I can see every tear you've cried

Like an ocean in your eyes

All the pain and the scars have left you cold

I can see all the fears you face

Through a storm that never goes away

Don't believe all the lives that you've been told

I'll be right here now

To hold you when the sky falls down

I will always be the one who took your place

When the rain falls I won't let go

I'll be right here

-Ashes Remain


~2 August 1999~

Harry awoke with a shuddering gasp. Scrambling to get free of his bedsheets, Harry jerked back against the headboard and yanked back the left sleeve of his nightshirt. Pale moonlight washed over the smooth, exposed skin of his forearm. Harry blinked, running tentative fingers over his wrist. He had been so sure that it would be bleeding.

Next to him, Ginny mumbled softly, her body curling into the side of his as she threw a slender arm over his waist. "Harry?"

Harry jumped, jolted from the last remnants of his dream. Heart still pounding he settled back in between the sheets next to his fiancé, stroking her hair with a feigned calmness. "It's alright, Gin. Just had a bad dream is all." He glanced back at his wrist once more, trying to ignore the prickling feeling that had his nerves bunching just beneath the thin film of flesh. There was nothing about it that hurt, and yet even still the memory of pain persisted, stark and unwavering.

Harry hadn't had a dream that felt that real in…quite some time.

But there was something about this one that set it apart from the other dreams he'd had. Where the others had been clear, allowing him to see the scene through someone else's eyes, this one had been nothing more than bursts of color and wisps of smoke. Nothing concrete called out to him from the abyss of his mind, just blurs of suffering and unbridled sorrow. Something about it felt wrong. Instead of purpose, the dream had left him with a sense of restlessness, teetering on the brink of an answer which had no question.

Ginny's finger's curled against his chest, and he felt the band of her engagement ring like a shock of ice against his skin. Harry grimaced as the sharp feeling pulled him back to the dark bedroom.

He was being stupid. It was just a dream. Nothing interesting ever happened to him now—Dementors no longer showed up in dark alleyways, snakes no longer sought him out, and premonitions certainly no longer came to him under the guise of dreams. That life was done for him now—he'd reached the end, and he'd come to terms with the fact that that part of his life was over. This was all that the world had left to give him.

Wasn't it?


"Harry!"

Harry started awake, groaning and reaching for his glasses on the bedside table only to knock them onto the floor. Sunlight was blaring through the bare window on the east side of the room, and Harry yanked the sheets over his head to block it out. Why he'd ever let Ginny convince him to buy a flat with a window that large in the bedroom he would never know. Harry groaned as he pressed his face into the pillow, stretching out muscles that ached from too much exercise and too little sleep.

"Harry!" Ginny called again from somewhere down the hall. "Get up or you'll be late!"

Harry flexed his feet and felt his calf muscles burn and the tendons in his knees creak. "It's my day off!" he yelled back at her.

There was a long beat of silence, shortly after followed by the sound of Ginny's heels clacking against the hardwood as she made her way towards the bedroom. Harry peered over the covers to see her standing in the doorway, smiling meekly and holding a cup of coffee and the morning's Daily Prophet.

"I'm sorry, hun," Ginny said, crossing the room and leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek. "I don't know why I always forget." As if trying to proffer some form of truce, she grabbed his glasses from the floor and slid them gently onto his face.

"It's fine," Harry replied habitually, blinking up at her. Over the months, he'd grown used to her forgetting about things like his training schedule. Ginny didn't have the best memory.

She smiled down at him, warmth brightening the freckles on her cheeks. "Well it's good you're up anyway. You have to see this article in the Prophet about Malfoy. You'll have kittens!"

The sound of Malfoy's name had Harry sitting up a bit straighter. He glanced down to where the Prophet lay nestled in the crook of Ginny's arm, his brow furrowing. "What article?"

Ginny held out the paper. "Apparently Malfoy tried to kill himself yesterday."

The next breath Harry took caught in his throat. "He what?" Not waiting for Ginny's reply, Harry grabbed the Prophet from her and snapped it open. He found the article on the third page.

DRACO MALFOY ATTEMPTS SUICIDE! HAS THE LAST OF THE MALFOYS REALLY GONE MAD?

-The inside scoop from Rita Skeeter

A red sun dawns once again this morning in Wiltshire England over the solemn landscape of Malfoy Manor. Not even a year after Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ended their own lives, their sole son and heir was found unconscious on top of their graves, his wrists slashed and his blood very nearly depleted. Ms Pansy Parkinson, Draco's long time friend and assumed lover, was the one who found him and called mediwizards to the scene.

"His mother went mad," she told me, as she as she sobbed into her imitation designer handkerchief over the prospect of an immense fortune forever lost. "Madness has always run in the Malfoy family…it was only a matter of time for Draco."

Draco Malfoy was immediately apparated to St. Mungo's, where he remains in critical condition.

"Can you even imagine?" Ginny whispered.

Harry jerked, his heart pounding soundly against his sternum. He felt sick, cold chills prickling along his nerves and making his palms sweat.

"Oh! Merlin look at the time!" Ginny pressed a kiss into Harry's forehead before retreating back to the door. "I'm off to the PR interviews. Don't wait up for me on dinner, alright?"

Harry couldn't seem to formulate a response. His grip on the newspaper tightened, and he felt it crinkle and tear beneath his fingers. He looked at Ginny as if from someplace unreachably far, staring at the world from behind an opaque pane of glass.

"Have a good day!" Ginny called, already halfway down the hallway. "I love you!"

A shuddering breath left Harry's lungs as he heard the front door open, close, and lock. Gingerly, he sat the Prophet aside, and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt once more. Stark white skin stared back at him, the green lines of his veins a sharp and fragile splay of ridges as his hand curled into a fist.

His dream…

He'd dreamed that his wrist had been cut, and then the very next morning there was an article about Malfoy attempting suicide, not by magic, but through very deliberate, physical means. It was an eerie coincidence…if it was indeed a coincidence at all.

Harry vividly remembered his last interaction with Malfoy—the fight in the hallway outside of the Potion's classroom, and the uncontrollable fury shining brightly in Malfoy's eyes. He couldn't imagine those eyes, so vivid and clear, clouded over with a sheen of instability. Even after both of his parents had died Malfoy had still seemed so…alive.

Harry's gaze drifted back to the Prophet, his conscience hesitant to follow the trail his thoughts were leading him towards. He'd never told anyone about the letter he'd written to Shacklebolt on Malfoy's behalf, or about any of the things that had happened beforehand that made him do it. The last year at Hogwarts had contained too many moments that Harry hadn't known how to explain to himself, let alone anyone else. But, before the fight, things between he and Malfoy had seemed…different.

Before the fight…

I hate you, Potter. I hate you so much that I can't stand it.

Somehow the words still stung, sharp and fresh as the day they'd been spoken. They made something deep in Harry's chest ache, like an old wound reopening.

Why can't you just leave me alone?

With a huff, Harry threw his legs over the edge of the mattress and made his way to the closet. He threw on a shirt, jeans, and a pair of old trainers before grabbing his wand from the dresser. He stared down at it thoughtfully, his mind a swirl of conflicting thoughts. There was no reason for him to do this. In the end, Malfoy had made it clear that he'd wanted nothing to do with Harry. Whatever had changed between them over the course of the past year hadn't been enough to alter that fact. Seven years of hatred ran too deep, and seven years of anger burned too hot.

Yet, even so, Harry still remembered how Malfoy had been that night during the Christmas Ball—all warm lines and soft smiles, their conversation flowing like the easy to and fro of an ocean tide. Harry still remembered how that night had made him feel, no matter how many bottles of Fire Whiskey he'd downed trying to make himself forget. And he still remembered how unsettled he'd been afterwards, stirred and reeling on the crest of a wave that never should have formed.

Harry's heart stuttered in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and disapperated with a loud pop.


The St. Mungo's atrium was a jumbled mess of people. Barely two steps through the door saw Harry crammed between a woman and her twelve kids, all begging him for an autograph. Harry signed their journals as fast as he could, but the damage had already been done. A crowd quickly began forming around him, and he winced as cameras starting flashing in his face. He would be lucky if he didn't end up on the second page of the Prophet tomorrow morning. This was exactly why his publicist told him never to go out in public without him.

Luckily enough, it only took around five minutes for the hospital security to arrive and escort him back to one of the private break rooms where a couple of nurses were already waiting. They both stared at him with wide, starstruck eyes.

"Um," Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet as the security retreated back out into the hall. "Hello?"

The elder of the two nurses was the first to recover from the shock. "Good morning, Mr. Potter. How can we be of service?"

"Er…yes. I came to see—um—Draco Malfoy?" Harry grimaced as his voice cracked over Malfoy's name.

The two nurses exchanged a quick glance. Frowning, the elder turned back towards him, one of her dark brows raised. "Patients are generally off limits to anyone except family."

Harry's shoulders sagged with defeat. "Oh…"

"Unless—" the younger nurse started before snapping her mouth shut when Harry's eyes met hers, her face going bright red.

"Unless?" Harry pressed.

The younger nurse proceeded to look horrified.

Harry stepped forward, twisting his hands in front of him as hope ignited in his chest. "Look," he said, barely aware of the words as they spilled over his lips, "I know this isn't—I know that this is probably against your protocol, but I've known him for really a long time and I just want to make sure he's alright. He went through a lot last year and…can you just tell me that? Can you just tell me if he's okay?"

Surprisingly, the younger nurse's cheeks darkened even further. She looked at him, her eyelashes fluttering. "I—If you get an approval from his doctor, y—you'll be allowed to see him."

"His doctor. Great. Do you think you can get him for me—or, uh, her?"

After another perfunctory glance at the younger nurse, the elder nurse produced a small booklet of parchment from her pocket. She flipped through a couple of pages and let out a long sigh. "I was the head nurse on staff when he was brought in," she began curtly. "I can write you a slip that will get you through." She pulled a short quill from her other pocket and began scribbling something down on the parchment.

Harry's tongue faltered on the edge of a thank you. His heart seemed to be beating far too quickly to allow his body any motion beyond short, rapid breaths.

"Just to be clear though, this isn't because you're famous."

Harry nodded, the words washing over him.

The elder nurse ripped the small slip of parchment from the ream and handed it to Harry. "This is because that boy was in rotten shape when he was brought in, and Merlin knows no one else has come in to see him. I'm happy that he has at least one friend who cares enough to check in."

Again, Harry nodded.

"Not that he deserves one," the younger nurse added belatedly. "Nasty mouth on that boy."

Harry didn't notice his lips pursing until his teeth pinched his flesh. Shaking himself, he turned back towards the door, only to realize that he had absolutely no idea where to go. He glanced back over his shoulder, and saw the elder nurse smiling back at him.

"Third floor in the psychiatric wing. Room 407. If you hand that slip I gave you to one of the attendants they should be able to take you right to him." Her smile broadened. "Also, you may want to conjure yourself a hat if you want to keep from being noticed."

Heat filled Harry's cheeks, but somehow he managed to return the smile. "Thank you. Really," he said, turning back and walking out into the hall. He'd never been a great talent at Transfiguration, but he was able to conjure a passable hat out of an old card in his wallet. He secured the floppy bit of cloth on top of his head, took a deep breath, and dove back into the main lobby. After that his legs carried him on autopilot, maneuvering him through the crowds to the lifts. Miraculously, he made it to the third floor without a hitch, and upon exiting the lift, found himself in a starkly white waiting room. It was large, and sparsely filled with pale, uncomfortable looking furniture. Two halls branched out on either side of the room, illuminated by the harsh glow of florescent lights.

The smell of potent chemicals and unwashed hair tingled the inside of Harry's nose. It smelled very different than the normal mixture of bleach and lye soap that he was accustomed to in St. Mungo's. It wasn't until Harry saw the sign for the psychiatric wing that he even paused to wonder why in the world Malfoy would be here as opposed to the emergency wing. Curiosity drew him slowly forward to a thin white desk that was positioned perpendicular to the hallways.

A tall, wide-shouldered man looked up from his paperwork as Harry approached. He had an angular, serious looking face, with a square jaw and closely trimmed brown hair that made him look like he'd just stepped out of an old military film. His name-tag read Gregory Tenneal. "Yes?" Tenneal voice sounded even more intimidating than he looked.

Harry felt his resolve quiver, but he managed to retain enough of his wits to produce the slip the elder nurse had written him and place it on the desk's surface. Tenneal's eyes flicked down to it, back up to Harry, and back down again.

With a hard, unreadable expression, Tenneal took the slip. "You're here to see Draco Malfoy?"

"Erm—yes," Harry replied, nodding for emphasis and feeling like a complete idiot for it.

"And you're Harry Potter?"

Again, Harry felt heat rise into his cheeks. He nodded for what felt like the millionth time that day.

Tenneal hummed, staring down at the slip of paper as if it might erupt into flames at any given moment. With a peculiar frown, Tenneal placed the slip into a folder on the desk and took off down the hall. "This way."

Scrambling, Harry darted after him, falling into step a couple of paces behind.

"You can remove the hat," Tenneal said gruffly. "No one will bother you here."

Harry did, and stuffed the thing into his pocket as doors began to pass them by. They were as plain and white as the surrounding walls, decorated only with silver knobs and room numbers. Harry blinked as he watched the door labeled with a number 1 pass. He felt suddenly and overwhelmingly nervous as reality seemed to settle around him. This man was about to lead him to Malfoy—the git who'd made his life a living hell over the past seven years. The git who'd punched him in the nose and had bitten him the last time they'd exchanged words. What the hell was he thinking, coming here and—

"Pardon my prying but," Tenneal leveled Harry with an icy stare. "I thought that you and Mr. Malfoy were infamous for not getting on with each other."

Harry stared back up at Tenneal, his brain stuttering and failing to come up with a retort better than, "We've had our moments."

Tenneal seemed to ponder over Harry's answer for a while, twisting his mouth into a fighting grimace. By the time Tenneal's gaze returned to Harry's, it was positively bone-chilling. "If this is for some sort of human interest article for the Prophet, I will warn you that St. Mungo's retains the rights to press charges against any non-staff civilian who encroaches on our patient's privacy—"

"It's nothing like that!" Harry said quickly.

Tenneal's cold gaze flickered.

"It's not—I just…I really just came to see if he's alright." The words sounded even crazier once they hit the open air.

If Tenneal thought Harry was lying, he decided not to voice it. Instead he came to an abrupt stop, and Harry's seeker reflexes were the only thing that saved him from running straight into Tenneal's massive shoulder. Tenneal reached out and grabbed the silver knob of the door marked 407. Pausing, he pinned Harry with yet another menacing stare, but there was something darker in it this time that had Harry's throat constricting.

"Don't go near the glass," Tenneal said.

"The…" Harry swallowed thickly, "glass?"

"You'll understand once you enter. I'll be back for you in half an hour. Understood?"

Harry had meant to say that he didn't think he'd need half an hour to confirm that Malfoy was okay, but all that came out was, "I—er—yes.". He really needed to learn how to control his mouth.

"Good."

Tenneal pushed open the door and gestured for Harry to enter.

Time seemed to slow around Harry as he moved forward. He rounded the corner of the doorframe, his stomach fluttering and his heart pounding painfully against the confines of his ribcage.

"I told you," came a soft voice from the opposite side of the room, "I've changed my mind."

Harry stopped, his eyes immediately honing in on the figure on the far side of the small, white room. Draco Malfoy was sitting, perched at the foot of a narrow twin bed, gazing distantly out the lone barred window that broke apart a small section of the back wall. The white hospital garb they had him dressed in hung limply on his spindly frame, reflecting rays of sunlight like a beacon. His blonde hair hung in a gentle draping against the sharp bones of his face, a stark contrast against the glacial expression shining in his slate eyes. Harry felt himself inexplicably drawn forward.

He didn't make it far, however. Halving the small, white room was a seamless piece of crystal, so smooth and clear that Harry would not have seen it but for the glare of the sun. Harry stopped just short of it, his body keenly aware of the sound of the door clicking shut behind him. He simply stood there for what felt like a very long time, focusing on breathing in and out…in and out.

As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy hadn't even noticed him come in. He continued to sit at the end of the bed, silent and eerily still.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, nearly wincing as the harsh sound broke through the silence. "Hey there, Malfoy."

"I told you, I don't—" Malfoy stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath and held it in as he turned his head. Cold, grey eyes met Harry's, and in that instant, everything beyond them seemed to fall out of existence. "What…what did you just call me?"

Harry shifted nervously, not knowing how to respond. "I—I don't know what you mean."

Slowly, Malfoy unfolded himself from the end of the bed, his limbs shifting so smoothly and silently that Harry couldn't help but feel a cool shiver slither down his spine. There was something pinched in the corners of Malfoy's face, as if his features were at odds with what expression he should be making. With an unsettling sort of trepidation, Malfoy made his way up to the glass, coming so close that his breath steamed against it. Harry didn't know how long they stood like that—simply staring. All he knew was that he couldn't have moved if his life depended on it.

"Come closer," Malfoy said softly, tentatively.

Harry did and his heart stuttered.

Malfoy's pale eyes narrowed. "Is…is this some kind of trick?"

There was such a desperate earnestness in Malfoy voice that Harry found his tongue dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"I mean, you look…but you can't possibly be…" Malfoy let out a heavy breath, and the glass between them fogged. "You can't possibly have remembered."

Harry licked his lips. His blood felt suddenly and inexplicably warm beneath his skin. "Remembered?" he asked hazily.

Malfoy raised his left hand and pressed it firmly against the barrier, his face a pale mask of stone, and as his sleeve dropped Harry could see the ugly red line of torn flesh, stark and fresh above the Dark Mark that still marred his skin. Absently, Harry wondered why the mediwizards hadn't been able to heal it fully.

"For always." Malfoy's voice was like the sound of a feather breaking through the air.

I want something that's ours.

Harry staggered back, stunned and reeling. It took a moment for the stars dancing across his vision to fade, but they left a cold, dark feeling in their wake. Harry's head pounded, as if he'd been holding his breath for far too long. He felt as if he might faint.

"What the hell?" Harry hissed, stumbling towards the nearest wall to steady himself. Somehow, he had enough coordination to pull his wand from his pocket.

When the world around him finally came back into focus, Malfoy was still standing right in front of him, but his expression had completely changed. His mouth had flattened into a hard line, and there were bright spots of anger on the highest points of his cheeks.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Malfoy seethed, as if his temper was tethered to a string ready to snap.

"What the hell did you just do to me?" Harry pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was burning up. "I feel—" He didn't know exactly how he felt, but it was far outside the realm of normal.

"I didn't do anything to you," Malfoy spat. "And put your damn wand away before someone comes in here and arrests you. You're not supposed to have your wand in this part of the hospital."

"I'm not going to put my wand away if you're just going to attack me again!"

Malfoy glared at him, his shoulders trembling with a barely contained fury. "Look at me! Do you see me holding a wand? How could I have possibly attacked you, you blundering idiot? Do you ever actually think before you open your mouth?"

Blinking, Harry stared down at Malfoy's empty hands. Embarrassment heated his stomach, and he couldn't quite manage to hold Malfoy's gaze as he returned his wand to his pocket. "Sorry. I…must have just had vertigo or something. I—didn't eat breakfast this morning."

That seemed to calm Malfoy slightly. The tight line of his shoulders loosened, and he took a small step away from the glass. "Good. Now that we've settled that, you should leave."

Harry only barely managed to contain his reactive flinch. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to leave."

"Malfoy…" Harry struggled for words. "I came here to check if you were alright."

One of Malfoy's pale brows lifted. He turned his attention to the hem of his left sleeve, making sure that it was straight. "And, as you can plainly see, I am quite well. Mission accomplished. Now leave."

"You're in a psychiatric ward."

"Well spotted. Also, you should be moving back towards the door."

"You're in a psychiatric ward after being brought in for emergency medical attention."

"Merlin, why are you still standing there instead of leaving?"

Harry ground his teeth together, the urge to charge through the barrier and throttle Malfoy almost too strong to bare. "You're obviously not fine."

"I'm sorry." There was nothing pleasant about the grin Malfoy threw at him. "Are you suddenly in possession of a medical degree? A psychiatry degree perhaps? Oh no, that's right, you didn't even pursue higher education. You're a true-blue jock now, right?"

"Malfoy," Harry warned.

"How glorious it must be to be a professional athlete," Malfoy continued, still smiling that same rancid smile. "The money, the glory, the bitches. Right up your alley."

"Malfoy!" Harry roared, charging the glass and pounding his fist into it. The barrier rumbled and crackled with protective magic. "Stop being an insufferable arse and listen to me! I dreamed about this!"

Malfoy froze, and his smile dropped. After a beat he asked, "You dreamed about what?"

"I dreamed that you hurt yourself, and then this morning I woke up and there was an article in the Prophet about you doing just that!"

"Is that," Malfoy seemed to hesitate, "all that you dreamt?"

Harry's breath was still coming in hard, ragged pants. He felt it blowing back against him as it bounced off the glass, warming his face. "What do you mean, is that all?"

A weight seemed to lift off of Malfoy's frame. He gave a light sigh and turned back towards the window. "I see," he sneered. "So you had this dream, and a burst of conscience made you come all the way here and check on me. How endearing. Dumbledore would be so proud—you turning the other cheek and all."

Harry bristled once more. "I came to see if it was true!"

"Had to come all the way to my room to do that, did you? You couldn't have just asked someone at the front desk and be on your merry way?"

"So you don't find it weird at all? You don't think it's bloody odd that I dreamed about you trying to kill yourself only to wake up and find that it was true?"

Malfoy whirled on him, his grey eyes glittering like shattered glass caught in an unsheltered beam of moonlight. "What are you trying to imply here? That you think I sent you some sort of message—some cry for help? Don't flatter yourself, Potter. It was just a stupid coincidence."

"A coincidence?" Harry let out a breath of disbelief. "And you asked if I think before opening my mouth?"

Malfoy grimaced. "Just leave."

"Why'd they put you in the psychiatric ward, Malfoy?" Harry threw back.

"I'm not going to answer your stupid questions! Leave!"

"No!"

Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There, standing under the harsh light of the sun, he looked much smaller than Harry remembered him being. "Potter…I'm not going to do this with you, do you understand? I'm not going to do it."

Harry's brows drew together. "Do what?" he asked.

"This thing where we pretend that you don't hate me and I don't hate you. We tried it. Last year, remember? And maybe for a moment I thought…but it doesn't work. There's too much bad blood between us for there to ever be anything else. So whatever stroke of conscience, or guilt, or whatever that you're experiencing right now, it's better that you get over it and put it behind you."

"Malfoy…" Harry began, but he trailed off, not even knowing what he had been meaning to say.

Malfoy shook his head. "Whatever is going on with me, it's none of your business."

"So there is something then?" Harry asked, his pulse tripping over a surge of blood. "There's something wrong?"

"Merlin, you're insufferable."

But Harry didn't care what Malfoy said. He'd had premonition dreams before, and there was something about this one that he knew wouldn't sit still in him. He could already feel it twisting in his chest, searing itself like a brand into his bones. There was something going on here, and he couldn't just leave without knowing.

Pressing his lips together, Harry steadied himself. "I think we can."

Malfoy looked at him, his eyes asking a silent question.

"I think we can pretend that we don't hate each other. And maybe if we pretend for long enough, it will eventually become true."

There was an extended beat of silence. "You're off your rocker," Malfoy said.

Harry very much agreed with him. He was obviously out of his mind to say those words to the last person on earth he truly despised. But… "Malfoy…if something happened to you…"

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"But if something did, and I had the chance to stop it…" Harry looked down, memories of Sirius looming at the edge of his thoughts. "I don't think I could live through something like that again."

When Harry looked back up, something very strange happened. He didn't know how, but he saw something change in Malfoy's face. The downward curve of his mouth softened ever so slightly, and the tensed muscles around his eyes relaxed. "Potter…" Malfoy whispered in a stolen breath.

The door behind Harry creaked open, and Harry felt himself start. He leapt back from the glass and spun around to see Tenneal standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Potter," Tenneal said, "it's time to go."

Harry turned back to Malfoy, but whatever softness Harry had seen in him moments ago had been swept under an icy mask. "I'll be back tomorrow," Harry said with a frown.

Malfoy simply glared at him, saying nothing.

Huffing, Harry turned and left the room with Tenneal, inexplicably feeling as if he'd just dug himself into a hole that he would never be able to climb out of.