The building was alive. It roiled against its misty captor; shuddered, sighed, trembled as it persevered against the abuse. For thirty-one days, the grand architecture had kept its inhabitants safe from harm; the only sign of a silent war outside was the reactive nature of the protective shell itself, the stone walls creaking, whimpering, and whispering hour after hour.
It spoke of the war outside, the one that no one would attest to or acknowledge. But try as they might, the trapped community could not ignore the building's thousand, glittering eyes—windows that refused to stay covered, glass that recoiled from touch.
Outside there was only a great expanse of white; a milky, impermeable fog that never left nor settled—it simply waited. Lapping gently at the shuddering, aching grey of granite, it watched, dragging its icy eyes down the bare flesh of whomever walked past. A flash of thigh, sliver of cheek, glimpse of forearm—a line would drag down that skin, goosebumps rising after it had tasted its impending dinner.
The castle was only able to stand strong against the eternal assault for so long. Cracks began to form, and the mist slowly began its descent—seeping into the younger pupils first, gaining power, and eventually fighting its way to the very top of the hierarchy, to the professors. At least, those that were still there. The husks of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws—they all walked straight ahead, glassy, vacant stairs firmly planted on the skull of the person in front of them.
Most of the Slytherins had succumbed as well, but a few remained intact. At least, Harry assumed they were intact—they never showed up for regular mealtimes or for classes.
Dumbledore had formed a small group consisting of himself and two other staff—McGonagall refused to allow the Headmaster to go by himself, so she chose to accompany him. Severus was the next logical choice, but he had decided to stay behind. Sprout took his place instead—she was not the most useful, but the only other who offered her services.
They had left Hogwarts and never returned.
Hermione was the one of the last to remain lucid. Harry knew she had tried her hardest—she spent day after day in the library, barely making time to eat or sleep in hopes that she could find a counterspell for the demon that was lurking the halls. The girl called it a demon because once it had access to the building, it was able to take shape of anything it wanted. One of its favorite forms was one of a dragon—a large, white dragon, almost cloudlike, hunting its prey.
At first Harry had screamed and shouted, shaking his friends, bellowing with rough despair when the only response he received was an empty smile and equally vacant words. He ran through the Great Hall at suppertime the night Hermione had gone; it was the first time he realized he was truly and completely alone.
Almost alone. He tried to find the missing Slytherins, but they remained elusive, even Snape. The maurauder's map was blank, useless. It was hardly a surprise—the demon had been feeding off the magic of anything that it could get ahold of. He began to live like a muggle.
The brunette wondered if they were really in the castle at all. Seven days after Hermione—Ron had gone much earlier than her—Harry felt the despair and frustration of a prisoner. He was dangerously on the edge of apathy and madness.
The days passed just like the ones prior—the same meals were administered, the same assignments handed out. Even the meager conversations repeated at exactly the same time, same place.
"We're going to beat Slytherin in the match, Harry," Ron told him, his actions almost robotic as he smiled, the expression never seeping into his gaze. It disturbed him deeply, and soon he began to avoid them all. They never noticed.
And then they began to disappear. Each night, a few would simply cease to exist—Harry was never sure how it happened, just that they wouldn't take their seat in the dining hall. This occurrence was never remarked upon as well.
He found himself staring at the large wooden door, trembling as the demon circled around him, its foul breath wetting his cheek. It tried time and time again to conquer him, but never succeeded. Harry would have let it win if he knew how.
Soon the population had dwindled down to a meager forty-three.
Draco sought him out one day. What day, he wasn't sure.
He leapt to his feet, snarling, prepared for a battle. The blonde barely flinched when accusations were hurled his way.
"Snape's gone." It was spoken so softly, Harry was almost positive he'd imagined it. But the fear and exhaustion in the silver orbs were all too real. "They're all gone, now. Except for you."
It was odd to see the normally proud and conceited Slytherin in such a state of defeat. Apathy had clearly claimed him.
"What do we do?" Harry asked, fully aware of the uselessness of the question. The blonde didn't answer, just shrugged.
"Why are you still here?" Harry asked, frustrated.
A ghost of a smile flittered across the pale lips, a sad sort of amusement dancing in those silver orbs. "Harry,"
The brunette froze. Harry?
"This," Draco motioned to their environment with a flourish of his hand, "isn't real. None of it is. It's all been you, this whole time. I'm not sure why you chose to keep me here. I'm not sure what's going to happen next, either. But it's all in your head."
There was a long silence. The castle creaked ominously, as if it knew that the newfound information was signaling its downfall.
"So I guess you're not really Malfoy then, are you?" Harry finally said.
"I don't know that either. I don't remember anything except what you wanted me to remember. I know I'm your rival, and a general prat. But I don't have a personality, a life—no one here did."
Harry let out a shaky sigh. Had he killed them all? Or were they all simply smoke?
"So…so I'm keeping the castle alive, then."
Malfoy nodded.
"If I leave…"
"Maybe you'll be able to go back to where you came from. Maybe you'll disappear too. But know this, Harry. If you choose to stay, you will soon be alone, and descend into madness."
The large doors seemed to glare at him as he digested the advice. Cocking his head slightly, Harry asked quietly, "Will you come with me?"
The warm smile was odd, and slightly alarming. Harry hadn't seen a real smile in so long.
"Of course I will, Harry."
So, after gathering his wits, and with a grunt of effort, Harry opened the door leading to the circling fog. It blew past him, filling the air around him with a quickness that left him short of breath. Blindly, he tried to find Malfoy.
A warm hand slipped into his, and Harry felt the smile through that simple touch.
And the pair descended into the unknown, the fog quickly erasing any sign that they had been there at all.
I wanted it to be vague. A bit of an experiment, I could say.
-B.