Draco was frantic and could not stop wheezing. He fumbled for his wand to unlock the front door of his flat, and it took too long, far too long. He made it inside, ripped off the mask, and slammed the door behind him, sure that he was about to lose consciousness.

"Master Draco?"

His back hit the wall and he sank down, legs refusing to support him. He gripped his hair and his heart slammed in his throat and his chest was tight and he couldn't think, he couldn't even see, everything was so wrong—

"Master Draco!"

Dolly was, by now, familiar with these fits, and when she rushed to his side, the first thing she did was grab his face with both small hands and force him to look at her in her big, blue, saucer-sized eyes.

"Was it too much for Master Draco?" she asked, and Draco knew he had to at least try to answer or she would call a mediwizard.

"Too much," he rasped at her.

She frowned, like she wasn't quite sure if his state was bad enough to warrant a trip to St. Mungo's or not. After a moment, she dropped her hands from his face and patted his arm.

"Straight to bed, Master Draco, straight to bed."

At once, he was enveloped in the house-elf's magic and lifted from the ground. She carried him through the sitting room with its piles of books, past the shut and ever-locked office, and into the bedroom under his waiting blankets.

"Master Draco should not have pushed himself," Dolly chided, but there was no anger in her voice, just sadness. "Master Draco will sleep, and have a nice, big breakfast in the morning, then set back to work. Dolly will make sure he is fine."

"I'll be fine," Draco willed himself to say, to believe, as Dolly tucked him in. "It'll all be fine."

"Harry? What are you doing out here on your lonesome?"

It was Hermione, of course, a few shades pinker and a few drinks down. She was buzzed, Harry could tell, from dancing and expensive champagne, but Hermione was nothing if not prudent. She still had her sense and bearings when she crossed the floor and came over to his bench.

"I was looking for you," she said, and then she seemed to notice his expression. "What's wrong?"

What a stupefying question it was. What could Harry possibly tell her that would make sense, even to himself? What combination of words would get across the strange wonderfulness and curious gravity of the evening without making Harry look as ridiculous and dumbfounded as he felt?

"Harry?"

"Have you ever heard of Tragedy of the Narcissist?"

Hermione seemed confused. "The book?"

"Yes. Do you have a copy?"

"I – yes. I read it last year. Why—?"

"Can I borrow it?"

"Harry!"

"Something weird has happened," Harry said, because it was true, and because he couldn't think of any other way to say it. "It's hard to explain. I just really need to get my hands on a copy."

"I'm not going to leave just because—"

"No, no, wouldn't dream of it," he interjected. "Please, stay. Your wards will still let me in, right?"

"Of course they will, but Harry—"

"I'll explain everything later, I promise." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Have fun."

He did feel a little bit guilty, he supposed, leaving Hermione as confused and alarmed as she was. She'd forgive him later. She always did.

Once he was outside, he Disapparated, and when the nether had stopped twisting he was in the foyer of her London flat. Ron was out still – away on a business trip, which had prompted the outing in the first place – and the whole place was quiet and dark. He pushed his way through the shadows, around the familiar patterns of furniture, and into Hermione's study, where he finally cast a quick spell to light a nearby candelabrum.

Finding a book in Hermione's study was like finding a needle in a pile of needles. If you weren't picky, it was a goldmine, but if you were looking for something specific, it was a nightmare. Hermione had tried to explain to him once how she'd organized her collection – it had been a very long explanation and one that Harry had entirely blocked out of his memory – but when he looked at it now, he had to admit that it had the benefit of being logical.

Four bookshelves; one fiction, three non-fiction. Unfortunately they seemed to be sorted by author rather than title, and Harry had to spend several moments looking carefully before—

Tragedy of the Narcissist. The golden embossed words shone low in the candlelight, and Harry snatched it from the shelf. It was a handsome book, bound in dark brown leather. He opened it to its first page.

"Tragedy of the Narcissist," Harry read, "by J. William Cross."

J. William Cross – the name was familiar. Harry'd never been much for reading, but even he'd heard his praises sung in The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet. He had recently come out with another book that had garnered a lot of praise and an award, though he couldn't remember which award, or, for that matter, what the book was called.

He thumbed through the first few pages, looking for information for a publisher, an agent, anything that he could use to get information about the author, a way to contact him, anything at all – but before he realized he'd gone too far, he was on chapter one.

Caroline could pinpoint with fearsome accuracy the precise moment at which the last shreds and tatters of her life dissolved completely. Vienna – the station, the moonlight, the churning of the engines, the shouting of the aurors behind her. She could have gotten away.

Harry sat down on one of the armchairs next to Hermione's desk.

But then, no. She couldn't have. Choice was a luxury reserved for those who did well by it, not for her. And in the corner of her cell, as she watched the sunlight slip across the floor, she remembered her family and hated herself for it, for everything.

And then, quite contrary to what he'd originally set out to do, Harry began to read.

Hermione steadfastly refused to let Harry ruin her night out. It had been ages since she'd really danced and met people, especially since Rose was born. To really get the most out of her evening, or perhaps to spite Harry and her own curiosity, she stayed till midnight and a bit later.

By the time she Apparated back into her flat, she was quite surprised to see the light on in her study.

"Harry?"

She gave her wrist a flick, letting her wand fall out of her dress sleeve and into her palm so she could cast a wordless spell to light up the flat. When she came to the door of the study, she found Harry – or the back of him, sitting in her armchair, bent over a book.

"Harry," she said, "it's past midnight."

He looked back at her. His eyes were red.

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but she knew what it was before the question left her mouth.

"Where are you?"

"Caroline just got to Vienna," he said, voice thick. He cleared his throat, as if trying to mask the fact that he was tearing up.

Hermione remembered that part well. "So you're nearly done."

"Yeah." He scrubbed a palm across his jaw and rose. "Sorry. Merlin, I didn't even realize the time…"

"Harry, what's this about? What happened at the party?"

Harry closed the book around his finger to save his place and pushed himself up.

"I think I – I think I met J. William Cross."

Hermione's initial reaction was one of surprise, though when she realized how much it explained, the surprise petered out again.

"He was – incredible. Really incredible," Harry said. "Brilliant and lovely and – this sounds daft, but I think we…"

Hermione lowered her head. She had been one of three people Harry had told about his sexuality, and the only one who really took it well. It helped, she supposed, that she was Muggle Born, that she'd been reared in a society roughly 50 years ahead of wizards, socially speaking.

"You think you and he…?"

"He left sort of abruptly. I just – I wanted to see if there was any contact information, and I ended up just reading."

"He's a shut-in, you know."

Harry looked up, frowning. "What?"

"J. William Cross," she said. "He's a shut-in. A total recluse. He almost never makes public appearances. I don't think anyone actually knows what he looks like."

She closed the gap between them and plucked the book from his hand. Minding to keep his spot, she flipped open the book and scanned the preface pages.

"Weston & Co.," she read. "That's the name of his agency. If you really want to talk to him, they're your best bet."

She handed him back the book, and he took it carefully with both hands, staring at the cover for a while in silence.

"I think it's actually terribly romantic," she said, doing her best to lighten the mood. "But then, I've had three glasses of Chardonnay, so it might actually be ridiculous."

Harry laughed, and Hermione smiled as the tension defused.

"It's probably ridiculous," Harry admitted.

"You have a track record of ridiculous and it's worked out pretty well," she reminded him.

Draco awoke to the scent of a ham and cheese omelette and sunlight on his face.

At some point, he realized, Dolly must have changed him into his pajamas, because when he climbed out of bed and looked at himself int he mirror, he most certainly was not wearing his masque attire.

The masque. Memories battered down the walls of his cozy, sleep-slowed mind and made his stomach flip.

What had he been thinking, listening to his agent's advice on what to do about his mental state? Eric was a good agent, but he was not a therapist, and Draco was an idiot for thinking otherwise.

But then, it hadn't been all bad, had it? It hadn't ended very well, but there were points—

Draco shut his eyes and was taken back – the raven, smelling like holly, his hands on his neck, and the fire that raged through his nerves. The curve of his lips as he'd leaned in to whisper in his ear. The satin of his voice—

His forearm burned again, accusatively. He grabbed it through the sleeve of his pajama top and set his face.

No, he decided. It was for the better.

"Master Draco?"

He turned and looked down to see Dolly poking her large, round head through the door.

"Your breakfast is ready," she said.

Draco managed a smile. "You're too good to me, Dolly."

He threw on a dressing gown, but left it open. The scent of ham and cheese omelette only got stronger as he left the bedroom and made his way to the kitchen, gleaming and tidy. She always did such a good job of keeping the place neat, even when Draco did an equally good job of dirtying it up again.

She was pouring him a mug of tea just as he sat down, and Draco realized that he wanted tea so badly he was willing to strangle someone. He added a bit of milk and took a large swallow.

"Master Draco should owl Mr. Weston and tell him how badly it went," Dolly said, and there was a vindictive edge to her squeaky voice that made Draco grin. "Mr. Weston should not be pushing Master Draco into things he can't handle."

"It's fine, Dolly," he said, "it's over now."

"Dolly was so scared when Dolly saw Master Draco last night. To think Master Draco had to go through all that just because Mr. Weston urged it!"

"No one was holding a wand to my head," he reminded her.

Dolly fumed and grumbled and filled a glass with orange juice. Draco took a grateful bite of the omelette.

"If Dolly sees Mr. Weston again, Dolly may have half a mind…"

"If it were up to you, Dolly, I'd never see the outside of the flat, let alone a party."

Dolly looked wounded. "Dolly wants the best for Master Draco!" she squeaked. "She just thinks that he must take smaller steps."

"I'm not sure how much smaller I could go from talking to people who don't know who I am."

"Master Draco should spend the day writing," Dolly said as she charmed the dishes to start washing themselves in the sink. "That always makes Master Draco feel better."

Draco wanted to correct her, to say that it really only made him feel better in the way severing a gangrenous foot might, but he decided not to say anything.

Harry finished Tragedy of the Narcissist, spent an hour in the shower pretending it hadn't affected him as deeply as it had, slept for four hours, and went to work.

Harry liked work. Or, at least, he very much needed work; he needed the distraction, the adrenaline, the occupation of his time. He put in his usual ten hours, tracking down a pack of dark wizards on near the Scottish border, and planning the logistics of the strike that would bring them out into the open.

Then he Apparated into London, outside a rather unremarkable gray building with a weathered brass sign reading "WESTON & CO." above the door.

By then, it was quite late, and before Harry could even reach the door, a young man with thin rectangular spectacles came backing out of the front door with an enormous pile of parchments in his arms.

Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he was a literary agent. He'd never met one before, but if he had to picture what a literary agent looked like, he'd picture someone an awful lot like him.

"Mister – ah, Weston?"

He stopped and looked over at Harry. Then he did a violent double-take, nearly dropping his parchments.

Harry was used to that sort of reaction by now. "Sorry, are you shut?"

"Are – Harry Potter?"

"Yes, that's me," he said. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"I – yes. Yes. Just in here—!"

He pushed open the door again and walked back in. The lobby was small and quiet, with a few desks and a large aquarium. It was nice, Harry thought.

"Can I just say, Mr. Potter," Mr. Weston said, "that if you've finally decided to write a memoir, you could not have chosen a better—"

"That's definitely not why I'm here," he said, and as Mr. Weston set the papers down, he could detect a sort of crestfallen look. "It's about a client of yours. J. William Cross. Could I – would you mind terribly giving him this?"

Harry produced the letter he'd written out of his robe. He'd folded it into thirds, sealed it with wax, and drawn a small black raven on the front – just in case.

Mr. Weston adjusted his glasses and took the letter, carefully turning it over in his hands.

"May I ask what this is about?"

He had, of course, been anticipating the question. "We met at a party, but he left quite abruptly. I read Tragedy of the Narcissist and I just wanted him to know…" He hesitated a moment. "It really affected me."

Mr. Weston nodded slowly, owlishly. "His work does tend to be quite affecting," he said.

"So you'll give it to him?"

"I – I'll try, Mr. Potter, but Mr. Cross is very…"

"I know."

"He's very shy, you understand; he doesn't usually read any kind of fan mail; I just don't want you to be disappointed if he doesn't—"

"I understand," Harry said. "All I ask is that you make sure he gets the letter."

After a moment, Mr. Weston nodded again. "I was going to go speak to him tomorrow, anyway; I suppose I could drop it off."

"Thank you." Harry smiled gratefully. "Have a good evening, Mr. Weston."

There were plenty more things he would have liked to say to Harry, he was sure – more about a memoir, no doubt – but he didn't give him the chance. He left through the door and Disapparated with a crack.