Title: The Dementor Effect

Chapter: 3- Side-Kick Complex

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The "Dementor Affect" is completely fictional, and the idea belongs to me, the writer.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I love feedback! I know the idea's pretty weird, but I'm trying to make it interesting. Sorry about not updating for so long,I've been out of stateduring the summer and my computer access was limited to none. So, sorry, and i hope that I can be a little more prompt now that I;m back crosses fingers Thanks for sticking with me! I would appreciate any comments you have! And, er… well, I didn't really like the way I wrote this chapter, so if anyone has constructive thoughts, editing, criticism, it would be muchly appreciated.

Warnings: Gonna be slashed. Don't like, don't read.


Draco was released from the Hospital Wing one day later, much to Pomfrey's dismay. But even she had to admit that there wasn't anything physically the matter with him. Draco, on the other hand, was not so easy to appease. With recently acquired information weighing heavily on his mind, it was hard for Draco to tolerate the giddiness of the holiday season.

"Hey Draco, would you care to join us here on earth?" Pansy's sarcastic twitter drew him out of his reverie.

His head jerked around to stare at her. "Shut up," He hissed; ignoring the smug and worried glances his peers were shooting him. Everything seemed kind of faded. Corners rounded and blurred. Colors looked watered down. Everything just seemed a little…Hazy. Draco didn't notice where his feet were taking him, but he couldn't have really cared.


Slytherins and Gryffindors alike had noticed a profound change in Malfoy. It was frightening, how he hadn't smirked once all day, how he'd forgotten to insult Weasley at lunch, and how he blatantly ignored any attempts at conversation. It was like the flame inside Draco had just guttered out, and there was nothing left to shine through.

"Harry," Ron poked at his best friend with his wand, distracted from his charms homework. The trio had decided to do their work outside; taking periodic breaks for snowball fights.

"Hey!" Harry yelped, pushing the length of wood away form his ribs, "Watch that thing! I haven't forgotten the slug incident, have you?"

Ron glared. "Shut up for a minute, all right?"

Harry sighed.

"Look over there," Ron jerked his head towards the group of Slytherins at the other end of the grounds. "Anything look familiar?"

Harry craned his neck to look around the redhead. He searched for something that looked out of place, but… "Ron, what're you smoking? They look like Slytherins."

Ron sighed irritably. "Look at Malfoy, you twit. Doesn't he seem kind of dazed? You know, like on Monday?"

Harry rolled his eyes and searched the group. "Are you delusional? Malfoy's not over there."

"What?" Ron demanded, and he too scanned the grounds for the familiar glint of over-gelled hair. It wasn't there. He wasn't there. "He was right there a second ago! Where the hell did he go?"

"Chill out, would you?" Harry gave him a quizzical look, "He probably just skipped off to the loo, don't have a stroke."

Ron ignored him. With a snap in his step and a worried expression, Ron rushed back to the castle; casting searching looks back and forth across the grounds as he ran. No Malfoy. He needed to know where the slimy git had run off to. Something odd was happening to Malfoy, and Ron wasn't sure what it was, but he was awfully damn sure that the boy shouldn't be left alone. And, as horrifying as it was, he felt a certain…well…responsibility for Draco. It sickened him, but there it was. Maybe Harry's, "Saving people thing," was rubbing off. Could he have a side-kick complex?


Draco couldn't tell you how he'd come to be smiling at the ground. He was just sitting there one minute, watching the colors fade in and out and listening to the odd sounds inside his head fluctuate from loud to softer to splitting his skull in twain. The next thing he knew, he was grinning at the tiled floor for no apparent reason, and something…odd…was down there. Draco frowned, almost pouting, as he watched a spot in the tile began to waver, like a puddle…

Curiously, Draco reached down, dipping his fingers into what had appeared to be a tile floor. The sound in his mind intensified, until, in a moment, he could identify the roaring as the distant scream of waves that seemed to be growing closer and louder by the second. Panicking, Draco tried to draw his hand out of the tile, but he kept sinking. His hand was pulled downward by something other than gravity, and the puddle-like substance wrapped cold tendrils around his wrist- beginning to creep, vine-like, to his elbow. And then, just like that, Draco wasn't sitting in the hallway anymore. He was, in fact, very far away from the hallway. He was sitting at his usual place in the Great Hall.

His friends twittered around him, but the breakfast on his plate was rapidly growing cold. Morning sunlight streamed through the faux ceiling, and Draco couldn't help but resent the golden rays, even if he wasn't sure why.

A shriek cut through the buzz of the Hogwarts morning, and a great flock of post owls came swooping into the hall. As a collective sigh rushed through the crowd, Draco watched a pair of birds, large screech owls, who straggled behind the others. Packages and letters in various shapes, colors and weights dropped from their carriers. Draco's breath caught in his throat. That pair of owls, the lazy ones, had swooped low just a second after the others, drawing enough attention to the Slytherin table to make a scene.

One right after the other, they dropped their letters. Two black envelopes, "Plunk, plunk," onto Draco's frigid breakfast. The Hall held its breath. No one had ever gotten two at once before.

"Draco…" said Goyle uncertainly. He lifted a hand, barely touching Draco's shoulder.

The pale boy flinched away, gracing the lumbering oaf with a glare so cold it would've sent frost shooting along a lesser boy's skin. "Don't touch me," he said calmly, refusing to meet the other boy's eyes. Refusing to meet anyone's' eyes. He knew what he'd find there, and he didn't need their pity. He didn't need their fucking pity…

"Excuse me." Draco snatched up the envelopes. There was no need to open them; he knew what they said. Draco stepped away from the table.

Lucius was dead. Narcissa was dead. How or why didn't really matter- his father had taught him that. What mattered now were the consequences. He was now in control of the Malfoy estates. He was now the sole survivor of his blood. There were expectations that carried beyond his father's cold grave. Orphan… the word rang true.

A sound began to pulse in his mind, and he rubbed at his temples, walking calmly away from the whispering Great Hall, but the sound wouldn't quiet, it only got louder. It built and built until the waves seemed to be crashing against the insides of his skull A laugh broke through the roar- a cruel, crackling thing, and with it came the faint imprint of a person. A lanky, pale monster with twisted claws and eyes that burned like fire. It terrified him. But, just as Draco was beginning to think he'd go mad with the cacophony and fear, something different…something like the crystal chiming of bells or the simple perfection of silence was shredding at the roar in his mind. The form hissed, and his scarlet eyes smoldered as they narrowed. Claws reached out for him…

"Malfoy? Uh…Malfoy?"

Draco gasped and clutched the stone wall behind him, digging his fingers into the comforting roughness of grout. His eyes were bleary; all he could see was a vague red cloud floating in front of his face. Slowly, definition returned to his world, and he dubiously studied his 'rescuer'.

"Weasley," Draco tried to sneer, but the best he could do was a pathetic twitching of his lips. He knew he looked ridiculous, and it made him angry. "What do you want?" Draco snapped. He couldn't deal with this right now. He'd deal with Weasley when the world stopped crumbling and solid things stopped melting. Like the floor. Draco glanced at the black and white tile. He resisted the urge to gulp.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ron could've smacked himself. He had the nastiest habit of saying precisely what he was thinking, at precisely the moment he was thinking it. Such a process left little room for consideration or editing. How could he un-dig this one? (Why do you want to? Nagged a voice within his mind).

"I mean-uh-well…" Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush, don'tblushdon'tblushdon'tblush, Ron though desperately as pink seeped through his ears. Why was he explaining himself anyway? He wasn't the one having strokes against castle walls! He was the normal one here! That's right! He shouldn't even need to apologize! Besides, it was Malfoy, why did he give a fuck? He didn't! He didn't give a fuck! That's right! Stop blushing, damn it!

"There's nothing wrong with me, Weasel. I'm a Malfoy. I'm perfect." Draco managed the sneer this time. He might almost admit to being relieved. He needed his sneer right now. He really, really, needed his sneer right now. He needed time to sort things out. He needed… he needed time to adjust. Adjust to fact that Dumbledore was right. Damn it.

Ron scoffed. "Well excuse me for taking up precious minion space on YOUR PLANET." Ron smiled to himself- that was pretty good for a spur of the moment thing comeback.

Draco smirked. "Thanks a million, Weasel."

Ron blushed…harder.

"Now, as much as I love these little chats we have, I really must be going." Draco stood up…for about three seconds before his quaking limbs gave out and he had to catch himself against the wall. Actually, he still might've had a brief introduction with the ground if it hadn't been for the hands that jumped out to grab him. Draco glared at the hands gripped beneath his shoulders.

"Do you need to go to Pomfrey's again, Malfoy?" Ron tried to stop himself from being worried. He tried to be excited. He really did! Malfoy had trouble standing! Yay! Good thing! Yay! Yay! Yay…

"Don't be such a Gryffindor," he snapped without thinking, and tried to remind himself that speaking without thinking was a bad thing. Weasley's hands must've been cutting off the circulation to his brain. "I'm perfect, Weasley, and if you'd kindly stop bruising me…" Draco looked pointedly at Ron's hands. Huh. Do you think he'll explode if he blushes much harder? Could be interesting… NO! Dumbledore, cure, and then deal with the Weasley. Order of operations here- Stay focused!

"Whatever," Ron muttered, dropping Draco's shoulders. He tried not to notice when Draco had to catch himself on the wall again. His side-kick complex itched.

"So…"Draco waited, and then sighed. "Get out of here! Go do whatever it is you do with your spare time! Bugger the mudblood or something-"

"Don't call her that!" Ron shouted, hands clenching into fists. He took it back. His side-kick complex was screwed. Malfoy didn't need help. His mouth was just fine.

"Whatever, just get out of my sight, you're beginning to hurt my eyes," Draco wasn't quite sure if he could afford to waste so much time on this banter. He really needed to see Dumbledore.

"You are such a bastard, Malfoy," Ron growled. And then, he almost jumped out of his socks when Draco growled back.

"Fuck off!" He insisted. Damn Weasel with his damn perception and bloody hitting what Draco hated to fucking admit was a goddamn nerve. Fuck. Just for good measure.

"With pleasure!" Ron stormed away, thoughts like, "Why did I even try?" And, "God damn Malfoy!" Flitting through his mind.

As Draco watched the redhead storm away, he drew a shaky breath. Thank you, dear gods, for making him go away! His hands slipped on the wall, but he managed to stay on his feet. Slowly, but steadily, Draco made his way to the headmaster's office. He had to crawl about a quarter of the way, but he was eventually steady enough to walk. By the time he was whispering the password at the stoic gargoyle, he no longer needed assistance. He no longer felt weak. Maybe a little nauseous, but no where near as dizzy as last time. He felt stupid. Which was infinitely worse.


Dumbledore didn't look surprised to see him. Draco didn't look happy to be there.

"What do I do?" Draco whispered. His pride wouldn't allow him to stare at the floor. He'd meet the old man's eyes, god damn it. He'd do it if it killed him. Upon later reflection, Draco considered the fact that it might have.

"You cooperate," Dumbledore replied, and he motioned for Draco to take a seat.

Draco sunk into the padded green armchair uncomfortably. This scene felt familiar, and Draco tried to block out the last meeting he'd had in this office. It had a lot to do with the two black letters that still lay unopened in his wardrobe.

"Fine-What do we do?"

"We make you happy, Draco," Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "We just have to make you happy."

"Easy as that, huh?"

"Yes."

Draco snorted.