June, 1998

Draco apparated onto a dark, empty corner of the street outside the Leaky Cauldron, and immediately realized that something was wrong. An aching, stinging sensation was spreading down his arm, the cloth of his sleeve becoming damp with blood. He ducked under the awning of an empty storefront, stumbling back against the door as a sudden wave of pain washed over him. Wincing and nearly doubled over, he retrieved his wand from his pocket, quickly ripping off his shirt and examining the wound. It was deep, much deeper than he had treated on himself before. He took a deep breath and began to administer some of the charms he had used just moments ago in Potter's house, trying not to think of the look of amazement on Harry's face when Draco removed the glass shards from his hand with magic. Healing was something he knew, something he had been practicing for years. There was something comforting about the knowledge that no matter what happened, no matter how badly Draco had been physically injured, he at least had this ability to carry around with him. It made him feel significantly less vulnerable.

He sank down to the pavement and ground his teeth together to stop himself from crying out as his vision started to blur. With stars swimming in front of his eyes, he thought back to the last time he could remember being in this amount of pain, when he had come home from Bennett's flat well past midnight to find his father waiting up for him with a copy of the dreaded tabloid publication that had somehow found its way into the manor. His mother had still been at home; right after the war they had hired a healer to stay with her full-time and supervise her condition as she recovered. Lucius would attend what he would learn was his final trial at the ministry the next morning. The man had been drinking heavily, his long blonde hair stringy and unkempt as it had often looked this past year, and his eyes were glazed over, out of focus. Draco had known instantly that it had been a mistake to come home.

He had been caught only once before this, when Zabini's parents had found both their son and Draco in their lake house when presumably everyone had been away on holiday over Easter break. Lucius had been more humiliated than angry when he found out, but as only two, pure blooded wizarding families were involved, it was an easy enough incident to brush under the rug. Draco could tell immediately that this time was going to be different. The atmosphere in the room was both tense and unbearably silent, and Draco had been filled with an overwhelming sense of dread as he realized what was coming.

Lucius hurled the magazine at his son when he walked into the room, upsetting the glass of whiskey that had been resting on the table. Draco had offered no explanation; he had not seen what had been published yet himself, although he felt his heart physically sink in his chest when he saw his own face next to Bennett's on the cover. He had been quiet, swallowing the embarrassment and betrayal that rose like bile in his throat, and had not defended himself when his father began delivering blow after blow to his face, his stomach, his chest, then kicking him again and again until Draco was coughing blood onto the stone floor of the room. He braced himself for each impact, trying as hard as he could not to whimper as the final kick landed in his ribs and he was sure he felt something crack.

Draco never argued with his father when he was in one of these moods. He always kept as silent and composed as possible and waited for it to be over, making sure his mother never overheard what was happening, as he had always been quite sure it would break her. Lucius reserved this particular method of abuse only for his son, and made sure to remind Draco at every opportunity that Narcissa would be devastated if she learned of his unnatural, disgusting habit of getting men into bed with him, of the fact that they would never have an heir to carry on the family line unless Lucius was able to stamp out this vile tendency of Draco's while he was still young. All he was able to do, however, was to break down his son's will to fight back, to make Draco feel the same revulsion, the same hatred for himself that his father harbored towards him. Lucius couldn't change who Draco was in love with any more than he could change the weather.

That night in particular, Draco went to his bathroom upstairs and treated his own wounds, using the healing herbs and potions in his school trunk and his mother's wand for some of the surface level injuries. He had to fish out a bottle of Skelegrow from his belongings, taking a couple swigs and letting an entirely new painful sensation flood through his body as his bones repaired themselves throughout the night.

Now, only a little more than a month later, he was having to heal the same bones all over again from a botched disapparation. Draco winced as his skin began to weave itself back together in front of his eyes, the pain making him tremble as he gripped his wand, trying his best to concentrate on repairing the wound. He wouldn't be able to fix this completely on his own; he would need to pick up some potion ingredients in Diagon Alley.

After a couple excruciating minutes, Draco was able to catch his breath, opening his eyes to look at the streets around him. It had begun to rain outside. Muggles were walking back and forth quickly, clutching umbrellas and scampering through the streets like children, trying to get inside before they had become completely soaked to the bone. Draco stood up slowly, picking his black shirt up from the ground beside him and muttering a quick cleaning spell to rid it of the blood he had soaked it in. He didn't mind the rain. It was cleansing, it would rid him of the shame he felt from everything that had happened today.

He should have known better than to let himself be alone in a room with Potter, and he should have thought twice about disapparating right after breaking off a passionate kiss with him. He should have arranged another way to get his wand back, or maybe even asked Granger if she could help get it for him. She probably would have been able to tell him if he owed Harry a life debt as well, or at least provide some of the information he was missing about his mother. At the same time, however, Potter had kissed him, not the other way around. He couldn't forget the look on Harry's face when he had decided to do so, those beautiful, green eyes fixed with determination, his jaw clenched, and his body pulsing with desire. All of the blood was leaving Draco's head again just thinking about it. He'd been picturing the scene that had just taken place in his mind for at least five years, ever since he realized that his feelings of jealousy for Potter were really less about envy and more about the angst-ridden infatuation he had felt towards the boy, which had only grown each year that they had known each other.

Potter was everything that he had always wanted; he was marvelously handsome, charismatic without even trying, one of the bravest people his age that he had known, and, as it turned out, an absolutely fantastic kisser. If it hadn't been for the overwhelming sense of guilt that was associated with the kiss and his current relationship with the very man who had gotten him into the mess with his father, he would have stayed. He would have stayed and kissed Harry until his lips were raw, until he couldn't stand any longer, until the world ended and the universe collapsed in on itself. But in doing so, he was betraying someone who had done so much for him already, who had saved his life countless times in the last two years, and who had been trying to reach Draco nonstop since his father had beat the living daylights out of him.

He shook his head violently to ward off the regret and frustration he was feeling, buttoning up his shirt now that his arm was temporarily healed. He realized as he fastened the buttons that he had left his coat at Potter's house, and now didn't have any hope of retrieving it. He would die of embarrassment if he had to repeat this particular errand once more.

...

The rain had begun to pick up, and by the time he set foot on the familiar cobblestone of Diagon Alley, his hair was completely drenched and sending drops of water down his neck and into his muddled shirt. He walked down the alley, past the boarded up shops and vacant buildings that had become all too common since the war, and stopped outside the apothecary, casting a quick drying spell to make himself presentable. Inside, it smelled as it always did, of dirt and sulphur and disgusting ingredients Draco didn't want to identify. He wrinkled his nose slightly, but otherwise ignored the familiar stench.

The walls were stacked from floor to ceiling with bottles, vials, and flasks, and there were barrels all around the store holding spare ingredients, herbs, and fungi. The shopkeeper hollered from the back of the store to "let him know if you needed help finding something", and Draco began searching through the boxes and barrels of ingredients for some dittany he could use for his shoulder. He had finally found the section of boxes labeled "healing herbs" when someone cleared their throat rather loudly over his shoulder. Draco turned around, a handful of the magical herb grasped in his fingers, and found the large, gruff looking, and bearded shopkeeper, who didn't at all look pleased to have a customer.

"We don't serve your lot here," he said in a slow, growling voice.

Draco blinked several times, sure that he had misheard the man.

"Sorry?" He clenched his wand in his back pocket, not sure he would be needing it, but having it ready just in case.

The shopkeeper remained frowning, pointing his finger at the door.

"You heard me. We don't sell to death eaters. Get the hell out of my shop." Draco glanced down at his shirt, seeing that his left forearm had been exposed, something he normally tried very carefully to keep hidden. He had forgotten all about it in the buzz of adrenaline ensuing his splinching.

Two years ago, or even last summer, Draco would have put up a fight worthy of an angry Hippogriff if someone had treated him as such. Now, however, his pride had been so irreconcilably damaged by everything that had happened that he couldn't muster the energy to do anything but adjust the buttons on his sleeve, toss the dittany into its container with a bit of a flourish, and deliver the shopkeeper a pointed glare.

"You'll regret this," he said as he left the shop, not really meaning anything by it, but just wanting to seem as though he had some kind of upper hand in the situation. He heard the burly shopkeeper shout something along the lines of "rot in hell" as the door slammed behind him.

Splendid. He would have to make do with something else. He thought about trying out one of the potion shops in Knockturn Alley, but last time he was there, the owner had forced him to take home a mysterious vial containing a sapphire blue liquid that had just hit the market, urging him to try it out and let him know if he would be interested in selling some. Apparently it induced a "euphoric state unlike anything he would ever experience." He knew a trap when he saw one, and didn't want to be forced into the role of a black market peddlar unless it was absolutely necessary.

Deciding that his home remedy option list was exhausted for the time being, he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, bounding up the creaking stairs to his room once he was finally out of the rain, and fastening each of the three spell-proof locks he had purchased once he had closed the door. The silence that greeted him in the room was almost deafening. The pub was empty downstairs, and there weren't any other long-term tenants that Draco knew of who were renting out rooms upstairs. Draco took a great, heaving breath, glancing briefly at himself in the mirror above the vanity. The circles under his eyes looked worse than they had in weeks. The rain had ruined the sleek, well-kept look of his hair; it was no longer holding the spell he had placed on it before arriving at Potter's.

Potter. Harry fucking Potter. He bit his lip, trying to repress the thoughts of Harry's casual, lopsided smile, the effortless laugh that Draco had accidently coaxed out of him a couple times, the look in his eyes right before he kissed Draco. He had wanted Harry so badly for almost all of his life, just not like this. Not when his whole world was in a state of flux, when the foundations of his entire existence were crumbling in front of his eyes. Everything was falling apart. His family, his relationships, his reputation... It was all too much for him to handle. In an overwhelming surge of rage he punched the mirror above the vanity as hard as his strength would allow him to. Shattered glass rained down on the dresser and the books he had stacked on the floor. His fist was stinging with pain, but he ignored it, hurling the rest of his possessions off of the desk and aiming a hard kick at the bedpost.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to make it all go away; he wanted to wake up and have this all be a terrible, fleeting dream that would leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

He reached in the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a bottle of brandy he had procured from the bar downstairs, taking several swigs until he couldn't feel the pain caused by any of the injuries he had sustained today. He drank until he couldn't feel the pain of anything else in his life, either.

...

It was nearly dusk when he left the Leaky Cauldron again. The rain had finally subsided, the air replaced with a thick fog that fell like a billowing cloak over the streets of London. Draco had done his best to heal his minor cuts and bruises from the day. He was freshly showered, shaved, and had fixed his hair so that it was cooly smoothed back, once more. He had to admit that dressing as though he still sauntered around a mansion and was doted upon by house elves helped him walk a little taller down the street, and feel a little more like his old self.

He strode up to the front of the abandoned department store that concealed the entrance to St. Mungo's Hospital, heading up the staircase to the fourth floor. When he got to the small reception area for the floor, however, he stopped in his tracks, recognizing a familiar face seated in the wooden chairs of the waiting room.

Bennett was holding a bouquet of colorful flowers, and looked like he had just woken up from a nap when Draco had closed the door from the stairwell. He stood up slowly, placing the flowers on the chair he had been seated in.

"What are you doing here?" Draco demanded, looking around him nervously for people that might have noticed the tall, handsome man waiting in a reception area for terminally ill patients that everyone knew included his mother. "How long have you been here? She didn't see you, did she?"

Bennett shook his head at this, pointing to the flowers he had brought in. "No. I thought you could bring these in for her, it might brighten up her room."

Draco ignored him, disregarding the kind gesture and the cadence of his American accent he had always found so irresistible. His mind was still racing from the shock of seeing Bennett here. They hadn't spoken face to face since an explosive fight they had had the night of his father's indictment, in which Draco had admittedly projected some of the rage he felt towards his situation onto this man, who had been by his side through all of it.

"So you thought you could just march right into the hospital where my mother is being treated for a heart condition? Are you insane? Do you know what it would do to her if she saw you?"

Bennett took a step back, looking rather hurt by Draco's words.

"You weren't responding to my letters. I tried coming by earlier this morning to talk to you, but you weren't at the inn."

"Bennett, you can't just—" Draco stopped himself mid-sentence, looking around the room to make sure no one could hear them. The witch at the reception desk had gotten up briefly, and there was no one else seated in the waiting area. It appeared as though they were alone, but Draco still knew better than to discuss these matters in a public area. He jerked his head towards the entrance to the stairwell, so that they could have this conversation somewhere a little more private. Bennett obliged, following him and closing the door to the 4th floor behind them.

"Draco, the medical research position you were looking at, the one at Ilvermorny just opened up. I recommended you, I thought that you'd be- "

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Draco, we talked about this. It's what you always wanted to do, and through the university you won't have to worry about any of the financial aspects while you're earning the degree -"

"Look, I don't need your handouts, Ben."

"It wouldn't be a handout. You would have to pass the entrance exam on your own, I'm hardly doing anything but pulling a few strings."

"I never asked you to do any of that."

The older man let out a long sigh, moving in a little closer and lowering his voice.

"Look, I know it hasn't been easy, with everything going on. I can't imagine what any of that must be like, but I'm on your side, Draco. It would be better, in America. There wouldn't be any of this pressure... We could be together." He tried to place a hand on Draco's arm, but Draco moved it out of his grasp.

"I told you before - I can't. I can't just leave, it's not as simple as that."

Bennett looked at him with those warm, chocolate coloured eyes and Draco couldn't help wondering if he was still in love with him. Bennett was charming, intelligent, and had represented everything that Draco had wanted at a point in his life where nothing else made sense. He was considerably older than Draco, which had been part of the thrill when they had first started sleeping together the summer before his 6th year. He had let Draco stay in his flat in London when Draco couldn't bear to be in his own house. He had encouraged Draco's pursuit of being a healer, providing him with the academic resources and information he would need to continue in his education while he was in school. He had been the person that Draco could run to when he was feeling desperate, or horny, or lonely, or was just wanting an escape from reality for any amount of time. Yes, Draco had entertained the idea of leaving with Bennett when he finished his last semester teaching Wizarding Law in London. He had thought of starting all over in America, getting another chance to be the kind of person he had always wanted to be. He thought of settling down in a cozy New York apartment with Bennett and drinking tea with him every evening as he went over his lecture notes, and Draco studied for his medical exams. It was the kind of life that was too perfect for him to imagine himself living. There was nowhere in that world for the guilt of leaving his mother in an institution in London. Now, as crazy as it sounded in his head, a subconscious part of him didn't want to be a continent away from Harry Potter.

"I'm sorry," Draco said softly, trying to stop the memories of their relationship from affecting the decision that needed to be made.

Bennett narrowed his eyes slightly, moving aside the collar on Draco's shirt to glance at his neck. "What the hell is that?" He asked, pointing to a vaguely brown indentation that Harry's lips must have made on his neck earlier that morning. "Are you serious? You're already seeing someone?"

Draco looked behind him, wary of anyone who may happen to overhear their conversation.

"Look, Bennett, I can't do this right now. I need to go see her."

"Did this even mean anything to you?" Bennett asked, desperation dripping from his words.

"Please - I don't have time for this."

As he turned to leave, Bennet caught his forearm in a way that jolted Draco's memory back to Potter kissing him. He looked into Bennett's eyes again, imagining Harry's in their place, and realizing how incredibly unfair he was being to this man who had shared nearly two years of his life with him.

"Draco, please just answer me." He held Draco firmly by the crook of his arm, the pain and frustration evident in his voice. "I just need to know it wasn't a waste."

Draco sighed, looking down to the ground and back up at him again. He was a broad, strong man with perfect bone structure and an impeccable waistline. He checked off all of the boxes that Draco was looking for physically, which was part of the reason he had pursued him in the first place. His demeanor, on the other hand, was soft and kind - he was as considerate and passionate as he was thoughtful. Draco didn't want a man this perfect to be squandered on someone like him.

"I meant it," he said, knowing that he at least owed Bennett the truth. "I did at the time. I just can't be what you want me to be."

He pulled his arm away from Bennett, disrupting the sleeve of his jacket in doing so.

"Your wand," Bennett said, his eye catching the dark, carved wood tucked into Draco's jacket pocket.

Draco had to stop himself from rolling his eyes in frustration. Of course something like this would happen to him today. He hadn't anticipated running into Bennett here, otherwise he would have changed it out with his mother's wand which she was allowing him to use since she had been in St. Mungo's. It didn't take long for the gears to start turning in Bennett's head.

"It's Potter, isn't it?"

The pleading expression on Bennett's face had faded, and was replaced by a stiff, clenched jaw. Draco noticed a vein pulse in his neck.

"What are you talking about?" He scoffed, trying to behave like he wasn't thinking of Harry's lust-ridden eyes, or his chiseled stomach, or his perfect arse that Draco had spent hours upon hours evaluating during Quidditch games and in between classes in the corridors at Hogwarts...

"No, it all makes sense." Bennett turned around, pinching his forehead as though nursing a headache. "You completely vanishing out of nowhere, avoiding me and lying to me and then showing up here with marks all over your neck -"

"Don't make this about you, Ben. I can't handle this right now."

"Just tell me I'm wrong, Draco."

There was a beat. Draco glanced around in the stairwell, feeling more trapped than he had in the past couple of weeks. He shouldn't have to justify what had happened at Potter's house to a jealous boyfriend when he was trying to visit his mother in the hospital. He was going through hell, and all Bennett seemed to care about was whatever notions he had about the monogamy of their relationship.

"I've hardly been anywhere except here, the inn and the ministry in the last 4 weeks, and I've been more fucking miserable then I think you can even begin to understand, Bennett."

"So you slept with Potter."

"No! I never even- " Draco exhaled sharply, stepping closer to the professor to ensure that everything he was saying was kept private. "It wouldn't have even mattered if I did. You gave those photos to the press, I don't owe you anything."

"God dammit, Draco, would you stop going on about that? It was an accident, I've told you a thousand times, someone lifted them from my flat during the court proceedings, I don't know how many times you want me to apologize to you..."

"You knew better than to be showing them off in the first place."

"Why? Is it illegal for me to want to be with you?"

He was standing so close to Draco's face that he could see each sunspot on his tanned, handsome face, the beginning of each dimple and crease which would slowly turn to wrinkles as the years began to stake their claim on his body. This would never have been a normal relationship, he had to remind himself. There was always a part of him that knew he couldn't be with someone nearly 10 years his superior before he had even graduated from school. Before he had even decided what he wanted to do with his life.

Draco took a long, drawn out breath, closing his eyes briefly so he could shut out the look of pained resignation on Bennett's face. The stairwell was small and echoey and smelled like cleansing spells. When he opened his eyes again, Bennett was still waiting expectantly for any acknowledgment of what had been said.

"Thank you for the flowers."

As he turned to leave Bennett remained silent, clearly accepting this as his dismissal. Draco retrieved the flowers from their seat in the waiting room and strode past the witch at the reception desk into the hospital wing.

...

The walls of the hospital, which were at one point quite cold and sterile, were covered with drawings that children had made for the influx of patients since the war had begun. Crayon scrawled families with owls and cats and house elves decorated the once white surface of the hallway, and the spaces in between were filled with colorful encouragements such as "get well soon!" and "feel better, mum!" The staff had done everything they could to make the walk to the spell damage ward a little less doleful, but despite their efforts the pictures served as a kind of melancholy relic in themselves. The families who had lost children or parents now had the gut wrenching, pictograph reminders of when hopes were high, of when the future may have diverged in a number of different ways.

There was a picture of his mother that the Bellamy child, a resident of the room down the hall, had drawn for her. Draco closed his eyes, trying to cleanse his mind of everything that had just happened so that he wouldn't be dragging his own problems into the room. His mother sat up in the bed when she heard the doorknob turn.

She was very pale and nearly skeletal, her long blonde hair pouring down over the pillows stacked under her head, but her eyes still lit up when Draco entered the room. There were several weeks worth of cards and drawings pasted to the walls around the bed, reminding Draco how long she had really been here.

"Draco, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed as he set the bouquet of lilies down on her bedside table, bending down to kiss her forehead. Her skin was burning to the touch, but he smiled as though he had not noticed.

She beamed at him when he kissed her head, which was really all that he had been hoping for to begin with. It had been a whirlwind of a month for her, with the sentencing of Lucius at the ministry, and the series of health complications that resulted from both the torture she had endured at the hands of Voldemort, and the stress of losing a husband to Azkaban. Draco hadn't even told her about the financial stress weighing down on him from the legal fees and medical expenses, or that the ministry had seized their home for investigation, and was forcing him to live in the Leaky Cauldron and pay for his room out of pocket until they finally relinquished the possession of the mansion back to him. He couldn't help but feel that they were biding their time with the inspection simply to punish him for the role the Malfoys had played during the war.

"How are you?" he asked, taking a seat at the foot of her bed. "You look wonderful."

A little lying never hurt anyone.

"Don't be silly," She smiled again at his words. He noticed that some of the color had returned to her face since he had been in the room. "I've been resting and doing little else, I can't look any different than the last time you were here."

"That was yesterday, mum. You definitely look better than yesterday." She laughed softly, picking up the bouquet of flowers and setting them in her lap.

"Did you bring any more books? Any letters from Lucius?"

Draco felt a pang of guilt when she mentioned the letters. In truth, his father hadn't written any letters. When the healer had spoken to Draco about how serious his mother's condition was, he had begun forging letters from Lucius, using a simple spell to transform his handwriting into that of his father's. He made it sound as though Lucius was living in the most comfortable and accommodating conditions possible, and that he missed his family more than anything. Lucius's ongoing silence surely confirmed that at least one of these facts was untrue, but Narcissa didn't need to know that.

"No letters yet, I'll get you a new book, though." He glanced at the pile of newspapers and magazines that had accumulated on top of the table. He knew it was highly likely she had read the article about him in Witch Weekly - it would have been hard to avoid at this point - but she still hadn't said anything about it. He had no desire to discuss with her either the fact that he was gay, or that he had been in a relationship with a man much older than himself, so they had both merely pretended as though nothing had happened.

"I got my wand back," he said, putting on a smile once more to reassure her that things were going well. "It works just as well as it did before. I'll be sure to bring yours back for you tomorrow."

"That's wonderful," She said, sitting up a little straighter in her bed. "Did the Potter boy have it that whole time?"

"I don't think he even remembered he had it, to be honest. He's not the most organized person in the world."

"I saw in the prophet he's in auror training, did he say anything about your father? Do you think he could help get a reduced sentence?"

"We're not friends," Draco said quickly. "I couldn't really ask."

Her face fell, and he felt a wave of anger that she was still so worried about the man who had compromised their safety, put them in a position where Voldemort could play with them like pawns, and then didn't even have the courtesy to write them and apologize.

He placed aside his own feelings about his father for a moment, composing his face once more and taking his mother's hand encouragingly.

"I'm sorry. I can talk to him again, see what I can do."

She tried to smile but then began to cough, grabbing a handkerchief that had been resting on the bedside table. He tried to ignore how bad it was starting to get, and looked away when she withdrew from the fit that had seized control of her body temporarily. The napkin now had several scarlet droplets of blood in it. The healer had explained to him that her internal organs had suffered an irreversible amount of damage from the curses that Voldemort and some of the death eaters had performed on her in the Spring, after Harry and his companions had escaped from Malfoy Manor. He himself had been chained in the cellar and tortured by some of the men that had once been his father's friends, but it was nothing near as bad as what Voldemort had done to his mother, surely to punish Lucius. He tried not to dwell on these memories, and instead did his best to suppress them with liquor or some other distraction as soon as they arose. It was difficult to ignore the effects of the war on his family, however, when they sat right there in front of him.

"Mother I wanted to talk with you about something," He said, squeezing her hand a little harder. "You saved his life, didn't you? In the forest?"

"Is that what he told you?"

"I thought I owed him a life debt, because of what happened in the room of requirement. I think he considers this an equalizer, as far as anything I might have needed to do to repay him."

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were glazed over as though she were deep in thought.

"I would have done the same for anyone, if it meant I could see you again. There was no use for the battle to continue if you weren't alive."

He squeezed her hand again, wishing once again that he hadn't left Harry's house like he did.

"I'll talk to him," He said, mostly to ease his mother's mind. "I'm sure he would want to help."

He had no intention of ever speaking to Potter again in his lifetime, but would say anything to make it seem like there was hope. She needed that more than anything right now.

...

It was nearly midnight when he closed the door to his room in the Leaky Cauldron once more. He had nearly forgotten the mess he had made earlier in the morning, the shards of glass lying around the room and splintered wood splayed across the floor like a tattered snowfall. He withdrew his wand and began to clean up what he could.

He caught a glance at himself in the shattered mirror, and started when he noticed the blood that had soaked through his shirt from the wound on his shoulder. He removed it quickly, examining the cut once more. He didn't have the money to check himself into St. Mungo's; he would have to find a way to get a hold of some dittany from Knockturn Alley the next morning.

The room somewhat clean, he lay down in the large, four poster bed and tried his best to sleep. He indulged himself in thoughts of what may have happened earlier that morning if he had stayed, recalling the taste and feel of Potter's lips on his own, and wishing that he had the strength to go back.