Chapter One

Harry:

"UGGHH!" Harry bangs his head against the wall beside the portrait hole, meriting a withering look from the Fat Lady. "Oh, shove off," he grumbles at her, pushing away from the wall and stalking down the corridor. This situation is not unusual as of late.

In the beginning, his relationship with Ginny was everything that could have been expected- It seemed only natural that they would end up together eventually, and they'd known each other for years. There were no awkward silences, no time when one couldn't make the other laugh. At least, there hadn't been. Now though, he couldn't even figure out what page she was on. He had serious doubts as to whether they were even reading the same story. After what she'd said in the common room-

"UGGGH!" He yells again, and kicks the corridor wall. Why did she have to be so complicated? Why can't they just be happy? Why does she have to ask questions like that- Questions he didn't know, didn't even want to know the answer to? She expected too much from him. Her words flood through his mind again in a new wave of anger.

"Harry, this isn't working. You don't want this. Why don't you want this?Tell me that, Mister All-In-Good-Time, Mister Give-ME-A-Break-Gin, I-Have-A-Lot-On-My-Mind! We ALL DO HARRY JAMES POTTER! VOLDEMORT IS BACK HARRY. WE ARE ALL SCARED OUT OF OUR MINDS, AND I'M SO SICK OF HEARING YOU USE IT AS AN EXCUSE TO DEAL WITH THE THINGS YOU ARE AFRAID TO FACE! This is PATHETIC! You aren't the type to lead people on- So what is it? I think you should figure it out. I can't do this. I care about you, but I can't do this. "

"YOU DON'T CARE!" He'd screamed at her. "IF YOU DID YOU WOULDN'T GIVE UP ON ME! YOU WOULDN'T MAKE ME ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS!"

Especially when I don't know what the answers are, Harry thinks now, walking up a flight of stairs, mindless in his eagerness to be anywhere but where she is. He reaches a landing and begins to pace. He hums a song he heard on Dean's Muggle Radio the night before in a poor attempt to avoid the thoughts hounding his conscience. It isn't working, so he desperately resorts to murmuring the words under his breathe. "You and I, we don't want to be like them, we can make it 'till the end, nothing can come between you and iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-" He stops when he sees it. The door. It hadn't been there his last rotation, he was sure he would have noticed it. He glances around, confused and disoriented. His glance lands at last on the portrait across the way. Barnabus the Barmy leers out at him from the frame with disdain. "You going in or what, Mister Scar?" The portrait asks in a croaky voice.

Harry's confusion, however, has not ebbed. In fact, he is even more befuddled. "I didn't ask for anything," he says, and the man in the frame scowls back mockingly. "Must've," he retorts, "else what would it be showin' up for?".

It occurred to Harry, briefly, that he could just walk away. There was, of course, no rule about whether one must enter the room once it had been summoned. However, that thought was gone as soon as it came. He'd summoned it, whether or not he quite understood how, or why. The fact of the matter is that the door is there, plain as day in the usually empty corridor. And whatever is behind it, he obviously needed.

He took hold of the bronze handle, took a deep breath, and turned the knob. Exhaling, trying to drown out Barnabus's quiet, snide chuckling, Harry stepped into the Room of Requirement.

Draco:

Draco was sulking. She knew he was sulking, Blaise knew he was sulking, even Crabbe and Goyle had caught on. Draco knew he was sulking. Given the circumstances, however, he felt perfectly entitled to a long and pitiful sulk. Not that he was pitiful. Just indignant. He did not understand how Pansy could go about making assumptions like that, especially about someone like Potter. "I mean really," he grumbled to Barnabas as he paced to and fro along the corridor making his usual request. I need somewhere where no one can find me. I need somewhere to think. I need somewhere to...

He never said cry, because Malfoys simply don't cry, but the room seemed to know what he needed. Good thing too, because his eyes were already starting to well, and Old Barmy was even fouler when faced with tears.

He lays face down on the soft, white carpet, a throw pillow clutched tightly in his hands, and begins to finally let a single tear slide down his face, followed by another, and then all at once, emotions spilling out over his ashamed, broken form. He doesn't make a sound, but it is as if his sorrow fills the room with noise.

That's when the door opens.