CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Windstorm

"Master Harry Potter sir!"

The loud exclamation startled him; he went from resting on the table with his head in his arms to sitting bolt upright and nearly toppled off the bench as he hastily spun to find the source of the noise.

"Dobby," Harry exhaled, catching sight of the little elf. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

Bat-like ears wilted. "Dobby is sorry. Dobby didn't mean to scare Master Harry Potter sir."

He took in a deep breath, willing his heart rate to settle and wishing that he was not so irrationally jumpy all the time. "It's okay, Dobby, don't worry about it."

"If Master Harry is sleepy, why is Master Harry not in bed like the other students?" Dobby asked. He looked up at the enchanted ceiling and observed, "The stars is still out."

Harry shrugged. "I wanted to be able to go for a run and have a shower before breakfast."

Bulbous eyes widened. "Master Harry's hair is already wet! Master Harry must have awoken very, very early!"

"Yeah, I guess." Truth be told, Harry had barely slept for two hours and he was exhausted, but apparently even such a short period spent unconscious was long enough to have nightmares. He had not bothered to try taking any Dreamless Sleep potion – he must have developed an immunity because it had stopped working on him a few weeks ago – and he wasn't willing to go back to sleep without it.

The nightmares were always distressing, of course, and Harry had long since become resigned to them, but last night they had reached a new level of disturbing. He had relived the first time that Uncle Vernon had deliberately broken his arm, but from his uncle's perspective. He had looked down at his scrawny five-year-old self with loathing and disgust, taking immense pleasure in applying more and more pressure to the limb until he could feel the bone snap. He had felt satisfaction and pride in hearing the boy's pathetic whimpers. It was as though he was Uncle Vernon, he was the abuser, he was enjoying inflicting pain on a child, and Harry woke up feeling so nauseous that he nearly vomited all over the dorm room floor. Needless to say, it was not an experience he was eager to repeat.

Harry wasn't stupid. He knew it wasn't a coincidence that his scar was hurting constantly and when he closed his eyes his nightmares consisted of memories that weren't his own. Voldemort must have seen Rita Skeeter's article, too. He had changed tactic accordingly – rather than torturing the Dursleys to lure Harry out, Voldemort was using their memories to torment him instead. Harry also knew from past experience that he was useless at learning Occlumency, so it was basically a choice between losing sleep or having Voldemort messing with his head.

"Master Harry is going to be tired," Dobby said.

No kidding. "Nah. Sleep is overrated. I'll be fine."

Dobby looked dubious. "If Master Harry says so…"

Harry fought the impulse to yawn and decided it was time to change the topic. "Anyway, er, how have you been, Dobby?"

Apparently it was the wrong question to ask. Dobby's eyes filled with tears. "Master Harry Potter sir is still so nice to Dobby, but Dobby is a bad, bad elf!"

"What? No, you're not."

Dobby started tugging on his ears, a high-pitched whine building in his throat. "Dobby was bad to Master Harry! Dobby destroyed the cake so that Master Harry would have to stay at home, but Dobby didn't know. Dobby didn't know!"

Harry frowned, taking a little while to catch onto what the elf was talking about. "Dobby, that was years ago, when I first met you. Why would I still be mad about it?"

"Master Harry shouldn't forgive Dobby! Master Harry must have gotten into terrible trouble with his bad relatives and it is Dobby's fault!"

"Oh." Of course. He should have known that the news would have spread to the house elves as well. Chances were that the centaurs and giants had heard, too. "Don't feel bad, Dobby. I didn't get into that much trouble."

Dobby looked up at him sadly. "Master Harry is lying to spare Dobby's feelings. But the Dursleys is like Dobby's old master. It is not safe to make them angry, but Dobby made them angry." He sniffed, tears slipping down his wrinkled face. "They hurt Master Harry for what Dobby did, didn't they?"

"Yes," Harry admitted. By destroying the dessert, it wasn't just the dinner party that Dobby had ruined; Uncle Vernon's all-important business deal had been ruined as well. After all his meticulous planning and hard work, Uncle Vernon was understandably livid. It hadn't helped that the same incident had revealed the fact that Harry was not allowed to use magic outside of school and therefore couldn't defend himself. As soon as the Masons had left, Uncle Vernon had given Harry one of the worst beatings of his life before locking him in his room and leaving him there to starve. Looking back, Harry thought he could probably attribute his rapid healing to the newly awakened magic that had coursed through his veins; his ultimate survival, though, was thanks to the Weasleys' rescue team that had come a few weeks later.

Dobby wailed and started hitting his head against the edge of the Gryffindor table.

"Hey!" Harry caught the little elf and held him fast so he couldn't hurt himself. "You didn't know what would happen. You were trying to keep me safe. I don't blame you."

Dobby stopped struggling, but said sombrely, "Dobby is still sorry. Master Harry set Dobby free so Master Malfoy couldn't hurt Dobby anymore, but Dobby did not help Master Harry."

Harry cautiously released the elf, wary of another bout of self-inflicted punishment. "It's okay," he reiterated. "I'm okay. Really, I am."

Dobby tilted his head quizzically. "Harry Potter is free now?"

"Yeah." He smiled a little. "It seems we have come full circle. I rescued you from a Malfoy and a Malfoy rescued me."

"Master Draco?"

Harry gave a wry chuckle. "I know. It surprised me too. But it turned out that there was a good guy hidden inside Draco all along – hidden well and buried deep down, but there nonetheless."

Dobby nodded, ears flapping. "Dobby knew. When Master Draco was small he would cry if the house elves was punished, but his father said he was weak and said house elves was just vermin. He taught Master Draco to be mean and Master Draco learned the lesson well, but Dobby always remembered that he was good once. And now Master Harry has helped Master Draco to be good again! Master Harry helps so many people!"

Harry wasn't sure that he could claim any credit for Draco's transformation, but it was gratifying to think that some good had come from how the Dursleys had treated him, like maybe there had been a higher purpose for the pain he had suffered.

"Dobby does not care what others is thinking; Dobby knows Master Harry Potter sir will be helping all of the wizarding world soon when he is defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Dobby still believes in Master Harry Potter sir."

You might be the only one, Harry thought. Aside from Dobby, he doubted many people would be inclined to believe in him anymore and he had Rita's damn article to thank for that. Fury flashed through him and for a moment he wished that Hermione had kept the beetle animagus trapped in that jar forever. But the feeling soon faded, leaving Harry with nothing but a bone deep weariness.

"Thanks, Dobby," he said quietly. "That means a lot."

The elf smiled at him. "Master Harry is most welcome. And Master Harry should know that Dobby will join the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named if Master Harry calls on him."

"Ah…"

Harry was speechless, but the little creature carried on as though he hadn't just declared that he would risk his life for him if he asked. "Would Master Harry like some breakfast?"

"At four in the morning?" Harry really wasn't hungry, but perhaps having some food in his stomach would help him stay awake. "Sure, why not. Thanks."

Dobby bobbed his head. "Always happy to be of service." He vanished with a pop, leaving Harry with thoughts that weren't exactly cheerful, but at least were nowhere in the vicinity of what he had dreamed last night. Small mercies.

The reprieve lasted until the rest of the castle began to stir. As the first few students drifted into the Great Hall, Harry reached deep inside himself to muster the strength he needed to face another day. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until his strength ran out altogether. He resolved not to give up though. Not yet.

"Morning, Potter," Malfoy said, slipping into the seat next to him. The Slytherin was a habitual early riser these days, often one of the first to arrive, which Harry appreciated because it spared him the awkwardness of sitting alone. People stared less when he had company.

"Hey, Malfoy. Sleep well?"

Malfoy was reaching for the jug of pumpkin juice and Harry obligingly pushed it closer for him. But instead of grasping the handle, Malfoy's fingers closed around Harry's wrist.

"Better than you did, apparently," he answered, lifting Harry's hand for inspection and frowning at the row of fresh teeth marks.

Harry's response was automatic. "I'm fine."

Malfoy gave him a long, searching look, and from his expression Harry knew that he must have deep circles under his eyes that gave away how little sleep he'd had. Malfoy didn't contest his statement out loud, though; he didn't have to.

After a moment, Malfoy sighed, pulled out his wand and muttered a healing charm over the wounded hand. "I'd rather that wasn't necessary."

"Force of habit," Harry said, withdrawing his hand from Malfoy's slackened grip and tucking it under the table self-consciously.

Grey eyes glittered, though Harry could tell that the anger was not directed at him. "I know," was all he said. Malfoy left the invitation for Harry to talk about the nightmare unspoken, knowing that Harry would take up the implicit offer if he wanted to.

An image of bone snapping beneath meaty fists flashed through his mind. He repressed a shudder, deciding that this was something he'd prefer not to share out loud.

"So the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin is this weekend," Harry deflected.

Malfoy paused for a long moment, recognising the change in topic for what it was and deliberating over whether he should play along.

"Yes, it is," he answered finally, allowing the nightmare matter to rest for now.

Searching for some levity, Harry drew Malfoy into a round of their usual banter. "Is your team ready to lose to us again?"

"No, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "We are ready to sweep the floor with you."

Harry laughed. "You can try, but we won't go down easy."

"I like a challenge."

"So do I. So do me a favour – try to at least put up a bit of a fight before we beat you."

"You won't. This game is ours."

Harry smirked. "We'll see."

"Bring it on."

ooOOoo

When Draco walked out onto the Quidditch pitch on Saturday morning, he was very nearly blown off his feet by the gale-force wind that raged across the grounds.

It was an effort to stand firm with his robes whipping wildly around him and broomstick straining to escape his grip, harder to see the stands full of students and the huddled teams with his hair flying into his eyes, and impossible to hear what Madam Hooch was saying with the wind howling in his ears. He knew the drill, though – as always, she wanted a 'nice clean game'. But it was doubtful she was going to get one, if the crushing grip Urquhart, the Slytherin captain, had on Weasley's hand as he shook it was anything to go by. The weather certainly wasn't going to help matters.

At an unheard shout (and then a better understood gesture) from Madam Hooch, the teams mounted their brooms. Draco stood opposite Potter, and in the moment before the whistle was blown he gave a simple nod, acknowledging that they were rivals in the air but friends off field and wishing him luck. Potter returned it.

The Snitch was released, the Quaffle thrown; Potter flashed him a fierce grin and shot into the sky.

Draco kicked off hard.

Immediately, the wind snatched at him, yanking his broom to the side. He spun with it, slipping into the swirling current and letting it fling him upwards at a dizzying pace. When he was level with Potter he flattened himself against the broom and wrenched free of the whirlwind. In a space of relative calm, he glanced down.

The scene below was one of barely controlled chaos. Players were being blown and buffeted in all directions, the wind had control of the Quaffle more often than either of the teams did, Beaters swung their bats wildly at Bludgers that the wind ripped out of reach, and the goal posts swayed alarmingly. Even so, Gryffindor had managed to score once already.

Most of the Slytherin players were built like brick houses. In weather like this, their weight should have given them the advantage over Gryffindor's lighter team. But while they were operating like it was every man for himself, the Gryffindors had a strategist for a captain. When Ron gave a hand signal, his team obeyed.

Katie Bell took the point of a flying wedge, holding herself erect to take the brunt of the wind. The Beaters became her wing men, defending the formation and channelling the slipstream. Ginny and the other Chaser formed the tails, tossing the Quaffle between them.

The wedge sped across the field toward the goals, pushing through wind resistance and Slytherins alike. At the last moment, the leaders peeled away. One Chaser feinted to the left, Katie Bell faked a throw to the centre, and an explosive throw from Ginny sent the Quaffle shooting through the hoop on the right.

The commentator's yell and the crowd's roar were drowned by the wind, but the scoreboard flashed: 20-nil.

Out of nowhere, a strong gust knocked Draco off balance. He rolled, then scrambled upright, only to see Potter plunge into a steep descent. Draco reacted on instinct, diving after him. He found the wind break from Potter's passage and caught up quickly. He sat on Potter's tail, matching his every twist, duck and weave, letting him do all the hard work against the elements.

He caught occasional glimpses of the Snitch, but he was more intent on watching the wind patterns. Ahead and to the left, Crabbe was sent into a tailspin. Draco calculated. The Snitch slipped through, Draco dropped his height by a few meters, but the wind slammed into Potter from the side. As Potter careened away Draco shot up and made a grab for the Snitch –

-only for Crabbe to knock into him from behind.

By the time Draco and Potter had both righted themselves the Snitch was long gone.

"Alright?" Potter yelled.

Draco rubbed at his shoulder, sure it would bruise and not sure whether Crabbe had ploughed into him deliberately or not. "I will be when we win," he called back.

"We're 30 points ahead."

"Then I better catch the Snitch first." With that, Draco executed a tight turn and shot off across the pitch.

It was fifteen minutes before the Golden Snitch was spotted again. In that time the wind worsened, Potter tricked Draco into a wild hippogriff chase and fell for a similar ruse when Draco retaliated, and Gryffindor scored two more goals, but Slytherin closed the gap with three shots in quick succession. Once, Ron would have shown signs of discouragement – this time he just looked furious and all the more determined.

Draco watched as Urquhart barrelled toward the Gryffindor's goals, lined up another shot with enormous momentum and muscle backing the throw- and Ron blocked it.

The sea of red and gold students in the stands erupted; a part of Draco wanted to cheer, too, which was a clear conflict of interest and momentarily threw him for a loop.

A flash of gold darted past his ear.

Draco stared dumbly for a moment. Then he yelped and lurched into action. The wind was ferocious at this point; his broom was bucking and straining, but Draco poured every ounce of his willpower into the chase. It wasn't until the Snitch double-backed on him that Draco realised what was missing.

He pulled an impossibly tight 180 and saw Potter in the distance, the Snitch between them.

For the first time that match, he and Potter had not been neck and neck.

Following the Snitch brought Draco closer. Potter had seen it and was trying to propel himself forward, but was struggling against the wind. It held him hostage. He wasn't going anywhere.

Closer, closer. Draco's gaze was fixed on the golden glitter of the ball that was darting about erratically, but he caught a glimpse of a pale face beneath wild black locks, strained with effort. The Snitch was only a metre ahead now- Potter's shaking hands were desperately clutching the handle of his Firebolt- It was just a few feet further- Potter's face was etched with deep lines of fatigue and streaked with sweat- Draco was closing in- Potter's whole body was trembling- Draco stretched out his hand, he was nearly there- The dark circles under Potter's eyes were more pronounced than ever- Within inches, now- Green eyes were filled with panic and agony and utter exhaustion- For a second, Draco's fingertips brushed cool metal-

A moment that froze, hanging on a precipice, as Potter lost the battle. His face screwed up with pain. A hand involuntarily released to clap over his lightning bolt scar. Eyes rolled back into his head. His mouth parted in an inaudible scream.

Potter's broom tore free from his grip and was wrenched out from underneath him. The Firebolt spun away, flipped and flung and battered through the sky, reminiscent of a Nimbus Two Thousand that had met a similar fate three years ago.

Potter hung motionless, unsupported, sixty feet above the ground.

Gravity and the windstorm fought mightily for control.

And then he plummeted.

If Draco pressed on for two more seconds, victory would be his. The Golden Snitch was within his grasp. He would win his first game against Gryffindor, finally proving himself a Seeker the equal of the famous Harry Potter. He would be the hero of Slytherin, welcomed back with open arms, all past offenses forgotten in the wake of his triumph.

But in that moment, the Snitch, the game, the teams, the crowd- everything vanished.

There was only the thin figure clad in red and gold, helpless and falling.

And there was Draco.

A scream ripped from his lungs. "HARRY!"

He forced his broom into a dive. He pushed it harder than he ever had, drove it to its highest speed, reached the limits and then recklessly passed them. The stressed wood began to splinter and crack beneath his hands but he pressed on, the wind a deafening roar in his ears, colours flashing past him, a single figure the sole focus of his attention.

The ground was close, so close, too close, instincts screamed at him to pull up, his legs tightened around the handle and his hands let go, reaching out- almost, almost-

A thud of bodies impacting in mid-air, Draco's arms engulfing Harry and clutching him tight to his chest, a moment of thrilled elation-

And then the realisation that they were about to die.

Even as his eyes winced shut and his body braced for the collision that would kill him for sure, Draco's magic roared awake. It couldn't, wouldn't be enough; he didn't have his wand, there was no time- but there was another source of magic there, close at hand- no, two- one gold and pure, the other fragmented yet nigh indestructible to all but the darkest of magic and beasts- Draco's magic latched on to the latter and pulled-

Draco screamed with effort, Potter screamed with him, and a shield of twisted black and red and green exploded around them.

ooOOoo

Someone was groaning.

Once his sluggish mind caught on to the fact that he was the one making the noise, Draco stopped and focused instead on opening his eyes. It took a long time; his eyelids seemed inordinately heavy. Finally, he blinked, and winced against the bright light. He blinked again. After the fifth attempt to focus, the Hogwarts Infirmary came into view.

He was lying in a hospital bed and Madam Pomfrey was standing over him.

"This is becoming a habit, Mr Malfoy," she said.

"Ungh?" He frowned a little, not sure that was the word he had intended to say, but somehow the meaning came across anyway.

"You saving lives," she explained. "Mr Potter's life in particular, it seems."

The memories flooded back to him. Quidditch, the windstorm, Potter's struggle to stay conscious, plummeting, the ground rushing up to meet them-

He tried to sit up, panic flaring through him. "Harry-"

"-is just fine, dear. Thanks to you." She pressed his shoulders back down to the mattress, gentle but forceful at the same time.

"Where-?"

She stepped to the side a little, granting him a view of the next bed over.

Potter was there, whole and unbroken, not bleeding, chest rising and falling with slow breaths. He was fast asleep.

"Alive," Draco exhaled, feeling suddenly boneless with relief. Getting up was no longer necessary. Or possible.

"You both are. And remarkably unharmed, too. Given the circumstances, I'd say it was one of the most miraculous things I have ever witnessed. If you had hit the ground travelling that fast, you both would have been dead on impact."

Draco remembered feeling certain that he was going to die, so it was somewhat surprising to be awake. His body ached all over, but while logic told him that he should at least be suffering from a few broken bones, he actually felt rather intact. "What happened?"

"No one really knows for sure. My diagnosis of Mr Potter suggests that he has been suffering from chronic sleep deprivation, getting as little as one or two hours of sleep per night for the last week at least and precious little more than that in the past few months. As a consequence, Mr Potter lost consciousness during the Quidditch game and fell from his broom."

Draco scowled at this news, furious with himself. He had known that Potter suffered from nightmares, had been warned that immunity to Dreamless Sleep Potion could occur with repeated use, and had seen the clear symptoms of exhaustion exhibited in Potter's appearance and behaviour throughout the past week. But in the wake of Rita Skeeter's article, Potter had been more determined than ever to try and cope on his own, remaining tight-lipped about the dreams that plagued him and stubbornly clinging to the mantra that he was 'fine'. Draco had let it go. He shouldn't have.

Now he would be having nightmares of his own. Witnessing Potter's fall was not something he would be able to forget in a hurry.

"You, Mr Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey continued, "very heroically dove after him, but only managed to catch up when you were both bare metres from the ground. What happened next…" she shrugged. "That is the mystery."

Draco tried to remember. He thought he could recall his magic awakening and his Sight reaching out to draw on nearby sources of power. But he had only been in physical contact with Potter and the fragment he had Seen… or thought he had Seen… it was not Potter's core. It was something else, dark and horrifying and frightfully strong. Twisted black and green and red, almost like…

But no. His memory had to be playing tricks on him.

It must have been his core and Potter's working together to produce the shield that had saved their lives. They had both displayed the capacity for quite powerful accidental magic during the school holidays, so in the extremity of their situation the two forces must have combined. That had to be it.

"What matters is that we are alive and well, right?" Draco asked, not wanting to think any more deeply about it.

Madam Pomfrey smiled gently. "Yes, Mr Malfoy. We are all greatly relieved."

"Why is Potter still asleep?"

The Healer glanced at the unconscious figure, so small and pale and fragile, lying in the hospital bed. His hair was as unruly as ever, splayed haphazardly across the pillow. The scar on his forehead looked slightly reddened, as though it had been irritated or inflamed. But Potter seemed to be resting peacefully.

"I have him under a sleep spell," she explained. "His body is in dire need of rest and I will not allow him to leave my Infirmary until he has at least begun to catch up on all the hours he has missed."

That was fair, Draco reasoned. As soon as Potter woke he would be trying to talk his way out of there, so the enforced sleep spell was probably for the best.

"What about me?"

She looked him over with a critical eye. "I would prescribe bed rest, but you have been in here sleeping for twenty-seven hours already and your condition seems stable. If you would like to go out and get some fresh air for a time, that would be permissible. Do not do anything strenuous, though."

"I won't." He did think he should fill the others in on what had happened and how Potter was; Granger in particular, with her mother-henning tendencies, was probably worried sick. "You will watch over Potter?"

"Of course."

Gingerly, Draco sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. To his relief, his body barely protested the movement aside from giving a few token twinges, so he stood with more confidence. He hesitated before leaving, though, his gaze snagging once more on Potter.

He cleared his throat. "Do you mind if I…?"

"By all means."

He extended a hand and let it settle on Potter's chest, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then he closed his eyes and reached out with his Sight, confirming for himself that Potter was whole and unharmed.

Looking up at Madam Pomfrey, Draco felt a bit sheepish. It was not that he didn't trust her or her healing abilities, he had just come too close to losing Potter on too many occasions. "Sorry," he said. "I just- I worry."

She squeezed his shoulder gently, a silent understanding in her eyes. She had been Potter's Healer since first year, watching him wind up in her Infirmary with alarming regularity; she was probably an expert on worrying about him by now. Draco was still new to the job, but he feared it was going to age him prematurely.

He blew out a sigh, knowing that standing here fretting over what could have been was not going to achieve anything.

"I'll be back later," he said.

Conscious of the fact that he was clad in hospital pyjamas, Draco decided that his first stop would be his dorm room to get changed. As he made his way through the castle's many corridors he happened to glance out of a window and was momentarily startled to see that it was a bright sunny day outside. Given the severity of the wind during the Quidditch match, he had expected dark clouds and torrential rain. But he remembered that it was Sunday afternoon now; the storm that had been building yesterday morning must have passed overnight. Most of the students would probably be outside enjoying the remainder of their weekend, so Draco thought the Slytherin Common room would be deserted.

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"So the traitor returns."

Draco slowly closed the portrait door behind him, taking the moment to brace himself for the unpleasantness that was sure to come before he turned to face them.

"Crabbe, Goyle," he said evenly. This was the first time in months that he had been unlucky enough to be caught alone with his two ex-cronies; he was usually so careful to evade them, going so far as to change his sleeping habits, ward his bed, avoid spending time in the Slytherin common room and take different routes through the castle every day. That had not prevented Crabbe and Goyle from ambushing him in the corridors at every opportunity, but at least he had managed to avoid a direct confrontation until now.

"We've been meaning to have a word with you," Goyle said.

"I imagine one word is about all your miniscule brains can handle," Draco snarked, wondering when insults had become a defence mechanism rather than an expression of his superiority.

Crabbe smirked at him. "One's all we need."

Draco didn't have the chance to decipher what he meant. There was a blurred motion of a wand – instinctively, Draco's hand dove for his own but he was wearing a hospital gown and his wand wasn't on him – his eyes widened in panic – there was a single shout of "Crucio!" –

-and then Draco was screaming.

He slammed to his knees, skull imploding, lava boiling through his veins, nerve endings ripping apart.

After an eternity the pain receded, leaving Draco gasping and shuddering, fingers clawing at the carpet.

Crabbe and Goyle towered over him. They were laughing.

"-illegal-" Draco choked out.

"For now. But there's gonna be a change in government soon," Goyle said. "We will be hailed as heroes."

"The Dark Lord won't win," Draco rasped. "And you will – spend the rest of your – lives – rotting in Azkaban."

Crabbe bent down over him, lip curling into a sneer. "Funny. You don't look like your side is winning. And neither does Potter. Still in the Infirmary, isn't he?"

"The Dark Lord cannot claim credit for a Quidditch incident."

"So sure about that, are you?"

Draco frowned. The Dark Lord didn't have anything to do with Potter falling unconscious in mid-air; it was fatigue, nothing else. The Dark Lord was miles away – he couldn't harm Potter from such a distance. But the scene flashed before his mind's eye; he saw Potter's clear exhaustion, he saw his face screw up with pain and his hand clap against his forehead – against his scar.

"What did he do?"

Crabbe snorted. "As if we'd tell you."

"Besides, all you need to worry about is what you're gonna do," Goyle said.

"And what we're gonna do to you if you don't do what we want."

"What is that?" Draco asked warily.

"Crucio!"

Pain exploded within him. It was blinding, all encompassing, all consuming; the only thing that was and ever had been, tearing his world to shreds –

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Draco found himself curled into the foetal position, tracks of moisture staining his cheeks.

"I don't think that's what he meant, Crabbe," Goyle said, amusement colouring his tone.

"Don't care. He won't forget this in a hurry."

With trembling arms, Draco managed to push himself back up to his knees, but when he attempted to stand his legs crumpled beneath him.

"What- what do you want?" Draco asked hoarsely.

"That's easy. Stop helping Potter. Stop hanging around him, stop being his friend and stop saving his life."

He knew his immediate response should have been to say 'No'. But with his body still suffering the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse, Draco had to stop and seriously consider what was being asked of him.

Stop helping with the war effort. That meant no hunting for Horcruxes, no fighting Death Eaters, and no outwardly opposing the Dark Lord's regime. Draco liked to think that he was important, that his allegiance either way could determine the outcome of the war. But really, he was just one under-age wizard with no real significance or power. The Light side could gain victory without his aid, and it would, he truly believed that. He wasn't needed.

Stop hanging around Potter. That meant no early morning breakfasts together in the Great Hall, no study sessions in the library, no DA meetings, no friendly banter, no interesting conversations, no enjoyable company. It was unlikely that the Slytherins would welcome him back with open arms; the best he could hope for was to be ignored and to slip into obscurity. It would be lonely, but safer.

Stop being Potter's friend. That meant no calming him down after a nightmare or flashback, no chasing after him when he became overwhelmed and made a break for it, no inspiring him when he felt discouraged, no supporting him when the world stooped to new depths of cruelty, no being his lifeline. Potter had other friends of course, but none of them had been there, none of them had seen what he had. They didn't know, not like Draco did. Potter was strong, but he had been through so much already and if Draco abandoned him now it would be the betrayal that could break him. He did not want to be responsible for that.

But to stop saving Potter's life… Draco's mind conjured up images of Potter's crushed skull bleeding out onto the kitchen floor, Potter being captured and tortured to death, Potter plummeting from the sky and dying on impact–

"No."

"What did you say?"

Their eyes blazed with menace, but Draco would not be cowed. "I said no!"

The pain struck again.

"No," he gasped. "I will not turn my back on my friends, nor will I abandon my principles. And I will certainly not allow Potter to die on my watch. You can do whatever you want to me."

Crabbe's face darkened into a fierce scowl and he stalked forward to press the tip of his wand directly against Draco's forehead. "I intend to."

Draco did not have the strength to move, let alone fight what he knew was coming. He wondered if the pain would be enough to drive him mad.

Resigned and oddly calm, Draco let his eyes flutter shut.

"Cru-"

There was a loud bang behind Draco; the sound of the portrait hole bursting open.

The wand jerked away as Crabbe and Goyle quickly backed off.

"We didn't do nothin'," Goyle grunted, and with those words they were gone.

Draco slumped with relief.

"Draco? Are you okay?"

He recognised that voice. "Astoria," he said hoarsely. "Nice timing." He tried to muster the energy to look up at her and offer a smile of thanks, but it was all he could do to keep from keeling over in a dead faint.

She knelt beside him and steadied him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I wish I had been here sooner. It looks like they did a real number on you."

"I'm fine," he lied. His body protested the statement by afflicting him with a sudden bout of nausea that had him vomiting up all the potions Madam Pomfrey must have spelled into his stomach. It left him weak and shaking and he probably would have face-planted into his own mess if Astoria hadn't been there to support him.

"Easy, easy there." Astoria was rubbing his back in soothing circles, even as she used a quick spell to clean up his sick. That small act of kindness was almost enough to reduce him to tears.

"Thank you," he choked.

Astoria squeezed his shoulder gently. "What happened?"

"They wanted me to do something for them. They didn't like my answer." Draco shivered.

"What did they do to you?"

"Used a curse on me. Cruciatus," he answered dully.

Astoria froze. "What?"

"Don't like that spell," Draco mumbled. "Doesn't… doesn't feel good."

"They used an Unforgivable on you?"

"Don't think… they're looking… for my forgiveness…"

"Why those – Cruciatus is illegal! They could be locked up in Azkaban for that!"

Draco shrugged. "Voldemort would just... break them out again… Dementors are on his side…"

"You have to report them. They can't get away with this."

"This is a war. They're just fighting dirty." Draco forced himself to stand to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that made his head swim and stubbornly refusing to let his legs give way beneath him. "But they won't win."

Astoria cautiously released him, though she looked ready to catch him at a moment's notice. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to check that Potter's okay." Threats or not, he wasn't going to turn his back on the truest friend he'd ever had. Those two Neanderthals could not scare him and try as they might they were not going to beat him into submission. "I'm going to help him destroy the Dark Lord, and then I'm going to make sure that Crabbe and Goyle get what's coming to them."

ooOOoo