Disclaimer: If I owned Harry and Draco, I would be making them do much more interesting things than fighting each other (although you can't tell much difference now – but just you wait).

Harry didn't go to work. Instead, he stayed at home, sprawled on the couch, fingering the copy of War and Peace that Draco had been reading. Why had he become so infuriated? But really, why was Draco so infuriating? But of Harry's many questions, that was of the least consequence.

Harry couldn't for the life of him think why Draco had turned up at his door so early in the morning, and why on earth he had asked Harry to forgive him. Harry had thought all his sins had been absolved by his actions on the final night.

But he wouldn't think about that again.

Harry sighed and turned over, stretched out on his stomach with his feet dangling over the arm of the couch. Seeing Draco – his first contact with the wizarding world for years – had brought everything back. His presence had intruded, his aura so shining bright and elegant that he couldn't be ignored. Now Harry couldn't get Draco Malfoy out of his head, and he couldn't deny the existence of the others connected with him, either.

Draco, however lightly he travelled, came loaded inexorably with Harry's baggage; the names he didn't want to remember, the faces he couldn't forget. When Harry took his glasses off, the memories just came into sharper focus.

And he couldn't stop thinking about the mysteries of Draco's sudden appearance. The innumerable questions consumed his mind, took over his thoughts. When he had called in sick to work, his boss had asked him if it was anything serious.

"You even sound ill!" She laughed, and Harry tried his best to laugh along with her.

"Yeah," he said, trying to sound less despondent than he felt. "But I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow."

He wasn't sure at all. In fact, he felt like he wouldn't be fine for a long time.

Just as Harry was preparing to get up and do something to try and take his mind off Draco, he heard a sound behind him. It was the softest sound, a feathery, delicate sound like snow falling. He pushed himself off the couch and turned to try and search it out.

The answer was right in front of him.

There was a huge brown owl outside the window, beating its wings on the glass. Harry stared, distraught, as its lambent yellow eyes gazed right through him. His stomach had dropped into his socks.

"Please," he said, walking slowly towards the window. "Don't say they've found me. Please, oh please…" With numb fingers, he fumbled with the latch for minutes that stretched like hours until it finally fell open and Harry pushed the window outwards.

The owl glided in on soft wings and alighted silently, holding out a leg to Harry. Its feathers, on closer inspection, were in a shabby disarray, and the bird itself looked half-starved. Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity.

"Wait there," he told it, shutting the window. "I'll get you something to eat." He felt no embarrassment at talking to a bird. It was at least better than talking to himself.

In the kitchen he found the cold remains of the spaghetti he had had so much trouble making, and brought it back to the messenger. The owl had hooted gratefully at Harry and buried its head in the bowl, losing all pretence of dignity. While it was otherwise occupied, Harry untied the green threads holding the parchment envelope to its leg.

When he looked down at the emerald-coloured ink scrawled across the parchment, Harry felt a wave of nostalgia hit him that was almost tangible. He swayed and flung out a hand to steady himself on the windowsill. He remembered the first time he had ever held a parchment envelope in his hands – a godforsaken rock in the middle of the ocean, battered by wind and waves, and the letter that would change his life handed to him by a friendly giant.

He wouldn't remember that. No, he wouldn't! But he felt the dizziness encroaching, the fatal blackness drawing near. No, not him, don't remember him. He reached out for something to hold onto.

Harry fell backwards with a cry when he heard a mind-shattering crack.

The pyrex bowl rolled across the floor on its rim a further few inches before toppling over with another, lesser bang. Harry stared at it stupidly, rubbing his head. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, but the threatening flashback was gone. He sighed and sat up. He looked up at the window.

"Fuck," he swore, standing up hurriedly. Silver fracture lines radiated out from a spot on the window pane, and the owl was lying motionless on the sill. It must have been panicked by the noise, Harry realised. He tentatively reached out a finger to stroke it: no reaction. He swore again.

This was not going to be a good day. He looked up at the grey sky outside, where darker thunderheads were rolling in on the horizon.

He couldn't live like this. "I need to find Draco," he muttered to himself, heading for the door.

…

Author's Note:

Once again, thanks to my reviewers for bearing with me. I have no beta but still no faith in my writings skills. This is possibly the most unpolished, unprofessional fic I've written since I've been able to write competently. But I'm having way too much fun to worry right now! So I'm sorry to those who find my jabberings unreadable.

Writing this fic has unblocked me miraculously, not just with fanfic but with my original works as well. For this, I have you all to thank.

Also: anonymous reviews are now enabled. Thanks, ATadObsessive46, for pointing that out to me. :)

Another apology for you. I'm sorry these chapters have been so short. That is the result of me testing the waters, so to speak, and getting back into the rhythm of writing regularly and (hopefully) grippingly again. I'm currently two chapters ahead of what I'm posting each day (to make sure I'm not hugely stressed for writing at any point in the future) and chapters five and six are much longer than these shorties.

Love y'all!

Jen

xox