hi! you can call me jester, or just jest. i don't expect this to really become great, but I am a fan of draco/harry and this plot really makes me want to write. xD i like doing Draco and Harry's point of view, though I also like Draco & Hermione, too. I would like to get some things straight before you read this.

WARNING: this is AU, but I'm trying to get it to follow the book as best as I can, but in a different way. Dumbledore is still alive, until I can figure out a way for an honorable death. I need help alive for now, otherwise I wouldn't be able to really make this story work. Draco's dad is also a little bit insane, so please excuse Draco not being a wimp like he usually (though, he still is, because I like him being like that). xD I may be forgetting something, so if you notice anything, point it out. I am also wanting to let you know that it's seventh-year, and Harry is still at school. Yes, he still tries to gather the Horcruxes while at school, but they won't be as hard as in the story. OH! and Snape did make the Unforgivable Vow, but he didn't kill Dumbledore last year, but he'll do so soon)) (that's the only spoiler you'll get for this story). It won't be as great as the story, so I'm sorry if it's not appealing to you.

I ALSO need a beta,if anyone is willing. I don't have the time to look any of this over, because I wrote this two weeks ago and I had just managed to get this up. I also want a beta because I'd feel better to have another person to re-read the story. xD I want it to be someone cool, even if people say I'm a bad judge at that. I think everyone is cool. I hope you all like it, and I really do appreciate reviews.

XD worse summary in the world, I swear. If you don't understand it, I'll try to fix it to make it sound better.

SUMMARY: Draco shows up on Harry's door, looking like he had just fell from the Astronomy Tower. They seem to share an agreement for one day, but the next turns into hell when Draco simply asks Harry who is in charge of the Order. There's something going on, and Harry doesn't understand what. He just knows that he finds Draco at the Grimmauld place a few weeks after, and he's utterly smug. But there's something between the two that he can't ignore, despite this odd feeling he's being lied to.

PLAYLIST: chapter song:

"... so soft and so tragic, as a slaughter-house, you press the knife against your heart, and say that, 'i love you, so much you must kill me now.' if i was your vampire, certain as the moon, instead of killing time, we'll have each other until the sun."

"He'll make a fine Death Eater, Lucius."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Are you sure he is ready?"

"I believe so, my Lord."

"Good. Carry on, then..."

He wanted him dead, it was as simple as that. The images in his head were always there, and denying it would be as if he were saying that the dark color of blood was as light as white. It seemed impossible to avoid, and impossible to confront. He knew he should be use to it by now, which he was (it was hard not to), but there would always be anger. He couldn't suppress it, or direct it at anyone else. He could only say, for now, that he hated the very man that had created him. He hated that his mother fell to her knees as he spoke his rules, like some little obedient slave, even if he was no better himself. He prided himself on being like his father, however sad that may be, and yet he still managed to find the time to hate him. He couldn't stop himself; it was human nature after all.

A sharp shock of pain clawed at his ribs, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was being very childish. He shouldn't act as a child, for it was beneath him, he knew. If his father could hear what he was thinking, he would be beaten again. It wouldn't make a difference though, for the feeling of pain had been cursed - quite literally - out of him. It seemed like everything on him hurt, which wasn't that far from the truth, but most especially his ribs. The taste of iron in his mouth was not missed either, nor was it any kind of new taste that had settled in his mouth before. It was as if he had someone brush his teeth with a horribly concentrated blood-pop. That wasn't what was bothering the poor lad, however, for he suddenly slumped against a white fence in exhaustion. He didn't even know his eyes closed, or that he had quite possibly managed to suppress a whimper.

Barely able to walk, he headed into the dark streets to his enemy's house, the cold winter air breathing upon the open wounds on his body mercilessly. In his gray orbs, it seemed as though a light hue of blue were keeping a seemingly silver color at bay, but slowly vanishing as his pale eye-lids slid down to conceal them. He nearly stumbled to the ground in an ungraceful like fashion - in a pathetic like fashion - but it seemed like trying to keep his dignity right now was way beyond his reach (extremely beyond, in his opinion).

His father had bruised him up quite a bit, there was no reason to hide it, for this had always normally happened. Yes, he knew that Death Eaters were sick freaks, but he was one of them now. He was the protégé, the student, the one with the incredibly pale blond hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to be in so much pain at the moment. This is what he had been trained to do, to be able to handle the pain, because once you became a Death Eater the pain would become nothing more than a common acquaintance (he knew this for a fact).

He wanted to laugh at all of it, but the pain would be too much. He didn't have to hide his pain here, but he still didn't want to let anything show through. The training he had gone through was imbedded in him and, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to get rid of it. The training had been to ensure his acceptance into the Death Eaters, to be the very best among the rest, and to be the kind of man to stab someone in the back. It didn't matter who they were, his father wanted him to break down everyone. He was the person his father wanted him to be, except he couldn't keep his emotions at pay. The pain he could take, as now he still walked when he should be lying on the floor in his own blood.

He could even take the yelling, the physical abuse (you would never suspect his father, one who never threatened anyone without his wand, to abuse his own son by hand) and the mental abuse he went through. He could not, however, keep his hatred and resentment for his father hidden. He hated the Dark Lord, no matter how "forgiving" he was. He also hated that his mother was simply letting her husband change into some monster (because, really, his father had never always been like this). He hated a lot of things, but most of all he hated what he was assigned to do as "mission" (since he had failed so miserably to kill Dumbledore last year).

The palm of his hands finally came in contact with the cold metal feeling of metal, smooth beneath his blood soaked finger-tips. It was a gate, that wasn't hard to tell, because it swung open with just a gentle push. If he hadn't known any better, it was almost as if they knew that he was coming (because, surely, they'd have enchantments on the gate?), but that wasn't possible. He had been told that no one would be here except... him. There was another taste in his mouth now, but he liked to assume it was just the taste of disgust, of the bile beginning to rise up.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, taking thirteen steps forward (he counted), and slumped down in front of a large wooden door. He pathetically raised his arm and proceeded to knock on the door three times, a specific number he had just now picked in his head. The beaten boy let his head rest against the door frame, staring down at the floor and looking very much dead already. His head was so hurting too much, and he was so dizzy that the patterns from the cement on the ground seemed to be swirling like snakes.

His stomach lurhed when he spotted an ant dragging the dead body of another insect off into the bushes; lips pursed, he felt the bile coming up in his throat, burning, for a whole other reason than the last. He was given no time to rest, which he hadn't expected but more like hoping, for the sound of a chair scraping was managed to be heard. The usual, "I'll be right there," was heard and dragging foot-steps. It didn't take long for them to get to the door, and then it was open quite quickly.

In that moment,it seemed as though everything just froze, and the beaten boy on the floor took in a quick breath before looking up. His eyes were like the first fall of snow, if put poetically, as though you were simply walking through some beautiful forest. This forest, no matter how beautiful it may be, seemed considerably colder than any other. It could give you frost-bite in just a split second, and no one would know forit was hidden so well.

The eyes he looked into were the opposite, which was exactly what these two boys were. Those green eyes weren't cold and they weren't harsh, but they were just these warm eyes that seemed to invite any willing person in. They were the enchanted forest, the one people would rather decide to travel on instead of the wintry path of the gray forest. It didn't take intelligence to see which one was the better path. Ah, but the snow-covered forest hated the green trees on the other side, because it had always been envious of the warmth it received from the favoring sun.

The pale blond cursed inwardly as those green eyes widened, not moving from where he stood inside the house that radiated warmth. The tired boy could see the incandescent glow from the fire-place, touching the walls with its flaming finger-tips, giving the place a growing warmth that wasn't outside. He was entranced as the fire danced along the walls, but then became unfocused as a figure crouched down in front of him. There were those damn eyes again...

"Malfoy?" spoke that irritatingly grating voice. "What are you doing here? Merlin, what the hell happened to you?"

"...such false concern, Potter."

Draco coughed lightly, turning his head and spitting up a bit of blood onto the grass. His cold eyes drifted up to meet that horrible color of green as he finally looked up at the other boy.

"For Merlin's sakes, Potter, don't just stand there gawking! I need..." he trailed off. It was hard asking the enemy he had known for so long to help him. It was like being broiled in a kettle over the hot stove.

"I need help."

Draco didn't show any pain on his face, he wouldn't do that in front of Potter, but it wasn't hard to tell that he was in agony. The pale boy was covered in blood, and in some spots it was even beginning to dry. He began to ponder as the silence dragged on about how long it was going to take him to get the blood out of his hair. His calculations would be useless if Potter wouldn't be so kind as to stop standing there like some dumb-shit gargoyle. He had lost quite a lot of blood, and it was hard concentrating when Potter looked like he had been turned into stone. Why couldn't Potter just let him in? It would be so much warmer, sitting next to that lovely looking fire that the raven-haired boy had started.

He spat up some blood in a cough as he struggled to get up, wrapping an arm around his waist in attempt to keep one of the wounds from bleeding too badly. It was funny how much damage "Cruciatus" curse could inflict on a person; the longer the person survived, the more the pain increased (it didn't take a genius to figure that one out). The bones could snap in half like tiny twigs, and the skin could break so easily like wet paper.

"Are you going to let me in or what?" inquired Draco impatiently, his breathing becoming labored from standing in one spot for too long.

Potter was a complete jack-ass. He was an ass-hat with no intelligence, and Draco would gladly continue insulting the boy as long as it pleased him. But there was only so much pleasure you could get from inwardly cursing someone out, and so he stopped and simply locked gazes with the boy. He narrowed his eyes as Harry rolled his own, all of a sudden wishing he could stab them out with his wand, but he had no damn wand. He cursed his luck, and he cursed Potter as well. The shit-head...

Potter held the door open, and Draco was a little offended that he didn't offer to support him. It wasn't that Draco wanted the boy touching him, nor did he expect that Potter would offer it, but he was Draco Malfoy. He didn't like not getting what he wanted, because he just always did get what he wanted. It wouldn't be proper for him not to get help, even from the little "Potty" beside him.

It seemed like Potter had read his mind, because the boy held out an arm just in case Draco fell foward. It was a little bit considerate, Draco would think, but all of a sudden he was offended that Potter had even done it. Hadn't Draco just wanted Potter to give him help, and now that he was Draco was all of a sudden insulted? He was a very confusing boy, there was no doubt about that, and he let his emotions show as he glared daringly at Potter's offending arm. He stumbled into the house and the first thing his eyes spotted was the fire burning in the family-room.

"The couch is right over there." pointed Potter. "I'll be right back."

Draco didn't trust the other boy, watching as his tall body went upstairs to the second floor. He wondered what he was going to get, but Draco suspected that it was his wand. He didn't blame the boy because he would've done exactly the same thing. The blond took in a deep breath, though a wheezy breath it may be, and went over to lay down upon the couch. It was amazing how long Draco was lastin without passing out. He should've been laying dead on the streets, but this is what he had been trained to do. It was valuable skills, because his father's "training" sessions were nothing compared to what the Dark Lord would do. The utter hatred and disgust in that one very man made the "Cruciatus" curse feel like Draco was being ripped open form the inside-out.

"Fuck!" came the small shout from upstairs, making Draco glance in the stairs direction.

The pale boy let out a sigh and closed his eyes, trying to relax as much as he can before Potter came back down. He knew there would be arguing, and Draco would like some rest before they got at each other's throats. It didn't matter if Draco looked like he fell from the Astronomy Tower, the two boys still hated one another. It'd be the end of the world before either of them had a civil conversation.

What was Potter doing anyway?

The paranoid Malfoy tensed up, gray eyes locking on the stairs with a sudden sneer.

"Hurry up, Potter!" he shouted loudly, wincing as a ripple of pain tore at his ribs. He gritted his teeth together, eyes narrowing with a scowl playing on his lips. He eyed the room with anger, letting himself gaze at the objects in the house. It was a nice-looking house, for a shack anyway, but it had a homey feeling to it. His thoughts on the house changed instantly when he spotted a picture frame sitting upon a table. A family of three were sitting on a couch, all of them looking very much over-feed and angry, but Potter wasn't in the picture. Where were his guardians?

All of a sudden, there was a crash sounding from upstairs that made Draco's eyes snapped over to the side once more. He could hear Potter speaking to himself, which surprised Malfoy because he had never thought Potter so insane (just stupid).

"Potter!" yelled Draco.

He heard foot-steps pounding on the floor and then the image of Potter on the stairs. He was taking two steps at a time, making it to the ground in a very ungraceful manner with a white box dangling in his hands. Draco eyed it very suspiciously as best as he could, because Potter kept shaking it and he couldn't make out what the red-mark on the front was. He stared at the box even as Potter came to him and crouched down, setting the box on the floor beside him. It didn't take very long to figure out what the hell the box was. "What actually happened to you?"

"Is that muggle crap?" hissed Draco, completely ignoring the other boy's question.

The boy stared down at the contents of the box as Potter pulled them all out. There were banages, band-aids, some gell-stuff, and things Draco didn't even want to think of. His lips curled into a sneer, and Potter just rolled his eyes. They had become the age where they could use magic out of school, so what the hell was Potter doing? He was a bloody wizard, and yet he was using muggle shit that would take forever to do anything with?

"Give me your wand, Potter. I'll show you how to heal a wound properly." drawled Draco, holding out a bloodied hand.

He let his light-colored eye-brow arch as if challenging Potter to go against what he wanted. It wasn't the idiot's business. He didn't need to know that his own father did this to him, or why he had done it. The reason was really simple, believe it or not, because his father knew that if Draco looked like he was dying, Potter would try to help him. Draco protested, of course, because why would Potter help him? They hated each other, and if the situations were reversed, he would've let the green-eyed boy die slowly.

Draco would like to blame all his problems on Potter, because most of the time it was the boy's fault. The Dark Lord was tired of waiting for Potter to understand the prophecy that had been foretold. He wanted to know what was going on; he wanted to "understand." He knew Dumbledore and Potter were planning something. The very thought had made Malfoy sick, but he had to do as he was told. He didn't think it wold work, but Potter obviously had no damn instinct and was helping him anyway. He just had to get close now, and everything would work out as right-as-rain.

Potter seemed dubious at first, looking at Draco's hand with hesitation before setting his very own wand into the sticky hand covered in blood. "Fine. Heal yourself."

Draco seemed content with this, and he let his fingers curl around it. Potter had given him his wand, so Draco could at least enlighten the boy's question. "I will, and much better than those bloody bandages. And are the basics not enough to answer your question?" snapped Draco, waving his hand over his ribs as a result of said "basics." That was the best Draco could englighten anything. It wasn't hard to tell that he had got the shit kicked out of him anyway, so why the hell did Potter have to carry on with the questions? He didn't need to know everything.

The green-eyed boy wasn't quite satisfied, "what happened to your wand, Malfoy?"

Poter would not give up so easily, that wasn't so hard to see. If Draco answered one question (no matter how bad the answer was) then Potter would simply ask another. It was like the green-eyed boy was calculating everything in his head, but Draco knew he wasn't that smart.

A scowl formed on the pale boy's thin lips, very much not liking that Potter was asking so many questions. If he had found Potter on the ground, he wouldn't ask any questions (he would just leave him there). He ignored Potter's question for now, very aware that his green eyes were watching him as he moved the wand up to the painfully sore ribs. He muttered a spell under his breath, and then a few others that he was sure Potter hadn't been aware of (because Potter would've been the one healing him if he knew). A warm sensation of relief spread out through Draco, and he couldn't help but let a soft sigh slip pass his lips.

His eyes half-lidded, he stared at Potter from where he sat with lips pursed in concentration. "It was stolen..." he finally answered, not really telling the whole-truth. He didn't bother to explain any more. He didn't need to explain himself to Potter, even if he was being helped by him. "I used a... port-key. They're not that hard to find." There were certain port-keys that allowed you to just imagine a destination, and all of a sudden you would be there. He hadn't done that though, because it really wasn't easy to find those things. A wizard and witch had a wand, and so there wasn't a need for a port-key. He just hoped Potter didn't know that. His father was the one who sent him here, and telling Potter that would just send him right back out the door. He really hoped Potter would stop asking questions.

Potter finally let out a sigh of defeat and sat down on the ground, leaning back against the table. They had both grown-up since first-year. They still pissed each other off in the corridors, except they did it with a lot more maturity than it had been when they were eleven. They would say things that still pissed each other the fuck off, and it wouldn't be a surprise to see them getting into some fight. Their words were always harsh to each other, and Draco's favorite insult was about Sirius Black. He could care less about Potter's parents, it was over-used, but he knew that commenting on his god-father got under his skin.

As Draco went on with trying to heal some of the other non-major wounds, he watched as Potter glance over his shoulder at the clock behind him on the wall. The boy was probably wondering when his parents got home so he didn't have to deal with Draco. But that wasn't what Potter was really thinking, because all of a sudden he asked a question that Draco didn't know how to answer without screwing everything up.

"If you used a port-key, why did you come here?"

This question made Draco think hard on a few things, one being what he should say, and the other on the fact that they were actually being some-what civil toward each other. Potter wasn't being a complete jack-ass, and Draco wasn't as bad as he normally was (yes, he was still being a stubborn bastard but not as bad). It made him sick to his stomach.

"I don't know." muttered Draco. It was obvious he didn't want to talk about it, considering he wasn't allowed to at all. If he thought about it though, he knew no one else would really help him. Crabbe and Goyle were too unintelligent to know how to heal him, and his father was the reason he was here in the first place. He wouldn't go to either one of them, and he didn't want to go to his mother either because it would only worry the poor woman. "You ask too many questions, Potter."

That was the wrong thing to say, he knew that right after he spoke it. But he wouldn't apologize to the boy in front of him, no matter if it was disrespectful. He wouldn't stoop so low, and lose whatever dignity he had left.

Potter was angry and his eyes had no trouble displaying it either. They burned like fire had set the green forest on fire, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. Draco could only watch as the ligaments in the boy's throat tighten, having no where else to look. "Well, Malfoy, you did just show up on my door-step looking like you got into another fight with a hippogryph and no one was around to help. I think I'm entitled to know what the bloody hell is going on here, otherwise you can just give me my fucking wand back and be on your way." The green-eyed boy held out his hand, giving Draco a very stern look of hate.

"...the damn thing had attacked me." Draco was being childish right now, trying to defend something that happened years ago. Potter's green eyes simply narrowed, not at all amused with Draco's pathetic attempt to justify himself.

The blood bastard was right, no matter how much Draco hated to admit it. Potter didn't have to help him, but he did. He didn't have to lend him his wand, but he did. Draco hadn't been expecting Potter's "hosipitality" if there was any. He jst didn't like all these questions, and that they were actually talking to each other in a - near - civil manner. The insults and the snapping was something he could handle so much more. It was something he was use to and would rather have, because Potter being nice made him feel sick inside.

"My father took it." mumbled Draco as he finally gave in. "And don't bother asking me why he did, because I have no fucking idea. Does that answer your damn question? That's the only one I'll answer for now." He released a small groan as he moved, his muscles aching in protest. His stomach churned lightly, but all Draco could think about at the moment was how damn hungry he was. He moved again, but this time he leaned forward and let Potter's wand drop back into his hands.

Potter sighed and ran his hand through his unruly could only think upon how annoying his hair was, always looking like wind had just blown through it and Potter was to careless to fix it.

"So, now that you aren't going to be dying any second..." began Potter, "are you going to be going?"

"How very polite of you, Potter."

Draco snorted. The prick, thought the pale boy. He found this to be incredibly amusing, because was still an ass no matter what the situation was. Potter stood up, and Draco tried to do so as well. His vivison blacked out for a mere moment, causing him to stumble and place his hand on the couch's arm-rest. His stomach began to churn again, and he chewed on his tongue as if to get him back to concetrating.

"Malfoy?"

He glared over at Potter, who was looking a little unsure of what to do, while he attempted to make his way to the door. He was ruining everything if he left now, and quite frankly he didn't know where to go (or if he'll even make it). The blood-loss was finally taking a toll on him, and he hadn't felt it until he had stood up. He should've known that it would turn out like this, but the couch had just been so comfortable.

Draco shook his head, all of a sudden stopping in his progress to the door to lean his head against the wall. A deep, wheezy breath was heard as he stared down at the floor. The patterns that were littered everywhere on the tile began to move again, and Draco could only shut his eyes to stop the urge to throw up.

It was obvious he was in pain, you didn't need to be smart to see this. It just didn't matter to him, and Draco just didn't care whether the idiot did or not. The only thing he cared about was that he would be failing the mission if he left this house too soon. He had to find out something, and the blond was determined it find it out now. But he couldn't at this moment, no matter how much he wanted to, because he felt himself slipping, felt his dignity slipping away too, and he felt weak.

He couldn't help it; he couldn't stop. He turned and grabbed the little plant that they had placed next to the door, throwing up nothing but the burning acid from his stomach. He hadn't ate anything all day, so what could he throw up?

"What the hell, Malfoy!" cried Potter as he made his way next to the blond. Draco was simply standing still, breathing quite hard and slow.

The green-eyed boy finally sighed, grabbing the pot from Malfoy's hand and using his wand to clean up the contents that had spilled from Draco's mouth. He then turned his attention to Draco that was grabbing his head in a painful looking way, his eyes closed. It wasn't until Draco opened his eyes did he notice that the fucking bastard had grown over the summer, seeming to loom over his own lean body.

"What?" he snapped.

"You can barely walk..."

"No shit, Professor, how did you find that out?"

"You don't need to be a dick." retorted Potter. "Look, you can stay on the couch for the night since you've already bled all over it. My uncle is gone for a couple of days, so they won't know you're here."

Draco's jaw clenched and he looked at Potter beside him, realizing that he was being allowed to stay here. He didn't know if he was grateful, he had never felt gratitude for anyone before, but he suppose that was what the feeling of relief was as he locked gazes with the other boy. He didn't say "thank you" either, and Potter apparently knew he wouldn't because he didn't ask him to.

It was quiet as Draco found himself back on the couch again, but Potter was no where to be found. He wondered if he was sending messages to the Order or someone to come and take him away. He wouldn't trust himself either if he had just popped up out of no-where. He still couldn't believe that this was the mission he had been waiting for his whole life, to gain Potter's trust (and, if possible, the Order's).

Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but he was mostly just angry. He hated a lot of things, one of them being Potter (who, though he may try to convince people he hated him the most, that wasn't true), and the other being the reason he was here in the first place. He'd like to think it was his father, and he'd like to think it was Potter's fault. To be honest, he had no problem blaming it all on them. But as he drifted off into sleep, he knew they weren't really what he hated the most. The hissing whispers in his head lulled him to sleep, but one little sentence that repeated over and over stuck out the most.

"He'll make a fine Death Eater, Lucius..."

THANKS FOR READING! and please review, I'd love that. I want people to review, or I won't feel encouraged enough to continue. xDD is that enough incentive for you to reply?

Also, if anyone will honor me with their awesome beta skills, then please send me an email or message!