A/N: Again, I do not take credit for the works of Lewis Caroll, Tim Burton, Queen JK Rowling, or Ted Dekker.

A certain someone's told me that Draco's transformation was like him turning into Tom Felton…Well, that's an adorable comparison, but I am quite sure (from what my aunt has told me—she's met him, actually met him) that he's much less…vain? Conceited? Cheeky? Mischievous?…I suppose he's much nicer—for lack of a more accurate word—than Draco.

...

Chapter 26

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Summer Cleaning

...

Matt slumped into his bed, grime on his skin and the book in his hands. Why Fiddle or Samuel was so eager to get his hands on it was questionable—they couldn't make heads or tails out of it.

The hotel room he had checked into for the night was bare but clean. The wallpaper was worn, but the sheets were crisp. There was not a speck of dust on the carpet. Well, not before Matt had brought himself in, at least. He flipped the book open on his lap and stared at the dark ink that seemed to splatter itself on the page. The lines were foreign. To any onlooker, the strokes would seem random.

He knew what the book contained. He could speak its language. He knew its tongue. Though Fiddle owned the damned book, Matt alone could decipher it. He alone of this realm could flip through its pages.

And the contents weren't pretty.

The book Matt had in his possession was a chronicling of the In Between Place and the interesting things that had happened there. He happened to know, and from a reliable source, that the book was a Dream Angel's diary. It was, if truth need be told, his own mother's diary. (Although he never considered his mother a Dream Angel…She was more of a Dream…Half-Angel…)

Dear Mummy's diary held a very prized secret: the In Between Place's history. It began with the sudden collision of the different realms—a kind of collision that merged a realm at peace with a realm at war. It began with a Dreamer. It ended with the indefinite separation of all realms. There was one war, one long and bloody battle, one promise, one bloody mistake, and too many lives lost in the process.

Just as history so often does, the collision was proving to repeat itself. The battle was coming. The realms were merging.

The only difference was Jane March. Her little Curse could stop things from happening. She could put an end to all this Dreamer business for good. If Jane March, however, made the same bloody mistake from the past, they would all die.

Matt rubbed his eyes fiercely. The diary's presence in this realm had a funny effect on the whole collision—the young man felt it deep in his gut. Its presence seemed to speed things up.

He had to get rid of it.

Nevermind that no one could make anything out of its bloody letters.

He had to get rid of it.

There was too much at stake.

…

The summer began with Danny in my arms and a side-apparition to Norfolk. Thanks to a kind house elf named Orwik, our trunks and our owls arrived at Chrysocolla Cottage moments before we stepped foot in the gate.

There was an eerie quiet to the house, almost as if it knew what Alice and I had both resolved to do. The plan was quite simple, really—break the Curse.

Books and blueprints and plans soon littered one of the spare rooms we'd made into a makeshift study. I lay eagle spread on the floor amidst notes and papers, thinking about how to go about it. I went through the list of things to do in my mind.

Find the horn.

Destroy the door.

Break the Curse.

I seem to be missing something…

Oh, right…

Stay alive.

But how?

I heard the door close softly behind me.

"You're working too hard," said Draco in his signature droll. I looked up.

Two weeks into summer, and Draco looked much healthier. He'd been watching the bird fountain in the garden, intent on making one of its visitors stay in a strange bird house he'd found in one of th spare rooms.

His skin had acquired a healthy glow after hours of lolling in the garden. His pale grey eyes regained their mischievous glint. His cheekbones had a rosy flush—to the envy of many women out there, I assure you. His blonde hair had turned a shade darker from the sun, and he'd never slicked it back since.

"I do what I must," I replied.

Draco carefully positioned himself beside me, and we lay on the soft blue carpet like children looking up at the stars.

"What's it like," he asked me, "growing up a Muggle?"

I smirked at him. "You're curious?"

"Is it a crime to be?" said Draco defensively.

I scooted closer to him so our hands were touching. The Dark Mark still pulsed on his arm, but I'd used a spell in the White Arts book to sever its attachment to his mind. Voldemort would not know where he was.

"Growing up a Muggle," I said, "is like being a child in a playroom where everything is present…Yet hoping that when you open the door to the hallway…Something more extraordinary will happen—that's what it's like."

Draco frowned. "It doesn't feel too different, then."

"But it is," I said. "It is very different."

"How?"

"Evil takes a different form in the Muggle world," I said softly. "It's much less upfront and much more long term."

Draco slipped his slender hand into mine and traced random figures onto my palm. I felt the weight of the world sag off my shoulders as though he'd taken it from me.

"I used to need glasses," he blurted out. I smiled. "My mother taught me to read at the age of five. I got hooked. Father wasn't too keen on it. He said the Malfoy heir ought to spend his days outside, running around or playing Quidditch."

He chuckled.

"I don't think he ever found out how much I hated Quidditch," he shrugged. "I made Dobby—the house elf—steal me books all the time. I'd read them late into the night by lamplight. When I turned six, my vision was so bad I crashed into a tree while flying my broom—of course, that was partly because I wasn't paying attention."

I laughed. "What did your father do?"

"Brought me to St. Mungo's to have my eyes fixed," he smirked. "It wasn't necessary of course, but a Malfoy heir 'ought to have perfect vision,'" he said, immitating Lucius Malfoy.

"I think I should have preferred you in glasses," I shrugged. "You're much too handsome like this. You attract too much attention."

He shoved me lightly.

"What about yourself?" he asked, his grey eyes peering down at me. "Anything I should know?"

"My only perfume…Was a fondness from my childhood. I used to have a cup of cocoa every night just for the cinnamon sprinkled on top," I smiled at the memory. "I suppose that was why I gained a few pounds when I got to middle school."

"Middle school?" Draco asked, bewildered.

"Ah, Muggle school…"

Draco nodded, although he obviously did not understand. "At any rate, that explains my Amortentia."

I sat up. "What did your Amortentia smell like?"

Draco inspected his arm, the sight of the Dark Mark forming creases in between his brows.

"The sea," he began, "some Muggle drink called coffee—I had it when I snuck out of the house once," he looked up at me, "and cinnamon."

A triumphant tingle radiated from my chest. I grinned.

"And yours?" Draco raised his brow.

It took me a moment to register what he'd said. I dropped my gaze. "Violin rosin, some spicy tea, and…erm…are you aware that you smell like untouched snow in a forest?"

I ventured a gaze at his handsome face. Draco shook his head. "I don't wear perfume."

"Well, you shouldn't," I said sternly. "You smell marvelous."

"Oh, do I?" Draco lifted his collar and began sniffing himself. "I can't smell a thing."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, of course you wouldn't catch your own whiff."

Draco shrugged. "Suppose not…"

I propped myself up and took the White Arts book out from the pile around me. There must be something in here.

"Where'd you get that anyway?" Draco asked.

"My wardrobe," I said absently. "It's always spewed out books for me."

Draco fell silent. He pursed his lips and stared meaningfully at the ceiling. I sat up, deciding my recess was over. I set off to work, fiddling with the enchanted compass in my pocket. It still refused to point properly north, no matter what I did to charm it. (Although, I had a feeling it repelled all the charmwork I put on it.) Somehow, I knew I was missing an important piece of the puzzle. I flipped through the book—past the healing spells, the spells of blessings, the spells of gifts—to the page where Susan's horn was mentioned. The spread was crisp and worn, and yet I could not crack the puzzle.

On the left page, an image of the horn was drawn carefully in ink. On the other, Susan's horn was described in great detail—from its appearance to its powers and furthermore to its own legends.

"What does it say?" Draco peered at the Runes, unable to decipher them.

"It is said," I read, "that Susan's horn last appeared nearly a century's past. The enchanted object had been found drifting hither the old river, just near enough to the embankment where a troubled old wizard had been crying. He had begged heaven for mercy and favor. Thus, heaven sent the horn. The old wizard, however, knew not of its abilities, and left it on the embankment. It was not sighted since."

…

Matt, as was customary, had not seen his mother since he turned seven. How could he? He was a long way from a Dream Angel, and thus forbidden to lurk in the In Between Place—not that he even knew where to look—and his mother…Well, Dream Angels weren't supposed to have children, were they? His mother had become a Dream Witch for having him and had been lurking 'round the In Between Place ever since. Well, not much of lurking, really. She had become accustomed to cramp quarters as of late. Nevertheless, he knew he had to find her, although she would not be much herself. Or she would be more herself, he knew not which he believed more. The In Between Place was a bloody labyrinth, but Matt remembered leaving through one of the doors—through one and out the other into this realm.

By mapping out his past, Matt was able to trace the door to the In Between Place. The tall man hopped into his car and drove a long way from the interstate. The book sat in the passenger's seat, looking completely harmless against the faux leather of his car. He pressed a few buttons on his mobile, and got an answer on the third ring.

"I need a ticket," he said into the receiver. The voice on the other line gave a vague reply. "Yes. Immediately, please."

…

Danny lay sleeping in my arms when Draco ambushed me in the garden. His grey eyes laughed when I jumped from the ground, so I reproached him with my deep blue ones.

"Danny's asleep," I mouthed.

He smiled sheepishly.

"I know," he whispered. "But there's something you ought to see."

We crept to my room, Danny still in my arms, and Draco sat in front of my open wardrobe.

"I know the contents of my closet, thank you very much."

"Sit here," he said forcefully.

I elected to stand.

"On your head, then," he shrugged. "You said Susan's horn was lost."

"Yes."

"And your wardrobe's had the habit of chucking things out from time to time."

"Yes."

Draco shut his eyes and screwed up his face in concentration.

"What are you—"

"Shh!"

I sighed and brought little Danny to my bed. He continued to sleep even when I'd repositioned him on my lap. Lucky little thing.

"It's not working," Draco frowned. "I don't understand. I just got it to work a few minutes ago…"

"What do you mean?"

"I was in here while you were in the garden—don't look at me like that, Alice needed me to fetch her a book you'd had. Well, the book wasn't here. I looked everywhere, and it wasn't. Then I looked in the wardrobe again, and there it was."

"Like a vanishing cabinet?"

"Sort of, yeah, but not quite. More like a Room of Requirement that doesn't do all you ask it to."

"That's…odd…"

"Yeah…" Draco looked at the wardrobe, perplexed. "If I could just figure out how the bloody thing works…"

"It might not," I said, shaking my head. "If it's as fickle as you say, it might not work like the Room of Requirement. It might not allow you to work it."

He flopped next to me on the bed. He ran his hand through his golden hair, still frustrated. "Any other ideas?"

"None that can be done whilst I'm under aged."

"Then we're stuck, aren't we?"

"Yes," I pursed my lips. "Yes, we are."

"Then teach me," he said under his breath. "Teach me the White Arts."

"Draco…" I hesitated. To any person who had learnt the Dark Arts, the White Arts came in a destructive form. This sort of magic sought to purge any Dark Magic from one's system. Death was not uncommon.

I doubted Draco had dabbled too much into the Dark Arts, but there was the business of the Dark Mark…

"I won't die," he smirked, as if reading my thoughts. "If anything can purge me, then it's this. I want to be purged."

Resolve was etched in every line on his face.

"You're sure?" I asked.

He smirked at me. "Nothing I can't handle."

After dinner, when Alice and Danny were asleep in their rooms, Draco snuck into mine, and we began his lessons. I sat on my bed, and he stood on the carpet. Sleep had fled from his eyes, and he stood attentive before me as I skimmed through the book.

"Right," I lay the book out on the soft sheets. "These are the cleansing spells. They took all night when I'd done it, but it's bound to take more out of you. Here you go—they can't be done nonverbally, and you've got to do them on yourself."

"Alright, then," Draco cleared his throat. "Let's start…Amoevinco"

The spell suspended itself in the air. Draco stood perfectly still. A moment later, a faint ball of light emerged from his wand. It danced in the air, casting shadows around the dim room. It felt warm and cheerful and pure.

The light traveled up his arm, emitting streams of black as it passed his skin. Something felt off. This hadn't happened before. It spread itself out, unfurling like a blanket over Draco's chest. His shirt disintegrated into black ash before a minute had past, but still the light remained spread over his body.

"It's burning hot," Draco remarked as the light continued to stroke over his skin.

It enveloped his torso, and Draco winced in pain. He pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself. Thankfully, the wall did not catch flames.

When the light reached Draco's Dark Mark, the light became an all-consuming fire that licked his skin hungrily. Draco gasped. I stood from bed, and allowed Draco to tumble into my arms. His chest was too warm against my skin. I cursed vehemently as the light continued to create a cocoon around him.

"Colourful vocabulary you have there, Jane," he said in an attempt to reproach me.

"Given the situation, I have deemed it necessary for my sanity, thank you very much."

"How progressive is the twenty first century," Draco's voice began to waiver, "that cursing becomes a necessity for sanity?"

"You're in immense pain!"

"Yes, yes, indeed I am."

"For God's sake, Draco!"

"Just trying to keep the mood light," he winked.

His body sagged against me with greater pressure.

"I'm on fire," he smirked before shutting his eyes in an attempt to forget the pain.

Surely, he was—so much so that I could not see the lines of his profile through the fire—but I was not. His clothes had all but burned off, but as I held him in my arms, my nightgown remained in tact.

He seemed to blaze until the morning, and when Alice had come in to call me down for breakfast, she fell back in surprise.

"What?"

"Erm…" I glanced at the White Arts book on my bed. It lay sprawled open, still marking the page from which Draco had read a few hours ago. Alice picked it up. Her brow creased in concentration.

"Lay him on the bed," she said briskly. "The cleansing may take longer than we anticipated."

"I think he's passed out."

Alice shut the book and lay it carefully beside the bed. She took Draco's feet.

"On three," she said, bending her knees. "One…Two…Three!"

We hoisted Draco onto my bed and covered him with white sheets.

"Oh, well, at least the sheets aren't burning," Alice smiled. "Would you like waffles?"

"Sure," I said tentatively before Alice disappeared out the door.

The fire had subsided late that afternoon, but Draco was out cold for a solid week afterwards. Alice and I used the time to make plans. Harry's departure from the Dursley household would take place in the coming fortnight, and the Order expected us to play our part.

"When are the wards coming down?" I asked.

"The final one comes down that same evening. He'll be waiting at the perimeter."

"And you're sure he'll come? He'll take the bait?"

Alice cocked her head slightly before her lips curled into a dainty smile. "He won't be able to resist."

…

Matt disembarked the plane at five in the morning, slung his pack over his shoulders, and took a bus into Bristol at dawn. The Door was not far off, not at all. Just a hop, skip and a jump away from the station, and Matt was trekking through the enchanted Hollow. The forest was thick, and the fog dulled his senses, but Matt pushed on. He knew it was here. He'd seen it in his dreams those many years ago—he'd been through it.

Sure enough, there in the middle of the foliage was a door hovering a foot above the ground, concealed by overgrowth and mist. It looked just as it had thirteen years ago. The wood had been less abused, and the moss had not been present, but it was the same door. It was the Door.

Matt took firm hold of the brass handle and twisted the knob. The thing made a satisfied click, and the tall man pushed through the Door. Not a soul stood in the Hall of Doors, also known as the Pathway of Portals, through one of which Jane March had passed through, and through one of which he had just come back. He walked down the pathway in search of a certain door.

A metal one with no windows and a silver frame. A metal one with no windows and a silver frame. A me—bingo.

He turned the metal handle and shoved the door open. Inside, the prison bars separated himself from the prisoner. The bare cage hid the fallen Dream Angel in the darkness.

"Hello, Mother," Matt smiled. "It's been a while. Can't I see your face?"

Refined movement came from behind the bars. Two pale hands gripped the cold bars gently. Into the light, a woman's sunken face emerged. Her beauty had left her just as her son had, and hell hath no fury than a woman scorn. Fortunately, she had no fury. Only scorn.

"There," she spat. "Now you've seen it. What do you want?"

Matt's cheek muscle twitched. "What's happened to you, Mother? What have they done?"

"HAH! Surely you know, son, now that you've become one of THEM! Imprisoned! Your father—left me! Left me! And YOU—you have the nerve to—get out of my sight. I am no friend of yours."

"Aren't you even a little happy to see me, Mother?" Matt's voice was pleading, seeking for the small good in the now corrupted being who faced him.

The woman gave a hollow laugh. "Happy? Happy? Because of you I've been banished! Stripped of my title! Isolated! Not even allowed to wreak havoc upon Dreamers. HA! If I could do it all over, I would have—"

"—Done it all over again, I am sure," Matt cracked his neck. "Because that's who you are. It's in your nature."

"HOW DARE YOU! I raised you, you ungrateful little squid!"

"Really? You did?" Matt felt his blood begin to boil. "Then what's my name, Mother?"

The fallen Angel began to sputter.

Matt swallowed hard. "You've…Changed…"

"ME?!" she shrieked. "SEVEN YEARS! I SHOULD HAVE GIVEN YOU UP SOONER, YOU SCUM! YOU—"

"Please, Mother, control your temper."

The Witch glared at her son. "What do you want?" she growled.

Matt held up the woman's diary.

"Where did you get that?" she yelled. "That's mine!"

"You own nothing now, Mother," Matt smiled tightly. "Now tell me, why was it in one of the realms?"

The Witch smiled an ugly sort of smile. "Oh, was it now?"

"You put it there, didn't you? You started this whole thing."

"Oh, oh!" She laughed like a hyena. "Clever, he is, my boy, very clever."

"Well it won't work," the young man frowned, flipping the diary in his hand.

He took out a lighter and set the book on fire. The witch's scream bounced off the metal chamber, amplifying the sound by a thousand fold. Matt watched it burn until it was nothing more than ash. Satisfied, he turned to the door.

"Goodbye, Mother," he whispered.