Crocodiles.
PART TWO.
Albus Dumbledore was walking through the third floor corridor when it happened. He had Professors McGonagall and Snape at his side, arguing good naturedly over the outcome of the quidditch match, their earlier hostilities quickly reduced to gentle teasing. The biggest surge of Dark Magic he had ever known to pulse throughout the Hogwarts castle shook his senses like an earthquake. He stumbled and almost fell over, saved by the quick reflexes of his potions master. Albus Dumbledore, was not a man who stumbled.
Malfoy wanted to move, but he couldn't. His limbs were weighed down with horror, paralysed by fear. He stared up into Harry's face with a kind of morbid fascination as redness crept into his pupils, the shadows of change flickering his features. Yet even more horrific was the intense waves of desire that were pulsating off the boy that was definitely not the boy, the saviour, the total git he was used to dealing with. The thing's face lurched nearer, but Malfoy couldn't flinch –he felt like he'd been petrified. The boy, who was not Harry, bent his head and started kissing him hungrily on the neck. In the back of his mind, Malfoy needed to push the unwelcome weight away, escape somehow, but the signal was refusing to reach his paralysed body.
Harry drew back, but where he was he had no idea. His body was out of control, it was doing whatever it wanted, and the powerful waves of magical intensity were pressing on him, he needed an outlet for them. Dimly his mind registered a mouth meeting his. That seemed like a good outlet. Someone was talking to him from a long way off, but it seemed as if they were drilling into his skull: there is no good and evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it. In that moment, Harry completely believed it.
Malfoy was frantic inside, his lips caught painfully in unwanted passion. He felt the other boy's dominance, then, somewhere, felt and heard his quidditch shirt ripping. No! that was the only thought dominating his brain at that point. No! then suddenly all other communicative thoughts poured back into his brain, and his pushed out with everything he had. Harry sprang off him, and fell onto the tiled changing room floor, at his feet, screaming.
As suddenly as he had let his senses drift off into the dark power he had been experiencing, Harry came back into himself with a jolt. His scar was on fire. He fell to the floor, unable to still his ear-splitting screams of pain, hands clasped over the lightning bolt –shaped cut, and felt blood gushing like a new wound. His body was spasming at an incredible rate, his yells reaching such an incredible pitch that his voice gave out and his throat was bleeding but he couldn't stop.
Malfoy had been frozen again, clutching at the edge of the desk as Harry (and it seemed that Potter had come back into himself) writhed and screamed beneath him. The noise thinned but that didn't stop the boy contorting in pain and his throat straining wordlessly. Bubbles of bright red blood started fuzzing out from between his teeth and from under the fingers pressed over his forehead. Malfoy's eyes were as wide as saucers. He scrambled back over the desk, falling off the other side, squishing backwards until he couldn't go anywhere because the wall was at his back. He huddled there, until the faint sound of a sharp voice jolted his eyes from the horrible, unwavering spectacle before him.
"In here!" he shouted, his voice quickly reaching a franticly loud volume, and he kept on shouting, "in here, in here!"
Snape skidded round the corner, wand out, and barrelled into the quidditch changing rooms, closely followed by Dumbledore, McGonagall puffing up behind; the least agile of the three. They absorbed the situation within seconds: Draco Malfoy, white as a sheet and shaking, huddled, clawing against the back wall, his mouth bloodied and his robes hanging off one shoulder. Harry Potter: writhing in a fit of insanity.