Darkest Hour Chapter 7

Draco's wand alarm rattled and shook his bed like an earthquake, indicating that it was seven a.m. and that he needed to get dressed, find Dobby and get to church. He stepped out of bed onto the cold, clammy floor of his dorm. The dungeons were usually cold, but after six years of living in the dungeons without a window, Draco could tell that this wet cold meant snow. Lots of snow.

Relying on this sense alone, Draco dressed accordingly. He eyed the fuzzy patch of hair that was growing at a crawl at the crown of his head. It was longer, yes, but it would still be another week or two until it would lie flat, and even then, his white hair would barely cover the jagged pink scar on the crown of his head. He had tried to use a hair re-growth charm, but when his eyebrows had begun to grow over his face, he undid the charm in a panic. No, he would have to wait.

He sighed, brushing over it lightly with his silver dragon-handled brush. He ditched the green knit hat in favor of a fur-lined winter hat that would appropriately cover his ears and head. Plus, the brown fur in the hat matched the fur cuffs that lined his heavy black wool coat. If there was one thing Draco loved, it was matching winter wear.

He smirked in the mirror, opened the top drawer of his bureau and snatched out his black dragon hide gloves. His deep, forest green scarf both accented and completed the ensemble, and he trudged out of the dungeons, completely bundled from furry head to waterproof-charmed dragon-hide toe.

Draco headed toward the entrance of Hogwarts. He seemed to be the only God-fearing student on campus who was awake at this hour. Despite the fact that he was a piss-poor God-fearer, he felt slightly self-righteous and tried to cling to the enjoyable feeling before the inevitable guilt came.

Also, Draco was feeling well-rested and wide awake. Pansy was wrong. Draco wasn't addicted to any charm. What nonsense! He had tossed and turned a bit, but fell asleep, content with his reconciliation, and arose without that nasty grogginess of which he had quickly become accustomed in the Hospital Wing.

"Dobby!" he tried, chancing that the elf would still respond to his command. He waited a moment, wondering vaguely how he would find Dobby if Dobby did not apparate to him, but he needn't have worried as Dobby appeared only moments later holding a plate with a steaming roll and two slices of bacon. He bowed deeply to Draco, who narrowed his eyes.

"Dobby is not seeing young Master Malfoy at breakfast, so Dobby is bringing him all of his favorite breakfast foods."

Draco balked. "Er . . . really?" The elf nodded vigorously. Draco, feeling suddenly hungry, reached forward for the meal. "I mean, of course. Thank you, Dobby." He took the plate eagerly and began to break off bites of the roll, shoving the warm soft bread in his mouth. They were baked to Hogwarts house-elf perfection. He smiled.

Dobby bowed again and Draco was unsure of why Dobby was giving him special treatment. They hadn't gotten along in years and hadn't Draco left him with a nasty mouthful of insults last night? Sure, Dobby had been Draco's friend when Draco was a child and thought he was one of his toys, but at the age of five his father had punished Draco for playing with the filthy house-elf, and as a result, they had never had any sort of fondness for the other. He was shocked to know that Dobby was aware of his favorite foods. And not even his favorite foods from when he was five (peanut butter and banana toast with chocolate sauce and extra sugar . . . it was truly a wonder that Draco had any teeth) but his favorite foods now.

Of course, the bacon was off-limits according to Madame Pomfrey, but Draco did not feel inclined to hurt Dobby's feelings and he was grateful for the breakfast at all, considering their volatile history.

After finishing the biscuit and wrapping up the bacon in a handkerchief, promising to eat it later, Draco was Apparated by Dobby to Diagon Alley. He felt the usual twisting of Apparation, then everything went white and wet.

"Bloody, buggering shit!" Draco cried out, as he landed on his hands and knees in two feet of snow. The blizzard above was blinding and the snow stung his face and eyes. He squinted, wiping the snow from his face with his now snowy, wet hands, which only made him colder. His hat was missing, but he couldn't see it anywhere. Dobby was missing, too. Draco pulled himself upright and squinted through the white out, searching frantically the house-elf.

"Dobby?" he called, hoping the elf wasn't Splinched. Draco threw his hands in the snow and knocked them around a bit until two silver dollar eyes popped out of the snow bank. Draco sighed with relief as Dobby shivered, his head barely reaching over the snow bank in which they had landed. Wide-eyed, Dobby scrambled with his bare hands in the snow to carve out a space in which to breathe.

"Dobby, have you seen my hat?' Draco asked, feeling around in the snow a bit more.

Dobby shook his head and shivered again. The fool was wearing some sort of a potato sack with arm holes for clothing. Draco rolled his eyes and took off his green scarf, wrapping it around the elf and ignoring the voice in his head that told him to never give a house-elf clothing. Well, this wasn't a house-elf. This was a free elf. Right? Right. So the rules didn't apply.

Dobby's eyes widened and then he began to beat himself in the head over and over again. Draco stared at him, unsure of what to do.

"Dobby is a bad elf! Dobby has failed Master Malfoy!" he shouted, throwing snow into his own face.

Draco grabbed the little, gray arms and restrained the elf, frowning. "What happened?"

Dobby writhed in Draco's grasp and his little feet kicked snow into the air that mixed with the blinding blizzard and fell back around them. "Dobby splinched Master Malfoy's hat!" he cried, managing to kick himself in the face.

So that's where his hat was. Shit. He loved that hat.

Dobby was picking up speed, his body a little whirlwind of self-abuse.

"St-stop! Stop it!" Draco cried, unsure. His father had always encouraged this sort of behavior in elves, and so had he, but right now it seemed completely unproductive and unnecessary. The command worked, and Dobby stopped hitting himself.

Dobby blinked up at Draco and said sadly, "Dobby is very sorry, Master Malfoy. He is being so kind to dear old Dobby and showing him how to spell but the weather is too much for Dobby."

Draco frowned. "What do you mean?" He set the house-elf down and scooped more snow away from Dobby so that he could see his face.

"Dobby cannot Apparate others in a blizzard. He is not knowing how hard it snows in London. Dobby cannot Apparate Master Malfoy back to Hogwarts or he is being splinched like his hat! Dobby is a bad elf!"

Dobby smacked himself across the face and then resumed his beating.

"Stop!" Draco yelled, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "Don't do that anymore! It is not dignified and you're wasting time."

Dobby blinked up at Draco and shivered again. "This snowing is being too much for old Dobby . . ." he murmured.

Draco looked around then. The weather was a disaster. He hadn't seen this much snow in years, perhaps in his whole life. Diagon Alley was white. Completely white. Not a person, street sign or store was visible. It was disconcerting and-loathe as he was to admit it-a bit frightening.

The house-elf was turning blue and Draco began to worry. They needed shelter. "Dobby, can you Apparate yourself back?"

He nodded slowly but his eyes were filled with horror. "Dobby is not leaving sir in London! Dobby is finding a place for him to stay!"

Draco scowled. "We don't know where we are, Dobby and you can't Apparate me back to Hogwarts, what are we going to do?" His limbs were beginning to go numb and he began to panic. What was he going to do? Surely no one was at the church . . . if he could even find the place.

"Dobby can Apparate Master Malfoy, but he is not getting him through the Hogwarts wards. Dobby can Apparate him to Hogsmeade," Dobby's eyes were suddenly full of light.

"Hogsmeade!" Draco yelled. "Shall I go buy some sweets for you there, Dobby? Perhaps we can hold hands at Madame Puddifoots and watch the snow fall? How is Hogsmeade any better than London! I'm sure it will be a white out there, as well!"

Dobby rubbed his hands to keep them warm and nodded. "Dobby knows a place. A warm place where Master Malfoy can stay until the snow is stopping."

Draco frowned. Dobby knows a place? Since when was a Malfoy inclined to trust a house-elf with his life and safety?

A particularly strong gust of wind blew what felt like an avalanche of snow out of the sky and onto Draco and Dobby. Draco's head was soaking wet and Dobby was buried again. Draco reached into the snow bank and grabbed the ice-cold wriggling hand, yanking small Dobby out over the snow. The elf gasped for breath and Draco was unsure of whether he could set Dobby down, as the snow was now considerably deeper. He continued to hold Dobby's hand to keep him above the snow, but refused to make a decision, biding his time by clearing the small mountain of snow off of Dobby's head.

"Master Malfoy," Dobby pleaded, clearly scared. "Master must choose. Dobby is not Apparating him against his will."

Draco sighed and pulled the house elf tighter into his arms, not wanting to risk another Splinching. If he stayed here he would freeze to death or be buried alive. If he forced Dobby to Apparate him to Hogwarts, he may lose more than his favorite hat. Surely, Dobby would not take him anywhere dangerous. He seemed to have Draco's best interest at heart, for some unknown reason. "Okay," he conceded. "But, please be careful!"

Dobby clung to Draco and nodded. Draco squeezed his eyes shut then felt the dizzying twirl of Apparation again.

They landed with a thump on a rotten wooden baseboard that began to creak and groan. In fact, the entire place seemed to creak and groan and the wind whistling through the broken slats of the place sounded dark and ominous. Only the spaces between the wooden boards provided any light. A sudden strong gust of wind rattled the entire house and Draco squeezed Dobby tightly, fearing collapse.

A chill came over Draco as he put the pieces together. Hogsmeade. A wooden, abandoned house. . . "Dobby," he began slowly, still clutching the elf. "Where did you say we are?"

Dobby grinned at Draco, proudly. "We is being in the Shrieking Shack, Master Malfoy!"

Draco's face paled completely and he stopped breathing. "What?" he gasped, clawing his gloved fingers into Dobby's shoulders.

"We is being-"

"I heard you, Dobby!' he said between gritted teeth, his voice rising in pitch with the wind rattling the shack. "We- why! The-it's –Shrieking Shack?" he shrieked, too disturbed to recognize the pun. "It's haunted! Why would you take me here?" Draco's eyes roved wildly about the room, searching for ghouls, hags and creatures of the night.

Dobby forcibly released Draco and stepped away from him. Draco stumbled back against the wall of the shack and flattened himself against it, his wand clutched tightly in his left hand. "Dobby!" he hissed.

Dobby blinked innocently. "Yes, Master Malfoy?"

Draco tried to get in control of his breathing. He was a man. A Death Eater. Surely he was not afraid of a haunted house? "Why!" the voiceless word exhumed out of his mouth like a sputtering exhaust pipe. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and tried again. "Why did you bring me here? This place is notoriously haunted, you foolish elf!"

Dobby shook his head frantically. "No! No, Master Malfoy. It is only being rumors. Dobby promises. You are safe here. But Dobby is going to Hogwarts and finding food for young sir."

Draco's eyes widened. He was leaving? "You're leaving?"

Dobby bowed. "I must, sir."

Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me alone! "If you must . . ." Draco scowled and crossed his arms. He raised his eyebrows coolly. "Good day then, Dobby. Your assistance has proven useless thus far. As for your intellect . . ."

The house-elf shook his head. "I am bringing Master Malfoy food and help!" He bowed again, then vanished.

Immediately upon his departure, Draco staggered to the nearest corner of the room, sunk down to the floor and curled himself into a protective ball. The wind took that moment to blow a creaky gust through the shack. Moaning sounds could be heard with the cracking of boards that sounded like footsteps. It was still daytime, so greenish light filtered through the slats in the boarded up windows, but not enough that Draco could see. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, gnawing on his finger, which was his manlier version of sucking his thumb.

As he sat and listened to the sounds of his fading whimpers and the groans of the Shrieking Shack, he slowly relaxed and opened his eyes, first his left, then his right. Ghouls? Goblins? Get a grip, Malfoy.

He noticed the room around him for the first time. The furniture was not covered in dusty white sheets that, with a few eye holes, could easily conceal a ghost like he had always pictured. In fact, there were items in the shack that looked rather clean, if not dingy, and while there were cobwebs in the corners, the rest of the shrieking shack seemed almost lived in, which made Draco wonder if he should perhaps be more scared. Maybe it wasn't haunted at all, but was home to a gaggle of blood-thirsty hags? Vampires? Werewolves?

Draco scoffed at his foolishness. Werewolves. Werewolves live in the forest, not in a shack with couches and chairs as if they were human . . . unless they were trying to lure curious children into the shack to rip their guts out and devour the wizard right out of them . . .?

No. No. He ripped his knuckle out of his mouth and made two fists at his side, setting his face into a determined scowl. Stop it. You're fine, you are FINE.

Willing the room to be quiet and still, Draco took slow and deep inhalations.

Breath in. Hold. One-two. Breathe out. Hold. in. Hold. One-two. Breathe out. Hold. One-two-three.

Draco had just managed to control his racing heart when he heard something scurry across the floor. He yelped, jumping to his feet as a curious rat ran up to him.

His eyes bulged out of his head and he aimed his wand at the rat.

"Stupefy!" he choked out. A red light shot from his wand, but missed the tiny creature which began sliding along a baseboard. The curse sank into the old wood, leaving a smoking hole in its path.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The rat gave Draco a considering look, then flicked its tail and continued its nonchalant stroll. Draco fire randomly, shouting out any curse or that came to his mind.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Obliviate!"

"Stupefy, Stupefy, STUPEFY!"

The floor was steaming and full of holes from all of his missed attempts The rat looked up at him and blinked, then crawled slowly into the Avada Kedavra hole-the largest one-evading Draco's siege.

"Dammit!" he hollered, stomping on the ground.

He set about sealing up all of the holes in the floor, content in the knowledge that the rat would starve to death underfoot. He then continued to patch up holes in the shack, to an almost obsessive degree, fixing windows, healing baseboards, even adding a cheery yellow coat of paint to the walls because, why not? If he had to stay in this haunted hell hole, it might as well appear comforting. Plus, it gave him something to do.

Hours later, after he had Transfigured all of the furniture into lush, maroon velvet upholstered sets and marble and glass tabletops with a large, intricately designed oriental rug and fireplace with various lanterns that cast a cozy glow about the living room of the shack, he conjured a blanket and an empty mug, pulled out his Charles Dickens novel for Muggle Studies class and curled up to read. A Warming Charm was cast on the mug and Draco took pretend sips. Tea was always comforting, even make-believe tea.

oooo

"Wow," Harry mused, his face and hands pressed against the frosty glass of the window in his dorm. "Wow . . . Ron! Neville-guys! Wait'll you see this!"

Ron groaned and stretched, his blue and white pajama sleeves peeking out of the covers, his bare feet pointed, dangling off the bed.

Neville let out one final snore then shuddered. "Mm, whatsit Harry?" he asked, sleepily.

"Blimey!" came Seamus' voice, as he scrambled over to the window. "Blimey! Dean-get up, you shite! It's like Christmas. Looks just like Christmas! Wow!"

Neville's eyes widened when he saw that the ledge of the giant bay window was half covered in a pile of snow. "Oh, Merlin!" he gasped. "It's up to the top of the window!"

Tired of missing out on the excitement, Ron rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He stopped mid-yawn as his eyes bulged nearly out of his head. "Oi! Splendid!" He galloped up to the window and pushed the others out of his way. "I can't see anything!" he cried. "It's a white-out! Well, come on then! Let's get breakfast and shove snow down the Slytherins' pants!"

The boys agreed, pulling on cozy jumpers, layering long johns under their pants and piling on extra socks. Neville looked like he had gained two stone, as he wobbled about in no less than four sweaters, two pairs of gloves, three pairs of pants and four pairs of socks. "Gran says I have to!" he explained, winding a scarf around his head and neck and securing in a large knot in front of his mouth, muffling his voice. "Longbottoms have poor blood circulation." His eyes disappeared between his hat and scarf as he tried to shrug.

Hermione greeted them in the common room, already dressed for the weather, as well. "This snow is unbelievable!"

"I know, Herm! It's sticking, too. That means it's good packing snow, perfect for snowballs," Ron raved, tugging on her arm.

"I don't know," she said. "The way it's blowing, we might not even be able to go outside. That's a lot of snow."

Seamus made a strangled sound. "Don't be such a spoilsport! Loosen up, Granger. It's Christmas!"

She laughed, but looked skeptical as they made their way to the Great Hall.

As they turned a corner, Dobby the elf appeared in front of them, dripping wet and shivering, a green Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck multiple times.

"Hey Dobby!" Ron shouted boisterously. "I always pegged you for a Hufflepuff!" Seamus and Dean laughed. Harry waved to the elf, cautiously. Dobby rarely came to Harry without some sort of a mission.

"You're soaking!" Hermione cried, elbowing Ron. "Dobby, what happened?"

Dobby looked shifty, as though he wanted to say something, but was unsure of what to say.

"Hmm, looks like he's hiding something," Ron said. "Must be a Slytherin after all . . ."

The elf's eyes widened. "Dobby is not a Slytherin!" he cried, unnecessarily. "Dobby is not being Sorted. Only Hogwarts students is Sorted by the great Sorting Hat! Dobby has made a terrible mistake. He is a bad elf. A bad elf!"

Hermione threw Ron a nasty look. "Stop being an insensitive prat, Ron! You boys go to breakfast." She reached forward and took Dobby's hand, stepping away from the Gryffindors. The other boys laughed and headed to the Great Hall, but Harry curiously followed Hermione. Why was Dobby wearing a Slytherin scarf? Surely, no Slytherin would give clothes to a house-elf?

Then he remembered that Dobby had been escorting one particular Slytherin to Diagon Alley. Could the scarf belong to Malfoy? An image of Malfoy carving a D in the snow flittered into Harry's mind.

Dobby looked even more uncomfortable. "Mister Harry Potter, sir. Miss Harmony Granger, ma'am." He bowed. "I am not supposed to be telling a secret. But he is in danger. Dobby can get the food but Dobby needs your help!"

"Our help?"

"Oh, Professor Dumblydore will be angry with Dobby. So angry! Dobby cannot tell Professor Dumblydore or Dobby will get fired from his job!"

"Tell Dumbledore what?" Hermione asked, while Harry said, "We can help you!"

"Dobby promised that Dobby would not tell, under threat of Dobby's life! But Dobby cannot go back. The weather is too much for old Dobby, too much for him! But perhaps not for the Great Harry Potter…"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, concern in her eyes. "We want to help you, but we don't understand you!" She and Harry exchanged a look.

Dobby nodded and a bundled basket appeared in his hand. He gave it to Harry. "Perhaps, perhaps only one should go." He kept looking at Harry, who blushed, hating special treatment.

"We can both go, Dobby."

Dobby shook his head, fervently. "No, no. Master M-. Dobby will be killed if he tells this secret. Only one wizard does he need and Dobby knows that Harry Potter knows the way." He bowed his head. "Dobby is not meaning to insult Miss Harmony, as he knows how kind she is being to house-elves."

Hermione's heart melted and she reached out a hand to Dobby. "Oh! It's okay, Dobby," she said gently. She stepped back toward Harry with a frown. "He's terrified, Harry. Who would threaten to kill a house-elf? Honestly! Especially a Hogwarts house-elf?"

Harry looked at Dobby, who looked at Hermione uncomfortably.

She huffed and raised her arms in defeat. "Fine. I'll go to breakfast. But if you need any help, Harry . . ."

He shrugged, clueless to what the elf wanted from him, and waved to Hermione.

Dobby pointed to the basket in Harry's hands. "Dobby Apparated a student out of the Hogwarts wards and now he is being trapped in the snow in Hogsmeade!"

An image of a student struggling in a snow bank came into Harry's mind. "Is he . . .okay?"

Dobby nodded. "Yes, yes. He is safe, but he is trapped in the Shrieking Shack. Dobby trapped him outside the wards and can't get through the snow. Professor Dumblydore will be angry, so angry. Please help Dobby, Mister Harry Potter! Dobby is an old elf. Old Dobby can't make the trip."

"You just need me to bring this to the Shrieking Shack?" Harry nodded to the basket in his hands.

Dobby returned the nod, staring at his feet.

"No problem, Dobby." Dobby looked up at Harry, admiringly, as though he could not believe the great Harry Potter would be so kind. "You've done enough favors for me. It's fine. Should I go now?"

Dobby looked like he wanted to kiss Harry. "You is so kind, sir. So kind to dear old Dobby. Yes, go now, Harry Potter. Be careful. Call for Dobby if you is needing help. Dobby cannot Apparate but he will try to help."

"Okay." The basket was shrunk to fit in Harry's pocket. He waved to the elf awkwardly. "See you."

oooo

Sharp, stinging white snow blasted through the door of the main entrance. "Bleeding, bloody hell!" Harry cried, forging his body into a wall of icy powder. An updraft slammed the entrance door shut behind him and he began to trudge through the waist-deep snow towards the Whomping Willow.

Ice cold water immediately leaked through his cheap boots and his teeth began to chatter. An itch on his nose forced him to remove his glove and scratch it. In doing so, he managed to soak both hands and his face in bitter, cold slush and when he replaced the glove he somehow pushed the ice water into deeper against his numb fingers. He scrunched his fingers out of the glove holes and balled them up into wet, tight fists to try and retain some warmth. He made the same attempt with his toes.

After ten minutes of walking, Harry was ready to give up and turn around, but knew that the trip back to castle would be equally as awful. Streaming tears stung his eyes and froze onto his cheeks, and he moaned miserably, but refused to actually cry about the snow. It was miserable, but it would be over soon. Soon he'd be warm in the Shrieking Shack. With some student. Some Slytherin? Some Slytherin that had been associating with Dobby? Harry was only aware of one . . . one who would not want to see Harry.

To make the exertion more bearable, Harry hummed cheerful holiday music. It didn't really help, but it was fun to scream the melody into the wind when it threatened to blast him onto his back.

After another twenty minutes of dragging himself through waist-high snow, Harry was exhausted. The journey was taking triple the time it normally did and his body was completely frozen from waist-down. His toes were beginning to tingle, which was probably a very bad sign, indeed. Harry sniffed, trying to keep his stuffy nose from running. He couldn't tell, though, because his face was numb, too. Blinking was also a chore, as his eyeballs felt frozen open.

He shuffled carefully up to the trunk of the willow tree, praying that the density of the snow would not wake the tree up early. He did not particularly feel like getting walloped by some monster of a tree after risking his comfort and sanity to trudge here.

Harry carefully pressed the notch of the Whomping Willow, and the tree seemed to freeze with the world around it. Holding his breath, Harry crept tentatively into the opening at the trunk of the tree and entered the passageway to the Shrieking Shack.

oooo

"Sing a song of sixpence

A pocket full of rye

Four to twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie

When the pie was open

The birds began to sing

Wasn't that a dainty dish

To set before the King!

King Draco's in the counting room

Counting all his money

King Draco's in the parlor

Eating bread and honey

An elf is in the courtyard

Hanging up the clothes

When along came a blackbird

And snipped off her nose!"

Draco appeared to be the picture of cool, lounging on a velvet couch, sipping imaginary tea and reading a book about ghosts, but his incessant knuckle gnawing and nursery rhyme muttering betrayed his image. And just who was he trying to impress anyway? The ghosts who were waiting for him to let his guard down and attack? Dobby, who had forgotten all about him and left him to die of starvation in a haunted house?

Thankfully he had managed to get a fire going. The place was still drafty, despite the patched up holes and Draco was glad that the thin blanket was not the only thing to keep him warm.

"King Draco's in the counting room –" He heard a squeak from below. That wretched rat . . .

No wait-those were footsteps. Footsteps coming from the cellar. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to muffle out the sound with his song.

"King Draco's in the counting room. . ." his voice rose in pitch as he clutched his warm mug to his chest. The cellar led out into the kitchen. The kitchen was adjacent to the living room. Where Draco was. Oh god, oh god . . .

"King Draco's in the counting room!" he sang a little louder, resisting the urge to cover his ears. The cellar door was flung open. He covered his ears anyway and sang as loudly as he could. "COUNTING ALL HIS MONEY! KING DRACO'S IN THE PARLOR EATING BREAD AND HONEY!"

Two wet, frozen hands grasped his shoulders. He yelped and threw his hot mug in his predator's face.

He heard grunting and the sound of ceramic shattering, then the deadly hands clamped over his shoulders once more. He shrieked.

"Malfoy!" he heard. The monster knew his name . . .

"No! Go away! Go away!" he screamed, thrashing on the couch. His hand hit his hard covered book. He snatched it up and chanced a look at the beast to be sure he hit it in the face.

Draco watched in slow motion as the book spun out of his hand into the face of a snow-drenched Harry Potter. The corner of the book zeroed in on the saviour's glasses and he yelled in pain as his glasses smashed into his face and the cheap lenses shattered.

Draco scrambled back onto the couch, still too affronted to realize what an arse he looked like. "Potter?" he gasped.

"God! Fucking shite!" Potter moaned, his face in his hands. "What the hell, Malfoy?"

"You're asking me?" he choked.

"You just attacked me!" Potter cried, taking the glasses off his injured face and rubbing at the painful bridge of his nose. "Ow."

Draco, secretly filled with relief at the presence of Harry, drew his shoulders back haughtily. "No, you emerged from the cellar of a haunted house, Potter! Groaning up the steps like that and flinging open the door. You broke in! That's a crime, Potter. Breaking and entering is crime."

"You don't live here, Malfoy," he muttered, sounding defeated.

"I, however, have reason to be here. You-you're probably just stalking me, as usual!" Draco peeled himself off the couch and stomped towards the wall. "This is getting ridiculous, Potter. As soon as I'm back to the castle, I'm owling the Ministry to get a restraining order put on you. Harry Pyscho Potter. Stalker of the Wizarding World. I can see it now," Draco drew his face up into an imitation of Rita Skeeter, catching her accent perfectly. "Excuse me, Mr. Potter, how is it that you finally defeated the Dark Lord? Was it a battle of will or wit? Don't spare the readers any of the gory details!" Then Draco changed his voice into an unmistakable parody of Harry's. He stooped his shoulders and scratched his head. "Oh, erm, you know. Just uh, just snuck up on You-Know-Who in the shower is all. He ended up having a heart attack when I popped in. I do that sometimes, you know. Had a good wank afterwards, too. But, really, I'm no hero. It's, uh, all in a day's work, I guess."

Draco paused for Harry's retaliation, delighted in his imitation of Harry. He felt he'd really hit the nail on the head this time. The retaliation never came, however. Harry was, as usual, scratching his head awkwardly.

Draco swallowed. A horrible thought occurred to him. "Potter, please tell me you have never watched me in the shower."

Harry's head jerked up then. "What? No! God-of course not!" Potter looked horrified at the accusation, which made Draco feel just a bit better. Draco raised an eyebrow for no particular reason, then unfolded his arms and tried to recapture the picture of cool that had shattered upon Potter's arrival. He swaggered back to the couch and sprawled languorously over its velvet surface.

"Reparo," he said coolly, pointing his wand at the mug which repaired itself. "Accio mug." The mug, still warm from the charm, drifted into his grasp. "Now, if you don't mind," Draco pulled the blanket up around him and burrowed into the comfort of the couch, "I'm busy." He Accioed A Christmas Carol and pretended to read, making sure his eyes skimmed the page for believability.

Potter helped himself to the other end of Draco's couch without asking permission. Draco could smell the cold, earthy smell of snow and sweat radiating off of Potter. Potter smirked at the mug in the Draco's hand. "Busy reading, were you?"

"That's right."

"Hmmm," Potter tapped his chin, thoughtfully. "From downstairs it sounded more like King Draco was in the parlour, eating bread and honey…"

Draco flushed without looking up from his book. Potter was such an arse. "It's a song, Potter. A Pureblood song. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with it."

Potter snorted. "No, King Draco, I actually am familiar with it, just not your personalized version . . . "

"Fuck you, Potter. It isn't personalized. That's how the song goes."

"Is that how mummy sang it to you, your highness?"

Draco's cheeks reddened. It was how his mother had sung it. But he wasn't going to dignify the jab with a response.

"At least I have a mother, Potter." Whoops.

"Is that your only fallback defense, Malfoy? Insult the dead? It's really quite witty."

"Just stating facts."

Potter stayed abnormally cool, and lounged back on the sofa. His leg was touching the blanket over Draco's foot and water began to seep through. Draco jerked back and tugged the blanket with him, casting a drying charm on his foot. "Ugh! Were you born in a barn? Dry yourself off!"

Potter made no move. "Can't feel my fingers," he muttered, trying to flex them. They were raw, red and wet. Potter himself was completely soaked from the waist down. His nose was bright red and he kept sniffling.

Draco shook his head. "Drying Charm, genius. Why would you let yourself get soaked like that? You'll get frostbite or hypothermia, you imbecile."

Potter snorted and shook his head. His teeth were chattering. "G-god, I'm an i-idiot." He tried to ball his hands into fists. "Raised by M-Muggles, remember?"

Potter really looked worse for the wear. His chattering was growing more violent and it looked like he really was having trouble moving his numb extremities. Draco rolled his eyes. "That's a piss-poor excuse, Potter. You've been studying magic for six years." He pulled the blanket off of his legs and transfigured it into a heavy set of brown robes. "Get your wet clothes off. There's only so much a Drying Charm can do."

Potter gave him an odd look, then took the proffered robes with a shaking hand. "Er . . .th-thank y-you."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "And open your mouth. The sound of your teeth chattering is grating my nerves."

Potter scowled, but tried to muffle his chattering with his tongue. He stood up and shuffled toward the fire. "D-don't l-look."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Potter. You're the stalker here. And you still haven't told me why you're here, in the first place. How'd you get out of Hogwarts?"

Potter had turned around and was peeling off wet layer after wet layer of clothes and throwing them in a slushy puddle by the fire. Draco watched, amused, as Potter whipped off the pieces and flung them to the ground. Draco took his wand and levitated the pieces up over the fire.

"Hey!" Potter cried. "Put those back!"

Draco smirked. "Look around you, Potter. I spent hours re-decorating this haunted shack. I'm not about to let you leave your sopping rags in a disgusting pile of snow and sweat."

Potter's hands shook as he moved to take off his pants and something flipped in Draco's chest. "No!" He scrambled for his wand. Potter whipped his head around to look at him.

"Th-they're freezing and wet!" he protested.

"We can-I'll charm those, it's fine. They'll dry. I'll charm them." Draco muttered a Drying Spell quickly, then lowered his wand. "I don't want your bare bits all over my blanket, Potter," he added. The room was beginning to feel extremely hot. Perhaps he'd overdone it on that drying spell.

Potter furrowed his brow and shrugged. "Right." He snatched up the brown robes and pulled them on, seeming to snuggle into their dry warmth. Then he collapsed down next to the fire and began to rub his clammy, wet feet with his hands.

Draco wrinkled his face in disgust, but didn't say anything. Then he began to hum his song again, just to be irritating.

Potter kept quiet as he flexed his toes and tried to massage warmth back into them. The only sounds were the creaking of the wind, the crackling of the fire and Draco's incessant humming, which was steadily growing louder.

"Please stop," Potter said, finally, staring at the fire.

Draco hummed a bit more, holding his mug close. His eyes had read the same line of the book more than thirty times. It was too difficult to hum and read. "Stop what?" he asked, then hummed.

"Stop humming! Please."

Draco smiled. "Oh! I can do that. No problem, Potter. I didn't even realize I was humming. You know how those things are." Potter turned to looked at him and scowled. Draco stopped humming.

A minute later he began to whistle the song very quietly.

Potter rubbed his eyes and looked to the ceiling for mercy.

Draco whistled a bit louder.

Potter looked as though he was trying to remain in control. He turned back to the fire. It was quite amusing.

When that didn't garner a reaction, Draco added a little trill to his whistle. Then he began to sing just the last word of each line.

Whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle "money." Whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, "honey." Whistle, whistle, whistle, "hangin up the clothes, when a—"

"STOP! STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, STOP!" Potter smacked his hands on the ground for emphasis. Draco smirked down the book he was still pretending to read.

"My, my, Potter. Overreact much?" Draco casually turned a page. "I told you, I didn't realize I was doing it."

"What do you want, Malfoy? Are you just bored? Or do you hate me that much?"

"Both, Potter. And what I want is for you to tell me why you're here."

Potter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a soggy, miniature picnic basket. "There," he declared. "That's why. Dobby sent me." He used his wand to enlarge it. It was still sopping wet. "Er…"

Draco said nothing. He just stared, unamused, at the wet basket.

"Maybe, um. . ."

Draco raised an eyebrow. So the old elf hadn't forgotten about him after all? He only chose the most inept idiot for assistance.

The wet basket dripped melted snow and something else onto the floor into a puddle by Potter's feet. The boys looked at the basket and then at each other.

The words Drying Charm and duh hung, unsaid, between them.

Harry reached gingerly into the basket and pulled out a fistful of white, oozy mush with a piece of what looked like bologna in the middle. He wrinkled his face. Draco literally gagged. He put a hand in front of his mouth to make sure he didn't sick up on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

The white mush stuck to Potter's hand and he flung the whole mess onto the floorboards. It landed with a sickening splat.

"I just cleaned this place, I told you!" Draco cried. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me?" Potter yelled back. "I came trudging out here through the blinding snow, likely giving myself frostbite to bring you food! The least you can do is—"

Draco slammed his book shut. "Please, do not embarrass yourself and suggest that I thank you for bringing me that pile of vomit and trying to pass it off as something edible!" He scoffed. 'Thank you? I'd like to see you try and eat that shit, Potter. Go on! Lick it up off the floorboards!"

Potter huffed and threw the basket on the floor. A decent-looking apple rolled out, but Draco was not about to comment on it. "What do you want from me, Malfoy?"

"I want you to leave!"

Potter glared and stood up. "Fine," he stated simply. He snatched his wand and began stalking out of the room barefoot, wearing only the brown robes that Draco had transfigured for him.

He wasn't really going to leave, Draco thought. He had no shoes! He—it was a blizzard, for Christ's sakes!

Potter disappeared through the kitchen and Draco listened to his footsteps retreat down the stairs.

He'd be back any minute.

Any minute now.

Surely, without a coat and shoes he couldn't go far?

Draco pulled his knees to his chest uneasily and opened up his book. He heard a creak from next to the window and his heart skipped a beat. Was that creak new? Had he heard it the whole time, but didn't notice it?

A log popped loudly in the fire and Draco jumped. Where was Potter? Was he really going to just leave Draco here in a haunted house? And if he knew some magical way back to Hogwarts, why the hell was Draco sitting here pretending to read, anyway? He should follow him!

Draco stood quickly and squinted his eyes against unknown terrors as he began to make his way to the cellar stairs.

He opened the door to the staircase and was hit with the dry, earthy smell of decay and old dust.

"Lumos," he said, and held his wand out in front of him, feeling brave. If Potter could go in the cellar, so could Draco. Draco's wand cast a low light and he could see the rotted wooden steps below him and low criss-crossed wooden beams in the rafters above. He ducked, nearly hitting his head and continued lower. There was no sign of Potter.

Something warm ran over his foot. "Yeeaugh!" he yelled, losing his balance as he jumped away. He heard a squeak of protest and remembered the rat that had managed to escape his overeager wandfire.

"Bastard," he muttered, and went lower. Suddenly he heard the door above him slam shut. His breath caught in his throat and his heart felt like it had stopped beating.

Forgetting everything, he turned and pounded up the steps. He got a mouthful of spiderwebs, but couldn't be arsed to bat them off. All he could hear was the repeated mantra in his head: please don't be locked, please don't be locked, please don't be locked.

Draco closed his eyes and pushed the door hard. It opened. He ran. He ran through the kitchen blindly and into the sitting room. He ran a circle around the sitting room and ran to the main door. He pushed at the main door but it opened only an inch before it was unable to budge further, so packed in it was from snow.

"Shit!" he muttered, frantically. He tried banishing spells, vanishing spells, drying charms and even levitation charms, but nothing helped to displace the snow outside of the door. Draco was stuck. He moaned, feeling his panic give way to a duller, heightened anxiety. He wanted a drink. He wanted a draught, or a charm. Something. Was he really going to be trapped in a haunted house alone overnight? A house with doors that slammed shut at will and had mutant killer rats with hearts full of mischief?

Well he had no drinks and could take no calming draughts. But he promised, promised Pansy that he would not use the Sleeping Charm. Ever again. Did he say 'ever again?' If he hadn't said it, he had meant it. But he hadn't said it. Nor had he foreseen this situation, either. And, really, if he was supposed to spend the night here, there was no way in hell he was going to fall asleep without some assistance.

"No!" he shouted. "No, no, no, no." Draco wrapped his arms around himself and paced back and forth in front of the door, as if it actually offered him an escape rather than a cruel temptation. Just like the Sleeping Charm.

"No," he muttered again. "I don't need it. I'm not doing it, no. But if I did . . . just once more . . ." He trained his wand on himself and stared skeptically at the black rod. So much power in one little stick. With one word, Draco could be flying high, free of fear. He shook his head and dropped his wand in exasperation. "Ugh. No! I don't need it. It's not going to help. Not going to help. No." He kicked the wall. Then he kicked his own shin. "Ow! No-you idiot. You're not doing it."

He dropped his head into his hands and let out a frustrated moan, sinking to the floor in a pile of robes.

Shuffle, shuffle. Draco whipped his head up and stared straight ahead.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. The sounds approached him until they were directly in front of him.

But Draco was no fool. He was well-stalked and more than familiar with the sound he was hearing now. This was no ghost.

Oh no. Not a ghost. Not yet.

Not until Draco killed him.

Draco blinked coolly and stared up at approximately where Potter's head would be.

"Accio cloak," he stated in a bored voice as Potter appeared before him.

In his pants.

Draco's eyes widened momentarily before he began to laugh.

Potter looked horrified and dove for the brown robe that sat on Draco's lap on top of the Invisibility Cloak.

"Evanesco!" Draco said quickly. The brown cloak vanished. "Ha. HA!"

Potter said nothing. He just stood there, blushing furiously and looking a bit ashamed. Serves him right, Draco thought, as he stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into his pocket and placed a Locking Charm on it. Potter wasn't about to get this thing back. The stupid cloak had quickly become the driving force for Draco's paranoia. In fact, Draco should have just nicked the damn thing on the Hogwarts Express when he had the chance.

ooo

Harry didn't even bother asking for his cloak back. He knew he had been acting like a git. He was pretending to be a ghost for Merlin's sakes, just to terrify a highly-agitated Draco Malfoy. It was childish and stupid. And now he was nearly naked. And freezing. Really, truly freezing. Demanding his cloak back was not going to work. Not with Malfoy. If he wanted his cloak back, he was going to have to get clever.

Harry turned from Malfoy, snatched the apple off the ground and plopped down on the sofa.

Malfoy frowned.

"What else is in that basket, Potter? Or is the rest of it as soggy as you?" Malfoy crept forward to peek. Harry Accioed the wet picnic basket to his lap.

"Well," Harry began, taking a big bite out of the apple. "Mmm. There are a couple of things." He chewed and swallowed. Malfoy's stomach grumbled loudly and Harry smirked. "Why? Are you hungry or something?"

Malfoy frowned and folded his arms. "No."

Harry shrugged. "Oh. Good. Well, I am. So, I'm sure you don't mind if I dig in. By the way, I have no intention of leaving here tonight. You do realize that it's a blizzard outside? And that we're snowed in?"

"Ten points for Gryffindor. Great observational skills. Impressive."

"My point is, I was never actually planning on leaving. So you needn't have worried about the ghosts getting you while you're all by yourself." Harry smiled innocently.

"Oh, please, Potter. I'm not five," Malfoy muttered, but he kept his eyes trained on a knot on the wood floor.

"So that's why you came chasing after me, hmm?"

"For your information," Malfoy plopped down on the other end of the sofa and kicked Harry's feet off of his side, "I was trying to figure out how the hell you got here from Hogwarts. You can't Apparate and the Hogwarts wards are some of the strongest in Britain, save for Malfoy Manor, of course."

"Yes, dark magic makes for impenetrable wards, I hear."

"Stop changing the subject!" Malfoy snapped.

"You're the one who brought it up."

"If you aren't going to answer the question then just say so!"

"Fine, I'm not going to answer the question. But since you aren't hungry, then I guess there was no point in me coming at all."

"Then leave."

"Oh, we're back to this again, are we?" Harry rolled his eyes. "You know you don't want me to leave. You're secretly thrilled that you don't have to stay in this 'haunted house' all by yourself. You were scared shitless when you thought I'd left. And your face when the cellar door slammed-oh Merlin! Priceless."

Malfoy pressed his lips together then poked at Harry's bare arm leaving a white fingermark that quickly vanished.

"Ow!" he yelped.

"Cold, Potter?" He indicated the goosebumps that were covering Harry's body.

"No."

"Hmmm. I guess I won't need to Summon that cloak back then."

"The only cloak I want back is my Invisibility Cloak."

Malfoy smiled. "Nice try. Not happening." He patted the pocket which contained the cloak for emphasis, then picked up his book again and began reading.

Harry shrugged, seemingly accepting this. Then he reached into the picnic basket and pulled out two bananas, another apple, two spoons, two bowls, a large, sealed container of chicken soup and a thermos of cocoa. He grinned. "Nothing like hot soup and cocoa on a cold night, eh Malfoy?"

Harry pulled a splintered coffee table up to the couch and set the items on it, one by one. He cast a sideways glance at Malfoy who was peering at the soup over the cover of his book.

Harry, still in his boxers, tried to hide his shivering. He peeled the lid off the soup and large curls of steam dissipated into the room. He leaned forward and took a big whiff. "Mmm," he murmured.

Malfoy turned a page. His eyes were still on the food.

Harry held up the extra bowl "Guess I don't need this," he muttered, stashing it back in the basket. He poured a generous serving of soup into his bowl, then placed the lid on top of the container.

The smell reached Malfoy and he took an audible inhale. His stomach grumbled again and he frowned.

"Merlin, there's so much food here. I'd share but, uh, you're not hungry, right, Malfoy?"

"Fuck you, Potter. Give me that other bowl." Malfoy got up to reach for the basket when Harry locked it shut with his wand. "Hey! That's my food! Dobby sent it for me."

"And, uh, that's my cloak in your pocket, there. It was a gift from my father to me. You give it back and you get a nice big bowl of soup and a steaming mug of cocoa. Oh, wait! You already have something to drink." Harry indicated the hot, empty mug that Malfoy had been pretending was tea. "I forgot. Guess you won't want any of this after all."

Malfoy inched closer to look at the food. Then he shoved Harry and snatched for a banana, but it wouldn't budge off the table.

"You locked the food down?" he asked, incredulously.

Harry smirked. "I did."

Malfoy reached into his pocket and yanked out the balled-up cloak. He held it towards Harry who instinctively reached for it. Malfoy yanked it back. "I want my food first."

Harry scoffed. "No way!"

Malfoy normally would have held out longer, but he was visibly salivating. "Fine. Here." He threw the cloak at Harry, who quickly snatched it up and sat on it.

"And the other cloak?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "That was not a part of the deal. Besides! You don't deserve it. I was nice enough to transfigure it for you out of my blanket and then you go running out of here and then try to scare me with your little ghost scheme. Which! By the way, didn't work."

Harry looked thoughtful. "That was nice of you," he admitted.

Malfoy's eyes widened in agreement and he nodded frantically. "It was! It was nice of me! And I don't do nice things, Potter. Not out of charity. Never."

"So why did you for me?" Harry took a spoonful of soup and blew on it.

"Because! I didn't want to see you standing around in your skivvies like a pervert."

"Well, you seem to be enjoying it now."

Malfoy's mouth dropped, outraged. "The only thing I enjoy is watching you suffer, Potter."

"Hmm, well, I told you. I'm not cold. So perhaps you're just enjoying the view? I didn't realize you were into that sort of thing, but hey! I mean, who am I to question personal preferences?"

Malfoy balked. "I don't! What? How dare you! I'm not-!" he sputtered. Malfoy quickly Summoned the other cloak and threw it at Harry. "There! Arsehole. Personal preferences. Ha. I suppose you would know all about that, now wouldn't you? Galavanting around with the Weasel, and your freckle-faced in-laws. Tell me, how'd you get into that cozy family again? Was it a union of love? Consummated in matrimony on a great big, bed stuffed with hay? Or was it a bond of power, bringing together two blood traitor families to monopolize wizard farming and poverty? Or maybe—" Crack!

Malfoy winced, rubbing his arm where Harry had whipped the bowl. "Oi! What was that for, Potter?"

"Whoops, I missed. I was aiming to plug up your big mouth."

Malfoy snatched up the soup and greedily poured himself a heaping bowl.

"You know," he said around a spoonful of soup, "you should really look into your issues with physical violence. It can't be healthy."

"What issues?" Harry protested, pulling on the brown cloak and wrapping it tightly around himself. "I don't have issues!"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows then shook his head, sadly.

"This coming from the bloke who broke my nose!" Harry cried.

"That was for revenge. And that was the only time I have ever initiated physical violence with you. Unless I was threatened."

Harry scoffed. "Right. And every other time you just started an argument with your fat mouth and let Crabbe and Goyle muscle it out for you."

Malfoy nodded. "Precisely."

Harry realized that this argument was going nowhere. He fought down the urge to swat Malfoy because he certainly wasn't going to prove the prat right.

They continued to eat their dinner in an empty silence, feeling as though their prior conversation had been prematurely abandoned. Harry kept hearing the word "precisely' drawl in his head and wished he had thought of an appropriate remark when Malfoy had said it.

oooo

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