AN: Apologies for the very long wait! Guess what though- Ya girl finished her degree! Really hoping to be able to update more regularly now I'm less swamped. I hope you enjoy the newest chapter and as always, please review.
Chapter 25
Harry Potter was trapped. He had been trapped for at least several hours, although certainly less than a day. Then again, there were no clocks in the realm of the diary, and it always held a certain 'land of the fairies' feel to it, particularly in the absence of one Tom Riddle. Harry was trapped, and seemingly, disquietingly alone.
He had materialized into the diary world with a feeling of abject terror. Tom was powerful, wrathful, and likely to be unhappy with Harry's extended and unexplained absence. Adding to this, Harry had barely practiced magic in the last six months, and his general neglect of his person had left him weakened and vulnerable. He'd still had tears in his eyes from his brief interaction with Draco when he had corporealised, and his first action had been to furiously cuff them away. It had taken him several moments to realise there was no furious young Dark Lord to contend with. Nor was he in the Slytherin common room, as he had once become accustomed to. Instead he found himself in a little grey room with a drab cot-like bed and a battered desk; he found it vaguely familiar, and after some thought remembered. It was Tom's room, in the orphanage he had grown up in. Well, almost. After several minutes of tense waiting he had begun to look around the room, and found that when he looked out of the window there was nothing to be seen, just a vast darkness that could not have been the true view from his memories. When he eventually tried the door, he found it locked; it didn't even move against hinges, but stayed as firmly shut as though it were merely part of the wall. When Harry tried to impose his will on the realm, as he had many times before, nothing happened. He couldn't even leave.
After a while, he'd resolved to wait. If Tom was angry, it was better to let him calm down, rather than test his temper any further. So he waited, and waited.
And waited.
Feeling more calm than he had several hours ago, or at least more resigned, he drew himself up from the cot where he'd been sitting with a sigh.
"Tom," he said, quietly. There was no response.
"Tom," he tried, louder this time. The room remained unnaturally quiet, quieter than anywhere he had ever been. "Tom!" he shouted.
He tried the door again, and felt anger bloom in his chest as he began beating it with his fists. "Tom, you cannot keep me here!"
After several long minutes of this, Harry went back to the cot and lay down, glaring at the ceiling. What was his plan? To starve him to death in here? Punish him for leaving him? It was only a short time later that Harry noticed bread and water had appeared on the desk. It had made no sound at all, and had definitely not been there moments ago. Harry glared at the bread and at the room in general, as though he were a prisoner being kept in a glass cell.
"Oh how very dramatic," he said to the room at large. "So I am your prisoner, am I? Is this your little brig, Tom? What's the matter, don't have a dungeon you can conjure up? Hadn't visited any by the time you were frozen?"
He stood, and in a fit of peak threw the bread at the door. It was somewhat anticlimactic, and just fell to the ground, littering a few crumbs across the stone floor. He went back to the cot and lay down once more, folding his arms over his chest.
Time passed. He wasn't sure how long, but at some point he'd fallen asleep. This seemed impossible in the situation, but then he had been so very tired lately; tired all the time. He woke with a start, having had a nightmare about being trapped in a room with the walls closing in. When he woke, he sat bolt upright, wondering if the night before had been some sort of nightmare too, but found that he really was still in the little cell and it was still very empty. Sitting on the desk now was a bowl, and after some investigation Harry found that it was some sort of watery porridge; he believed it was called 'gruel'.
"Oh for fucks sake," Harry cursed, rolling his eyes. "Tom, seriously, this is getting ridiculous."
However, the dream had begun to affect him. Trapped in this room he began to feel a rising sense of panic; were the walls closer together than they had been before? Was there any air in here? Would he suffocate?
Harry hesitated. His pride, dampened as of late, flickered inside him in protest but fear and pragmatism won out. "My Lord, please. Please stop this. I'm-I'm begging you..."
Nothing happened immediately, but after several moments the door of the room was flung open so forcefully that Harry took a startled step back. There, in all his dark glory, was Tom Riddle. He looked different somehow, which was odd given he was frozen in time. His eyes, Harry realised. He had seen them cold before, angry and dismissive, but never like this. They were like ice as they took him in.
"Potter," Tom began, his calm tone belying his hostile demeanour. "Enjoying your stay?"
Harry resisted the urge to let his temper flare. He'd gotten good at that these last months, constantly crushing his emotions until they hardly responded. Still, Tom was all fire and ice and it was hard to keep said feelings at bay. Currently, Harry wanted to scream at him, but resisted.
"No," he ground out. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because I can," Tom mocked, as he took an elegant, almost predatory step into the room. "Why else?"
"Been bored have you?" Harry whispered before he could stop himself. "Miss me?"
Tom's eyes flashed with fury, but it was a crack in the ice, and that was something. "Who doesn't miss their toys when they're taken?" Tom quipped acerbically.
"Adults," Harry responded, quick as a heartbeat. "I suppose you'll never know."
Tom stalked towards Harry and in a moment had seized his jaw in order to glare down into his eyes. He had begun a retort, no doubt something scathing by the fire in his eyes, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he paused. Frowning slightly, almost imperceptibly, he moved Harry's head from side to side, his strong grip impossible to fight. Especially now.
"You look like shit," Tom said, with an air of questioning. He released Harry and took a step back, taking him in. "What the fuck happened to you?" It was blunt for Tom, and Harry was surprised. The anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving him only with embarrassment and profound fatigue.
"Nothing," Harry bit out, turning away to stare out of the window and into the impenetrable darkness. "I've been busy."
"Don't lie to me," Tom demanded, real anger entering his voice. "You look half-starved and like you haven't slept in a month. Where exactly have you been, Potter?"
"Why does it matter?" Harry retorted, still facing away. "Find another toy, Tom." It had meant to be biting, but his general tiredness just made it seem pleading. He felt Tom still behind him, silent but for their breathing.
"No."
The word came after a long pause, and Harry assumed it would be followed up with something. Some jibe, something mocking or angry or threatening. Instead, silence followed, until Harry turned to see Tom staring at him intently. The ice was gone from his eyes; instead, there was a look of profound bewilderment. He'd have called it concern, if he didn't know any better.
"You can't just keep me here," Harry said, tiredly. As if in agreement the room around them faded, and they appeared in the familiar Slytherin common room. Harry resented the feeling of warmth that filled him at this familiar sight of Hogwarts. He tried to ignore it.
"Watch me."
Lord Voldemort was restless that night. It was late, so late that it could reasonably be called early, but nonetheless he persisted in surveying the maps and charts before him. They were having persistent problems on the East Asian front; magic that was unfamiliar to his soldiers, unfamiliar even to him, were causing them significant losses in the field. If his army could capture one of their leaders, it would be possible to extract the information they needed to counter, even utilise, said magic. However, every time they managed to capture a prisoner they had managed to kill themselves before they could be restrained and brought back. It was getting to be a problem. They had few spies in their army, and none important enough to bring anything of worth back to him. He was impatient.
His concentration was broken when the light cast across his maps by the fire shifted in hue, and he glanced at the fire to see that someone was attempting a floo call. With an irritated sigh, he waved his hand and accepted the call. Only a handful of his closest Death Eaters had access to this method of communication, and they knew better than to contact him if the matter were not urgent. The face of Regulus Black appeared amongst the embers.
"My Lord," began Black, deferentially. "I apologise for the late hour, but I've just been contacted by Igor Karkaroff. It is regarding the boy."
Unfortunately, Voldemort did not need to ask which 'boy' Black was referring to. He had been asked to be informed if the child caused too much trouble in his new school. Thus far he had just been told that he was continuing to 'sulk'.
Irritation flared. "What about him?" Voldemort demanded.
"He's gone, my Lord," Black said, urgently.
"Gone?" Voldemort asked. He had to admit, he hadn't expected the boy to run away. He'd know he couldn't run far, and Voldemort wouldn't allow him to slip away. Not a parselmouth; not with that kind of power at his disposal, and the words of the fates so fresh. "What do you mean gone?"
"He disappeared yesterday evening. No one has seen him since. They thought perhaps he was somewhere on the grounds, but he was nowhere to be found. They did however, find something..." Regulus continued, nervously. "Something odd."
"Get to the point," he demanded, impatient.
"An empty classroom was found to contain hundreds of letters addressed to Harry. They were strewn around the room. There was also a book there with them. When a Professor attempted to pick it up, it- well, it burnt him. Burnt his arm to the bone, magically. It had to be amputated. That's when they made the call." Regulus hurried through his explanation, a tone of panic evident.
"What book?" he asked, concealing his confusion. It would have to be a dark magical item to be capable of that. Could it have killed the boy? No. He was sure, somehow, that he would know if Potter was dead.
"They don't exactly know, my Lord. The front merely had a name; Tom Riddle."
A cold chill swept across Voldemort's spine. He stilled, his blood turning to ice in his veins, and said nothing for a long moment. "I will come and examine this book," he said after a moment, his tone careful and precise while his mind raced at the implications. "Inform Karkaroff."
"Well there's a problem, my Lord..." Regulus continued nervously before continuing in a hurry. "When Karkaroff went to see the book for himself – it was gone."
"Eat," Tom commanded. Harry didn't touch the food set before him, as he marvelled at the perfect ridiculousness of his situation.
He was sat in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, or what the Great Hall would have looked like in the 1940's rather. Both Harry and Tom were seated at the Slytherin table, and the dinner before him was familiar. There was quite a selection, to say that there was just the two of them. Roast beef and chicken, piles of potatoes, greens and bread and soup and cheese, all laid out in a platter for him to choose from. It was eerily empty, however. Harry had never seen the Great Hall so devoid of life.
"I said eat," Tom said again, his tone more stern than angry. Harry's mind had wandered off again as he took in the empty, cavernous hall. His mind seemed to wander a lot lately, more and more the longer he'd been at Durmstrang. When Harry didn't move to eat, Tom snapped. "Potter, I am perfectly capable of forcing you to eat, and neither of us would enjoy the process."
Reluctantly, Harry reached out and took some bread and a ladle of soup, tentatively biting into it. It was delicious. It tasted like home.
After several minutes of silent eating, Harry's stomach rumbled, as though the injection of good food had restarted it somehow. He couldn't resist the roast beef, or the potatoes, and he swallowing the food as quickly as he could before he stopped himself. It tasted like home; a home he didn't deserve. The food seemed to suddenly be ash in his mouth. Tom noticed.
"What is it? What's wrong?" he demanded.
Harry shook his head. "Nothing," he swallowed heavily. "Is this food even real? Or am I actually starving?"
Tom rolled his eyes. "You think I'd go to this much trouble to feed you if I wanted you starved?"
"But how? Nutritious food can't just be created."
"It wasn't created, Potter. It was summoned; from Hogwarts," Tom said, with an exasperation that indicated he thought this obvious.
"So it's stolen," Harry concluded, sulkily.
Tom shrugged. "Theft, reappropriation, it matters little. No one will notice."
They ate in silence while Harry thought. He ate more slowly now, though his stomach complained. "This place is it's own universe, isn't it? It's not just a memory; you've built a little world."
Tom seemed to consider the question, though he kept his eyes on the food he was delicately eating. "It's complicated. This place is more than it once was, certainly," he said cryptically.
After he'd finished eating, they materialised again into the Slytherin common room. They hadn't spoken properly since Tom announced his intention to keep him there; the young Dark Lord merely encouraged him to eat and rest, and occasionally performed some sort of diagnostic charm on him despite his protests.
Harry took his seat in the familiar arm chair as Tom did the same. They regarded each other quietly for a long moment, before Harry began to speak.
"You can't really mean to keep me imprisoned here, Tom," he began, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.
"And yet," Tom said, leaning back in his chair and regarding Harry calmly. "I do."
"Why?" Harry demanded, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
"Look at yourself, Harry. Whatever has happened, it is clear the outside world is not safe for you. You can't protect yourself," Tom said, a mocking edge to his voice so subtle that Harry almost didn't pick up on it.
"And you're so invested in keeping me safe?" Harry demanded, sneering.
"I've invested too much time in you to watch you wither away before you even finish school," Tom stated, his eyes a challenge that demanded to be met. He changed the subject abruptly. "Tell me where you've been."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, to tell Tom where to shove it and damn the consequences. Yet he already felt so drained. It took much too much energy to fight, energy he didn't have. There was no room inside him for it; the deep sadness that had settled inside him demanded his energy like a furnace, and as he fed it, it only served to consume him further. He slumped back in his chair, hanging his head as he struggled to articulate himself.
"It started with the final round of the British Championships," he said, the words gravelly and sluggish. "I-I made a mistake. I made a grave mistake."
Tom leaned forward in his chair, interested. "A mistake? What mistake?"
"I… I was fighting a muggleborn girl. She was- she was nice. Pretty even. Young as well, only a few years out of Hogwarts. I was winning- and I thought I'd show off. Give the crowd something to talk about, something they couldn't explain. So I- I cast a spell. A simple one really; demolio magi. Except- Except I cast it in parseltongue. And she-she-" he tried to draw in a breath, to speak the words, but his mouth had gone impossibly dry.
Tom had gone very stiff in his chair. His engaged expression became some complicated mix of emotion that even Harry couldn't read. "And she died," Tom finished for him with a light sigh.
Harry nodded, his eyes glassy. "You came afterwards- older you, I mean. I thought I'd be executed; they'd think it murder but.. but I wasn't. It was covered up, made to seem an accident. No one argued, because – well, she was a muggleborn," he said this with a deep bitterness that resonated in his voice, momentarily making his tone stronger, angrier. "Instead I was sent away, to Durmstrang."
Tom's expression had become impassive; totally unreadable to Harry. "And they have mistreated you?"
Harry shook his head. "Not particularly. I've been whipped a lot, but I can't say it's unprovoked."
"You've been causing trouble then?"
Harry shrugged. "More the opposite. I've not been doing anything. They expect me to perform, but I won't. I can't. Not after what I've done," Harry whispered the last part, his voice failing.
Tom's expression shifted, becoming darker. "So this," he gestured to Harry. "This is what you have done to yourself?"
Harry shrugged, agitated. "I'm fine."
"You are not fine, Potter," Tom snapped. "You've become weak."
Harry shrugged again, ignoring the provocation. "Perhaps I always was, Tom."
Tom had risen to his feet, he looked positively aghast. "So this is your penance, is it? Starve yourself and get yourself whipped? Make yourself weak and small so you can't possibly hurt anyone again through your sheer recklessness?!"
Harry glared up at Tom, fearless in his apathy. "Oh come now, Tom. You could have warned me and you chose not to. Perhaps this is what you wanted!"
Without realising it, Harry too had risen to his feet. "Perhaps you hoped I'd do this, anything for someone to join you in your eternal misery! Well congratulations, Tom, I'm in hell with you."
Tom scoffed, shaking his head. "You know nothing, boy! You know nothing of hell. I told you not to use parseltongue spells; forgive me for expecting you might do as you were told."
"I am not yours to command!"
"And perhaps you'd be better off if you were; perhaps you'd be better than the state you're in now. Look at you, wallowing in grief over something you cannot change," Tom bit out, moving closer to Harry.
Harry closed the distance between them. "So that's your intention is it. Keep me here, where I can't 'cause trouble'?"
Tom paused in his fury and regarded Harry for a long moment. His expression was profoundly serious, and penetrating. "Do you honestly prefer to be where you were?"
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the question struck him deep, as though he'd been struck in the chest. Did he? He hated Durmstrang almost as much as he hated himself. There was nothing left for him out there. He had no friends he could speak to, not without the constant gnawing guilt. He had no family, no home, and no future that he could see.
"I… I can't. I can't just stay here." Tom held his gaze for a long time, before Harry finally added, "can I?"
They were so very close to each other. Harry hadn't noticed how close they were standing until that moment. Tom was still at least a few inches taller than he was, and as he looked down at him, Harry saw something in his expression soften just a little. He hadn't thought it possible, but there was something, some sort of warmth there and it was utterly unexpected. Harry hadn't realised how starved he was for that; for affection, closeness, familiarity.
"I can put you back together, Harry," Tom said, softly. In his face there was something unguarded, something spectacularly beautiful and rare.
Harry didn't register what he was doing until he had already done it. It was like a reflex, like a drowning man grasping at something to keep him above the surface, and with the same desperation he crashed his lips against Tom's own. Tom was perfectly still, a sharp indrawn breath of shock the only response as Harry gloried in the warmth of it all.
Unexpectedly, perfectly, Tom's lips began to move against his own. Where Harry had been in control of the pace, Tom took charge, deepening the kiss. He found himself pushed against the mantle of the fireplace as their bodies locked together. Tom's hands fisted in Harry's hair, Harry's arms wrapped around Tom's waist, his fingers seizing his clothes and dragging him closer. They collapsed together into the armchair, Tom's knee separating Harry's legs as Harry moaned softly, gutturally, into Tom's open mouth. It was only then that Tom broke away. Harry took in the face of the boy and was amazed at the transformation; his pale skin was flushed, his cold eyes were hungry and full of heat, his lips darkened, almost bruised and his clothes were rumpled. Tom Riddle felt as real and as whole as anything Harry had ever experienced.
"Stay with me?" Tom asked. His voice was free of demand; it was a question. Harry knew, in that moment, if he'd asked to be set free that Tom would have complied. He knew it like he knew the sky was blue and the sun would rise.
"Yes," Harry said, without hesitation. "God, yes."
Hermione Black had never seen anyone quite as uncomfortable as Nymphadora McKinnon was in that moment. Being pulled around various high end clothing shops and made to try on designer dress robes and painfully pretty shoes was evidently not her thing. Hermione didn't blame her; it wasn't her thing either. She'd much rather have been exploring the shop full of rare books and tomes that she'd spied as they walked down the street earlier, or perusing Borgin and Burkes. Politeness and a desire to please her Aunt Narcissa had dictated that she stay, however, and pretend to be interested in the difference between maroon and burgundy or the different styles of Jimmy Choo heels (designed by one of the few fabulously wealthy muggleborns in Britain and surprisingly popular with pureblood aristocracy).
Several months before Nymphadora had agreed to being 'acclimated' with wizarding society. Hermione had argued fervently in her favour, asserting repeatedly that her mother's choices were not her fault. Eventually Narcissa had been brought around, especially as Hermione had somewhat manipulatively found some old photos of a toddler Nymphadora sitting in "Auntie Cissa's" lap. Bellatrix had been harder to bring around, especially given she didn't buy the whole 'Nymphadora is cool with Voldemort now' act. Which was fine, given Hermione didn't buy it either. She'd merely begged Nymphadora to try. Hermione believed, in the end, Nymphadora had decided she'd rather live and endure the ministrations of her family until she could find a way to escape, rather than die in a closed door execution. Over time, however, Hermione thought she could see the beginnings of genuine affection from Dora. Occasionally when her Aunt had the elves prepare her favourite food, or Draco drunkenly sang along to Celestina Warbeck, or Hermione would excitedly loan her a book, she'd see a flash of warmth in her eyes followed by a guilt-ridden uncertainty. Try as Dora might to hate them in her secret heart, they were wearing her down.
"Aunt Narcissa," Hermione began as they left their twelfth shop of the afternoon. "Might we stop for lunch? I'm positively famished." She was also quite sure Dora was about to faint from boredom.
"Pardon? Oh, oh yes of course. Shall we go to Hallivards? They have the most delicious sandwiches this side of the channel," Narcissa asked, but had already began striding towards it. Bellatrix had been with them for some of the morning, but had wandered off after the second shop, simply stating that she was bored and was going to go find something to play with before waltzing off towards Nocturne alley much to the ire of her sister. She envied her mother her complete lack of social care.
As they walked towards the restaurant, Dora tentatively chatted with her.
"Are you sure I should even be going to this wedding? I don't even know Zabini or Greengrass." There was an unmistakable edge of nerves to the young woman's voice. She may be getting used to her family, but other 'dark' families clearly still made her nervous. Hermione merely smiled.
"You'll love them. Blaise is a brilliant friend, and sharp as a knife, and Daphne has an absolutely wicked sense of humour. Especially after a bit of firewhisky."
Dora nodded, although she didn't seem convinced. "Hermione," she said quietly, when Narcissa had began a conversation with Pansy Parkinson's mother as they entered the restaurant and was stood a little away. "I miss my mum."
Hermione didn't know what to say, and was momentarily taken aback. Nymphadora may have grown more comfortable spending time with her on her frequent trips to Malfoy Manor, but this was the first time she had ever said anything personal. She'd even refused to reveal anything about the resistance, and only the relative distraction of the Death Eaters with the eastern expansion had prevented them from pulling it from her forcefully. After all, the resistance was of little threat.
"I'm-I'm sorry. You're bound to feel that way, it's been nearly six months..." she said, tentatively.
"You could help me," Dora began, consiprationally. "We could get a message to her, have her meet us somewhere, only for a short time. Just to say hello."
Hermione shook her head vehemently. "I'm not going to help you escape, Dora! You know I can't- besides, it's illegal to meet with known resistance members-"
"I won't escape. You can even have my wand; it can be somewhere public. Please, Hermione."
"These are the same people that tried to kidnap Harry. I can't trust them; besides, they're war criminals. I'm sorry, Dora, I just don't think it's a good idea," Hermione continued, disapprovingly.
"I gave your world a chance, didn't I?" Dora said, pleadingly. Although truthfully, Hermione doubted she'd truly given their world much of a chance at all. She was acting, and not very well at that. "I just- I need to know she's safe. People from the resistance disappear sometimes; no explanation, no obvious capture or execution. They're just suddenly gone. I- I need to know she's okay. Please, Hermione."
The pleading, desperate tone pulled on Hermione's heart strings. She'd grown fond of Nymphadora. Even though she was definitely still on the wrong side, even though she hated the world Hermione loved, she was charming. Dora was funny, and when she managed to forget her situation for a moment, light-hearted and easy to be around. "I-I'll think about it, alright? Just, let me think on it."
Dora opened her mouth to continue, but Narcissa ended her conversation with Lady Parkinson and Dora immediately plastered a pleasant, insincere smile on her face as they entered the restaurant. Hermione shook her head. Nymphadora McKinnon was trouble.
One urgent international call from his Father later, and Draco was on his way to Italy. Between visiting his fiancée and parents in Britain, and one of his best friends in Italy, whilst maintaining his mastership program in the US, he'd gotten used to traveling. Although it wasn't technically the norm for his extremely traditional college, they'd made an exception for him. Grudgingly at first, but less so as he proved to be a diligent and brilliant student. It wasn't as though they had much choice, given his Father was high up in the Death Eaters, which was now de facto governing wizarding America. Still, he wanted to get his Potions mastership on his own merit, and so far that wasn't such a difficult feat.
He arrived at Zabini's manor in a state of disarray. He hadn't even paused to fix his hair or properly button his shirt. Blaise, who'd obviously been surprised when his wards had informed him of a visitor given he'd only been back from Hogwarts for a few days now, apparated into the foyer immediately upon Draco's entrance.
"Draco?" Blaise demanded, concerned. Blaise looked far more put together than Draco, given it was early afternoon here, and not the near dawn Draco had just stepped out of. It was more than a little disorientating.
"Harry's gone," Draco began without preamble, his tone profoundly serious. As Blaise formulated a response, a second figure joined them, via a door to their left.
The lovely Daphne Greengrass entered, wearing a rather salacious dress and heels that wouldn't have been appropriate for a lady of her standing to be wearing in public. She was absolutely breathtaking, and Draco might even have noticed if her weren't so utterly besotted with his own witch, and completely preoccupied by his news.
"Blaise, there you- Oh," Daphne noticed Draco and a mild blush spread across her cheeks. Wordlessly she conjured a robe. "I-I didn't know we were having guests."
"Harry's gone where?" Blaise demanded, his tone urgent.
"I just got the news from my Father. Apparently he's disappeared from Durmstrang entirely, no one can find him. It's been three days. I can't believe my Father waited this long to tell me, I could throttle him-"
"Do they have any idea where he is?" Daphne interjected, calmly. "Did he leave a note?"
Draco shook his head. "No, not as far as I know. But I-I spoke to him. The day he went missing."
"What?" Blaise demanded. "None of us have heard from him in months. What did he say?"
"He looked… off. I was going to try and contact him again, wait and see if I could convince him to visit or something. He looked terrible, though. Thin, tired. He-" Draco glanced at Daphne before deciding that the future wife of his best friend could be trusted. "He cried. He started crying in the call."
Blaise's hands balled into fists and his eyebrows creased. Draco understood; it was an impotent sort of rage. They wanted to help Harry; understood he was going through something terrible, but they had no way to reach him.
"Apparently he disappeared that same night. I'm… I'm scared for him, Blaise."
Blaise nodded, his eyes angry and worried in equal measure. "We'll find him. We'll go over there and we'll find him and we'll make him talk to us until he's alright again. I'll get my coat-"
Daphne coughed delicately into her hand, directing the men's attention to her. "Gentlemen, I understand you want to help Harry. I really do. However, that young man was the brightest light Hogwarts had in a generation. Do you really think he can be found if he doesn't want to be?"
Blaise shook his head, agitated. "We have to try, Daphne. He's our best friend, and he's going through something. I won't just leave him."
Draco nodded.
Daphne considered them for a moment, before nodding solemnly. "I'll get my cloak."
Please review so I can pretend this is as productive a use of my time as applying to jobs! 3
