Chapter 2: Negative Emotions

Disclaimer: If I claimed to own all of Harry Potter, would anyone actually notice? What kind of lawyers ramble around the internet reading fanfiction anyway? If a fanfiction with no disclaimer falls in the virtual forest, and no lawyers are there to hear it, does it actually get sued? I'll stop with the questions now. I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters, places or events, just in case it does get sued.

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A/N: As I type this, I am in the wonderfully gleeful state of having finished my mock exams. I think the worst one was Maths, where we were shut in a tiny Portakabin with no windows or doors open, and my overactive imagination started worrying that there wasn't enough oxygen in the room for everyone and we were all going to die. It's very hard to do maths when you think you're suffocating. My favourite was Latin poetry or the English descriptive writing. They were fun.

But you don't want to hear about my exams, I'm well aware – you just want to find out the answers to some unanswered questions, such as who the half-Fallen in Dumbledore's office was, how they tie in with the plot, and why Draco's at the Order. Well, wonder no more, for here it is.

Enjoy.

~*~

I am the angel that never felt.

-Abigor, Luminescence of Darkness

~*~

Draco closed the door behind him with a soft click, and slumped against the wall, head bent and shoulders slouched, his silvery hair falling into his eyes. He folded his arms behind his back, curving his spine so that they rested in the gap between the small of his back and the cold, smooth wall, such a strange texture… Though in all probability it was normal; he hadn't had a human mind long enough to understand textures.

But textures were the least of his worries. Quite apart from all the other changes in his senses – he could smell and taste things far, far better, but it seemed that the number of colours in the world had halved, and his hearing had worsened, too – there were far, far more worrying changes to be addressed. The problems of… well, feeling things. Emotions.

He hated thinking of them; it reminded him of what he had lost. Instead, he raised his head again and glanced around the room. It was decorated in what was probably a nice shade of blue; the darkness and his alterations in vision made it difficult to tell. A large bay window, complete with window seat, dominated one wall. To one side of it were a row of bookcases, loaded with what appeared to be mainly fiction novels, and a few ornaments scattered around. On the other side of the window was a large mirror, a desk, a wardrobe and, tucked neatly into the corner, a large and comfortable-looking bed.

All in all, a nice room. Looking around it sparked a few of these feelings, these emotions. They came in different strengths, he'd come to realise recently, and these were all rather weak ones. He spent some time in attempting to place them.

What he'd felt when he'd seen the window-seat had been… pleasure? He could tell it was a good feeling rather than a bad one, but it was hard to do more than that, and as for specific names of emotions… Upon seeing the rows of what he surmised was rather inferior fiction, that had been a negative emotion, though he had no idea which.

It was harder than you'd guess, Draco reflected. Being human, that was. He supposed it was easier if you were born one – you could learn it all as it went along, not suddenly find yourself experiencing everything at once. Even thinking about it made his head ache. Was this how humans thought all the time? Not with one simple, clear line of thought, but with all these levels… thoughts and sub-thoughts and feelings and instincts and things that wouldn't go into words. It must drive them insane.

He shook his head, and moved away from the wall, his fingers trailing idly along its surface. The texture was foreign to his fingertips, so very, very strange… Textures had always been simply smooth or rough, hot or cold, with no fine gradation between them. He didn't know the words to describe any other textures; he'd never needed to.

Draco crossed the room soundlessly to the large mirror, to look at his own reflection. He didn't look any different. Same pale skin, same silvery hair, same build, same features… His eyes were a little different, perhaps. They showed real emotion, now, where before any emotion had all been false, merely an act. Here it was easier to identify feelings; he had always been taught to read emotion in others, and use it to his advantage, even if he didn't understand it himself.

So what did he see? Fear. That was understandable; he was in a house with his enemies, weaker and more vulnerable than he had been for years, so soon after his personalities had flipped and he'd been plunged into a living nightmare…

The mirror cut into his thoughts, speaking in a bright and cheery voice, with an accent he couldn't quite place. 'Oooh, you're a pretty one, aren't you?'

Draco cocked his head on one side. That was a positive feeling, and one he liked. Pride, he guessed, from what he'd learnt and heard of it.

'Thank you,' he said simply. It was formality only.

He wondered if his other form looked any different – his Fallen form, that was. It had never looked much different to his human form before, but now that the personalities had flipped, he suddenly wondered if it might.

Pulling the jumper he'd been lent off, he ignored the mirror's appreciative whistle, and concentrated for a brief second. The change was sudden: no gradual morphing from one form into another, just human one second, human-with-wings the next.

The mirror actually gasped – the first time he'd heard a mirror do that - and whispered, 'Oooh!' in a rather shocked tone. Again, Draco ignored it, scrutinising himself for any difference.

As usual, there was none. Same face, same hair, same body. The eyes were still the changed ones he'd worn in his human form, the fearful, worried ones, but he'd expected that. His wings still arched around him, the feathers long and white. He folded them around himself, then stretched them to their full length – well beyond the edges of the mirror – and gave a small experimental flap.

No change. Satisfied, he turned to his bed without changing back to his human form, and sat upon it, wrapping his wings around him. He hadn't realised it before, but the room was cold.

Ah, and here was something he could put a name to. He'd read it in ancient books, passed down through many, many ancestors – The wings of a half-Fallen, when touched, produce feelings of warmth and contentment – which provided a name to the feeling he felt as he wrapped his wings around himself. Contentment. It was a nice feeling, and he liked it.

But it would be a foolish thing to sleep in Fallen form, because someone was likely to come in to wake him up the next morning, or creep in at midnight to check he was asleep. So, wrapping the covers around himself, he changed back to human form, and instantly felt a lot worse.

It was what he'd seen in the mirror. Fear, mainly, but other things too. All bad things. He'd been feeling them ever since his mind had become human, he knew all too well, and they all had to do with the difficulties that change presented. He'd never chosen it, no. It had just… happened. His mother had hugged him. Ridiculous, and yet…

It had been enough – not alone, he was certain; years of love on his mother's part must have built up a lot of the force that caused him to change – but it had been enough to cause that change, to plunge him into a mind of emotions and instincts and madness, where not even his senses could be trusted. Having to hide it from his father, who was half-Fallen himself and would have regarded it – without emotion – as an extremely bad change, and done goodness-knows-what horrible things to change him back. And finally, after a week of hiding, his mother had told him to run away. To Dumbledore, of all people!

He had flown straight to Hogwarts, knowing that the Headmaster would most probably be staying there overnight after the beginning of the Ministry meetings. He had spent a good hour or so explaining everything he knew to Dumbledore, who had listened in amazement. And then decided that the safest place for Draco was at the Order of the Pheonix – surrounded by people who hated him.

He would be safer here, and he knew that. But more than anything, he wanted to go back to being a Fallen mind, not a human one, without feelings, with nothing but calm logic, and all emotions pretended and acted in order to produce a desired effect. He tried it then, as he had so many times before, to simply make his minds switch back. He could feel the Fallen half of him, trying forcibly to regain dominance, and he called out to it, trying to pull it back… But the damned human mind wouldn't let him; it wouldn't let itself die. Self-preservation, he supposed wryly. Damn.

He was tired, then, and knew he needed to rest. And so, curled beneath the blankets, surrounded by enemies and strangers, lost in a world of strange and bizarre emotions, Draco Malfoy slept.

~*~

It was morning.

Dawn had already been and gone: the sun had risen early, and was already halfway up the sky, brightly pouring its light onto the rows of quiet suburban homes, the cars sitting polished in their driveways, the summer flowers and lush grass. It was a milder summer than the previous one; pleasantly warm without being scorching, the seemingly perfect weather brightening everyone's mood.

Almost everyone. For in one room of one house – the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive – the sun shone through the open window to light up the figure of a boy lying asleep on his bed. Golden sunlight reflected sharply off eerily pale skin, highlighted a body that seemed thin, almost frail – for he'd kicked his blankets off in the middle of the night, and still tossed restlessly, the occasional word or mutter escaping from his lips.

With a sudden cry of 'Sirius!' his eyes flew open and he flung himself upright, reaching out a hand to the empty air as though trying to catch hold of something, something that wasn't there, for his grip closed on nothing.

Still shaking a little from his nightmare, Harry Potter took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, closing his eyes, attempting to push the memories away. It seemed harder and harder every time, especially here, at the Dursleys', alone with nothing to distract him.

He opened his eyes, glanced at the rather battered clock that rested beside his bed. Ten to seven. The morning news would be on in a few minutes, Harry realised, with the usual twinge of dread that always accompanied the thought of watching the news. His aunt and uncle were no problem, not after Moody had spoken to them at the station, and Dudley now flat-out refused to be in the same room as Harry. No, the dread came from the thought of what Harry knew he'd see: more murders, more Dark Marks, more death and destruction caused by Voldemort. Voldemort, who he had to kill or be killed by. It was still not an easy thing to accept.

Sighing, Harry swung himself out of bed, bending down to pick up his blankets, which he spread carelessly back into position before dressing himself quickly, in an old, rather worn pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. Both Dudley's old things, though Harry paid no attention to the clothes he was putting on. His mind was still back in the nightmare. In many ways, he never left it.

Harry walked down the stairs quite slowly, already able to hear the sound of the television playing an advert for Coca-Cola. Uncle Vernon was declaring loudly that the stuff was so acidic, it could dissolve teeth, so why they thought people would drink it he didn't know… Dudley had tried putting a tooth in Coca-Cola once, when Harry was about seven and lost the last of his milk teeth. Aunt Petunia had thrown it out.

Harry walked into the living room, keeping his eyes on the floor. He could feel his aunt and uncle throwing him baleful glares – they always did – but as had become routine, he ignored them and they said nothing as Harry took a seat on the sofa, fixing his gaze on the television. Dudley, knowing that Harry always watched the morning news, was staying well out of the way in the kitchen or his room or outside with his friends, Harry neither knew nor cared which.

The adverts ended, and the familiar opening animation and music appeared on the screen, with the words 'The News at Seven' printed in the top corner. The newscaster appeared, neatly dressed in a smart suit, and Harry held his breath, tense. Maybe nothing had happened…

'Welcome to the News at Seven. I'm Ethan Mercury.' Another burst of noise, and the shot cut to show the newsreader closer in, with a screen to his left. Harry's heart sank. Yet again, the screen showed a glittering, sinister picture of the Dark Mark. Uncle Vernon turned a deep crimson, and appeared to be muttering something about 'those filthy wizards' until a pale Aunt Petunia glared at him. At least Harry wasn't the only one in the house who understood the threat of Lord Voldemort…

'Last night the new terrorist group known only as the 'Death Eaters' struck again, at the home of a single mother with two children in Liverpool. All three were killed.'

The shot cut to show the house with the Dark Mark still visible in broad daylight, and a mass of cars surrounding it. Various 'policemen' were shown – though they were really Aurors, and Harry recognised both Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody in the midst of the investigations.

'The situation is being handled by a special, investigative branch of the police force, trained specifically to handle terrorist attacks such as this, and members of the Death Eaters are being arrested almost daily. Searches continue for their leader, a man known only as Lord Voldemort, but in the meantime the public should stay alert for any signs of suspicious activity. A phone number hotline has been set up, which the public should phone immediately upon witnessing any signs of Death Eaters, and police operators are manning the phones continually.'

The number scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and the video in the background had changed to show a list of bullet points, which the newsreader proceeded to announce, much as he'd done for the past few weeks.

'Members of this terrorist organisation routinely wear black hoods and cloaks when performing their activities. In addition, they bear the tattoo of a snake-tongued skull on their left forearm, the same symbol which they project a hologram of into the sky over the site of their attacks. If you see any suspicious figures, or witness a holographic projection of the 'Dark Mark' symbol, then immediately phone the number.

'In other news, the House of Commons will…'

Harry stood up, a sickening feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach, and turned to leave the room. It seemed that every morning held the same thing – more news of Voldemort, more attacks, more deaths, and every death just seemed to make it all hurt more, as though by killing some Muggle that Harry had never seen or met, the Death Eaters had killed a part of Harry too.

Uncle Vernon began another rant as Harry left the room, more irate mutterings about dangerous madmen with wands and how he was surprised the whole world wasn't dead, and this time Aunt Petunia didn't say anything. Harry ignored him, brushing some of his dark hair out of his eyes and heading for his room. He'd heard the ramblings too often for them to have any effect.

Sighing, he reached his room and flopped wearily upon the bed. Sirius was dead. Voldemort was killing Muggles and Muggleborns almost daily, and a prophecy had been made that meant he must be murderer or victim. The concept was almost too huge for him to grasp. How could he kill Voldemort? An impossible, ridiculous, laughable idea, but he had to do it or die himself.

Maybe he was still in shock. Or denial. Maybe he still hadn't quite accepted it yet. It was too much all at once – the prophecy, and Sirius's death, which never quite left his thoughts. It was always there, just under his consciousness, whispering, a tiny voice: Sirius is dead, Sirius is dead, you killed him, you went to the Department of Mysteries, you lured him there, you killed him…

'Shut up,' Harry muttered to no one in particular, running a hand through his messy hair. 'Go away.' Sighing, he turned over on his bed, staring at the wall. All his homework was done, every book he could access read and re-read until he couldn't stand the sight of them. There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts, save the news, and that only reminded him of Voldemort. He could go outside, and had done in the first few weeks, but it offered nothing to distract him either, only the frowns and stares of strangers when they noticed the peculiar boy sitting silently and staring at nothing.

So now he just spent the whole day in his room, apart from the morning when he watched the news. Ron and Hermione owled him daily, and he read their letters, but without great enthusiasm. More than he ever had, he felt alone now. Not uncared for; Ron and Hermione's letters proved that beyond all doubt, but alone. However much they cared, his friends couldn't understand what it felt like. To be the one everyone expected to defeat Voldemort. To know you'd led someone – Sirius – to his death. They couldn't understand that.

They thought they did. Every single letter – We know you must be feeling dreadful, don't get too upset, it wasn't your fault.... please don't get angry… don't worry about You-Know-Who… But how could they give advice to him, when they didn't know about the Prophecy, when they'd never felt the pain and the sorrow and the responsibility of having to save everyone, the fear and the worry and above all the guilt, the guilt of having led Sirius to his death, the guilt of being unable to do anything while Voldemort killed innocent people, the guilt…

No. Harry realised he was shaking, and shoved all the feelings away, as hard as he could. It was difficult, far too difficult, because they never went away entirely, they never left no matter how much he wanted them to.

He had to focus on something else. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what life would have been like if none of this had happened. If Sirius hadn't died. If there'd never been a Prophecy. If Voldemort had never come to power. If his parents hadn't been murdered. If he'd never had to come to the Dursleys'. If he'd just been normal.

He'd seen the house, in photographs. About the same size as the Burrow, but more like a normal Muggle house, on a quiet road with a tiny garden at the front, and a slightly bigger one at the back. They'd be living there now, if his life had been just a little different, and the Dursleys would be no more than a card every Christmas – a card sent, not one received. Perhaps… perhaps he'd invite Ron and Hermione to stay over the summer holidays, instead of going to the Burrow or the Order. There wouldn't even be an Order, in the impossible world he was wishing for himself. There would have been no Voldemort to fight.

What would happen? What would he be doing right now? Talking to Ron and Hermione about… something simple, something that everyone talked about. Quidditch, perhaps, or schoolwork. Hermione would be nagging them to do their homework, and he and Ron would be laughing, and pointing out that they didn't go back to school for weeks. And then they'd go downstairs for breakfast, with his parents – and Sirius would be there too. What would they – his parents - talk about? How would they act? He didn't know, so he couldn't hope to imagine it realistically. He didn't even know what normal families talked about.

But then, it didn't have to be realistic, did it? Just… just happy. Just better than the reality.

So he invented. Over piping hot toast, golden with butter, they'd talk about everything and anything. His Dad and Sirius would tell them all stories of when they'd been Marauders at Hogwarts, or they'd talk about Quidditch until his Mum and Hermione told them all to change the subject. They'd talk about what they were going to do that day, perhaps…

Harry carried on, forcing himself to concentrate only on the imaginary life he could have led if things had been different, a small smile on his face – not a genuinely happy smile, but the smile of one who is determined to make himself happy. And he would have carried on all day but for the tap of an owl on the window, which forced him to open his eyes and realise that what he'd imagined was not reality, and never could be.

Sighing, Harry crossed to the window to let in Hedwig, a fat scroll of parchment tied to her leg. She perched on his shoulder – there wasn't really enough room – and hooted dolefully, rubbing her feathered head against his cheek, as if she could feel her owner's misery.

'I'm okay, Hedwig,' he muttered, idly stroking her feathers and untying the letter, which he tossed carelessly on the bed. 'Here, there's some water and food and things in your cage…'

He put her inside it, from where she watched him with eyes that seemed wide and worried. Harry sat back down on his bed with a sigh, feeling once more the twist of guilt, the weight on his shoulders, the misery over Sirius.

Sirius. You killed him, you led him to his death. He's gone now, forever, because of you. And all those people who the Death Eaters are killing, they're going to keep on dying, all the time that you're getting ready to kill Voldemort, people will be dying…

'No,' Harry moaned, putting his hands to his head and trying to block them out again. 'Stop it…'

Hedwig hooted in something like alarm, and Harry shook his head. 'Really, Hedwig. I'm okay.' As if to prove it, he took up Ron and Hermione's letter and read through it, though he didn't read it closely. It was all about things like cleaning the house; what they'd been doing, in as much detail as they could give without saying anything of importance. He didn't care. He didn't long for information any more. And the whole thing was smothered in supporting messages, trying to make him feel better…

With a sigh, he dropped the letter to one side, not even bothering to decipher the hidden information Ron and Hermione had spent so long thinking up. He was too weary of the world. They were his friends, and he cared about them, and they were at least trying to help this time, even if they couldn't do anything…

Hedwig hooted again, questioningly now, and Harry realised that he ought to send Ron and Hermione a letter back. Sighing, he picked their letter up from the floor and carried it to his desk, smoothing it out on the wooden surface. He took a fresh piece of parchment and a quill, and tried very hard to think of anything to say.

Ron & Hermione,

Don't worry about me so much, I'm okay. Glad to hear the cleaning's going well. Is everyone there doing alright? Say hi to Ginny, Fred and George, etc. for me.

See you soon,

Harry.

He tied the parchment to Hedwig's leg, absently stroked her head, and opened the window to let her go. Then he sat upon his bed, trying not to think about anything. Trying to forget.

~*~

A/N: Yes, Harry's miserable. Draco's also miserable, except he isn't able to understand misery yet beyond 'It's a negative emotion'. You know what? Reviews make them feel better. Really.