to rise from its metaphorical ashes. It works diligently on its rebirth, for it is a sentient, patient thing, and its efforts are soon rewarded. The familiar stretching, gritty knitting sound of regenerating glass pricks through the silence of the forgotten attic room, and the new mirror's silver frame gives a metallic groan as it forms itself around the oval of the glass, tarnish bleeding throughout the sterling grooves like ink might seep into a new, fibrous sheet of parchment. It gives a long shudder as it completes itself, an elegant, slender handle winding downwards from the base two vines of silver twisting in on one another to merge finally into a single, delicate point.

This happens two days after Umbridge's departure.

It's always the littlest ones who give into their restlessness first. The attics crawl with firsties and second-years, their youthful hands still slightly pudgy and dimpled with a trace of their fading childhoods; they search, seek, and distract themselves with games of hide-and-seek, and by rifling through the ancient storybooks stored in the topmost towers, the books' pages so yellowed and fragile with age they threaten to turn to dust at the mere touch of a hand, their pages crinkling sharply as they're turned. Little footsteps scuttle about, trunks creak open, lids lift, curtains part, fingers fiddle and hunt. Whispered words of make-believe are absorbed by the ancient walls enclosing them all.

The handmirror is patient; after four days a handful of spilt Gobstones clatters and bounces across the floor and comes to rest under the couch. Within seconds a warm, pink hand is probing through the cobwebs hanging from its horsehair underside, reaching to collect its owner's lost treasures. "Lumos," a little voice incants, and then "Oh!" as the light from a wand's tip reflects sharply from the mirror's surface, and then the mirror is dragged out from its hiding spot, the few remaining Gobstones forgotten. Different fingers will find those again another day.

The little girl stands, straightening upwards, and she holds the mirror up and gazes into its flawed, ghostly surface. She cocks her head and purses her lips, and examines her reflection. She's costumed herself in a great, towering witch's hat made of deep purple velvet, and a musty multi-coloured Diricawl boa; feathers drift down from her shoulders and disappear into the floor with a silent poof as they touch down. Her hair is crazy with static, strands standing on end. Her eyebrows furrow; she turns her head and glances at herself sideways, and studies herself. Her nose is straight and sloping, her fringe chunky and stark, her eyes are wide-spaced and a warm brown all quite ordinary, really. She has a face she needs to grow into before it will become interesting, and her shoulders are too round, but her legs are powerful and her mind fluid and fine. The Ravenclaw second-year makes kissy faces at her reflection, strange thoughts filling her mind. She is too young to make sense of them, but the seeds are planted, and time will water them to fruition. She drops her remaining Gobstones back into her pocket and runs her finger across the faint script etched into the frame's delicate top: keesuoy epohes lafehttonse ilniereh renial pedameb tonna cytilaer nehw.

She's twelve and fancies herself a budding sophisticate, an aesthete in training if you will, and she imagines this mirror laid out on her bedside table alongside her special hairbrush and her tiny atomiser filled with sweet pea scent her father gave her on her birthday the month past. She departs the room in the wake of floating feathers from her boa, and the hat falls over her eyes as she half-skips, half-trots down the twisting stone staircases and makes her way towards Ravenclaw tower; the mirror's handle soon grows slick from her warm grasp and a vaguely metallic scent tinges the surrounding air as her light perspiration mixes with sterling silver. She bursts into the common room, her treasure in tow, yet before she can make her way to her room, her seventh-year brother is on her.

"What's this?" he asks, plucking it from her grasp, after he admonishes her for disappearing into the towers of the castle and missing dinner.

"Give it to me!" she objects, reaching.

He whisks it above his head with a flourish. "Where'd you find this? This isn't yours."

"It was in one of the attics!" she explains, resting her hands on her hips. "It's unwanted and abandoned, so I thought I'd bring it here."

"You can't just take things you find," he says, not unkindly; he is a decent older brother. "I'll hand it in to Professor Flitwick tomorrow after prefect rounds." Her face falls in disappointment and she sheds more feathers, so he offers her special-order sweets to make up for having to be a prat about it.

The mirror instead goes to his night table; later that evening his roommate picks it up. "What's this?"

"Some old mirror my sister found," the boy explains, not looking up from the essay he's working on at his desk. "I'm returning it to Flitwick later."

The other boy examines it. "What would Flitwick want with this old thing?" he wonders aloud; he mentions the girl he fancies, trying to not sound too invested. "She likes antiques." He pokes his friend in the shoulder blade with the mirror. "Can I give it to her?"

"I dunno." The brother is preoccupied with his N.E.W.T.s preparations and can't be arsed to consider the mirror. "I should probably give it to Flitwick, seeing as I told the ickle sister I'd be returning it."

"You nicked that tea set from the attics for that Hufflepuff bird last autumn, and did I say anything?" the other boy wheedles. "C'mon!"

"Fine. Whatever. Just leave off already, would you? I'm busy!"

"Brilliant!" The second boy brings the mirror over to his bed and lays it on the folded blanket at its footboards. "Thanks, mate!"

"Mmhmm." He is concentrating on Runes; his sister's treasure is already forgotten.

The Ravenclaw boy wraps the mirror in a square of brocade and ties it closed with a velvet ribbon; he writes the object of his affection's proper name on a bit of card and as he's carrying it towards the library, where he knows she'll be, he plans how he will place it in the stacks by the Arithmancy books, as that's what she loves best and he imagines watching her find it, imagines her raising her head to see him standing there, waiting for her. A smile plays at his face as he strides down the fifth-floor corridor, but then his heart is pounding and fear slices through him like a knife, for he knows the distant sounds of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, and there's no way in hell he's letting those cretins get hold of his treasure. He is smart and sharp and quick on his feet, and before he knows what he's doing the DA member inside him summons his need, and the crumbling, creaking sound of the door to the Room of Requirement opening comes; in an instant he's inside, the door closing behind him.

There are millions of objects. Literally, millions. He looks around, trying to hurry. There! A cabinet. It's big enough that he'll be able to find it when he comes back, yet unobtrusive enough to escape interest and notice. He dashes over and flings the doors open; they echo as they hit the sides of the cabinet. The sound of the crumbling wall issues forth again. Someone is coming! The doors won't latch again; the left one keeps swinging open. And so he slams it with all his might and wrenches the handle down, down, down, until he feels something give and he hears a clicking chaining sound of bending metal. Quickly he taps his wand against its handles. "Impervio!" And then he scurries under a table swathed in fallen tapestries to hide, and he's stuck there for four bloody hours while Draco Malfoy faffs around doing God knows what.

Starting shortly after he took the Dark Mark, Draco Malfoy began seeing shadows.

By himself, in the Room of Requirement, he saw shadows that weren't really there. From the corner of his eye he saw figures move, just out of his periphery. When he turned with a jerk there was no one and nothing there. The world became small and myopic; it was like having a fishbowl over his head. Straight in front of him was clear too clear, too focused, almost painfully so while everything around his central focal point was warped and blurred with the faintest hint of rainbow shimmer on the outward skirts of his vision. He existed in a perpetual state of d?vu, where everything, while technically familiar, seemed wrong and strange and bizarre. Draco knew he was himself, but he didn't feel it in his core. He felt like a stranger living his own life, all things recognisable, yet not. And while, when he was being logical, Draco understood that all the mental things that were happening to him were stress-induced, it didn't make them any less frightening and isolating to endure.

He was completely alone.

It had started with the Dark Mark.

"I don't want to!" he'd said to Lucius, just hours before Lucius had been escorted to Azkaban. "Talk to Him. Make Him change His mind!"

"The Dark Lord doesn't change His mind," Lucius had drawled, calmly thumbing through the Daily Prophet, as if it were just another day like always. "It is indeed surprising that He summons you so soon. Yet, have you ever considered He wants your loyalty because of your skills? You are a prodigious wizard, son."

Draco knew a line of bullshit when he heard it. "Bollocks," he'd snorted. "It's because of you . . . it's because you dropped that prophecy . . . He doesn't want me for anything. He wants to kill me to get back at you! I'm useless to Him."

Lucius had looked at Draco. "If you ever suggest such a thing again, I shall kill you myself, as an embarrassment to the family." He'd folded his paper up, taking his time. "This is your birthright, son. This is your purpose. It matters not how long our life is, but what we accomplish during our days on Earth. Do you understand this?"

Draco hadn't. Not at all. "Yes," he'd said, though, not wanting to appear daft.

"Perhaps your life's trajectory is meant to be a short one. I regret it, if that is so."

"But," Draco had pleaded, "it doesn't have to be so!"

"You are not loyal to the cause."

"I am "

"You wish to see our world flooded by Muggles and half-bloods and Mudbloods. Is there something you're not telling me, Draco? Could it be that you fancy a Mudblood? You talk of the Granger girl incessantly. Perhaps you doth protest too much . . . "

"What?" Draco had sputtered. He thanked God Lucius was no Legilimens; he didn't want Lucius knowing who he fancied. "NO. Absolutely not. Never." And he'd meant it, too. That swotty Mudblood made him sick. "It's just that all the teachers favour her " Something moved in his periphery then, something like a giant insect, but when he turned there was nothing in sight. Draco rubbed his eyes. Merlin only knew he wasn't sleeping well those days. Sometimes two or three nights would go by without a wink.

"Even Snape?"

"Well, no," Draco had conceded. "Not Snape." His tone became boastful. "I'm Snape's favourite, Father."

"I should not like for you to be any more."

Draco's smile faltered. "But . . . why?"

"Snape is traitorous," Lucius had snarled, fixing his cold, grey eyes on his only child. "He is a double agent. He lies. And what does the Dark Lord do? He gives the traitor my seat at his right hand. Well, I'm telling you now, Draco, I don't intend to sit at the other side of the table any longer. I expect you to set Snape aside."

"But " It had distressed Draco to think of giving up his mentor, of giving up being favoured, but the indignity of Snape usurping Lucius's power from the Dark Lord angered him. Snape, he'd thought, a traitor? He didn't know one way or another, but he would play his cards close to his chest from then on. Snape. That bloody sodding liar. A visceral hatred had ignited in his gut, burning low and simmering there.

So he had. Set Snape aside, that is. And Snape knew it.

Draco tapped the ornate pewter handle of the Vanishing Cabinet. Hesitating, he incanted, "Reparo!" There came a creaking sound, as if someone were walking across an upstairs floorboard. He jiggled the handle and then bore down.

The handle remained stuck. If Draco couldn't even open the cabinet, how in Merlin's name was he going to figure out what was wrong on the inside?

After the hundredth attempt on the cabinet had failed, Draco was grasping at straws.

"Open, Sesame!"

Nothing.

"One potato, two potato, three potato, four. Five potato, six potato, open up the door!"

Not a sound.

He sank into a dusty green pouffe next to a table full of lamps and cords and plugs, and he dropped his head into his hand and wept.

Draco found the copy of Silly Songs and Sayings for Slytherins tucked away in a stack of formidable Dark Arts books that were balanced at the top of a pile of chairs and tables. He remembered that his mother had given him the same book for his sixth birthday and that it was still in his bookcase at home. He turned right away to page twenty-three and read aloud from the book, even though he had it memorised.

'As I walked to myself,
And I talked to myself,
Myself said unto me:
"Look to thyself,
Take care of thyself,
For nobody cares for thee."

I answered myself
And said to myself
In the same self repartee:
"Look to thyself,
Or not look to thyself,
The selfsame thing will be.'"

His father had liked this one. Lucius had never been big on relying on others for anything and he taught Draco accordingly.

He'd indoctrinated Draco and Draco was suspicious and paranoid when it came to offers of help from others; he rejected them, no matter how in need of assistance he was. In this instance, he knew that the only people who could help him would be the last to offer.

He was utterly alone.

"Why do we have to do this?" Goyle asked, whinging.

"Yeah," said Crabbe. "I don't want to do Polyjuice. I've heard it hurts."

"Shut up and just drink it!" Draco ladled glopping heaps of Polyjuice into two separate glasses for them each. "Put in the hairs." He had watched earlier as Crabbe and Goyle yanked at two Slytherin firsties' heads, pulling a fair amount of hair, ignoring the little girls' tears. Crabbe and Goyle had only laughed.

Crabbe puked up his Polyjuice; Draco made him drink another dose, and he clamped his hand over Crabbe's mouth until he was sure the potion would take. The bubbling skin and the cries of a thousand swallowed pins soothed him. His plan would work. It had to work. He remembered the last thing his father had said to him before Fudge that hypocritical, lying toerag and a bevy of Dementors had arrived at Malfoy Manor to take Lucius to Azkaban: The survival of our family is on your shoulders, son. Fail, and He will kill us all.

He had been sixteen years old. By less than four weeks.

He didn't want to be responsible for saving anyone.

It was the source of his deepest shame, for what could possibly be more un-Slytherin than to not seek self-preservation at any cost? What he had really wanted to do was to run, to disappear.

He had wanted more than anything to become a Muggle. The Muggles would have just thought him a silly boy with a tattoo on his forearm. He wondered, did the Dark Mark wriggle and writhe in the Muggle world?

It was hot as blazes, yet Draco couldn't wear short sleeves any more. No t-shirts for him. It would reveal that he was Marked, and even Crabbe and Goyle didn't know this about him. He was so isolated now. He hadn't realised it at the time, as it was happening, but the last boyish thing he would ever do had already come to pass: an impromptu game of Quidditch with Nott, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Baddock on his sixteenth birthday. The girls had cheered them on from the ground.

And then three weeks later, after his mother had fed him belated birthday cake, he'd embarrassed himself by crying out when the Dark Lord had burnt His Mark into Draco's left forearm. He'd gasped and pulled back, and Lucius had smacked him on the back of the head hard enough for him to see stars. "Control yourself," Lucius had hissed. But more and more Draco could do anything but.

And then what became the saving word had come a fortnight after Draco had been assigned his mission by Voldemort.

"Graham Montague's finally conscious," Narcissa had said over breakfast one morning. "I spoke with Aurelie this morning and she says Graham's restless and wants company. The Healers still have him confined to bed for the next week. We'll leave around eleven."

"Do I have to go?"

"Of course! Who came to see you when you had that awful case of newt warts?"

"All he wants to talk about is Quidditch."

"Are you not a sixteen-year-old boy? What else should you be discussing other than Quidditch?"

Oh, I don't know, Mother. How to kill Professor Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard in recorded history? "Girls?" Draco'd ventured.

"Oh really? And who's the special girl?" Narcissa asked, giving him a most revolting knowing smile.

"God, Mother, no one, all right? I was just saying in general."

"What about Daphne Greengrass?" Narcissa said. "She's darling."

"No. Yeah. Maybe. Just forget it. What time are we leaving?" He distracted her.

"Eleven, I said."

"Fine."

"Montague." He stretched out in the chair next to Montague's bed.

"Malfoy."

"You look like shit!"

"I know, yeah? It's the Splinching. Scarred me up."

Draco examined Graham Montague's face. He had a deep scarlet scar curving around his left ear and down the side of his throat. It disappeared into his shirt. "You Splinched your ear off?"

"That, and my feet, plus my left leg."

Draco let out a low whistle. "How'd you survive?"

"Dunno? Cold water in that toilet stemmed the bloodflow, I guess."

"What was it like being in a toilet?"

"Wet. It didn't smell too good either."

"So, if someone tried to flush, would it just sit there on top of your head?"

"Yeah, it was royally gross."

"But how'd you survive underwater for weeks?"

"I wasn't in the toilet for weeks! Those bloody Weasley twins shoved me into that Vanishing Cabinet. Thought I'd starve to death! I just kept hearing Hogwarts, and then I'd hear Borgin and Burkes, and then Hogwarts again. It went on and on."

"Borgin and Burkes?"

"Yeah." Montague adopted a solicitous, oily tone, imitating Mr. Borgin. "Oh, Mr. Montague, how lovely to see you today. A connoisseur like yourself will undoubtedly be interested in the new African items I've received this week "

Draco was laughing. "Oh, Mr. Malfoy, as always it is a privilege to serve you and your noble home. What shall I interest you in? Medieval torture devices or more modern dark items?"

"Bloody sod's deaf as a doornail, I reckon. Called out to him a million times while I was lost and he never once came looking for me."

"Why would he come looking for you?" Draco was confused.

"Obviously, Malfoy," Montague said, "if I could hear him, he should have been able to hear me." He adopted a confidential tone. "I think it's because I nicked that jar full of shrunken heads last year." Montague looked haughty. "It's not like he would dare accuse me. Not with my father . . . " He flicked a knowing brow.

"So all you could hear was Borgin?"

"Well, Burke too. And, no, like I said, sometimes I'd hear Hogwarts."

"What'd'you mean?"

"I dunno. It was like I was changing locations. Heard a lot of secrets while I was in that ruddy cabinet, you know. Like who's snogging who and who fancies who and all that shit."

"Merlin, is that all people talk about?" On that point Draco himself, he had decided, was decidedly asexual. He'd figured it was just another damn thing that was wrong with him.

"Yeah. That, and Umbridge's rules."

"Glad to be rid of her."

"The Inquisitorial Squad was bloody brilliant, though. I'll miss it."

Draco had to agree. "Isn't that what got you into trouble in the first place? Trying to give those ginger genetic anomalies detention?"

"Nah, I was just taking points from them for being so ruddy ugly."

"The whole lot've them are ugly. Maybe that's why they have so many bloody kids. They keep trying for a good-looking one!"

"Rotten luck with that," Montague noted, smiling quite meanly. "The girl's fit, all right. Too many freckles, but a helluva head of hair. Girl gingers are fine. It's the blokes that freak me out."

Draco hadn't thought about it. "I guess. Full blown blood-traitors, though."

"May as well be Mudbloods for all the Wizarding pride that family has."

"Or lack thereof."

"That's what I meant."

"Right."

"So, Malfoy," Montague said, clearing his throat, "the Healers say I won't be able to play Quidditch next year "

"Yeah? Rotten luck."

"Yeah. It's because of my leg. Anyway, I thought you'd make a good captain."

"Why?"

Montague raised an eyebrow. "That's not exactly the reaction I was expecting." Quidditch captain was a highly coveted position.

Draco couldn't care less about Quidditch at present. "No, that's good of you to say."

"You want it?"

"Want what?"

"Captain! What do you think?" Montague shook his head. "Geez!"

"Uh, sure, I guess . . . "

"Who else'm I going to give it to?"

"I don't know . . . Urquhart?"

"Malfoy, what's wrong with you? You've wanted to be captain since you bought your way onto the team."

"I think it was a solid investment on Slytherin's part. I've done well for the House." Draco raised his chin, scowling. How dare Montague suggest that Draco buying his way onto the team hadn't been a brilliant move. It wasn't that Urquhart the other candidate for Slytherin's Seeker back in the day wasn't a decent enough player, but Draco was actually better, plus he had had the brooms to offer. Oddly, it was the brooms that people always remembered. Funny that. He shrugged.

"That's why I'm asking you, you ruddy dolt."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"So, how'd you get out of that Vanishing Cabinet finally?" Draco didn't want to talk about Quidditch.

"Apparated." Montague looked at Draco as if Draco were mad, seeing as the damage from his Splinching was as plain as day. "Are you blind? Have we not just been having this conversation?"

"But you're not seventeen yet!" Draco objected.

"Next week. Bloody hell, Malfoy, you're so uptight. I'll have to get you pissed or something. Get you to loosen up."

Despite his propensity for off-the-cuff verbal abuse and the ability to attack viciously at the slightest provocation, Draco Malfoy had an almost preternatural need for order. "But still. You didn't even take the class."

Montague dropped his voice. "Art taught me to Apparate." Art was Aurelie Montague's latest husband. She and Blaise Zabini's mother rivalled one another for the most number of marriages.

"Lucky for you."

"Bloody well right. It'd do you good to learn. Forget waiting for Wilkie Twycross, Malfoy. You never know when you'll need to Apparate in a pinch."

"So you Apparated into the toilet?"

"Not on purpose. I was trying for the cubicle."

"Ah."

"So, do you think Pansy would go out with me?"

Draco glanced at the fine scar twisting its way around Montague's head and neck. "Dunno. I don't think she fancies anyone."

"Dumb arse!" Montague laughed. "She fancies you."

"What? No, she doesn't."

"Uh, since you were in nappies, yeah?"

Pansy was the closest thing Draco had to a best friend not that he'd admit it, mind, for she was a girl and it was decidedly uncool to not chum around with male mates. "I don't think so. Pansy's just . . . Pansy . . ." He didn't even know what she was.

"She's fit, Malfoy. Do yourself a favour." Montague shifted positions, seeming uncomfortable. Draco had the urge to punch down into his pillows. "Take her."

Draco couldn't have been less interested in girls at that moment. The nature of his task was already consuming him, and although he craved Pansy's attention in general she did always know how to make him feel good and soothed he had no desire to go on the pull with anyone.

"Pansy's my friend," Draco reiterated.

"So that's how it is?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm asking her out. You know she snogged me once "

"Wait what? When?" Draco'd snogged Pansy, too, after the Yule Ball. It had all seemed very experimental. She'd told him that he was her first kiss, which had surprised him because Pansy spent a lot of time with Theodore Nott as well.

"After Quidditch last year, when we beat Ravenclaw." Montague shrugged. "Dunno. We'd just been hanging out a lot. Not sure why. But she snogged me " He gave Draco a knowing look. " and it was hot. But then the thing with the cabinet happened and here I am."

It made Draco highly uncomfortable to think of Pansy snogging Montague and he wasn't entirely sure why. They were both fit, her and Montague he could recognise that but he felt possessive of Pansy. Her time should be devoted to him. Hmm, he thought. Maybe I'll try snogging her again. Get her mind off Montague. He wondered if he'd be able to pluck up the courage. There was always Firewhisky. Pansy liked to imbibe as much of the rest of them did. He made a mental note to snog Pansy. He wasn't about to share.

"Yeah," Draco said, though, "go for it. If she fancies you, you'll know soon enough."

And if Pansy fancied Draco he'd know soon enough, too.

So Draco invited Pansy over to the Manor a couple of weeks later, just to hang out (well, he did have a plan). He could tell she looked pretty, what with her summery pink outfit with a short skirt and barely-there top, dark sunglasses, and her long blonde hair secured in a loose ponytail. She had a few loose tendrils floating about her face that looked purposefully messy, but good. Pansy had beautiful eyes no matter what a person thought of her funny nose, or how big a bitch they considered her, there was no denying she had large, gorgeous eyes the colour of the afternoon sky.

"Snog me," Draco said, after they'd goofed around for a bit and it got quiet. They were lying on his bed, smooshed together.

She laughed. "What?"

"You heard. Snog me."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to."

"Since when?"

He thought of when he'd had his conversation with Montague. "Since the seventeenth."

"Well, that's specific."

"Come on, Pansy, please?"

She stretched out alongside him, pressing herself against his side, and she looked down at him tenderly and stroked his hair, and he stared into her eyes, and . . .

"I don't think so," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"It just doesn't feel right. Draco?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

He was filled with the explosive need to just tell her, tell her that he'd been given a hopeless mission from Voldemort, and that he was scared, and that his father was in prison and the Ministry'd frozen most of the Malfoy Gringotts assets until only Merlin knew when, and that he just wanted to feel something that wasn't completely shitty. But even with her lying against him, he wasn't buzzing with much of anything except stress and the vague sensation that he had to take a piss. They'd had too much fizzy pop. Draco sighed, frustrated. Maybe he was a wizard with a shrivelled hairy heart.

"Nothing's wrong," Draco lied, trying to pull an innocent face. "I just can't stop thinking about you."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, honestly. Shut up."

"I'm serious."

She tilted her head, looking at him as she brushed at his hair with the back of her fingers. "You're mental, Draco Malfoy. Completely barmy. I adore you, you know, but " She paused and looked at him funnily, with what Draco perceived to be a mixture of sadness and longing and resolve. " but if we were meant to be snogging, we'd have kept doing it after the Yule Ball." She paused to tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. "And that was almost two years ago." She held his gaze. "Right?"

He thought about this. "But but, you let me put my head in your lap!"

"It comforts you." She squeezed his chest and settled in against him, her head on his shoulder. She draped her arm over his middle and he found this quite caring. It was just as good as snogging. He thought. Probably. Right?

"Didn't you like snogging me?" he asked, feeling petulant.

Pansy raised her head and looked at Draco for what felt to be a very long time. "Yes," she said. "I liked it. A lot." There was something in her tone, a wistfulness of sorts.

"Then why won't you "

"Draco," Pansy interrupted, "do you think Graham Montague fancies me?"

Bloody fucking hell. "How would I know?"

"You're friends with him?"

He frowned at her, not answering.

"Because I snogged him last year and sometimes it's all I can think about!"

"Have you seen him since, you know, his accident?"

"No, have you?"

"He got Splinched. Bad." Draco drew a finger around his ear and down his throat. "He's got a scar a mile long."

"Really?" Pansy asked, apparently intrigued; this was not the response Draco had been hoping for. He'd hoped she'd be revolted, put off. "How's his face?"

"Same as always," Draco admitted.

"Mmm. Brilliant!"

"Don't tell me you seriously fancy Montague!"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because," Draco sputtered, pushing her away. "He's not me."

"Oh, Draco. Don't tease me. We're best mates."

Draco sighed. So much for Montague thinking he knew what Pansy felt. "What if I do fancy you?" He didn't even know why he said it. It just fell out of his mouth.

She stared at him. "Don't ever joke about that again. It's unfair."

He didn't understand what she meant. "Huh?"

"Come on!" She fisted him in the shoulder. "There's someone for you. Just don't look so hard."

He'd awoken with a start a week before he was to return to Hogwarts.

He knew how to get his fellow Death Eaters into the school! Montague's cabinets . . . Montague'd been able to hear Borgin and Burkes and Hogwarts because there was a passage between the two. It was a broken passage, to be sure, but it was there, and Draco knew he'd make ready work of it. He'd dashed down the corridors from his part of the house to his mother's room, unable to keep from telling her straight away.

"Mother!" He shook her by the shoulder, gently, but firm enough to wake her. "Mother?"

"Draco? Are you ill? Do you need some Dr. Ubbly's "

"No, no! Tomorrow can I go to Knock to Diagon Alley?"

Narcissa was still half asleep. Draco's slip went unnoticed. "Well, I suppose, of course, but couldn't this have waited "

"No!" Draco said vehemently. "It couldn't."

Narcissa rose onto one elbow. Lucius's side of the bed was made up, unmussed, unused. "Why the hurry?"

"It's just I've thought of something, Mother! I I'm pretty sure I think I know how to . . . solve my problem . . . "

Narcissa was up in a flash; she cradled his head in her lap, just as she'd always done when he was hurting or stressed. "Oh, my son! My clever, bright boy!" She leaned down and kissed him, right above his ear, smoothing his hair back. "I never doubted that you wouldn't surmount this challenge. My smart, brilliant, special little boy!"

"God, Mother, stop!" Draco's ears flamed; he always felt uncomfortable when she did this. Well, okay, perhaps he actually was smart, brilliant, and special. There was a reason he was in Slytherin House and not Ravenclaw. Draco was all of those things and more he was cunning and sly and seductive when he wanted something, and he never failed to achieve a means to his end. He thought himself so Slytherin that he wondered if he were truly cold-blooded, cold-blooded like the serpent he took such great pride in. Draco was one who needed to lie directly in the sun to be warm.

"Perhaps the Unbreakable Vow won't be necessary after all," Narcissa said, smiling at him through the flickering light of the single candle she'd lit.

"Unbreakable Vow?"

"Yes," she said. "Snape."

"Snape made an Unbreakable Vow . . . for me?"

"For you, for me, what does it matter? The point is, no matter what, now you can only succeed."

A mixture of relief and annoyance washed through him. "I can do it by myself."

"Do not make such strong declarations about things you know nothing of."

"Haven't you before, Mother? Haven't you Didn't you kill "

"That was different," Narcissa said in a clipped tone. "It was war."

"Father says this is war "

"Were your father actually here, he could, of course, explain his position thoroughly more thoroughly than either of us'd care to know. But, Draco " Narcissa grasped his shoulders. " your father is gone."

For a moment he felt normal, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. "Will you scratch my back?"

She motioned to Lucius's side of the bed. "Come up, my love."

And he settled in, relaxing into his mother's wonderful touch.

As planned, Draco let Pansy stroke his hair on the Hogwarts Express, She got up to seek out Montague about halfway through their journey, seeming bored with Draco's bragging and innuendo about his errand for the Dark Lord. When Draco'd passed the seventh-year Slytherin car, he'd seen Pansy and Montague wrapped around one another, a handful of other seventh-years looking mortified as they cleared from the carriage, and he saw a flash of tongues as Montague and Pansy snogged, and Draco was very glad he was wearing his school robes and could hide the stirrings of his arousal.

It was odd, really, for an asexual boy with a hairy heart. He watched Pansy and Montague together, watched as Montague pushed Pansy down onto the bench seat and crawled over her to settle against her, and he managed a weak smile when Pansy caught sight of him through the window, in between kisses. She gave him the finger (lovingly, of course) and flicked her wand. Draco hit the floor, not fancying a hex or jinx from Pansy, but she was just lowering the blinds.

Draco wondered what they were doing at that particular moment as he looked over a group of firsties who looked worried and scared. He knew he had prefect duties, but he found he didn't care about bullying kids just now. Sod it. He returned to the sixth-year carriage, rejoining Vince, Gregory, and Theo. Blaise was nowhere to be seen; Goyle announced that Blaise was lunching it up with some new professor. DADA, Draco wagered.

Pansy returned after an hour.

Draco let out a low whistle. "I don't even want to say what you look like." Indeed it appeared Pansy had just endured a minor tropical storm. She set about straightening up, pulling various cosmetics and a hairbrush from her bag.

"Boo hiss," she said, recalcitrant, "don't hate me because I'm beautiful."

"Never that," Draco said, waiting for her to finish up so that he could have her lap back. "I hate you because you're conceited."

She wrinkled her nose at him. He liked it when she did that. "Is it my fault I'm highly snoggable?" she asked, baring her teeth to her little mirror. She rubbed a spot of pink lip gloss off a tooth.

"And humble."

It only took her a few minutes to regain a decent semblance of propriety, and Draco found himself stretched out again, hogging the bench as he used her jumper as a pillow against the side of her thigh. The compartment door slid open and Blaise slipped inside.

It was strange, but Blaise couldn't get the door shut again. Over and over he wrestled with the door; finally it slid shut, slamming with such great force that the window rattled in its frame.

Draco saw a shadow. He followed its trail upwards, and he stared at the overhead rack, quite sure he detected movement there.

It was Potter. He just knew it.

But he could wait. Wait for exactly the right moment.

He settled back onto Pansy's lap, opened his mouth, and began bragging again.

Later, at the Slytherin table, he gave her crap.

"Got shagged on the train, eh?" he whispered into her ear.

She smirked. "Practically." She smoothed her hair for the umpteenth time as she flashed Montague a brilliant smile down the table. "It's fair to say I needed to freshen up."

"Vile!" Draco said, shoving her until her elbow sunk into her mashed potatoes. "Slag!"

"Virgin!" she shot back. "Oh, pure one! Virtuous and in wait!"

He attacked her, tickling her until she shrieked and Pansy could scream with unrelenting gusto, mind and they both wrestled their way under the table, like a pair of eels, until Snape's cold drawl sliced through their revelry, ordering them to maintain themselves or else. They spent the rest of the welcoming feast poking each other and trying to place each other in harm's way, daring each other to get caught disobeying Snape. Pansy managed to slip several roasted chicken legs into Draco's robes pocket and squealed "Yes!" under her breath when he admitted defeat, holding up his greasy hand with a scowl. She scrubbed at it with her napkin, and then Montague was there, kneeling on the floor between them.

"All right?" Montague asked, regarding them both. Draco wasn't sure who Graham was talking to, so he merely shrugged. "Having fun?" he asked, this time to Pansy.

Pansy laughed. "Tonnes. I got three chicken legs into Draco's pocket!"

Montague leaned in, but didn't lower his voice quite low enough that Draco couldn't hear him as he said to her, "I've got something in my pocket for you. I'll show you later."

She smiled at his suggestion and swatted Montague on the upper arm. Montague sounded solid to Draco; he was certainly a big, athletic bloke. "I don't know if I should show you my pockets," she said. "Pockets are very personal."

Montague smiled at her and she looked smitten. Montague said, "That must be where you've put my heart. I was wondering where it got to." Pansy blushed red as a rose, and Draco rolled his eyes at the sheer smarminess of it all.

"Get a room." He frowned, looking down at his plate.

Bat, bat
Come under my hat
And I'll give you a slice of bacon;
And when I bake
I'll give you a cake
If I am not mistaken.

But that all had been months ago and Pansy's happiness and the shine of stamping Harry Potter's face in had long faded away into grey nothingness.

Draco was consumed with trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement. He'd almost given up Quidditch; he barely spoke to Pansy, who complained whenever they saw each other about this turn of events; the thought of eating made his mouth water, but not in the good way, and he spent an inordinate amount of time trying not to vomit. He wasn't always successful. He'd lost a stone, weight that a tall, slender boy like himself couldn't afford. He slept very little; when he did manage to drop off, Voldemort's deathly, cadaverous face would flash through his dreams and he would wake with a start, drenched in sweat and chilled to the bone as the cool air of the dungeons enveloped his wet, clammy skin. And because he was forced to keep up appearances, his homework had to be all in order, which was no easy feat on no sleep and little sustenance.

Here it was, almost the Christmas hols, and he hadn't even got the bloody cabinet to open. On Fridays he had double Potions, and then Charms, but no other lessons for the rest of the day, and so it was a good day to spend with the cabinet. He would head to the Room of Requirement right after lunch, sprinting to the fifth floor where he stood in front of the smooth, blank expanse of wall and willed it open: I need the place where I can mend the thing . . . I need the place . . . The room wouldn't let him get away with being deliberately vague. "Fine," he grumped, glancing about to ensure no-one was watching or near. "I need you to become the place where I can fix the broken cabinet. I need you to help me fix the cabinet. I need the cabinet here. I . . . need to kill Dumbledore."

And the wall had rumbled and creaked, the ornate carved stone doors appearing from nothing. The room held no loyalties. All needs were fair game here.

"I need to be alone," he said, and the room seemed to sigh with understanding.

One could imagine his surprise when, as Draco approached the cabinet, a lone figure stood there, obscured by shadows. It was a boy, Draco could tell, but other than that . . . "Who are you?" he demanded, advancing, his wand aloft. "What are you doing here?"

"Stand down, Malfoy," a familiar voice said, and for a moment Draco thought him a friend. He let his wand drop a notch.

"Montague?"

The other boy snorted. He was a silhouette of messy, cowlicked hair.

It took Draco a moment, and then he had his wand back up in a flash. "POTTER!" He practically spat out the name. "CRUCIO!" The Unforgivable zinged around the room and bounced off the suit of armour Potter'd been standing in front of, forcing Draco to jump out of the way of his own curse.

He advanced, blinking, his heart pounding as he tried to focus through the low light.

Potter was nowhere to be seen.

Draco bumbled around, knocking from one item to the next until he found a dusty old chair to sink into and he clapped his hands over his mouth to keep from being sick, for he knew he was caught. He was caught before he'd even managed to turn the handle on the cabinet. He shook and a wet clamminess spread over his body. He'd spent months trying to work it out and with one slip, with one observation by Harry-effing-Potter, Draco's entire plan was obliterated. He was stupid, unlearned a rube. He hadn't even opened the door. He hadn't even opened the door. He was a true failure for the first time in his life, when it had mattered most that he succeed. His family would die. He was going to die. The finality of his short life struck him, numbing and bleak. It was raw and humiliating, as if he had just proven himself incapable of ending a simple spell

Draco's brow furrowed. Realisation blossomed.

He was silent for a very long time, thinking.

It couldn't . . . possibly be that simple. Could it?

It wasn't dramatic or anything. He got up from his chair and moved to the cabinet, drawing his wand. He'd tried every opening charm and spell known to Wizarding kind. He'd spent hours and hours in the library, researching different spells to open stuck or stubborn objects. He'd bemoaned the fact that he had no weapon powerful enough to decimate a dark locking spell. He'd honed in on the obscure, so that the obvious had escaped his notice. Now here he was, standing in front of the broken Vanishing Cabinet, his hand steady and outstretched.

"Finite Incantatem . . . "

The handle clicked and hitched upwards.

It had been under a spell a simple spell. Draco'd been so obsessed with breaking what he presumed to be dark magic or some kind of intricate spell, that he hadn't considered the cabinet might have been cast shut with a first-year locking or repelling charm. Where before he had felt idiotic for not being able to open the door, he now transferred these feelings into disgust at himself for not starting with the basics. He'd assumed the worst and that had been incorrect.

He was known to do so. Assume the worst, that is.

Draco reached out and opened the cabinet door, stepping up to it as he swung the door outwards. A cool rush of musty air huffed against his face. He breathed it in. Freedom. It was the smell of freedom.

But then he spotted a shadow on the smooth floor of the rich walnut cabinet.

But, no, it couldn't be a shadow. It had some sort of design and was a strange shape, like a giant spoon or something. Draco picked it up and realised straightaway that it was a hand mirror once he touched it. What the bloody hell? Had Montague left it in there? Montague didn't seem the sort to mince about preening into hand mirrors, but he supposed one never knew. Draco folded the brocade cloth away and held the mirror up and looked dead centre into its small face.

It whispered to him deep inside his head: Why, child, are you here? What may I tell you?

"What?" Draco said, not frightened; he was used to magic after all. New tricks came along all the time. He ran his finger around the pewter frame, tracing faint letters inscribed there with his finger: keesuoy epohes lafehttonse ilniereh renial pedameb tonna cytilaer nehw. "Are you Sanskrit?"

Am I not speaking English to you?

"Oh. Right."

The mirror was silent for a moment. Draco heard it deep within his psyche again. You have your father's eyes.

"Yeah," Draco admitted. Anyone who could see could tell that. It didn't occur to him that mirrors don't have eyes or that this particular mirror had never met him before.

Your father's hair, as well.

"Yeah."

You have your mother's nose. It is very straight.

"Why're you so obsessed with how I look?"

Well, I am a mirror. That's what mirrors do. Obsess about looks.

"I suppose." Draco picked up the mirror and sat down at a desk. He balanced the handle on its top and held the back of the frame with one hand. "I don't care what I look like," he said, with the arrogant nonchalance of the fit and good-looking.

Would you like to talk about something else?

"What?"

Would you like to talk about something else?

Draco snorted. "No!"

You are a very compartmentalised person. Very admirable.

"Admirable?" Draco cocked his head, intrigued. "How?"

To effectively execute multiple tasks, a person must be able to compartmentalise. One must be able to put feelings and emotions and outside influences aside at will. You perform admirably in that regard.

"Really?" He leaned forward until he could see his face peeking back at him from the mirror's stained surface. "You think?"

I do.

Draco Malfoy, whose father had slipped one of Voldemort's Horcruxes to an eleven-year-old girl, had never been taught to keep sentient objects at arm's length, to be wary of things that, as Arthur Weasley would say, cannot show where they keep their brain. No, Draco's life was full of dark magic. His father spent (what Draco could only think of as coming closest to loving) hours teaching him theories of dark magic and even small, nasty spells. Lucius had never cautioned him against dabbling in the Dark Arts, should he find himself in the position to, well, explore. Draco was an orderly hedonist. He stuck his hand in the biscuit tin without looking; he just did it with deliberation. It wasn't that he didn't do whatever it took to get what he wanted, it was just that he went about it in quite a standardised fashion.

First, he trained his crosshairs. Second, he made a list of what he needed in order to accomplish his goal. Third, he brought in indirect reinforcements if necessary Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle. Fourth, he wrote an actual plan of attack using lemon juice, as opposed to invisible ink from Zonko's, as lemon juice, being Muggle in origin, was impervious to Revelo or Finite Incantatem. He merely ran his parchment over a candle to reveal his secret writing. He would write in code if he could, but his addled mind couldn't absorb anything new right now. Finally, he would execute his plan. If it didn't work although it almost always worked he would go back to step four and formulate a new strategy. And he would keep doing this until he got what he wanted, until his goal was realised and delivered, like a shiny gold Galleon slipped into a Nogtail bank for safe keeping. He had roll after roll of parchment on his present assignment on how to kill Albus Dumbledore and the squashed remains of a thousand lemons or so. He kept his parchments with him at all times (except when playing Quidditch) and he would sneak to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to chuck lemon peels into its dark depths. So, when a small hand mirror praised him as compartmentalised and capable, he soaked it up like a sponge. It had been so long since he'd been fawned over.

"Well, you're right," Draco said, puffing out his chest a bit. "I do all those things."

And you do them very well.

Draco inched the mirror closer. "Where did you come from?"

I am born of desire.

He snorted. "Isn't everything? Everyone?"

No, my dear child. Oh, no. The lucky are born of desire. There are many ways to be born. Of love and desire, yes. But also of hate. Of violence. Of coercion. Of force. Of accident or duty. Yes, there are many ways to be born.

"Do I look good in my uniform?"

Yes.

"All right!" Draco pulled the mirror even closer. "And am I brilliant?"

Yes.

"Well, I knew that. What about popular? Am I popular?"

No.

"What'd'you mean "no"?"

You are coveted, not popular. Those around you covet the spot by your side merely to stay out of your view. You are not the type of person who garners true friendship. You have understandings, not friendship.

"That's not true! Pansy's my friend."

Pansy is coveted in the same way as you are.

"She's still my friend."

As much as you are capable of friendship, yes.

"I'm perfectly capable of friendship!"

So, you've missed your friends this year as you've carried on with your endeavour? You've mourned the loss of their company? You regret being alone?

Draco put the mirror down. He hadn't really talked to Pansy in weeks. He recognised the hurt in her eyes whenever they'd walk along on their prefect rounds, but she never asked him why he had pulled away, so Draco'd figured that Pansy didn't really care. She was sitting pretty with Montague; she didn't need him as much as he needed her, or so he assumed. He wasn't about to admit this to her, so he said nothing and the chasm between them seemed wide. Crabbe and Goyle were there, but only to do his bidding; they were too thick to be of much interest beyond being Draco's sycophants. Blaise was more self-absorbed than the rest of them combined. Only Theodore seemed to notice anything was amiss.

"All right, Malfoy?" Theodore had asked, one night after he'd caught Draco retching in the loo.

"Yeah." Draco took a mouthful of water and swished it around, and spat it into the sink, rinsing. "All right."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Only Theodore could have got away with this, for his father was in Azkaban, too. "Got a letter from my dad," he said after a very pregnant pause. "He says your father's okay."

Draco perked up a bit. He'd had no contact with his father for almost six months. Narcissa refused to take him to Azkaban for a visit with his father. Prisoners weren't allowed to send out letters. Mr. Nott must have paid someone to smuggle one out. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's good." Draco looked at Theo's left forearm for a long time, wondering what was there, wondering if Theo was marked too. Draco had certainly not met all of Voldemort's Death Eaters. He stared long enough for Theo to notice. The other boy watched Draco, his face the perfect mask of neutrality, and he didn't move a bit. "What about you?" Draco asked, more out of obligation than actual interest. He and Theodore had always got along, although Theo would roll his eyes at Draco when Draco was being a drama queen. "All right?"

"Most days."

"Sorry about your dad."

"Yours too. How's your mum?"

"She's fine. How's " But then Draco remembered that Theo's mother had died many years ago. He didn't know why he always forgot. "How's . . . school going?"

"Who cares about school. What've you got lined up for the team?"

And that had been that.

Draco picked up the mirror again. "You're full of it," he said to the mirror, and if he hadn't known better, he would have said he felt it shrug.

Who is that boy over there?

"What?" Draco's heart fell into his feet. "What boy? What're you talking about?" Once again he set the mirror down as he swung around to look. He didn't see anyone. All he saw was objects, everywhere. And shadows. And bugs. He shook his head like a dog would. Things cleared and he saw only the objects. The shadows and insects receded, withdrawing back into his mind.

He's just over there . . .

"Where?"

Over there, child. He's there, beneath the sun and the stars and the moon.

Draco made his way down the aisle of teetering things, throwing out a hand as he slipped on some kind of large silken scarf that had floated down from one pile or another to rest on the slick stone floor of the Room of Requirement. It was almost as if the mirror were still whispering in his ear. Turn right . . . now turn right again . . . It was as still as morning; the silence enveloped him, made his anxiety rise all the way up his throat. Then came a slight creaking sound. Draco turned, pulling his wand. "Who's there?"

It was a cup and saucer. Beautiful, but not what he was looking for. Turning back, he walked along the aisle of forgotten things, touching this and that as he went, his wand ever at the ready.

Here was a heavy silver dagger with a razor-sharp twisted blade covered in a dried, rusty substance. A bowl of what looked to be glittering single diamonds in different shapes and sizes was next, and Draco let his fingers trail through the gems as he walked along. Stacks of leather-tooled books towered over him, and he almost tripped and fell over a rectangular metal object, that had holes that looked like bread slices carved in the top, with a long, black cord trailing from it. Draco picked it up to move it out of the way and he was surprised when one of the handles depressed, going from the midpoint all the way down to the box's feet. He dropped it back down, startled, and backed away even further. Tripping over a coiled wire that went round and round and made a ringing noise when his foot hit it, Draco scrabbled for the table next to him to steady himself. A small avalanche ensued: knives, forks, and spoons; a birdcage with a delicate avian skeleton in it; rolls of parchment and books; a mannequin with a long silver wig of voluminous curls topped with a platinum and sapphire tiara that hissed when he fumbled at it; a pocket Sneak-o-scope; a patchwork quilt made with rich velvets and brocade and satin. He tried to restack the items, but they kept falling. Finally, he managed to get them into a heap and he turned the mannequin upright, and as he made to continue onwards, he found he was at the end of the aisle, which was blocked off by a towering object covered with an enormous tapestry. "Bugger," he said, confused, until he looked.

The tapestry was covered in suns. And stars. And the moon.

With all his might he wrenched the fabric downwards, tugging and straining when the it got caught on one of the spires of the object's frame, until he heard it tear and it came billowing down, fluttering to the ground to bury him up to his knees. Draco looked up as he kicked the tapestry away.

It was a mirror.

It was the tallest mirror he'd ever seen, ornate and ancient and just humming with old magic, and Draco could make out the Latin carved into its frame at the top:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

Draco hadn't taken Latin prior to Hogwarts, so the meaning escaped him. Narcissa had had him learn French instead. He'd been a terrible foreign language student; he just plain sucked when it came to languages other than English, except for codes that he himself would invent. He even had a hard time with ancient runes. He had to revise constantly just to retain enough basic content that he maintained his "O" grade. It royally pissed him off that Granger could write a book in runes, unassisted, that Mudblood bi

Draco looked in the mirror properly and saw Harry Potter standing behind him.

He whirled and struck. "Stupefy!" His spell went straight into a pile of chairs, splintering them with the force, and Draco threw up his arms to cover his face, shrinking back as he was showered with a hailstorm of wood. "AHH! GOD!" He turned again. Potter was still behind him. He jerked his wand up and bellowed again, "Stupefy!" It hit the mirror square on and deflected right back, into his stomach. The force blew him off his feet, and while he appreciated his ability in this department, pain shot through him like an arrow to the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, winded, his body throbbing with ache.

Third time's a charm?

Draco dragged himself up from the floor, his ribs screaming in protest, and he turned back to the mirror.

Harry Potter stood there.

Draco raised his wand and approached Erised. "You!" he barked out. "How'd you get in there?"

But Potter just stood there, smiling as if he'd been Confunded. He stared through Draco with unfocussed, glassy eyes. It was completely creepy. Draco edged forwards until he was inches from the stained, steel-grey surface of the mirror, yet as he moved closer, Potter seemed further away. It was an optical illusion. It had to be. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times until his vision cleared.

Potter was still there.

Draco repeated himself. "How'd you get in there?" He tilted his head, all his senses on alert. Potter twitched and he moved his mouth, but no sound came out. He said it a third time. "How the bloody hell'd you get in there?"

"Dunno . . . "

"Dunno." Draco mimicked Potter, sneering. "Thick as a bag of sawdust, aren't you, Potter?"

"Not " Harry seemed to be having great difficulty in forming his words, as if talking around a mouthful of food " not so thick."

"You?" Draco said, his lip still curled, "are as thick as they come."

"You must not have met a lot of people, then," Harry said, managing to raise an eyebrow. He was reaching out, feeling the area around him, his hands moving across what seemed to be an invisible barrier keeping him trapped there. "How did I get in here?"

And the fact that this was a magnificent opportunity hit Draco like a tonne of bricks. Imagine! He would bring all of Slytherin House here, to the Room of Requirement, to gawk at Harry Potter trapped in a mirror forever. He would personally deliver Potter to Voldemort and he'd be hailed as a hero. The Dark Lord would get Lucius out from Azkaban. He'd forget about killing Dumbledore. Everything would go back to the way it had been once upon a time, before the Dark Lord had risen again. Draco just wanted to go back to that place, even if just for several sweet moments.

On the other hand, the idea of company while he fixed the Vanishing Cabinet was appealing. Company he could taunt. Company he could put a cloth cover over when he felt like being alone. Just the idea that he had someone in the wings Harry Potter no less at his beck and call was irresistible. He could say whatever he wanted and Potter couldn't tell a soul. He was trapped in the old, stained mirror.

Draco turned. "I have no idea how you got in there, Potter, but everything happens for a reason." He swished and flicked. "Wingardium Leviosa." The heavy astrological tapestry filtered up and over Erised. Draco took great care in settling it over the frame so that the looking glass was fully covered, and he even tucked it around the edges as best he could to ensure Potter extra darkness. He was rewarded straight away: Potter banged on the glass.

"Hey!" Harry called out, a frantic edge creeping into his voice. "Take that off!"

Draco meandered back to the Vanishing Cabinet, ignoring Potter's protestations, before he spoke. "No," he said. "What, scared?"

"No," Potter said, banging on the glass again. Draco could hear exasperation in Harry's voice. "If I remember right, I reckon it's you who screams at things that go bump in the night. That night in the Forbidden Forest in first year "

"I was eleven, you arsehole."

"So was I. I didn't run screaming out of the forest like a girl."

"No, you minced out on the back of a centaur. Speaking of girly. Ooo," Draco mocked, "look at the pretty pony!"

"Sod off, Malfoy. It was not a pony. He was a centaur. Firenze. You know Firenze? He taught "

"I know who Firenze is, idiot."

"I think I remember jumping over your sad arse that night. How'd it feel, hmm? How'd it feel to be left in the Forbbiden Forest? How was it to know that nobody gave two shits for you?"

"Is there a mop cupboard in there by chance? Shall I conjure one, so you'll feel more at home?"

"Funny. You could let me out. And then I'll be out of your hair and you can enjoy the rest of your time . . . doing whatever it is you're doing . . . what are you doing, anyway?"

"It's none of your business." Draco pointed his wand at the cabinet door, that now would not stay shut. He'd got it open after three months of trying and now the ruddy dumb thing wouldn't latch. "Reparo." A little puff of smoke rose from the handle.

"What are you fixing?"

"I said it's none of your business."

"I'll find out," Harry said. "So you might as well tell me."

"Find out, then." He incanted the spell again. "Good luck with that. How's the temperature in there?"

"It's bloody well freezing."

"Good."

"Take that tapestry down, Malfoy. At least that."

"And let you see? Forget it."

"Turn the mirror around, then!"

"Shut up, Potter. I'm busy." If he could only get the handle to move up an inch it would latch properly. "Bugger."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"I said noth God!"

"Are you building something? Would seem kinda plebeian for you."

Draco ignored him. It was surprising that the cabinet held his attention more than Harry Potter trapped in an old mirror did, yet Draco was consumed by his mission. He looked at his hands. Aside from the fact that they were shaking, he found them to be pale and unmarred and soft. Hands that never made anything tangible, never did anything hard or constructive, did nothing to build callouses or garner tiny scratches or scars. No, Draco's hands were pristine. He clasped them together to control the tremors, squeezing until his knuckles were white and he tried to regroup. His eyes burned with exhaustion; he'd had, maybe, six hours of sleep over the past two days. The world around him hummed and buzzed, and while he recognised the day-to-day normality of things, it was like everything was dulled and unreal, the dynamic sheen of life stripped clean away. He was himself, living his life, but a stranger.

He was going through the motions but everything felt wrong.

Draco was surprised to see Potter in Potions, seeing as he was supposed to be stuck in a large mirror in the Room of Requirement. He stole several glances at him throughout the two-hour lesson, but each time he managed to catch Potter staring back at him, Potter had just curled his lip and shook his head, as if to say What? Sod off.

With Snape gone to DADA, Draco began to dread Potions. He hated the way Slughorn avoided looking at him straight in the face, as if frightened Draco might actually initiate a conversation (after being snubbed on the Hogwarts Express at the start of term and being summarily ignored when he dared to outright suck up in class, Draco had learnt his lesson, that an overt approach wouldn't work.) And he especially hated that Potter was clearly cheating in Potions, but Slughorn was too new to know better, never mind the fact that he was so enamoured of the Boy Who Lived it likely wouldn't have mattered whether he knew Potter was cheating or not. If Snape had still been teaching Potions . . . Draco let himself revel in what Snape would've done to Potter once he had figured out how the ruddy sod was doing it.

He watched Potter as he chopped up his Chinese Chomping Cabbage for an advanced invisibility potion, ignoring the cabbage as it cursed at him in Mandarin and attempted to roll itself away. It managed as far as the centre of the table, where it became stuck on its flat side, as Draco had cut it in half as a preventative measure. He realised he was out of Demiguise hair. "Do you have an extra?" he asked his friends.

They looked at him with surprise and Draco wondered why at first, but then understood it had been weeks since he'd last spoken to any of them. They were caught off guard, apparently, to hear his voice.

"An extra what?" Theodore said.

"Oh. A Demiguise hair?"

"That was my last one. I need to get more when we go into Hogsmeade."

"Blaise?"

"Sorry," Blaise said, shaking his head. "My last one too."

"I don't have one either," Pansy said, not looking up again. She sounded cold, removed. He sidled up to her until their arms touched.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked, under his breath.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"That's right. If something were wrong, Draco, you'd tell me, I'm sure," she accused, her sarcastic tone leaving no question.

"Look, I told you I have this mission. And I do! I have to I have to " He'd kept chopping all the while and the Chinese Chomping Cabbage was looking abysmal. It would mess up the entire potion, and this was a potion he could do well to learn, what with him wanting to disappear and all. Perhaps he would try brewing it again in the Room of Requirement.

Pansy turned to him. "Tell me what you're doing," she ordered. Her cabbage looked perfect.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"I I want to."

"Then do."

The urge to burst into tears hit hard. He bit down on the inside of his lip so hard he tasted the coppery tinge of blood as his teeth breached the delicate skin of his mouth. "I can't," he said, in a tight voice. He pushed away from her and went about the classroom looking for a Demiguise hair. "What about you, Weaselby?"

"What're you blathering on about now, Malfoy?" the Weasel shot back, and Draco noticed that Weasley's Chinese Chomping Cabbage looked even worse than his own. Good to know. "Fuck off already." Ron gave him the finger, forcing Slughorn to take five points from Gryffindor. "Was worth it," Weasley muttered, giving Granger a defiant look.

"I," said Draco, in his loftiest of tones, "need a Demiguise hair. If you have one, as a school prefect, I'm ordering you to hand it over."

"Seriously, as a school prefect? I'm ordering you to go and fuck yourself." Ron extracted a Demiguise hair and began snipping it, inch by inch, into his bubbling cauldron. Whatever he was making it wasn't an invisibility solution, judging from its horrific puce colour. Invisibility potions were supposed to be clear.

"Potter?" Draco asked, trying to maintain the same aloof nonchalance. "If you have one, hand it over."

"What he said," Potter said, thumbing towards Ron. "Get lost."

"Here. Take it." Granger was holding out a lone hair caught up in a pair of tweezers. "And go."

Draco made a big show of recoiling. "I'm not taking stores from a Mudblood. Who asked you, anyway?"

"Take the sodding hair and get out of here," Weasley said.

Potter was studying his mess of a text. The pages looked black, owing to the extra writing Potter'd done in the margins. "Defiling school property? One would think you've have enough sense to not be so obvious. Wait until Slughorn sees what you've done "

"He gave it to me like this, you berk."

"Who cares? Anyhow, give me a hair."

"Because you're asking so nicely?"

"I haven't got all day."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Fine, then." He stared at the top of Potter's head, willing him to glance up. Harry did and Draco looked him right in the eye. "I? Will see you later."

"Not bloody likely."

"Don't pretend."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"You know what you are? You're mental, that's what."

Draco shook his head. He understood that Potter wouldn't admit to anything in front of his friends. So he reached over the top of the table and nicked a Demiguise hair from the box of Potions stores spilling from the top of Potter's rucksack.

"I knew you had one," Draco said, turning his back on the trio. "I'd say thanks, but seeing as it's you . . . "

"Malfoy!" Potter started for him, from the sound of it. Draco heard scuffling; a noise that a mother would make to stop her naughty child from putting its hand in a flame sounded, causing the entire class to look around, as if worried they were in trouble.

"Harry," hissed Granger, lowering her voice. "He's not worth it. Here, have one of mine."

Although all his senses were on high alert, Draco managed to saunter back to the Slytherins' table, holding the Demiguise hair as if it were nothing important. He reached his spot and noticed that Pansy had switched her perfectly chopped Chinese Chomping Cabbage for his ghastly, mutilated pile, and before he could object he saw that she had already added the cabbage to her cauldron, which was shaking. Turquoise fumes plumed from its top, filling the classroom with an acrid smoke that was . . . morphing into peacocks! Hundreds of peacocks! The class fell apart, screaming, as the peacocks took over the dungeon and began calling, loud and shrill. Slughorn held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, barking orders. He seemed to be shouting, but no one could hear him over the din. The class rushed the door, bottlenecking into the little stone tunnel leading from the room as the peacocks fanned their tails and pecked at anything moving. Feathers were everywhere. It was brilliant.

"Let's go," Pansy said, under her breath, and she twined her fingers through Draco's and tugged him towards the door. "Your hair is turning blue."

She was going to deliberately take a "T" for him, decimating her stated goal of getting an "O" in Potions.

She was the best friend he could have ever asked for.

Draco made the decision to not keep her so far in the dark.

What may I tell you?

"How do I get what I want?"

What is it that you want?

"Everything."

The mirror took great pause. Well. That can be problematic.

"It shouldn't be. I'm magic. How is it that I can't just get what I want?" He wanted to throw the mirror then, to hurl it across the vast room full of piles of things, until it was buried forever.

It is those who want everything who have nothing.

"What're you talking about?"

It is those who want everything who have nothing.

"That's bollocks," he said, squaring his shoulders and looking into the mirror. "Those who want everything are ambitious."

To what end?

"What d'you mean?"

What is the purpose of such ambition?

"What d'you mean 'purpose'?" Draco asked. "Ambition is its own purpose. To have everything means you're the best. The most victorious. You lord over all others."

And what does that look like?

Draco cocked his head and fixed a flat gaze at himself in the cold, grey middle of the mirror. "It looks like me."

"Malfoy."

Draco didn't say anything as he pulled the massive tapestry down from the big mirror. He stood in front of it. Potter was still there, trapped. Draco squelched a sudden urge to reach out, to reach through the looking glass, to clasp on to Potter's arm. A fierce wave of . . . something . . . rose in his throat; if he didn't know better, he would have thought himself scared. "Look," Draco said finally, in a quiet voice for him, "sod off and get out of here. Game's over. I don't want to play this."

"I'm not playing a game!" Potter's hands were up, pressed against an invisible barrier, and he leaned forwards. "You don't have time I have things to do I'm busy!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Queue up, Potter. Like you're the only one who's got a lot on their plate? What've you got to do that's so important, hmm?"

"What've you got to do?"

"I asked you first."

Potter stared at him, and he seemed to be transparent. His corporeal form faded, waxed, and waned, and he still held his hands up, as if holding on to the side of a wall. "Besides defeating the Dark Lord you serve? Oh, I dunno. Thought I might grab a curry and read a good book." He looked at Draco with contempt. "What a stupid question!"

"You don't know who I serve. I don't serve!"

"Roll up your sleeves, then. Show me that you don't."

"Fuck you."

"Figures. You're scared to. I'd've thought you'd be proud," Potter said, disgust plain in his tone. "Thought you'd be showing your Mark to everyone. Got what you've always wanted, yeah?"

He'd got everything but. Draco snorted. "I always get what I want."

"Which explains why you're such a miserable excuse for a human being."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh, is that the best you can do, Draco? 'Speak for yourself'?" Potter mocked. "I guess that puts me in my place, doesn't it?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You seem to be in a fine place."

"You know, I've known you're a Death Eater since the start of term. I "

Draco was busy willing the room to give him some kind of assistance with the cabinet's handle. It was too loose, and while he had tried to tighten the screws with his thumb, they hadn't held tight enough, and the handle was still floppy. At his beck, a slim, metal shiv appeared, with a cross-shaped tip and a plastic handle. "What the hell ?" He turned it over. It was a strange sort of a wand, a kind he had never seen before. He tapped the handle with the wand and incanted, "Reparo." Nothing happened. He tried it again and again. There must be a way, otherwise the room wouldn't have given it to him to solve his problem. "Stupid wand!"

"What's wrong with your wand?"

"Nothing's wrong with my wand. It's this new one." He was so absorbed in his predicament that he forgot who he was talking to. He'd moved Potter's mirror right over next to the cabinet, but angled away, so that Potter couldn't see. Keep thine enemies close . . . "It's not working."

"Let's see this wand."

Draco showed it to him. "Do you think it's from Ollivanders?"

Harry was silent for a moment; he burst out laughing. "Malfoy, that's not a wand. It's a screwdriver."

"A what?" The words slipped out before he could contain them. "I mean, well, obviously "

"Don't even try and tell me that you know what a screwdriver is," Harry said, still laughing. "Even if you were a Muggle which would be bloody brilliant you still wouldn't know what a bloody screwdriver is. You're far too big a ponce for manual labour."

"That's not true! I'm doing manual labour right now! I'm fixing this door latch " He could have kicked himself. He'd revealed too much.

"Oh, so you're fixing a door? You're forgetting something very important."

"Oh?" Draco jeered. "And what's that?"

"Like you keep telling me, I grew up in a cupboard. How d'you think I survived without being able to take apart and put together a latch and handle?"

Draco took great pause. It was, after all, an apt point. "So, you've taken apart a handle before?"

"Tonnes of times."

"And put it back together?"

"Yup."

"How?"

"Oh, no. I'm not telling you a thing."

"Bloody hell, Potter! This is important!"

"Important to my side or yours?"

"Important to . . . the greater good."

"Funny, that's what they say about me."

"Your modesty kills."

"It's too bad you didn't win that phial of Felix Felicis. Reckon it would be dead useful right now. Oh, but that's right. It's at the bottom of my trunk, not yours."

Wait a minute. Potter still had the Felix Felicis? Draco had thought that Potter would have used it straight away. At least that's what he would have done, and then this whole bloody mess would be over and the cabinet would have been fixed long before now, and he could have killed Dumbledore months ago. But, no. Potter had cheated at Potions and won the Felix Felicis, and Draco was out of luck while Potter was in with Slughorn.

"Fine," he said, in a very normal tone, "so you're better at Potions than me. Good on you."

"Did you just admit that I'm better at Potions than you?"

"Well, just at the Draught of Living Death."

"Yes, I believe yours was on fire?"

"It was only a small fire," Draco said, defending his potion. "It was a rogue Sopophorous Bean."

"Sure."

"It was. It wasn't a Sopophorous Bean. They gave me the wrong kind at Bobbin's. They gave me a Sophomoric Bean, so when I put it in the cauldron it played jokes on the other ingredients and acted like a complete berk."

Harry laughed. Genuinely. "Rotten luck, that."

"Tell me about it."

"You should be able to tell the difference between a Sopophorous Bean and a Sophomoric Bean, though. Really, that's third-year stuff."

Draco put down the strange wand screwdriver, whatever and stepped around the edge of the mirror. He was surprised to find Harry right up front, so close to the mirror's surface that Potter's belly was squashed up against the glass. "Maybe so, Potter," Draco said, doing the best he could to avoid a sneering tone, "but suffice it to say, I've had a lot on my mind these past few months." A tremendous wave of fear coursed through him as he stepped up to the mirror, until he was nose to nose with Harry. "Understand? Now, if you please " he emphasised the word "please". " tell me how the Muggle wand works. The driver-thingee."

Potter said, "You know I can't help you with this."

"Sure you can."

"I won't."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't help me."

"True."

"So there it is."

"There it is."

"How about letting me out of this mirror? I mean, you don't even know how it works. For all you know, it could be a connection between yourself and Sn- Dumbledore."

"Bollocks," Draco scoffed. "If it were, well, I wouldn't be sitting here right now, attending to my task."

"So, your task is about Dumbledore?" Harry said, as if catching the hugest clue in the world.

Draco covered his arse. "That's not at all what I meant. But Dumbledore surely would put a stop to it if he knew. Nosy sod. Bloody do-gooder."

"What if this mirror's dark magic? Ever think about that?"

"My family practically invented dark magic." Draco rolled his eyes. "Not scared."

He was examining the tip of the screwdriver and he noticed that the cross-shaped pattern on its tip matched the cross-shaped pattern on the head of the screws. He inserted the screwdriver into the screw; it fit perfectly. Turning it back and forth he finally figured out that it was a tool for tightening screws. He began working, putting all his weight into it, making the screws as tight as possible, wondering why he would need a Muggle tool to fix a magic Vanishing Cabinet. Had this cabinet been a Muggle piece to begin with, and turned into a magical object after it had been originally built? It would explain the screws.

He was pleased that by the time he finished with all the screws that he had a nice blister rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. I'm perfectly capable of manual labour, thanks, he thought.

"Yes, Potter, my family practically invented Dark Magic. It's not something I'm unfamiliar with. You know, since you're all about Defence Against the Dark Arts, it would do you well to study them. You'd be better able to fight against them when the time comes."

"I'm not studying the dark arts."

"I thought you wanted to be an Auror."

"How'd'you know what I want to be?"

I know everything I can about you. "People talk. D'you know how many people heard that row between McGonagall and Umbridge last year?" Draco mimicked McGonagall's brogue. "'Potter, I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly I will make sure you achieve the required results'. Wow," Draco said sarcastically, "When I expressed interest in becoming an Auror, McGonagall gave me lines."

"You want to be an Auror?"

Draco opened the cabinet door and swung it shut. It latched and remained closed. Yes! "No, I don't want to be a sodding Auror. What do I look like? Some kind of tattletale? Yeah, I'm sure that'd go over really well in my circles."

"It's the right thing to do."

"Me becoming an Auror is the 'right thing to do'?"

"Being on the side of freedom and light and not being a prejudiced sod is the right thing to do."

"I just might be sick."

"How can you think like you do?"

"How can you not think like I do?"

"Because what you think makes no sense! Why does it matter whether someone's a Muggleborn or a half-blood compared to a pureblood? Why does that matter? Magic is magic." Harry paced the floor, gesturing as he spoke.

"I told you before: Some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You went ahead and got in with the wrong sort."

"But why does it matter?"

Draco sneered. He couldn't help himself. "It matters because pure blood is superiour to half-blood or mudblood. Pure blood's more magically powerful than the other kinds. Magic should be kept within pure bloodlines. It shouldn't be diluted."

"Then why's it Hermione beats you in every class, on every exam?"

"Favouritism."

"Oh, bollocks. That's a load of horseshit and you know it."

Draco stalked around to where Harry was trapped in the mirror. "So, you deny that Dumbledore favours you lot?"

"Absolutely."

"Spoken like the duly anointed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco stared at Harry dead on, and when he did he saw Harry fade until he was almost ghost-like. "You wouldn't recognise the favouritism when you're smack in the middle of it. How could you? Do you ever see Dumbledore talking to any other students? Don't you think," he said, his voice growing tight, "there are others who need his help?"

"Like who?"

"Just others. You act like you're the only person with a mission."

"So you do have a mission," Harry said, filling in and becoming more corporeal. "What is it? I mean, you know mine. Why shouldn't I know yours?"

"Your mission is to defeat Voldemort," Draco said, his breath huffing on the mirror, fogging over Harry's face.

"Well spotted."

"Mine is not."

"I'd kind of worked that out on my own."

"Well, excellent," Draco said, a frown twisting his face. "Now that we're on the same page "

"You're afraid."

"Excuse me?"

"You're afraid."

Of course he was bloody well afraid! The Dark Lord had ordered Draco himself to kill Albus Dumbledore, all the while staring at Lucius Malfoy, who had grown even more pale than usual under his master's wrathful gaze. But Lucius had not objected. He had not offered to take Draco's place. He had not discouraged Draco from later taking Voldemort's mark. Lucius had dreamt, undoubtedly, of a time when he would sit at the right hand of Voldemort and be in the Dark Lord's good graces again, but Draco could see that Voldemort was bored with Lucius and was moving on. He had made Draco his prey, playing with him like a Kneazle would a mouse, taking small, painful bites, one at a time, and his father his great, illustrious father had sat back and done nothing to stop it. Lucius was far more interested in what outsiders thought of him than he was of his own family's impression. It was then that Draco had understood he was a commodity, rather than a son. It had been his mother who'd sought the Unbreakable Vow from Snape, not his father.

"I'm not afraid," Draco said. "I'm determined."

"Yeah? So am I."

Your subconscious is restless today.

"What'd'you mean?" He'd come to rely on the little hand mirror for company. It understood him, listened, provided reinforcing feedback. It knew him.

Your subconscious is restless today. What are you thinking about?

"My mission," Draco said, swatting at a swarm of shadows that suddenly descended like a flock of bats to beat at his face. "My . . . relationships . . . " He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud: Harry Potter.

You are thinking of your plan to kill Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Yes."

And you are afraid.

Draco was silent.

You know you cannot possibly succeed at the task you've been given. Yet, the task must be carried out. You worry you will not be able to facilitate it properly.

"I I can't do it." He swallowed hard.

No, dear, sweet child. You cannot. Your soul is intact. It takes a fair amount of malevolence or self-preservation, plus a healthy dose of bravery, to kill. You possess none of these things. Nor do you possess the impulsivity and recklessness necessary. If you did, you would have already succeeded at your task.

"I'm a Slytherin. We're all about self-preservation!"

I speak of spontaneous self-preservation. When your own life is in jeopardy. The fight-or-flight response. Such self-preservation cannot be summoned at will. You do not possess it."

"Yes, I do. Or, when I get there I will. Don't you understand? If I fail at this task I will die. My entire family will die. I think that will qualify as fight-or-flight." He rankled slightly. "And I'm brave, thanks."

You possess a type of bravery at times, the mirror said, after a pause, but it is not traditional and it is not under your control.

"Don't you think what I'm doing is brave?"

There is no act of bravery based in fear.

"Handling fear is brave."

A life lived in fear is a life half lived.

Draco was silent, for there was no use arguing with the mirror. The mirror, he realised, was always right. If he wanted to know the truth, he need only pick it up. So, the question was: How could he succeed at his mission, seeing as the mirror had advised him it was an impossible task? He had to find a way around it.

The fishbowl closed in around him, covering his head and face, creating that nervewracking tunnel vision that made it seem like the world was a four inch by four inch window of someone else's reality, surrounded by a hazy, blurred periphery of an unrecognisable world. He looked dead on into the mirror. "Make it stop," he commanded. "It's making me mental." His eyes burned, threatening tears; he'd cried more this term than he had in his whole life and he couldn't control it. It happened sometimes in relation to frustration, anger, or fear, or, other times, due to nothing in particular. He might even just be sitting in class Herbology, earlier, was a perfect example.

Earlier that afternoon, Professor Sprout had held up a delicate ghost orchid that looked like a floral Dementor and made him think of Azkaban and of his father. The orchid was so haunting it reminded Draco how he soon would be a ghost himself, as would his family, and he wondered if he had the guts to die. Not that it was a choice. He walked out of the lesson because of the ghost orchids, ignoring Professor Sprout's admonishment. He'd plowed into greenhouse five, which was vacated of students, and he'd gripped a table there so hard that he thought he would break his fingers. Blood welled in his mouth as he once again bit his lip to keep from crying.

"Draco?" A tentative voice broke through his reverie. "All right?"

"Bloody hell!" Draco turned on Pansy. "Can't I get a moment?"

"Sorry!" Pansy huffed, folding her arms over her chest. "Sprout sent me looking for you."

"So you don't care why I'm here? You've only come looking because Sprout made you?"

"Oh, for God's sake. Sprout asked for a volunteer, so I offered. So, it's both. Happy?"

"No . . . " Numb, he turned back to stare at the American Paw Paws Sprout had going there. They were busy jumping from pot to pot, clinging to each other with their burr-like spines and muttering in a rather distinctive tone that reminded Draco of a banjo. The American Paw Paw was an integral ingredient in political potions, such as rallying, inciting, and coercion draughts. The Paw Paws liked to march about the greenhouse with protest signs provided by the first-years and they spent time arguing over whether or not fertiliser should be distributed evenly throughout the Paw Paw patch, or if each Paw Paw was responsible for procuring its own sustenance. They were ready to harvest when they turned from yellowish-white to colonial blue and red. Draco, a committed Anglophile, found them to be gauche, loud, and impertinent.

"Stop moping at those Paw Paws," Pansy said, stern. "Tell you what. Let's skive off lessons!" She dropped her voice. "The girls won't be back until right before dinner. Let's just hang out and relax. Catch up, yeah?"

"I'm not in the mood to be interrogated."

"I'm not going to interrogate you." She took his hand and looked up into his face. "I just miss you, is all. I realise I've been spending a lot of time with Graham "

"Try all the time."

"I'm sorry. I've been a shit friend. But let me make it up to you. I've got a present for you, by the way."

He perked up. "A present? What is it?"

"I'm not telling you! You have to come and open it yourself."

"Will you get my rucksack? Tell Sprout I'm out here puking or something?"

"All right. Sure. I'll say we're going to the hospital wing."

They snuck back into the dungeons, grateful that Snape's office was now upstairs in the DADA classroom. Snape knew every timetable of every student in Slytherin House, and he didn't stand for truancy. Giggling, they slid down the banister leading to the girls' dormitory, avoiding detection, and Pansy pulled him down the hall towards the sixth-year girls' room. They came to a stop where the hallway opened into a circular room, with seven heavy, ornate doors leading to each year's dormitory arranged around a large statue of Salazar Slytherin.

"It's the same for our dorms," Draco said, glancing around.

"I know." She put her finger up to her lips, shushing him, and listened. All was quiet. "Come on," she said, taking his hand and pulling him around the perimeter of the wall. "It's just that one, there."

"How'd'you know what the boys' dorm looks like?"

She looked back at him as if he were daft. "I have a boyfriend."

Montague. Right. Graham was in the seventh-year dorm, of course, so Draco wouldn't have noticed Pansy sneaking around over there. He wondered for a moment what she and Montague did while alone together; if the start of term on the Hogwarts Express had been any indication, Draco had a fair idea. This made him feel uncomfortable and . . . angry? He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He just felt it was wrong.

Pansy eased them into her dorm room. "Lumos." The room lit up and Draco looked around.

Lots of posters of The Weird Sisters and various attractive Quidditch players were hung up on the walls, and each of them had some kind of a corkboard where pictures and mementos were arranged with girlish precision, decorated with loopy bubble writing, bows, and other cute notions. One bed was covered from the floor to the top of the mattress with what appeared to be dirty laundry.

"Merlin," Draco said, wrinkling his nose. "Whose is that?"

"Daphne," Pansy confided. "She's a total pig."

There appeared to be an alarming number of discarded knickers in the giant pile of clothes, so Draco skirted it, making sure to look away.

"I'm at the end. Come and see my pictures!" She dragged him forwards, giving him a tug when he tripped over one of Millicent Bulstrode's giant shoes.

Pansy's area was neat and her bed was made. A sock Clabbert sat against her pillows and there were bottles and atomisers strewn across her dresser. He looked at her pictures on the wall.

They were all of him.

"Remember that?" she said, pointing to one. "When Weaselby tried to hex you and he ended up vomiting slugs? You look so cute! You're so little!"

"I'm not little any more."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "No, you're not."

"Where did you get all these?"

"That creep, Colin Creevey, from Gryffindor. He sells candids for a Galleon a piece. Well, and some I took myself. You know."

There was a picture of Pansy and Montague together. He was clasping her by the wrists as she tried to pull away, laughing, and Montague leaned in and kissed her. Pansy managed to wrench herself away and they both took off, disappearing into the side of the picture. And then it replayed. Draco cleared his throat. "So, should I get you another picture of me, to cover up Montague?"

The corner of her mouth lifted. "I would say . . . if you want me to replace Graham with you, you had better have an excellent picture to offer. Not any old thing will do. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm not daft, Pansy," he said. "You don't look like you even want him touching you in this." He drew his finger down the centre of the photograph. "Why's that?"

She wouldn't look at him. "Don't be silly."

"I'm not."

"Graham's brilliant."

"So am I."

"Your point?"

"I just don't think you should spoil the uniformity of your homage to me with a picture of you and Montague snogging."

"I see."

There was an awkward silence. Draco cleared his throat. "So, yeah, you'll replace that picture?"

"You want me to?"

"Well, yeah."

"And you call me conceited?" She reached out and took his hand. "All right, Draco. I'll change it for you. I can put Graham on my bedside table."

"How about in your rubbish bin?"

"Honestly!"

"Where's my present?"

"I'll get it once I'm done being amazed by your manners." She made a big show of putting her finger up in the air. "Just give me a minute to collect myself."

"Sorry." He looked around again. "It's just this is strange . . . being here . . . being here where you . . . "

"Where I what?" She seemed amused.

"Sleep?"

"Mmm," she said, tilting her head at him. "And dream . . ."

"My present?"

"Merlin, you're like a kid! Sit down." She pointed to the bed. "Sit. It's not that big a deal, really. Close your eyes." She waited until he complied. She grasped his wrist so his hand was palm up, and she eased his fingers open and laid a Galleon coin there. Squeezing, she curled his fingers back over the coin, closing it in his hand. "I didn't wrap it."

Draco opened his eyes. "A Galleon." He didn't even have to guess.

"Look at it."

On one side was the usual dragon and the number one, with Unum Galleon minted above. He turned it over. Instead of 'Gringotts Bank' was raised Draco Lucius Malfoy and instead of the wizard who usually appeared on the Galleon coin, the Slytherin crest was imprinted. He looked up. "What's this? Did you name a star after me, too?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "I think that's already been covered. No, here." She held out her hand. Another gold Galleon lay in her palm. "Go on, take it." Her Galleon read Pansy Ursula Parkinson and there was raised the unmistakable cross little face of the pansy flower. He turned it over; the Slytherin serpent was on her coin as well. She allocated the coins, taking Draco's for herself and making sure he kept hers. "And watch this." Pansy closed her eyes and appeared to be concentrating; Pansy's coin grew quite warm in his hand and began to glow. She peeked. "Ah, brilliant! It works!"

"What does it do?"

"It's a way to communicate. If you need me, you can call me through this coin. And I can call you. It's just between us."

"Kind of like Potter's Army had?"

"Almost exactly. That's where I got the idea. Daddy knows someone at Gringotts who'll enchant the coins, so I had it done there."

Draco was impressed, for he'd been mulling over the value of integrating coins like these into his grand plan. He'd recently decided he'd try and make delivery of a cursed object to Dumbledore and he'd targeted Madam Rosmerta as his middle man. "It's a good idea. So," he said, "I can call you at any time?"

"Any time."

"What if it's in the middle of the night?"

"Then it's in the middle of the night."

"What if you're not in the UK?"

"Floo, Portkey, or Apparition."

"You're too young to Apparate."

"Not for long."

"What if you don't know where I am?"

"I'll find you."

This touched his cold, usually mean heart. There was someone who would go to the ends of the earth to find him. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Thank you. It's brilliant."

"I knew you had manners in there somewhere." She slid her hand all the way into his pocket as she slipped her coin into his trousers and gave him a quick peck back. She ran her thumb over his cheek and gazed at him fondly.

"So."

"So."

"Can I look through your stuff?"

"You can look through my desk and bedside table. Dresser's off limits."

"Why?"

"You don't need to see everything."

Draco felt like he did. Need to see everything, that is. Instead, he flopped onto her bed, head propped, his back flush with the wall. He patted the mattress. "C'mere."

She crawled up and lay down facing him, propping her head as well. They were inches apart. "Tell me why you walked out of Herbology."

He almost did.

He almost told her about his mission to kill Dumbledore and how he was failing at the task. He almost told her about the shadows and the flashes of light and the predatory beings that lay just outside his periphery, about his lack of sleep, about not eating lest he be sick after every meal. He almost told her he had Harry Potter trapped in a mirror in the Room of Requirement, and on one hand he couldn't wait to see Potter every day, for it made him feel funny and good, while on the other he hated the bloody sod with every fibre of his being. He both wanted to keep Potter in the mirror forever and to join him inside it and do things with Potter that he would never admit to anyone, at least that's what he thought. He almost told her about Lucius and his father's utter disregard for him, and his mother's overprotectiveness and how she sometimes seemed too close. He almost told her about the Vanishing Cabinet, and that he'd sent away for a cursed opal necklace from Borgin and Burkes, with the threat that the proprietors manage to get him the necklace without the Aurors or Filch detecting its presence. He almost told her that watching her with Montague made a cold, visceral anger course through him. He almost told her he was Marked. He almost told her that he sometimes couldn't stop crying.

"I was just tired, that's all."

Pansy looked at him for a long moment, but didn't challenge him. "Then you need a bit of a lie-in."

"What, you mean here?"

"We'll be alone for hours."

"Yeah?" Something stirred inside him even as his lids burned and begged for sleep.

"Sure," she said, pushing her pillow towards him. He rested his head. She turned over so her back was to him, quite close so they could share the pillow. Draco draped his arm across her waist and relaxed when she didn't object.

I want to be your friend
For ever and ever without break or decay
When the hills are all flat
And the rivers are all dry
When it lightens and thunders in winter
When it rains and snows in summer
When Heaven and Earth mingle
Not till then will I part from you.

Somehow while they were sleeping, Pansy's arm had worked its way backwards, so it was resting on Draco's arse, and because he usually slept hugging a pillow, he awoke to find himself palming Pansy's breast. The rise and fall of her chest was like a gentle tide.

He was trapped against the wall and was wedged up against her arse. He was so hard it was painful.

His breath caught in his throat as he became aware and his hand twitched. Pansy sighed in her sleep and snuggled down against him, keeping his arm right where it was as she clutched at his hand, and as she shifted she arched her back just slightly, grinding her arse against his erection. Draco groaned; it felt exquisite.

He'd never felt like this. Not ever.

He didn't fantasise often. He thought about boys and girls equally. He didn't think about sex all the time, unlike his dormmates by the way they talked. He didn't care that he'd never done much more than snog Pansy and touch her stomach once or twice. He let others assume that he was not a virgin but, frankly, he wouldn't have cared if they knew the truth. On the occasion he would wank off, he more often thought of thermometers, not of any one person in particular. He thought of mercury rising and that was his sexual metaphor. Mercury rising in the thermometer until it reached the top; it was a very tidy, linear orgasm indeed. He always did it either in the shower or in a toilet cubicle, although he'd ceased the latter due to Moaning Myrtle and her fancying him now. Being caught wanking by a ghost once was quite enough. The showers worked best anyway. They were private and cleansing and there was no trace of his activity once he was done. Draco was fastidious, so this appealed to him. And, yeah, it felt good, but it wasn't like he needed three showers a day or whatever. It was yet another thing for him to store away when it wasn't convenient.

He wasn't sure if the current circumstance was convenient or not.

"Pans?" he whispered, squeezing her to him. "Pans?"

"Mmm?"

"Er My hand "

She squeezed it, forcing him to curl his fingers into the soft rise of her breast. And he actually thought he would prefer to call it a tit. Pansy's tit. In his hand. His cock. Against her arse. Right, then.

She stretched against him again. He could tell she was half asleep. "Pansy!" he whispered, fighting the urge to rut against her like a wild animal. "Stop it "

"Mmm," she said, and now she was moving in some smooth, calculated way that let Draco know she was far, far more experienced than he was.

He sucked in his breath. "You should stop."

"I can feel you."

He should have tried. He should have tried to stop her. "We're . . . friends . . . "

"There are lots of ways to be friends." He had to strain to hear her say, "Do it."

Draco buried his face in Pansy's hair, inhaling deeply, and he thrust tentatively against her. Once. Twice. A third time. He couldn't stop after that, for it was too good, the friction so intense, he imagined that this was better than sex itself.

Then she said the most glorious thing ever.

"Think about whoever you want," she whispered, "and I'll think about whoever I want."

A wave of heat rolled through him and his excitement peaked again. He was circling against her, pressing in as hard and as close as he could. "This I You feel really good "

"Shh . . ."

He rested his chin on her shoulder; they were almost cheek to cheek, Draco's hand dropping to her hip for leverage. He wanted her tight against him. Their breath became one.

Draco thought of mirrors. He imagined a hall full of mirrors, thousands and thousands of mirrors, each different from the rest, and he wasn't sure which mirror was the right one. He wasn't sure in which mirror Harry really lived. Everywhere he looked there was Harry, and flashes of images flooded his mind: Harry taking off his shirt, a pale expanse of chest and stomach stark against the dark background of forgotten items, a light trail of hair dipping down from his bellybutton to disappear under his belt; Draco flying after Harry in Quidditch, watching as Harry's robes billowed out behind him, Draco wanting to gather fistfuls of scarlet and gold; Harry's eyes; the glasses; the scar. Draco gave into the images fully. He could almost feel the glass of the mirror under his palms, Pansy's warm, bony hip becoming a cool, slick plane. He rubbed his palm back and forth, smoothing the glass, and he imagined Harry's hand on the other side, both of their hands pressed together, only the thinnest sheet separating them. Malfoy. Draco. Mirrors. Hand to hand. Mouth to mouth. Draco fell into his first attempt at a full-blown fantasy, an attempt that was working out. He found he didn't have to really try; his brain was flooded with images, sounds, smells, and his cock was wedged somewhere warm and firm and tight . . . He and Pansy were in perfect alignment, moving together, until she threw him over the edge.

"Draco," she said, her cheeks flushed hot, "I need help. Help me?" She pulled his hand down and under the waist of her skirt and down into her knickers. His fingers slid into her hot, wet core. She felt amazing and she told him what to do. "Just pretend it's her mouth or . . . something "

Draco thought of his fingers in Harry Potter's mouth and he was filled with a hot, mad rushing sensation, and his cock twitched. He thrust against her crazily and came with such ferocity that it rendered him mute, his mouth open in a surprised, silent "O". His hair was mussed, one shoe was off, his shirttails were untucked, his shorts flooded with little pools of come, and his hand was practically buried inside his best friend. It had been impulsive and messy and passionate, and he was undone.

He didn't even mind.

"Did you come?" Pansy whispered, her eyes closed. Draco liked the way her lashes looked against her cheeks.

"Yeah . . . "

"Yes . . . " It seemed to please her.

Draco tried to touch her the way she'd showed him, even though the familiar cold, creeping sensation was bleeding through into his guts already, panic and fear spreading through him, his moment of their reckless encounter gone. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on Pansy's hitching breaths, tried to discern from how she sounded whether he was doing it right. Finally she shuddered once, and again, and moved against him in a very different way, grinding against his hand. He thought he felt her climax, which was interesting in an sbstract sense, as if he'd solved an advanced equation that he'd been wondering about off and on for years. So that's how that's done. She rode her orgasm out; turning, she pulled his hand free and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. He hugged her back just as hard.

"Well." He wasn't sure how to react. "That was unexpected."

"Mmm, it was good." She laughed and held his face in her hands. "You were good. Now? Set it aside."

Ah. Another one skilled at compartmentalisation. No wonder they got on so well. "Who were you thinking about?"

"Who were you thinking about?"

He smiled and felt compelled to kiss her above the ear. "Not telling."

"Likewise." She giggled. It smelled like sex even Draco could recognise that and he hoped none of Pansy's roommates would return. "Do you trust me?" she asked, serious.

"Why?"

"It's a 'yes' or 'no' question."

"You know I do."

"Say it, then."

"I trust you."

"Who do you trust?"

"You!"

"And what's my name?"

"Pansy."

"Say it."

"I trust you." He didn't know why it was important to her, but he complied. "I trust you, Pansy."

Even before he'd answered she had begun unbuttoning his shirt. She fumbled around, managing to undo the front, and then started in on his cuffs. Her hands were smooth against his chest.

It took all he had not to lash out at her, to hit her away from him, for he knew what she was doing, knew what she was looking for, but instead of belting her, something inside of him cried out and he decided to have one less secret.

"Oh," she said, pushing the left cuff of his shirt up to his elbow, revealing his marked pale forearm. She stared, tracing it with her finger. "That's what I thought." She buried her face in the crook of his neck, but she didn't cry, which was nice because Pansy could really bawl when she wanted to. He had the feeling she was holding it together for him; her body felt tense and stiff in his arms.

"Don't worry," he said, with false bravado, "I'm I My father says "

"Shh," she said, hushing him again. "I understand. It's okay." And she took up his ruined arm and held it against her cheek, and then kissed him lightly there, fluttering her lips over his Dark Mark, up and down, and for several blissful moments he felt normal, for he wasn't hiding. He didn't have to hide from her. All his shadows disappeared; the dusk was somehow bright and cheery; he felt grounded and real.

It was odd. Draco was quite sure he fancied Harry Potter, not Pansy Parkinson. How was it then that he, the cold, asexual boy with the hairy heart, suddenly found himself twice besotted?

"Whoever it is, I'm going to help you pull," Pansy was saying as Draco rebuttoned his shirt.

"What?"

"You know when we did it whoever it was you were thinking of I just want you to be happy, Draco. You're too young to too young "

"I am happy," he said. He was, at that moment.

"I don't know what kind of . . . thing . . . you have to do for the Dark Lord, but it's clearly taken its toll." She held up a hand as he made to interrupt. "I won't take no for an answer. Tell me who she is."

"Uh "

"Oh my God." She sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. "She's a Hufflepuff!"

"No, it's just worse?"

"Worse than a Hufflepuff? A Squib? Oh, Draco, no . . . you fancy a Muggle . . . that's it, isn't it?"

"No." Draco rolled his eyes. "Worse."

She paused, looking at him, alarmed. "You . . . don't mean creatures "

"NO! Merlin, gross!"

"Then who is it?"

Draco was starting to feel cornered, uncomfortable. "The This person doesn't fancy me like that."

"Rubbish." She tucked her blouse back into the waist of her skirt "Everyone fancies you like that."

Draco thought of the mirror and its explanation of how his classmates coveted his friendship or, as the mirror said, his understandings, and wished to make a deal with him just to stay out of his crosshairs. "They should. But that doesn't mean they do."

She straightened his collar with a tug. "Here's your tie."

"Will you do it up for me?"

"Sure." She set about knotting his uniform tie.

"So, uh, can we do what we just did again after dinner?"

She shook her head, laughing. "No!"

"Why not?"

"It was just a one-off."

He found this to be an astonishing pronouncement. He figured they would develop some sort of thing that was beneficial to them both. They were best friends. They could, Draco felt, make each other feel good. It was war, after all. Well, almost. He knew it would be war if he completed his task. And he would complete his task. "Then I have another question," he said.

"That being?"

"How do you feel about Polyjuice?"

"Polyjuice?" She had finished tying his tie and was busy pulling on her sock, her leg crooked like a flamingo's. She ceased, staring at him. "You're serious."

"It could be fun. Why not?" He felt reckless, abandoned.

"Because then we'd know who the other fancies."

"So?"

"I don't want you to know."

"Why?"

"It's . . . embarrassing."

"So's mine."

"No, I mean really embarrassing."

"Trust me," Draco said. "I get what you're saying." She just looked at him so he continued. "Look, you asked me if I trust you."

"Right?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do! How can you even ask?"

"Then say it."

She was watching him. "I trust you."

He wasn't going to let her get away with it. "No, properly. You made me."

"I trust you, Draco."

"Then, let's do it."

"I already told you we weren't going to do anything again. Like I said, it was just a one-off "

"Not that." Draco rolled his eyes. "I was talking about the Polyjuice."

"Oh, honestly, Draco, I really don't want to "

"Really? You don't?"

"Well, I " Pansy seemed to be thinking about it. She looked at him, an impish smirk casing her face. "We'd have to have rules. Lots of rules."

"All right."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, actually, we'd just need one rule."

This was surprising. "What's that?"

"That neither of us look in any mirrors."

"Why?"

"It keeps it private."

Draco considered this. So, if they took the Polyjuice together and he did not look to see who he turned into, and Pansy did the same, it would remain a secret. As far as they'd be concerned, they'd be snogging the object of their desire and nothing more. That seemed a good prospect.

"Shake on it."

"Fine," Pansy said, looking at him solemnly. They shook. Her eyes were so, so pretty. Clear and bright and blue. "There's something else. Come here." His heart skipped a beat and he stared down into her face; something was different now between them. He couldn't say what. Pansy was much shorter than Draco and he found himself leaning down. Putting one hand to the side of his face, she pulled her wand with the other. "I learnt this just for you . . . Come closer . . . " It seemed as if her wand barely moved as she incanted, "Aeternus Amor."

Thin golden ribbons of sparkling light looped out from the end of her wand, encircling their heads, pulling them even closer, until they were chin to chin, nose to nose. "Draco." She sighed his name and although he was quite sure she had meant to kiss him first, there was something about the spell she'd cast that resonated in him. He felt accepted. Cherished. Wholly adored. Draco Malfoy was not a sentimental boy by any means, but he allowed himself to bask in the blissful oblivion of her attention and he kissed her, almost shyly, and then there were her hands again, clutching at his face as she kissed him back. Their tongues brushed and then he was sucking on hers, and whatever magic had been born between them just a bit ago sizzled and roared to life. It was a long, lingering kiss. An oath. She whispered against the corner of his mouth, "Draco Malfoy . . . I'll always love you. I promise. No matter who you are or what you do. I am always your friend "

"Okay," he said, breathless as the spell hummed around them. "Same. Do I have to Do I have to say all that stuff " He felt her smile against his cheek.

"No. It's fine. The spell reads your heart." She kissed him this time until he buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging at her there. They were even.

"Can you read my heart?" he asked, his lips still warm against hers.

"I can try . . . "

"Try."

"I said those things because I wanted you to know Draco, our friendship is more important than anything."

He fixed a flat gaze on her. "More important than Montague?" A hot wave passed through him.

"More important than anything."

He nodded and noticed they were still clinging to each other. He felt he should make some attempt to tell her what he was feeling, out of courtesy. "I, uh Well, Pansy, I feel Really stupid." He wanted to just keep kissing her. He imagined the much tougher Montague physically tearing him apart, limb from limb, his joints popping and cracking as Montague dismembered him by hand for his treachery.

"You don't have to say anything."

"Good."

She laughed. "Don't ever change."

Draco was resigned to who he was. "Does a Nundu change its spots?"

"No," Pansy said. She smiled up at him like he was the only person in the world worthy of her attention. His heart skipped a beat; it seemed to swell in his chest. She squeezed his hand. "Thank God."

"I have something I want to show you," Draco said, after they'd finished Polyjuicing for the third time. There had been little hesitancy this time and they'd done more than Draco'd thought possible. His body was still thrumming with lust; even his fingertips were flushed with heat. His hand could do with a good wiping, but for some reason he was compelled to just leave it sticky and used. Staring at Pansy hungrily, he touched the tip of his tongue to the pad of his thumb, sucking there.

"Yeah?" Pansy was buttoning up her shirt, her tie in her teeth. "Hmm?"

"It's it's just over there."

"What is it?" she asked through her tie. She pulled it free and looped it around her neck.

"I'm going to show you who you turn into."

She jolted, shoe in one hand. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it'll ruin everything."

"But "

"I said no."

"Pansy "

"It's none of your business who you turn into and it's none of my business who I turn into. That was our only rule, Draco, and I expect you to keep it."

"Listen to me." Draco caught her up by the arms. "Do you trust me?"

"Because I trust you doesn't mean I want you to know everything about me. Same goes for you. I don't need to know everything about you."

"But we're best mates."

"Isn't it enough that I do this for you at all?"

"Don't you but I thought you wanted to as well?"

"I do." Pansy made to sit down in thin air; Draco conjured a velvet wingback before she hit the floor. A cloud of dust rose as her bum smacked against the seat. It was a game she liked to play with him. If she fell on the floor that meant Draco had to buy her a sugar quill at Honeydukes.

"Sorry 'bout that."

"By now I'd have thought you'd have learnt to conjure a clean pouffe!"

"Don't sit down when there's no chair, then!"

She smirked. "Keeps you on your toes."

"Yeah, you do manage to do that." He took her hand and kissed it, making airs. "You've been amazing."

She tossed her hair. "I am amazing!"

Draco laughed. She was so uppity it should have been sickening, but he loved it. "Yes, you are."

"So are you," she said, looking at him.

Draco felt a strange tugging sensation behind his bellybutton, that spidered downwards. He didn't say anything for several moments. "Let's want to do it again? There's more Polyjuice . . . "

Pansy shook her head, never taking her eyes off him. "No, thanks."

And for a moment Draco was horribly disappointed. When she looked at him like that it reminded him of their Polyjuice escapades; she reminded him of Potter. In fact, she now generally reminded him of Potter, because of their secret. Being around her was almost as intoxicating as the Polyjuice, because he knew Pansy Parkinson was only one gulp away from Harry Potter and all the things he did with Harry Potter. Plus, she was lively, obnoxious, loud, and adored him. She was the perfect mate to play his game with. She accepted him as is; she didn't try to sneak a peek at who she Polyjuiced into for him; she didn't recoil from him fancying a bloke in fact, she seemed to enjoy it, judging from the way she kissed and touched him when they Polyjuiced. It was hot and erotic and loving and almost reverent. He wondered who he could possibly turn into to make her that amorous. He dreamt of her and Harry and her and Harry, and quite frankly Pansy and Harry were all jumbled up in his mind. He thought of the Aeturnus Amor spell that she had cast on them, and their lingering kiss, and he wondered just for a moment what it would be like to snog her without Polyjuice. However, she'd been quite firm: Only once. And that once was done and gone. So, Draco had to wonder . . . was he accessing Harry through Pansy, or Pansy through Harry? He went back and forth on the answer. It was so bloody complicated.

They leaned in at the same time, kissing almost chastely. "I " But Draco cut Pansy off.

"Let me show you who you turn into."

"Then, you understand, this will be over."

She was frustrating him. "But why?" he asked, bordering on petulant. "Can't it be a good thing?"

"I like our arrangement the way it is."

"I like it too. I'm just curious "

"Ah," Pansy said, the light of understanding dawning, "so that's it. You want to know who you turn into."

"Well!" It was natural to wonder.

"You care who I fancy?"

"Well, you fancy Montague, don't you?"

"In a lot of ways, yes. But I don't need Polyjuice to get to him."

She had a point. "True."

"We've done it three times and it's worked just fine. I don't see the point in ruining a good thing."

Why did he want to ruin a good thing? Without Pansy he wouldn't be snogging anybody, wouldn't be allowed that physical release that he'd come to treasure. "Kiss me."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm randy as hell and I know you said only once, but . . . come on . . . "

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Pansy said.

Draco wanted to jump up and down in frustration, to tantrum like a toddler. "WHY NOT?"

For once she seemed embarrassed. "Because I'm in the mood, too." Two spots of colour appeared above her cheeks.

"Perfect!"

"Uh, no."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, leave off, Draco!" she snapped. "Don't you understand?"

Draco thought for several long moments. "No."

"When I pick up with you, I "

"You what?"

"I don't want to stop," she blurted out.

"So?" This was a bad thing?

"Let's just keep things how they are."

"Pansy," Draco hissed, now hard as a rock. He absolutely needed to get off. Since they'd started their Polyjuice escapades, Draco's libido had exploded. For the first time in his life he was suffering from a floodtide of inconvenient erections and sexual distractions. Part of him didn't mind, as he'd thought he was abnormal to begin with. He was obsessed with both the one impromptu one-off with Pansy and the thought of Harry Potter's hot, wet mouth. "It hurts!"

"Look," she said, pulling him towards her, "I'll do this for you once. But, then you have to stop asking. Graham'd kill me." She undid his belt and trousers and pushed them down out of the way and put her face right up against him. She huffed a hot, steamy breath against the underside of his cock, bringing her fingers up to tickle at him gently. She stood and leaned against him as she slipped her hand into his shorts and slid it down his erection, encircling it with fingers, tightening her grip. Draco put his arm around Pansy's shoulders as she wanked him without hesitation. He loved that she just knew what to do. Her strokes became firmer and faster, and she had some kind of special way of rubbing his foreskin that was sublime. Draco's fingers dug into her thin shoulder and he finally shuddered against her. He looked down to watch her touching him as he came, his thick, hot droplets pattering onto the floor. She said his name, and he couldn't help bringing his other hand up and tipping her head back and kissing her. At that moment he wasn't thinking of anyone else, and it was a raw, possessive kiss; he felt like he was marking his territory. Take that, Montague. He dropped his hand from her face and slid it under her skirt, his fingertips skimming her knickers, but she startled and stepped away, touching the back of her hand to her mouth as if surprised.

He looked at her, annoyed. He had never made a move on her before. "Don't you want me to ?"

"I can take care of myself."

The thought of her doing that gave him great pause.

The Christmas hols approached and Borgin managed to find some sort of horrible creature that brought Draco the opal necklace, which he slipped to Madam Rosmerta (he'd used the enchanted coins after all). While she was under the Imperius Curse he'd ordered her to find a student any student and to place that student under Imperius as well, and order them to deliver the package to Professor Dumbledore.

He knew it was a stupid plan. He was positive the necklace could be traced back to him through Borgin. But, he had thought, if by the remotest of chances the plan actually succeeded, he would be alive. Whether it was better to be alive and in Azkaban for the rest of his life, or dead, he couldn't quite decide. There were moments where Azkaban was appealing. He'd be left alone in a dark, dank cell to live out the rest of his days with nothing but his shadows and the things he saw that weren't really there.

Draco wasn't surprised when Katie Bell messed everything up by managing to find the one minuscule tear in the wrappings and touching it with her gloved hand, which, coincidentally, happened to also have a hole in one of the fingers. Merlin's stupid sodding beard, it effing figured. He wasn't surprised, but he was enraged.

At least he wasn't seen in Hogsmeade that day. On purpose, he failed to hand in his Transfiguration homework twice in a row, guaranteeing detention with McGonagall. It had been a good cover.

He skivved off practise after practise until Snape had called him into his office.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape had said, steepling his fingers and considering Draco with his beetle black eyes. "Yesterday was your seventh missed Quidditch practise since the start of term."

"I don't really care."

"As your head of house, I could remove you from the team for your absenteeism."

"Fine. Go ahead."

"Do you not enjoy Quidditch, Draco?"

Draco fixed a hard gaze on Snape.

Snape considered him for a very long moment. "You shall remain on the Slytherin team. As of today, Urquhart will be captain."

"Then you can play Harper on Saturday," he'd snapped. "I believe I'll be sick that day."

"Let us hope you make a speedy recovery."

Draco had turned and stalked from Snape's office, back to the Room of Requirement, Quidditch forgotten.

As time went by, Draco was becoming more familiar with the things-that-weren't-really-there. Sometimes he talked with them. He preferred the company of his little hand mirror, the one sliver of honesty he recognised in his life, aside from Pansy. The mirror told him his task was impossible, told him he would fail. It spurred him to succeed, but also, in the back of his mind, allowed him to think of contingencies. Draco did not want to die. He thought he would, but there was that little part of him that didn't want to go, that wanted to grow up, that wanted to prove himself a man, that wanted, yes, to become a fully qualified wizard.

And then Professor Snape cornered him after he'd been busted gate-crashing Professor Slughorn's party. He wasn't even sure why he went, except that deep down he knew he deserved to be there, if it weren't for his stu his father being in Azkaban. The Malfoy name still meant something; it always would. His line was too long, too entrenched in Wizarding history, too pure-blooded to ever be irrelevant. Superiority coursed through him and he'd hoisted his chin high and stared down his nose at Professor Snape, arms crossed over his chest, and he'd locked down his mind with vice-like force, so hard he'd induced an immediate headache.

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from him," Draco'd said. "I just don't want you butting in!"

"So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realise that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco "

In truth, Draco missed Snape more than he could say, and it took all the mental power he had to simultaneously keep his mind closed off and to tamp down the burning in his eyes. "So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" He couldn't help it. The stress and the pain and the loneliness and the fear came barking out as a jeer. Shit! What if Snape did go to Dumbledore? No, he wouldn't, Draco decided, his head pounding. Snape knew of Draco's task; Draco couldn't imagine the humiliation of Snape knowing how dismal he was at executing his plan. That was what it was, and it made Draco hate Snape for just a moment, knowing that Snape, at Draco's age, would've likely already have had the task done and been in Azkaban by now. Stupid sodding Snape. Prodigy.

"You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!"

"I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco "

What was he, some kind of baby that needed sitting? Never would he admit to Snape that he needed help. Protection? Draco laughed at the very idea. If the Dark Lord wanted, he could reach through space and grab up Draco by the throat and squeeze the life out of him, and there was nothing nothing that anyone, not even Snape, could do to change that fact. The Dark Lord could think Draco dead if he wanted, like flicking a fly from the tabletop, breaking its wings from its body, sending its body hurtling to the floor to curl up in on itself and dry up and be crushed into iridescent dust by some stranger's passing foot. He was that insignificant. Draco swallowed several times. "Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me, and I'm doing it. I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!" Shiiiiit. Why'd he have to say this last bit?

"What is your plan?"

"It's none of your business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you "

"I've got all the assistance I need, thanks. I'm not alone!"

He wasn't alone. He had his mirror. He had Pansy. He had Crabbe and Goyle (as far as that went). He had Potter.

They went back and forth until Snape truly overstepped his bounds and brought up Lucius. "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you "

Draco was out the door before Snape could finish. He smacked it open with his palm, ignoring the sting of the oak against his skin, and as he strode out into the corridor, his hand fell to his side, and he fisted it. For a moment it felt funny, as if he'd plunged his hand into a vat of silk. Something smooth enveloped his hand, as if someone had wrapped him in fabric smooth as water, cool and elegant. He jerked his hand upwards and the breeze that followed smelt of Potter.

For Christmas, Draco had dipped into his Black family Gringotts account (which the Ministry had left alone because he was a minor and the account was co-signed by his Auntie Bellatrix, rather than by his mother or father) and he bought Pansy a very simple platinum bracelet with heart-shaped clasps on the ends, that fastened with a tiny heart-shaped padlock. Three salesladies had fawned over him at Larkin and Bites Fine Jewellery and Gems and had helped him pick it out. "One of a kind item. What a lucky girlfriend you have," Josephina Larkin had said, her eyes twinkling, and he hadn't bothered to correct her. He'd made Pansy take a walk with him in the snow which she hated, and bitched accordingly the entire time and he'd stopped somewhere on the grounds where it was snowing so thick that they could no longer see the castle. He managed to get it on her wrist thank God he didn't drop it in the snow and she put her gloved hand to his face as she liked to do and made to kiss his cheek, but he deliberately turned his head into her, capturing her mouth with his, and kissed her fully.

"Stop!" she said, laughing. She was a swath of black, save for her eyes, all bundled up. "I've already told you, we can't do that!" And for the first time Draco wondered if Pansy ever thought of him while she was with Montague.

So he asked her.

"I think of you lots of times, Draco. You're my best mate. Of course I'd be thinking of you."

"You know what I mean."

"That's entirely none of your business."

He pulled her in at the waist until they were flush. "Why do you get to make all the rules?"

But she only laughed.

He wanted to thank her for the coin she'd given him. He'd tested her on several occasions and, just as she'd promised, she'd come to his side straightaway, once wearing only one of his old Quidditch tees and her knickers. She stayed with him at Hogwarts over the Christmas hols, revising in the Slytherin common room while he worked alone in the Room of Requirement. Several times he thought of bringing her up, but decided against this, afraid that his two worlds would collide in an unpleasant way.

They stuck with not knowing who they were Polyjuicing into. Pansy would drink the Polyjuice and turn into Potter; she knew she was turning into a male (it was obvious, wasn't it?) and she never said a thing, never judged him or brought it up outside the confines of the Room of Requirement. Draco'd got a lock of Potter's hair quite easily. One day in Potions, before Christmas, they'd all been working on an instigating draught, which had over fifty ingredients. As Potter'd leaned over his ingredients, sorting, cutting, measuring, Draco'd sent the tiniest, most precise cutting charm straight at Potter's fringe as his head was down. It hit Potter at the temple, neatly severing a good-sized lock of hair, which sprinkled down into the myriad potions ingredients already on Potter's paper liner. The hairs went unnoticed, having fallen next to a ball of Atlantan seaweed. And at the end of the lesson, as expected, Potter rolled his liner up into a tube, flattened it, and folded each end in on the other and squashed it, trapping its contents inside. Draco had lingered behind, explaining to Slughorn that he'd left his silver knife in his liner by accident and needed to retrieve it. He pawed through all the discarded liners until he found the one shaped like a folded up tube, and he'd stuffed it in his rucksack and simply walked out of class. He kept the hair in a glass phial stuffed inside a pair of socks, which he kept at the back of his top dresser drawer. He'd got maybe fifty hairs, a good amount.

Further, Draco'd had Potter trapped in the mirror now for four months. He acknowledged that one person couldn't be in two places at the same time; he didn't know which Potter was real. The one in the mirror or the one he saw about Hogwarts. He found he didn't care. Whether Potter was transparent or fully corporeal in the mirror seemed to depend on Draco's mood. The more relaxed and confident Draco was, the more solid Potter's form. When he was stressed or crying or scared, Potter was nearly as transparent as Moaning Myrtle.

Towards February, two things happened.

First, another hazy figure appeared in the mirror, far behind Potter, so far that Draco couldn't make out who it was. The figure rarely moved; it stayed fixed in the upper right hand side of the mirror, smokey and grey, just beyond Potter's shoulder.

Second, a Scottish wraith appeared in the Room of Requirement, a spectre, an omen of death. It stepped out from between two massive wardrobes and blended in with all the looming material goods in the room. It was tall, perhaps fifteen feet tall, and wore full black metal body armour. Its smoky black face was covered by a sinister spikey mask of doom and a billowing cloak. It carried weapons, not a wand, weapons that Draco could only guess at. Rivulets of rancid blood ran from every bit of its form, to pool at the wraith's feet, dark and sticky and fetid. More often than not, Draco could not tell whether a long, towering black swath in the Room of Requirement was a shadow or the wraith. It was more terrifying than Dementors to Draco, probably because it was personal. It was his wraith; Dementors belonged to everyone. As well, the wraith did not restrict its activities to the Room of Requirement. Draco saw it in numerous places. One day he outright asked Pansy, "Do you see anything there?" And he'd pointed to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, indicating between a fallen log at the forest's edge and a clump of oak scrub. There was a wood storage box there, dark with its lid ajar, but nothing else.

"You know I can't see Thestrals." She didn't even look.

"I can't either," he said, still pointing. Well, not true. He'd seen illustrations of Thestrals before. But he definitely wasn't seeing Thestrals. "But don't you see a very tall man sitting on a a black horse, wearing all black?" He didn't elaborate because he didn't want to scare her.

"No," she laughed, taking his hand in hers as they walked towards Care of Magical Creatures. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Very funny."

"Ha!" Draco said weakly, feeling very alone. His hand felt clammy against hers and his heart beat out of his chest as he wondered from what world this shadow creature had emerged. He dreaded the clip-clopping of its horse's hooves on the stone floors of the castle, or the thundering rumble of galloping across well-trodden earth, always right behind him, always there threatening to overtake him with its unbearable screams. The wraith permeated his dreams, further interfering with his ability to sleep. Its presence seemed to come in waves; it was there for days at a time, and then gone. It threatened to eat him alive, its unnatural voice issuing from beneath the obscuring hoods of their billowing cloaks. "I was only joking." He could hear the wraith right behind him.

"Well I would hope so. Oh!" Her hand slipped from his as she knelt to pick up her wand. "AAAH, MERLIN! DRACO, RUN! COCKROACHES GOD THEY'RE EVERYWHERE " She was a blur as she streaked ahead, bitching loudly. " Hagrid should be able to keep those filthy creatures in the Forbidden Forest! I'm phobic, you know . . . " The wraith took her place at his side. Draco sighed.

He knew the wraith wasn't real; however, that didn't stop him from being terrified when he encountered it. He took to using the little hand mirror to look around the stacks of items piled ceiling-high in the Room of Requirement, so that the wraith wouldn't sneak up on him. He was successful about half the time, catching it lurking here and there. But sometimes it would come bursting out from a forgotten wardrobe or from behind a giant pile of forgotten junk, growing exponentially as it freed itself from dark, confined corners. Draco knew what a wraith meant. Imminent death. "So," Potter said sarcastically one day, while Draco was busy sending a quill through the Vanishing Cabinet to Borgin and Burkes, "what'd you do to attract this jolly fine bloke?"

"It's a wraith."

Potter seemed impressed. "A Scottish wraith?"

"Do you know of any other kind? Now if you don't bloody mind, I'm working here."

"Aren't wraiths omens of death?"

"Yes."

"Who's dying, Malfoy. You?"

Probably. "No one who concerns you."

Potter was at the front of the mirror in a flash. "So, that's it? You're planning a murder!"

"Don't look so surprised."

Potter didn't look surprised. He looked wholly aghast. "Who?"

Draco threw him a withering glance. "Like I'm going to tell you?"

"It's Remus, isn't it? Because he's a werewolf?"

"Who the sod is Remus?"

"Professor Lupin, you contemptible turd."

"I'm not saying who it is."

"So you admit there's a plot!"

"I admit nothing of the sort."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"Who?"

"Dung?"

"Did you just say 'Dung'?" Draco put his little finger in his ear and shook it.

"Mundungus Fletcher."

"Does it even occur to you that you're sitting here naming all the members of your Order, Potter? Oh, yes, we know about your Order of the Phoenix. The Dark Lord'll obliterate you lot."

"How in good conscience can you be who you are? How do you stand yourself?"

Draco opened the cabinet door. Nothing but a pile of ash sat on its floor. Another burnt quill. Tears welled in his eyes and his voice was tight. "Don't say that."

"I'll say what I want," Potter said, his ire up.

"You don't understand," Draco said, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his sleeves. He found it rather astonishing that, of all people, Harry Potter couldn't figure out the motivation behind his work. Family. He loved his family, cherished them. He was prepared to give not just his life but also his soul to save them. It was really worse than giving his life, he thought, because how would he live with a torn soul? And would his father even care about the sacrifice Draco was making? Lucius didn't seem to fathom what position Draco was in to begin with, but, to be fair, his father was in prison, so Draco really couldn't know how Lucius might be feeling. Perhaps the Dementors and the cold stone walls of the prison and the screaming and the insanity of the place had given Lucius the opportunity to reflect, to reflect upon Draco . . . Draco dreamt that his father thought of him often and that Lucius was proud of him for . . .

For what? For crying? For not having solved the cabinet problem the first week of the school year? For playing sexual Polyjuice games with Pansy Parkinson? For failing to pull an "O" in Runes? For waking up with his shorts sticky and his sheets wet after dreaming of chasing Harry Potter through the Quidditch pitch, turning, dipping, diving, this way and that, until Draco grabbed a fistful of Potter's hair like he might the Golden Snitch, only to have it turn into Pansy's long, flowing ponytail, wrapped around his hand like a thick, golden rope for him to tug, to tug her head back with . . . "You don't understand," he repeated.

"Make me understand, then, Malfoy."

"What would you do for your family?"

"My family's dead. Thanks to Voldemort."

"Pretend they're not," Draco said, through clenched teeth, "for purposes of exercising your pitiful imagination. So, I'll ask you again: What would you do for your family."

"Anything."

"Precisely."

"Except for murder."

"You say that, but . . . "

"No. Never. I'd let myself be killed first."

"I'd let myself be killed first!" Draco mimicked, his disdain apparent. "Well, aren't you just so bloody noble. Everyone dies."

"But you don't have the right to choose someone else's death. To murder them!"

"I may not have the right, but I do have the choice," Draco said, his voice flat. "Everybody has the choice to end someone's life."

"Few choose to."

"Few have to."

"You don't have to do "

But Draco was crying out then; having turned back to the cabinet, he smacked right up against the armour-clad wraith. He couldn't see for the black, swirling cloak that wrapped around him and his head filled with the ear-splitting screech that accompanied the wraith. It was so loud and so painful that Draco thought his ears would explode and he'd bleed out onto the cold, stone floor, and the wraith's spikey metal hand wrapped itself around Draco's neck and it began squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, until Draco felt a crunching sensation. His eyes swam with darkness and exploding stars as he scrabbled at the creature's iron-clad hand. Blood from the being's metal glove began easing down Draco's throat, into the collar of his shirt; it was cold and smelt like death and decay. The creature's eyes underneath its helmet were milky and white and, Draco thought, unseeing. The wraith lifted Draco higher and Draco took his chance before his windpipe could be fully crushed. He brought both his knees up and kicked the wraith in the gut, with all the force he could muster.

The wraith let go of him with an angry scream and Draco crumpled to the floor. Scrambling backwards like a crab, he lurched to his feet. He continued backwards, the wraith closing in again, and then he was bumping up against the cool, streaky glass of the mirror, and as he turned to look into it one last time, his shoulder disappeared into its glass, and then his upper arm. Terrified, Draco flung out his hand and it too was absorbed by the mirror. He acted before the thought was fully formed.

He dove into the mirror.

It did not shatter. It did not crack. It did not break or creak.

It was like diving into water, muffled and bubbly, and for several long moments Draco couldn't breathe. He writhed, unable to get his bearings, until he was spat out, inside the mirror. He stumbled and fell.

"Well," Potter said, genuine loathing there, "welcome to my Hell."

"You'll have to excuse me," Potter said, several hours later, "but I find this completely funny."

"Oh, yeah. Super funny."

They were in a cylindrical room, it seemed, with marble walls that extended upwards so far that Draco could see no ceiling or end to the great tunnel. The floor was stone and uncomfortable to sit on. There were no windows, doors, or obvious light sources, although the room was lit. Potter sat against the wall, feet planted on the ground, balancing his forearms on his knees. He held his wand half-heartedly.

"Anyway," Potter continued, "magic doesn't work in here, so you can forget about that."

"Christ, Potter, aren't you hungry?"

Harry looked at Draco for a long moment. "Yeah," he said, holding Draco's gaze, "I'm hungry. Are you?"

Something in the way he said it made Draco's stomach flip-flop. "I'm hungry."

Draco turned and pressed his hands against the mirror's surface, staring out. The wraith was nowhere to be seen. "So," he asked, his back to Potter, "you saw the wraith."

"Yeah."

"Bloody annoying."

"Admit it, Malfoy. You just about shit yourself."

"I did not!" Draco was feeling the glass, every inch of it. It felt pliant and warm under his touch. He pressed forward and the mirror at first resisted, the glass glowing red hot for a moment, so fast that he didn't have time to jerk his hand away. His hand sunk through the glass and he felt the cool air of the Room of Requirement on the other side. He made to step out, but there came the shrieking of the wraith. Draco pulled his hand back before the wraith ate it off or something equally disgusting. "Piss myself, maybe. But don't be gross."

Potter snorted. "Some things never change."

"You're not still going to give me crap about the Forbidden Forest, are you? Because I'll reiterate that I was eleven."

"What about the Dementors?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Third year. On the train. Heard you nearly wet yourself then, too."

"Who told you that rot?"

"Fred and George Weasley. You know, the blokes whose carriage you ran into when you were trying to escape the Dementors?"

"Rubbish," Draco said, although it was true. "Besides, it wasn't me who got the vapours from the Dementors. I believe that distinction belongs to you." Draco put the back of his hand to his forehead. "Ooh, help me, Dementor! Dementor!"

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Yeah, the Dementors scared you so much you had to make up little voices for them." Draco held up his hand like a sock puppet, moving it as he spoke. "Oh, no, not Harry! Not Haaaaarrrrrryyy!"

"How would you even know that?"

"Good news travels fast."

"Good news?"

"Potter's in his carriage writhing on the floor screaming for his mummy? Hey, if it's embarrassing for you, then it's good news for me."

"You know what? I think you're trying to distract me from your task. You're set out to murder someone. Voldemort's making you do it?"

"No, I just decided I felt like killing someone." Draco rolled his eyes. "And I've been working on it ever since!"

Potter eased himself up from the cold, stone floor in a rather fluid movement and crossed over to where Draco sat, opposite him. He sat down again, right next to Draco. He was so close their thighs bumped. He assumed the same position as he'd held before, arms on knees, holding his wand. He looked sideways at Draco, their shoulders smooshing together. "You don't have to do this. C'mon, Malfoy " And Draco liked the way C'mon, Malfoy sounded coming from Harry Potter's mouth. " there's got to be another way."

"There isn't." He thought he heard the wraith scream.

"Dumbledore can protect you."

How ironic. "Why would he want to?"

"Because," Potter said, tapping Draco on the knee with his wand to emphasise his point, "Dumbledore has a thing for helping lost boys."

"I'm not lost."

"Yeah, you are."

"What the bloody hell do you know?"

"I know a lost boy when I see him."

"Checking out blokes, now, Potter? That tickle your fancy?"

Harry laughed. "I might ask you the same."

Was it obvious? "That would be a no."

"Really? I'm surprised."

"Why?" Draco was determined to know why Harry Potter thought (correctly) that he fancied blokes.

"You don't have a girlfriend."

"Neither do you."

"Your best friend's a girl."

"So's one of yours!"

"You never wear t-shirts."

"What?" That was to hide his Dark Mark. "Poofs aren't allowed to wear t-shirts?"

Potter shrugged. "I'm just saying."

"Didn't realise you're such a fashionista, Potter. Who's looking poofy now?"

"'Fashionista'?" He leaned in to Draco's ear. "I think that just about says it all right there."

Harry was resting against Draco and for the life of him Draco couldn't understand why. Why was this boy, whom he hated, and who hated him, so comfortable around him? Maybe lost boys got on? The warmth of Potter's shoulder against his own was soothing in this great marble tomb, this tomb where Draco was happy to stash Harry Potter on his own personal whim. To hold him captive from his life, his friends, his mission. And the craziest thing was that no one seemed to notice Potter's extended absences. Sometimes Draco took a day or two off from the cabinet (which was worse than if he'd just stuck with it and kept working; the fear and trepidation that swam in his stomach when taking a break was enough to drive him mad) and he'd leave Harry alone in the mirror.

Draco relaxed. Potter's shoulder felt hard and sinewy, and Draco could feel all of Potter's little muscles working as he wove his wand through his fingers. The crisp, starched sleeve of Draco's shirt rubbed rough against the soft cotton of Potter's t-shirt. Draco was full of nervous energy and took to rolling his wand from hand to hand by putting his fingertips together and creating a half-barrel of sorts. The trick was to keep it from falling. He moved his fingers in a wave, retaining control. And for a long while they sat like that, playing with their wands, concentrating hard on not dropping them, lest their attention be drawn back to the other.

Of course, in reality, Draco was hypervigilant of Potter's presence. "Why're you sitting here?"

"It was cold in here."

"Still cold?"

Potter threw a sideways glance at Draco. "No."

"Then bloody well move."

"I'll just get cold again, Malfoy. Might as well not."

"You like sitting here next to me?" Draco had to look down to see Potter's face. The first thing that caught his attention was the scar. It was proportioned, an impeccable zig-zag just above Harry's eye, just threatening to touch his hairline. Messy black hair. A face that hinted at needing a shave. A straight nose and a fine mouth with full lips. An unremarkable chin. "Hmm?"

Potter looked up Draco, half-smiling. "I'm not cold. That was the point."

"Why don't you put on some robes?" Potter was in jeans, a shirt, and trainers. The flesh on his arm seemed alert, as if ready to break into goose pimples at the slightest breeze. On impulse, Draco blew a cool, steady stream against Potter's forearm and was indeed rewarded when a prickling of bumps rose from Potter's skin.

Harry gave him a strange look, but then flipped his wand outwards, indicating the black space they occupied. "Do you see any robes around here?"

"Well, you can't have mine."

"You're not wearing any."

"I left them out there."

"So, that thing surprise you?"

"What thing?"

"The thing that's after you."

"Oh," Draco said. "You mean the wraith? Yeah." He thought about this. "Sort of. I mean, I know it's out there. I just don't know never know when it's going to appear."

"Your mind is all kinds of messed up," Potter noted, looking up at him. "Reckon I've never had a black death knight who leaks rotten blood follow me around."

"No, you've got the Dark Lord instead. Wanna trade?"

Potter was very serious. "I'm not afraid of Voldemort."

"You should be."

"Well, I'm not."

"You'd be afraid of my wraith."

"Dunno." Harry shrugged.

"So you admit there's a possibility!"

"Lots of things are possible, Malfoy."

"Like what?"

"Like . . . anything, really."

Draco suddenly felt very warm. "Anything?"

"Anything."

It was moments like this that reminded Draco that his reality was, well, altered. He remained quiet, his usual retorts stuck somewhere deep down; he was out of practise.

"What'd'you want, Malfoy?" Potter said in a low voice. "What'd'you want to let me go?"

"I don't want to let you go." There. It was said.

"Why?"

Well, there was a variety of reasons. Having Potter contained meant Draco always knew where he was when he was working on the cabinet. It meant someone to talk with. Well, to insult. Draco liked insulting others; he found it relaxing. There was the reconnoissance aspect of their arrangement, which Draco felt was beneficial for his own purposes, although he had yet to say anything to the Dark Lord or his fellow Death Eaters about holding Potter captive. And there was the matter of Draco just wanting Harry, wanting to be near him, wanting to touch him, wanting to do bad things with him . . . He reached out and clasped Potter's arm.

He could feel Harry.

It had to be real.

Potter leaned in, turning his head, and as he did so, his nose brushed against Draco's cheek. "We both know what this mirror means," he said, and Draco, unwilling to look stupid in any way, nodded with what he hoped was a convincing air of confidence. "Colour me surprised."

"Why are you surprised?"

Potter pulled back. "Are you serious?"

"I Maybe? I don't think so No!"

"Of all things for you to see in this mirror, you see me?"

"You have a better idea?" Draco had no idea what Potter was talking about and he felt foolish, like he was being excluded from an important inside joke.

"Yeah," Potter said, as if Draco were daft. "Anything but me?"

"My life is anything but you."

"Yet here we sit."

Draco couldn't stand it any longer. "What are you going on about?"

"The mirror," Potter said. He sounded impatient. "Look, I know why I'm here. I mean, I don't know why I'm here, but I understand how the mirror works. Seeing as you've found Erised, I expect you know, too."

"Erised?"

"The mirror."

"Why are you calling it 'Erised'?"

"That's its name?"

Draco lifted a hand. "This? Is called 'Erised'?"

"Yes. And surely a genius like you doesn't need it spelt out."

"Malfoy," Harry asked, exasperated, "do you know what this mirror does?"

"Apparently it holds one's enemies in a convenient limbo."

"Oh, so I'm your enemy?"

"Mortal enemy. Always."

"That's not what the mirror says."

"If there's something you're trying to tell me, then just spit it out. I'm not up for games." Draco felt oddly sleepy, sitting there next to Potter. He felt as though his body had been depleted of all its energy, perhaps because he could relax out from under the shadow of the wraith in this cold, lonely space. His eyelids burnt, as they were so often wont to do these days, and he imagined them as red and raw as fresh split tomatoes. Sighing, he tipped his head back against the wall and rested it there. His fringe had grown too long and he felt it tickling his ears. Where they were smelt very old, like ancient magic, almost timeless.

"Didn't you read the inscription on the mirror?"

"What inscription?"

"Merlin," Harry said. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" He was so, so tired.

"You don't know what this mirror means. I don't know what's better," Potter said, a predatory smile playing at his lips. "You knowing . . . or you not knowing."

Draco was suddenly more frightened than he could long remember, and that included the whole thing with the wraith. A cold, sick feeling wormed its way through him. Potter's breath was warm against his cheek and Draco could almost feel Harry smiling, sense Harry laughing at him, of Harry thinking he was stupid. "This is dark magic," Draco said, putting his hand right over Potter's face and shoving.

But Potter caught Draco's hand with his own and pried it free. "I thought your family invented dark magic. What, scared?"

"No!" Draco blurted out, sweat beading up on his forehead. His hair felt as if it were standing on end, alert. His vision rushed inwards, creating a narrow tunnel; it was as if someone had made him black paper glasses with pinholes. He could see only what was directly in front of him. A wave of nausea washed through him and he gagged into his hand.

"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Potter asked.

Draco stood, stumbling sideways. He balanced himself against the curving stone wall. Potter rose with ease. "Just don't feel well . . . "

"Well, isn't that too bad."

"Tell me how the mirror works," Draco ordered, taking deep breaths. "What is this place?"

"What is Erised said backwards?"

It took Draco almost a full minute to figure it out, owing to his exhaustion. "Desire?"

"Desire."

"So," Draco said, confused, "You're here because you desire me?"

"No, you insufferable tit! I'm here because you fancy me."

Draco stared at Potter; he scoffed. "Right. You're very funny. Now, really, how does it work?"

"Didn't you read the inscription at the top of the mirror?"

"I don't read Latin." He was loath to admit any shortcoming.

"It's not in Latin."

"I don't read Sanskrit either."

"It's in English. It's written backwards."

"What's it say?"

"I show not your face but your heart's desire."

A stone dropped in Draco's stomach. "Bullshit."

"Check for yourself."

"Sodding right I will!"

"So, here's the deal," Potter said, sitting again. He motioned for Draco to join him, patting the floor.

Draco sat.

"Yes, here's the deal," Potter repeated. "I've been here for . . . how long have I been here?"

Draco shrugged. "Five months, give or take."

"Five months. For five months you've kept me from my life. You've kept me from my friends, Quidditch, my lessons, my House . . . " Harry paused. "But more than anything, you've kept me from my quest. And that really is not on." For the first time Harry sounded hesitant, conflicted. "I'm going give you what you want."

Draco looked at Harry. "How'd'you know what I want?"

"The mirror. Erised doesn't lie." Potter looked down. He was moving his fingers nervously, as if shredding an invisible tissue. "I want to go home. So, I've decided to give you what you want. In return, you'll release me."

"I want to go home," Draco mocked, narrowing his eyes. "You? Are presumptuous."

"You don't want don't want me to "

Draco leaned in, pressing against Potter's shoulder as he made to whisper in Potter's ear. "I decide what I want and when I choose to collect it," he said, his breath rebounding. He was so close to the whorling shell of Potter's ear that he could practically taste it. He resisted giving it a lick just to freak Potter out. "I'll decide when it's time for you to go."

Potter turned his face into Draco's. "And I'm offering to make it an easier decision."

"Prove it."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Potter took a deep breath and leaned in. He kissed Draco on the mouth, lingering there for five seconds or so, before pulling away. He shook his head and gave a full body shiver, and pressed the back of his hand to his lips.

"Wow, Potter," Draco said, also dragging his hand across his mouth, "that was incredible!" He rolled his eyes.

"Well," Potter said, defensively, "what'd you expect?"

Draco thanked Merlin for Pansy at that moment, for without her and their Polyjuice escapades, he would never have had the nerve to do what he did next. He shifted sideways and grasped Potter's face in his hands the way Pansy liked to do to him and leaned in. He kissed Potter gently, running his tongue over Potter's bottom lip, back and forth, until Potter's mouth relaxed open in surprise and Draco swept his tongue into Harry's mouth, probing, seeking, until Potter made a small noise in the back of his throat and kissed him back.

Draco kissed Harry again and again, sucking eagerly on Potter's tongue. He might not have done this before Draco assumed Harry hadn't, anyway but Potter was a fast learner and was soon meeting esch thrust and swirl of Draco's tongue with equal abandon, which did not go unnoticed. In fact it travelled straight to Draco's cock. He felt himself swell and harden in his trousers and it was all he could do to not reach down and stroke himself. It's Potter. It's him. The real Harry Potter. Instead he dragged Harry's hand down to his crotch, keeping his hand over Harry's and working his hand until he knew Potter could feel his arousal. "That's what I expect," he said, finally breaking their kiss.

Potter's eyes were glassy, unfocused. His bottom lip was swollen and red. "Right," he managed to squeak out, before Draco began pressing Potter's hand down against him, squeezing Potter's fingers around the outline of his erection, rubbing up and down.

"Harder," Draco ordered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

Potter had offered himself up.

Who was Draco to say no?

"Kiss me again " And this time Harry was right on it, his mouth closing over Draco's, his tongue probing and sweeping through Draco's hot mouth.

"Like this?" Harry mumbled through the kiss.

Draco groaned and brought his other hand up to hold Potter in place by the back of his neck. Potter's hair tickled at his thumb. He sucked lightly on Harry's bottom lip again, liking the way it felt. "Have you done this before?"

"Snog someone?"

"Another bloke."

"Of course not!"

"Do you like it?"

"I don't like that it's you."

"But otherwise," Draco said, nipping at Harry's earlobe and continuing to use Harry's hand to wank himself.

"You talk too much."

"I want to come in your hand," Draco said, his voice hitching and his breath coming faster. "Your hand hurry!"

"I don't know "

"You said!"

Harry pulled his hand away and fumbled with the button of Draco's trousers, trying to get them undone.

"Merlin," Draco said, fearing it was almost too late, "here!" He undid his own trousers and unzipped them, folding them open to reveal his long, hard shaft. He pushed his shorts down until his cock was free and he grabbed up Harry's hand, wrapping it around him. He guided Harry's hand with his own, jerking faster and faster until thick spurts of come flooded their hands, making him slick and sensitive, and he called out, his voice echoing about the chamber. He made sure Harry's hand was quite covered with his come before releasing his cock. "Stand up."

"Jesus, Malfoy," Potter was saying, wiping his hand all over Draco's trousers, palm and back, "what was that all about?"

"Stand up!"

"No!"

"Stand up."

"Why?"

But Draco was looking at Potter's crotch, gazing at the telltale bulge there. "Just stand up, Potter, and I'll finish you off."

Harry looked at Draco for a long moment. "I don't think I need "

"It'll feel good."

Harry said nothing and Draco could see his eyes roving everywhere but at Draco, and Draco could see that Potter's erection was as big and ready as his own had been and Draco was full of residual desire.

Draco reached and trailed his fingers up Harry's erection once, twice, and again. "It'll feel good," he repeated, rubbing Harry. "You'll come fast . . . "

Harry was still considering him, but he moved and slowly got to his feet, and Draco rose onto his knees and scooted until he was facing Harry. He undid Potter's trousers, pulling them down, freeing his cock, and he quite simply sucked it into his mouth, having enough knowledge from his Polyjuice adventures of what would feel good.

Harry took a deep breath and, being sixteen, thrust slowly for ten seconds before losing control and grabbing the back of Draco's head and pushing him further down on his cock, and he fucked Draco's mouth until he was coming. "Malfoy, stop," he groaned, pulling out. He came with several bursts, which spattered the stone floor below and Draco impulsively licked at the tip of Harry's cock, sucking at the come there. "Yes. . ."

Draco smiled.

"So," Potter said, several days later while Draco was working on the cabinet again, "have you always fancied blokes?"

"Have you?"

"I don't."

"I," Draco said, casting a spell he'd learnt from a book in the Restricted Section, on halting time in enclosed spaces for up to sixty seconds, "would argue that you do."

"Rubbish."

"Oh, I'm sure you're in there after we've finished, thinking of what we did, wanking off."

"Not true."

"Potter, don't be absurd. I can tell you're up for it."

"It's a physical reaction. I reckon it'd be the same for you if you were in my position."

"Never. No way."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to test our theory and see who's right." Draco placed a quill into the Vanishing Cabinet. He closed the door and gave his wand two flicks and a swish and tapped the cabinet's handle. "Portus." He waited for thirty seconds, counting one-alligator, two-alligator, three-alligator . . . He opened the door and was elated to find the quill was gone. He shut the cabinet back up and waited another sixty seconds before opening it again.

The quill was back.

It was back and intact. It wasn't singed, broken, marred, or deformed in any way. Its fluffy feathers wafted in the wake of the breeze of the cabinet door. He grabbed up the quill.

"YEEEEEES!"

"What?" Potter asked, from inside Erised. Draco glanced up. He could see through Potter, as if he were a ghost. Perhaps Draco's unexpected excitement had drawn the energy from the mirror, causing Potter to fade. It made sense.

"Nothing," Draco said, elated. He kissed the quill and held it aloft. He looked over to Harry. "Just one step closer to my goal."

Potter frowned. "You know it's not really a fair fight with me caught up in this mirror," he said. "It'd be more fair if "

"Who said anything about fair?" Draco asked, sneering. "I've a job to do and I will get it done. This isn't a game, Potter. It's war."

"So, no matter what it takes, no matter what depths you have to stoop to, you'll "

"Bloody right I will." Draco noticed a shadow. "Who's in there with you?"

"What? No one."

"There's someone standing behind you."

Potter turned and Draco had the impression Harry was squinting. "I don't know," he said. "I can't make out their face."

"Is it the wraith?"

"No. It's too small."

"Boy or girl?"

"Can't tell. A girl maybe?"

"Well, what's it doing?"

"Find out for yourself."

Draco stepped up and cupped his hands and put them up to the mirror and peered inside. Indeed there was a shadowy figure standing behind Potter. It was shrouded in grey and had no distinguishing features. "Has it said anything to you?" he asked Potter.

"No. It comes and goes."

"I need to go and tell Pansy . . . I need to find Pansy . . . " Draco was muttering to himself as he set about gathering his things. He was so excited about passing the quill back and forth through the passage and even though he couldn't tell Pansy exactly what he was doing, he'd started giving her general updates, and she'd encouraged him and told him how smart and clever he was.

"What about " Potter seemed taken aback that Draco was leaving. "Aren't you going to come in?"

Draco fixed a flat gaze on Harry. "Don't worry. I'll be back later."

The wraith came screaming out from behind the statue of Boris the Bewildered, charging right at him on horseback. Draco hated the horse. It was black and tall with obsidian eyes, and it smelt of death and vengeance. And Draco could only give a scream that rivalled a coloratura soprano and bolt off in the opposite direction, the thunderous clatter of hooves right behind him, and his joy at sending the quill to Borgin and Burkes was squelched. He tore through groups of students milling in the foyer outside the Great Hall, running as fast as he could towards the steps leading down into the dungeons. He jumped the entire staircase, grabbing hold of the railing to use as leverage each time he whipped around a corner of the stairs, slipping on the last five stairs and taking them on his bum. He clambered to his feet and sprinted towards the Slytherin common room . . . and ran full-force into Graham Montague.

"Oof!" He smacked right off the bigger, hulking boy and fell onto his arse again. His tailbone screamed in protest as Draco tried to scramble to his feet. The wraith screamed again and pulled its horse back until it reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air, and it fell just behind Draco, so close it was nearly touching him. "Fuck . . . " Draco backed away, his eyes never leaving the wraith, and he put up his hands, as if to ward the creature off. "Don't fucking come any closer!" he ordered the wraith, who let out a low, sinister grumble in response.

Montague boggled. "Malfoy?"

"You see it, don't you?" He was overcome by a stitch in his side.

"See what?" Montague was clearly confused.

"Look!" Draco said, pointing behind him.

"Mate, there's a "

"I know! It's a Scottish wraith."

"I was going to say a ." Montague laughed and pointed his wand. Draco resisted the urge to hit the floor, but Montague just took on a look of concentration, and then lowered his wand. "There. Don't be a barmy idiot. There aren't Scottish wraiths at Hogwarts."

Draco was beginning to feel exactly that: a barmy idiot.

He knew he saw things that weren't real. He knew they weren't real. However, whenever they'd pop up, they were so vivid, so tangible, that Draco could swipe his hand out at whatever creature it was and feel it against his palm. He could feel it. He knew he was losing his mind, and that by the time his task was complete, he would have very little of his sanity left. He was weak and broken and judged. He couldn't handle things that came easily to others. His thoughts were tangential, all over the place. Only two things remained consistent for him: Potter and Pansy. Otherwise, everything else was as if he knew what was going on, but it was knowledge from a different universe, an alternate reality. He was less able to control his reactions to seeing things, and just the other day a skipping record had played in the Room of Requirement all day long, and he had felt grateful to put that behind him as he had left the room . . . but the sound followed him. And now he had a refrain of a Weird Sisters song stuck inside his head, replaying over and over and over. He didn't even really like the Weird Sisters.

"I've been meaning to talk to you, Draco."

Draco looked at Montague, who appeared very serious. "Yeah?"

"It's about Pansy."

"Where is she, anyway? I was just coming to look for her."

"And I'm sure she's waiting for you."

"Yeah? Well, good. I need to talk to her."

"About what?"

"It's personal."

"Why?"

"Because it is? You wouldn't be interested anyway."

"Try me."

"I can't."

"Is it for your little mission you bragged about on the train at the start of term?"

"I said I can't say."

"You wouldn't do anything to put Pansy in harm's way, would you?"

"What? No! Of course not. I'd never "

"Why did you give her that bracelet?"

"Huh?"

"For Christmas. That bracelet. It probably cost a thousand Galleons."

Draco said nothing, but watched the other boy, on alert. If Montague decided to beat him up, he wouldn't stand a chance. Draco was tall, yes, but he was weedy and thin. Montague could pummel him into the ground.

"I asked you why you gave her that bracelet."

"It's a friendship bracelet. Relax."

"Not for a thousand Galleons it's not."

"A thousand Galleons is nothing," Draco said, haughty. "Your point?"

"Do you fancy her?"

He didn't know how to answer this. "She's with you," he said, trying to avoid an arse-kicking.

"I know she's with me, but that's not what I asked. Explain to me how it is."

"I . . . dunno. She's my friend."

"What kind of a friend?"

Draco remembered Pansy's words as she was getting him off: There are lots of ways to be friends . . . He figured It's complicated wouldn't go over well with Graham. "We've been friends all our lives. I've known her forever. So that's the kind of friends we are."

"Forever friends?" Montague sneered. "How cute."

"Look, you don't need to get all worked up. I just meant, you know, we've known each other forever. We're just . . . friends."

"Is she your best friend?"

"I guess so." He decided to stand up to this prat. "Yes."

"What are you doing when you two disappear at the weekends?"

No way was Draco going to let slip about the Polyjuice. Besides, it was purely physical. Pansy was doing him a favour and he was doing Pansy a favour, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to spit out a biting retort about how Pansy was certainly not having Draco Polyjuice into Montague. Like she had said, she didn't need Polyjuice to get to him.

"We're revising."

"Revising what?"

"Our lessons? Geez, what the ruddy hell do you think is going on?"

Montague fixed his dark eyes on Draco. "I really have no idea."

"Ask Pansy. Why're you bothering me about it?"

"Oh, I've asked." He stood still, but his eyes weren't as predatory. They were more . . . hurt? "Something isn't right, Malfoy. It's like there's this part of her she won't let me know."

"Everyone has parts of them they don't like to show." He surprised himself with this rather insightful statement.

"She talks about you all the time."

"I, uh "

"And you two have never snogged?" Montague was back to being suspicious.

"Well, there was "

"So you have snogged!"

"When we were fourteen!" Draco was getting irritated. "It was after the Yule Ball, for sod's sake. Merlin, Montague, what's wrong with you?"

Montague circled around him. "You know what I think? I think she fancies you."

He made a noise. "I doubt that."

"Do you fancy Pansy, Malfoy?"

"You're being paranoid." Pansy was his best mate. All right, he was willing to admit it. So she wasn't a bloke. He was tired of Montague's bullshit and frankly didn't care if he'd be pounded into the ground for saying what he was about to say. He put on his best scowl and went chest-to-chest with Graham. "You know what? Here's what we both know. If I wanted to be with Pansy I would be. Get it?"

Montague hit him so fast Draco didn't even fall over; it felt as if his left eye had caved in. It took all he had to not cry out and double over. Just like that, Montague had popped him in the eye, and Draco'd withstood it. He saw red and felt blood trickle down his cheek.

"I thought," Montague said, his face mean and angry, "that we had an understanding after last summer, yeah?"

"Yeah, we did," Draco said, holding his sleeve to his eye. He'd go to Madam Pomfrey for this one. He didn't want his features marred. "We do. But now we have a better understanding."

"I should kick your bloody fucking arse."

"Go ahead." Draco spread his arms wide, antagonising Montague. "Doesn't change a ruddy damn thing."

"And what's that?" Montague asked, sneering. "What doesn't change?"

"Things are what they are. You could bloody well kill me and that wouldn't change a thing."

"That being?"

"That Pansy and I are " He took great pause, mopping at his face again. He looked Montague square in the eye. " friends. Don't make her choose." He was halfway to the stairs leading to the hospital wing before turning back. "You should know Pansy loves jewellery. Remember that before you fuck up and get her next present at Honeydukes."

Draco didn't hate Montague. He just hated him with Pansy.

Madam Pomfrey fixed him up just fine, but it was well after curfew when Draco was released from the hospital wing. He had declined the matron's offer for him to stay overnight, but had the forethought to get a written note from her explaining that he was out of bed late due to illness and should be allowed to travel through the castle in order to return to Slytherin. She didn't date the note, which was even better. He could keep it to use anytime. He stuffed the note in his pocket, adjusted the Prefect pin on his robes, and set off to the Room of Requirement.

It was very dark inside.

Draco's stomach churned with acid and his heart pounded. He kept his ears peeled for the scream of the wraith, but tonight it did not come. His senses were on high alert. "Lumos." The tiny glow at the tip of his wand was the only light present and he picked his way through the unwanted debris of the room, fielding narrow paths carved through towering piles of items when they made themselves available. He could probably navigate this in the dark, but the thought scared him. His wand shook in his hand and several times he had to stop to catch his breath, even though he was only walking. His heart would not stop hammering in his chest, no matter how many calming breaths he took, and his stomach continued to roil. His left arm ached and burned, and he wondered if he were having a heart attack. He considered going back to the matron, but what would he say? He couldn't explain himself. Not to anyone. So he was going to attempt to distract himself with one of only two other things that he thought might get his mind off his miserable existence for at least a little while.

He reached his area and headed straight for Erised, and he pulled the astrological shroud covering it off with one mighty tug. He looked inside.

Potter was sitting on the ground, apparently sleeping. His head was bowed; he held his wand in his right hand, which was resting on the stone floor.

"Potter."

He looked up, squinting into the light from Draco's wand.

"Malfoy?"

Draco swallowed hard. "I told you I'd be back."

And he stepped into Erised.

After they sat in the darkness for hours, Harry said, "You promised. You said you'd let me out."

"I don't know how."

"You what?"

"I said I don't know how."

"But . . . all this . . ." Draco assumed Harry was talking about himself and his offer. "This was so you'd let me go."

"I'll figure it out."

"What, you think you can just leave it like that? That I'm going to just that I'm going to let you "

"Well, then, Potter, what else do you propose?"

Harry was silent.

"Stand up."

"No."

"Stand up."

Harry lumbered to his feet, inches from Draco, and Draco realised that he and Pansy had done quite a bit under the Polyjuice. They'd taken it about six times now. Even though he couldn't help himself, Draco didn't want Pansy to experience him touching another boy and he couldn't stand the prospect of her touching any boy other than him. Even though he knew that she had no idea who she was Polyjuicing into, he still felt highly defensive, as if she would on a whim one day decide to find herself a three-way mirror and examine herself as Harry Potter, and Draco knew only one thing: how could she not laugh at him?

But this wasn't Pansy.

And Potter wasn't laughing.

Potter, perhaps having given this a great deal of thought, raised his hand to Draco's neck where he let his fingertips caress the hollowed-out groove of Draco's collarbone, skimming over the slight rise there, moving back and forth. His thumb swept in and out of the recess; it felt slightly scratchy, as if Potter had rough skin there, like he'd been chewing at his nail or something.

Draco stilled Potter's hand, taking it up in his own, and he brought Harry's thumb to his lips and rubbed them back and forth, letting his tongue draw a line across the soft pad there, and then he sucked on Harry's thumb in earnest, and he remembered Pansy's words: Pretend it's her mouth or something . . . It had been before she had known Draco fancied a boy. At the time the mere thought had made him come in his trousers, and just thinking about that moment excited him and prompted him to lift his hand to Potter's mouth. "Put my fingers in your mouth."

"Gross!" Harry groaned. "C'mon, Malfoy. Can't this just be . . . straightforward?"

"You're lucky that's all I feel like sticking in your mouth."

Harry sighed and leaned against Draco's outstretched hand, dragging his lower lip across Draco's fingers there, opening up. Draco slid two fingers inside. "Suck," he said, almost hissing from the searing heat of Potter's mouth. It was wet and hot and forbidden, and as Potter sucked at his fore and middle fingers, the warmth shot straight down into his core. Draco ran his tongue around the tips of Harry's fingers and ordered, "Harder!"

Potter seemed determined to follow through on his promise. He plied Draco's fingers with his tongue, as if they were some sort of sweet from Honeydukes, and Draco's erection burgeoned in his trousers. He curled his fingers in Potter's mouth and Potter bit him reflexively. Draco shook Harry's face, fingers in mouth, thumb under the chin. "Don't!" he warned, closing in until their hips aligned. Draco pressed his cock into Potter's belly, and Potter stepped backwards.

"Malfoy!"

Draco slid his free hand around Harry's backside, grabbing his arse, and he pulled him back in, at the same time sliding his fingers from Potter's mouth. He grabbed up Potter by the hair at the nape of his neck and urged him forwards, and kissed him hard, almost brutally, filling Potter's mouth with his tongue.

"Mmpf!"

It was so much better than he'd ever imagined it. Potter was warm and breathing and real under Draco's touch, and Harry was shy, reticent, even though this had been his idea. It was clear to Draco that Harry Potter had never touched another boy before Draco in his life. Not that Draco had (did Pansy count while Polyjuiced?), but the knowledge that Potter was untouched, and that Draco was the only one to do these things to Potter was so hot. He could taste the other boy's reluctance, could almost feel his discomfort, but he kept on kissing Harry Potter until finally, minutes later, Potter began kissing him back.

"That's right," Draco whispered, rucking up Potter's t-shirt, "give it back . . . "

Potter jerked his hand downwards to where Draco was clutching at his t-shirt, covering Draco's hand. Draco raised its hem anyway, sliding his hand underneath. Potter's belly was firm and toned and the first thing Draco found was his bellybutton and the soft trail of hair there dipping below Potter's belt. Draco ran his fingertips over it lightly as he thrust his tongue against Potter's, and he tucked his fingers underneath Potter's belt and tugged him forwards until his hand was crushed between their bellies.

"Ah, Malfoy, I " Harry said the words straight into Draco's mouth.

"You what?"

Potter's hand was at Draco's side, playing with his shirt. "I, um . . . "

Draco kissed him again and he felt Potter's fingers tighten in his shirt as he twisted the material around his fist, and Potter kissed him back, more eagerly this time. Holding Potter to him by the belt, Draco pressed his cock against him, almost as if he were merely leaning against Potter, thrusting his tented trousers against Harry's zip. Each movement pushed his cock higher up, until it was laying flat against his belly; he could feel his tip just at the waist of his trousers, the rough caress of the woollen fabric exquisite and demanding. He dragged Harry's hands around to his arse and squeezed Potter's forearms until Harry grabbed hold. "Don't let go," Draco said, and with a groan he thrust himself against Harry, rubbing and circling, without any semblance of rhythm now everything felt so good. It was like he wanted every inch of his cock to be touched at the same time. Frankly, he wanted to be fucking something . . . someone . . . not just anyone . . . Potter would do.

Harry was kissing him fervently, apparently having got over his initial reluctance. He was doing something hot and blissful to Draco's ear with his tongue and Draco wondered where Harry had learnt that. So he asked. "Where'd you learn that oh!"

"You think you're the only person I've snogged?"

"Well, I've snogged other people too!"

"Good for you." And then Draco's mouth was claimed again as Harry's hand snaked its way from Draco's arse. Harry slipped his hand in between them and Draco sucked in his breath sharply as his fingers skimmed across the tip of Draco's cock.

"Undo my trousers," Draco ordered.

"No, not yet "

Draco slapped his hand over Potter's and slid both their hands down the length of Potter's cock. Potter was just as hard as Draco, Draco could tell, and he flung Potter's hand aside and rubbed his own hand up and down Potter's erection up, down, and around. He grasped at Potter's cock, getting the feel of it through Potter's trousers; he was thick and solid and rock hard. "Now I know why you're doing this."

"Oh yeah?" Potter was breathless. "Why's that?"

"Because you want to."

"Do not."

Draco squeezed Potter's cock. "Do too."

"Shut up, Malfoy . . . "

They grappled frantically, hands everywhere, hot mouths colliding. They kissed and kissed until Harry tugged at Draco's trousers.

"You want me to?" Draco whispered into Harry's ear.

"Merlin, Malfoy, stop talking!"

They bumped hips as Draco undid his belt, struggling with the buckle for a moment before it came loose, and he pulled it free of his trousers.

"You don't have to take it all the way off," Potter said, in a condescending tone.

"Stop talking!"

Draco had his trousers unzipped; holding Potter's gaze, he slipped his hand into the waistband of his shorts. His excitement was at a fever pitch; he knew if he touched his cock for longer than thirty seconds he'd be coming, so he let his fingers rake through his hair there, let himself caress his sac and knead his balls, led his fingertips around the fair skin surrounding his erection, circling there. "God," he gasped, closing his eyes as he squeezed his balls again, massaging them together as firmly as possible. He circled his palm against his tight sac until a rushing sensation suddenly coiled inside him, behind his cock. With a groan he let go. This was by far the most elaborate he'd got with masturbation; having an audience actually fuelled his fire, made him feel deviant and omnipotent. He put a hand out to the wall and leaned forward, as if catching his breath. His cock felt electrified with the sensation of lost touch and it tingled, wanting further ministrations. He looked up. "Potter . . . "

Harry had undone his own trousers and pushed them right down, the waistband of his shorts getting caught on his tip. He freed himself and took his cock in his hand and looked at Draco, and Draco realised Potter was unsure of how to proceed.

"Show me how you do it," Draco said, easing his trousers down several inches until the head of his erection slid out from his boxers. He touched himself, squeezing and rubbing lightly as he watched Harry do . . . nothing.

"I can't do this," Harry said.

"Yeah, you can."

"How can you just sit there and wank off in front of me?" He sounded indignant.

"It's fair to say I've given this a lot of thought. Want to see more?"

Potter remained silent, watching Draco.

Draco outright pushed his trousers down until they pooled around his thighs and exposed his entire cock to Potter. He moved his hips upwards, thrusting into his hand, and he began sliding his fingers up and down the length of his cock. "I can keep doing this," he said, "for a very long time. Do you want to watch me do this for a very long time, Potter?"

Potter's own hand was now moving slightly.

"That's right. You do it too. You do this, right?" Draco asked, referring to wanking.

"Who doesn't?"

"This is tonnes better than a thermometer . . . "

"What?" Harry's voice broke as he concentrated on touching himself and Draco got a very good look at the Cock that Lived. The trail of hair from Harry's bellybutton spread into dark curls surrounding his sac and balls; the plane of his stomach looked as toned as it had felt. Harry's cock was quite thick, although not as long as Draco's. It looked good.

"Never mind," Draco said, watching Harry touch himself. "How close are you?"

"Dunno."

Draco's orgasm ebbed and flowed with each touch and for a long minute he and Harry stood about a foot apart watching each other jerk off.

"Oh," Harry moaned. "Oh shit . . . "

"Don't!" Draco cried out. He was so not ready for this to be over. Reaching down he grabbed Harry's hand and yanked it away. Still touching himself with his other hand, Draco leaned in and kissed Harry, rather tenderly considering who it was. He sucked at Harry's bottom lip; Harry made a noise in the back of his throat, as if his breath had caught. Draco prised Harry's mouth open, probing with his tongue, and then they were kissing again, deep and long and hot, devouring one another, and then he closed in, thrusting his cock towards Harry's until the electrifying jolt of skin against skin assailed his senses. "Oh my God, yeah."

Somehow their hands found each others' arses and they grabbed on tight, pushing against one another, cock to hipbone, cock to cock, cock to warm crease of thigh and pelvis. Together their hands snaked down to wrap around their erections, to hold them together, shaft to shaft, balls rubbing together. They squeezed so tightly that they could barely thrust, but the pressure was amazing and Draco's mental thermometer was rising fast and the thought of Harry Potter with Draco's come on him pushed him over the edge.

"This is it," he whispered into Harry's ear, and then a string of noise unfurled from deep inside him and he called out as he jerked his cock frantically, tearing out a ferocious orgasm. He came right up the plane of Harry's stomach, leaving pearlescent trails rolling down there, and Potter pushed him away and dragged his fingers through Draco's come and massaged the trails of semen around the tip of his cock and began kneading there, focusing his movements at the top of his cock. He did exactly that: kneaded the head of his erection fast and furiously, until his hips jerked upwards. Potter also called out as he came, and he kept a tight hold on Draco's shoulder as he worked his cock. Harry stuck his hand in Draco's mouth, and Draco, still high from the force of his orgasm, sucked on his fingers eagerly, tonguing his own come and, he supposed, some of Harry's too.

He thought he would be elated, but instead Draco filled with a cold splash of uncertainty and an alarm sounded in him that he had just done something unforgivable, something very wrong. It wasn't that he had a moral issue with either messing around with boys or the fact that Potter had essentially offered himself up to Draco in exchange for eventual freedom from Erised. It was something else, something intangible, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He stuffed his still-stiff cock back into his shorts and pulled up his trousers, looking for his belt that he had discarded somewhere. Potter was doing the same.

They said nothing and as soon as Draco was tucked in and zipped up he stepped outside the mirror, back through the ancient magic bubbling there, and he left Harry behind, his hands pressed against the back side of the glass, looking rather bereft.

He woke up in the middle of the night in full panic mode. He couldn't catch his breath and he couldn't swallow. He'd dreamt that Voldemort had killed him, had struck out at him with his wand that became a sword with a great jewelled serpent for a hilt and had cut Draco's throat open so deep that he rivalled Nearly Headless Nick. He'd tried to scream, but only frothy blood filled his throat and mouth, and Voldemort had laughed and laughed his high, evil laugh, and had said two words: "You failed."

He extricated himself from his sweaty bedsheets and bolted, not caring how much noise he made as he tore from the dormitory.

"Malfoy?" Crabbe had muttered, half asleep, "Y'okay?"

He didn't bother to stop at the loo, nor to cover up. He hurtled down the hallway towards the girls' dormitories in nothing but his shorts and a shirt. He was almost there when there came a rude surprise. The stairs leading down into the girls' dorms flattened and became a slick granite slide. He hurtled all the way down and crashed headfirst into Salazar Slytherin. klaxons began sounding and Draco panicked. Scrambling to his feet, he was confused as to which door led to Pansy's room, but he remembered it was second to last in the circle of doors. He yanked it open and leapt into the room, realising how ridiculous he must look, but thank Merlin it was dark. He could see the girls moving about in their beds, reacting to the noise, and he made for Pansy's bed at the end of the room, managing to avoid Daphne Greengrass's mountain of filthy laundry, but stubbing his toe on what felt to be a pile of books. He half stumbled, half fell into Pansy's bed, landing on top of her. He felt the rise of her arse through the blankets, and before she could react, his mouth was at her ear.

Shh . . .

She turned her head and Draco could smell the sleep on her. "I have to check," she said, so low it was barely audible. "Let me up. I'm prefect. I'll Don't worry."

Draco eased up on her and Pansy made a big show of having been woken up and having to search the dormitories for intruders. She actually shoved Draco so that he was between the wall and her bed, squashed and suffocating, which did nothing to help with his panic. He tried to take deep breaths as he hunkered down and waited.

Pansy returned in fifteen minutes, assuring her dormmates that all the boys were accounted for and that if one had tried to get into their room, he'd been scared off by the slide and klaxons. "Go back to sleep, ladies," she said in a bored tone. "At least tomorrow's Saturday. We won't have to get up."

She must have cast a thousand silencing charms inside the drawn bedcurtains; when she finally spoke it was in a normal whisper. "Draco?"

She had to help him out from his hiding spot because of the weird position he was in. He managed to extricate himself and he pulled her in to him, hugging her fiercely and burying his head in her tousled hair. She was on her knees and put her arms around him, but he got the clue that she had to be uncomfortable. "Sorry," he mumbled, releasing her; she toppled backwards.

She settled back against her headboard and held out her arms. "What's wrong?"

He almost cried in relief as he settled against her. "Dream."

"You had a bad dream?"

"So stupid."

"No," she said, smoothing his hair. "It's not stupid. I wish I could help."

"You are helping." As long as she kept touching his hair in that way that she did, the world was fine.

"What did you dream?"

He was silent for a long time, just letting her fingers rake through his hair. "That I failed. At something important."

She stiffened. "You mean . . . for Him?"

Draco hesitated. He nodded. "Yeah."

"Lie down with me, c'mon."

They stretched out facing one another, each with one hand tucked under Pansy's pillow, the fingers of their other hands intertwined.

"I need you to help me get a Niffler," Draco said after a long pause.

"Okay. When?"

"Now?"

"I'll get dressed."

It occurred to him that she wasn't dressed. "Well, maybe in a minute." He wanted to lie here with her, even though his task was calling him. "Did you brush your teeth or something?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Why'd you brush your teeth?"

She squeezed his hand and moved her face up slightly and Draco felt the tip of her nose brush his lips. "Habit."

"You have a habit of brushing your teeth in the middle of the night?"

"Why do you care, Draco?"

He let go of her hand and lifted his to her side, ruching up the hem of the t-shirt she was wearing. He ran his fingertips lightly in the soft valley between her hip and ribs until he felt goosebumps rise.

She clamped her hand over his. "No."

"Can we "

"No."

"But I want "

"No."

"What about if we "

"No."

"You make me hurt . . ."

"Don't."

Draco slid his hand up her side, evading her arm as she tried to trap him, and he was rewarded with her bare breast. He cupped it, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her nipple. She caught his hand again.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice low and almost predatory. "I have a boyfriend "

"I know," Draco said, distinctly remembering being slammed in the face by Graham Montague.

"I think it's time that you I think that whoever this person is that you fancy it's time, Draco."

"Time for what?" He could still feel the pebble of her nipple under his thumb and he could hardly breath for wanting to flip her over and fuck her right through the mattress.

But she pulled his hand away and set it aside, set it back so his forearm was resting in the crook of his own waist, and she straightened her t-shirt and kissed him, lingering for a moment.

"Time for you to be with the one you really want."

He looked at her through the darkness; he could see the shine of her eyes. "I think we should get the Niffler now."

She nodded and for a moment Draco thought he felt a wetness on his cheek and the pillow felt suddenly damp. And then he couldn't have felt less like shagging or snogging or messing around, for he realised it wasn't her that was leaking. Quickly he sat up and made to bolt from her bed, but Pansy's soft hand was at his shoulder, digging in there.

"I can't do it for you," she whispered, and Draco somehow knew that she was referring to his task, "but I can be there with you. In a way."

He nodded, calling up every bit of self-control he could muster. He breathed in, quelling his emotion. "I will," he said, "not fail. I won't. I don't care what it takes." He was filled with new resolve.

"That's right," Pansy said, "That's right! You won't fail." She squeezed both his shoulders this time, bolstering him, and then hugged him from behind, her arms around his neck. She kissed him again, just under the ear, and Draco felt the cool rush of air against his skin as she breathed in his scent. "Let's go and get that Niffler."

The Niffler died on its way to Borgin and Burkes.

Rosmerta signalled him that he had a letter, so Draco was the first one out of the castle to Hogsmeade on the next visiting weekend, which, as it turned out, thank Merlin, happened to be that very week.

"Imperio," he whispered, sliding the tip of his wand around under Rosmerta's ear. "Give me my letter. Then, you're going to go back to your pub, and you'll forget we ever spoke, or that the Dark Lord passed you any information. You will not remember anything having to do with this. You'll forget it all."

"I'll forget it all," Rosmerta said dreamily, nodding. She handed Draco a black envelope.

"Get out. Leave."

Rosmerta turned on her heel and drifted from the men's toilets in the Three Broomsticks. Draco waited several minutes, sitting sideways on the toilet, his knees all scrunched up by the cubicle divider. He thought five minutes was sufficient for him to put space between him and Rosmerta; when he finally emerged, he slipped out of the Three Broomsticks and made his way to the edge of the forest surrounding Hogsmeade. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no one, and he took off running into the forest, the black envelope burning against his chest from the breast pocket inside his jacket.

He ran for ten minutes, hard, before collapsing against a tree, holding onto to it with his right hand and digging for the letter with his left. He extracted the envelope and broke the seal. It morphed into a twisting funnel of inky black smoke, and from it the Dark Lord's face appeared. Voldemort's hissing serpentine voice issued forth. Draco, my fine boy, the Dark Lord said, I must commend you on your continued efforts on my behalf. Some, who are no longer with us no worries there felt it impractical of me to entrust a task of this magnitude to a mere schoolboy. But you are no mere schoolboy, are you? You may be the junior member of my inner circle, but know that so long as you shall perform your duties satisfactorily you have no reason to fear being culled from the herd. I must, however, in the spirit of open communication, advise you that I am surprised your task continues on still. I quite thought you would have accomplished your goal. I am a reasonable wizard, Draco; however, I find myself growing impatient with the pace of your progress. I know your parents eagerly await your success. I gave you a simple task; I expect a simple solution. When the day comes for my forces to move, they must have access to Hogwarts, and I expect all obstacles to be removed. Permanently. We shall not have another conversation like this one again and I leave it to you to discern how much further my patience shall extend. I remain but your humble master, your destiny, your Lord.

Draco went through five Nifflers the next week.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said, removing his hat in the presence of the headmaster; his dolphin-sized shoes dripped mud onto the carpets. "I don' mean ter bother yeh, but someone's bin into the Niffler herd t'past week. Reckon I'm missing ten of them." He couldn't keep the emotion from his voice. "Young 'uns, the smallest of the lot. They're easier t'catch. Can' resist shiny objects, y'know. Set a little trap fer the thief. Seems that Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson are stealin' the Nifflers. Dunno what they'd be wantin' with 'em."

"Thank you, Hagrid," Dumbledore said, considering the half-giant from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "I must ask your discretion in this matter. As much as it will undoubtedly pain you, I must direct that you allow Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson to continue to take the Nifflers."

"I don' understand. I "

"I ask for your trust in the matter."

"Well, of course yeh have my trust, Professor," Hagrid said, very worried indeed. "But the Nifflers are just little things. Can' fend for themselves yet. I know the students try an' take 'em as pets, but no student's ever taken so many before. I'm 'fraid tha' the little ones'll die if left all alone without their mothers . . . "

"It is true all living creatures have their own individual life cycle."

"Yeh can' be suggestin' I just stand by and watch "

"I am afraid I must require it, Hagrid."

"But, Professor Dumbledore, sir "

"I regret it. I wish nothing but blessings upon their little souls." Dumbledore rose. "If you will be so kind as to excuse me. Mr. Filch tells me there are Boggarts and Pogrebins loose in the castle."

Crabbe tried to quit.

"You are not leaving off, and that's final," Draco hissed at Crabbe during Wilkie Twycross's Apparition lesson. "I need you to stand guard."

"No you don't," Crabbe said, and for a moment Draco thought Crabbe was considering an outright mutiny. "Nothing ever happens! People just walk past, going where they're going. Nobody's ever tried to get into the room "

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You'll guard and you'll like it," he said. "You'd hate for it to get back to Him that you failed to support me on His behalf."

Crabbe blanched. "How much longer's it gonna take?" he asked, bordering on whining. "What're you doing in there anyway?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't know how much longer, all right? It's taking longer than I thought it would." He didn't let Crabbe get a word in edgeways. "Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout "

"I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me."

Potter.

Draco spun around, reaching for his wand. Potter stood behind him, holding his Apparition hoop, and Draco was so angry that Potter was eavesdropping he didn't care if the entire school saw him cast Cruciatus

"QUIET!" All four heads of house stood at the front of the Great Hall, shushing the students.

Draco put his wand away. There was no question. Potter was following him. And if Potter was following him, it meant only one thing.

Potter was not in Erised by mistake. He wanted Draco, too.

Right?

He was a little chuffed when he managed to disappear and reappear three inches over inside his hoop. Not that anyone noticed. Not even Potter.

When the oak-matured mead reared its head on the first of March, and the Weasel had ended up being the one poisoned, Draco's panic went into full overdrive. He was positive he'd be found out, that somehow the mead would be traced back to Rosmerta, even though he'd had it sent to Slughorn before Christmas. Slughorn hadn't given it to Dumbledore like Draco'd hoped he would; he'd held onto it. Draco'd almost forgotten about the mead, what with all the other crap going on.

He was overcome with nausea and had to dash from his bed to the loo, where he spent the night hugging the toilet bowl, the gagging and retching unrelenting, and he fully didn't care who heard him. Other boys came in and out of the bathroom throughout the night; the word must have got around, because at what he assumed to be breakfast time, he heard Alohomora and the click of the cubicle door, and then Pansy's cool hands were at his temples, stroking him there as she wiped the sweat from his brow and smoothed his hair as he gagged his guts inside out. "Shh . . . " she whispered, rubbing, touching, petting. "Shh, Draco. It's okay . . . it's okay . . . " But it was so not okay and Draco felt as if his face would explode as his vision blurred and tears rippled in the bowl.

Gryffindor was playing Hufflepuff the Saturday after the poisoning and Draco forced Crabbe and Goyle to Polyjuice into the Slytherin first year girls to keep watch at the Room of Requirement. He felt the need for a lookout since he began experiencing the overwhelming feeling of being followed.

Potter turned up while they were on their way to the Room of Requirement. Draco gave a mirthless laugh.

"Where're you going?" Harry demanded.

"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you because it's your business, Potter," Draco sneered. He wanted to get out of there immediately, for Crabbe and Goyle were with him and he didn't want Potter to suspect Polyjuice. "You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for 'the Chosen Captain" "the Boy Who Scored" whatever they call you these days."

Goyle giggled and Draco noticed Potter was scrutinising Goyle, and Goyle blushed. His anxiety swelling, Draco pushed past Potter without a glance back, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels, tripping along in the way that little girls do. They turned the corner and Draco lit out of there. "C'mon!" he barked, over his shoulder, and they reached the seventh floor, his sanctuary. He made sure Crabbe and Goyle each had a generous flask full of the Polyjuice Potion, and he instructed them, "Do not leave until I'm done."

"But what about dinner?" Crabbe whined, the fatter of the two.

"Christ, Crabbe, live off your hump for a while. Like a camel!"

After the poisoning, Draco was plagued by the feeling of being followed. As in, all the time. He'd whip around, looking, but could see nobody. On one occasion he glimpsed a pair of the Hogwarts house-elves, but they disappeared and no one else was around. He took to walking quickly, so quickly that Pansy complained as he dragged her along by the hand from class to class. He was right glad that Montague was a year ahead and on a different timetable than he and Pansy. Pansy liked to hold his hand under the desks while they took notes. It worked out fine, as she was left-handed and he was right. He let her cling to his little finger. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, which made him paranoid. What if he'd been found out? What if Dumbledore knew? Surely not, for he'd be booted out of Hogwarts in a heartbeat if it were discovered that there was a Death Eater as a student.

He felt like a complete and total freak.

March turned over into April.

Draco killed all of Hagrid's Nifflers. Even the mothers and babies.

Afterwards he'd wished he'd actually fail, that it'd all be over with, that Voldemort would just kill him, for he was a terrible person. Draco was not a nice person, mind, but before the Nifflers he had never felt terrible. Unworthy. Despicable. The little creatures haunted his restless sleep. He saw them playing, burrowing, rooting out shiny objects, their fur the colour of rich mud, their little paddle-like front paws waving sweetly.

He picked up the mirror and stared at his reflection. He looked like shit.

Back again today, child?

He continued to stare into the mirror; realisation blossomed. "This is what I am," he said. "This is what I've become. This is it."

You are this, yes.

"I just wanted . . . just wanted . . . "

You know what you want. It is time for you to embrace your maturity. Time to make the right decisions, to choose what's best for you and what you really want.

"I do know what I want!"

Yes. The question is, though, do you act on your desires?

Acting on his carnal desires was the one thread of humanity keeping him tethered to his sanity. "Sheeyeah," he said, as if it were obvious. He stepped into Erised almost every day, stepped into the waiting arms and hot mouth of Harry Potter.

The mirror was silent for a very long time. Dear child Draco liked that the mirror called him 'child'; it made him feel decent you are a dreamer. Your mind is rich and in it you go many places and do many things. But surely you know that the mirror

"Do not," he said in a tight voice, "tell me it's not real."

I believe you just told yourself.

"FUCK YOU!" He slammed the mirror down onto a deserted steamer trunk; its face cracked. "You hear that? Fuck you." He pushed his chair back, ignoring that it tumbled over backwards, and he stalked over to Erised. I am not making this up. It is real. He is real. It's real. And he stepped right in.

"Potter?"

"Malfoy."

"C'mere . . . "

Harry came and stood in front of Draco. Draco reached out. His fingers brushed the soft cotton of Potter's t-shirt and when he slid his hand underneath he felt warm skin, smooth and giving a slight quake. "You hate it when I touch you."

"Yes."

"But, then again," Draco said, as Harry fingers fumbled at his trousers, "you don't."

"Yes "

"Tonight," Draco said, ruthlessly quashing his emotions, "is the last time. I'm letting you go."

"Why?"

"Because I don't fucking need you, all right?"

"Took you this long?"

Draco let his head fall back, for Potter's hands were already in his shorts, picking him up, tugging and pulling at his cock.

"Get down," he said, pushing on Harry's shoulders. Harry sank to his knees, dragging his hands down the sides of Draco's legs, partially bringing Draco's trousers down too. Potter's knees slid apart on the slick stone floor and he had to readjust until his face was level with Draco's cock, and he wasted no time.

"Breathe on me . . . No, not like that." He tried to remember exactly what Pansy had done when she'd wanked him off that one time. She'd slid her hands up his stomach and had huffed. "Just like " He huffed, showing Potter what he meant. "Blowing is cold oh."

Harry had his mouth against the underside of Draco's cock and his breath was hot and damp, and Potter's chin rubbed against Draco's balls as he stuck his hands up the backside of Draco's shorts and cupped his arse, pulling him closer, and as Draco looked down it was as if Harry wanted to eat him up.

It was no act.

Potter was actually sucking at his sac through the fabric of his shorts and the sensation of Potter's tongue rubbing the fabric into his balls was painfully good. It scratched and worked at him and there was no way Draco could wait.

He pulled Potter away by a handful of hair and hooked his thumb into the elastic waist of his shorts and pulled them down, over his cock, until it sprang free, and he put a finger on Potter's chin and pressed down until Harry's mouth opened slightly and he thrust right in, wincing as Potter's teeth scraped. "Open up."

Potter did. He took Draco into his mouth as much as he could, all the while making little sweeping motions with his tongue.

"Holy shit," Draco groaned, and he began thrusting, tapping at the back of Potter's head before threading his fingers through the crazy hair there. Hand to the back of Potter's head, he tried to guide him while at the same time maintaining his thrusts and it was all a jumbled, wet, hot mess until Potter rose up on his knees and once again tucked his hands inside Draco's shorts and grabbing onto his arse, stilling him. Harry sucked down hard and went slow, up and down, again and again, and Draco couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. Potter's fingers were running lightly down the cleft of his arse, up and down like his mouth, and Draco widened his stance, giving Potter better access while at the same time wondering why Potter was so eager. Because I'm letting him go. Because he's almost free. "Touch my arse," Draco ordered.

Harry pressed down against the sensitive ring and Draco came instantly, thrusting so hard he forced a strangled cough from Harry, who pulled off Draco's cock and spat onto the floor. And his hands were gone from Draco's arse. Harry wiped his mouth with the ball of his hand and said, "Jesus, Malfoy . . . "

But Draco didn't care. He was staring at Harry's erection, wanting to see it one last time. "Going to take care of it, then?" He motioned at Harry's cock with his chin and walked backwards until he was bumping against the round wall of the mirror's innards. Not bothering to pull up his trousers, he slid down the wall until he sat, knees bent, the stone wall chilling his back.

"What?"

"Come on, Potter. This is it."

Harry stood and unbuckled his belt and undid his jeans. "Fine," he said, slipping his hands inside his shorts.

"Oh no," Draco said, feeling spent and sated, his cock tingling in the afterglow. "Let's see it."

Harry hesitated, but apparently was too aroused. He lowered his trousers, pushed down his shorts, and began stroking himself, looking up and away.

"Look at me." Harry brought his gaze back to Draco, who was hitching his trousers up. Finished, he leaned back. "Go on, then."

Draco watched Harry stroke his erection.

"Why'd'you have to stare?" Harry asked, breathless. He closed his eyes.

"Because it looks bloody good." Draco was relaxed. "Come closer."

Harry was rubbing, rubbing, wanking himself fast enough that his fringe swayed, and he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on Draco.

"Closer." Draco looked up, glimpsing the underside of Potter's cock and his sac. "Use both hands." He was satisfied when Potter began squeezing his own balls, all the while stroking his shaft, and he watched without saying a word for several minutes, surprised that Harry was lasting so long. Finally, Potter sucked in his breath and sped up his motions.

"Here . . . " And Harry came with several white, hot spurts, his come spattering Draco's trousers and the tails of his shirt.

"So, how do I get out of here?"

"I don't know. Try some magic."

Harry started with the basics. "Lumos." The tip of his wand lit up.

Draco's throat was the core of a fiery sun and his mouth was suddenly awash with an abundance of saliva. He swallowed twice, but said nothing.

Harry turned to him, grinning. "Look!" He held up his wand and the light glowing under his chin made his face appear eerie.

Draco pulled his own wand. "Lumos." A second flare of light ignited. He looked at it, blinking. He was one-hundred percent exhausted. His knees felt weak and they trembled. Whether it was from nerves or fear or apathy he didn't know. His core felt funny, like he was on the verge of his perpetual nausea, but he managed to keep from being sick. He watched as Potter conjured all kinds of magic and at that moment it was beautiful, lighting up the endless towering room with colour and sparks and all the goodness that Draco guessed was inherent in a soul like Harry Potter. It was the same magic Draco did, but it felt different lighter, easier, better.

Harry whirled, his face shining and pure. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" An enormous silver force burst from the end of Harry's wand and Draco screamed and hit the floor.

He could hear galloping and his heart about imploded. The wraith was here! The wraith had got into the mirror and was here and was going to kill Draco. He couldn't help himself. He whimpered, burying his head in the crook of his elbow.

"Malfoy, get up."

"No!"

"Get up." It was strangely gentle. "It's okay." It was the closest Harry had ever come to soothing Draco, but Draco knew that tone, that tone of concern, of reassurance that snuck into a person's voice when things really were going to be fine.

Draco peeked. Four silver, shiny hooves stood next to him, the front one pawing the ground. It couldn't be the wraith. He pushed up, craning his neck. It was some kind of animal. He stood, his front all covered in dust and grime.

It was a stag.

"Oh," Draco said. He almost stretched out a hand, but figured a magical being this magnificent wouldn't do with having a Niffler killer try and touch it. "What is it?"

"A Patronus."

"I've read about those."

"Yeah."

"How do you do it?"

Harry gave Draco a very long look. "This isn't your kind of magic, Malfoy. Your kind is out there " Harry pointed from the mirror towards the Room of Requirement. " and it bleeds rotten blood and smells like death." Draco watched as the Patronus put its muzzle under Harry's chin, as if nudging him and he was filled with sadness that this was magic he would never know. He'd made his choice.

"You " Draco cleared his throat and adopted his haughtiest voice. "You should go, Potter. I expect you've been missed."

Harry gestured towards the face of the mirror. "Just through there, then?"

"I suppose."

"Malfoy, it's not too late. Dumbledore'd help "

"No."

Harry shrugged and turned with fluid grace, directing his wand at the mirror's glass. The Patronus bounded twice and leapt through the mirror, shimmering as it passed through its ancient face. Draco heard the clatter of hooves on the other side, and then Harry was climbing out. He stopped halfway through and looked back.

"I'm serious. It's not too late."

"Just go."

Harry did.

And the little light at the end of Draco's wand flickered once, twice, and then went dark.

Draco took up Potter's well, Pansy's hands and pulled her in, kissing her and sucking on her tongue so hard he tasted his own come. They'd just finished up and although it was bloody brilliant, Draco had something to say.

"I want to show you something."

"Brilliant," Pansy said, still in Potter's body. "What?"

"But first I want to tell you something."

"Okay . . . ?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then another breath. He opened his mouth, but closed it. He had a thousand butterflies in his stomach.

Her brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"No I mean, yes. I'm "

"Draco, what's wrong?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh," she sighed, brushing at his fringe. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting. It's just that I want to help!"

"You do help," he said, finding that he didn't really want to say what he had to say to her while she looked like Harry Potter. "C'mon. Let me show you "

"I thought you wanted to say something . . . ?"

"I will. Later." He took her wrist. "C'mon."

Draco led Pansy deep into the Room of Requirement.

"How'd'you get into this place anyway?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Someday I'll show you."

"Why not now?"

"Because right now I need it to be mine."

She squeezed his hand. "Selfish!"

"That's right." They rounded a pile of flowerpots, all full of honking daffodils. Draco flicked his wand. "Silencio." The honking ceased. "Ruddy stupid things."

"I think they're cute!"

Pansy always thought little creatures were cute. "You would."

"How can you not?"

"Pansy, I'm a guy." He rolled his eyes. "I don't give a sod about honking daffodils."

"I know you're a guy."

He tugged at her hand. "Hurry up."

"What's the big rush?"

"I don't want the Polyjuice to wear off."

"Oh!" She sounded surprised. "You want to do it again? Already?"

"No," he said. "It's not that. Here." They'd reached the passage down which Erised stood. He was certain he wanted to do this. He put out a hand. "Stay there."

"Okay."

He reached Erised and he reached up and struggled with the tapestry covering its face. He hadn't bothered with the mirror since the night he let Potter go. Putting all his weight into it he pulled the tapestry away, and it piled to the floor in a tremendous rush of air and dust.

"Merlin!" Pansy coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. "What the hell whoa!" Pansy stepped up to Draco. "That's amazing!" She looked up its towering face.

"Yes, but hurry!" Draco held out his hand and pulled her forwards as she took it. He turned her to face him and said, "I want to show you who you turn into."

Her smile faded. "Why?"

But he was already turning her back. "Look," Draco said, pointing. He grabbed up her hand again.

"I don't get it," Pansy said, squinting. She always had to squint as Potter because Draco hadn't nicked Harry's glasses. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Oh, come on," Draco said, squeezing her hand and pulling her closer to him. "Look."

"I am looking," she snapped. "All I see is you and me standing here."

"What?"

She lifted her finger and pointed. "You and me. See?"

Draco looked.

She was right.

Staring back from the mirror was Pansy and himself, standing just as they were, holding hands, just like they were.

"I don't understand," Draco said, nonplussed. He took a long glance sideways. No, Pansy was still Polyjuiced. Harry Potter was staring back at him. He returned his gaze to the mirror. There he was, standing with Pansy, the both of them looking smart and neat in their school uniforms. And then it hit him. Oh. He looked at her again and saw she was gazing into Erised, looking thoughtful, running her thumbnail absentmindedly over her bottom two teeth. It was a habit she had.

Draco's heart filled at the sight of her. He looked up, his eyes searching the elaborate frame until he found the inscription. He pointed. "Do you see that?"

"See what?"

"That inscription. Just there, over the top of the mirror."

"Oh," she said, her eyes alighting on the words. "Is it Latin?"

"No . . . " He'd turned and was watching her. She was halfway between herself and Potter, which was unattractive, to say the least. Draco started laughing.

She looked at him, one eye green, the other blue. The scar on her forehead was fading fast and, thank Merlin, she was losing the slight five-o'clock shadow. He watched as Pansy's chin emerged, and her wonderful, funny nose. She still had Potter's hair. "What?"

"You look bloody awful."

She dipped her chin, giving him a look, her lip curling. "Thanks?"

He grabbed up her wrists yet again and pulled her close. They bumped bellies and Pansy suddenly went back to being a head shorter than Draco. She stared up at him. "Tell me what you see in the mirror," Draco commanded.

She tilted her head. "I've already said. I see you. And me. Just us."

"Look again."

Pansy looked. "I don't know what you want me to say!" She lifted her hands, shrugging.

"I want to say . . . " His heart was hammering now. They saw the same thing. Draco understood. He understood the meaning of the mirror. He understood the strange grey shadow that'd appeared beyond Potter. He understood it all. It had been her all along. "I want to say . . . "

"Say what?"

He would die. He knew this. He would fail at his task and he would be killed, if not in the attempt on Dumbledore's life than by Lord Voldemort afterwards. He was sixteen years old and he knew nothing, and his short life had been fast and furious, and he'd never be a father or have a job or realise all his heart's desire. But in this moment this one, quiet moment he was quite at peace. He didn't need to be afraid to say anything because soon nothing would matter any more.

"I " It was right there, on the tip of his tongue, but the courage he needed was eluding him. He tried to capture it, like he might the Golden Snitch, reaching, leaning forward as far as he could. "I want to say . . . "

Pansy, who was usually rather hard-faced, was gazing up at him, her features soft and relaxed. "What?"

He had her tight, but his bravery went around the bend. "I don't want Montague to be your boyfriend any more." It was the best he could do.

"Draco "

He parroted her words from so many months ago. "I . . . want to say that I will always be your friend, no matter what. No matter what you do, I will always be your best mate."

"What are you saying?" She shook her head. "I'm confused."

"That day you gave me my your coin? I didn't say it. I should have."

She extricated her left arm. Tenderly, she held his face and ran her thumb over his cheek where Draco was quite sure a red spot had appeared. "I told you, you don't have to. Remember? The spell . . . it read your heart, Draco. It wouldn't have bound if you didn't . . . if you didn't . . . those emotions have to be there for it to work."

"It doesn't matter. I should have said it. So, I'm saying it now. But don't expect me to keep going on about it." He took a deep breath. "Also "

"There's more?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. The Polyjuice is all gone."

When he didn't continue she prompted him. "And?"

"And I'm not making any more." He was trailing his fingers up and down her side. "For us," he clarified.

"Okay."

"And I don't," he said, with particular emphasis, "want Montague to be your boyfriend any more."

Her eyes were bright in the dim light of the room. "Okay."

He sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her legs until he could feel the rise of her arse and he laid his head against her thighs, and then her fingers were tight in his hair as she held him against her and he clung to her as she looked up at the frame of Erised and read aloud.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire . . . "

Draco began working his way through the Hogwarts rabbit warren. He was able to get a rabbit to Borgin and Burkes alive, but the rabbits kept dying on the return trip.

In mid-May, Rosmerta signalled to him that he had another letter.

Draco's blood ran cold.

It was straight to the point: Patience runs thin. You shall complete your task. The end is nigh.

He stood in the shadow of a stuffed mountain troll in the sixth-floor corridor, frozen. Everyone was surely at dinner, and he was alone and his wraith was back. He had heard it, in the distance at first, cantering along the stone floor, and his heart dropped into his stomach and he just stopped, facing the side of the troll, dread bubbling. The wraith was stealthy this time, the cadence of its steed's hooves matching the hammering of his heart. A cold, wet, slimy rope of drool rolled down the back of his collar, and he could feel its ice-cold breath at his neck, chilling his skin in staccato bursts.

And for some reason it was so much worse than any other time. Combined with the Dark Lord's notice and the hopeless state of the Vanishing Cabinet, Draco's stress was at an all-time high. Electric shocks coursed through his body and for a moment he thought he might lose total control. Pride, fierce and strong, reared, and Draco stepped around the stuffed troll and, without looking back, began walking.

Screams sounded then, so loud inside his head that Draco thought his eardrums would explode. He doubled over. "AHH!" More clip-clopping behind him and the cold, wet nudge at his neck assailed his senses and for the first time Draco believed it was real. It was, he realised, dark magic and he had never understood the ramifications of dark magic before this moment. Before, it had been theory, something formidable to latch onto, to revere as a child would. Would he wish this on anyone, even his worst enemy? He craved empathy where he had none.

Hands clasped over his ears, the pain inside his head swelling as the screeching went on and on, Draco turned to face the wraith. It sat high above him, at least twenty hands off the ground, its spiked impenetrable armour gnashing like nails on a blackboard, its crimson and ebony horse taking aggressive bites at Draco, frothing pink and bloody at the mouth. For the first time the wraith spoke to him, leaning down until its helmet touched Draco's head.

"There is nowhere to hide." Its voice was the most terrible whisper, deep and gravelly, and the smell it emitted made Draco gag.

He backed into a door. He smacked his palms against the cool wood and it gave, opening, and he stumbled as he moved through it, throwing his hands out for balance. The door shut and the screaming stopped.

He was in the sixth-floor boys' bathroom.

He didn't even know how he got to the sink, but he was there, clutching either side until his knuckles were white curves. He couldn't catch his breath. He gulped the air, but it wouldn't go deep enough, and his heart was pounding out of his chest. His vision faded as black snow closed in, and he saw stars and moons and suns and knew he was about to pass out. His knees buckled a notch, but he was finally able to take a breath. It filled his lungs, glorious. He breathed, yes, but the dread and the fear and the physical pain pooled in his stomach, eating him from the inside out. He couldn't take it another second he could not and the shame of his perpetual emotional weakness writhed in his gut and, despite himself, he burst into tears.

"FUCK." He swiped at his eyes, but he could not stop crying.

There was a gurgling from one of the cubicles and then Moaning Myrtle's mousy voice cut through his sobs. "Ooo, Draco!" The sound of rushing air followed in her wake and Draco felt her cold hands at his shoulders. "You haven't been to see me in yonks. What's wrong? Did someone die?"

He barked out a wry laugh. "Not yet. But give it a week and I'm sure I'll be dead."

"Oh!" Myrtle floated about, rounding in front of him. She perched on the side of the sink, against his arm, making it feel as if he'd plunged his hand into a bucket of ice water. He jerked away from her, moving his hand towards the front of the sink, and she followed suit, scooting down to sit on his forearm. He flung his arm upwards.

"Stop it!" he said, feeling cross. "I've told you before not to sit on me."

Silver tears welled in her eyes. "I thought you liked me."

"I didn't say I don't like you." He didn't think he did like her, though. Draco liked few people, much less ghosts. He had to admit that she kept his secrets, though.

Myrtle wailed. "But we've grown so close! We have oodles in common!"

Now his nose was beginning to run. "Right. Like what?" he sneered, grabbing several paper towels and pressing them to his face. The tears weren't stopping.

"You like to cry and I like to cry," Myrtle said, grabbing onto his arm anyway; she snuggled her face against his shoulder.

"I do not like to cry!"

"Draco, in this day and age it's perfectly fine for a boy to show his emotions."

"I do not have emotions."

"Then how is it you're crying?"

"Leave off already."

She bawled anew. "And both of us," she snivelled, her voice dropping to a whisper, "were killed by You-Know-Who!"

His stomach lurched. She was . . . right. And he remembered what he'd said during his second year, during the Chamber of Secrets terror: But I know one thing last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened a Mudblood died. So I bet it's a matter of time before one of them's killed this time . . . . I hope it's Granger.

Draco looked at Myrtle and it occurred to him that, Mudblood or not, the spectre before him had once been a person, and that Myrtle was not much younger than he was. He couldn't process these thoughts beyond this, but it made him feel uncomfortable. "I'm not dead," he said.

"Oh, but you will be. You've said it yourself."

It was a certainty, this was true.

"When I die do I get to choose to become a ghost?" He'd want to keep his eye on things once he was gone. Could he go anywhere as a ghost? Or would he be bound to his death place forever? If he eventually decided to cross over, would he be allowed? Or was it an all-or-nothing prospect? Ghost for eternity or dead for all time?

"I don't know," she said, looking exceptionally young. "One moment I was alive and the next I was a ghost." She nodded her head. "I do know that I would've done anything to get back at that Olive Hornsby!"

"Who's Olive Hornsby?"

"She made fun of my glasses, which is why I ended up in that bathroom to begin with. I was trying to escape her and her awful group of friends."

"So . . . you died just because at that exact moment, You-Know-Who was in that bathroom, too?"

She nodded glumly. "And to think I almost went into an empty classroom instead." She gave a high sigh.

Luck of the draw.

He looked down at her where she was still clinging to his arm. "Do you mind? I want to be alone."

Her face fell. "You don't like me!"

"I didn't say that. I just want to be alone."

"Once you're a ghost you'll be alone all the time. So there!"

"Bloody brilliant." He mopped at his eyes again and threw the towel into the sink. Myrtle floated away from him.

"I do wish you wouldn't cry, though," she said grudgingly.

"Yeah, well, join the queue." He felt defensive and stupid.

"Crying in the loo is my thing, Draco."

"So sorry to steal your trick." He snuffled.

"I just wish you'd let me help you. I can listen "

A wave of despair overwhelmed him; he felt like his chest would explode. To his shame he cried again, in deep, gasping sobs, and he was frightened that someone would overhear him in the corridor and come investigate. He couldn't stop.

"Don't!" Myrtle was back in her cubicle, and the sound of splashing let Draco know she was again bobbing in the bowl, as she so liked to do. "Don't . . . tell me what's wrong . . . I can help . . . "

"No one can help me," Draco sobbed. His entire body was shaking. "I can't do it . . . I can't . . . It won't work . . . and unless I do it soon . . . he says he'll kill me . . . " The salt from his tears was eating through the grime in the basin. He had to get control. Another gasp escaped him. He gulped hard, a full body shiver coursing through him. He looked up into the cracked mirror. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with tears. He looked like a three-year-old toddler after a tantrum.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that he wasn't alone after all. Of all people of all people in the cracked face of the bathroom mirror, Draco saw Harry Potter staring at him, his mouth agape.

He hadn't known a split second could hold as many thoughts as he had.

Shame. Embarrassment. Humiliation. He was a cornered animal, just like the Nifflers and rabbits he'd taken, and the shock of being caught by Potter rose beyond all emotion.

Except for hope.

Yes, for a split second Draco was filled with hope, that Harry Potter had come to save him just as he saved the rest of the damn bloody universe on a regular basis. And maybe Harry had come along because he wanted to help still, just like he'd offered in Erised. It's not too late . . . It wasn't like Draco hadn't contemplated Potter's offer, that he hadn't seriously considered going to Snape or Dumbledore and begging for them to save him. But Snape was at Voldemort's right hand and Dumbledore had no time for blond Slytherins without glasses or a mission of valour. And it occurred to him that Harry Potter was virtuous in a way that Draco couldn't even imagine, in a masculine, determined, fortuitous way that Draco would never have. He realised, all in that one microsecond, that it was his own choices that rendered him corrupt, and that there was only weakness in the rhetoric he'd accepted since birth.

Harry Potter was a better person, he thought.

He must be a better person than Draco, who felt nothing but trite and insignificant, just like the shit-stirrer that he was. When he was gone, he wouldn't have mattered in the slightest; his impact on this world would be as meaningful as a stray spitball scraped from a classroom blackboard by Filch the Squib.

He would never be a Gringotts holiday.

Unlike Potter.

In a split second, hope faded to rage and he met Potter's eyes in the mirror. He whirled with a ferocious bellow, pulling his wand. He forgot good form and flung a curse at Potter overhanded, like he were throwing a ball at him. The final smidgen of hope inside him was dashed. Potter was pulling his own wand. He didn't want to help Draco; he wanted to hurt him.

Draco's curse missed Potter by mere inches. The lamp on the wall beside Harry shattered instead. He saw Potter's wand move and he blocked whatever spell Potter was sending at him. At least his reflexes weren't too terribly off.

He jerked his wand upwards again, intent on making this spell count. He didn't care if he would be expelled and go to Azkaban for the rest of his life. At least in Azkaban he might avoid the Dark Lord and he could see his father again . . .

"No! No! Stop it!" Myrtle's voice echoed off the tiled walls. "Stop! STOP!"

Draco's next curse hit the bin behind Potter, leaving it in a thousand pieces. His anger was white hot, blistering, and he castigated himself for missing yet again. This was it. Draco threw everything he had into his aim.

"CRUCI "

"SECTUMSEMPRA!"

Pain exploded inside him and he felt his skin split open all over his body and he believed he was being killed. By Harry Potter. The force of Potter's spell blew him off his feet and the back of his head cracked hard against the cold marble floor of the bathroom. He saw stars and then red as blood seeped into his eyes. He was so shocked he couldn't yell; his wand rolled from his hand into the chilly water from the broken cistern. He heard splashing and blinking through the blood he saw Potter slogging towards him. He panicked, yet all he could manage was to scrabble at the blood pouring from his chest and wait to die.

"No!" Harry said, sounding as panicked as Draco felt. "No I didn't " Potter sank to his knees next to Draco, and Draco, his body in shock, began shaking uncontrollably. He opened his mouth and tried to call out; no sound came. He imagined he was bleeding just as profusely on the inside and was terrified. Yet, through the horror and fear came the tiniest sprig of smugness and self-satisfaction: Potter was, after all, just as big a scumbag as Draco himself. It was brilliant.

"MURDER!" Myrtle had let out a deafening scream. "MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!"

He heard the bathroom door bang open. Snape pushed Potter aside and knelt in his place, pulling his wand. Draco felt its tip tracing patterns on his chest while Snape incanted the countercurse. The pain lessened and Draco took in a great shuddering breath. That his lungs didn't bubble or froth was a huge relief. Perhaps the wounds were external. Snape was repeating the countercurse and the burning sting of the cuts continued to fade. He groaned.

Snape helped him to his feet. Draco was dizzy and his stomach churned. He would not, he told himself, be sick in front of Harry Potter.

"You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that . . . . Come . . . . " Snape stooped and collected Draco's wand. He turned to Potter. "And you, Potter . . . You wait here for me."

Madam Pomfrey had given him Dreamless Sleep, thank Merlin, and for the first time in months, Draco slept for longer than a couple of hours at a stretch.

In fact, he slept for three days, waking only long enough to request more Dreamless Sleep Potion. After the third day, the matron refused to give him any more, and the haze of the potion-induced sleep began to wear off, but the dread and fear that filled him almost all of the time remained at bay. He dozed, various background noises infiltrating his dreams until a very bad rendition of a Weird Sisters song kept repeating itself in a low, off-key whisper. Draco forced himself to wake up, but the horrible singing was still there. He smiled, his eyes closed. "Pans?"

"Hi."

"Hi."

It was dusk; he couldn't really see her that well, but her hand on his forehead was warm and he liked the way she was stroking his hair.

"Am I maimed?"

She laughed. "No."

"How long've you been here?"

"Professor Snape came and fetched me after you fell asleep."

He pushed up onto his elbows. "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"Merlin, really?"

"Yep." When she spoke again Draco could tell she was wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Gryffindor won at Quidditch."

Draco snorted. "Fantastic."

"But Potter's got detention for the rest of his life."

"Detention?" Draco said, agog. "That's it? Potter almost kills me and he gets detention?"

"I know. It's so unfair." She smoothed his hair back again, soothing him.

Indignation exploded. "If I had thrown that curse? I'd've been expelled!"

"I know, I know . . . "

"But not Saint Potter "

"Draco," Pansy said, "Moaning Myrtle's telling everyone you tried to cast the Cruciatus Curse . . . " She looked worried. "Is that true?"

"Yeah," he admitted. He was partially skilled at Cruciatus. Bellatrix had worked with him on it. He'd even once cast it on her by mistake and had caught her unaware, and she had writhed on the floor and then had kissed Draco in a way that an aunt shouldn't, and Draco'd thought she was a complete nutter.

"Why would you do that? You could be sent to Azkaban!"

"Do they really send underage wizards to Azkaban?" Draco said.

"I don't know, but let's not find out!" She paused. "There's something you should know."

"What's that?"

"Snape and Madam Pomfrey kept away almost all of the scarring . . . "

"Almost all of?"

She brushed her thumb over his forehead, just above his right eye. "Well . . . "

"Oh for sod's sake." He groaned. She was telling him he now had a scar on his forehead. "Is it big?"

"No. It's really not. About an inch and a half long? But I expect you'll want to hide it under your fringe."

"Great."

"Professor Snape said that it might fade even more if you keep taking the dittany." She leaned down and kissed his forehead, presumably where his new scar was, and he raised a hand to the back of her neck, holding her there. A lock of her hair came untucked from behind her ear and fell to tickle his face. She tilted her head down and retucked it, her mouth only inches from his.

"Snog me," Draco said. Since the Room of Requirement, they'd not done anything. No declarations had been made, there were no changes in the status of their relationship. Draco let her hold his little finger under the desk during their lessons; that was all she indicated she wanted to do.

But she only smiled. "I don't think so. Not here."

"Then where?"

"I don't know."

"But, soon, yeah?"

"I don't know." She sat up straight.

"Why not?"

"I don't know!"

The hospital wing was dark; the gas lamps on each night table flared to life, casting the room under a soft golden glow. She was regarding him hungrily, which made his stomach flip in his belly. She wanted to; he just didn't know what was holding her back. The urge to finish what he had tried to say in the Room of Requirement blossomed strong and raw. "I "

"Yeah?"

"Never mind." He just couldn't do it. Even though she'd already said it once on the evening that she did the Aeturnus Amor spell with him. Combined with the Mirror of Erised, Draco knew exactly how Pansy felt about him. Besides, she was so effusive in her adoration, so open about it.

She didn't know he was running out of time.

Pansy turned seventeen first, on the eighteenth of May, and Draco followed suit on the fifth of June.

Draco cast a rather ancient spell on the Vanishing Cabinet, one that created a sucking vortex between two points. At this point his efforts were perfunctory, for nothing worked. He had happened upon Time Travel Across the Ages by accident; it had been misshelved in the Potions section and Draco had found it while revising for Slughorn. He'd begun to think of alternatives to the Vanishing Cabinet, and somehow he thought time travel might hold possibilities. However, he'd found this spell and decided to implement it in the cabinet and try one last time.

Draco placed the rabbit into the cabinet and closed the door, latching it inside. He tapped the cabinet door three times with his wand and then flicked and swished. "Peragro." He waited fifteen seconds and opened the door. The rabbit was gone. This gave him no reason to celebrate, for the problem wasn't getting the rabbit to Borgin and Burkes; the problem was getting the rabbit back into Hogwarts. It had to be possible, though, or else Montague would have disappeared forever. He closed the cabinet again, tapped the door three times, and this time gave a swish and a flick of his wand, reversing the order. "Peragro." He again waited fifteen seconds and opened the cabinet door.

The rabbit sat looking at him, its nose wiggling.

Draco stared, his hand on the cabinet's handle.

The rabbit hopped in a circle. It leapt from the cabinet and bounded away, into the Room of Requirement.

He couldn't believe it.

Draco sent through five more rabbits, each one returning safely.

He made his decision right away, for he figured he had nothing to lose. If the cabinet wouldn't transport people, then he would have failed and if he failed the Dark Lord would kill him anyway. Perhaps being lost in interstitial space forever wouldn't be too bad, aside from the part about starving to death. But never mind that, Draco decided. He would test the cabinet, for there was no one else to do so.

Ignoring the bunnies that hip-hopped around his feet at the base of the cabinet, Draco stepped inside. He made sure he could open the door from the inside he could and took a deep breath. Tap-tap-tap. Flick and swish. "Peragro." He did all this in a matter of seconds, before he could lose his nerve.

It felt as if someone had turned his stomach inside out and he seemed to spin around and around through space, hurtling through the ether faster than any broom ride he'd ever taken. He crashed. It was dark and smelt of old wood. He was definitely inside an enclosed space and he prayed it was the cabinet at Borgin and Burkes. He got to his feet, turned the handle, and stepped out.

He was greeted by the sound of a door chime. He looked around at the familiar dark items and relief flooded him just as Caractacus Burke hurried forwards and greeted him, surprised. "Why, young master Malfoy," Burke said, bowing at the waist. "What a pleasure to see you! An unconventional entry, I must say, but as you requested, Mr. Borgin and I have held this cabinet for your use."

"What day is it?" Draco asked, suspicious that he'd been thrown into a different dimension or an alternate universe of some kind. He glanced about. It looked like Borgin and Burkes. The usual items were on display. Mr. Burke looked to be himself.

"Why, it's Monday, Master Malfoy. Monday, the twenty-ninth of June . . . "

Draco closed the cabinet door behind him and looked around again. The shop was deserted, save for himself and Mr. Burke. Borgin was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Borgin?" Draco asked, hyper-alert.

"Mr. Borgin is out of the shop today, visiting potential sellers and pricing, well, antiques."

Draco drew himself up to his full height, which was considerably taller than Burke. He made a show of unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them up, so his Dark Mark was more than apparent. "Has Bellatrix Lestrange been here today?"

Mr. Burke bowed again, lower this time, and Draco could see fear flicker in the older man's eyes, and despite himself it filled him with a feeling of power. He, who had been held hostage to fear and cowardice and unrelenting pressure for the past year, had the power to command fear himself. At that moment it was quite intoxicating.

"Madam Lestrange visits in the mornings."

"Where's your fireplace? I need to use it."

"Why, it's in the back, sir. Shall I show you the way?"

"Not yet." Draco realised he hadn't tested the cabinet's returnability. He took a deep breath and mustered his courage. It was always the return trip that killed the cabinet's traveller. He was either going to return to Hogwarts safely, or he was going to die. There was no turning back now. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. "If I'm not back in five minutes, I want you to give this to my aunt. Bellatrix," he clarified.

Mr. Burke took the envelope with spindly fingers. He bowed again, stepping backwards. "Of course, sir. I would be happy to give your message to Madam Lestrange."

"Don't read it."

"Never that."

He stepped back into the cabinet. He stood in the stuffy darkness for a full minute, and the tapped and swished and flicked.

The Room of Requirement was just as he'd left it. There was the little table next to the Mirror of Erised where he kept his supplies: the Muggle screwdriver; his spell books; his parchments written in lemon juice; his candle to reveal his writing; a stash of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder; his Hand of Glory; extra candles; a picture of him and Pansy taken when they were nine; a roll of parchment with nothing but lightning-shaped doodles. He put the picture in his breast pocket. Now there was nothing that would identify him directly.

He'd never been happier to see the room.

He'd done it. At the very last minute. He'd succeeded. A glimmer of hope ignited in his heart as he stepped back into the cabinet to return to Borgin and Burkes.

He spent an hour at Borgin and Burkes, making the necessary notifications to his fellow Death Eaters and firming up that night's plan. It was only when he returned to Hogwarts for the second time that it hit him full force: He had succeeded.

An effusive flood of joy and relief and self-satisfaction bubbled forth and Draco jumped from his chair and punched the air. "YEEEEEEEEEEEEES!" he whooped. "WHOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!" He jumped from item to item, towers of junk threatening to topple as he leapt. He flew around a marble support column and stopped short, horrified.

Professor Trelawney stood with her back to him. He recognised her crazy flyaway hair and the many scarves rippling from her neck. "Who's there?" she called out in her dreamy voice and Draco heard the sound of glass clinking.

How the hell did Trelawney get into the Room of Requirement? No one had ever disturbed him while he was working. Rage towards Crabbe bloomed in his core, for Crabbe'd been wrong about Draco not needing a lookout, and he moved to his table where he collected the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and his Hand of Glory.

He approached Professor Trelawney from behind. She was still calling out. He flung the Darkness Powder onto the ground; it exploded with a resounding BOOM and inky blackness fell. Draco lit the candle in the Hand of Glory with a quick Incendio and Professor Trelawney once again came into view. She was holding her arms out in front of her, turning in a wide circle, her wide dragonfly eyes staring unseeing into the dark. Draco pointed his wand.

"Expuli Expulsum!"

Trelawney and her bottles flew towards the door to the Room of Requirement, as if jerked by a rope around her waist, and Draco thought I need to be alone. I need the room to keep all others out. Through the cloud of Darkness Powder, he watched via the Hand of Glory as Professor Trelawney was ejected from the room, and he was satisfied when he heard the grinding trawl of the thick marble bricks as they sealed themselves back up, leaving him alone once again.

"Do it, Draco, now!" Fenrir Greyback ordered.

"But "

"Scared?"

"No! It's just that I've never done this spell before "

"You're a Death Eater " It felt strange to Draco to hear someone say this aloud about him. " so's you'll be able to. Do it."

Draco raised his wand. He wanted this night to be over. "Morsmordre." Green sparks shot from the end of his wand and dissipated.

"Pathetic," Greyback mocked. "Do it again. You've got to mean it. Just like the Unforgivables."

Draco summoned all his resolve. He thought of his lessons and his friends, and he thought of his mother and father, and of getting away from the smelly, fetid company of Fenrir Greyback, and of going back to some semblance of normalcy. If he could get through these last few hours of tonight . . . "MORSMORDRE!"

A jet of green light shot from the tip of his wand and arced over the top of the Astronomy Tower, and with a blast that rained down black and green sparks, the Dark Mark exploded over Hogwarts. A cold, eerie energy snaked through him at what he had done. It was almost erotic it was so forbidden; excitement washed through him. There was no doubt: Draco was attracted to dark things, and it didn't get much darker than conjuring the Dark Mark. He'd managed it; he'd done it perfectly. He began to think that perhaps he could complete his task. Under the green glow of the Dark Mark, down on the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, he believed at last the inevitability of his mission. It was going to happen.

He felt his pocket warm; extracting Rosmerta's coin, he read the message letting him know that Dumbledore was headed to the Hog's Head for a drink.

"Now what?" he asked Amycus Carrow, a rather dim-witted man with a weak chin, an ugly fraternal twin, and a sycophantic laugh whenever he sucked up to Voldemort. Draco didn't like Carrow at all and he was irked that he had to deal with the dumb bloke instead of his aunt. Bellatrix was batshit, yes, but she had a fondness for Draco that she demonstrated in completely inappropriate ways that would have been bolstering this night. Why had the plan changed?

"We wait," Carrow said.

"Yeah," Alecto Carrow said, in her abnormally gutural voice. She was a piggish woman, standing perhaps five feet tall and really just as wide. Draco was surprised she'd even fit into the cabinet. "We wait for old Dumby to come back." She looked at Draco with her beady eyes. "And then you'll kill him."

"Right," Draco said, a frisson of fear slicing through his gut. While just minutes ago he'd felt resolved and ready for his task, now his emotions had flip-flopped.

He was scared.

He didn't want to kill Dumbledore.

Whether Dumbledore was the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts, like his father often had claimed, was irrelevant. He just didn't want to do it. And the more he acknowledged it openly, the higher his fear ran. Draco attempted to quash his feelings; however, he wasn't able to delegate them as he normally could.

Rosmerta's coin warmed his pocket again. He extracted it to check the message.

Except it wasn't Rosmerta's coin.

It was Pansy's.

I need you.

He stared at the coin, torn.

He couldn't leave the Death Eaters. Not now. It would look suspicious to them, plus it would increase the likelihood that he would be caught by Filch or something equally inconvenient.

But he couldn't ignore her.

"What's that in your hand, Draco?" Greyback asked, eyeing the coin.

"Just a Galleon."

"What'd'you need a Galleon for?"

"Rosmerta sends me messages through a Galleon," Draco said, evading Greyback's question. "It's enchanted."

"Let's see it."

"No. You stick to your business, I'll stick to mine."

"Don't be a little shit. C'mon. Hand it over. I want to see how it works."

"If the Dark Lord had wanted you to know how the enchanted coins work, he would have given you one for yourself."

Greyback's lip curled and Draco could have sworn he saw a rivulet of blood run from one of Greyback's canines and down his whiskered chin. It made him nervous. He didn't want Greyback seeing Pansy's name or even remotely knowing who Pansy was. Greyback had bloodlust and no boundaries. Draco turned his back on the werewolf, his heart palpitating. He made a pretence of walking the perimeter of the Astronomy Tower and looking over the edge of the ramparts, as if interested in what he might see.

When he was as far away from the Death Eaters as the ramparts would allow, he held the coin to his lips and whispered. He had tried to say it so many times before, without success.

I love you.

After all, he might not ever see her again.

Rowle ordered Draco back to the Room of Requirement to wait. The other Death Eaters would position themselves elsewhere. Draco was to wait until he was summoned, and then he was to carry out his task. He was to kill Dumbledore.

Ensconced in his usual spot, Draco picked up the hand mirror and looked into its face.

The end is nigh.

"That's what the Dark Lord said."

You are terrified.

Draco said nothing.

Shall I tell you about yourself?

Still nothing.

It is not too late.

"Yes it is."

You are overwhelmed by choices.

"Choices?" Draco barked, with a harsh laugh. "I haven't got any choices. I have to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I have to kill Dumbledore. Or he'll kill me. He'll kill my family." He wanted to succeed, wanted to demonstrate he was more capable than his father had been when trying to retrieve the prophecy.

You cannot succeed at your task. What is your contingency plan?

"Snape. . . " It just slipped out.

You speak of course of Severus Snape. You have been estranged from your mentor this year past. Why is that?

"My father told me to. Besides " Draco thought of this from a Slytherin standpoint. " he'd do anything to be the Dark Lord's favourite!" It was ambition at the core. "If I succeed When I succeed, it'll be me at the Dark Lord's side "

The Dark Lord does not honour loyalties such as you hope. There is no safety from his wrath. Is your father not a fine example of this?

"He didn't succeed. If I succeed, the Dark Lord will forgive all that "

The Dark Lord does not forgive.

"How do you know?" Draco sneered.

Why, you have told me, child. Your subconscious is the richest weave of your tapestry. It is my duty to you to know it well.

"If my subconscious is so rich, how come I can't see it?"

If the subconscious was attractive, you needn't bury it so deep.

Draco was quiet, contemplating this. "Does my subconscious lead me?"

Oh, yes. Yes, very much so.

"Should I listen to it?"

That is difficult to answer. The subconscious harbours urges and desires that can be dangerous.

"Then how can I know what to do?" He was stretched thin, a morning's spiderweb laden with dew. He couldn't just shake it off without breaking.

There is something to be said for intuition. If you can trust it enough to act.

"What's the difference between intuition and desire?" Draco asked. "How do I know if it's intuition or just an urge to get what I want?" It was a serious question, for Draco was used to taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. He did not acknowledge his intuition, for it so often negated that which he coveted, and he wanted what he wanted. Living in his reality where his success was not guaranteed; where lived the weaknesses of his needs; where Harry Potter's forgiveness was an illusion of the cruellest kind was too painful to contemplate, and so fantasy had supplanted all that was rational. And with that came wraiths and shadows and the unbelievable anxiety that had haunted him for the past nine months. He stared into the mirror, the floodtide released.

It is an illusion, child.

"Are you an illusion?"

Is magic just that? A series of illusions?

Realisation blossomed. Draco understood he was sick. His mind was sick. His innate paranoia bled through him and took hold. How could it be so real? It was a frightening clarity and images of the past year shuffled in his mind like cards. The Dark Lord had made him sick. He had taken Draco's mind and turned it over in his hand, shaken it without mercy and filled it with fear and doubt and self-loathing, and dumped it back into his thick skull, and Draco knew he would never be the same.

The room was still and silent; an ashy haze hung in the air, left over from the Darkness Powder. He checked the upside-down grandfather clock next to the stack of flying carpets and musketeer hats. He had been sitting there for exactly one hour.

Rosmerta's coin in his hand warmed.

Dumbledore's back.

He had been instructed that when the time came he was to venture to the Astronomy Tower where he was to dispose of Dumbledore without assistance; his fellow Death Eaters would then join him in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death to ensure he escaped the castle. It hadn't even occurred to him before that moment that he wouldn't be going back to Slytherin. Maybe ever.

A poignant longing overflowed.

He wanted to flee to the dungeons, to crawl onto his bed and lace his fingers behind his head and stare up at the canopy and do nothing. He'd always thought Crabbe or Goyle'd be headed to Azkaban before him, based on their sheer stupidity and their penchant for hurting others, and he just could not believe he was in this position. He could not believe he'd craved it. It felt neither important nor reasonable; he was an ignorant sod, and while he didn't like Dumbledore or Potter or anything they stood for, he recognised his task was irrelevant to the greater good and was a punitive errand of the most hopeless and spiteful kind.

He collected his wand from his robes his schoolboy robes pocket and stood next to the Vanishing Cabinet and the little table he'd worked at for the past nine months. He touched each of the items on the desk with the tip of his wand and his eyes burnt. He picked up the little mirror one last time.

Oh, child.

He thought he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. "It's come to this . . . "

Yes.

"My mother " His voice broke.

Yes?

"Do you think she's thinking of me?"

She thinks of you always.

Draco was silent.

She is not the only one.

"Really?"

Search your heart before you break your soul. You shall find what you seek.

"I have to go now."

Yes, you do. Your task is at hand.

He didn't know how to say goodbye to a mirror.

He stood and gathered his things. He conjured a metal rubbish bin and placed the items inside. He held the mirror for a moment; it said nothing. He let it slide into the bin, cresting the pile of supplies he'd gathered over the past year. He pointed his wand.

"Incendio."

He heard the roar of fire, but turned his back on it. He didn't care if he burnt the place down. His intuition told him he wouldn't.

He gripped his wand and he promised himself several things. He would do whatever it took to survive. He was a Slytherin and as weak-hearted as Slytherins were thought to be, he would not just lie down and let Death collect him. He would survive. He would do whatever he could to not complete his task, up until the last moment possible. He could talk the talk and leave the walk. He would keep his head down after he survived and he would he would live to see the death of the Dark Lord. It wasn't that he disagreed with Voldemort's position; it was that Voldemort had made things personal. And it may have been that he was only seventeen years old, and it may have been that he'd rendered himself idiotic espousing the rhetoric that he always had, and it may very well be that he believed much of it to be true, but he was not so much a broken man that he would let his own mortality cripple him into a mere shell of a human being, that he would let it stamp out his humanity. He could be ruthless and cunning and vain and extraordinary; he had his freedom, his freedom to die when his time came, but tonight would not be that day.

His Dark Mark burnt.

His courage welled.

He did not look back.

They are coming by broom. Draco was so hyper-focused on Dumbledore that he failed to note that Madam Rosmerta had used they, as in plural. Dumbledore was coming back to Hogwarts by broom, which meant he needed a landing place, and as the headmaster's office was high up, Draco expected Dumbledore would land at the Astronomy Tower. It was a guess, but it would have to do.

Draco sprinted down the corridors, making his way. He rounded a corner and bowled over Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis. The three of them splatted to the ground. But Draco was focused and was up and off again before the girls even knew what had happened.

"Malfoy, you pig!" Millicent yelled after him. "I'll squash you like a "

"Draco," Tracey called, dusting herself off. "Pansy's looking for you . . . Hey, are you all right . . . ?"

He ignored them both, although he had no doubt Millicent would try and track him down and beat his bloody head in. The staircase leading to the underside of the Astronomy Tower was unobtrusive, carved into a niche between two nondescript tapestries hanging on the seventh-floor walls. Yet, there were people blocking the access. As he neared, he recognised Professor Lupin. He skidded to a stop, putting his arms out to keep from falling.

"Draco," Lupin said in a commanding voice. "Stop. You'll do no harm here tonight."

And it was then that he understood the mirror's meaning of fight-or-flight. He was caught. By a professor. He couldn't disobey a professor.

Or could he?

The decision was made quickly. Running footsteps approached; he looked over his shoulder. Around the corner came a dozen Death Eaters, wands outstretched, curses flying.

He shoved Lupin as hard as he could and was shocked when Lupin actually took a tumble. "Get out of my way!" A body he didn't recognise lay across the passage to the stairs and it reinforced to him that this was serious and he wasn't playing a game. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he leapt over whoever it was blocking the stairs and proceeded. For the second time that night, he made to climb his way up to the Astronomy Tower. Bounding up them two at a time, he ascended their flight; the iron ring of the door leading to the tower was in his hand, cool and solid. He didn't hesitate, for if he did he knew he would never complete the journey, and he flung the door open and lifted his wand. Dumbledore's silhouette was obvious against the green glow of the Dark Mark. He thought he heard someone gasp and he was filled with fear. Was someone else watching? He flicked his wand and heard his own voice.

"Expelliarmus!"

Dumbledore's wand flew in a clean arc, over the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, disappearing into the black oblivion. At the same time, in the shadows, he saw not one broom, but two. And Dumbledore was looking at him.

"Good evening, Draco."

It was the first time the headmaster had ever addressed him directly ever at all, really. Immediately, he was taken in by the deliberation of Dumbledore's voice, its inherent calm drawing at his mind, making Draco for an instant wish he were the headmaster's favourite. What would it be like to have this man's devotion? Panic licked at his insides again and he tore his eyes away from Dumbledore and took in the scene. There were two brooms instead of one. His vision played tricks on him, narrowing his focus, and a high-pitched hum whined like the shriek of his wraith. He couldn't help it: He jerked his head, as if shaking water from his ears. "Who else is here?" he managed to ask.

"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

"No," Draco said, trying to shut off his mind to Dumbledore, who was undoubtedly a master Legilimens. He just knew it. Of course Dumbledore would be a Legilimens. The high-pitched hum and his lack of peripheral vision distracted him from turning off his mind. His brain was like a sieve, everything leaking and flooding and melding together; he couldn't control his thoughts. "I've got backup. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight." Despite himself, he took a great, shuddering breath, a stitch in his side getting the best of him. The breath sliced like a knife.

"Well, well. Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?"

"Yeah." He could not get enough air; he wanted nothing more than to rest, to hold his knees and hang his head and breathe until his diaphragm stopped spasming. "Right under your nose and you never realised!"

"Ingenious. Yet . . . forgive me . . . where are they now? You seem unsupported."

There was no fidelity within the Death Eaters, he knew this. That his brethren would show themselves here soon was only a matter of self-preservation. The Death Eaters down below feared the Dark Lord, and their loyalty to Draco ran only so far as their tenuous grasp on their own survival. "They met some of your guards. They're having a fight down below. They won't be long . . . I came on ahead. I " His voice faltered. "I've got a job to do."

Dumbledore's expression was kind. "Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy."

Draco froze.

"Draco, Draco," Dumbledore continued softly. "You are not a killer."

Draco shook his head again, for Dumbledore's voice was now inside his head, too. Keep speaking as if you mean to kill me. I shall protect you as best I can. Dumbledore inside his head was far different than Voldemort. Dumbledore picked at Draco's thoughts carefully, taking only that which he truly needed. Voldemort took everything, slithered through every thought, every tidbit, every detail, looking, searching for something anything to be used as a weapon. Voldemort plundered; Dumbledore selected. He was not so vulgar as to pilfer it all.

"How do you know?" It was a childish retort. He felt himself flush. "You don't know what I'm capable of! You don't know what I've done!" The innocent twittering of the Nifflers echoed away.

I will speak to you. Do not attempt to answer aloud. Do not run. You are safe now. This is the safest place for you. Your father is in Azkaban; where is your mother?

Draco had no idea what the Dark Lord would have done with his mother this night. Malfoy Manor flashed behind his eyes, like a photograph. He chalked it up to intuition. Was his mother thinking of him right now? Did she know where he stood? Did she know of the plan?

Do not worry, Draco, Dumbledore said. A worthy parent holds a child in her heart for all her days. Undoubtedly, your mother's heart is full tonight.

Draco was beyond humiliated to be caught wishing for his mother. He scrambled to put his thoughts back in order, to close them away into the compartments from which they flowed like a river wild. He bantered back and forth with Dumbledore, insisting his heart was indeed in his mission. Muffled yells came from below.

" . . . Yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible . . . How did you do it?"

Draco had cocked his head. He listened to the fight below it seemed a very thorough beWL indeed, from the sounds of it and if he could just stall long enough . . . No. He had a task to complete. A task . . . his task . . .

If my next comments incite your anger, it is because they are meant to. Respond accordingly. I expect Professor Snape is fast on his way. It shan't be long. Courage, Draco.

Draco thought this was a million different shades of fucked up. He was holding a sneering verbal conversation with the headmaster whilst at the same time communicating via Legilimency, while fighting off other, sinister voices inside his head. He felt as if he were stuck in the middle of a group of a thousand, all talking at once; he heard all their voices, but couldn't discern a single word. He had to get a grip, had to find the single spot of headspace to crawl into to ensure his survival.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore suggested, "you ought to get on with the job alone. What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don't really need help . . . I have no wand at the moment . . . I cannot defend myself."

The words barely penetrated the cacophony in his head. He didn't know what to say, how to answer.

"I see. You are afraid to act until they join you."

"I'm not afraid," Draco snarled, not moving. "It's you who should be scared!"

"But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe . . . . So tell me, while we wait for your friends "

THEY ARE NOT MY FRIENDS.

I am glad to hear it.

" how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it."

His stomach clenched and his mouth began watering. He swallowed once, and again, and took several deep breaths, his eyes narrowing. He steadied his aim, pointing his wand at the headmaster's heart. "I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year."

"Aaaah." Dumbledore sighed. "That was clever. There is a pair, I take it?"

"In Borgin and Burkes . . . " He yammered on, telling Dumbledore about the Vanishing Cabinets.

Very good, Draco. Very good. You are doing excellently. Do not be frightened. Let your anger, your fear, your servitude bolster your act. It has undoubtedly been a difficult year for you. Forgive me, for I do not wish to pry, but the burden of your job is most apparent. Oh, you are but seventeen . . . A right-minded man of any age could not have born your burden with more distinction.

"Why didn't you stop me, then?" He forgot Dumbledore's order and answered aloud.

"I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders "

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother "

"Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but "

"He's a double agent, you stupid old man, he isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco . . . "

Where was Snape anyway? He ought to have been here by now. The seconds seemed minutes. Snape was abandoning him! He wasn't coming! Draco managed to blather on while inside he quelled another burst of panic. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His collar felt too tight, as if it were strangling him and he had to resist the urge to loosen his tie. Snape wasn't coming and he was here alone, and he'd have to find his way out of this mess. He considered his options.

He could kill Dumbledore before fleeing, but he had to be honest with himself at this crucial moment. He didn't know if he had the magic necessary to impart the Killing Curse on anything. He'd never once levied it, had never once in his life cast the spell. He thought of the practice that had gone into the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses, and even then, while he had managed it, the magic inside him had felt weak and unsteady, and he remembered what Professor Moody had said in his fourth year in Defence Against the Dark Arts: Avada Kedavra's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get as much as a nose-bleed. But that doesn't matter. I'm not here to teach you how to do it . . . Draco looked at Dumbledore wildly, like a deer caught.

Exactly, Draco. Exactly. Killing is not so easy as the innocent think, as I mentioned. There is no shame in your innocence. It shall take leave of you soon enough, as is its way. That is the natural order of things. Do continue with your options, if you will indulge me further.

Draco argued aloud with Dumbledore about Professor Snape and his position with the Dark Lord and he asserted his fantasy that he would replace Snape as Voldemort's favourite once he completed the task, tripping over the fact that he had just acknowledged to Dumbledore that he didn't know how to do Avada Kedavra and was unlikely to muster the magic necessary to perform it under the present circumstances.

Besides, without Professor Snape, how would he be able to extricate himself from this situation? Below were Merlin only knew how many Order members, plus his fellow Death Eaters, who would know right away that he had not fulfilled his duty. His eyes alit on the brooms propped against the wall.

Yes, you could fly away from here, as far as the wards will let you, which is to say not very far. I must confide that they are quite secure. You would fly into a magical barrier and be cast down into the Forbidden Forest, or perhaps hurtled to the ground to your death. I daresay you are an excellent flyer, Draco, but a mere broom will not penetrate the protective enchantments surrounding this castle. Surely you have guessed this, or it would have been simple enough for the Death Eaters to enter the school that way.

Draco's wand hand began shaking in earnest.

He continued with the show, following Dumbledore's prompts and leading questions, answering honestly and with what he hoped was fantastic braggadocio. He was straightforward, condescending, and outright insulting. Hearing himself speak as he normally did was a rather rude awakening. As he was thinking about what he was saying as each word left his mouth, he was hyper-aware of how petty and insignificant he sounded, and for the first time ever his immense superiority complex shifted and cracked. He did not regret being a bully; he just questioned his methods as unsubtle and juvenile. Bullying was an aggressive means of expressing one's opinion, he held. Just because he pointed out someone's shortcomings didn't mean he was wrong. It meant he was outspoken. He wasn't afraid to say what he felt.

Honesty is indeed a virtue. However, it is also said that discretion is an honourable facet of valour.

He tried to move Dumbledore along from Rosmerta, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he had utilised the Imperius Curse, an offence punishable by Azkaban. Never mind the fact that he had attempted to curse Potter, the real Golden Boy, with Cruciatus.

"Tell me," Dumbledore asked congenially, "how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored."

"Enchanted coins. I had one and she had the other and I could send her messages."

"Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?"

Draco watched as Dumbledore slipped a fraction against the ramparts. "Yeah, I got the idea from them. I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger as well. I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognising potions."

"Please do not use that offensive word in front of me."

Draco was embarrassed under the headmaster's scrutiny, however lightly spoken. He laughed in defense, a harsh bark. "You care about me saying 'Mudblood' when I'm about to kill you?"

"Yes, I do."

It was just a stupid word a slang term, even. A joke. He didn't understand what Dumbledore's issue was.

He didn't know how it felt to be a Mudblood. He was a Pureblood, thus inherently superior. He believed this to the core of his being. His magic was strong and ancient and revered. Pansy's magic was the same. And Blaise's and Theodore's and Montague's and He was a formidable wizard under the right circumstances. He just didn't know how to channel it properly. He was still learning. He remembered scoffing on the Hogwarts Express over the prospect of becoming a fully qualified wizard, bragging that the Dark Lord didn't need fully trained wizards to do his bidding, yet this very situation disproved him. He didn't know how to complete the order to kill Dumbledore. Sure, he could shove Dumbledore over the ramparts . . . in theory. The Dark Lord had not specified the manner of death. But that would make him a worse wizard than any Mudblood, and he'd rather die himself than make that concession. He was right. He was right because he'd always been taught Mudbloods and Half-bloods were inferior. He looked at where these beliefs had got his parents. One sat alone and probably demented in Azkaban; the other sat alone and nearly dead with worry in the prison of an ancestral home. They were willing to die to propagate their beliefs. Draco didn't know if he was so brave.

You are brave indeed, dear boy. Why, here you stand, me at your wandpoint, your quarry in sight, under the threat of death from Lord Voldemort, yet you decline to act. You risk death in the face of my life. It has value to you. As it should. There need be no death tonight.

"Someone's dead," Draco said, his voice unnaturally high. "One of your people . . . I don't know who, it was dark . . . . I stepped over the body . . . . I was supposed to be waiting up here when you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way. . . . "

"Yes, they do that."

Draco's hand was shaking so badly he feared he would drop his wand.

"There is little time, one way or another," said Dumbledore. "So let us discuss your options, Draco."

He threatened Dumbledore again; Dumbledore reminded him of his position and lack of action, until Draco couldn't take it any longer. The mutterings would not cease; Dumbledore's voice in his head was heartbreaking. He understood what he had missed out on and what Potter had gained. He understood that Dumbledore, in these few scarce moments, was caring for him in a way his parents never would. Draco's words were trite rubbish and he had no purpose on the earth. "I haven't got any options!" he said, feeling the blood drain from his face. "I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"

"I appreciate the difficulty of your position. Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you."

Draco winced and all the voices melded together. An amalgamation of confusion, they took over.

"I can help you, Draco."

"No you can't." He felt his wand slip in his grasp. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice."

"He cannot kill you if you are already dead. Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Nobody would be surprised that you had died in your attempt to kill me forgive me, but Lord Voldemort probably expects it. Nor would the Death Eaters be surprised that we had captured and killed your mother it is what they would do themselves, after all. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban. . . . When the time comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right side, Draco. . . . you are not a killer. . . ."

Everything Dumbledore said was true.

He imagined it. He imagined feigning death right here and now, his body being whisked away, forever gone to the rest of the world. He thought of where the Order would possibly hide him and his mother where Voldemort wouldn't find them. He knew that Voldemort would not be fooled. He was too powerful. On the other hand, perhaps Draco was so insignificant to the Dark Lord that Voldemort wouldn't bother to verify he was really dead.

He imagined being a Muggle, stashed away somewhere slummy and rough, sunglasses on, hair and brows dyed black as ink, spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE.

He would never leave Hogwarts. He would likely remain an unqualified wizard, for he couldn't attend any of the schools without raising suspicion. His accent would be too distinctive, his pale looks too recognisable. He would be banished to some hideous country in South America with cockroaches the size of salad plates. He would never have a job in magic. He would never see his friends again. He would never again fly on a broom or hit a game of impromptu Quidditch. Pictures would not move. The golden hum of magic would fade and eventually silence would rule, and he would grow old and bitter and what was the point?

As long as he was Marked, the Dark Lord would find him.

Hiding was useless.

And he remembered what Potter had told him: This isn't your kind of magic, Malfoy. Your kind is out there and it bleeds rotten blood and smells like death. . . .

He looked at Dumbledore, who stared back at him as if he were genuinely interested in Draco's quandary. The headmaster's brow was furrowed and he tilted his head just a touch. The silence roared into his head, clearing away the chaos. His breathing slowed and a sense of calm flowed over him. He was ready.

A very small part of him considered apologising for what he would do next, but that wasn't his style.

"But I got this far, didn't I?" He spoke slowly. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here . . . you're in my power. . . . I'm the one with the wand. . . . You're at my mercy. . . . " It was inane.

"No Draco. It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."

Far below on the ground, the crickets were noisy.

I once told one of your classmates that it is important to remember that it is our choices that show who we really are, rather than our abilities. I wish to impart this to you, as well. I wish you, Draco, nothing but a long and most prosperous life. . . .

Draco's arm dropped a notch, lowering.

Maybe . . .

He didn't even hear them approach. Draco was pushed aside roughly as four newcomers burst onto the ramparts. His heart sunk as he determined Snape was not amongst them. Instead, it was the Carrows, Rowle, and Fenrir Greyback.

"Dumbledore cornered," Carrow said. Draco could barely tell the woman from the man in this set; he thought them a rather embarrassing duo. "Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco, well done!"

Panic exploded inside him and he wanted to disappear even if that meant death. He called out, but Dumbledore was gone from his mind. He'd said his goodbye. He didn't hear their banter, their jeers, for he was seriously considering taking a running leap over the ramparts. It was a split-second impulse and was gone just as fast. He had promised himself he would survive. He would be here until the last shoe dropped. He was caught and he couldn't focus and Dumbledore was going back and forth with Greyback . . .

"I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live. . . . "

"I didn't." Draco was jolted to attention. "I didn't know he was going to come "

And then it was a free-for-all with Greyback making ridiculous threats, the Carrows bullying Draco to kill Dumbledore, and Rowle trying to push Draco aside to attack Dumbledore himself, and the Carrows pushing back at Rowle . . . . Draco stood there, shaking. He'd only known Snape and his father and his aunt as Death Eaters before, and his aunt had always been around the bend, he'd been told, so these unrefined, inbred (he could only presume) cretins were appalling. Humiliation that he was affiliated with them started in his toes and worked its way upwards.

"Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us "

Snape burst through the door.

Draco could have cried in relief.

The Unbreakable Vow.

"We've got a problem, Snape," Amycus Carrow said. "The boy doesn't seem able "

"Severus. . . . "

Draco's blood ran cold at the sound of the headmaster's voice. He jerked his gaze over to Dumbledore, who was lying very low on the ramparts indeed. He looked back at Snape.

Again, the silence was deafening.

Draco watched Snape as he walked forwards and he let himself be pushed aside. The Carrows and Rowle followed suit, falling back, and Greyback was motionless. Under the green light in the sky Draco watched as Snape's face fell into shadow, and he recognised hatred and revulsion etched there, and he was elated, for it meant Snape was truly on his side, and

"Severus. . . please. . . "

Draco's heart was pounding out of his chest and an eerie sense of foreboding washed through him and he thought of how Dumbledore had called him Dear boy. . . .

Snape's arm was sure and lightning fast.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Dumbledore was blasted back over the ramparts. He was illuminated by Draco's Dark Mark, and then he simply disappeared.

Draco looked at Snape, shocked. Fear crept into every pore.

Snape grabbed Draco by the scruff of the neck and yanked him. Shoving him through the door, Snape barked, "Out of here, quickly!"

"STUPEFY!"

"Run, Draco," Snape shouted at him, and Draco didn't need to be told twice. He booked it.

He ran for the front gates, where he would cross the road and hide in the Forbidden Forest and wait for Snape to collect him. It had been an issue of major contention for the other Death Eaters, for Draco couldn't yet Apparate, his one great moment in Wilkie Twycross's lesson aside. At this moment he wished desperately that he could, wished that he had taken Montague's advice and learnt to Apparete illegally.

He crashed through the bramble, tripping and sprawling. His chin hit the ground and he felt the skin split there, and soon enough blood was dripping down his front, surely dotting the dirt and grime there scarlet. "Fuck," he said, scrabbling. His wand had flown from his grasp. Automatically, he incanted, "Lumos!" A thin light flashed five feet away, and Draco crawled through the dirt and leaves and underbrush and grabbed it up. He stumbled to his feet.

For a moment he stood still, not knowing what to do or where to go. He wanted to keep his wand lit, but knew it was too dangerous. He might be spotted through the line of trees.

"Nox."

Midnight poured over him as he descended into darkness. At first he thought it was silent, but sounds began penetrating his smothering blanket of panic. Almost clich?, an owl hooted in the distance, and a low moaning sound came from his right. He recalled from Care of Magical Creatures that the Augurey roost was nearby, and he hoped that the Augureys weren't so close that they'd bring on rain.

He turned in a wide circle, wand outstretched, his hand still shaking violently. He willed himself to gain control, yet his hands would not obey. He had no idea where he was.

Crickets chirped and the thought of ugly black crickets revolted him. It was surreal and once again he had the sense of watching his life through the eyes of another as he strained to look through the dark. The slight outlines of silhouettes became clearer and he stepped forwards, cracking a stick. The sound of another stick breaking sounded off like a shot. He whirled.

"Who's there?"

He could have sworn he heard breathing; his heart plummeted, cold with fear.

What if there were Dementors? Or Acromantulas? What if the forest floor were a writhing sea of snakes of all kinds, green and black and brown?

What if Voldemort himself was waiting?

He lurched forwards, arms still reaching. At last the rough spread of bark brushed his palm and he scraped the knuckles of his wand hand, gouging deep. He clung to the tree, eyes straining yet again to try and get a semblance of his location. He thought about what Snape had told him. One hundred feet off the road is a clearing. The clearing has three large rocks in it. You shall wait for me there.

He risked it. "Lumos Maxima." He had to get his bearings or else he'd miss the clearing. Snape had directed him, had propelled him exactly this way.

The reflection of what seemed to be a thousand eyes flared to life.

And Draco screamed, terrified, but then he realised it wasn't him screaming, it had to be his wraith. The muffled sound of hooves hitting the earthen floor of the forest were becoming louder and closer.

There was no way he would survive the wraith alone and lost in the Forbidden Forest. The light from his wand died away. Shrieks filled his head, assailing his senses, and he lost all care. Let the wraith come. He sat down on the forest floor and hugged his knees, and he waited.

The cold licks started at the back of his head and he felt large chomping teeth pulling at his hair. Then came a nip at his neck, just under his left ear. He felt teeth at his shoulder.

He would face his wraith. He'd survived this far.

"Lumos."

He turned and lifted his wand. The light reflected, glinting like chips of alabaster in the dark. He heard the high-pitched screeching again and the snuffling sound of breathing. Hooves. Slowly, wraiths emerged from the trees, encircling him, nipping at him, and Draco understood at last that these were no wraiths.

They were Thestrals.

And like that, he knew his innocence had just been snuffed out.

Snape found him shortly.

"You were to be in the clearing," he whispered, holding his arm out at an angle. "You've delayed us."

"I "

"Quiet. Take my arm."

"Where are we going?"

"Take my arm."

"But "

"Do it now, lest I leave you here for the Aurors."

For the first time Draco was afraid of Snape. He'd not internalised Snape's prodigiousness before, his formidability, and he feared that Snape would kill him right here, right now. He remembered his promise to himself to survive. Feeling strange, he took Snape's arm. The blazing lights of Hogwarts were just visible beyond the tree line and the Dark Mark hovering over the school glowed eerily. He felt the sickening tug of Apparition behind his navel; he closed his eyes and fell into the nothingness of space.

It was over.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew
Ne'er to be found again.

Every inch of his body hurt.

In his last seconds of sleep he heard Pansy sobbing, calling out his name over and again. Draco . . . Draco . . . and he could see her face all screwed up and terrified as she cried.

He tried to move. He could tell by the smell that he was in his room at home, at home at Malfoy Manor, at home, at home, at home . . . He felt as if he'd been given Dreamless Sleep again; his limbs were leaden and his split chin was stuck to his duvet, tearing open again as he moved his head sideways to stare at the wall. His left eye wouldn't open. His fingers twitched, but he couldn't move his arm to try and pry his lids apart. His back felt as if it had been shredded. His body screamed with pain, down to the soles of his feet.

It was fair to say that the Dark Lord had not been pleased with him.

Draco felt a cool hand on his forehead. "Pansy?"

"No." Narcissa was wiping at him with some kind of a wet cloth. "Let me see your chin."

"No."

"Draco, if we don't heal it, it will scar "

"I don't care. Leave me alone."

"Draco "

"LEAVE ME ALONE."

"Stop it," Narcissa commanded, wiping his face. He let her. "Shh," she soothed, touching the cloth to his eye until he winced. "That's better, isn't it?"

No, it wasn't. He was pissed off at her. Because of her and his father, he was lying in filth from the Forbidden Forest in his own bed, chilled and numb to the core because he was too sore to get under the covers, slashed and beaten by minions of the Dark Lord (of which he was one as well), still feeling as if he were living someone else's life. Normally, his mother's touch was warm and soothing; in the early hours of the morning after Dumbledore's death, he wanted to shake her off, wanted to shrink away in revulsion.

"Don't touch me," he said.

He heard her take in a sharp breath. "You don't mean it."

"STOP."

She withdrew her hand and spoke coldly. "You are not yourself "

"You fucking think?"

"Draco."

"Are the wards up?"

"Of course they are. Why?"

"Take them down."

"No. Not with the Ministry "

"For five minutes. I want to see Pansy."

"You can't go back to Hogwarts."

"I want her to come here."

"She's home. Aurelie Montague's complaining about her. Saying Graham's moping around "

"Then let her in through the Floo."

"Draco, it's unsafe The Dark Lord is still here "

"I don't care."

"Pansy might."

"No, she won't."

"The timing is "

"Fine. I'll let you heal my chin if you let her come."

"I'll open the Floo for five minutes," Narcissa said, helping him sit up. He refrained from grimacing as she cleaned the wound on his chin. "Five minutes and if she's not here within that time, the Floo'll be shut down again."

"She'll be here."

"Send your owl then."

He thought of his coin. "I don't need an owl."

Pansy's hand at his face felt entirely perfect.

"Draco?" she whispered.

He must have drifted off, even though it had been but minutes since he'd summoned her with his coin. He opened his good eye.

"Oh, Draco, what happened?" she asked, touching underneath his swollen eye and sliding her fingers over the bridge of his nose where she rested them between his eyes. It was a strange place to be touched. She trailed her fingers down to his mouth and ran them over his bottom lip, which had been spared, save one cut. "Who did this to you?"

"Voldemort." He didn't care that he was speaking the name out loud, didn't care if all the Death Eaters in the house would come bursting in to peel his skin from his body in punishment for saying the Dark Lord's name. It was a bit misleading, as Voldemort had merely directed his Death Eaters to take the tar out of Draco while his mother watched, but it was no matter. Same difference, he thought.

"Oh my God." She leaned in and kissed him so gently that it was as if someone had drawn a feather over his lip, quiet and soft. She fluttered kisses here and there, her hands roving over his face, his neck, his chest.

He ruched down the covers. "Get into bed with me."

"But your mother might come "

"I don't care."

"I care."

"Get in."

She hesitated, apparently torn.

"Please," he said, feeling put out that he had to beg, "get in."

"I will," she said after a long moment, "but only if you're facing away."

"I make you sick."

"No. No, not at all." She smiled against his lips. "Never that."

"Come around the other side, then."

She did. His body ached as she slipped her arm around his middle and his mind relaxed when he felt her hot breath at the back of his neck.

"Tell me everything," she whispered.

He did.

The morning sun was high in the sky by the time he finished. He left no detail out and ignored her when she blanched over the fate of the Nifflers and rabbits she had helped him collect.

"What did you How did you get so many dead creatures out of the castle?" she asked. "Surely you didn't keep them in the Room of Requirement."

He'd simply used a trick he'd first learnt of after their fourth year, from Alastor Moody. Or who was supposed to have been Alastor Moody. He'd overheard his father talking about Barty Crouch Junior's crimes against his own father. "I transfigured them into bones and put them in my rucksack," he explained. He didn't explain that he'd buried each animal just inside the treeline of the Forbidden Forest and placed a small rock over each filled-in hole. There was no way he could adequately express his shame. He was a bully and he wasn't a nice person, but he didn't fancy torturing animals. That kind of rot was best left to scum like Fenrir Greyback, who'd break a rabbit in half just to hear it scream. He was above that. He didn't know how to pray, but he was remorseful.

He'd turned onto his back and she, still on her side, cuddled into him, parking her head on his shoulder, the top of her forehead against his jaw. He lifted his left arm and played with her hair, holding her to him tight, and he felt numb as her tears slid down his neck to spread silently across the pillowslip beneath them.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't help you."

He snorted. "Are you mental? If it wasn't for you . . . " She had been his one tether to sanity, he thought.

"What was it like?" she asked, and he noted the hesitancy in her voice. "What was it like seeing someone die?"

"I dunno." It was rather unremarkable in a lot of ways, he thought. One moment the bright stars of life shone in the eyes; the next, a dull film of nothingness eclipsed the light, leaving a vacant, empty vessel. It was like snuffing out a candle, but there was no residual smoke trailing to the sky. Life was just gone. He'd been horrified as he'd watched the light click out in Dumbledore's eyes; Draco had been drawn to the Headmaster's gaze and he knew he didn't know how that Dumbledore had been dying anyway. The forgiving gaze Dumbledore bestowed upon Draco just before Snape had killed him would haunt Draco for much longer than he was to know at that moment. He would long see the kind shine of the headmaster's eyes in the night sky and he'd remembered his Astronomy lessons. Imagine the stars not as bright spots only, Professor Vector had said. But take in the vastness of the universe, its infinity expanding exponentially. It is within this broad canvas that we realise our unique place in this world. "Draco is a constellation," he said.

"Yes."

"Ursa Minor is in the tail of the Draco dragon."

"Yes."

"Your middle name is Ursula."

"It's a family name," she said, sounding embarrassed. "It's hideous."

He looked down at her. "No, it's not," he lied. "It's an all right name."

"Don't lie."

"Anyway."

"What about it?"

"Professor Trelawney says there's everything in a name." Draco knew that Pansy had always found it odd that he had not dropped Divination.

"Professor Trelawney is a barmy old drunk," Pansy said. "I doubt she even knows her own name."

"I'm just saying!"

"So," she said, nestling against him. "You like that Ursa Minor is tucked up into Draco's tail?"

"Definitely."

"I got your message last night." He had thought he might die when he'd sent it. "I thought," she continued, "that surely you were dead. But then I thought, no. That you wouldn't go and die on me. You're too brave for that."

"You think I'm brave?"

"Have you not listened to yourself the past few hours?" He'd spoken of fear and stress and uncertainty and a profound lack of self-confidence. How had she translated this to bravery? He asked her. "You never gave up. Well done, Draco. You never gave up."

"A brave Slytherin. What would Potter say?"

"Who the sod cares?"

He did. Still. Just a little bit. "There are different kinds of bravery."

"Yes. And self-preservation is not weak." She had undone his tie and slipped it free, depositing it on the floor at the side of his bed, and she began unbuttoning his shirt. She pushed it open, revealing myriad bruises, one side of his ribs purple and black, thanks to Dolohov who knew how to hit for maximum pain, without breaking bones. She didn't comment until she'd got him out of his shirt and she saw the charred skin around his Dark Mark. Voldemort had made it burn right there on his arm, reiterating that Draco had failed to carry out the Dark Lord's order and was he worthy of the Mark? He'd fallen to his knees in front of Voldemort, the excruciating fire burning on his forearm a ghastly reprimand. You are mine, Voldemort had hissed, his preternatural voice snaking around inside Draco's head, echoing, painful and high. You are indeed your father's son. You shall serve me until your death. The Dark Lord had smiled then, his teeth blackened with some sort of rot. For I cannot die . . . It had been a wicked illusion, he had thought, Voldemort burning Draco's flesh before his own eyes. His arm had regenerated, but the Dark Lord had left the topmost layer scorched, and all the painful sensation that came from a cursed wound such as it was. "Do you want a t-shirt?"

"Yeah."

She slipped from the bed and rummaged in his dresser. Crossing back over, she helped him raise his arms and slip a plain navy tee on, taking care as she pulled it over his head. As the elastic of the neck stretched over his crown, Draco felt several new bumps and knots that he hadn't noticed before. "Ahh," he groaned.

"I would have stood in your place," she said, smoothing his shoulders.

"I wouldn't have let you."

"I still would have."

"Thanks." She set to peeling off his socks.

"Tell me what happened at Hogwarts." She did. "Did you see Dumbledore?"

"Yes."

"And then what?"

"And then I couldn't find you, Draco, and I panicked. People were saying all kind of things! That you were seen running from the castle with Snape, that you "

"How did you get home?"

"Graham's mother. She came around midnight."

"What about your parents?"

"On holiday. They're getting back today. They cut it short."

"Do they know you're here?"

"I left a note."

"What about exams?"

She looked at him funny. "Who cares?"

"What about Dumbledore, are they "

"There's something planned. But I'm not going. I expect you won't either."

"Obviously not." Not in a million years. He felt petulant. "I thought you'd broken it off with Montague."

"I did."

"Then why "

"Merlin, Draco, I'll be friends with who I like. He was the one who got me home." She hesitated. "He stayed with me until you called."

"Well, that's brilliant to know." He turned his face. "If I had been killed, he could've "

"Stop it." There was something fierce in her voice that quieted him.

"I could go to Azkaban "

"You're not going to Azkaban," Pansy said. "Dumbledore said it himself: No one was hurt, you hurt no one. As for Katie Bell and the Weasel, they're fine. Dumbledore said!"

"But, I I cast Unforgivables, Pansy. I could go to Azkaban for that."

"You're not going to Azkaban. The only people who knew you cast Unforgivables are Dumbledore and Rosmerta. Dumbledore's dead and Rosmerta won't remember being under Imperius."

Perhaps she was right. He had not got the sense from Dumbledore that Dumbledore had been lying. But now at last we can speak plainly to one another . . . he had said. He let Pansy undo his trousers and managed to help her by lifting off the bed a bit as she tugged at the cuffs and pulled them off so he was left in his shorts. She emptied his pockets, putting his coins and wand on the dresser, and wadded the trousers up and threw them into a pile she'd made of his clothes. "Elf!" she barked out, and there was a *CRACK* as a house-elf appeared. "Take these to be washed. And bring breakfast."

"Do it now," Draco said, as the elf looked confused at taking orders from a guest. "When she's here, you do as she says."

"Yes, Master Malfoy." The elf bowed low, lost in the pile of clothing. Only enormous green eyes peeked through. The elf disappeared.

"You could do with a shower."

"Maybe in a bit." He wasn't eager to put his bruised, battered body under the stinging spray of water. "C'mere."

She hoisted herself over his footboard and crawled up the bed, settling back against him, encircling his neck with her arms. She kissed the corner of his mouth, rubbing her thumb over the spot where her lips had touched.

"I didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

It was several minutes before he spoke, but she didn't rush him. "I saw Thestrals."

She sucked in her breath. "Really? What were they like?"

He was falling asleep. "Beautiful . . . their eyes are ivory stars . . . "

As it turned out, it wasn't over.

Voldemort had Draco do unspeakable things, the threat of death always there, hanging above him by a taut gossamer thread. The Dark Lord had let Draco live, despite his failure to kill Dumbledore, but he was just as much a servant as ever.

Voldemort infiltrated the Ministry with ease; the investigation into Albus Dumbledore's death was suspended by order of Pius Thicknesse, Minister for Magic and Death Eater. This was one aspect of Draco's life that was a bright spot. After two weeks, when the Ministry failed to come calling, he allowed his guard to recede just a touch.

"Let's go to Diagon Alley," he said to Pansy, in July.

"Diagon Alley's shut down."

It was? "Really? How'd'you know?"

"My mum told me. She said all that's open is the apothecary and that Weasley joke shop." Pansy shook her head. "I don't like jokes."

Draco didn't either. "Then we'll go to Knockturn Alley, yeah?"

She brightened. "Let's go to Purcells!"

He shrugged. "Sure." Purcells was an animal emporium; if one needed a Kappa or a Lethifold, they went to Purcells. At least that was the rumour. He just hoped there were no Nifflers there.

He gave her one of his travelling cloaks with a heavy hood. "Here."

"It's too hot for this!" It was almost a foot too long for her to boot.

He put his own on. "It's Knockturn Alley, Pansy. You never know who'll be there." He imagined Fenrir Greyback smiling at the sight of Pansy, licking his bloodstained lips.

She didn't pry about his Death Eater activities. Sometimes he told her things, sometimes he didn't. At night they listened to the WWN and she would stroke his Dark Mark absentmindedly, not put off in the slightest. Draco had some scarring around the edges of his Mark from where Voldemort had burnt him and he would let Pansy rub some kind of salve his mother had picked up into the skin there. His black eye was almost gone; it was a light smear of greenish yellow now. The cut on his chin had healed without any trace, as had his lip.

He charmed her cloak with a cooling spell and shrunk it to size. "We can use the kitchen Floo."

"Let's Apparate."

"I can't." He felt sheepish admitting this. "You know . . . "

"Draco, you need to learn how to Apparate illegally," she said, rolling her eyes. "Graham taught me how."

"How brilliant for Graham."

"Draco . . . "

"Did he teach you how to Splinch, too?"

"Oh, honestly!"

He folded his arms over his chest, but she pried them open and put her arms around his waist, pulling him in. He touched her hair at the nape of her neck, stroking there, and she looked up at him, adoring. "Come closer," she said, urging him forwards.

His stomach flip-flopped and he leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. "Close enough?"

"Closer . . . "

He moved in; he smelled the gum on her breath and

She Disapparated, dragging him with her.

He couldn't resist the lure of the Dark Arts.

"Let's go in there," he said, as Borgin and Burkes came into view.

"All right."

Borgin fawned over him as usual, and Draco was surprised that Borgin knew who Pansy was, giving her just as smarmy a greeting as any other regular.

"Borgin knows you?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

Because she wasn't supposed to be as dark as he was. "How?"

She looked slightly abashed. "Well You see "

"Montague brought you here, didn't he?" Was there any tree that Montague hadn't pissed on?

"Why shouldn't he have?"

But Draco wasn't thinking about Montague any more.

His Vanishing Cabinet was still in the corner.

He waited until Pansy moved on to a rack of necklaces made from bejewelled chicken feet.

"Borgin," he said, in a low voice, "the cabinet . . . has anyone touched it since Since You know . . . "

"Oh, no, Master Malfoy," Borgin said, bowing in the annoying way that he had. "Per your request, we have kept this Vanishing Cabinet off limits to other customers. Other paying customers, if you don't mind me adding."

"Shut it, Borgin." He dropped his voice to just above a whisper, all the while his eyes on Pansy. "The Dark Lord requires its service. You'll leave it alone until I tell you otherwise."

Borgin inclined his head. "We have an understanding."

"Pansy!" he called out, across the shop. "I'm going to the loo. I'll be right back."

"Okay . . . " She was busy flipping through a book that had a pair of hands coming from its pages, reaching for her throat. Undisturbed, she turned the page. "And then you've got to see this book."

"I will." Draco looked around. Aside from himself and Pansy the shop was deserted. "Don't let her leave," he said to Borgin, and he stepped inside the Vanishing Cabinet. He kept the handle unlatched while he thought about the status of the cabinet.

Voldemort now had control over Hogwarts, just as he did the Ministry.

As far as Draco knew, the only ones who knew about the passage between Borgin and Burkes and Hogwarts were himself, Voldemort, Dumbledore, the Death Eaters who had travelled through it, and likely Snape. Dumbledore was dead; Draco was a Death Eater; Snape had been named headmaster of Hogwarts. Draco could have free rein if he wanted. Even if he were found at Hogwarts during the hols which he thought very unlikely he need only pull up his left sleeve and he'd have a free pass.

What if the cabinet in Hogwarts had been destroyed? Where would he be transported to? Anywhere? Nowhere? The black oblivion of space?

He felt empty most of the time. He didn't know if he cared whether he lived or died or ended up as just another bright spot in the universe. So he was content with wherever the cabinet might take him.

He closed the latch. The click seemed loud.

He slammed into the other cabinet as if shot from a cannon, whacking his head on its door. It popped open and he didn't have to look. He could tell by the smell that he was at Hogwarts in the Room of Requirement. Its musty, old smell mixed with the scent of stale Peruvian Darkness Powder, sweaty metal, and the residual charred remnants of the fire he'd set in the rubbish bin all those weeks ago.

He checked the bin and found his mirror. It was blackened and warped from the intense heat he'd set on it. He used the sleeve of his traveling cloak to wipe circles on the mirror's face. He looked into it. "I'm sorry," he said.

The mirror was silent.

He had trouble pulling down the tapestry. It was stuck on one of Erised's frame's spindly points. He pulled his wand and lifted the tapestry off Erised, sneezing from the cloud of dust it kicked up. But there it was: the smoky, streaked surface of the mirror, its silver face weathered and grim. Draco put his hands against it and leaned in until Erised's glass was cool against his forehead.

He looked in the mirror.

Nothing had changed. He smiled.

He felt happy.

"How could you?"

Draco whirled, raising his wand.

Potter stood at the end of the carved-out path to Erised, next to a lurid purple wardrobe, its door ajar, wearing what he had always worn when he'd been in the mirror. He had his wand trained on Draco.

"How could you?" Harry repeated, his eyes narrowed. "How could you have meant to kill Dumbledore?"

Draco's hand was steady. "I didn't kill Dumbledore."

"But you meant to!"

"But I didn't."

"How can you stand yourself?"

Draco didn't know. As it was, he had no purpose except to carry out dark deeds for Voldemort; he was not happy to be who he was, in fact he was completely revolted by the manner in which he currently stood for his ideals. He didn't know why he was on this earth and he saw no future stretching before him. He took several steps forwards. Potter advanced as well.

"Happy?" Potter asked.

"Not often."

"Can't say that I'm sorry." Potter said with a shrug.

"And you?" Draco asked through gritted teeth. "How's it now that your precious Dumbledore's gone?"

Potter had the look of a crazed animal. "How could you just stand there and do nothing and let Dumbledore die?" So Potter'd heard about what happened on the Astronomy Tower that night. How, Draco didn't know.

"I did what Dumbledore told me to do!"

"Bollocks!"

"It's true, Golden Boy. Dumbledore looked after me. Me. He cared more about me than he did about himself that night "

"Must be a first for you Someone putting your needs first . . . "

It had been a first.

They approached one another, wands out.

"Dumbledore thought I was worth saving," Draco said sharply. "Perhaps you should consider that."

"Perhaps you should piss right the hell off."

"I was here first," Draco pointed out. "Why are you even here?"

"Why are you here?"

"Maybe I wanted to see the place one last time."

"Maybe I did too."

"Oh, off on an adventure? Do you get to choose your own ending and everything?"

Harry was silent.

And for some reason Draco lowered his wand and put it away in the inside pocket of his cloak. He wasn't afraid of Potter. Not anymore.

"Why're you wearing that thing?" Potter asked. "It must be twenty-five degrees out."

"I did a cooling charm."

"But why are you wearing it at all?"

"I felt the need to go incognito. We're in Knockturn Alley today."

"We?"

"Me and Pansy."

"Parkinson?" Potter pulled a face. "Oi, your taste in girls "

"Is better than yours," Draco said, thinking of Ginny Weasley's awful freckles.

"Why are you in Knockturn Alley?"

Draco shrugged. "Something to do."

"That's it? Because it's 'something to do'? You muck around in the Dark Arts because you're bored?"

"Well, Pansy was bored, too!"

"You're both horrible "

"You don't even know Pansy "

"I know enough about her "

"Which is to say nothing at all "

"You know nothing."

Draco cocked his head, considering Potter. "I know that I won."

"Won? What'd'you mean?"

Draco spread his arms. "I'm alive. I've won. The Dark Lord meant to kill me if I didn't fulfil my task. I didn't fulfil it "

"Because you're a bloody fucking coward, that's why "

"I'm a coward for not killing Dumbledore? That makes me a coward? What the bloody hell? That's rich." There was no winning with Potter.

"Just the whole thing, Malfoy. You were up for the task. I heard you on the train, bragging."

"You heard what I wanted you to hear."

"Yeah, well you were pretty keen to say it." Potter lowered his wand at last and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.

Draco moved closer.

"So."

"So."

Draco was silent, not knowing what to say. What would he say to the only boy that he had ever coveted?

"So you really are a Death Eater."

Draco raised his chin a notch, staring down at Potter. He crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing.

"I know you are," Potter said. He was matter-of-fact.

"So you know," Draco said, with another shrug.

"Malfoy, how did you let it get to that?"

"I got where I wanted to go." He wasn't bragging; he was acknowledging.

Potter was looking at him keenly. "I want you to know that I will win this battle. I don't care what it takes. I will see your Dark Lord gone. Forever."

How could he explain himself to Potter? His Dark Mark itched and twinged; it was still healing. How could he impart to Harry Potter that he was more than a Death Eater? His dark river ran deep, but he was not so far gone that he enjoyed hurting other people. He was greedy, though, and, growing up, he'd seen his father, his mother, get whatever they wanted through intimidation, threats, and, Draco supposed, violence. Lucius and Narcissa had been only slightly guarded in talking of Death Eater activities around him; he'd grown up knowing. It didn't occur to him until now that the Dark Lord had been a mere legend, a tale, for the first fifteen years of his life; he'd had no experience of Voldemort before he returned at the end of Draco's fourth year, and even then the Dark Lord had laid low.

Until the night Lucius had dropped Potter's prophecy and Voldemort blew out of the shadows like a chain of explosions, an undeniable force, a scourge of power. After the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort had ensconced himself at Malfoy Manor, fully resurrecting the Death Eaters, setting their course of action, and Draco had lived in his room for six weeks, until, inevitably, the Dark Lord had summoned him. He would, he was informed, serve the Dark Lord until the end of his days, and he would take his father's place until Lucius was released from Azkaban, and he would do as he was told under the threat of death. Voldemort had had no mercy for Draco; in fact, he'd held more contempt than usual, and for the life of him, Draco couldn't figure out what he had done to offend the Dark Lord before he had even met him. The more civilly Voldemort spoke to him, the more frightened Draco became, for the Dark Lord was insidious, beguiling, and his kind words came with the most terrible of prices.

Potter seemed to be under the impression that Draco was in control; the only thing Draco was certain of was his own existence. Everything else was suspect. He was in full solipsis.

Especially now that he knew his mind was unhinged, damaged. He remembered what it was like to feel normal, but that life seemed distant and as if it belonged to someone else, and there was no one a seventeen-year-old mental Death Eater could turn to for help. He was alone with this burden. He knew he couldn't tell anyone about the way of his mind; they would never look at him the same again. They would always expect the worst. They would think him weak and unintelligent. They would gaze at him in sympathy and whisper about him behind his back.

No.

It was a secret for him alone. He would learn to hide it.

He considered Potter's last statement, his vow to bring Voldemort to his knees. "I know you'll try, Potter."

"I'll succeed. I succeed."

"Potter? Shut up."

Harry was angry and he stepped forwards, fists clenched. He hissed at Draco and Draco thought for a moment that he saw the same red lick of hatred in Potter's eyes that appeared in Voldemort's when he spoke to Draco; it was as if a part of the Dark Lord had just manifested in Potter, and Draco thought of the lore behind Harry Potter and the Dark Lord and he wondered why Voldemort needed to kill Potter, why he was so obsessed, and he suddenly didn't think it was a revenge thing from Harry failing to die under Voldemort's killing curse almost sixteen years before. No, there was something else. Something far more complex.

What that could be he had no idea.

What if this Potter was the Dark Lord, glamoured and hateful, vengeance foremost in his mind? Why would the Dark Lord seek out Hogwarts, of all places, to hunt Draco down? Surely the school held little meaning to Voldemort, as everything did. But, Draco thought, this castle was sentient and the Dark Lord a master Legilimens, like Dumbledore had been, and perhaps it talked to the Dark Lord in ways Draco would never understand.

Just like the way in which the shadows talked to Draco, telling him he was unworthy, unskilled, unfit, that he was meant for mundane things despite the ambition that coursed through his veins. He didn't understand why the voices inside his head never loved him. They only sought to rain down hate and disgust and to dismiss him from this world. He thought about the urge he had had to take a flying leap off the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore was killed, the little niggling feeling inside him whispering that perhaps that would have been for the best.

But when he was able to step away from his shadows, in his heart he did not believe whatever it was that whispered negatively in the back of his mind. He felt it was an evil illusion, something planted there to ensure his demise, to bring about his destruction, and to castigate his very name.

It had to be some kind of a curse and the Dark Lord had to be the one behind it. He'd cursed Draco, cursed his sanity, evoked the worst from him. And knowing Harry Potter didn't help.

Potter was revered as righteous and just. Draco knew the truth, though. He knew that Potter wasn't any better than he was, because he'd been on the receiving end of Potter's Sectumsempra spell; he'd heard him throwing Unforgivables at Snape. The boy wasn't so golden after all.

This made Draco smile.

"What?" Potter asked, still vexed. "What're you happy about?"

"I was just thinking of how far you've fallen."

"I I've fallen? Dunno what you're talking about. I'm the same as I ever was . . . "

"Where'd you learn Sectumsempra?" Draco slid his hand up his forehead, moving his fringe. "You scarred me." Not to mention the fact that he also had faint scars on his belly. "You didn't even know what you were doing. Did you?"

It was Potter's turn to gaze warily, to say nothing.

"I'm serious. Where'd you learn a spell that brutal?"

"I'm not telling you," Potter said. He shifted his eyes when Draco caught his gaze.

"A book on the dark arts?"

"Not exactly."

"Sectumsempra," Draco said, pretending to muse. "I'll have to give it a try. I'm sure I'll need it soon."

"Malfoy, don't "

"It's right up there with the Cruciatus Curse, isn't it?"

"Yes, but "

"Just imagine what you'd think of me if I had cast it on you."

Potter looked at him.

"I just think you should know that you're no better than me. No one's above an Unforgivable. You've proven it."

"What do you want?"

"I'd ask you the same question. I got here first."

"Maybe I've been here long before you got here."

"Why would you be?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno."

"But I let you go. Why are you still hanging around this place?"

"Dunno," he said again.

"Well, Potter," Draco said, "what's in this room right now that isn't anywhere else?"

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and his gaze shifted; Potter's cheeks pinked up a tinge.

He meant Draco. Draco was here, up stashed away in the Room of Requirement. Potter'd come back for more! He'd liked it.

Draco moved towards Harry, unbuttoning his travel cloak and letting it slip off, and, not giving two shits, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Potter's eyes shifted immediately to the Dark Mark.

Draco extended his left arm. "Touch it . . . . "

Potter lifted his hand and his fingertips were cool as he slid his way up Draco's forearm, actually stopping to caress the mark, as if feeling for raised ridges. Draco winced at Harry's bold touch. His Mark was still sore from Voldemort's burn wound. Harry looked at him then and Draco was filled with abject fear, as if he'd gone too far this time and had just signed his own transport papers to Azkaban by showing Harry Potter his Dark Mark.

It was odd. Fear and trepidation filled him whenever Potter was around. He wasn't scared of Harry, but he dreaded the example that Harry represented. Harry represented all that Draco would never exemplify, all that Wizarding society revered in a hero.

Harry cultivated Draco's fear because Draco despaired that he would never amount to anything significant, that aside from his name and his inheritance (should the Ministry see fit to return the Malfoys' frozen Gringotts assets; fortunately, Gringotts was not the only Wizarding bank in the world, and Lucius had accounts internationally) he would do nothing. Blaise was already confident he would take on an apprenticeship at Gringotts in security; Theodore planned to work with an uncle in deconstructing and understanding the Dark Arts; Crabbe and Goyle talked of jobs in Diagon Alley; Pansy mucked about with potions and cosmetics and wanted to develop her own brand . . . Draco had no plan, no idea what he might want to do post-Hogwarts.

He'd previously had interest in working with spells and curses. He had enjoyed guessing the countercurses for dark spells his father talked to him about, and he was intuitive in this way. As it was, he had no interest in, well, anything really. He looked to his future, but only a bland, empty palette stretched out before him. These dreams had fallen into shadow, swathed in paralysing self-doubt and loathing. And this was so odd, because he'd never had such negative feelings about himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He'd been told all his life that he was special and great and fit, and he'd believed it. He'd believed it until the Dark Lord had cursed his existence.

Harry was still running his fingers over Draco's Dark Mark, as if he couldn't quite believe it was real.

"You like it," Draco said.

"No. It's not that."

He pulled his arm back until they were palm to palm. "What then?"

"It just shows me everything I'm not."

A knife to the heart. "Yeah," Draco managed. "It does do that."

Harry's fingers were cold; they felt good on such a hot day. "You kept me in Erised for six months . . . "

"So I owe you a favour."

"At least one."

"Don't push your luck." That was it. He would grant Harry a favour. Someday. He figured he owed him a little bit, what after appropriating whatever essence of Harry's soul had filled that mirror for so long.

And then it came to Draco in a rush, in a single moment of brilliant clarity. He understood the source of his fear and was simultaneously relieved at the simplicity of it, and disgusted at his own weakness.

Over Harry's shoulder came the clip-clopping of hooves. A swirling shadow swathed in black appeared behind Potter, the wraith's horse's familiar screeching and snorts cutting through the quiet peace of the room. It began to advance.

It was time to say goodbye and Draco was ready. He glanced over at the Mirror of Erised one last time, fortified by what he saw there.

He was choosing.

Draco slid his hand behind Harry's ear, Potter's hair tickling between his fingers, and he pulled Potter in until their noses bumped and Draco could feel Harry's cold breath. "I'm not afraid of you. Not any more." He slid his wand up Potter's jaw. "But I still owe you one. For Dumbledore." Harry looked rather surprised, but Draco gave him no time to react. "RIDDIKULUS!"

Harry Potter dropped to the floor and before Draco had time to react, Potter was a naked, fat little baby with an explosion of black, unkempt hair, sucking happily on a dummy and holding a rattle. He kicked his feet outwards, shaking his belly.

Draco laughed. It felt good.

Baby Harry exploded into a million black bits, which seemed to hover in the air for a moment, and then were sucked backwards into a swirling vortex, where they disappeared into the purple wardrobe with a *POP*.

And here came the wraith, charging, its furious steed screaming its omen of death. Draco pointed his wand. "RIDDIKULUS!"

The wraith became a Muggle carousel horse, pink and gold and light blue, bouncing up and down on its brass pole, and it skidded to a halt, the ball of the pole digging into the stone floor, making sparks. It tottered for a moment; it fell to its side with a flump. Draco flourished his wand and the Boggart was cast away, hurtling amongst the millions of items there, until Draco could see it no more.

He stood with his wand at his side, lamenting ruefully his skiving off Defence Against the Dark Arts in third year. Perhaps he would have understood months ago, maybe even immediately, what forces had been at play. Before his mind had really gone round the bend.

A Boggart. Two, really. Who would've thought? Boggarts.

Make no mistake, Draco's heart was still heavy, his mind still crowded. But now he had two fewer things to concern himself over. It was somewhat of a relief. And he would hide the magnitude of his disability from everyone else, except perhaps Pansy . . . well, he would see. He wasn't inclined to disclose that he saw things, heard things, that weren't there to anyone. He was still very much alone.

But he would do his best to pretend that he wasn't. Maybe, eventually, he wouldn't feel it so acutely.

He slipped out from the cabinet back at Borgin and Burkes.

Pansy was now wrestling with the book she'd been reading; it was clinging to her wrist with both papery hands. She had it down on a table with one knee across it as she tried to pry herself free. "Oh, for Merlin's sake "

"Here." Draco encircled the book's wrists, squeezing, his thumbs digging in until he felt the ghostly hands slacken. He whisked the book away, closing it, ignoring its mutterings. He re-shelved it.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing at her wrist. "I think I've got a paper cut."

Impulsively he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"What was that for?" She was smiling.

He shrugged.

They moved on to a bowl of beautiful crystals that, when set upon someone, would cause ill health.

"I wonder if I should get some of these for next year," Pansy mused, turning one over in her hand. "Like if I want to skip lessons or something."

"The Weasleys' Skiving Snack Boxes are probably better for that," Draco conceded. "That way you could just do it yourself. I don't feel like going there, though."

"Me neither." She dropped the crystal back into its bowl. "I'll do an owl order."

"Do you think people can change if they really try hard enough?"

She looked at him. "No."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "Well, I guess it depends on what someone is trying to change, but some spots never come off, y'know?" She raked her fingers through the crystals once more. "Professor Moody used to say that about the Death Eaters."

"I'm a Death Eater." There. He'd said it out loud.

"I know."

"Do you like my spots?"

"I love your spots." She reached up the sleeve of his cloak and rolled his cuff down, buttoning it shut. "But that doesn't mean you should show them to the whole world." She redid the other cuff.

He'd forgotten to roll down his sleeves before leaving the Room of Requirement.

"And I also think there are spots you have that you didn't grow yourself, and they're your burden to bear, whether that's fair or not."

"But you love those spots anyway?"

"Yes." Her eyes were quite bright. "It's all part of the big picture."

He refused to wait for her a single second longer. He took her hand. "Let's go home."

"But I'm hungry "

"I'll feed you. Let's just go home."

They abandoned Borgin and Burkes, but not before Draco said, over his shoulder, "You can sell that now," indicating the Vanishing Cabinet. Borgin bowed deeply, his unctuous smile broad at the prospect of a profit. Draco really didn't care what happened to the other one. He would not be revisiting the Room of Requirement.

"Did you know," Draco said, as they walked along Knockturn Alley, "that Boggarts can talk?"

"How'd'you know that?"

"I met one."

"I've heard of that happening, but Lupin said that Boggarts only talk when the fear is really intricate or unusual."

"That must be true." He hadn't had time to contemplate the meaning of his Boggarts yet and he was too enamoured right now to be embarrassed that he had more than one. All he wanted to do was to eat, sleep, and have brilliant sex all the time, for the rest of his life.

He ignored the peckish gnawing in his stomach. He could eat later. First things first. He pushed Pansy into a niche between Purcells and Pryces Curse Speciality Shop. "Today is the seventeenth," he said, flattening her against the rough stone until he was certain she could feel him against her belly. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Right?"

"A year ago today, Graham Montague told me how much he fancied you, and he asked me if I thought you fancied him back, and I said I didn't know, but that conversation hacked me off, Pansy. I didn't want you to fancy Montague. You understand?"

"Yes," she said, her hands busy.

"So that's how it is."

"I know."

It was a good niche. His hands roamed freely and his mouth was at her ear. "I'm old enough to be a Death Eater." He would never say these things out loud again.

"That's debatable."

"Well, I am one."

"Could we talk about something else?"

"I just mean that if I'm old enough to be a Death Eater, then I should be old enough for other things."

"Agreed."

"So, want to do other things?"

She tightened her arms around his waist and looked up at him, her chin on his chest. He really was quite tall. Squeezing him, she closed her eyes and directed him to do the same, and he could feel her concentrating. "Like officially not be Graham's girlfriend any more?"

"Officially." The compartment in his mind that held a rather unremarkable boy with black hair and glasses and a forgotten phial of hairs was locked up so tight the edges of its door weren't even visible.

"Hold on tight."

"I will," Draco said.

*CRACK*!

They Disapparated.

Finite

AUTHOR'S NOTES

In case it's not perfectly clear, Draco is mentally ill in this story and is suffering from pretty severe depression and anxiety. Some kinds of depressive disorders induce visual and auditory hallucinations and hypersexuality.

From the Harry Potter Wiki: Boggartﾦ In Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Remus Lupin gives Harry private lessons on how to defeat Dementors, using a Boggart as a replacement. However, when Harry faced the Boggart the first and second time, when he failed to beat it, the Boggart/Dementor had managed to make Harry hear his mother's screams. This may imply that Boggarts can gain some abilities of the thing it morphs into. It also gained its weakness as it could be defeated by Harry's Patronus.

Myself a nursery rhyme Page 85, The Real Mother Goose

Bat, Bat a nursery rhyme Page 73, The Real Mother Goose

The hand mirror made from the forgotten shard of Erised: keesuoy epohes lafehttonse ilniereh renial pedameb tonna cytilaer nehw: When reality cannot be made plainer, herein lies not the false hope you seek.

"Other rare objects, such as the Mirror of Erised, may also reveal more than a static image of a lost loved one." J.K. Rowling - Tales of Beedle the Bard - Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump - page 134, Collectors Edition. (What does this mean? CREATIVE LICENSE!)

FROM POTTEMORE: The Mirror of Erised is a very old device. Nobody knows who created it, or how it came to be at Hogwarts School. A succession of teachers have brought back interesting artefacts from their travels, so it might have arrived at the castle in this casual manner, either because the teacher knew how it worked and was intrigued by it, or because they did not understand it and wished to ask their colleagues' opinions.

The Mirror of Erised is one of those magical artefacts that seems to have been created in a spirit of fun (whether innocent or malevolent is a matter of opinion), because while it is much more revealing than a normal mirror, it is interesting rather than useful. Only after Professor Dumbledore makes key modifications to the mirror (which has been languishing in the Room of Requirement for a century or so before he brings it out and puts it to work) does it become a superb hiding place, and the final test for the impure of heart.

The mirror's inscription ('erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi') must be read backwards to show its true purpose.

The mirror is bewitching and tantalising, but it does not necessarily bring happiness. - J.K. Rowling

"Course Dumbledore trusts you," growled Moody. "He's a trusting man, isn't he? Believes in second chances. But me? I say there are spots that don't come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d'you know what I mean?" Mad-Eye Moody - J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; page 410; British Edition

According to the Harry Potter Wiki, Montague's first name is Graham. Apparently, there's also a Graham Pritchard in Slytherin, so perhaps Graham is a popular name for purebloods.

Wraith is from Scottish warth, probably originally "a guardian angel, hence a person's ghost seen as a warning or means of protection immediately before death, hence any apparition," from Old Norse v?thr, "watcher, guardian." Wraith is a Scottish dialectal word for "ghost", "spectre" or "apparition". It came to be used in Scottish Romanticist literature, and acquired the more general or figurative sense of "portent" or "omen". In 18th- to 19th-century Scottish literature, it was also applied to aquatic spirits. So sayeth the Wiki!

A life lived in fear is a life half lived Unknown. The quote appears in the 1992 movie Strictly Ballroom, however.

You want to know who Pansy had Draco Polyjuice into, don't you? Simple. She had him Polyjuice into himself. Why go to all the trouble having him Polyjuice? Why should she have to endure Polyjuice and Draco not have to? Fair is fair!

Yes, we know that Draco marries Astoria Greengrass, but canon points to the possibility of a romantic relationship between Draco and Pansy while they were at Hogwarts, particularly during Half-Blood Prince. I built on that.

I want to be your friend
For ever and ever without break or decay
When the hills are all flat
And the rivers are all dry
When it lightens and thunders in winter
When it rains and snows in summer
When Heaven and Earth mingle
Not till then will I part from you.

Oath of Friendship - Anonymous - China, 1st Century B.C.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew
Ne'er to be found again.

To Daffodils by Robert Herrick

If our subconscious was attractive, we wouldn't have to bury it down deep within us Doug Coupland