It's Christmas everybody! After receiving the nicest most wonderful review I think I've ever had, in which I was told that this story was 'amazing' and 'beautiful'; and in which I was called 'talented', I decided to update!

Sorry for the delay my lovelies, and a special thanks to fr0d0lives, and my beta Elly. This chapter is dedicated to them.

…

Ron walked sullenly through the corridors, his bag slung over his shoulder as he dragged his large feet in a manner that would have caused his mother to scold him had she been there. He looked out of the windows absently as he passed, squinting against the sunset that was basking the hard grey walls in oranges and reds, like the plumage on the headmaster's phoenix.

He couldn't complain, not really. He still had friends, he had Seamus and Dean and, hell, even Neville liked him. He no longer hung out with the 'wrong sort of people'; he still had his health and his family, he had half a box of sugar quills under his bed and he had even started getting interest from the girls. He was at the peak of his existence, and he should be feeling young and happy and fulfilled. So why wasn't he?

Perhaps it was that empty bed that he and his dorm mates had taken to piling their dirty clothes on. Perhaps it was that now he had to get help with homework from Dean. Perhaps it was that burning guilt that tore at him every time Malfoy's steel grey eyes met his across the room; or perhaps it was that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that was always there and never left, and the dull ache in his heart.

He'd managed to convince himself that it was indigestion, but not even the worst case of indigestion could last that long.

He sighed and kicked at a ball of dust that had rolled into the middle of the floor, his red hair falling into his face and swinging like a shaggy dog as he plodded on. It had all been for the best, he was sure of it. Being around Potter had jeopardised his entire family; there was always the danger of being killed looming over the other boy's head like a thundercloud, and it engulfed everyone around him. And it wasn't his fault that Hermione had preferred to risk her life being around him. He was sure of it. Rather, he had been sure of it.

He wasn't even sure if it was doing any good any way, seeing as he was mostly certain that Harry was still getting a regular supply from his brothers' shop and his mum had sent an extra sweater with an embroidered H, just in case. He was pretty sure that Ginny still spoke to him, too.

Now it was just a matter of pride.

Lion's pride.

Unbreakable.

Ron was almost certain that he would have to continue doing the right thing, perhaps just because he would most likely be told to shove off if he ever even thought of going back to what he had had before. The thought was slightly depressing.

The soft din of low voices slunk from around the turning, coiling around his head, but too dim to determine the words. For a moment he thought of just carrying on, knowing that whoever it was would either ignore him, or stop until he'd passed again. But the thought of catching a Slytherin (or maybe just a first year) in the act of something incriminating was just too good to give up. He needed to be cheered up anyway.

He picked up his feet and slunk nearer to the wall, slowing his pace as he approached. As he reached the corner he pressed his back up against the stonework and cocked his head so that he was sure he would catch what was being said.

"…report to…. Very important… vital that he's…."

"…Sure?… to believe… did he really?…"

"…Burn… angry…. In for a beating if he…"

Ron huffed silently in agitation, as he was unable to make sense of what he was hearing. But what he had heard had caught his attention, and he was extremely reluctant to leave without knowing what was going on. He looked over his shoulder, back down the corridor, to see if there was anyone there to see him eavesdropping. There was no one there. He turned back and debated risking a look around the corner, his heart beating slightly faster with the thrill. If he was seen he could always just pretend he had come out of the nearest classroom or something, but that would ruin his chances of finding out what was being said.

He risked it anyway. With one last fleeting glance over his shoulder, he let his fingers creep over the sharp turning; letting as little of his face show as possible, as he peeked, one eye showing beneath a mop of red hair, around the bend.

At first he couldn't see anything against the bright glow of the setting sun, that was leaking through the windows and flooding the length of corridor, but his eyes adjusted. He squinted as he tried to focus on the three figures he could see standing near one of the windows, huddled together in a group. They were very obviously plotting something.

He could tell that they were in the upper school years. One of them was thick and broad shouldered, while the other two were smaller, one lean while the other was skinny, with very pointy angles showing through his robes. They were all so close together that they probably wouldn't be able to see him if he moved cautiously enough.

Ron spied the statue of a founder by a window a few feet away from him, in the other corridor. He knew that if he got by it he would be able to hear more of whatever they were talking about; plus he'd have the element of surprise if he needed to protect himself (in the case they were Slytherin, which was more than likely as Slytherins always had the knack for looking suspicious).

Ron took a deep breath and stuck out his chest, and plunged his hand into the pocket of his robes for his wand before he quickly darted out of his hiding place and into the other. He held his breath for a few moments as he tried to be silent.

"What was that?"

"I dunno, probably Peeves. Stop being paranoid."

Ron let his breath out and his shoulders sagged; and he spared himself a triumphant look for his efforts. From where he was now, he could not only hear them, but he could see them too. As he peered through the gap between the statue's elbow, he could clearly make out the three figures in the glow of orange sunlight.

One of them was in the year below, one whom he didn't know the name of. He was the sort of boy that always seemed to be peering at you in a ratty way, and he looked as thin as a leaf. The other two were Crabbe and Zabini, and just seeing them confirmed his suspicions of foul play. He grinned to himself and tested the grip on his wand.

"When's it again?" Crabbe murmured.

"Shut up Crabbe, he's just told you," Zabini snapped back.

Ron cursed. He'd already missed vital information.

"Sorry."

"What sort of trouble do you think Draco'll be in?" sniffed the smaller boy.

"Provided the Mark works this time, I don't think there should be too much trouble, although I'm sure the Dark Lord will want to figure out why it didn't work the first time," Blaise drawled.

"And if it doesn't?"

"Well then I suppose he'll keep trying until it either works, or Draco dies. Really brings light to the expression 'die trying'."

"That's not very nice," the boy muttered.

"Lord Voldermort is hardly nice at the best of times, idiot."

From his hiding place Ron watched the smaller boy shrug, his long shadow moving sluggishly along with him as though the rich light was weighing it down. He was sorely tempted just to jump out and stun them before they could react, but something told him that it would most probably be best to tell someone about it in case his plan backfired. His head buzzed with adrenalin, his ideas fighting for dominance of his thoughts as he tried to quickly think of what he should do.

So Malfoy was up to no good. It sort of made him feel better. Ever since the fiasco at the Room of Requirement he'd felt lower than low because he'd thought that Malfoy was better than him; at least now he knew that he wasn't. It didn't really make sense though, that Malfoy would protect Potter one moment and then become a Death Eater the next. But then again, nothing about the arrogant blonde had really made much sense, and frankly Ron didn't really care. He smirked to himself as the party departed, and as they disappeared around the corner, he chanced coming out of his hiding place.

For a moment he stood in the evening light, a silhouette against the warm glow, before he began walking in the other direction. The next course of action was simple really; he should just go and tell the headmaster. Or better yet, owl his dad at the ministry. But there was something gnawing away at his innards again. That familiar feeling of guilt. Shouldn't he tell them? Shouldn't he at least warn his ex-best friend that there was a traitor in their midst? Or should he just leave it?

Could he really do that to them after all he'd done?

Should the saviour really be saved?

…

Draco and Harry sat by the fire in their common room. The platinum blonde sat with a notepad in front of him and a quill dripping ink onto the red carpet. The brunette lounged behind him on a chair with the expression of only half listening, as he watched the other boy chewing the end of the feather. The setting light of the sun was blocked out by a pair of thick curtains, and the only light in the room was the soft crackling glow of the small fire in the marble fireplace, the flames seeming to dance across the walls.

Draco slid the quill out of his lips and Harry absently sighed.

"So that's all?" he asked at last, "it doesn't seem like much."

"Yup," Harry replied, "That's all so far, although the headmaster said that there might be more."

"There'd better be," Draco sniffed. " It's not that I doubt your magical abilities or anything, but I don't think that you'll be able to defeat anyone by charming them to death, turning yourself invisible or being able to see in the dark. Well, I suppose you could ambush him on a very dark night…" Draco's expression became distant for a moment. "But that's not going to happen," he said at last.

"Mm…" Harry murmured in reply.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?" Draco drawled, not really seeming too bothered himself, as he rolled onto his back to glance at the other boy from where he lay on the floor. The firelight bounced off his hair and skin, giving him an orange glow, and his slate grey eyes looked languidly out from beneath blonde lashes.

"It's fine," Harry muttered.

Draco raised an eyebrow. It was very clear that his words weren't registering at all. He sighed and turned back to the notepad, where his own slanted writing lay neatly across the parchment, his words staring at him from the page. He tried to ignore the other boy's eyes as he re-read what he had written.

Dark Veela

Powers: Good eyesight, charm, some sort of invisibility

Physical characteristics: feature enhancement, muscle development, height increase, hair length, cured defects (eyesight)…

Generally sexy

Emotional characterises: Dominance (hah!), change of perspective, devotion, otherwise none…

He sighed quietly through slightly parted lips. He doubted that Dumbledore would be too impressed with his notes. Especially his own added opinions. His cheeks prickled with heat for a second and he cleared his throat; it was strange to think that he hadn't blushed before the summer, as he seemed to be doing it a lot more recently.

"Draco?"

Draco jumped as Harry spoke, as the brunette now appeared to be lying right beside him and he hadn't noticed. He lay a hand on his heart and glared as he let out his breath, and Harry propped himself on his elbow as he smiled coyly.

"Scared?" he asked.

"Terrified," Draco drawled, lying back down.

"Well you should be," Harry replied, smiling, as he shuffled closer.

"Go away, faggot, I'm working," Draco muttered half-heartedly and began writing again, before the parchment was ripped from his hands.

"Yes I can see that," Harry laughed as he began to read, "Squiggle, squiggle, line, stick person holding a bro- hey! That's not a broom!"

"Oy! Give that here, Potter!" Draco snapped, leaping and trying to snatch it back before Harry's arm recoiled and brought it just out of his grasp. He tried again and missed, and as he reached forward the other boy grabbed his arm and pulled him over, until Draco was lying on top of him. The blonde tried to keep his face impassive as he felt the heat of the other body creeping through his clothes, and running up and down his spine like electricity.

"How about no," he whispered, "what 'choo gonna do about it?"

Draco ignored the implications just to be difficult.

"Just give that back here and no one gets hurt."

"Oh really?" Harry quipped, smirking, before beginning to attack the other's neck. Draco fought back half-heartedly for a moment before giving up with the realisation that it was probably already leaving a mark, and let himself relax as his head cocked to the side and he stopped muttering weak protests. But suddenly the attention to his jugular stopped.

"What?" Draco moaned, pouting slightly as he raised his head and looked down at the other boy. "You've never stopped before."

Harry sighed. He didn't want to stop. Anything but. He gazed longingly at the white porcelain skin covering the others neck, rising to his sharp jawbone and handsome features. He stared into the heavy lidded stormy eyes and wanted nothing more than to continue, but he had promised himself that he would do this. Actually, he had promised Hermione, and if he didn't follow it through he would most likely regret it.

Draco's eyebrows knitted into a look of mild concern as he searched the other's features. "Something wrong?" he ventured.

"No- nothing wrong," he sighed, "it's just…Draco, you know I care for you right?" he asked, gazing up into the others face, mapping out the lines and curves longingly with his eyes.

"Yes. I also know that you've said that before. What do you want?" Draco snapped, but it lacked conviction, as he still made no move to remove himself from on top of the other boy.

"Draco…" he began, but knew that what he was about to ask would make him extremely unpopular. He wished they could just run away together; perhaps drag Hermione along as long as she could occupy herself half of the time, and not have to worry about any of the things that they did have to worry about. But he knew that beneath the silken material of Draco's expensive clothes lay the silver scar of the dark mark spell, and with it the certainty that it would be cast again.

"Draco…" he repeated. He swallowed slowly and tried to ignore the feel of the other person on top of him, and ignore the fact that his love was in danger and he was doing nothing about it. "Draco," he said at last, more certain this time, " Draco."

"Yes?" Draco asked, smirking. "You called?"

"Dracowillyougotoseetheheadmasterwithme?" he breathed.

"Pardon?" Draco said, but as he relieved some of his weight Harry could see his eyes harden, and he knew that he had heard perfectly.

"Please Draco! It's for the best! He can help you!" he tried as Draco rolled off and into a standing position. Harry scrambled up after him and tried to take his hand, but he was batted away too soon, and his emerald eyes pleaded with the other, but to no avail.

"I'm not listening to this drabble," Draco hissed, "Dumbledore's done nothing for me so far, and he'll do nothing for me in the future."

"Draco!" Harry called, "Please! Just give him a chance. He can help you, I swear!"

"No!" Draco snapped. Harry tried to make a grab for him again, but once more he was batted aside, and Draco disappeared into his room before he could reach him, and slammed the door behind him. Although Harry knew that he could get in, he knew that he shouldn't. But the feeling of being left outside while the man he loved was in pain, and needed to he helped but refused all of his pleas, hurt him deeply. The feeling of his innards being chewed and digested, gnawed on by the hounds of rejection, was hard to ignore. Perhaps he'd have to try something different next time.

At least, he hoped that there would be a next time.

With one last longing look at the other's door, he sighed and flopped back into the chair he had previously occupied. It would be a long night.

….

Merry Christmas to all, and to all and a goodnight!

Blue XxX