CHAPTER 24

It was the crackle of the flames that woke him, the comforting snap and pop and comforting warmth of the fire beside him. Blinking groggily, Draco opened his eyes in confusion. The light of the unfamiliar fireplace hurt his eyes, and he hurriedly closed them again.

His brain felt like molasses, but he was grateful to realize that much of the excruciating pain had lessened into a dull throbbing. However, a sharp twinge in his forehead warned him that although he was healing, not everything was back to normal yet.

Where am I?

Turning his head away from the fire, he cracked his eyelids to examine his surroundings in the dimmer light. Blinking slowly, he finally seemed to register the stone walls of the dungeon. But why was he sleeping on an unfamiliar sofa instead of his expected four-poster? Lifting his head slightly off the pillow, he saw a small kitchen as well as a doorway to what he assumed was a bedroom.

Where…? And then it hit him. Snape. I'm in Professor Snape's quarters. I failed to deliver the necklace. And somehow that little girl…

He thought of Madame Prewitt's small daughter, fearing the worst. Did I… hurt her? Professor Snape seems to think so. He tried desperately to remember, but all his memory could evoke was darkness. He recalled arriving at The Three Broomsticks, as well as speaking to Slughorn – although the recollection of their conversation was rather fuzzy. But after that, nothing. His memory was completely blank. And the more he attempted to force the mental pictures to reveal themselves, the more his brain began to ache in protest.

Hissing in pain, Draco strained to sit up. The room swam before his eyes, but he didn't care. Suddenly overwhelmed by a rage born of complete helplessness, he hammered the pillow beside him and bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent a ferocious bellow from escaping. His life seemed to be falling apart around him, and the utter injustice of it all made him want to break everything in sight.

"Professor!" He called, wincing in pain but past caring. "Professor Snape!" He cried out again, secretly hoping to wake his snarky head of house so he could expel some of this vengeful energy. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Draco blinked back his dizziness before heading toward the bedroom door. "Dammit Snape, don't you hear me calling yo—?!"

But the bed was untouched, made up with pillows and the wrinkle-free coverlet. It obviously hadn't been slept in that night.

"Dammit," Draco sighed again, leaning against the door frame when another wave of dizziness threatened to overtake him. The clear sign of his own weakness only served to make him angrier. I refuse to be coddled like a child! He thought bitterly. I don't need to sleep in my professor's private quarters, babysat like some pathetic weakling! He swayed a bit as he pushed away from the wall, but his wobbly steps eventually brought him to the entrance of Snape's rooms. He didn't care where he went, as long as it wasn't here in these rooms.

But as he reached for the door handle, his hand paused in midair.

I want to see Madam Prewitt, he suddenly realized. He was determined to see her – not because he needed care, but because he wished to see for himself what had happened to her daughter. And if it was true that he'd done something terrible, he wanted nothing more than to apologize and beg her forgiveness.

"Why do I even care?" The Slytherin part of him murmured out loud. "It's not like she matters, anyway." But Draco recognized the lie for what it was. For some reason he couldn't fathom, Madam Prewitt's opinion of him did matter. A lot.

Wrapping his fingers around the door handle, he leaned into the heavy wood and used his shoulder to swing it open–

Only to come face-to-face with his arch nemesis.

"Potter?"

The Gryffindor looked just as stunned as Draco felt by the other boy's sudden appearance. But his green eyes darkened dangerously, and then he raised his wand.

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Instead of taking the floo to his quarters like he should have, Snape decided to walk the seven stories back down to his quarters to give himself time to think. Mulling over the recent turn of events, his brain attempted to organize and digest the numerous emotions churning through his gut. Jilly, Slughorn, Draco… all problems that demanded meticulous examination and precise handling. All issues that should have been the only things concerning him now, at this very moment.

But if truth be told, the thing that had knocked him off balance the most was the one thing he least looked forward to dealing with – as well as the one thing currently preventing him from thinking of anything else.

One of the most hated and distrusted wizards in all of Britain, and within the span of an hour I'm now somehow heir to a fantastic fortune and an ancient, respected estate? How in Merlin's saggy left tit could that be?

Snape hated to admit it, but he was suffering from a severe case of overwhelming shock. Maybe even a little anxiety. Although Dumbledore's discovery should have both thrilled and excited him, it did neither of those things. Instead, he now feared for his ability to keep a low profile and blend in, both of which were essential for life as a spy. At least if that spy wished to survive…

Perhaps the headmaster is mistaken, he hoped as he distractedly speared his fingers through his , Dumbledore was nothing if he wasn't thorough, so Snape knew there was a snowball's chance in fiend fire Hell that the interfering old wizard was wrong. Leave it to the old man to upend my life and stick his crooked nose where it doesn't belong…

In his meddling, the headmaster explained that he'd discovered that although Snape's mother had officially been written out of her parents' wills, nothing had ever been mentioned about her heirs. And thanks to Snape's sour puss of a second cousin and her refusal to marry and have children like every other member of the wizarding race, there were no other Princes left that he could thrust this mockery of an inheritance onto. My father must be cursing me from Hell knowing that I have now inherited everything he so desperately wanted in life. If only my mother was here to spit on his grave…

Against his will, a vision of Eileen Prince flashed through his mind. She used to sit for hours at the broken-down kitchen table, staring morosely at a tattered old painting – the same painting which had hung in his study at Spinner's End. Even as a boy, Snape had assumed the landscape had simply been a place his mother would dream of escaping to. When he'd been old enough to read the title written below it in swirly old lettering, he thought the name "Prince Manor" was simply a strange coincidence. In fact, his younger self had always been convinced it was the reason she'd wanted the painting in the first place.

It wasn't far-fetched to imagine that his mother had seen the piece hanging in one of the many second-hand shops they'd frequented and had simply purchased it in one of her depressive fits. After all, other than staring at it for hours at a time when times were especially rough, she'd never said anything about the painting. In fact, she'd never said anything about her family at all. And in Snape's wildest imaginations during his dark childhood, never had it occurred to him that his ragged, beaten-down, mistreated mother was from a long line of wealthy pure-bloods. If that were true, why had she never asked her powerful family for help in fleeing from an abusive marriage?

Was getting me away from my predator of a father not even worth the attempt…?

And truthfully, Snape didn't know how to feel about the fact that he'd somehow gone from homeless to heir, all in the last hour. His past was filled with excruciating pain, and he was sure that he wanted nothing to do with whatever debacle had caused his mother to tumble from high society into Hell. He'd worked hard to leave his grief in the past, especially since he'd been given a second chance with his new family. The thought of drudging up any number of unknown horrors relating to his mother simply didn't appeal to him.

Perhaps I shall allow the estate to be auctioned off as intended, he considered as he strode down the last set of stairs into the dungeon. After all, I want that manor house about as much as I want a muggle gunshot wound to the head. The headmaster mentioned that there had already been some interest, so–

But at that moment, Snape heard something that made his blood run cold, and he froze mid step. The sounds of spells bouncing off the stone walls in the corridor ahead had him rushing down the marble staircase, fearful that Death Eaters had somehow broken into the school while he and Dumbledore had been otherwise occupied. But the carnage that met his eyes as he rounded the corner to his personal quarters was worse than anything he could have imagined, and once again he found himself rooted to the spot.

Harry and Malfoy shot spells and hexes across at one another. Malfoy's hex missed Harry by inches, shattering the flickering lamp on the wall beside him. Harry threw himself sideways and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another—

At that moment, the blank stretch of wall in which the entrance to the Slytherin common room was hidden began to glow and transform into a door, and Snape could hear the voices of many alarmed students on the other side.

"What's that sound?"

"Are people fighting out there?"

"Someone is dueling!"

"Stay in your rooms and lock the entrance!" He bellowed to the students, and gratefully, they seemed to listen. "Stop at once!" Snape yelled at the teenage combatants, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of spells exploding around them. There was a loud bang and a large chunk of wall behind Harry exploded. Harry attempted a curse that backfired off the stones behind Malfoy's ear. His son slipped on the grit beneath his feet and fell hard on the ground as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, "Cruci—"

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" bellowed Harry from on his back, waving his wand wildly.

Blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed against the door to Snape's quarters, his wand falling from his limp right hand.

"No—!" gasped Snape, and he staggered towards the Slytherin bleeding at the end of the hall, praying he would get there in time.

The sounds of Snape's boots as he ran seemed to snap Harry out of whatever emotion had frozen his movements. Their gazes collided, and realization made his son's eyes go wide. Scrambling to his feet, the boy stared down at Malfoy, horrified. The Slytherin's face was now shining scarlet, his pale hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest.

"I— Oh my God, I didn't—" Harry wailed as he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. He laid his palms across the worst of Malfoy's wounds, desperately applying pressure to try and stop the bleeding. As Snape approached, both boys looked up, terrified.

"Dad, I didn't know!"

He didn't have time to think about what his son had unintentionally just revealed. Pushing Harry gently aside, he knelt over Malfoy and drew his wand, tracing it over the deep wounds the curse had made. He muttered the sing-song incantation and the flow of blood seemed to ease. Wiping the residue from Malfoy's face, he repeated the healing song once more. Thankfully, the wounds seemed to be knitting.

Harry continued to watch, aghast at what he'd done and barely aware that he too was soaked in blood and dust. When Snape had performed the countercurse for the third time, he slid his arm beneath Malfoy's shoulders and hefted the Slytherin's limp upper body onto his knees. Malfoy seemed barely conscious.

Voices from the other end of the corridor called out, and the head boy and girl peered at them from inside the common room.

"Professor, who is that?"

"Should we go for the Aurors?"

Knowing he had no time and therefore no choice, he did the only thing he could in that moment. "Forgive me," he murmured before the corridor was filled with a flash of red light.

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Harry shouted, and in that moment his mind was set upon by horrific, distressing memories. They tore at him like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves, blurring through his brain faster than he could comprehend them. The gut-wrenching scenes blended until they were a tangled mass of pure terror… Malfoy stomping on his face with a sickening crunch; Voldemort possessing him at the end of last year; Sirius falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries; Mrs. Weasley lying in a heap as she was tortured into unconsciousness by Bellatrix Lestrange; Draco – no, Dudley – crawling on top of him with his heavy, naked weight as he – NO! Uncle Vernon holding down a young Severus Snape as a child, the boy crying out in agony as he was brutalized and - NO, PLEASE! Draco yanking him from his beloved tree as Dudley unbuckled his belt with a sadistic smirk; Snape yanking him from the Pensieve as he wrapped his beefy hands around Harry's neck and threw him face down on the bed, Draco standing behind him and murmuring, "You're about to have the time of your life, Pot–"

Harry came to against a hard wooden floor without any memory as to how he got there. Petrified, guttural keening filled the air, and it was a long moment before he realized the sounds were his own screams.

A rumble of noise began to pierce his terrified fog. However, it was another long moment before he recognized the jumbled sounds as words.

"…ter! It's not real, it's just a dream! Wake up, Potter!"

He tried to respond to whoever was kneeling above and shaking him by the shoulders, but his muscles refused to cooperate. Feeling as though he'd been run over by the Knight Bus, his teeth began to chatter as a bone-chilling cold settled over him. His eyelids felt as if they weighed twenty stone apiece, but he forced them open, nonetheless.

The sight of Draco Malfoy leaning over him caused his heart to jump clear into his throat. "Get away from me!" Harry shouted, kicking at the Slytherin.

"You scared the shit out of me, Potter! Throwing yourself off the bed and screaming like some sort of crazy person… Here, let me–"

"D-don't touch me!" Harry cried, scurrying away as he reached for his wand. It wasn't there.

"Alright, alright – I won't touch you!" Malfoy sneered, throwing his palms up towards Harry to prove it. "Merlin… I'm the one who should be afraid of you, after what you did last night."

"I…" Harry tried to speak, but he couldn't get any words past his chattering teeth. "W-what a-are you–?"

The teenagers stared silently at one another for long moments before Malfoy got to his feet muttering, "This is stupid. First I hit my head hard enough to nearly knock my own brains out; then I get flayed to within an inch of my life – by you, no less; and now we're locked inside a room together in Merlin-knows where!" He eyed Harry sideways as he stood above him. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, Potter. Why don't you get up off the floor and help me figure out how to get the hell out of here?"

"I…" Harry murmured, swallowing hard and trying to calm his trembling. But the task was made difficult as the shadows of his nightmare continued to lurk inside his memory.

"Christ, Potter," Malfoy growled, rolling his eyes as he turned to fully face him. "Look, I don't have my wand, so I'm not going to hex you or anything – even though you deserve it for attacking me last night for no reason."

"N-no reason?!" Harry yelped as he scrambled to his feet, his indignation momentarily making him forget his fear. "You manipulated an innocent little girl and almost got her killed! And I thought you were going to attack my… I thought you were going to attack Snape!"

"You don't have a fucking clue, do you?" Draco snarled. "I don't know what happened today! Snape claims that I attacked that girl, but I don't even remember seeing her! I could have been Imperioused – did you ever think of that? Not everyone has your freakish ability to resist it, oh mighty Chosen One!" He sneered, giving Harry a mocking bow.

"Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe–?"

"I don't care what you believe, Potter! But Snape seemed to think something strange happened, so that's good enough for me!" He threw himself down on one of two beds in what Harry realized was a large, richly appointed room. Folding both hands behind his head, Malfoy stared arrogantly up at him. "And since when have you given a flobberworm's arsehole about what happens to Snape?" Harry blanched. "At this point it's practically public knowledge that you have a hero complex, but damn Potter. I know you're not as bright as your little mudblood friend, but even you should know that the world doesn't expect you to rescue your archnemesis."

"You're my archnemesis, you bloody twat," Harry grumbled, ignoring the obvious swipe at Hermione. Strangely, he felt better – safer – when Malfoy placed himself before him in such a prone position, as haughty as the Slytherin was attempting to be. Still watching him with sharp eyes, Harry carefully lowered himself onto the second bed. When Malfoy closed his eyes with his hands still tucked behind his white-blonde head, he felt even more of the tension leave his body, and he was able to think a little clearer.

Finally allowing himself to look away from the Slytherin, Harry examined the room. The long walls were covered in rich blue silk, and exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the tall ceiling overhead. Both large, matching beds were carved from gleaming mahogany and boasted upholstered headboards in azure colors complementing the walls. Plush, handwoven antique rugs carpeted the polished wooden floorboards, and each bed came outfitted with a large armoire and small writing desk. The room reminded Harry of a guest suite in a very expensive hotel.

Sunshine spilled in through the large picture window overlooking an extensive ornamental garden. The sun had yet to reach its zenith in the sky, so Harry judged it to be around midmorning. Strangely, there was no snow on the ground – even though there had been a remarkable blizzard the day before. He wondered what part of the country they were in, or even if they were still in the UK. A pang of fear swept through him again at the thought that he did not have his wand. But he tried to put it out of his mind since the last thing he remembered was he and Malfoy being with his father. Trying not to worry, he examined the scene from the window once more. Judging by the view, the room was on a second-story level in... wherever they were.

Eyeing Malfoy for another long moment, he decided the Slytherin wasn't currently a threat and permitted himself to explore. He tried the handle of the door across from his own bed, only to have it swing open into an opulent bathroom covered from floor to ceiling in white marble. Along with all the trappings one would normally find, there was an enormous bathtub set into the floor. He was strongly reminded of the Prefect's bath he'd used at Cedric Diggory's urging, when he'd been attempting to decipher the clue inside the golden egg during the TriWizard Tournament. On either side of the oversized bath and along opposite walls were matching gilded mirrors, below which were large sink basins and identical marble countertops.

Closing the door on the impressive bathroom, Harry made his way toward the only other door in the room. However, when the heavy handle rattled in his hand and refused to budge, he quickly realized it was bolted shut.

"I already told you: we're locked in," Malfoy suddenly spoke into the quiet, making Harry start. "Jumpy, aren't we Potter? So much for the savior of the Wizarding world," he sniggered mockingly.

"Go to hell," Harry muttered, turning back to the door as he jiggled the handle once again.

"Yeah, well… I'm sure I'll end up there eventually. You almost succeeded in sending me there yesterday."

Harry deflated at the reminder of what he'd nearly done, all his anger leaving him as a rush of guilt settled heavily within his gut. His fingers slipped from the heavy metal of the door handle, and he closed his eyes as he leaned his forehead against the cool, polished wood. "Look, Malfoy," he sighed. "I didn't know what that spell would do–"

"Oh, this just keeps getting better and better!" The Slytherin barked with humorless laughter. "'The Chosen One' cannot even be bothered to research spells before he casts them! But that's alright, I suppose. It's not like you've ever been held responsible for your actions, is it? No, Dumbledore and his ilk are always too busy rearranging house points or making excuses to The Daily Prophet. Always saving your ass from any actual consequences." Harry jerked as Malfoy's words evoked the memory of Sirius falling through the veil, and before that Cedric grasping the TriWizard trophy at his urging – the worst consequences of my life. But the other boy didn't seem to notice his reaction. "After all," he went on, the heat suddenly gone from his voice, "who would care if you actually succeeded in killing the foul-tempered offspring of a disgraced Death Eater?"

"I'd care," Harry said without thinking.

"Don't make me laugh, Potter," Malfoy snorted. "You've always hated me, ever since that first meeting back at Madam Malkin's when we were eleven."

"Yeah, well… you were a prat and a bully," Harry retorted. "You still are! And although there's been moments that I've wanted to give you an old-fashioned Muggle thrashing with one of the school's Beater bats, I've…" He turned to face the Slytherin, sighing, "I've never wanted to kill you, Malfoy. Especially not like that. And you're right about… about everything. I've been an irresponsible twat throughout the years. More than you even realize. But what I did to you last night… God. I almost–" Harry's gaze dropped to the floor, and he swallowed back the sickening realization that he'd almost murdered a fellow student. "Whatever has happened between us in the past, there's no excuse for what I did. And I… I'm truly sorry." But as he raised his eyes, he realized Malfoy was looking at him with a strange, almost pained expression. "What?"

"What? No, nothing. I mean…" The mask of cold indifference suddenly slid back into place, and his lips formed into the haughty sneer that Harry hated so much. "As far as apologies for almost killing someone go, that one was rather pathetic. But what else can I expect from Dumbledore's favorite little pet?"

"Typical," Harry hissed, his anger returning as he spun around to try the door handle again. "You'll find a way to hate me no matter what I do. So, whatever Malfoy."

At that moment, a loud growl emitted from deep inside Harry's stomach. He remembered how hungry he was, having skipped lunch and dinner the day before.

"I don't," Malfoy murmured softly enough that Harry almost didn't hear him over the sounds of his hunger.

"What was that?"

"I don't. Hate you."

They stared at each other for a long moment, eyes full of bewilderment at Malfoy's revelation. The Slytherin looked just as confused as Harry felt, as though he wasn't sure why he'd said the words out loud.

Harry's stomach chose that moment to noisily complain again.

"Here," Malfoy said, sitting up and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of green pistachios still in their shells, and at Harry's confused glance explained, "I think I tried eating some to settle my stomach when I was at The Three Broomsticks. You know, before…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes seemed nervous as he glanced quickly at Harry before looking away. "Here," he urged, "take them."

The few steps Harry took towards the Slytherin were tentative, but hopeful. "Thanks," he said quietly when Malfoy poured the fistful of nuts into his palm. Deciding to test this sudden new truce, Harry sat on the floor near Malfoy's legs, his back against the edge of the bed. He put the nuts into his lap and attempted to be conversational as he began to shell them. "So, erm… What do you remember? About yesterday, I mean?"

Malfoy was silent for a moment. But when he answered, it sounded as though he too was attempting to keep things neutral. "Well… I fell on the path on my way down to Hogsmeade. Snape says I cracked my skull and gave myself a bad concussion, which I guess explains why my memory was so fuzzy."

"Christ." Harry said with wide-eyed concern, peering at Malfoy over his shoulder. "That sounds painful. Are you ok?"

"Uh… Yes, I'm alright. Snape took care of it last night."

"Skele-Grow?" Harry asked. At Malfoy's nod, he laughed. "Ugh, I'm sorry. That stuff tastes like Goblin piss. I had to take it in second year, when Lockheart removed all the bones in my arm."

"I remember," Malfoy chuckled. "I was kind of hoping the experience would persuade you away from Quidditch."

"It'll take more than missing bones to do that," Harry grinned. The two of them laughed for a moment, attempting not to think about the strangeness of the experience.

"Anyway," Malfoy went on, "even with a cracked skull and through some sort of miracle, I made it to The Three Broomsticks–"

"Why didn't you go back to the castle? To get your head looked at, I mean?"

"I, uh… had something I had to do first." Strange, Harry thought, but he didn't interrupt as Malfoy continued, "I was sitting in the pub, trying not to puke because of the pain in my head, when Professor Slughorn struck up a conversation."
"Slughorn?" Harry repeated, thinking it strange when the man had so obviously attempted to distance himself from the Slytherin since school began.

"Yeah, well… Not everyone can be as fascinating as 'The Chosen One'," Draco mumbled without much heat. "But in answer to the question your Gryffindor brain is so obviously dying to ask: yes, I also thought that was strange." He hesitated, sighing deeply. "But after that, nothing. One minute I was in The Three Broomsticks, and the next I was… back at the castle, with Professor Snape."

"So you don't remember seeing us?"

"'Us' who?"

"It was Jillian and Celine's first time in Hogsmeade, so Ron, Hermione, Lupin and I were showing them around. Oh, and Tonks, one of the aurors stationed at Hogwarts. She's the one with–"

"The one with pink hair," Malfoy interrupted softly. "Yeah, I know." There was an unexpected note of emotion in his voice, and it was only then that Harry remembered Tonks and Malfoy were cousins. Harry wondered if that explained the sentiment he'd heard in Malfoy's response. Did it bother Malfoy that he didn't have a relationship with the auror, even though they were family? It sounded as though it might. But he didn't have long to contemplate that fact when Malfoy continued, "I honestly don't remember anything. Just this blissful darkness that that seemed to… I don't know… settle around my brain and take all my pain away, as strange as that sounds."

Harry's shoulders tensed at Malfoy's description. "This darkness, did it make you feel… happy? Content, I guess you could say, when you were surrounded by it?"

Malfoy sat up straighter against the upholstered headboard. "Yes," he answered hesitantly. "Almost like… like when we apparate with a wizard who's of age, I suppose. I'm happy to just… let them take control and tell my body where to go. It kind of felt like that yesterday! I was content to let that darkness take control." The boys stared silently at each other for a long moment. "You really think I was Imperioused at the pub?" Malfoy finally asked.

"Yeah. I do."

The look of fear on Malfoy's face surprised him. He supposed that the idea of being controlled without one's knowledge was enough to scare even the most stalwart wizard. However, Harry couldn't help the niggling feeling that there was more to it than that. And for some reason he couldn't explain, Harry wanted to offer the Slytherin his support in his moment of need and show the other boy that he wasn't alone.

For some reason, Mrs. Weasley and her comforting hugs popped into his head. Knowing they'd both be mortified by an overtly emotional display like that, Harry did the one other thing he knew Mrs. Weasley would approve of.

"Here," he muttered, handing Malfoy half of the pistachios he'd shelled during their talk. "It's not much. But food has a way of making you feel better."

Malfoy looked shocked at his generosity. He glanced down at the small pile of proffered nuts with a serious look before shrugging, "I guess you could call this food."

Their eyes met as the joke hung in the air between them – utterly ridiculous and completely stupid in a moment such as this: two enemies locked away in a strange room with someone they knew was attempting to control them on the loose. But maybe those were the exact reasons that made it so funny.

The teenagers couldn't help themselves. Like old friends who completely trusted one another and felt comfortable being themselves in each other's presence, they laughed.

And at that moment, the heavy wooden door popped open with a soft snick.