Title: The Dementor Effect

Chapter: 1- Hero Complex

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The "Dementor Affect" is completely fictional, and the idea belongs to me, the writer.

Christmas send-off was something Draco deigned to watch every year at Hogwarts. You could always tell who was who in the Hogwarts world when you noticed who boarded the trains. It didn't matter if they were pureblooded, muggle born, or just plain wizard. The people who got on the trains were going home. They were going to a place were fires were bright and merry and plates of Christmas baking were left on every available surface. They would get off the train in London and be immediately pulled into warm, loving embraces. Their parents would smile and they would smile back, maybe even shed a happy tear or two. The people who didn't get on the train…Those were the people that you had to watch. The ones where Christmas was a present and a note and maybe an "I'm sorry you can't come this year, dear!" But mostly, it was the cold ones. The ones like him. Well, there were exceptions. Exceptions like the Weasel, who stayed, "Because it was crowded at home," but everyone knew that it was really because he wouldn't leave Potter alone.

Draco smirked, staring out at the crowded tracks were friends hugged, laughed and said their see-you-laters. Giving last minute gifts with tags that read, "Don't open until x-mas!" With little smiley faces drawn beneath. Draco thought about when he was a first-year, and about how he'd stumbled onto the send-off one icy December morning. He'd been jealous of them, the ones who went home. The ones with roaring fires. He even used daydream, sometimes, about what it might be like if he was invited home. Draco struggled to continue smirking. Pathetic, really, how many times he'd run over the scenario in his mind, honing every detail until it was like one of those dreadful muggle things that ran over and over without skipping a beat. He never went over that daydream anymore, of course. Draco looked at his shoes.

The first part was when the family owl landed in the Great Hall, dropping a letter written on white paper instead of black…

The note was sweet and written from his mother, but she signed it, "Love Mum and Dad." All his friends would get letters just like his, but it was apparent to anyone that his parents loved him best. All of the Slytherins would go home that year. On that icy December morning the entire house would wake to a wonderland of untouched snow that was beautiful instead of familiar. They'd all tramp down to the train tracks together, laughing and joking about the winter holiday and throwing presents at one another with little inscriptions on the cards. Draco would always have more smiley faces on his that anyone. He'd get the tightest hugs and the most heart-felt smiles, and, when he got the train, no one would look up at him with fear or hate clouding their expressions. Everyone had an open seat for him, even Potter, who was going to the Weasley's for vacation. Hermione would smile at him and he'd compliment her on her scores. Ron would throw an arm around his shoulders and tell him about a joke his older brothers had pulled.

When the train rolled into 9 ¾, no one would want to get off the train, but get off they would, falling into the open arms of their parents. Both of his parents would be standing there, and they'd hug him at the same time. Father wouldn't be wearing his gloves or caring his cane and mother would smile and even cry a little. His father would hear his finals' scores and tell him how proud he was. The house elves would all be glad to see him, and he'd have Christmas cards for each. The dining room would have a smaller table where they'd sit near the big fireplace that roared to life with flame. Oh that flame, an embodiment of the love that would feel tangible in the air around the three. Christmas morning would come, and the first present would be his. His mother would tell him she made it when he asked how much it cost, even though they both knew her answer. He'd shuck off his bathrobe and wear the bright blue sweater with pride, tracing the gray "D" on the front with loving fingers. His mother would hug him and say he must have too many of them now, and he would tell her that he'd never have too many. And when he had to get back on the train, when he had to go away again, his mother would cry with sadness and his father would hug him and tell him how much he'd be missed.

Every Slytherin would get on the train wearing their sweaters, laughing with each other and teasing. He'd listen to Weasley rant about his holiday and laugh when Potter joked about his money. Hermione would scold him for not doing his homework and he'd tease her right back about her bushy hair. She wouldn't mind at all.

Draco didn't mean to smile, it just kind of happened. It slowly morphed from the smirk and grew until his imagined contentment was evident. Pale fingers traced out a shape on his chest, and still Draco didn't notice his own movements, so trapped was he in his imagination. He was completely caught up within his notion of perfection. He didn't even notice his audience.

&

"What the hell is he doing?" Ron hissed. Malfoy was acting very suspicious indeed, and Ron was positive that he was up to something. Even after seven years, he didn't trust the git any farther than he could throw him. Ron grinned at the image of hurling the twat as far as he could and decided that it was very important that he find out what was in the boy's twisted little mind. You never knew, it might give him the excuse he needed.

"I have no idea." Harry replied, watching the Malfoy with a curiosity equaling Ron's. "But it's creepy, isn't it? Seeing him smile like that. Have you ever seen him smile before?"

"Of course I've seen him smile…before…" Ron trailed off. No, come to think of it, he hadn't seen Malfoy smile at all before. Smirk: yes; sneer: many a time; but smile? Something was definitely wrong. "I don't like this."

"Neither do I." Harry agreed.

"Do you think we should…erm…Wake him?" Ron asked, not exactly sure how he could describe the trance-like state that Malfoy appeared to be in.

Harry grinned, "Oh yes, lets."

With an air of importance that was ridiculous in the face of their mission, Ron and Harry approached the Malfoy from opposite sides. Both of them looked ridiculous, tiptoeing as if being quiet was a problem in the middle of a bubbling mass of teenagers. Oh well, Draco had chosen a shadowy little corner of the station to hide. Being quiet wasn't going to hurt. Even so, Ron fully expected Draco to 'awaken' when the pair were no less that a few feet away. Draco kept smiling.

Ron stopped, shooting Harry a questioning look. Harry shrugged, and moved forward a few more steps. Draco didn't even look up from the concrete. Slowly, prepared to jump away if this was some kind of trick, the two seventeen-year-olds settled themselves against the brick wall, standing on either side of the oblivious boy.

Harry was visibly trying to restrain laughter, but Ron looked positively distraught. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't moving an inch, beyond the hand that kept tracing some kind of shape on his chest and his eyelids that closed now and then in a sleepy-looking blink.

&

Back in his happy delusion, Draco was positively beaming at everyone, carrying on the exact same conversation that he always carried on with the Golden Trio. In this dream, that is. Something dark fluttered in the back of his mind; something about how pathetic it was that he kept coming back to this image, like a puppy that keeps jumping on the master who kicks him. What a disgusting sight, Draco Malfoy, lapping up the scraps of kindness he had to make up for himself. The Draco inside his mind shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts of the fluttering little thought. The chill that coursed through him was directly connected with the dark thing, like a thousand ice-cubes that melted in his bloodstream. This was different. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"What's wrong, Draco?" Hermione asked, looking concerned. Ron and Harry also gave him curious looks and Draco realized that he had fallen into troubled silence, cutting off their previous conversation.

"Nothing, nothing's wrong," Draco assured them, smiling to hide his confusion.

Hermione leaned forward, like she always did when she was about to say something, but, suddenly, her mouth wasn't moving. Draco looked around. The train wasn't moving either; Harry and Ron were both caught in poses of worry. That was when Draco saw the drip. The curtains, the tacky maroon curtains around the train window had begun to drip. Not with water, or any natural liquid, but it appeared that the curtains themselves were melting like wax, dripping onto the floor. Draco was trying to convince himself not to panic when it struck him that the rest of the room was melting too. Like a badly made candle, the room was folding in on itself, the expressions of his "friends" completely wiped away as the room melted and melted and the walls began to close in on him like a movie set in a studio.

Without warning the sides fell in, flooding Draco's reality with a pool of wax, but it wasn't hot, it was cold; a burning, scalding cold that licked at the bottom of his chin. Draco struggled to stay above the swirling mass of color, the cold nearly shocking his muscles into paralysis.

"How quaint, the ferret drowning in his own little stew. Ferret stew, how quaint…"A voice cracked through Draco's one-tracked quest for air.

Gasping, Draco searched the inky blackness of the world around him. The struggling boy was almost plunged under the waves when he caught sight of the man who appeared to be... well, sitting in the sky. Not that this place really had a sky, just an inky dark plane rising over the rainbow ocean, on and on as far as his eyes could see. But this man, that was the real curiosity. He seemed to be wearing some type of black cloak, shiny black gloves, and his hair… his hair was long enough to touch his waist as he sat, the pale threads resembling silver thread. He looked like a distance cousin of Lucius'.

"What are you doing, Draco?" The thing asked him, its voice low and drawling. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be on the train, with your friends? They'll worry about you, you know."

A flutter in the back of his mind seemed to tell him that they wouldn't, that they'd be glad to be rid of him, but Draco didn't want to hear it. "It-it-the-the train," he sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of the frigid color, "it melted!" He finished, attempting to tread in the swirling mass.

"Oh, poor Draco, let's help you shall we? Reach out your hand," the man reached down, and Draco gasped again, swallowing color. His hands were thin, fragile looking, long fingered to the point of ridiculousness. The way the man's nails curved under, it was almost like claws, reaching down to him, a soft voice crooning for him to reach out. "Come back to me, Draco…"

Draco reached up, paddling desperately with his other hand. The moment his fingers touched the pale one's skin he felt a shock run through his body. The man wasn't warm; he was cold. Frigid. Icy, even colder than the color he floundered in, and as he looked up into grey eyes they melted into red, slitting like a cat's, the nose melting back into the horrid things face. Draco screamed. Something new grabbed at him. Something kept him in the color. That something was warm.

&

"

"What the fuck?" Harry yelped, watching in horror as Malfoy's placid features twisted into something that could only be horror. Frightened eyes darted back and forth, seeming to peer straight through Harry's living form, like you'd look through a ghost. Except, Draco was the one who looked like a specter, fighting against the wall as if something tried to hold him to it.

Harry was perfectly able to believe that this was some kind of twisted joke. After all, Malfoy was known for his superb acting skills, the cold little bastard. Even now, when in such obvious horror, Harry couldn't suppress a suspicious instinct. That is, until he screamed. That's when Harry realized that something was wrong. That wasn't a mocking scream, or a faked shriek of fear, that was a sound that spoke of things we would all like to keep beneath our beds, to hide in the shadows. There was nothing human in a sound like that; it was the same noise a wolf might make, backed into a corner.

"Hold him!" Harry yelled to Ron, grabbing at Malfoy's twisting frame. Harry grabbed his arms, pinning them to his sides as Ron tried to hold on to his waist. Between them, the thrashing was contained, and something resembling awareness crept back into Draco's eyes.

&

"No!" The figure above him hissed, and its delicately curved hands twisting into genuine claws, digging into Draco's palm.

Draco tried to cry out, but no sound escaped his mouth. He felt like he was being torn in two, with a paralyzing cold in front of him, and a white-hot pain clamped onto his waist, burning a hoop around his arms.

"Mine!" The creature shrieked, digging into Draco's arm with his other claw.

Let's go back… Draco shivered, feeling the familiar presence, the comfortable flutter that he recognized as honesty at the back of his mind. Yes, he thought back to the dark thing, let's go back. Draco gasped again. The creature let go of him, shrieking with rage, and Draco was pulled back into the rainbow ocean, only this time, the cold only seemed a passing thought as more and more of his body was wrapped in searing heat. A painted wave quivered menacingly over his head, trembling in a suspended moment before crashing down on him. Draco barely felt the water fill in around him as he was pulled- down, down, down beneath the sea.

Yes, let's go back

&

"Bloody hell!" Ron gasped, clutching at the body that he no longer identified as Malfoy's. The thing in his arms was just too much sinew and wiry fear to be considered human. That was why Ron almost dropped Draco when, quite suddenly, he stopped trying to twist out of his grasp.

Harry yelped, still bracing Draco's arms against his body, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance. By now their antics had drawn a few curious glances, but not much more than a person or two had asked what was going on. Because, honestly, it looked like the three were either feeling each other up or fighting two against one. Since very few Slytherins went home for Christmas, most people left them to it (assuming that it was the latter option). However, neither Harry nor Ron let out a peep when Malfoy's dazed grey eyes peered out at them. He caught Harry in his sights first.

"Potter?" He asked, sounding muffled.

"Malfoy?" Said Harry, not quite sure what you said to the enemy who "awoke" in your arms. Fortunately, Harry needn't have worried about conversation. Draco, always the drama king, did them all a favor and passed out cold.

Silence.

After a moment, Harry released Draco's arms. His mind reeled for a moment before falling back into its familiar pattern of act and react. "We should get him to the Hospital Wing…" said Harry, "Do you think you can carry him?"

"Yeah…" Ron was staring at Draco's face with a look akin to astonishment.

"Good, because I'm going to get Dumbledore. I'm sure that he'll want to know what's going on here." And so do I, he added silently, already off at a trot for Dumbledore.

"Yeah…" Was all that Ron said, mechanically sweeping Draco off his feet, starting out at a brisk pace towards the Hospital Wing. "Yeah…"

&

Harry was right, Dumbledore did want to know what was happening. However, as the old man took off for the Hospital Wing at a pace that would've tested Oliver Wood, Harry couldn't help but wonder if the Headmaster already knew.

"It was only a matter of time…" That's what Dumbledore had murmured to himself when Harry described the Malfoy's fit. Before Harry had an opportunity to ask questions they were dashing for the Hospital Wing, and Harry had to save his breath.

Dumbledore burst into the Hospital Wing, startling Madame Pomfrey, who was carefully measuring out a potion into a minutely marked vial. Ron Weasley sat beside a cot, filled with what appeared to be an ice sculpture.

"Has he regained consciousness?" Dumbledore asked, cutting off Pomfrey's scolding before she could start.

The medi-witch glared at him, herrumphing, but answered his question. "No, he hasn't, the poor boy's out cold," Pomfrey's eyes softened, "and I can't get anything out of Mr. Weasley here." She clucked a bit more.

"Do you have anything that can revive him?"

Pomfrey looked shocked. "Yes, Headmaster, but obviously, if the boy has passed out, he must be going through something very trying, and I wouldn't suggest that we-"

"Good, use it than, Poppy."

Her jaw dropped, and Dumbledore visibly softened.

"I'm sorry, Poppy, but we must have the boy conscious, this isn't a physical affliction."

"Albus, what in the devil's name is going on here?" She demanded.

"Please, Poppy," Albus smiled, "wake him up."