Chapter V

A New (Un)Life

-o–#–O–#–o-

"With your snake skin dead bodies evening all..."

(The Copper Temple Clause, "Promises, Promises")

-o–#–O–#–o-

Cold, cold, cold. Draco was cold and had, in fact, never ceased to be cold ever since he'd been unceremoniously pulled out from his own personal heaven and back to life—if one could call this living—by none other than Harry Potter; Potter who was perfect, Potter who always caught the Snitch, Potter who always saved the day.

Potter who, apparently, could cast a spell to raise the dead. Draco was impressed enough to grant the thought a raised eye-brow.

He still hated Potter, that much was clear. He might feel a lot of other things about him, annoyingly contradictory things, but it was good to still be able to say without lying ("Not lying, Draco, stretching the truth", as his father used to correct him) that he hated Potter. Intensely disliked him. Totally didn't stand the bastard. And for the first time in his life (right, 'life', what 'life'?) he actually had a good reason. Well, maybe not a good reason, but, at any rate, a reason.

He was cold. Not suffering from cold. Potter, being Potter, hadn't quite grasped the distinction. Draco could feel his body was cold, but the cold didn't actually affect him. It wasn't the kind of cold that made your teeth chatter, not for most of the time anyway. It was the kind of cold that made Potter sick from touching him.

Draco was aware that Potter must have done some pretty dark stuff to bring him from That Other Side to This Other Side. Firstly, because spells that rose the dead were implicitly dark. Secondly, because he could feel it in every fibre of his body. He could feel his blood running slower in his veins, his heart pumping slower inside his chest, his skin almost peeling off and dropping from his limbs. All right, maybe he didn't feel his skin peeling off. He would have liked to see Potter's face if it did, though. Draco grinned—a little malicious grin worthy of a member of Salazar Slytherin's house.

"Remembered something funny, Malfoy?" Potter's voice interrupted his silent meditation upon being the undead minority among entirely alive and, he should add, annoying people.

"Nah, just seen your face, Scarhead."

They were back at what Potter referred to as his 'home'. Or, rather, Potter was back and Draco was still trying to adjust to the place. It was messy and not much more could be said about it, not much more that was even remotely nice, at any rate. And after a whole day of flying on broom across country in mid-winter, Draco felt a small tinge of gratitude towards having a roof above his head, so, he figured, he could always find nasty things to say about Potter's flat some other day. But he didn't see why he should spare the owner.

"Say, Potter, how come you've inflicted yourself upon the Catapults?"

Draco found the huge Caerphilly Catapults poster hanging on the wall in front of him incredibly funny. The fact that Potter was in it, looking distinctly distressed and, not to mention, appalling in blue was most of the reason why.

"You should worry more about the next curse coming out of my wand being inflicted upon you, if you don't shut up," Harry snapped.

Draco refrained from commenting. It seemed that Scarhead was still a bit testy after their merry broom country crossing.

Several hours ago, during the Infernal Flight...

The wind swished maliciously around them, waiting for a chance to throw them off the Firebolt. Draco tightened his grip around Harry's waist and braced himself.

"MALFOY!" Harry roared, trying to cover the wind, "FOR THE THOUSANDTH TIME, I CAN'T BREATHE IF YOU DO THAT!"

Draco pretended he didn't hear. It all figured—Potter wouldn't care if he dropped off the broom, the selfish bastard. The Firebolt wobbled uncertainly in the air. He shifted even closer to Harry, not wanting to take any kind of risk.

"MMFLOWPH!!!"

After a couple of seconds of careful consideration Draco finally conceded that maybe Potter really needed the air to breathe. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip a little. The broom regained a semblance of stability.

The hours passed, slowly. At one point, the wind calmed down enough for Draco to decide he wanted to make conversation.

"Are we there yet, Potter?"

"You said something, Malfoy?"

Not that Potter would appreciate the gesture.

"I said, ARE WE THERE YET, POTTER?"

"Fuck. Don't yell into my ear!"

"So are we?"

"Does it look like we are?"

"I don't know, Scarhead. My eyes are closed."

"So bloody open them!"

"Nah. I'll get an irritation from the wind."

So they continued to fly and more hours passed.

"Potter, this trousers are itchy."

Sullen silence.

"Where'd you get them, anyway?"

Still no answer.

"You stole the clothes, didn't you? Hah!"

Nothing.

"Just tell me that at least you stole the damn clothes from a shop, as opposed to stripping them off some drunken Muggle beggar!"

Now Draco was really starting to panic.

"You didn't! Fuck you, Scarhead, what if they're infested with lice?!"

"Tough luck."

"I hate you, Potter, son of a..."

About a dozen of curses later...

"Malfoy. MALFOY! Shut up!... Merlin, I didn't know you had such a foul mouth. I did steal the clothes from a shop. Their presumably clean. What now? Yeah, well, you're a pigheaded fuckwit of a bastard, too!"

Draco didn't try to initiate conversation after that. He felt he had gotten his point across, even if Potter had had the last word.

Back to the present moment...

Yes, Potter was still touchy. Not that Draco really wanted to chat with him, anyway. It was Potter's fault for everything that Draco was now. Dead and alive at the same time, a perversion of laws of nature—he actually didn't want to go there again. Self-pity could be a taxing affair. Perhaps he could resume moping tomorrow, after a good night sleep. What he needed now was a distraction. While picking on Potter would have been the obvious choice under different circumstances, right now Potter had a wand he could use, while Draco had a wand, period.

He scanned the room for another potential 'distraction' and his gaze fell upon what appeared to be a copy of 'Witch Weekly'. He swallowed a comment about Potter getting in touch with his feminine side, which most likely wouldn't have been appreciated, and silently stretched to get the magazine. Then his eyes fell on the first page and he almost dropped it.

Potter was there, in the photo, making out with another guy.

He must've made a sound that betrayed his utter shock because next thing he knew was Potter standing next to him, trying to snatch the magazine from his hands.

"Give me the bloody magazine, Draco!"

Oh, so he was 'Draco' again now?

He ducked. Perhaps if Potter had asked nicely... Well, no, even if Potter had asked nicely, Draco wouldn't have given him the stupid magazine. The best chance Potter would've had to retrieve it from his hands was to have feigned indifference and waited until Draco got bored of it. Draco didn't see how Potter could force the 'Witch' out of his hands now, not without some serious touching occurring, and he was almost certain Potter would cut his own hands before touching him again. Which was perfectly fine with Draco.

"Come and get it, Potter," he snarled.

Harry stopped abruptly and gazed at Draco with an almost frightened look in his eyes.

It was official. Potter couldn't stand even the thought of touching him. Which was perfectly fi—screw that! Salazar's balls, how he hated Potter! Potter had no right to do this to him. Cast a spell, make him live again, then act like Draco was a freakish creation. What a damn hypocrite! Like it was Draco's fault. Like he'd asked for it. Like he'd been given a choice.

He still couldn't understand how Potter had been able to do it. Not 'how' as in 'what was the mechanism of the spell' (although he was wondering about that, too), but 'how' as in 'where had the bastard found all the nerve'. Whatever had pushed Potter to do it must've been pretty intense. Draco simply couldn't figure it out. Sure, Potter must've felt guilty for his death to some extent, but Draco knew that guilt was one of the most easily digested feelings. Even the most blameworthy of criminals would find reasons to clear his conscience of his crimes. 'Saint' Potter should've been able to chase any trace of guilt away in the blink of an eye. If his conscience had gotten too noisy he could have argued with it that Draco had fooled him, betrayed him, forced his kissed on him. Yeah, Potter could've even told himself that (even though Draco knew precisely how much Golden Boy had enjoyed those kisses) because Potter was, after all, a hypocrite.

So, no, guilt alone couldn't have been it. Maybe Potter missed him, missed whatever it had been between them those few last days at Hogwarts. It was a good theory, especially because it titillated Draco's ego, except... The magazine he was still clutching fiercely told an obviously different story. Potter hadn't lied when he said he could find enough willing bed partners on his own. It made Draco angry. He'd always been possessive about his things and Potter had been his, even if for a brief time. Potter wouldn't even had a clue he was into guys if Draco hadn't shown him how good it could be.

"You are such a tart, Potter," he observed, fighting to keep his voice casual.

"Like you're the one to judge!" Harry heatedly replied.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wasn't the one spreading my legs a year a ago!"

Was Potter actually blushing? Because he didn't have a reason to blush. If someone should blush, it was Draco, who, as Potter had so profusely put it, had been the one 'spreading his legs'.

Draco didn't blush. He sneered.

"You—begged—me—do—it—Potter. 'Malfoy, make me forget', 'Malfoy, let me see you naked', 'Malfoy—'""

"Shut up!"

To say 'make me' would have been too easy, too... clichéd. And, yet, Draco would have said it, but he didn't think he'd be able to control his anger if Potter gave him that frightened look again.

"All right," he said instead.

"What?!"

"I agree with you for a change, Scarhead, and I'm saying 'good night', all in the space of the same minute. Consider it an early birthday present. Is that the door to my bedroom?"

Harry gaped at him. Draco winked.

"That's my..." Harry protested weakly.

"Now, now, 'Harry', hasn't your dear mother taught you—"

"Don't dare talk about my mother!"

"—to be polite with your guests? You have a perfectly comfortable sofa right here."

And Draco slammed the bedroom door behind him.

-o–#–O–#–o-

Harry couldn't sleep. His sofa wasn't that comfortable to begin with and he kept thinking about Draco, who was now in his bed.

He had doubts about everything. About Draco, about his own sanity, about right and wrong, and about how 'right' and 'wrong', when it came down to it, were just words. But as far as words went, he'd done the wrong thing this time. The coldness of Draco's skin both frightened him and made him angry. How could he have been so stupid to believe the Book? Draco Malfoy, or whatever was that cold body resting in his bed at the moment, had no answers to his questions and Harry didn't even know what the questions were anymore. Questions had brought all this mess upon himself and then, all of the sudden, ceased to matter, just like that. Answers to needless questions would be just as needless, even if they were offered to him.

Another thing that didn't let him sleep was not being able to shake the taste of Draco's kiss off. Almost an entire day had passed, and it still crept on his lips, inside his mouth, on his tongue and with it, along came the cold. He knew he should try to chase the memory away, but instead he played it over and over again with his eyes closed. He also knew his eyes shouldn't be closed, because he couldn't afford to fall asleep before confronting the Book. It didn't matter. He wouldn't fall asleep anyway, not even if his eyes were closed, so there was no harm done if he just stayed like this a little longer... before getting up and doing nasty things to the Book... he had to be sure Draco had fallen asleep first... so just a little longer... He would open his eyes soon enough and go looking for the bloody Book and do very nasty things to It indeed.

But Draco's mouth had been wet... So many weird thoughts went around one's head at night. Of course any mouth was wet.

He would open his eyes and get the Book.

...Draco's mouth, wet and cold, was trailing kissed on his bare chest.

Only his chest couldn't be bare because he still wore his pyjama top. And he was in his flat. Not the motel room. He would have to keep this in mind. He would open his eyes. Just a little longer, so that Draco would fall asleep—in his bed—why was Draco in his bed, anyway?...

...Draco was sitting in his lap, sucking Harry's lower lip, the kiss tasting salty; like tears.

Just like tears.

He knew he should feel the urge to run. That was how it had happened.

...Draco held his wrists in a tight grip above his head and his body was pressed against Harry's, moving steadily.

It was the Book's fault for everything.

...Draco was kissing his closed eyes. Just a moment longer and Harry would open them. Then Draco's lips were on his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, his chin, leaving damp, chilly trails behind. Then Harry spoke and told Draco, "I want you." But he didn't really. Couldn't. There were suddenly two Harrys, one holding Draco in his lap and another one who watched. The first Harry wanted to shake the cold body off, but he couldn't, because the second Harry wanted to watch.

I want you, I want you, I want you, Harry, the one who was entwined with the cold body in the armchair, was telling Draco. And the other Harry watched how Draco's body stiffened and his skin withered and his lips turned a sickly shade of blue until the first Harry held only dead flesh in his arms.

Harry opened his eyes. His heart had swollen to the dimensions of a Bludger inside his chest and he wasn't able to breathe properly. He lifted a shaking hand to his face and felt the wetness of tears. It had been just a nightmare.

::Just a nightmare,:: he told himself, and finally his heart seemed to deflate to its right dimensions and started beating again. As he stood lying on the sofa, pyjama damp with sweat, all the exhaustion of the previous sleepless night followed by a day spent flying in the freezing air sunk into his bones and his eyes closed again without further conscious thoughts.

-o–#–O–#–o-

Draco couldn't sleep either. He hoped Potter's sofa had turned out every inch as uncomfortable as it felt when he sat on the ratty thing. He hoped Potter was tossing and turning on the sofa just like Draco was tossing and turning now because he was in Potter's bed, wearing Potter's pyjamas, hearing Potter's voice in his head.

::You have no right, Malfoy.::

::Those are my questions, Malfoy.::

::Why couldn't you leave me alone? Why did you do it? Why did you die?::

Why, why, why. Draco would have liked some answers himself. But had Potter deigned to tell him anything? No. Bastard! Maybe he'd tell Potter why, some day... tomorrow. Maybe. Tell him something after all. Not the truth, just... something.

::What do you want to hear, 'Harry'?:: Draco rolled on his stomach, imagining Harry's face twisted with righteous anger. ::I did it because it I knew you so well, because I knew it would make you stand up to him and fight, and defeat him. I did it because I couldn't live with the thought I sent you to death, and my own life didn't matter if it was the price to be paid for yours.::

Too corny... Draco frowned slightly in the dark, wondering if Potter would fall for that.

::You'd like to hear that, wouldn't you, 'Harry'? Or does it make you feel guilty? Perhaps what you really need to hear is this...:: He could put up his best disgusted mien and spit out the words. ::I did it because I hated you so much, you bastard, and I wanted to fuck with your mind. I did it because I knew you so well, and knew you wouldn't understand, and my own life didn't matter if it was the price to be paid for screwing your mind irrevocably.::

Too dramatic. But Potter would just love to hear that, wouldn't he? It would give him an excuse to remember he hated Draco in case he'd forgotten.

::Or, perhaps, it wasn't even about you. Did it occur to you?:: Probably not. Potter was used to everything being about him. Egotist prick. ::Perhaps I had no idea what would happen to you afterwards. Perhaps I didn't care. Perhaps I was tired and needed a way out. And I simply needed it to mean something. Or perhaps I did it for the dramatic effect. What about that, 'Harry'?::

Too gratuitous. Potter wouldn't believe him.

He rolled on his back again. He wished he could sleep.

-o–#–O–#–o-

At first, Harry thought it was the sound of voices in his kitchen that had waken him up, but the rapid beat of his heart told a different story. He'd been having another nightmare, yet he couldn't remember any part of it. His heart was thundering so hard inside his chest; it must have been the pain that pulled him out of his dream. And his neck hurt from the awkward position he'd been sleeping. Just great. He didn't have too much time to discover just what else was wrong this morning, because just as he opened his eyes and stared blearily around...

"Maybe we should come back later—Oh, you're already awake, Harry!"

"Hermione?"

"Good morning to you too," she greeted him smiling. Another figured walked into the room behind her.

"Morning, Har"–yawn–"ry!"

"Ron?! Hermione?! What are you two doing here?... I mean... it's Sunday morning."

"Precisely," said Hermione.

"We've come to take you out during daytime for a change, mate," announced Ron.

"Er...?"

"What Ron means to say is were not going to let you hide between these four walls all day long anymore. You need to come back to the world, Harry. A lot of people miss you..."

"I bet they do," Harry muttered grimly, starting to recover from his surprise. "Especially Rita Skeeter."

"Forget about the likes of her! We miss you," Hermione stressed, not noticing that the bedroom door was starting to open. Harry did and practically leapt to it, clutching the door handle, desperately trying to keep it still while not blatantly appearing to do so.

"Sure then... You're right... I'll...erm... go change why don't you wait for me in the kitchen?" he burst, aware that he was babbling.

Both his friends eyed him with suspicion. Thankfully, the door handle only rattled for half a dozen more times (Damn Malfoy! Couldn't he take a hint!?) before finally ceasing. Harry released it, trying, and failing, to smile.

"I'll... then... I'll just go into my bedroom." He pointed the door, but made no move to open it. "To change," he added tensely. "I won't be long."

"Oh." Hermione put one hand over her mouth like she'd just had an epiphany. "Come, Ron." She tugged at Ron's sleeve. "We'll wait for Harry... in the kitchen."

As soon as they were gone from the living room, Harry turned around and in less than a second he was inside his bedroom, leaning heavily against the door. He fought against the sudden urge to shiver. It was colder in here than in the rest of the flat and Harry didn't want to think about why. Draco was glaring at him from the other side of the room, wearing Harry's favourite pair of pyjamas.

"What's hunting to make you its breakfast this morning, Potter?"

"Ron and Hermione are here," he hissed. "Keep your voice down."

"Really?" Draco sounded very interested and not particularly preoccupied by the possibility of being heard. "Weasel is here with the Mudblood?"

"I would appreciate if you stopped calling my friends 'Mudblood' and 'Weasel'."

"Can I call them 'Big-Tooth' and 'Blotchy'?"

"No!" Harry replied angrily, keeping as low a tone as he could. Draco smirked.

"Why are you so jumpy, Potter?"

"I'm not jumpy," he said slowly, struggling to control his outburst. "You're a conceited git who doesn't give a damn about others!"

Draco ignored the comment.

"Can I still call you 'Scarhead'?"

"Can I stop you? Look, Malfoy, you can call me anything as long as you don't leave this room while they're here."

The blond made a show of pretending to consider the offer. He studied his nails intently, like they hold the answers to all the problems in the universe. He looked at the ceiling, assuming an intrigued mien and nodding from time to time, as if the bloody ceiling was offering precious advice. He chewed his bottom lip and frowned theatrically. Harry knew he did it only to annoy him. He wished he hadn't left his wand in the living room. Then he could've silenced and stunned Draco, and maybe locked him inside the wardrobe, instead of trying to strike an impossible bargain with a being who probably thought poisonous snakes made nice pets.

"Well, that's not much of a deal, Potter," the former Slytherin finally drawled. "It's not as if I've ever asked for your permission to call you names."

Harry gritted his teeth and walked to his wardrobe, not looking at Draco as he spoke again.

"What do you want so we can have a deal?" He was now rummaging inside the wardrobe for clothes. Ron and Hermione wouldn't wait for him in the kitchen forever.

"How about I play nice and hide until you get your friends out of here and then we discuss what you owe me... later?"

"So you can decide that you want me to jump from the top of the building, naked? I don't think so."

"I need time to consider this, Potter and you obviously don't have time." Draco took a step towards the door. "Come to think about it, I miss the way Weasel's face turns the colour of his hair when he's angry." Another step. "'Course, if he sees me, he might faint from shock first."

Harry clenched his fists and remained silent. Draco was only a step away from him now and a couple more from the door, and stood waiting with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I'm not as unreasonable as you might think. I'll give you three choices, three things I want and you can pick one and make my day. I'll even refrain from anything that involves your public humiliation. How about that?"

"Incredibly generous," Harry snorted. "But, to make everything clear, if I agree to your three-wishes game, you'll have to hide every time I have visitors. Nobody can see you. That's the deal. It'll be Ron and Hermione most of the times and not even they come that often, so it's not that much of a chore."

"You're aware, Potter, that changes the whole scale of our little agreement."

"Well, I'm sure you'll make me pay for it more than accordingly."

"Good." Draco smiled like the cat which caught the mouse and was in the mood to play. "Because I'm sure I will, too."

Harry laid his final choice of clothes for the day on the bed.

"Would you please turn around so I can change?"

"I didn't know you were shy, Potter," Draco said, faking amazement rather blatantly. "There's no part of you I haven't seen before, anyway."

"Fine. Stare if you must. See if I care."

Draco sat down on the bed and did precisely that.

-o–#–O–#–o-

Meanwhile, in Harry's kitchen...

Ron and Hermione sat at the table in relative silence; relative, because Ron didn't seem able to refrain from tapping his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface.

"Do you think Harry's hiding something from us, Hermione?"

Hermione lifted her gaze from the floor she'd been studying intently for the last couple of minutes.

"I thought that much was obvious, Ron."

When Ron didn't say more, Hermione sat up and proceeded to inspect Harry's fridge as a way to calm her restlessness. The conclusion was not a happy one and it showed plainly in the crease on her forehead.

"Empty as always. Now wonder he's so thin," she whispered, more to herself, although Ron could hear it pretty clearly.

"You sound like my Mum," Ron complained, only half-jokingly.

"Ron," she sighed in exasperation.

"All right, I know, I know." A pause. "Hermione, do you think that Harry's found himself a girlfriend and doesn't want us to know?"

"Er, well, Ron..." She didn't really thought that. How did they get from discussing Harry's fridge to discussing Harry's love life? Ron's tapping was really starting to become annoying.

"What?"

"I think that, maybe," Hermione said slowly, as if weighting her words, "Harry's found himself a boyfriend."

"Oh." There was another pause and no more tapping, possibly because Ron's hand had frozen in the air. "Why would you think that?"

"It's pretty obvious if you know where to look. If it was a girl, he would have told us about her, so it must be a guy. That's why he was so anxious to get us out of the living-room. He still feels awkward because of that photo."

"Oh," it was all Ron's eloquence could manage. Hermione tutted disapprovingly. Yet another brief silence followed.

"Are you sure you have the portkey, Hermione?"

"For the thousandth time, yes, I have it," she answered in an exasperated voice. "It's in my pocket."

"Can I have a look at it?"

"For the thousandth time, no. Not before Harry's here."

Of course, Ron knew this, because Hermione had explained it to him quite in detail before coming here.

"What if he wants to bring his, um, boyfriend along?" the redhead queried, sounding more like someone who asked 'What if the a big rock falls from the skies?'

"It's Harry's choice," Hermione explained patiently. "I'm sure he's a nice guy if Harry likes him."

"Were you talking about me?"

Harry was standing in the door frame, a small, battered backpack on his right shoulder, looking questioningly at his friends. Ron looked at Hermione. Hermione looked at Ron. Then both of them looked at their hands without any apparent reason.

"Actually, Harry..." Hermione started uneasily, not sure about Harry's reaction at discussing a boyfriend he was so keen to hide from them.

"Is your boyfriend coming too?" Ron intervened, putting an end to her dilemma.

"My—WHAT?!" Harry was definitely flustered and, if nothing else, that was a clear give-away.

"Smooth, Ron, really smooth."

"How... why would you think I have a boyfriend?"

Hermione rolled her eyes all-knowledgeably.

"Oh, Harry. It's all right if you don't want to introduce us just yet, but we know he's in your bedroom." Ron grimaced at her blunt statement and its implications, so Hermione glared for a second at the redhead before continuing. "The three of us are going to have a very serious discussion soon—and Ron, please, stop making faces—but it's not on today's schedule... speaking of which, we should be going."

Harry's immense relief for the change of topic was clearly visible on his face.

"Where are we going?"

Hermione smiled.

"It's a surprise."

"What's in the backpack?" Ron inquired.

"Erm, just stuff."

Ron looked like he wanted to push the matter, but eventually refrained from it. Hermione raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment otherwise.

"Now, give me your hand," she instructed and Harry obeyed. "Ron, take Harry's hand. Good. Here we go."

Then she reached inside her pocket and they all disappeared.

-o–#–O–#–o-

The living room was warmer, Draco noticed. Apparently, not only was he cold, but he was also leaking cold. It explained why Potter had been shivering inside the bedroom—not that Draco cared about Potter's comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact. Draco was furious. Potter had run away with his pathetic friends and discarded Draco like a broken doll.

He paced nervously up and down the room, grimacing in distaste at the amount of trash decorating the floor and furniture. He paused in front of the Catapults poster to glare at the Harry in the picture, who glared right back. Kicking a discarded Quidditch glove into the wall and muttering under his breath, he strode to the kitchen.

Draco couldn't remember ever setting foot into a kitchen before or indeed desiring to do so. However, boredom was really getting to him so he thought he might feed himself, although he wasn't really hungry. There was an uncomfortable feeling gathering inside himself—a feeling of being out of place here in Potter's flat and in the living word once more, and he didn't know which bothered him more, or whether it was the combination that made his situation so difficult to bear.

Luckily, Potter's kitchen momentarily distracted him from the constant uneasiness, mostly because he didn't know what to make of it. The most familiar thing in it was the fireplace, although he thought it was a weird place to have one. At home, there had been a 'fireplace chamber' designated for the sole purpose of receiving guests via the Floo network, and there were several more fireplaces scattered across the mansion for the private use of family members, but he didn't think they had one in the kitchen. The house-elves would have had little use for it at any rate. Then there was a rough shaped table, some uncomfortable-looking chairs, a sink and a big, white box that hummed quite spitefully at him and was attached to the wall by a white cord about as thick as his forefinger. A stack of plates was visible on top of it. Draco was reluctant to have anything to do with the white box, which was obviously of Muggle fabrication. He decided to ignore it as best as he could for the time being. There was no food or drinks in sight, but the fact didn't considerably faze him.

He reached on top of the humming contraption and picked a large plate and a glass, as well as a knife and a fork. He set them on the table, pulled a chair, sat down and patiently waited for the food to appear.

Nothing happened.

Damn it, that was how it had worked at Hogwarts, so where was the food?

After five minutes of glaring at the plate, a nasty suspicion began forming into Draco's mind—namely, that he would be forced to prepare his meal by himself if he ever wanted to eat. Lucky he wasn't hungry, then. As on cue, his stomach picked up that particular moment to make itself heard. Draco almost groaned in a very unbecoming manner. It appeared that he was hungry, after all.

Mentally cursing Harry for leaving him to starve inside his horrible flat (which must've been the twit's idea of a revenge for the earlier inadvertent strip-show, Draco inferred), he turned his gaze to the white box, which had actually stopped humming at some point during his glaring match with the plate. The box was the obvious place for storing food. Curiosity and an empty stomach prompted him to give up all precaution and rise from the chair to walk to the strange Muggle contraption. He tugged at the door, which resisted a little before opening. The resuming of the humming sound made him jump and shove the door closed, although the box didn't stop humming once it was sealed again. But the quick glance inside had assured him that the box was mostly empty anyway. Also, he was sure he'd felt a cool airwave coming from it while the door had been open. At least he wasn't the only one leaking cold around here.

Now in an irritable mood, Draco strode to the front door and pressed the handle. All precaution be damned, he wasn't going to stay inside this garbage bin of a place and die of starvation! The door refused to open. Cursing, Draco went back to the living room and started looking for the key. After several minutes of fruitless attempts, he finally gave up, concluding the unsuccessful search by slamming his fist into the closest wall.

Simmering with frustration, he walked back into the bedroom and dropped onto the unmade bed unceremoniously. He closed his eyes and, for some more minutes, fought to keep his anger under a semblance of control, breathing heavily. When he calmed down a bit, he let his gaze wonder, inspecting the room. Only the most basic of furniture pieces; no adornments; long, dark curtains, but no carpet. On the nightstand to his right there was a photograph of a young couple holding a baby. Draco picked it up to study it more carefully, although he could guess without too much of a mental strain who they were. The man might've been Potter, except for his brown eyes and lack of scar. The woman had beautiful green eyes that matched the eyes of the baby. Draco threw it back on the nightstand, not caring if it broke. Had he been able to use his wand, he would've incinerated it without a second thought.

He felt trapped, confined between the walls of the flat not only by the locked door, but also by his lack of a place in the world. Where would he go, even if he would unlock the door? As a matter of fact, nothing stopped him from using the fireplace and getting out of here faster than he could say 'Floo powder', all locks be damned, but the question remained. Where would he go? Returning to his family's mansion was out of the question, of course. He had betrayed the Malfoy name and Malfoys weren't exactly known for their forgiveness; now that it came to that, he was a bit baffled they'd buried him in the family crypt despite the exploits leading to his death. He wondered what had happened to his parents, not so sure he wanted to know, in the end. One thing he was sure of, nonetheless. If his father was still alive, then as far as Lucius was concerned Draco would remain as dead as possible for as long as possible.

The rest of the Wizarding world was also off-limits for him. He had very little means to disguise himself and somebody was bound to recognise him sooner or later, should he risk that kind of exposure. He wasn't at all anxious to find out what the Ministry did to dead people illegally restored to life. The last alternative was life among Muggles, which was too dreadful a thought to contemplate even hypothetically. There weren't in truth other choices for him but staying put right where he was, hiding in Potter's flat.

He didn't understand his body anymore and it frightened him. The cold emanating from his skin, always surrounding him was a ever-present reminder that he didn't belong to the world of the living; yet he wasn't dead any longer, either. He didn't know what he was. His heart was still beating, but faintly. He placed a hand over his chest and felt it throbbing underneath, barely, like it was always on the edge of stopping. He lifted his hands and studied them with a distant interest. His pale skin—a family trait, a sign of his pureblood lineage—was now almost translucent. He traced the blue line of a vein along his arm. It was disturbingly accentuated. His skin felt stiff somehow, but still soft. He was convinced he would nevertheless bleed if cut, but was a bit doubtful about the exact colour and consistency of his blood.

But what disquieted Draco the most, even more than this new, almost lifeless body, was being forced to give up control over his existence. He depended on Potter for everything now. If Potter wanted to let him starve, there was nothing he could do but starve. He was in Potter's house, wearing Potter's clothes and sleeping in Potter's bedroom. He smirked at the thought. At least, that had been a small victory—kicking Potter out of his own bed, although, of course, Draco would have considered sharing if Potter had acted less like a bastard.

All of the sudden, he wasn't feeling that bad anymore. He stood up, divesting himself of Harry's pyjamas as he walked to the bathroom. Immersing himself in a bathtub full of hot water—that was what he needed to put his thoughts in order and, hopefully, drive some of the cold away. He would make plans and feel better. Control wasn't something one was given, it was something that had to be gained. He would gain control, first over himself, then over his prison and ultimately over his questionable life. And maybe over Potter, if he played his cards well.

It would be easier now that Potter owned him. The thought cheered him up even as he finished filling the tub and sank contentedly in the steaming water. His mind was already spinning with plans and new possibilities. He would start small at first. No need to push Wonder Boy too much from the beginning, was it? If the flat was going to be his scene for the undefined future, he could maybe make Potter clean the place up and provide Draco at least some of the comfort he had been used to. Or, even better, he could persuade Potter to get a house elf. It shouldn't be much of a provocation.

He grinned as he rose slightly and commenced to soap his upper body. He had to keep in mind that the water wouldn't stay hot for too long with his body in it. Oh, well, the drawbacks of being not-quite-dead and yet not-quite-alive.

End of Chapter Five