It was 5:02am. The city was sluggishly awaking, yawning, stretching its limbs. The blue film of the night still covered the streets, but it was waning with the approach of the sun. A train rumbled past shrieking, the apartment building shaking with the thunder of its wheels. Then it was gone, and Harry was left to pace in silence, no sound accompanying him but for that of Draco's breathing and his own cat-quiet footfalls, muffled by thick socks.

He had lain Draco's limp body on his own bed and covered him up with the quilt. He was breathing deeply now, asleep rather than just unconcious. Harry had stripped him of his travelling cloak and gaped silently at his shirt. The plain cotton was stiff with brown flowers of dried blood. He had hesitated, his hands hovering inches above Draco's helpless body. He didn't dare to touch him, even to tend his wounds.

He hadn't had the courage to even brush the tangles from his beautiful hair. Harry sighed and turned away from Draco. His face looked serene, all the lines and care smoothed away. A sleep like death, he thought, and wondered when the last time

Draco had got a solid night's slumber was.

Harry wandered into the kitchen and opened a cupboard, taking down a tin of spaghetti absent-mindedly. He yawned, remembering his tiredness, and kneaded his forehead, the light hum of the electric can-opener a peaceful counterpoint to his thoughts. Draco Malfoy – the name just set off alarm signals in his brain. It didn't conjure up a picture of the man lying asleep only metres away from where Harry stood now.

Harry had thought he was dead.

He extracted the tin from the can-opener and laid the sharp lid aside. As he poured the sludgy muggle food into a pyrex bowl, he couldn't stop his thoughts wandering back to that night. He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't stop himself.

That terrible night. The last night for so many. Harry felt the world moving around him once again, just when hed thought it had become steady again. His vision blurred, reeled, spun and went black. The screaming had begun again, filling his ears. He thought he saw blood! He tried to move, jerked absurdly, felt his knees buckle and fell.

He kept on falling.

When he hit the grass, the world stopped shaking. It was dark. The freezing air bit into his bare flesh, and he shivered. The grass was wet. He was afraid. He hadn't been able to find the last one. But now it was too late, he was going to be killed and he hadn't even his wand to defend himself with. He could hear chanting. It sounded distorted, sometimes close, sometimes far off. He cowered helplessly on the grass, fingers digging into the mud.

"Potter!"

Too many familiar voices. It couldn't be true – could it? Could they all have betrayed him?

"Wake up!"

Harry jolted upright, panting. He looked wildly about the room. His glasses were askew. He straightened them with a shaking hand and wiped his forehead. There was spaghetti on the kitchen floor, on his jeans. Draco was in front of him, pale eyes wide.

"What happened, Potter?"

Just another flashback, Malfoy. He sounded bitter in his head. The way he used to sound, back at Hogwarts. His head was beginning to hurt. "Nothing," he muttered, and pushed away from Draco, standing up. He looked down in disgust at his jeans.

"I'll get that for you," there is a rare tinge of kindness in Draco's tone, and Harry looked up to see him drawing his wand.

"No!" He almost shouted, lunging forward to grab Draco's bony wrist. "Don't," he muttered through clenched teeth. Draco's face was inches from his own. He saw his silver eyes narrow.

"Why not?" His voice had suddenly become icy. Harry suppressed a shiver.

"The press," he explained, trying to keep his voice level. "The international wizarding press. If I use magic, they'll find me." He shrugged his shoulders. "And I've been trying so long to get away," he added bleakly.

Draco moved closer and dipped his head to talk softly into Harry's ear. Harry's breath caught in his throat when he felt the hot breath on his neck. Oh, he so wanted to be warm.

"That doesn't stop me from using magic, now does it, Potter?"

Harry stiffened consciously. "Don't you think it's time to call me by my first name now? We're not in school any more," he said, taking a deep breath. "Draco."

Draco smirked. "Well done," he mocked. "That must be the first time you've said my name in six years."

Harry scowled at him and turned away.

"Stop!"

Harry didn't stop.

"Harry!" Draco sounded desperate. Harry turned around, leaning on the doorjamb again. Draco was still wearing his bloodied clothes, his hair was still knotted and tangled. "At least let me clean you up." His voice was thin, stretched. Harry shrugged.

He stood still while the mess was magicked away, back into the bowl. He felt a tingling sensation all over his body, and closed his eyes. It felt good. It felt cleansing. When it was over, Harry opened his eyes to find Draco gazing at him again. "Thanks," he said, a little begrudgingly.

Draco smiled, silver eyes dancing. "Any time, Potter."

Author's Note:

Thanks for my brilliant reviews! I never thought people would be that nice about the first chapter. It's really brightened my day and given me the motivation to, instead of doing my Sociology coursework (damn interpretivists), edit this chapter and get it up on the site and then do some more writing for chapter four.

As you can see, I'm a little ahead of schedule right now. :)

I'm planning to, if I can, update once a day. This should boost my monthly wordcount prodigeously! As for how long it'll be, I haven't a clue yet. Probably more than ten chapters, but right now I'm just going with the flow.

Thanks again to my reviewers – this one's for you.

Jen

xox