The house was empty and quiet, but there were still sounds that lurked on the edge of hearing. Draco felt very much as though he was sitting in the middle of something bigger than he was, something filled with ghosts of the past he couldn't quite grasp. He felt entombed by his fear and the house was merely a manifestation of that. When it had begun to feel like too much, that he was grasping at his chest as he struggled for steady breath, he had fled from the dusty place and into the back garden.

It was overrun with weeds and thick, tangled brown vines that seemed to be choking the life out of anything beautiful. There were blue and yellow flowers that grew alongside the house, but their petals were turning black and their stems a deep brown. A bench sat in the middle of the earthy chaos, and it was not spared from the vines or the dead leaves that appeared to cover everything. But the air was fresh, if not heavy with the smell of moist dirt, and the sky was open and blue above him.

Sitting on the bench, his mind whirled with unsteady, dark thoughts that shifted away as quickly as they came. His father's face, filled with hatred for his own son; his dead Aunt and her inhuman strength; the woman standing in the street of Grimmauld Place; the thought of Salazar Slytherin calling his allegiance, making the mark on his forearm burn.

Draco abruptly straightened. That last thought seemed wrong somehow, not like the others. His forearm did burn, but it was a dull ache he'd gotten used to. He'd never felt as though he were being called by it, though. It had always been the mark of his imprisonment, whether in his own mind or by society or by Voldemort. It had burned when Voldemort had called his Death Eaters together, but he never felt as though it were literally pulling him away from anything.

Now the burning in his forearm felt as though it were tearing him in two. Part of him knew he had to stay at Grimmauld Place where he was protected and safe, but the other part felt as though the place was suffocating him and the only freedom he could have was if he followed where the mark called. To Slytherin.

Dark fear gripped him then and Draco ran his bitten nails along the rough, raised skin of the mark. It was like a scab that wouldn't heal or tear away, no matter how he picked at it and tried to get rid of it. Blood was bubbling around the edges where his fingers had torn the unmarked skin and he had to forcibly grip his knee to keep his hand from doing further damage.

A door slammed within the house that made him jump. His heart leapt into his throat and even when the back garden door opened, he expected his father or his aunt, or hell, Salazar Slytherin himself. But it was only Potter, who looked a little like Draco felt, pale and shaken by something.

"Good," Potter breathed, color rushing to his cheeks. He walked over to the bench, his feet kicking vines and rocks out of the way. "I thought you'd left."

Draco was surprised at how relieved Potter sounded. Relieved that he hadn't left, though Draco couldn't think of why Potter would think he would. Even with the pulling at his mind and the dark thoughts that were swelling in him, he couldn't leave Grimmauld Place. He wouldn't. He clung desperately to it because it was Potter's and Potter was safe.

"Why would I leave?" he asked carefully, watching as Potter took a seat beside him on the bench, clearing away leaves and tearing at a few dead vines. "That would be suicide."

Potter cleared his throat, looking as though he wanted to say something but was holding it back for whatever reason. "No reason. How are you feeling?"

Draco eyed Potter. He was hiding something. But wasn't he always? It wasn't as though he and Potter had ever been open with one another, but seeing him as often as Draco had, he had picked up on things that went unsaid. Potter's life was riddled with secrets that he was keeping from everyone, secrets that he was probably keeping from himself. Secrets like why he had helped Draco; why he had sometimes stayed several nights at the dingy apartment when he had his own, well cared for flat; why he maintained a job he didn't like and why he was dating a girl he didn't love.

"Wonderful," Draco drawled, turning his voice into the physical mask he couldn't quite conjure up, but there was a brittle edge to it. "I just wouldn't know what to do with myself if I weren't being chased by mad-men who wanted me dead."

Potter snorted. "Welcome to my life."

There was a moment of tense silence between them. Draco focused his gaze on a patch of weedy flowers that despite their nature looked rather beautiful. He felt compelled to look at Potter, but resisted the temptation. There was something warm and safe that fluttered in his stomach every time he did, but Potter would probably get a bit weird if Draco stared at him all of the time, just so that he didn't feel like he was going out of his mind. Finally, he asked, "Why are you helping me?"

It was a question that had gone unspoken for a year. Draco had never asked and Potter had never explained. But things hadn't been so harried then. He'd been running from Aurors who weren't a danger to Potter, only an obstacle. If Potter had been found harboring Draco, he probably would've gotten a slap on the wrist and maybe lost his job – the one he didn't care for anyway. But now there was a very real chance that one of them – or both of them – could die. It seemed a very stupid idea to Draco to help him out at all. If it had been reversed, Draco probably would've run for the high hills and stayed as far away from Potter as possible.

Something twisted in his stomach at the thought, but he forced it down.

"Because you don't deserve to die or be imprisoned," Potter said after a moment of quiet contemplation. Well, Draco thought, of course not. He didn't believe he deserved any of those things. Thus the whole on-the-run thing. Part of him still felt guilty, though. He had done terrible things, even if he'd had the best intentions. He probably did deserve to be imprisoned in Azkaban. "I mean you're a good person. You're not like the Lestranges or… or your father. You didn't become a Death Eater because you wanted to kill people."

A warm heat had traveled up the back of Draco's neck and into his cheeks. He felt a bit odd – he almost wanted to hug Potter for saying that. Having someone – anyone – see good in Draco where no else had felt foreign but welcome. Still, he smothered the feeling down. Potter was naïve and stupid. He gave a bitter laugh. "How do you know? Maybe I enjoy wearing the entrails of my enemies as a hat."

Draco could feel Potter's glare without having to look at him. His bitterness withered.

"You would probably pass out if you had entrails on your head," Potter said. "Ruining your pretty hair."

"It's true," Draco nodded solemnly, feeling a bit lighter. "Entrails would take forever to get out and I don't look very good in red."

Potter laughed and his shoulder bumped Draco's. He was warm beneath his navy blue cotton t-shirt, where Draco's skin was like ice. For the first time, Draco realized he'd been partially in shock. Almost immediately, spreading from the spot where Potter had touched him, he felt a bit warmer.

"I appreciate it," said Draco finally. "I mean you're help. But I don't see why you would want to."

Potter shrugged. "Someone has to."

Draco felt as though the heat had dropped right out of him and his limbs were suddenly stiff with ice. "Right, of course," Draco drawled, his voice cold and hard. "Someone has to help poor Malfoy, who can't do anything on his own. Why not add it to your long list of accomplishments? Defeat Voldemort, catch Death Eaters, turn Malfoy into a good little drudge."

Draco compelled himself upward, though he hardly felt capable of standing. He moved a bit like a robot; stiff and jerky but moving quickly toward the door to the house. Anything to get away from Potter, who probably thought of Draco as nothing more than a bit of altruism. Well, what had he expected, really?

"Draco," Potter said suddenly and Draco realized he was directly behind him. The name sounded foreign in Draco's ears. Potter had never said it, not unless it was laced with enough venom to kill a snake. There was a hot hand suddenly gripping Draco's forearm and the Dark Mark flared with heat. Potter ripped his hand away, looking scalded. "Was that –"

Draco merely gave him a jerky nod and a grim, twisted smile. "Speaking of, why don't you ride off on your charity horse and get those potions ingredients? Then you can be rid of me and put another gold star on your resume."

Draco stalked off, throwing open the back door and stomping through the hall, already halfway up the stairs by the time Potter was shutting the door behind him. He could hear Potter calling his name, but he was firmly ignoring him.

"Draco, that's not –"

But Draco had already slammed shut the door to his room.