Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 5

Harry woke up and didn't want to, and he also didn't know where he was. His mouth was dry and his head ached, the slanting light suggested it was afternoon, and someone was there in bed with him.

Not an uncommon situation. It happened far too often, and at times Harry believed this was what the rest of his life was going to be like: one endless string of grey mornings, grey afternoons, or black dusty nights where he woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a stranger. Sand under his eyelids, his tongue like a dead furry animal in his mouth and his body screaming to be replenished, but not with food.

This time, something was different. His relationships with strangers weren't usually of the warm and tender kind. They never held him. He never held them. They grabbed what they wanted from each other with rough hands and rough tongues and hard thrusts, and then fell into a stupour. This stranger did hold him. The arm across Harry's waist was pale and the hairs on it very blond, and the hand that rested flat against his chest with the palm over his heart felt oddly protective. He lay still for another moment, thinking how strange it was that his heart was beating, warm and alive, under another man's hand. He found pleasure in the thought.

Memory was returning. He was aware now that the arm and hand belonged to Draco Malfoy, the last person on earth he would have expected to wake up with. Not a person he'd have expected to be protective of him, either.

Malfoy stirred behind him. The calm, even breathing was interrupted by a gasp, surprised or embarrassed or both. The arm and the hand were hastily removed from Harry's body.

"I'm sorry," said Malfoy, sleepy and confused, behind Harry.

Harry had to smile to himself. It wasn't a bad feeling, wanting to smile. He could almost hear Malfoy blush; blood rushing up to the white skin in a whisper. Warmth stirred in his body.

"You were so cold," Malfoy mumbled, needing to find excuses.

He was out of bed now; retreated across the room to a safe distance. Harry slowly sat up.

"And miserable," he said. "Thanks, Malfoy."

He tried to meet Malfoy's eyes but Malfoy wouldn't let him. Yes, definitely a blush. Well, his skin was made for it. Harry had no idea how many times he had seen Malfoy blush at school, but then it had nearly always been in anger.

"How are you feeling?" Malfoy was being businesslike now, determined to show only a neutral concern, a mediwizard merely taking care of a patient.

"A bit nauseous. I wouldn't mind some more of that miracle potion before I start to feel really sick again."

Malfoy administered the potion without comment, and then settled on the chair again, still turned back to front, as if he needed a shield between himself and Harry.

"Let's go back to your story," he said, still the mediwizard. "Like descent into Hell, you said. Tell me about that."

Harry was reluctant to leave his unexpected, warm state of mind and plunge himself into the fear, anger and despair that had dominated the period of time directly following the defeat of Voldemort.

"Do you mean it didn't happen at once?" Malfoy asked. "That it was a gradual process?"

Harry sighed and resigned himself to being Malfoy's patient. After all, he had agreed to tell his story.

"Yes," he said. "After I'd been released from St Mungo's that first time…"

It had been a confusing time. Harry was relieved that Voldemort was defeated, dead and destroyed – how could he not be? He himself was celebrated as a hero. Everyone wanted a piece of him, reporters and ordinary people alike. They wanted to touch him, talk to him, thank him, buy him drinks, be seen with him… and he accommodated their wishes as far as he reasonably could. He continued to go to a mediwizard's clinic for regular checkups, to ensure that the dark injuries from the final battle had not done lasting damage. The wizarding world was slowly getting back on its feet, and began to rebuild itself. But Harry seemed unable to recover.

He ought to have been jubilant and radiantly happy with the freedom he had earned. He was no longer under pressure to be brave and inventive; he had done what had been required of him and he had done it well. But instead of being jubilant, he felt empty. All of the medical checkups showed normal results, but something was happening to him. It was not physical. It was a kind of slow mental deterioration that he told no one about because he was afraid to, afraid to find out what it was, for others to know, to have it confirmed.

Harry was not sure when he first noticed that his magical powers were fading, but there it was. They were fading. It was an ongoing process. The first time one of his spells failed, he brushed it aside as a slip, a glitch, a temporary after-effect. It was a complex spell, after all, and anyone could make a mistake. But he began to fail to do simpler spells, and his failures grew more frequent. He was unsure whether it was due to his wand or to his own powers, but eventually came to the conclusion that it was both. He could still do magic, but failings and success were randomly distributed and he never knew when he would fail in public. There was no doubt in his mind that this would happen. He was grateful that enough time had passed that the press had lost interest in him.

The insecurity made him aggressive and unreliable, with sudden outbursts of violence that he could not predict or control. Alcohol blurred the edges and made things less painful, but sometimes also underlined his aggressiveness. And then there was the incident with the boy in the pub, who Harry cut with a glass splinter. He had frightened himself that time – he had really wanted to kill the boy. The metallic taste of anger, hate and fear had stayed in his mouth for weeks.

They locked him in at St Mungo's rather than putting him to trial. They deemed him insane, and he guessed that was the truth. He and the world alike. The war had sown madness, and this was the harvest.

The team of mediwizards who treated him never figured out what was wrong with him. There were endless hours of talk. Various kinds of therapy were suggested, but as they all included the practice of magic, however simple, Harry flatly refused. And they didn't force him.

He hadn't really intended a suicide attempt, that time in the mediwizard's office when he had pushed his hands through the glass door. He had only tried to Apparate. But once he was there on his knees on the floor, hands shoved through the glass and badly cut, he had thought that the best, well, the only, thing he could do was to use the spikes of glass to cut his wrists open and end the whole ridiculous, unbearable situation once and for all. Before he had had the courage to do it, they had come back.

As soon as he was released from hospital, he fled to the Muggle world. He had lived there before, after all, and was familiar with it. No one knew who he was and he could start a new life. But his new life had only been an existence, not really a life. He had existed in a blur, cut through by pain at times, occasionally lit up by a rare moment of beauty. The days had dragged on, and he had only been waiting for something to happen.

It was time for supper, and Potter was exhausted. Draco ordered food, provided Potter with potions and left him for the evening.

He went back to his own room and let Hedwig out of her cage. She had been restless and irritable ever since Draco had brought Potter to The Leaky Cauldron, as if she could sense his presence but not identify the feeling.

"I'm sending you off to Hogwarts," Draco told her, running a hand down her snow-white back. "To Lupin. And please make him understand I want an immediate reply. Here. Some food before you go. And here's the letter."

He tied it to her leg, watched her devour the food and the owl treats, and then opened the window for her. She disappeared in the dusk like a ghost.

She will leave me now, he thought. Now that Potter is back.

When Harry had left the wizarding world she had been bewildered and lost, and as Draco's own owl had never returned from one of his journeys during the war, he had taken her in. Soothed her, talked to her, coaxed her to eat.. She had settled down well with him after an initial period of what looked like grieving, but she had never grown as fond of him as he of her.

He realised now, with a clarity that made him blush, that he had wanted to keep her because she was part of who Potter was. Potter himself was gone, but by keeping Hedwig Draco had kept a tiny piece of him.

Sentimental bastard, he said to himself, still blushing.

He refused to analyse what else his actions might imply.

Lupin opened his window to Hedwig in the bleak sunlight next morning. She was tired, and he tried to send her off to the Owlery as soon as he had retrieved the letter, but she refused to leave.

When Lupin unfolded the piece of parchment and saw Draco's strong signature with an impatient flourish at the end, he said: "Demanded a reply by returning mail, did he?" Hedwig looked steadily at him.

"Can you do it?" he asked.

She hooted reproachfully. Of course she could; what did he take her for – a common screech owl?

"You know what?" he said. "You don't have to go back. I'll go there myself, now – I'll Apparate, and I'll take them both back here. You'll see them again very soon – both Draco and Harry."

He stroked her breast feathers with a finger and smiled at her. Mollified, she flew off to the Owlery, and Lupin read the note.

Lupin,

It's both better and worse than we thought. Obviously, I can't tell you everything in a note, but Potter is willing to go back. There are complications, however: he is ill and it seems he cannot travel by magical means. I think it may be possible for him to travel by Portkey, but then you will either have to come here yourself, find a way to provide me with a Portkey, or have me authorised to create one. My preference would be to have you here in person. Please advise.

Yours,

D. Malfoy

Lupin tried to decide whether this was to be regarded as good or bad news. Then he took a deep breath, collected a few items, put on his travelling cloak and set out for Hogsmeade.