7b.

The sky seemed finally to have picked up on the dark events happening on the world below it. As the evening drew in, the glorious sunlight was dying, the bright sky was darkening, and a cold mist was creeping across the fields and through the trees. Shrouded by the mist, the last rays of what should have been a glorious sunset looked like a fire smouldering along the horizon.

Harry shivered and pulled his borrowed cloak closer around him. The mist seemed to have the ability to sink through clothes and skin and flesh, chilling him from the bones out. It was also getting thicker by the minute - the lane beyond the railings was already a no-man's land of deep shadows and shifting tendrils of fog. Perfect cover for Death Eaters, if indeed there were any out there.

He tensed up as an eerie glow lit up one patch of mist - then relaxed as a car appeared, driving slowly past the school gate. The fog diffused the beam from its headlights, spreading warm light throughout the dark lane, and the low growl of its engine was a comforting sound of life. Harry was sorry when it passed, and the world returned to gloom and silence.

Looking around him, he saw the dim shapes of other sentries spread about the playground. None of them were speaking to the others. It was as if the fog was like a pillow pressed down over the whole village - not just dulling colours and muffling sound, but suffocating the life out of all of them. Even though he knew the others were there, Harry felt alone, and the melancholic atmosphere of the old playground hit him even more acutely.

He was walking through the playground, alone, long after the other children had departed in their little giggling groups…

Snap out of it! Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory. It's just a bit of mist. He'd volunteered to take his turn as a look-out - he had to concentrate on that.

He had been staring into the lane, watching carefully for any sign of activity, for about five minutes, before his mind drifted off again. This time it brought up an image from his dreams - Malfoy writhing on the floor in agony - and mixed it with memories from the Ministry. Screams echoed down empty corridors -

You did that to him. So convinced you were doing the right thing, and now he's suffering or dead…

Harry swore loudly and at length. He couldn't afford to think about Malfoy now, and he refused to feel guilty for just trying to help. Besides - he was going to find him. He didn't quite know how, but he wasn't going to just shrug and write Malfoy off - or mourn him as if he was dead. Both of those were giving up, and while Harry might accept, intellectually at least, that sometimes you had to admit defeat, he couldn't do it. Maybe after Hermione and Hestia had finished checking the box for curses -

Something was in the lane, something large and dark, gliding through the mist as if it was made of mist itself. Harry was already cold to the bone, but now he felt as if there were ice crystals forming in his blood, freezing arteries and veins, seizing up muscles - rooting him to the spot.

No! He forced himself to move, to pull out his wand. The playground was full of the dark figures, drifting with the fog. It should have been hard to dredge up happy memories after letting himself wallow in the unhappy ones, but one jumped into his head, all shiny and new - thin arms wrapped around him so tightly he could hardly breathe, his fingers sliding off hospital robes onto smooth, hot skin, worry disintegrating, changing into relief, relief changing into a jolt of happiness strong enough to -

Other people got there first - he could hear "Expecto Patronum!" being shouted out all over the playground - but Harry's Patronus burst free of his wand with a flash of light that almost blinded him and lit up the fog even more powerfully than the car headlights. He stood in amongst glowing whiteness, aware of dark shapes retreating all around him, but eyes fixed on the stag, the happiest moments of his life in physical form, glowing so brightly it hurt to look at it.

"Fight." He didn't know why he said it - his Patronus certainly needed no instruction in doing just that, and as for Harry himself… I've never felt less like admitting defeat in my life…

Draco was already wet, cold and angry. The tide had been in when he'd reached the beach, and he'd had to wade out to reach the edge of the wards, only to find that the currents were strong enough to sweep him off his feet. Two dunkings and a hard swim later, he was cursing Snape - and Potter and the Dark Lord and his father and the world in general. His mood wasn't improved when he Apparated into the playground.

A battle - great. Well, food, fresh clothes and a warm bed would be a better welcome, but I don't have that kind of luck…

If it was a battle, it was a strange one. Thick mist surrounded him, shrouding most of the action from view, but he could hear spells being cast, and see shapes moving in the mist - silvery forms darting about, moving with the grace and agility of animals, and dark shadows retreating before them.

Battle or not, if his current run of luck held true, he would soon be right in the middle of it. Draco sighed and drew his wand.

He didn't want to fight. His back hurt, and he didn't feel like he'd slept for about a week.

Fuck fighting. Find Potter, and go to bed.

And that thought, he decided, proved he was tried - Potter and bed in the same sentence? He wasn't just tired - he was sick.

Draco didn't think anything could make him colder than being dunked in the Atlantic, but the mist was managing it. The cold felt like it was creeping up from his insides, which up until that moment had been kept nice and warm by his anger. But the anger was fading, blotted out by the cold, and the mist was inside him -

Fog rippled in front of him like the folds of a curtain, parting around a figure that was definitely not made from the mist, however smoothly it glided forwards.

"Impedimenta!"

Black robes shivered as the spell passed through them, but the creature itself didn't even flinch. The sounds of battle were gone; all Draco could hear was the sound of his own blood thundering in his ears.

"Sectumsempra!"

Fabric fluttered apart. Draco saw greyish goo oozing out of glistening, scabby skin. He'd put all his power behind that curse, and barely left a scratch - a scratch that was already crusting over. The Dementor reached out a hand; Draco took a couple of hasty steps backwards, and bumped up against something in the mist, something that swung back then cracked into his calves. He stumbled, and caught hold of the nearest thing to stop himself falling.

A chain - he was holding a chain. The links were rough and rusty beneath his fingers. Too rusty to clink together - but that was what he could hear…

No. He wasn't going to think about that. He knew that place, and he wasn't going to be forced back there.

The Dementor stopped in front of him. There was a tiny part of his brain not consumed by fog and the sound of chains scraping across stone, and it was frantically running through his options. He couldn't run - every rattling breath the thing took seemed so suck more strength from his body - and he could hardly expect to talk his way out. He knew spells to tear flesh apart, to strip off skin and rip out entrails - but how useful would they be against a creature that could shrug off Sectumsempra?

Soon after Draco and Snape had first arrived at the castle, Bellatrix had acquired - or probably created - a cadaver, and kept it in the Great Hall, playing with it like a puppet. It had been three days before the Dark Lord had become bored of her antics and ordered her to dispose of it. Three days… Draco still remembered how it had looked - and how it had smelt. He imagined the Dementor as looking just like that, under its voluminous robes - and his stomach flipped.

And I actually used to make fun of Potter for being scared of these things…

Cold fingers closed around his face. He could feel the oozing scabs on the thing's fingertips as it forced his head back, see the cloth in front of its face ripple as it drew in another breath, and, yes, it did smell like Bellatrix's toy. But the voice he heard growling in his head didn't belong to the Dementor - "Guess it's my lucky day…"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The most powerful one-to-one curse known, and it couldn't cut off the voice in his head. His scream seemed as if it should ring out for miles, and the green flash lit up the fog around them, but the fog in his head was suffocating, and the voice relentless.

"Please fight - it'll make me very happy…"

There were more people around him now - reinforcements from inside the Schoolhouse. The mist turned every witch and wizard into a featureless shadow, but every Patronus was unique. A silver falcon soared past Harry's stag, so bright and quick it left a trail of light in the fog. Ron was out there somewhere - Harry was sure he'd seen a Jack Russell terrier snapping at the robes of a retreating Dementor.

And they were retreating - all of them. Pathetic. So big and frightening, but they're just scavengers really. Can't stand their prey fighting back.

Silence had fallen over the playground; everyone who could had conjured up their Patronus and now all that could be done was watch as the ghostly animals drove the Dementors remorselessly back. It was so quiet that Harry could hear the throbbing of his own blood in his ears. So quiet that when the shout rang out through the fog, he could hear every syllable of the Killing Curse - and the fear and desperation behind it.

And he recognised the voice.

The sudden jump of Harry's heart seemed to feed his Patronus; the phantom stag seemed to get even bigger and brighter as it charged off into the mist.

Other people were turning in the direction of the shout, but Harry was already moving, running after the stag, following the glow of it through the mist. Let the others dither. They might be torn between going to help someone obviously in trouble and not wanting to help someone who would use an Unforgivable, but Harry had no such problem.

Even if he was rapidly deciding that he didn't actually know Malfoy at all, he was certain the only way the words Avada Kedavra would ever pass his lips would be as a last resort.

When there's no other way out… which means I could already be too late…

No!

He burst into a patch of air that was clearer, and saw his Patronus attacking a Dementor with even more aggression than usual. The foul creature wasn't retreating like the others - it was obviously reluctant to give up its food. That thought made Harry look for Malfoy. It would leave if it had already sucked out his soul, wouldn't it? He's not -

A small bright form rushed past his feet. If it had been a flesh-and-blood dog it would have been yapping furiously - as a Patronus, it showed its excitement by enthusiastically joining in the fight.

Malfoy was slumped on one of the old swings, clinging on to the chain as if his life depended on it. His wand was in his hand, but it kept moving, pointed first at the Dementor, then at the stag, then at the Jack Russell, as if he didn't know which was the biggest threat. Harry made an involuntary movement, and the wand whipped round to point at him.

Malfoy's skin seemed to reflect the light from the Patronuses, until he looked as much a creature of light and air and mist as they were, but as Harry stepped forward, he saw scratches and bruises on that pale skin, and looked into eyes that were wide and haunted, stripped of all their usual layers of cynicism and malice.

For a moment, Harry faltered. He knew what he wanted to do and say - and knew all of it would be unwelcome, however shell-shocked Malfoy looked. At any other time he thought he'd be tempted to just go for it - to just hug Malfoy tight and enjoy the explosion. But now…

He grinned. "And the life-saving tally now stands at 3-2 - to me. You're losing your touch."

Malfoy blinked. His eyes narrowed. "Where do you get three from?"

"The Manor, the Hospital, and now." Harry felt his grin widen until it almost hurt. When Malfoy pulled a face at him and he saw the old glint back in the other boy's eyes, he felt an odd warmth spread inside him, and the air felt suddenly lighter and cleaner. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Dementor in full retreat, the two Patronuses happily pursuing it.

"One, you didn't save my life at the Manor - you put it in danger. Two, my life wasn't in danger at the hospital." Harry laughed and got an offended glare.

"You thought it was," he said. Since Malfoy didn't look like he was going to stand up any time soon, Harry dropped to his knees. Always better to do your fighting face to face.

"What I thought doesn't count." Malfoy raised his head, and for once Harry didn't want to inflict violence on that snooty expression. He beamed at Malfoy - to his delight, it seemed to make him even angrier. "Up until now, I've been happily ignorant of Muggle healing methods. I hope to return to that blessed state in the future."

"You were so relieved to see me, you hugged me," Harry said calmly. And it looks like I got a fantastic Patronus out of that memory, so thank you. Why he'd created such a good Patronus from that memory he didn't know - but it was probably something that he shouldn't think too hard about.

"I'm never going to be allowed to fucking forget that, am I?"

"Never," Harry said, watching a couple of droplets of water run down Malfoy's neck. He was soaked through - even his hair was slick to his head, and Harry felt cold, water-sodden denim scratch at his skin as he rested his hands on the edges of the seat. "You bait me all the time. I have to have something to use in retaliation." Malfoy stared at him, and Harry realised the position he'd unintentionally put them in. It was like a twisted mirror image of the last time they'd spoken - Harry leaning forward, Malfoy drawing back.

Harry's conscience was bleating on about invasion of personal space and unwelcome physical contact. He blithely ignored it. Malfoy hadn't given any thought to things like that when it'd had been the other way around. He moved forward, and got a stab of vicious satisfaction as Malfoy nearly fell off the swing.

But then Harry started to feel uncomfortable. Satisfaction at turning the tables couldn't account for the tightness in his chest and throat, or the way his heart seemed to be trying to burst through his ribcage. He stared at the tangled ribbons of wet hair clinging to Malfoy's neck and shoulders, and tried to ignore the heat surging though his body, pooling in his head and - shamefully, horrifyingly - his dick.

Then the swing shifted beneath his hands as Malfoy slid forward on it. They were suddenly nose-to-nose, and Harry couldn't retreat because Malfoy had a handful of his t-shirt. Not that he wanted to. He was staring into enormous grey eyes, and if eyes were truly windows to the soul, then all Malfoy had in there was malice. Warm breath slid over his lips as Malfoy spoke, and Harry breathed it in. "But it's no fun if you can fight back." One inch…just one inch closer and that humiliating ache in his crotch would be the least of his worries…

Whatever evil spell they'd managed to work up between them, it was easily broken. The sound of footsteps behind him had Harry frantically pulling away, almost strangling himself on his t-shirt before Malfoy decided to let it go. He sprawled on the broken paving, cursing both Malfoy and whatever twisted part of himself had prompted that.

"You came back, then." Ron's voice was hard. When Harry looked up, he saw that the expression on his face was no more welcoming. Well, of course - Ron hates Malfoy more than I ever have.

But Ron was essentially a fair bloke. If Malfoy can just unbend a little - treat Ron with a little respect -

"Apparently," Malfoy drawled as he stood up. "I do apologise, Weasley. Does my presence cramp your style?" He shot an appraising glance at Harry. "I never did know whose pants you were trying to get into at school - innocent thing I am, I always thought it was Granger's."

Harry shot to his feet, not sure whether to hold Ron back or join him in pounding seven types of shit out of Malfoy.

He didn't get the chance to do either - Malfoy turned his back on both of them. "Just in time to die with you all," he said. "Wonderful."

Ron scowled. "What are you talking about? We just wiped the floor with those Dementors - or were you too busy playing damsel in distress to notice?"

Malfoy spun around. Harry had never seen him look so angry, but his voice was icy as he spoke to Ron. "Do you really think that's it? One skirmish and it's all over? Just like that? Have you ever, in your no-doubt extensive studies of the art of war, come across the term 'feint'? Or 'reconnaissance in force'? Somewhere out there -" He waved his arm so dramatically that Harry had to duck. "- is a very clever man. He can't see you - Fidelius Charm, right? - but Dementors have no human senses to be fooled. One little attack in which he lost none of his forces, and now he knows exactly where you are!"

Harry looked around, cursing the fog. He could just pick out the outlines of the railings, and the dark shapes of the Dementors against them, kept at bay by patrolling Patronuses. Malfoy sniffed. "The fog's probably his doing, too. That's a tactic called 'concealment', Weasley, if you want to look it up." Ron glared at him. "You don't believe me? Fine." He waved his wand, but other people had already had the same idea; gusts of wind were suddenly coming from all directions, moving apart the mist.

The winds did more than just break up the mist; they carried with them a smell a lot more unpleasant than the sea-water scent that clung to Malfoy.

Rotting flesh.

Through the few scattered remnants of the mist, Harry could see the people he'd just been fighting alongside. All of them were standing and staring, a few of them with wands already pointed, into the lane, at the sight revealed by the last few rays of the setting sun.

Inferi - too many of them to count - were packed up against the school yard walls in a great seething mass. Some of them stretched their arms through the railings. Ron glared at Malfoy as if he'd put them there personally, just to spite him. Malfoy just wrapped his arms around himself; Harry was struck by how tired he looked - tired, wet, battered, and incredibly pissed off.

"I hate being right all the time," he said. "Anyone for Round Two?"