Think, right?

Harry could manage that; he was part-Slytherin himself, in a weird way. So, yes, even in circles, confluential ones, if need be.

"Hmm...mine was in the Ministry, in the gym pool, and clearly ARP was thinking the old TriWizard challenges, or something like, so…dangerous. Could be dangerous. But I was safe enough and wouldn't have drowned; not even Parkinson would've let me drown in gym pool, she'd catch so much strife for it. Ron would kill her, and so would Draco—ah…hmmm. Parkinson, Parkinson, you slag, what do you know I don't? He's not been to the Manor so that leaves out the dungeons there; he's not at Hogwart's, which means no Astronomy Tower and not down Hagrid's, either, nor the Shack…where, where, damn it all?"

Think.

Think, Harry.

Harry paced the remodeled entryway of Grimmauld, wearing a groove in his hallway runner. Not knowing where else to do it, he'd retreated to the Ancient House of Black (and also Potter) to ruminate.

And he thought aloud, as there was no one there to hear him babble away to himself. Besides, it had worked before, this methodical outburst of raw thought, with Hermione and Ron…and then when he was left alone, as he was now.

"Not…it's not anywhere Muggle, I don't think. He likes the food and the music and all and even some of their clothes, but not—not enough so one could set him adrift in Harrod's and abandon him there with a clear conscience. Harrod's is dangerous, yeah, but not like that. Parkinson would never see it that way in any case; she likes the shopping, silly bint...hmmm. Maybe...just p'raps, the fencing lessons? They'd drop him off over at the arena? But how would that come into it? Makes as much sense as bloody thumb-wrestling court does…no. None of that, then. But, but...duelling, in general? They're having him fight? Fight someone, for my sake? But he's not been in the Ministry; he's not on any assignment—can't be, not without me, so…that's out. Completely out, damn it!"

The Ancient House of Black (and Potter) only creaked at him. With the old Witch's portrait long since gone from the front hall, it was a kindly enough creaking, actually, but no help to Harry in any real sense.

It only felt like he did: a bit lonely.

"...And duelling with wands?" Harry snorted to himself, stomping. "But that's Hogwart's again and McGonagall assured me. Flying? No. No, can't stay on a broom that long if he's maybe unconscious and he'd have turned straight about and flown somewhere sensible if he was awake. And Quidditch is out; not practical. No…Fuck! Why can't I just think? This has to be simple enough, somehow. Ron swore it was simple, didn't he? I'm just not looking at it from the proper angle, I know it!"

Lonely. Harry knew all about 'lonely'. The thought of being by himself sent a pang through him. But it had changed for the better, hadn't it? Aurors had partners because partners worked better than singletons: more efficient, effective, safer…happier in their work. And two could join their magic when needed, just as two could bend their minds to solve a pressing problem all the quicker. But until Harry had his Draco—er, partner found and safely secured, he was alone…and not liking it.

"Right, right—think, Harry, old man—think! Think like a Slytherin, think like Parkinson would, so a female Slytherin! And Luna, as well, as she's batshit crazy so it's absolutely insane, whatever it is they've come up with, I know it. Dangerous, deep...and crazy like a fox, then. But still…"

He tapped his chin, pacing in ever-smaller circles.

"Something to do with me…something to do with him…and we both know it or know of it, but? But, yes! Like TriWizard, yes, okay, but not either. Same scale, maybe…same degree. It's big, then...an event? And it's important…it matters, somehow, the place where he is. To me, too. It's a little uncomfortable but not too, too dangerous, 'cause they can't exactly…and I…and he—he and me and, oh, Merlin! Where we ever? Met, maybe? First time? No—Harry, you git, not Diagon, can't be Diagon; you've already been there, so not Madame Maulkin's shop! But where else…where could he be? Where we've been, together, the two of us? Think, think, thi—not! Not the… bloody…sodding train sta—tion…? The Express? Huh...no! No, couldn't be…but could it? Platform Nine and Three Quarters?"

Harry halted at last, eyes huge and very dark green round expanded pupils, gazing blankly up the rise of the elderly stairwell, his mind completely centred on one singular Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, Draco Lucius: Auror, partner, old schoolmate, older enemy before that...and when had that all happened? Exactly? The very beginning of it?

He missed him now, the Auror, his partner; flat out missed him. They'd not had their usual lunch together this day, morning coffee had been hurried at best, the lift ride too short. Last weekend had been a dead loss as well…oh, yes, Harry missed him. No, was missing him, actively. Pining for the chance to stare at him when it seemed as if he wouldn't notice. Grabbing the opportunity to admire his svelte form at fencing, or sigh silently over the winsome way he clamped his pink tongue between his front teeth when they were practicing at their thumb wrestling for ARP.

…Which was really just an excuse to hold hands…really, it was.

"King's…King's Cross Station? Couldn't be!"

He missed him, Harry did. He wasn't quite all there without him. Never would be, really. And it had all begun so many, many years ago—not so much at the robes shop but later, when Draco had wished for Harry to…to be his friend. Had demanded it of him, and Harry had made a choice; he'd felt he'd had to, he must. Not that he regretted it, but...it had both begun and then...it had also ended, sadly. Between them, all those lost years. Stillborn in its conception.

It was. It was rather horribly depressing.

It took a moment's space, but Harry brightened. He even stood taller, his hands fisting eagerly at his sides.

But…weren't train stations places where people could start over again, in a way? A bit? Maybe not change every single item but enough? Hadn't Dumbledore…?

Of course he had! And Luna—Luna knew it, or at least had an inkling about what had happened to Harry there, even if Parkinson didn't. Yes! YES!

Harry felt like belting out a whoop of exultation but there was just enough doubt, yet, that he didn't. A niggle, a tendril of dis-ease climbing his brilliant idea, ready to tear it to pieces. It was premature—he didn't know; this could be a dead-end. He needed to see, that's what—he needed to see for himself.

"…Or could it...not?"

No, he needed to go, was what!

And in a hurry; Draco was waiting for him!

Harry stood stock still and turned on his heel, effortlessly flowing into an easy Apparate: the will, the way, the wish of his heart.

Find Draco, he thought, all his brain focused on that one exceptionally important thing he must do, through all the talking, the talking up of ideas and the casting them aside—no!

And he was again jabbering all the way through Apparate, barely even taking note of his own babbling voice as the world's edge parted and whirled about him, leaving his head spinning in the vortex.

"Would they even do that?" he asked of the slippery Nought dispairingly.

"Bugger this shit for a fucking lark, Parkinson!" he shouted out at the Nothingness as it passed, tumbling his hair every which way, angry as anything, mad as a hornet. "Just you wait till I wrap my hands 'round your scrawny little neck, alright? Merlin! Only one way to find out, yeah."

"Oh, Merlin," he muttered again, but quietly, stumbling into his landing as he whirled into the Station that had finally, ultimately, affected his entire life, and only barely finding his feet on the slippery polished tile and wrestling them into correct position for a fast run forward. "Oh, no. Draco?"

He must be ready, Harry was sure of it; who knew what he'd find there? A Draco hexed and covered in boils? A Draco stuck in a huge white-on-white expanse, trapped with a eerily long-dead Headmaster? And what if that Thing, that horrible Voldemort-infant thing were still present—No!

(–No-no-no)

"Draco!"

Harry's mind squirmed away from the vision, even as he twisted his neck wildly about, eyes alert and searching for a sign of Malfoy, just one sign.

Not even the freaky, arse-backwards loonies in ARP would consider sending Draco to a proper visit of Voldemort's squirrley end as appropr—just no!

"Please, alright? Just let this be the right thing, will you? Draco, where are you?"

But he was consumed by a sinking feeling, one that taunted him mercilessly with mayhap being too late, and too slow—and just simply too dense without his quick-witted partner at his side. How ever had Draco felt, upon discovering Harry Potter trapped underwater? How had he felt, knowing it was all up to him to prevent a horrible, terrible accident? Oh-gods!

"Okay—alright!?" Harry pleaded of nothing and no-one actually present, excepting maybe his memories of his old Headmaster. "Draco, answer me!"

"Chrissake, I'm sorry, alright? But just this once, please, please," he begged, maybe sobbing a bit, maybe not, and it was silly, but he couldn't seem to find the inner wherewithal to shut up. It was better to shout aloud, to cry out. To ask of the world at large, and at least hear himself asking, for once.

"I can't keep him waiting, no, not any longer. I just can't! Please."