If…

Disclaimer: not mine.

Notes: I am depressed, so, as always, this will most likely be depressing to an extent. I am also practically in tears (don't ask why, I have no idea), which may add to the depression. Read at your own risk; don't say I didn't warn you. I decided that drabble chapters will be in Draco's POV only, so this one most likely will not contain drabbles.

If…

Chapter Two

…

Harry woke to a tapping on his window, and it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. The Burrow. Because he wouldn't have to go to the Dursleys anymore. Never again. Groping around on the night table, he finally found the cold metal of his glasses and snapped them onto his face. The blurry room instantly cleared.

It was a black owl. None of his friends had a black owl. Hogwarts didn't have a black owl. The ministry didn't (as far as he knew) ever send black owls. So who…?

He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and went to open the window of Ron's room. He glanced over at the snoring lump tangled in a thick quilt and smiled softly when the snoring turned to muttering and the body fell off the tiny cot. There were a few colorful curses, more muttering and then the snoring resumed. It was strangely soothing.

The owl flew in, landed on his shoulder and stuck out a leg.

Harry looked dubiously at the rolled up piece of parchment and carefully took it off the owl's leg. He unrolled it and the four words hit him hard.

It's Starting To Burn.

There was nothing else. The script was neat and fairly small, flowing and long and slanted artfully. The tail on the G was long and looped, the first I also loopy and abstract. Just four words, and together they were almost disturbingly elegant. He had a feeling that he'd seen this writing before, but he didn't know where.

He held it up and squinted at the writing. Maybe there was something hidden, a secret message or something…he turned on the small lamp and held the page up…and suddenly more words leapt out.

He smacked his forehead and muttered, "I'm so stupid," and turned the page over.

'This parchment is two way, meaning that if you (whomever you are) write something it will show up on my copy, and when I write something it will appear on yours. All I can say is that I am in danger and that I need help. I can't say my name or where I am until I determine that you (whomever you are) are trustworthy. Please keep my owl for the summer. Her name is Synna and she is generally friendly unless provoked. My situation is dire, and although you don't have to trust me, I need help. I suspect my time is running out.

He reread the words, and then read them again. Then Harry set down the parchment and sat back in the chair, feeling rather disgruntled, and said, "huh."

And then instantly regretted it as Ron turned over and the snoring turned to muttering again. He switched off the lamp hurriedly and tensed. A few moments that felt like a lifetime later, the snoring started up again. Harry relaxed and let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Why was he so tense? It wasn't like this was a secret.

And yet…

He didn't want anyone to find out. He knew already that this was something he was going to keep from his friends, something he wouldn't tell them until later, when he found out who and what and where and when and how and, most importantly, WHY.

But something felt wrong.

Of all possible things that could have been written, that was definitely not what he had expected. He had expected some long-winded explanation, or a desperate help message scribbles quickly in as if someone was coming to get the person and they needed to finish it before they were caught, or maybe some strange language or symbols or even a poem with multiple clues that would help him find out who it was, where they were and what the predicament was.

But no, instead he got seven sentences of information, written clearly, legibly and neatly in the same print as the previous message. It was matter-of-fact, levelheaded and calm.

And it frustrated him to NO END!

This was not how it should have happened!

He sighed and looked at the paper.

It stared back.

He gave it a doubtful look, then raised an eyebrow at it.

It seemed to sneer back.

He felt his eye twitch in irritation. It looked like Draco Malfoy.

The paper fluttered back.

"Oh well," he said aloud, though softly, "might as well…"

Slipping a quill and a pot of black ink out of his trunk, he dipped the quill in the ink and slowly started to write.

I'm afraid I can't tell you my name either; unless I have your guarantee that you're not a Death Eater and that this will not be seen by any Death Eaters. My name isn't exactly liked by them. If you are not in a Death Eater safe position, you may refer to me as 'H'.

That aside, can you tell me anything about your situation? Do you have any idea where you are? I can't really help you if I don't know where you are. I've had some bad experiences with Death Eaters in the past. I hope you understand. I can assure you that I'm trustworthy, but I suppose that my assurance doesn't mean all that much.

He waited for a moment, and suddenly, magically, writing began spiraling across the page.

Is H your first initial? I think I may know who you are. Perhaps you should change it to J, or P, even G. H is rather obvious. Maybe I'm wrong. You may refer to me as 'D' or, if it would suit you better – which it would if I'm correct about your identity – 'M'. Odd, D stands for Death Eater. You have my assurance. I am not a Death Eater, and would rather die than become one. I may very well have to. I would, however, be considered one were I caught. I suppose that means that yes, I have the dark mark, but I am not loyal to Voldemort or his cause. My parents would have me believe in him, but my failure to obey and to carry out his orders correctly have placed me in a rather compromising position.

You may inform RW, HG (funny how the initials are the same as the potential title), RL or anyone else you find suitably trustworthy. You're right, your assurance doesn't mean much, but if I'm correct about who you are (which I believe I am), you are trustworthy, and that is a relief to me.

I am in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. Do not tell the ministry. A raid from them would mean my life, and everything I know about the inner workings of their plans would die with me.

And you wouldn't want another life on your hands, would you J?

Harry felt his lip curl into a sneer. J for James, P for Potter, G for Gryffindor. D and M for Draco Malfoy. Inform Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Head Girl, Remus Lupin or anyone else. If it hadn't been for Draco, Harry thought bitterly and selfishly, AD – Albus Dumbledore – would be on that list as well. He wrote back anyways, allowing his hatred of the other boy to guide his hand.

Malfoy. What an unpleasant surprise. Still the cocky little arrogant bastard, I see, just with a touch of fear added. Never fear. I will help you, as is my job. I do, however, suggest you don't say anything that would be detrimental to your health. Or rather, anything that would make me want to not help you.

Is there any way to send things through this page? I'd like to send you something that will help you protect yourself when the ministry comes into the Manor. They're muggle items (which I'm sure is repulsive, but they're the only things I have right now – I refuse to send you my wand) but greatly useful.

Hope you're not squeamish.

He gave a satisfied smirk and sat back to wait for a response.

Potter. I was right, then. You're right. I am afraid. But then, so would you be if you'd been tortured within inches of your life since the beginning of the summer when they took you out of the forest and knocked you out with a stabbing spell straight to the temple. I've probably lost more blood in the past three days than you have in your life. Then again, even if you did live in a cupboard, my life has been a hundred times worse than yours has ever been.

Enough with my bitter rant. If you lay something on the page and say 'send' it will go through. What are you sending? I'm not squeamish. You start to not be squeamish when you see your parents cold-bloodedly murder someone in front of you when you're three. Enough of your own blood does that to you.

Harry paused for a moment, rather puzzled by this new revelation. He slowly took his precious items from his drawer and placed them on the page.

"Send."

They're what muggles call guns. If you pull the trigger, a small, metal projectile is pushed out of the barrel (the hole in the end) at an impossibly high velocity. They pierce through skin as well as they do skulls.

They also bring a lot of blood.

This is a revolver, but there's only six bullets (the projectiles) in it. I sent a few more sets. You should have about thirty extra bullets. There's an instruction page inside the barrel. It tell you how to put more bullets in.

I'm not stupid, Potter. I know what a gun is. I've been studying muggles since I was six. I could probably live in the muggle world better than you can.

When will the aurors be coming?

I don't know. I'll tell you as soon as I contact them.

Someone's coming.

Are you okay? Malfoy? Draco?

"DAMMIT!"

…

How was that? Sorry it took me so long. It's been a while since my last inspiration. Although that wasn't all that bad.

Gotta go. Hope you liked!