AUTHORS NOTE: Told from Draco's perspective – fun fun! Still in first person format.

Dedicated to Kat since she gave me a list of three things she wanted for her b-day and a sequel to this was one of them : ) Also, for Helen since she read this through for me before I posted it and considered it "goosebumping!"

Loves!

HDHDHD

I opened my eyes the moment I heard the door click behind you.

The dynamics have changed between us; something consistent is now irretrievably different. Did you mean for this to happen? I feel… strange. Open, shut, raw, healed. It's such a contradiction of terms my head begins to spin and my breathing becomes labored. But I can still feel you in me and around me and consuming me in fire, so I shut my eyes and breathe until the trembling in my body stops. Why did you do this to me? What have you done to me? Did you mean to do this all along? Or was this a spur of the moment decision. I cannot reconcile the powerful figure you made last night with the quirky Gryffindor, and rise from the bed; dressing quickly and silently in the dark before slipping out of the room. Gryffindors may make impulsive decisions but Slytherins need to understand.

The library is different when no one is around. Something expectant seems to thicken the air, and I shiver as I wrap my cloak tighter around my body and slip into the archives. I don't know what you were talking about last night, and if you truly claimed me the way I feel claimed then that is unacceptable. "Ostendo sum volo 'the blade was broken – it has been reforged." For a moment nothing happens, and then a gentle whisper of wind wraps around me and leads me to a rarely utilized section. You took your reference from a Muggle? But it must be important to you for you to have reacted so out of character. Shrugging, I pick up the thick tome and begin to skim through it; consciously searching for specific sections. Over three hours later I toss the book aside with a sigh. The Sword of Elendil, named Narsil, was forged during the First Age by the Dwarf Telchar. Containing the elements 'nar' and 'thil,' 'fire' and 'white light' respectively, it refers to the sun and the moon. Narsil acted as a symbol of kinship between Arnor and Gondor, and, by extension, the stewardship of law over evil. The reforging of the broken sword, thusly renamed Anduril, is one of the many prophesied events leading up to the downfall of evil and the rise of man.

I'm thoughtful as I leave the library and head towards the dungeons. Did you know I would learn this? What are you trying to tell me? "…the sword of Elendil filled Orcs and Men with fear, for it shone with the light of the sun and of the moon, and it was named Narsil… thus Narsil came in due time to the hand of Valandil, Isildur's heir, in Imladris; but the blade was broken and its light extinguished, and it was not forged anew." Are you that aware of me? I realize my behavior has been off since receiving my assignment, but most people are content to look the other way and brush me aside. Has my lack of fire, of fight, of energy and emotion… has it affected you that strongly? Even now, as I enter the Slytherin common room, the early risers slide their eyes away from me; afraid to draw my attention, content to ignore my shifting moods. Why are you so different? Always so bloody different.

"Charging from the side, they hurled themselves upon the wild men. Andúril rose and fell, gleaming with white fire. A shout went up from wall and tower: "Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!" I'm silent, distracted, as I shower and dress in clean clothes. It's funny how easy it is to fall back on routine, and for the first time in a long time I take care with my appearance. Blaise is standing by the end of his bed; frozen in shock or hope or something as he notices me primping. He opens his mouth to speak and I silently beg him to remain quiet. I don't know why now I feel the urge to… reclaim myself. But I do. And this feeling is so fragile and uncertain I feel I will crumble if I'm questioned. Miraculously he remains silent; simply falling into step with me as I exit the room. In the common room, Pansy straightens when she sees us. A light long missing brightens her eyes and a tremble racks her body. She too remains quiet, but the relief of seeing me standing tall and proud seems to send a ripple, a shock wave, a burst of light, through the common room. I'm staggered by it. Humbled. Though no emotion crosses my face as a whisper circulates the room and others hasten to follow.

You did this. You burnt me and claimed me and marked me and now… now I don't know why I am leading the Slytherins to the dining hall or why I am taking pains over my appearance. These lost months of drifting through school have taught me that the way I look is of little importance. Money, breeding, pride, is of no importance. So eager was I to complete my task and save my family that I lost everything I was. Everything I stood for and believed was buried under the shadow of desperation and fear and exhaustion and the never ending tint of failure that colored my vision. Indeed, I feel as though I have awoken from a horrific waking nightmare. Have the stones in the hallway always felt this satiny and care worn under the rough pads of my finger tips? Has the air always smelled of parchment and ink and scented soap? Has the building itself seemed to taste of expectation and new beginnings? Have I always been able to hear the giggles and the gossip and the bickering and students desperately reviewing their homework as they stumble to breakfast? Have the students always looked so innocent? But not all of them do, do they? Some of them look carefree and happy. Others… they're like us, aren't they, Harry? Their eyes have seen too much, their shoulders are heavy, their personalities smothered under the weight of worries children should not have experienced.

I stop in the doorway, gesturing the Slytherins to precede me. Pansy hesitates; looking afraid that I will retreat back into my shell if she leaves my side. Blaise offers a small sad smile and gently leads her away; the others tentatively following behind. It pains me, how disconnected I have become from them. It couldn't be helped. I couldn't have borne dragging them into the walking hell my life had become. I'm not strong like you. You. I watch you, now, as I linger in the doorway. Was it all a dream? Did last night even happen the way I believe it happened? Was it just about sex? Or was it all simply a desperate fantasy my self-conscious induced to help me cope with my new and horrific reality. The thought that I am mistaken, that you are not going to help me, shakes me to my core. I want it to be real. Real in a way that few things in my life have been. Last night you called me your sword. Broken. Alone. With so much potential for more. Well I skimmed that damn tome. All three of the stories. And if I am your sword, then you are The Ring.

One ring to ­­­­­­­­­­­­rule them all, one ring to find them. One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. You're not powerful in the classical sense, like the Dark Lord or Headmaster Dumbledore. But the things you have accomplished, the lives you have affected, the experiences you have fought through and survived… your personality is overwhelming. It burns those you come in contact with. Makes them linger, hunger for your attention, willing to sacrifice their very lives if you ask it of them. Are you aware? I look between you and the Slytherin table; knowing that if I go to you now… the simple act of walking across the room, to you, will shatter ideals, shock the impassive, and may very well make my life forfeit. But I can't stop myself from putting one foot in front of the other. I've felt the lure of the ring, and I crave more. I hate that I am powerless before you. Can you sense me the way I now sense you? Is your stomach dancing and twisting, your heart beating so fiercely your entire chest aches from the force of it, a fission of something dancing across your flesh and making you prickle and burn?

"Harry, we need to talk."

Such a simple statement yet so hard to say. My throat wants to close over in protest but I force the words out and then you are standing and following me out the doors and down the hall. I don't need to look around to note the unnatural silence of the Gryffindors or the painful scrutiny of the Slytherins. It's too late. It can't be helped. Even now, standing face to face in the Potions classroom of all places, I can't bring myself to care of the consequences that will arise if I am wrong. "Were you in my room last night?" I sound ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. But… my sense of self is so raw and newly rediscovered…the relief that floods me with your affirmation scares me. Is it natural to feel this way?

"Why?" Again, I yearn to kick myself. I am a Malfoy. A Slytherin. I am above ambiguous phrasing, have been taught from birth to be concise and direct and to manipulate the truth from others if necessary. This creeping vulnerability, this uncertainty, I am out of my depth. All I know is that I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't feel. I am suspended in the thickness of the air surrounding us, in the beat of my heart, in the pulse flickering in his throat. And when he smiles, and pulls me into his arms, and tells me nothing and everything all at once… I don't care. I want to be bathed in fire, to be burned and manipulated and reshaped or reforged or whatever he wants to do to me. I want to offer myself up and beg him to do what he will. I want to rip him apart, feel his blood pour over me, crawl inside his skin and let his very essence devour me.

He's pulled me down to rest his cheek atop my head and my neck protests when he grabs my left arm and jostles me from his comforting embrace. The Dark Mark looks sick and I am unsurprised. The brand is supposed to be forever, yet I am unsurprised that Harry Potter has managed to damage that which so many have tried in vain to remove. The Ring has latched onto my soul and even the fires of Mordor could not contain him. I don't care. My emotions are unstable from being so long denied and all I want is for him to hurt me, control me, make me make sense again. I'm jealous of the mark on my arm, diverting his attention from me. I want those eyes locked on mine. I don't care that he considers me reforged and stronger than ever. I want him to burn me.

I'm kissing him before I realize what I am doing. It's hot and sloppy and desperate; I can't stop myself from forcing my tongue in his mouth and his other arm around my waist. I get it. I understand. I'm his and he broke me and claimed me and remade me and I want him to do it again and again until I am whole and this hole inside me is full and fulfilled and… and he is leaning me over the desk behind me. I can feel his hands roaming my body, burning me, leaving a trail of fire that grips me and enthralls me and I am helpless and I love it. "Harry." Your name is a mindless incantation as you take control of the kiss, of our actions, of me, and I can't bother to feel embarrassed or concerned that we may be interrupted. I give myself to you entirely and you laugh as you fumble with our clothes.

Your hand clenches around that damning mark again, your nails digging into the abused flesh of my arm and once again drawing blood as your other hand slides around and prepares me. I'm still somewhat relaxed from when you took me hours ago, but still… the burn, the ache, the glorious pleasure pain that rips me apart when you enter me is familiar and different and I shout out in relief as the fire licks my insides and sooths the cracks within me. I know I should be quiet, strong, but my world has narrowed down to you and this and us and I am desperate. The relief that you felt what I felt and want me – me, not the shell of myself I had become – and are going to help me, keep me, claim me, is so consuming that my orgasm is merely an afterthought that takes me by surprise and breaks something dark and desperate inside of me. I'm sobbing. And the burn is beautiful. And you are in me and on me and all around me and I am safe.

We clean up in silence. I see you smile as I spell the wrinkles from my clothing and straighten my hair, and I feel giddy that such an everyday action seems to endear me to you more. You look so strong, standing there with your awful hair and awful clothes, and I start talking before I realize what I am saying. I tell you about the manor, my summer, the time I ate an avocado when I was thirteen and threw up for hours. I tell you how I was convinced my mother was the woman from the childhood tale Rumplestiltskin because her hair so reminded me of spun gold. I tell you I'm not sorry for taking the mark as I saw it as a fulfillment of my childhood ideals. I tell you my task. How my father is in deep disgrace and I have to kill your mentor, our mentor, or my parents will suffer. And these tears that I am sobbing are painful; like liquid fire as they course down my face.

Then you're there; sweeping me into your arms, pulling me to you so tightly I can't breathe. And you tell me… not that you'll make it better, but that you'll help me. I'm yours now. Even knowing the darkest secrets of my soul, you maintain that your hold over me is stronger than his or anyone else's will ever be. You will find a way to rescue my parents, will relocate them to Never Never Land if need be. I don't know where that is, but you believe what you are saying and force me to believe it too. Because you are the ring. Men, lords, creatures, covet you and want to control you. But they can't control you. You control them; make them covet you. Those who seek to control you will ultimately destroy themselves. I understand it now. But you have chosen me. You broke me, reforged me, made me strong enough to handle your allure, your power. You won't destroy me. You will help me.

Professor Snape enters the room and I half expect you to release me. At the same time, I am unsurprised when you don't. I know what my mother has done. She went to the one man she saw as strong enough to save me and begged him for help. I can tell by the flicker of his eyelid that he is displeased I have chosen Harry to confide in, but all the same he calmly informs us that the class is working in the library and is there anything he can assist us with before we join them. And Harry, my beautiful brave impetuous Harry, continues to hold me and rub circles on my back while he gazes at our professor with a look I have never seen on his face before.

"Yes, sir. I need you to either kill Professor Dumbledore, or help me to do so."

Snape's gone pale; his hands clenching almost involuntarily on his desk. I should care. I know I should. But my body aches, my soul is raw, Harry has burned me from the inside out, and all I can do is blink lazily. One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them. A sword that shines with the light of the sun and the moon. Protected. Whole. Together. Unstoppable.