Title: Rebirth
Author: darchangel
Chapter: 04 – Suspended Time
Summary: set post-HBP After the Hogwarts incident, Draco fled—he didn't care where he would go, as long as no one could find him. When he nearly dies, a Muggle girl takes care of him. But it's Draco Malfoy—will he let her?

WARNING: HBP SPOILERS! Do not read if you haven't read the book! Readers, ye be warned!

Disclaimers: I don't own Draco (too bad, though), Harry Potter or any of the plot that happened before the story. I do own Anne and the rest of the characters appearing and that's awesome! LOL.

The plot, characters, bands and songs mentioned are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people and songs is entirely coincidental.

Author's Notes:

1) On the songfic (generally on incorporated songfics):
a. I decided to incorporate some songfics into the regular flow of the story, like parts of actual chapters. This will give you both insight into the story/characters, and a tone which these parts convey.
b. All my songfics are written in a particular pattern: the lyric precedes the text that goes with it, pretty much like a heading of sorts. Unpreceded text goes with the intro of the song.
c. Between the verses there are transitional paragraphs that 'match' the music between the verses. I'm noting this because it might not be very clear.

2) On the rest/whole of the chapter:
a. I did some research concerning the music Tom listens to. I can confirm that both Sepultura and Slipknot were around in 1996. Look it up if you don't believe me.
b. Sorry in advance to any thrash/death metal fans that might be offended by my comments about the aforementioned genre/artists but it only serves to accentuate the brutality of waking up with a guy screaming incomprehensible things with the accommodation of a grungy guitar sound. Obviously I do not like that genre of music, but I don't want my readers to be offended by that. )

Part One: Sleep

It was pitch-dark and devilishly hot—Draco was almost suffocating as he lay on his back in his bed, in that pathetic excuse for a guest room he'd been living in, trying to force his eyelids shut but staring at the ceiling instead.

I need some sleep; I can't go on like this...

He stood up, cursing under his breath for everything that had gone wrong these past few days... and his whole life. The last two nights he hadn't managed to sleep at all; the images of the lightning-struck tower were so vivid in his head, he felt like the Dark Mark hung ominously above his four-poster bed. The very thought of that was so alarming that he couldn't close his eyes unless it was dawn. And then he cried so much that his eyes hurt as well.

I can't go on like this, he thought, walking over to the tall, wide window on the far side of the room, to the right of the bed. He put his hands on the windowsill; the breeze was ever so slow and did little to relieve him of the relentless heat.

Another sleepless night... for nothing.

I tried counting sheep, but there's one I always miss...

The little houses everywhere around were all so quiet... although the occasional electric buzz from here or there was quite annoying after a while.

Draco looked up at the sky; not a single cloud loomed over the small town. It was so dark that most of the stars glowed brightly against the total blackness of the sky. Everything seemed so pointless...

He sighed heavily, staring into the distance. He didn't know what to think or believe anymore—everything he had ever known had been fake to the greatest possible extent. He had grown up believing that hurting people and making them feel low and unworthy was not only acceptable, but mandatory from a wizard of his class and status. His father had more than encouraged any anti-social behaviour; Draco himself had developed a liking towards the maltreating of everyone around him—it made him feel strong and important.

Now he realized how wrong he had been to believe that.
It only created an illusion...
He wasn't strong, or important.
He was nothing.

Everyone says I'm getting down too low...
Everyone says you just gotta let it go...

"Could there be an 'up' now?"

The Muggle girl that took him in had said that there's always a good thing after a bad one… How he wished that could be true! She did seem to genuinely believe it… that day, at the bridge, she had managed to convince him somehow that things could actually get better at some point; now it seemed so hopeless…

There was nothing about her that suggested it might be true—yet her determined expression when she had looked him in the eyes was worth a thousand words of encouragement… The rain was falling on both of them, the river flowed unendingly below them, her auburn hair now looked brown and slick…

You just gotta let it go… You just gotta let it go…

And she's a Muggle.
Here I am, wasting my time and self with a Muggle!
She had saved him though.
But she still was a Muggle.

…What the hell am I hoping for?

Aggravated, he left the window and turned towards the room. Anxiety was building up inside him, for so many things that he couldn't even name. His father, Potter, the Draco he had been for so many years, Potter, the lies he had believed, Dumbledore, Snape, the Dark Mark, Potter, Potter, POTTER! His whole life had always evolved around hating one person…

Everything is so… WASTED!

I need some sleep; time to put the old horse down…

A surge of hopelessness overwhelmed him, and he flipped; frantic, he searched for anything he could use to take his life, to end this miserable torture once and for all!

There was nothing. Not one knife, one needle, one freakin' rope to hang himself with…

There's no reason to live! I want to die, NOW!

Desperately, he yanked open the top drawer of the dresser, causing the entire thing to shake violently; he didn't care about making noise—if he had the chance to, he wouldn't survive to deal with the consequences of that... or anything else anymore.

There, inside that drawer, lay his most valuable thing in the entire world, the only thing that reminded him of where he belonged, what he loved and hated at the same time: his wand. Magic was all he had left now.

Now what? Avada Kedavra?

He picked up the wand from where it lay on his tattered black cloak, and held it as if it was the most beautiful and yet most horrible and dangerous thing there could ever be. Which it was.

He pointed it at himself, his fingers trembling, wondering if it would actually work. Can someone really kill himself with this?

I'm in too deep, and the wheels keep spinning round…

For some long moments he stayed with his hands in mid-air, his wand still pointed at his Adam's apple. He reached inside his mind, only retrieving shattered memories of his forever dysfunctional family, Slytherin, his friends—or dummies, more like… Vague images of Potter, of his father, of Voldemort… There was nothing he could hold on to, nothing he loved enough. Love… had he ever loved anyone or anything?

He remembered the night he first saw his father after fleeing Hogwarts with Snape and the others… Lucius had tightened a grip on Draco's throat, blocking all air from entering his lungs.. He would have died if his mother hadn't suddenly yanked the father away from the son, taking Draco in her protective embrace, tears streaming down her face.
That was it… All my life… for nothing…

"Ava—Avad… Avada…"

He dropped the wand and fell on his knees, his own tears streaming like a river down his cheeks. He raised his hands to cover his face, ashamed of his thoughts and his inability to forget about all that made him the awful person he had once enjoyed being…

It's my whole life… I can't just forget.

Everyone says I'm getting down too low…
Everyone says, you just gotta let it go…

For a while he stayed on the floor, crying. His wand lay close by, the only thing he had left. He could only hear his own sobs and the soft passing of the breeze among the leaves of the tall aspen trees beyond the neighbours' houses on either side of the street.

His tears kept falling on the wooden floor silently; everything he had ever dreamed of was now broken, and all he had once thought was the truth of the world had been nothing but a complexion of lies... Even if he had someone to talk to, what would he say? Nothing could be nearly enough.

A faint musical sound broke the silence inside Draco's head.
Someone was playing the guitar.
Draco pulled himself together and wiped the tears from his face.

I guess I'll live tonight, he thought sarcastically.

He stood up, picking up the "useless piece of wood" and placing it safely back in the drawer. He sighed heavily as he closed it, and stared at his own reflection in the mirror that hung above the dresser. He looked so... old, with dark shades under his tired eyes, with sunken cheeks and an expression that said nothing about who he was or who he could be... Just another unimportant teenager, lost in a meaningless Muggle world that continued with its life, oblivious about the monstrous things that were happening all around them—unaware of what monsters could be responsible for that...

The guitar sound grew slightly louder, and Draco was surprised to hear a voice join in—Anne?

Slowly he approached his door and opened it only a little, allowing the sound to pour into his room like a soft breeze. He stepped outside, his feet suddenly feeling cold as he left the wooden floor of his room for the marble tiling of the hallway. He turned right and then left, advancing towards the decorated door that read "Anne." The sounds grew slightly louder with each step. He could hear Anne shuffle papers and scribble little notes on notebooks, then start over and play the same part of a song, over and over until she scribble something new, and then again... crafting a song into perfection.

You've just gotta let it go... you've just gotta let it go...

Draco felt the urge to speak, to say something about the life he so much hated and wanted to be rid of, about the lies he had so often said and believed, about the enemies he had made that might not be such enemies after all...

He shuffled in his position a little, raising his right fist in position to knock Anne's door... but lowered it. What was he going to say? To whom? Anne? She was nothing but a nurse, the girl who offered to help him get better. It's not like she'd understand any of it. And besides... she was a Muggle. What could a Muggle understand of Hogwarts, of magic, of Dumbledore and Potter and Voldemort and spells and curses and wands? This was beyond her all.

Slowly and quietly, he made his way back to his room, shaking his head and mumbling to himself about how stupid he was to have ventured out in the first place. He returned to his room and shut the door behind him, leaning his fragile frame against the door, breathing deeply and wondering what on earth it was that he wanted... Time and again, each night the same game within this dark room, and within his head. So much the same, in fact, that he began to think that time had been stopped—and he had been doomed to repeat the same frightful night over and over again in eternity. That thought scared him even more, and shook the sleep right off him. He could never rest unless it had dawned... he had started to feel like a vampire already.

Across the hall, Anne closed her door, having caught a glimpse of the blond boy shutting his own. He probably couldn't sleep again. What's on his mind must be heavy, she thought. But there was really nothing she could do, but hope that he would get over his mental wounds along with his physical ones, all in due time. There's no better healer than time and patience.

Part Two: Sleepwalking

The words of the song that permeated his sleeping eardrums and woke him up violently were incomprehensible—but Draco could swear that the song was about death. The guitars were harsh and resounding, the voice sounded angry, aggressive, repulsive; quite the way to wake up after another night of hopeless suicidal urges and ugly memories of lightning-struck towers and murderers that were considered family...

He grunted as he got out of bed sluggishly, his eyes still a bit blurry and his mind not clear at all. Staggering towards the door, he flinched at the nasty smell of boiling cabbage that came with the warm breeze through the window. It was a really, really unpleasant smell, and he hated this morning even more—morning, was it? He didn't really know. These days he had lost all sense of time, what with his sleeping patterns that never made any sense even to him.

Opening the door, he was delighted to be welcomed into the hallway by an overwhelming smell of... chicken! Well, certainly it wasn't cabbage or anything similarly slimy, green and disgusting. His eyes cleared up a little and he moved towards the staircase, grimacing as he passed in front of the door which the repulsive music seemed to emanate from—it had large letters on it, the door, but he couldn't make them out. He continued; the staircase was only a few steps away... Now he only had to reach the floor below. And that was more difficult than it sounded.

xXx

Clanging silverware together as she emptied the dishwasher, Anne sighed and wiped her forehead—sometimes she couldn't take the humidity in the kitchen while she cooked, but there was nothing she could do about it with both the cooker hood on and the window open... She closed the drawers and put everything in its place, and sat down to catch her breath as she waited for the contents of the pot to boil and the chicken to roast in the oven. She looked around the kitchen and was pleased to see everything clean and spotless, everything in order, everything looking welcoming and inviting. Her daily routine involved the kitchen a lot, and she liked to have an ordered and clean environment when she worked. The white apron she wore looked baggy on her, tall as she was. She had a wide black hair band on her head, and most of her hair was then pulled back into a tight, short pony-tail.

The image of a perfect housewife, she thought to herself chuckling. Mom wouldn't believe this if she saw me now.

At that moment Drake walked into the kitchen slowly, his eyes a bit unfocused and his steps not exactly in a straight line. He looked around and halted momentarily, taking in the shapes and colours he received and trying to recognize something he knew. He had made it this far and was very content with himself (along with angry at whoever it was that woke him up with that hideous music...). When he saw Anne he made a step but almost tripped; Anne stood up and quickly crossed the kitchen to support him. She helped him sit down on a chair at the round, wooden kitchen table with the baby-blue, flowery-patterned tablecloth, and kneeled down beside him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, I'm... well, I'm... better," Drake managed to utter, his eyes looking puffy and dark and his face looking considerably pale. Anne fetched a towel to wipe the tiny beads of sweat off his forehead, her eyes wide with concern and worry.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," she said, "you ought to sleep in. You didn't get a good night's rest last night either."

"How do you know?" Drake exclaimed, suddenly a bit more lively and energized but also secretly alarmed at Anne's remark—could it be that she had seen him outside her room the night before?

"You look awful, that's how I know! A person who sleeps well never has dark circles under his eyes, and his eyes aren't puffy either. What are you doing up anyway?"

Draco relaxed and sighed.

"The music woke me up."

"The music? What mu—oh... I'm gonna KILL THE BLOODY BASTARD!"

"Who?"

"It's my brother, Tom. Oh he's gonna get it hard from me, wait till he comes down to lunch and I'll show him... He knows there's an ill person in the house and yet—UGH!" Anne stood up and paced frantically for a while, trying to calm herself.

Soon the pot was whistling in the far left corner of the kitchen and the orange-haired girl reached over to remove the cap and stir the contents a little, just as the front door opened and Mr. Richards walked in holding a small, light-brown leather briefcase. He closed the door and proceeded straight into the kitchen, in a manner that almost seemed mechanical and automatic. For an instance he paused, and looked at the blond boy that sat at the table.

He turned to his daughter and asked, "What is that boy doing downstairs?"
"Tom woke him up with his thrash metal junk. I have to go beat him up for that."
"Is lunch ready?"
"Yes."
"Well go get him and we'll talk about it over food."
"Fine."

Anne left the wooden spoon near the sink and rushed to the stairs, a furious frown distorting her usually calm face. She reached Tom's door and tried to open it—as always, it was locked.

"Hey, kid rascal, lunch is ready!""I'll be right down," a boyish voice answered, sounding bored and angry and fed up all at once.
"Now, jackass."
"I said I'll be right down!"
"I don't care, get out right now."
"In a minute."
"I said NOW, asshole!"

The boy stood up and unlocked the door, yanking it open with nerve. The ugly music spilled out through the doorway. Beyond it stood a 15-year-old youngster, all dressed in black, his pants baggy and worn, his shirt bearing an ugly band of dubious musical worth, with lots of leather wristbands around his skinny little hands and a metallic spike necklace around his neck. His hair had been spiked up with tons of some fruit-smelling hairstyling product—so much for the tough guy look.

"What do you want?" he said, eyeing his sister with a gaze full of contempt.The girl looked down at her brother, sniffing the air for what she knew she would smell—tobacco smoke.
"Lunch is ready," she said. "And turn off that idiot."
"It's called thrash metal," the boy said in a "duh" tone as he crossed the room to turn off the stereo.
"Whatever. You woke up Drake when he needed his sleep, you know he's sick and he needs to recover."
"I'm not living in a hospital, it's my house and it's almost 3 and I can do whatever I want."
"You wouldn't do it if it was Dad who was sick," Anne said as she watched her brother close the door to his room and walk past her in a nonchalant manner, completely ignoring her.
"Because Dad would kick my butt if I did," the boy said without looking at her and making his way to the staircase. She followed him.
"It's the same way now," she said as they were both descending the stairs.
"No, it isn't," the boy protested, still not looking at her. "Dad acts as if that guy doesn't exist."
"That guy has a name."
"Who cares?"

They had reached the kitchen by now, and Tom took his usual seat at the table opposite Anne and between his father and the blond boy who looked seriously pale and spaced out.

Anne served lunch for everyone, and then sat down at her place between her father and Drake, and opposite her younger brother. They started eating quietly, Drake clearly making an effort to move his very fingers. Tom looked at him as if he was some sort of a freak.

"Tom!" hissed Anne behind clenched teeth. "Stop staring!"
The boy threw one last sideways look at the stranger and resumed his lunch.
Mr. Richards was eyeing all the occupants of the table, lingering on his son and completely ignoring the blond stranger. He had been acting as if the boy was a figment of his daughter's imagination.
"Tom," he started, eyes fixed on the chicken on his plate as he cut a piece with his knife.
"Yes, father," the boy said with a subtle ironic tone that the authority figure of the household did not quite grasp.
"I do not like music so loud at this time of day—and I believe your sister has asked you to be as quiet as possible for her work—"
"There is a sick person in the house, father!" protested his daughter.
"Either way," he continued calmly, still looking at his plate while he kept his hands busy with the silverware, "I want you to keep the volume down in the morning, it is a sensitive time of the day."

The boy grunted but nodded in annoyed agreement while shooting an angry look at his sister, who looked content and upset at the same time.

The blond boy seemed not to care about anything happening around him. His appetite was small and he ached all over his left arm.

For a while it was all quiet, and no one looked at the others except for the occasional "could you pass me the salt please" or "could I have a napkin" and other related culinary remarks of utter unimportance. The blond boy remained quiet, which pleased Mr. Richards immensely.

Suddenly, Tom resumed control and erupted in a fit of displeasure.

"And why did you take in the freak?" he asked, silverware resting at the sides of his plate, his gaze fixed upon his sister.
"Because he needed help," said Anne calmly, although on the inside she was worried that this might affect Drake severely. "And don't call him a freak," she added. "His name is Drake."
"I don't care what his name is!" the young punk answered, almost shouting now. "He has taken away my freedom. Nobody cared about how loud my music was, and now everyone's like keep the volume down, there's a sick person in the house blah blah blah..." he said mockingly, upsetting Anne who would soon be fuming.
"I don't—need—to be patronized—by you..." Anne said slowly, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm herself down. "This boy needed my help and I offered it to him. There's nothing you can do other than DEAL WITH IT. Go out and meet your stupid friends and get out of my way, okay?"
Tom did not remain silent. He opened his mouth to let out a million reasons why Drake should not stay at their house—the majority of these reasons Anne had heard from her father days ago when Drake had first moved in. She rolled her eyes and waited for her brother to finish; whatever he said wasn't going to change the way things were right now—either way, it was more about himself other than the 'safety of this house' and everyone's health (an argument which Anne threw down by saying that what Drake had was not contagious, so Tom had better lay off the viral arguments)...

Draco wasn't really listening to the fight between the two siblings, and he wasn't very keen on eating either. The sound of their voices was growing fainter and fainter, as if it was blurring in his ears. Nothing they said mattered now—Draco wondered why the Muggle girl spent so much time worrying about the consequences; if he was such a burden, why did she keep him anyway? And as his mind struggled to understand, consciousness left him in a great surge of pain and he fell from his seat on the marble kitchen floor.

It was as if colour and motion was returned to the kitchen; with the blond boy's fall all three members of the Richards family (including the father, who pretended that the boy did not exist altogether) turned their heads towards him. Anne sprung from her seat and hurried to the boy's aid, only to discover that he was unconscious. She took a look at his arm and saw that the bandage was now soaked with blood—probably the boy had stretched his skin somehow and the wound had been torn open again. She turned Drake around so that he lay on his back, then stood up and crossed the kitchen to the small cupboard above the fridge where she kept bandages and all other medicines. She retrieved a clean bandage and some antiseptic and returned to Drake's side.

Meanwhile her brother had stooped down next to the stranger and was eyeing his soaked left forearm curiously. Why was he bleeding? What sort of wound did he have? Deep down he wasn't as disapproving as he was curious about the arrival of the blond boy—it's not as if he cared much about the safety of the house anyway... he himself hung out with a much more dangerous crowd every day. He used to at least, before they ditched him this afternoon before lunch over the most ridiculous fight ever.

"Move over," said Anne, shoving her brother aside. He would have snapped at her if he hadn't been so curious about what lay beneath the bandages. Anne unfolded a clean piece of bandage and took a pair of scissors in her hand to discard the old one. She turned to the boy stooping down beside her.

"You don't want to look at this, it's ugly," she said, and prepared to cut the bandage on the boy's forearm. Tom remained still in his position.

"Are you sure you want to watch?" she said, arching her eyebrows at him. The boy made no comment nor looked at her; he simply continued to stare at the unconscious Drake on the floor. "Have it your way then," mumbled the orange-haired girl as she proceeded with Drake's bandages.

Tom indeed was shocked by the ugliness of the blond boy's wounds—but at the same time, he was fascinated. And he couldn't hide this fascination from his face when his sister glanced at him momentarily as she changed the pieces of cloth around the boy's wound.

"What's all the excitement for?" Anne snapped sarcastically, as she fastened the new, clean bandages around Drake's forearm. "Weren't you the one who wanted him ousted?"

Her brother blushed as she stood up and put the first aid supplies back into their cupboard—he kept sneaking glances at the suddenly interesting stranger... What had he done to himself? Why? All of a sudden, this boy seemed a lot more tough and invincible than the feeble "sick person" that inhabited the guest room... Tom stood up and helped his sister carry the unconscious boy up to the guest room again.

As Anne adjusted the bed covers over Drake, she turned around to her brother and looked at him awkwardly.

"Um... thank you," she said, thinking that there definitely was something up with her brother. But it couldn't be helped at this point. Whatever it was, it wasn't bad for him.

Shutting the door as she exited the blond boy's room, Anne watched her brother quietly make his way to his room and close his own door with the faintest sound. Arching her eyebrows in a delicate shrug, Anne went back to the kitchen to clean up and maybe rest for a bit, since all her chores had been completed in the morning.

xXx

When Drake woke up his head felt heavy and dizzy. Next to him a figure had rested its head on his bed, and was probably sleeping since whoever it was didn't realize Drake fidgeting as he woke up. As the blond boy's vision cleared he discerned the vivid orange colour of Anne's hair, and pulled himself backwards, unconsciously, moving away from her. Why he did this, he didn't know. Perhaps it was because he grew up believing that Muggles were vile, detestable creatures that were worth nothing. Yes, he thought sarcastically, that must be it.

Two forces were fighting inside him every time he faced these people. The Malfoy inside him would want to brutally torture these worthless humans until they pleaded for death. But there was something in that girl's attitude and in her taking care of him that felt good. Could it be that Muggles are actually not that bad?

No, a voice in his head said. Muggles are abominations. They should all be killed.

Right, he thought again. How could he ever have thought otherwise?

As he fidgeted a little bit more to get out of the covers —quite unsuccessfully since his left forearm hurt like the devil— he accidentally bumped her head with his knee, and she woke up with a start.

"You're up," she said as her eyes focused. The boy made to move but she held him down. "Please stay in bed," she said with a worried look in her eyes. "You shouldn't have come downstairs in the first place, not when you're in pain." He glowered at her like a hurt puppy that had been tied down.

For a moment they both remained silent. Then the girl shifted awkwardly and started to say something, when the front doorbell rang. Draco turned towards the door, alarmed. "Relax," said Anne, "I'll get that. You stay here." With that she left the room and headed downstairs swiftly. Passing by Tom's room she heard the same music as before, but in a considerably lower volume. She shrugged at this sudden surge of thoughtfulness and descended the stairs two at a time; reaching the door she yanked it open with one quick, strong movement.

"...Frank," she said, as if she that was the least expected person to show up on her front door.
"Good to see you too. Where were you? We said 6pm at my place?"
Anne glanced at her watch and back at her best friend. It was 6:45.
"Oh my god Frank I'm so sorry! I completely forgot!"
"It's okay, I figured you did. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah... come on in."

The long haired boy stepped in the coolness of Anne's living room, looking around and checking if the coast was clear.
"Where's your dad?" he asked as Anne was closing the door behind him.
"Either sleeping or out. Not in this room at any rate. Did you guys rehearse without me?"
"I helped Lainie learn the ballad, she keeps missing a note in the chorus and it's driving me crazy... other than that no. We were waiting for you but you didn't show."
"I fell asleep! I was a mess and I wasn't planning on it but I guess I just dozed off—"
"Hey, it's okay. We all get crappy days," said Frank putting a hand on Anne's shoulder compassionately.
"Tell me about it... Oh I wrote a new song last night. Wanna hear it?"
"Sure," said Frank but his eyes were captured by something else—something blond and moving. "Who's that?"

Anne spun around to see Draco coming down the stairs with slow, drowsy steps. "What are you doing downstairs?" She crossed the living room to his aid, but he refused to take her hand. "I just want some water, I can do it by myself—" he said, but Anne cut him off. "We've been through this before. Just sit on the couch and I'll get you water. I told you to stay in bed! You're such a child!" With long strides she crossed the living room and into the kitchen as the blond boy grumpily plunked himself on one of the white sofas arranged around the coffee table. She returned with a glass of tap water and a frown on her face.

"There," she said, giving the glass to the blond boy. "Now please get back to bed?"
"I'm fine," snapped the boy and feebly took a few sips of water—it was obvious that he was everything but fine. All the while Frank was eyeing him somewhat indiscreetly, which made Anne chuckle softly. She winked at her friend and argued with the boy until he gave in and let her help him go back to the guest room, grunting and complaining but going upstairs all the same.

Closing the door of the guest room, the orange-haired girl motioned to Frank to follow her in her own room. She took her acoustic guitar from behind the door, and sat on her bed where an open notebook lay amongst a pile of papers. Frank sat on the revolving chair next to her desk, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface of the desk while Anne shuffled her papers in search for the song she had written the previous night.

"Who is that guy anyway?"
Anne looked up from her papers. Frank was staring at her like she was hiding a secret from him. "He... I'm sort of... taking care of him right now."
"In a hospital sort of way?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Long story."
"I just hope you know what you're doing here."
"It's not like I'm marrying him, for crying out loud! When his wound heals he'll be off!"
"Don't get all defensive, I—"
"I'm not getting defensive."
"Fine, have it your way. Don't be upset."
"I'm not upset, it's just... all I've received is criticism for helping one person who needed it, and—"
"That's not the whole story is it?"
Anne just stared at him, and a soft blush coloured her cheeks. "What do you mean?"
"Others have needed help before but you haven't taken them all in."
The girl sighed and looked down. "Listen," she said, looking up at him again, her face now determined. "I don't want to talk about it right now. It's been a hell of a day."
Frank raised his hands in an okay-I-give-up way. "Whenever you feel ready," he said, and his friend relaxed. "But hey," he added, "I want you to know that I'm with you all the way okay?"
Anne smiled. "Thanks," she said and went back to tuning her guitar.

"Okay... here goes."

Across the hall a sullen Draco Malfoy was cursing the very moment that girl had come upon him. Not only had he survived, but he was being kept imprisoned by a Muggle girl. Of all the nerve, honestly!

Gentle guitar strokes were carried to his room with the soft breeze. Anne's voice soon joined in, singing the song she has been writing the previous night. At that moment he had felt somewhat hopeful in spite of his desperation... But all of it was in vain. Soon it would be dusk, and Draco's disturbing thoughts and memories would once again not let him sleep.

There's nothing I can say
To take away the pain behind your eyes
There's nothing I can do
To melt away those fears in your heart
I know there's no one you can trust
For the wounds are far too deep
But the fire that rages within your soul
Has a strength it longs to keep

Don't be afraid
Don't let go of me now
Don't be too proud to say you're hurt
Don't drown the tears
Sometimes it's best to let them flow
Just don't turn your back now that I'm here
'Cause I know what you're going through

Draco turned his back to the window and put his hands over his ears. Somehow he felt that song had more than one meaning even for his own troubled mind. Already a greenish glow was finding its way through his window, and alarmed he tossed and turned, with his eyes tightly shut trying to keep it away.

Useless. It's all just pointless.
And until daybreak again the same story, all over until the sun would rise and he would feel safe again. It wasn't about strength or courage, wounds, pain or pride—how can you fight something you can't even see except with your mind's eye? Over and over, same images and same insecurities threatened to drive him insane.

In the end, none of it mattered anymore.
Until the next morning.