Draco found himself lying beside Alana, she beneath the duvet and he on top of it beneath a blanket. Alana had fallen asleep facing him. Her eyelashes cast lacey shadows over her smooth cheeks. Her lips were dark and flushed with his kisses. Still kissable now, but he didn't want to wake her, and he could still taste her on his own mouth. He let his tongue slip out to lick his lip.

He didn't know what hour it was, but the lateness of it tugged at his own eyelids even as he tried to hold them open, wanting to watch her while he could, to paint her, every detail, into his mind.

Alana's hand lay loose in front of her, between them. He reached for it. Would he wake her? He brushed his fingers across the top of hers. She sighed in her sleep, and he let his hand rest on the sheet, his fingers touching hers.

He gave in and let his heavy eyelids fall. So long as he could still feel her, her warmth, the solidness of her hand, he could be sure that she wouldn't leave him, that he wasn't merely dreaming this.

xxxx

But he lost her. He stood in a dark room that he knew all too well. He shivered, drawing his arms around himself, his hand empty. He couldn't feel Alana at all as he looked into the shadows cast by the low fire and felt no warmth from it.

The Dark Lord was quiet, but Draco knew that he was there.

He thought of Alana, of her embrace, missing it, and then of her tears, of the reason that he had come to her tonight in the first place. Anger began to move inside of him, its waking sparks smothering Alana's fire, the fire of her touch, her kiss that fear had already begun to dim. Two such fires couldn't burn at once.

He shouldn't—couldn't think of her. Not here. Not with him.

When the purr came from the darkness, Draco was ready for it, steeled. "Draco."

"My lord," he returned.

"You have called me?"

"I've not."

"Oh my Draco, you really must learn. You cannot control your desires. You do not recognize them yourself." He rose from an armchair with its back to Draco, and the firelight suddenly illuminated his skull-like face, his long-fingered hands. It flickered over his bone-white skin as he reached toward Draco.

Draco stepped back, away, but glared. "Don't touch me."

"So confused."

"Shut up."

"Tell me why you've called me here," the Dark Lord purred. "What is troubling you, my Draco?"

"You are."

"What have I done? I've not seen you for some time."

"You—you— Where's Mr. Ollivander?"

"The wandmaker?" The Dark Lord smiled.

"You have him."

"I do. He is safe enough. For now."

"What did you do? Did you threaten him?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because people are saying he left of his own accord. They're saying he's yours."

The Dark Lord smiled. "He is mine. He is now."

Draco growled, surprising himself.

The Dark Lord moved toward the fireplace. He smiled at Draco, then looked down into the flames. "Oh yes. He is mine."

"I don't believe it of him."

"You don't want to."

"He would never join the Death Eaters."

"This is tedious."

"You're avoiding the question."

"He is mine. I have told you the answer you sought."

"But why? What did you do to him?"

"I had him brought to me. I need him."

"And how did you get him to join your stupid Death Eaters?"

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Careful, Draco." He turned his back on the fire, faced Draco, so that Draco could no longer see his expression in the low light. "Death Eater he is not. He will do as I say because he has no choice. I keep him. I have told him to behave. I have told him to do as I say. And you and I and he too it seems all know what happens to those who disobey me."

That thought like a nail to old wood split the wall that Draco had built of his anger; fear flooded through him and washed it away. He shuddered and looked away. The firelight licked Draco's bare feet. He had taken off his boots, left them by the side of Alana's bed.

The Dark Lord let a slow breath escape him, a hiss, something like a snake's purr.

"So Ollivander came here against his will," Draco mused, "and he's not working for you willingly."

"He's more willing to comply than die," the Dark Lord corrected.

"This is good."

"For whom?"

Draco didn't answer. "Will you let me go now?"

"In such a rush?"

Draco looked up at him, keeping his face a mask, not wanting the Dark Lord to discover whence he had come.

"I cannot send you back, Draco. When you call, you must send yourself away. It is only my superior strength that keeps me from being drawn to your side."

Draco started and stared. "But I've never learned how."

"I think you have."

"I haven't. I don't know how to send myself away."

"Really?"

Draco searched the Dark Lord's red stare for answers. Red like blood. Red like…

Gryffindor. Alana.

Draco shut his eyes, though he was reluctant to stand before the Dark Lord blind. But he couldn't think of her and look at him. Not without risking her. Draco fisted his hand.

And felt nothing. Nothing happened.

He heard the Dark Lord's low laugh.

He squeezed his hand more tightly shut till the nails bit into the skin, and he felt something stir beside him, and a quiet voice said, "Draco?"

His hand grew warm beneath a pressure.

He opened his eyes when she pressed a hand to each of his shoulders, leaned over him.

He woke to her kiss.

"Draco," she murmured, smiling, "we fell asleep. If Mum were to find us—"

"Ollivander," Draco gasped. He stared up into her face, dark in the moonlight, her eyes glinting like distant, steady stars. He tried to calm his sharp breaths. He released his closed fist, but throbbing pain lingered in the grooves in his palm, left by the stabbing of his nails.

But she was warm beside him, above him, her hand on his shoulder, her fingers finding the bare skin by his neck.

"Ollivander's not working for him. Or he's not working for him because he wants to."

"What?" Alana startled away from him, sitting up in bed as much as his weight on the duvet allowed.

He'd spoken without thinking, still half-asleep, still caught up in the news he'd learned, with his heart speeding hot adrenaline through his blood, his vein drumming against the hand that Alana hand had laid by his neck. He regretted it now.

But he had to tell. He had to tell her, or why had he asked?

"He— I—I had a dream," Draco muttered, sitting up too and running a hand through his hair. How had he gotten out? Without Alana leaning over him, he felt cold, wanted to move to her side, to take her hand in his. He reached out, but—

"A dream? Draco," she sighed.

"A real dream, I think."

"I don't think—"

"Alana—" he turned to look at her, her silhouette in the dark, haloed in silver by star- and moonlight, "—I saw him."

"Mr. Ollivander?"

"No. Him. The Dark Lord."

"Draco." She frowned. "Should you be— I mean, what are you doing, dreaming—"

"They're not—not ordinary dreams. This isn't the first." He ran his hand again through his hair, then suspicion spiking through his stomach, glared and added defensively, "And I don't like them. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to."

Alana only looked confused. She'd probably suspected nothing. He tried to let the suspicion drain away. He didn't have to worry about convincing her that he had left the Dark Lord, was trying to reclaim his life. "You were here the whole time," she said. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted, letting himself lay back down, sink deep into the duvet and pillow on her bed.

She leaned over him, ran a warm, soft hand along his face. "You had a nightmare." Her smile was meant to be reassuring, indulging, comforting. It was the sort of smile that he'd seen Mrs. Weasley wear when she told Ron, "You've outgrown another jumper."

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "I did."

"And you dreamed about You-Know-Who and Mr. Ollivander."

"I did dream about them. Well, about the Dark Lord telling me about Ollivander. He said he was forcing him to work for him."

"I shouldn't have filled your head with all that and then let you fall asleep. I'm sorry, Draco."

"Sorry? Alana, no." Draco sat up again, forcing her to sit upright too. "It wasn't— These aren't— He said that I— I thought you'd be glad to know."

Alana smiled and brushed her lips against his again, though he was frowning. When she pulled away she was frowning too. "I don't want to get my hopes up, Draco; I can't. If I do…. If I do and—and something happens to him…. Not that I suppose we'll ever know… if something does… not now…."

"Alana, I'm so sorry."

"This isn't your fault," she assured him, shaking her head.

But wasn't it?

Alana crept with him out of the bedroom and down the stairs. They said a lengthy and rather wordless goodbye by her hearth.

"If you need me," Draco said, as Alana held out her family's pot of Floo powder, "just—just let me know. Write me, I guess. I can sneak out again. Another night. And see you."

Alana smiled at him. "I will," she promised. "If I need you. But Draco," she warned, "be careful. I mean, if—if you— If the Weasleys catch you— I'm not sure they'd like—"

"I am careful."

"I just don't want you to— How are things with the Weasleys?" she asked, taking his hand again, holding it in hers.

Draco smiled as the warmth of her hand enfolded his. She was always so much warmer than he, even now when they'd been together most of the night—most of it. He had spent some of it with the Dark Lord. He felt his smile falter.

"I should have asked earlier, but…."

"You were distracted. They're," Draco said slowly, searching for a way to describe his time thus far, "better than I suspected—and worse. I'm only really getting outright, violent animosity from Ron anymore—and Percy. I think Percy hates me, but he won't act on it—much—or hasn't yet. He let me know once, and he's—he's been pretty much ignoring me since—for a while now."

"Draco, that's wonderful. Ginny? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Fred and George? You've gotten them all to like you?"

"'Like' might be strong. Ginny I don't think likes me, but she tolerates me. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley I think mostly feel sorry for me, but, you know," he shrugged, "it's not hate. And," he shook his head, eyes shut, "I don't know what's gotten into Fred and George," he said, opening his eyes back onto Alana's smiling face.

"That's really excellent, Draco."

"But Potter's come. And he's—he's—" Draco shook his head again. "You know what he's like. He's almost worse at the Burrow. Fewer professors to catch him at jinxing me, I suppose."

Alana squeezed his hand, looked at him, beaming. "You've done well, Draco," she said. "And you've another month—"

"Don't remind me," Draco mumbled.

"Maybe by September you can make Ron and Harry see reason. It'd make next term a lot nicer."

"Potter won't see sense. Alana." He kissed her again. "I'll see you soon."

"A month at the latest. Exactly now. It's August first."

He smiled at that, took a pinch of her Floo powder, and disappeared in another flare of green flame.

xxxx

"Well, well."

Draco jumped at the unexpected voice and actually hit his head on the mantelpiece. Swearing, he stumbled out of the fireplace with black and white sparks exploding before his eyes.

"Percy," he spat, looking up through the clearing haze at the smug redhead in pajamas and horn-rimmed glasses. The Floor powder had been burned away, and Percy was awash with orange light. Draco tried to think of his black shadow, as it stretched toward Percy, as menacing rather than facedown and prostrate in appeal.

Percy had a mug of something—coffee by the faint, lingering aroma—in his hands and did not look at all surprised to see Draco come staggering out of the fireplace into the kitchen.

"What're you doing here?" Draco demanded.

"I wanted to be here when you got back. I've been waiting up for you."

"There was no one watching, no one nearby when I left."

"I can creep as well as you can, and I didn't have to see you go to figure out that you'd left by Floo. Where've you been?"

"That doesn't matter. Have you really been waiting all this time?"

"Who's O'Toule?"

"Percy, I can't believe you— What?"

Percy smiled at him and took a sip of the drink. "I heard you say where you wanted to go: Alana O'Toule's house. Who's she?"

"That's none of your business," Draco growled.

"It is if you're using our Floo powder to sneak out of our house to see her while you're under our—"

Draco threw out a hand. "Enough. I get it."

"Well?"

Draco glared at him. "If you'd been paying attention at dinner, you'd know who she is."

"Well, obviously she's someone you care about very much, someone who's close to Ollivander and his family. And possibly to Ginny. And that makes her very interesting at the moment. And possibly dangerous to my family. What's her connection to Ollivander?"

Draco stared at Percy, quickly shutting his mouth when he realized that his jaw had dropped. Percy. Percy was a Death Eater. Draco hadn't been able to get the Dark Lord to reveal his designs, but Percy might know— "What's he want with Ollivander?"

Percy shrugged, still calm, still unconcerned. "I'm far from in his inner circle, Malfoy. He doesn't tell me his plans. But I do know he's captured Ollivander. I do know that right now he might be interested to know who Ollivander is close to."

"If you do anything— If you make him think Alana— I'll kill you, Percy, I really might."

"Might," Percy scoffed. Then he said, watching Draco with his dark blue eyes, "She's also close to you. And that might make her even more interesting to him."

Draco slid his hand into his pocket. This was getting to be too much. Could he curse Percy? He certainly couldn't kill him. He didn't want to kill. He needed to make him—make him forget that he'd seen Draco, make him forget what he'd heard.

A Memory Charm, then.

Draco drew his wand.

"Oh, put it away," Percy snapped, his own wand suddenly visible above the table in his fist.

Draco didn't. He kept his wand in his hand, but he didn't raise it.

"You're too weak to kill me, Malfoy. Let's get that out of the way."

"I wasn't going to kill you," Draco told him honestly.

"What did you tell her, Malfoy?"

"Nothing about you, if that's what you mean. I meant to get information, not to give it. I went to make sure she was all right. Believe me," Draco couldn't quite suppress the grin, "you were one of the furthest things from our minds."

"I seem to remember Alana O'Toule. Vaguely, it's true, but she was a friend of Ginny's. I think I talked to her several times. I think I questioned her when Ginny started acting strangely—her first year." His blue eyes flashed when they turned on Draco. "Perhaps you didn't notice."

"Notice? Alana? No, I—"

"When Ginny started acting oddly."

"Beyond her very public humiliation on Valentine's Day, I paid your sister almost no attention her first year. There were enough other things going on, what with Mud—what with Muggle-borns Petrified every few weeks and no one sure who the Heir of Slytherin was."

"Humph. Yes, well…. If you say so."

"I do. I had no reason to pay attention to your sister—other than to ridicule her for being a Weasley, a habit which I'm trying very hard to kick."

Percy eyed him carefully, then blinked, and some of the fierceness died from his face. "Well, I just wanted to let you know that you're not careful enough. I have a stake in the care you take with your words and actions now and in who you're talking to about what. I want to make sure you keep your end."

"There are other ways to keep me quiet, Percy, more reliable ways."

"Ways more likely to get my family killed. You weren't wrong there, Malfoy. If you had been, I never would have taken your offer. Now get to bed, and mind your tongue or lose it."

"Yeah," Draco sighed, "you too, Percy."

Percy left the kitchen, setting his coffee mug in the sink. Draco stood on the hearth till Percy's slippered footsteps had faded into silence. He strained to hear Percy's door shut, but Percy was being too careful.

Draco wasn't being careful enough.

He crept up the dark steps and did not meet Percy on the way. He went to the landing of the bedroom in which he slept, from which he could see Percy's shut door.

Draco leant back against the wall, releasing a soft breath. He wanted Percy away, not slinking after him, listening to whatever he might say in the night. Draco pushed his hands into his temples. What would he do now? What more could he do? Maybe he ought to just sleep. Maybe he ought to wake Mrs. Weasley and ask her for a potion.

But no. He didn't want to tell her that he'd left. (He ought to have sworn Percy to the secret—if he could have.) He didn't want Mrs. Weasley to ask questions.

He'd have to take care of this on his own. He padded back down the steps. The kitchen was still bright and warm with the fire that Percy had lit while he awaited Draco's return. Draco went to the hob and set the kettle over the flame, removing the whistle from the spout.

He doubted he'd sleep now. He'd been awash with fear, had sunken into a sullen fret, had crept from the house, had been carried into Alana's arms, had slept by her side, had been to see the Dark Lord, his confessions had been disbelieved by Alana, and then he had been confronted by Percy. If anything more happened tonight he might collapse.

And that Alana had not believed that his dreams of the Dark Lord were genuine weighed heavily on him. She was in no less danger if she shut her eyes to the danger that Draco posed, but he had no way to convince her, and when he was honest with himself, he didn't want to frighten or push her away, selfish though it may be.

Draco fumbled through the cabinet, pausing frequently to listen for footsteps on the stairs, and found a box of chamomile tea. He spooned some into a mug and added the hot water, then tea in hand, leaned back against the stove so that the hob's fading heat curled up his back to his bent neck.

If sleep came to him, he'd give in, but he foresaw a long night of lying awake in the darkness with too many thoughts and a headache.

At least wasn't much night left.

A/N: I'm not really satisfied with this, but I've held onto it for a long time now, making changes again and again. Critiques more than welcome. Cheers!

Yours forever, Tsona