Disclaimer: Poor innocent Harry Potter and poor...not-quite-so-innocent...Draco Malfoy just happened to wander into my story-starved clutches; they really belong to J. K. All cower before her. The Dumbledore Dragon concept is mine, unless Jo's holding out on us, but his character basis is still the property of Her Eminence Rowling. Grovel, mortals, grovel and flee like hell.

Warning: (music) "SLASH! AH-AHHHHH! IT'S SAVED EVERYONE OF US!!!" Okay, maybe not, but I couldn't resist the Queen reference; it just kept playing in my head. Guy/guy stuff. No likee, no readee, no problem. ee. (erghm....)

A/N: Without contest, my favorite chapter so far. I had to resist the urge to start singing, "Caaaan you feeeeeel the loooooove to-niiiiiight," while writing it, because it was four a.m. and my roommate was sleeping. An now I have that song stuck in my head and I can't stop giggling. I will mention that the slightly anachronistic use of the word "fucking" occurs in this chapter. I found it necessary.

Also, thanks, myrti, for your encouraging reviews. Here's your long-anticipated interaction! Er...after a fashion.

The Makings of a Damsel

Chapter Three

Deep

The first thing that sprang into Draco's mind was, He didn't find the coat I left him. Banishing this irrelevant thought, Draco rushed to the quietly shaking form on his floor, relieved to see that he was at least breathing, if unconscious. Looking about at a loss for what to do, Draco noticed that the boy had climbed in through the window, as evidenced by the snow dragged from the windowsill over the desk and onto the floor. The boy gave a twitch, a spasm of cold-choked muscle that ran down his arm like a frantic mouse.

Draco took a deep breath and regarded the boy. He had run to his side without question, but now he had to seriously assess the situation. If he chose to take care of the boy (and really, what choice did he have?), he was going to be found out. The potion did not extend so far as to disguise touch, and even barring that, Draco would be in the same small space with him constantly. This painstaking charade to keep himself halfway hidden would have to undergo some dire revisions, if not be banished entirely. Draco got up and pulled back the bedcovers; the decision was obvious.

Sliding his arms under the boy's knees and shoulders, Draco lifted him off the floor with a fair amount of effort, and set him carefully onto the bed. It was only when he removed his arms from under the boy that he jerked upward with a sharp, stinging thought: this was the first human contact he had had in six years. Draco gaped at the winter-beaten body lying prone on the bed and had to take several deep breaths to steady himself. It wasn't exactly that he had missed touching other people; he hadn't thought about it at all, really. But it was such an insignificant motion to contain such a profound occurrence, so much so that Draco was overwhelmed with the heady desire for more.

He watched, vaguely perplexed, as his pale fingers stretched out toward the black-haired boy's slack face. They hovered, uncertain, over the boy's forehead, lingering near the zig-zag scar that reminded him so powerfully of his own. Draco nearly choked on his own spit when his fingertips brushed the slight ridges of the mark, catching tufts of hair in between them. The severely isolated blonde youth goggled as he saw his fingers tracing a path down the bridge of the boy's nose. This was too much. Cheekbone. This was crazy, impossible, wrong. Jawbone. He couldn't be doing this. Chin. This was..this was...he finally jerked his fingers away like they were burning, just a hairs width from the boy's lips, which were pale and chapped with the cold.

Stomping a little to regain focus, Draco pulled the blankets up and tucked them around the boy, doing his best not to wake him. Then he pulled out the wobbly chair and sat on it backwards, resting his elbows on the unpolished back. As the snow fell at a slant outside the window, Draco stood vigil over the black-haired boy until his head drooped onto his arms and sleep softly conquered him.

He awoke to find a pair of green eyes staring intently in the direction of his left ear. Nearly toppling out of the chair in surprise, he grabbed for the edge and righted himself, leaning as far back from the speculative scrutiny of an apparently wide-awake black-haired boy as possible. Said boy removed his still-pale face from Draco's vicinity and crossed his arms with a sigh. Dawdling around the room, he stopped by the bookshelf with mild interest. Picking out a scarlet leather-bound text gilt with goldleaf, the pages of which were loose and sometimes falling out, he sat gingerly back down on the bed and drew his knees up about him. Draco relaxed; maybe this wouldn't be so different after all. He was still just an observer; no contact was necessary. Draco thought back to his inexplicable, almost perverse perusal of the black-haired boy's features ad shivered. No, contact wasn't necessary. And he didn't want it either. Really, he insisted to himself lamely.

He inspected the boy from his seat. His cheeks had regained a little of their original color, and he seemed to be moving about fairly well; not exactly performing pirhouettes with the greatest of ease, but not paralyzed either. That was a good sign. But he still needs to stay longer! A voice cried, like a child unwilling to relinquish his playtime just yet. Draco batted the thought away. Still, as the frail boy coughed repeatedly into his fist during his little curl-up with the book, Draco admitted that the voice was right, if not entirely pure of intention.

Shifting off the chair, Draco decided to go outside and let the boy think what he would. Stepping out into the cold, his wool still snug about him since he hadn't had a chance to take it off, Draco cast a glance around. The spell-fire had weakened under the relentless torrent of heavy snow, but it still flickered palely in the firepit.

Draco crouched down to get closer to the smoldering stack of wood. He still clung to his silent identity, and was reluctant to speak loudly to stir the flames when the black-haired boy was within range.

"Dilly Bobble," Draco whispered hopefully; perhaps the fire would humor him just this once and let him get it right on the first try. The fire sputtered, sparking randomly and almost singing Draco's coat, and then caught, spreading benignly as if to say, "Alright, alright, just this once, dear." Draco bit his lip with pleased gratefulness, and rubbed his hands together for warmth. The blistering force of yesterday's storm was gone, but the snow still fell thickly around him, replacing shock value with steady results. The depth of the drifts was getting worrisome, he might end up snowed in for a few days. We, he reminded himself.

After many hours, each colder than the last, he gave up his attempt to escape the boy and went inside, knowing his nose was apallingly red and being thankful that the boy couldn't see him. As he entered, he found the boy's green eyes sparkling with laughter as they took in the contents of various sheets of parchment stacked upon the desk.

It was a picturesque scene, with the boy's feet tucked up beneath the chair and his chin resting in is hands, a laugh breaking the silence every few seconds. Picturesque, that was, until Draco realized what the pieces of parchment were. In a flurry, Draco strode to the desk and grabbed the parchment out from under the boy's gaze with an ardor that smacked of his younger days of village-children-house-stomping. The black-haired boy blinked in surprise, finding his reading material gone, and, aware that he had offended his host, had the grace to at least look apologetic. Draco was mollified, and he leaned against the bookshelf tiredly, struggling to keep his eyes open until the boy moved to the bed. Eventually he did, and Draco sat down for another night of sleep on the chair.

He was discussing the leaves with him, sitting on a small elephant in Bali. The black-haired boy, whose name was Milton, he knew, was in the middle of offering some thoughtful insight on the color of poplars when a strong wind blew them down the trapdoor that was suddenly beneath their feet. When they landed, Draco could see that Milton was bleeding from his eyes and his mouth, dark wine-colored stuff that dripped out like syrup. Draco licked it up, and told him not to worry, it was a professional. Then the boat they were on lurched, and Milton said that he was homesick, boats had always done that to him. Draco nodded before tending to the chicken dinner. If the pieces weren't properly weighed and sorted, all kinds of nasty things could happen. He was just putting a purple piece in the purple pile when he realized that, oh no, he had been tricked and it was really green. With a scream, he threw the piece of chicken to the floor, but it was too late; the chicken stared up at him with bulging eyes and round, gnashing teeth that were growing rapidly, and as it ate his hands he screamed the boy's name...

Draco nearly catapulted out of his chair, tripping over his feet and falling clumsily to the floor with an "uh-thump!" The boy's name was still ringing in his ears, he had screamed it so loud in the dream, but the ringing was so much louder than the word itself that he couldn't quite make out what it was. It hadn't been Milton, that much was certain.

He shifted his gaze to the bed where the boy was...not...sleeping...Draco shoved himself off the floor and bolted outside, his fears erased when he saw the boy crouched within the amber glow of the fire. The snow was falling peacefully around them, having subsided to smaller, softer flakes, and even Draco had to concede that the sight was pretty. The black-haired boy was smiling sleepily at the sight, and Draco had to furrow his eyebrows again at his ability to remain happy in such deplorable circumstances.

It was then that he noticed the tear sliding leisurely down the boy's still-smiling visage. He was of two minds: Crying was humiliating and Draco was embarrassed for him, and, it was about time he cried, with all that had happened, even if he did do it with a happy expression. Draco watched a second tear follow the first, and was reminded of the sticky blood in his dream. His heart did an erratic flip-flop when he recalled exactly what he'd done next in the dream plotline. He willed himself to look at anything but the boy for the next few minutes, and did a decent job of it, so he was surprised when the boy's voice ignited in the darkness.

"I don't have anywhere else." The voice was soft and contemplative, and somehow very befitting of the boy's dark eyebrows; Draco could tell that when it was friendly and not melancholy, it would be the exact sort of voice you would confide in, that would confide in you, and then laugh and make a joke in a way that left the situation comfortable. There were a few levels of untapped steel lying in wait in the voice that Draco was uncertain about, and a few mocking little twists swirling like eddies between syllables, but overall it was a voice to go to for safety or for challenge, and certainly a voice to trust.

The voice went on, "I don't have anywhere else, but I probably won't stay that much longer. I'll probably leave tomorrow." The resolution, that sense of fair play laced into the boy's statement, made Draco resign himself to letting the boy go almost instantly.

Almost.

He went back into the hut, and the boy followed suit a fair time later. Draco watched as he crawled into the bed with a touch of that impending goodbye-sadness that makes people pull the covers up just a little bit closer. He bit back an insult, something about stupid boys who cry like babies have laughably hopeless, sneer-worthy hair, who are too poor to get a coat for winter and who think they actually belong somewhere when it's obvious that they'll never fit in. Toward the end he wondered which one of them he was talking about. He shut his eyes painfully and wrestled with a half-hearted sleep for the entire night.

The bright light of snow-reflected sun pried his eyes open. Lately he felt like this was all he ever did, sleep and wake up, sleep and wake up. His eyes and teeth felt gritty, and as he stretched he remembered the boy.

Casting a wary glance over to the bed, he was relieved to find the black-haired boy reading another novel. But his relief quickly soured when he thought of the boy's comments the previous night. It didn't matter if he were still here now; he would be gone before the day was up. Draco sighed in irritation, trying to console himself with the fact that he would get to sleep in his own bed again. It wasn't very effective consolation.

With a miffed snort, he rose from the chair and made a decision. If the boy was just going to leave, then he sure as hell wasn't going to stick around for it. Picking up the black coat-dress he had made (it seemed so long ago) for the boy, he tossed it on top of him and turned sharply. Straightening his woolen dresscoat out, and grimacing when he realized he hadn't taken it off in three days, he strode purposefully toward the door and pulled it open.

A bony hand slammed in front of him, the attached arm stretched out taut and blocking his path. Draco's breath stuck somewhere between a hiccup and a scream as the boy glared intently at his face, his eyes making tiny little darts as he tried to figure out exactly where Draco was. Gradually that molten gaze cooled with a touch of pensiveness, a frown still tight around his mouth. As Draco fought to remember how breathing worked, the black-haired boy cleared his throat.

"Thank you." was all he said, before removing the arm in Draco's way. Draco blinked once, twice, a bit dazed, and robotically proceeded out the door. Shutting it behind him, he slumped against its snow-dusted frame, letting out an enormous, regretful, utterly conclusive sigh. Then he pushed himself off the door and walked into the snow.

When he returned, the boy was gone. Draco threw himself on the bed with gusto just to spite him.

He stayed in bed sulking for the better portion of the next day. When he rose at last from the pile of violet blankets, he stood at his desk for several minutes, quill poised wickedly over his curling, cracking parchment. With his malicious scowl of old stamped into his face, he tried to come up with a final, excruciating, body-wrecking, mind-shredding, utterly cataclysmic curse for the villagers, one that would frighten even the deepest, blackest portents of hell. Nothing came to him.

In the end he gave up and threw his quill into the pot.

Later that day, as the mellowness of afternoon was chased away by bleak snowclouds, Draco decided that he needed to fetch some water. He had done well enough drinking melted snow for the past month, but was actually a bit eager to retrieve water from stream now that it had frozen over. The dragon had regaled him with tales of the bitter northern regions, where people wore heavy furs and dug holes in the ice to get water supplies. Draco had been fascinated despite himself, and was quite looking forward to trying it out on his own.

He had only the vaguest notion of how to go about doing it; really he knew nothing more than that holes were made in the ice, so he brought along his rock knife and hoped for the best.

Reaching the stream, he surveyed the display with relish. He had seen iced-over bodies of water when he was younger, but had been strictly warned against playing near them. Draco put a tentative toe on the edge of the ice and applied pressure. It seemed to hold. However, when he put both feet on the ice he slipped and fell backwards, a snowdrift on the bank softening the blow. Not favoring a broken tailbone, Draco made his way out onto the ice on his hands and knees, shuffling laboriously and breathing hard. His palms stung with what he suspected was frostbite, but he smiled between huffs and fished out his knife.

Gripping it tightly, he began stabbing at the glossy surface, chipping away small glistening chunks. He frowned; it had sounded a lot simpler the way the dragon had described it, but he toiled on. At long last, after jabbing and scraping repeatedly in a circle, a sizeable span of ice fell through, revealing charmingly gurgling water underneath. Suddenly anxious, Draco sat up and wondered how on earth one got the water home, for he had brought neither bowl nor bucket. Admittedly, Draco's talent did not lie in thorough planning. Nonetheless, he bared his greedy, self-satisfied teeth at the water, immensely proud of himself.

He barely had time to register the creak and the snap before plunging into the terrifyingly icy stream and the water engulfed him so cold choking him flailing so unbelievably cold oh no no no and gasping and nothing he couldn't feel anything cold cold cold his fingers bleeding holding onto the ice he couldn't think it was stabbing his brain and screaming oh no slipping and screaming coldcoldcoldcoldCOLD he was freezing to death death he was going to die cold ripping him apart he was going to die and the dragon in Bali while here cold scorchingly cold cold shutting his throat die he was going he was cold Bali cold cold boy all gone iceandiceandiceandice villagers his mother frozen all dead poisonous cold killing them him the final freezing BITE he was going die he was dying now rising above shrieking cold ebbing into dazed tingling sun-bright air blinding and floating sideways landing thump and pair of arms squeezing almost as tight as the cold had...

He slowly realized that he was not dead.

"You." the boy whispered.

".......You. I know you're there. God, I thought...when I saw...You're there. I know you are; just because I can't see you, I can still...I KNOW you're there, I know it and I don't want you to be fucking dead so just ANSWER ME!"

Shouting now. Draco raised his head, his neck pricking and groaning in protest. He lifted his hand jerkily toward the boy's face, which was contorted with anger and desperation, and scraped his frozen fingers over his cheeks and jaw. The boy seemed to calm down a little.

"I guess...you're wondering how I knew you were in trouble." Draco hadn't been wondering, but he was curious now. The boy went on.

"I followed you. I left and I waited and I saw the door open and I followed you. I lost you a couple of times after that, but every now and then I would hear a noise and chase after it. And it was really hard, but I could make out these tracks in the snow, only they were blurry like I had something in my eyes or something. And then I came to the stream and I was looking around, and suddenly there was this hole punched out in the ice, so I knew you were there." He paused. "And then the ice cracked." Draco shuddered, both from the water seeping into his skin and the breathless fear of the memory.

The boy hesitated. "I guess I'll take you back now; you can't be too heavy." Draco wondered distantly why he had said that. With a grunt, the boy heaved him onto his back, and carried Draco's shivering body back to the hut. Draco scrambled weakly off the boy's back as they approached the fire, and the boy got the hint and crouched down a few feet away from him. Draco collapsed next to the flames, struggling to breath and clinging to the ring of stones surrounding the base of the fire, the hottest part.

Then Draco jerked up, wincing as he did so, and stumbled into the hut. The boy followed, half-nervous, and shut the door behind him. Draco hurried as fast as his still-stinging legs would carry him over to the trunk, and shoved the lid open. He tore his coat off, casting it wildly to the floor, and began ripping through his other layers of clothes. Hearing the thick, wet rustling of material being pulled about and seeing clothes suddenly appear on the floor, the boy put two and two together and turned away with a slight blush, even though he could not see Draco. Draco nearly bit off his tongue when the final layer was removed and he was naked in the cold; it was almost like being back under the ice, but he wrenched the first dress he grabbed over his head and breathed a sigh of relief as the haunting feeling receded. He pulled dress after dress onto his body until his shaking died down, and then he crawled into the bed.

After a while, the boy turned back around, his arms crossed, and spoke up tentatively. "...Are you alright?" Draco wasn't sure how best to respond.

"...Are you alive?" Draco coughed, proving that he was not yet a corpse.

The boy sighed, smiling in a worried way. "Do you want me to stay?" Yes, Draco thought, but he coughed twice, hoping the boy could decipher the simple code.

"So that's...two coughs means no?" He looked down at the floor, then back up. "So you don't want me to stay." It was a statement. Draco didn't have to answer.

"Right. Right, so...so I'll just be going, then."

The boy uncrossed his arms and walked toward the door, but Draco's hand shot out instinctively and grabbed the boy's hand.

"Thank you." Draco whispered, his voice skipping and scratching over those two tiny syllables, a feeble echo of the his savior's earlier expression of gratitude.

The boy gave Draco's hand a squeeze, smiling. "Just returning the favor."

The door shut solidly. With the warmth of the boy's hand still tingling in Draco's fingers and palm, the hut was empty. Draco shut his eyes.

A/N: Oddly enough, I wrote this chapter in pieces. I wrote the ending (my favorite part) first, the went back to the beginning, and then sort of skipped around filling in holes in the middle. So if it seems choppy, that's why. I plan on doing two more chapters in this arch, not wanting to draw it out unnecessarily, but originally there were only going to be three chapters total, and that hasn't exactly gone according to plan, so we'll see what happens. Egads, I'm tired.