He turned the lamp on. No one home once more. Neville, Dean, and Seamus were nowhere to be seen. Why would he know where they were anyway? It's not like he had ever paid any great attention to these people who were not his closest friends. What reason did they have to check on him or offer him solace when he felt isolated?
Harry found himself looking forward to the evening owl post. Surely there would be messages from Hermione and Ron. Perhaps he should go visit Hagrid.
But what could any of these people say that would offer him relief? Nothing. They knew he wasn't well, but they didn't know the symptoms.
It was as if Draco had read a blueprint of his thoughts. His fears. No one but Draco seemed to know that every night a voice whispered to him. A voice that was cold and shrill. It seemed to be calling him out of his reverie and into a life of more promise and pleasure. After all, didn't Draco once tell him that he had chosen the losing side?
The thought that Harry had managed to suppress most of his waking hours came creeping back to the surface with astonishing but forbidden clarity:
What would happen if he changed his mind?
Harry buried his face in the pillow and pounded his fist in the covers.
Damn it.
He sat by the lake and watched the giant squid's fins flash in the moonlight. Without lunch or dinner, Harry had felt almost faint walking to the water's edge. What if he just kept walking? What if he hadn't stopped? The feelings of self-loathing and inadequacy had become so steeped in his soul that drowning was just a physical metaphor for what had already taken place inside him. It was only a matter of time before he would be a candidate for St. Mungo's. And that seemed a fate almost worse than death.
Surveying the trees near the shoreline, Harry detected a movement in the branches of one of the closest ones, a flash of silver that was almost imperceptive except for reflecting itself in the moon's light.
"Who's there?" Great, he realized. Now I'm seeing things, too.
But wait, perhaps someone was there. And the strangest sensation of hope came over him.
"Draco?"
The voice called down to him. "It's me, Potter." Hidden feet now swung down to the grass with a thump.
"What are you doing in that tree? Are you nuts?"
"I might be. But then we'd have something in common."
Silence.
In the distance Harry heard the squid in the lake resurface, splash the shallow waters, and then dive below again, on to deeper territory.
Harry retreated into sarcasm. "So, since when do you like climbing trees, Malfoy? Or is this just an excuse to spy on me long enough to pay me compliments again?"
"My father built me a treehouse when I was eight. I always come up here. It reminds me stuff we did together before he got too busy."
"Too busy?"
"Yeah. He had all these other obligations to fulfill at one point—"
"Okay, okay, sorry I asked." Harry turned and started walking back to the castle.
Draco called out to him, "I'm not. Look, it wasn't about dear old Voldemort if that's what your little warped mind was thinking. Use your head, Harry, and do the math. You-Know-Who wasn't in power when I was eight."
Harry stopped for a moment, his back still to Draco. "So what? I'm sure your 'dear old dad' was planning his welcome home party and getting invitations engraved at that point anyway."
"You should be a comedian, Potter. Really though, your witticisms are impressive. I thought you had lost the ability to bait me, along with everything else."
Harry turned around. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"It means just what I told you earlier in McGonagall's class. You aren't the same person, and you know it. Just admit it, and spare me the Gryffindor bravery act."
Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the next. He felt a little dizzy from lack of food and sleep. "Well, so what?" he retorted. "You'd probably have a little post-traumatic stress too if you'd seen what I'd seen."
"I have seen it."
"What?"
Draco's face once again was clouded by something Harry couldn't identify. "I mean, for the last two years, I've seen things. Unspeakable things. Things that might even be worse than what you described from the Tournament. And what's worse, they happened in my own backyard, so to speak." The young Slytherin shrugged. "So much for treehouses."
Draco hopped back up in the tree and swung his legs over a protruding branch. Unwillingly, Harry had found himself moving closer to Draco during this discussion. He watched his enemy climb the tree and felt awkward, standing in the moonlight and looking up at Draco, trying to find the meanings behind Malfoy's cryptic remarks.
"But it doesn't bother you?"
Draco's face peered between leaves. "What doesn't?" He smiled down.
Harry was even more confused as Draco climbed higher. "The horrible stuff happening all around you."
"That's one interpretation. I see it as a display of power. Horrific, yes. Unsettling, yes. Cruel, yes. But boring, never."
"I think I'd rather be bored."
"No you wouldn't. You thrive on it."
"Thrive on what?"
"The allure of danger. The need to be powerful. The need to win. You should take a look in the mirror when you're pursuing the Snitch. The expression on your face reflects it all. So does mine for that matter."
"If I'm thriving, as you put, then how can my so-called 'light' be out?"
Harry challenged.
He was almost touching the outer branches of Draco's tree at this point,
hovering around the leaves, like a moth circling a flame.
"Because what happened in that graveyard was the death of your former life. You haven't truly accepted the benefits or the gifts of your new life. You don't know that all along you were perfect for the other side."
"Forget it, Draco. I'm not a Slytherin at heart. Hate to dash your hopes of becoming a shrink. So quit the psychoanalysis, it's creepy."
"Creepy because there might be some truth in it?"
"No, creepy because you usually insult me and belittle me, and now you seem fascinated by the workings of my inner mind. What's up, anyway?"
No answer. Instead, Draco did something that thoroughly surprised
Harry. He stepped to a lower branch on the tree and held out a hand.