Disclaimer: I do not in any way own Harry Potter.

A/N: Woah, my longest chapter yet. I would like to say that I am really not happy with this chapter. I seem to have achieved the impossible, bi-polar writing! The whole thing seems to be very badly written creepy happenings with interval spurts of odd sarcastic humour. I am really not happy at all. Well, here's the chapter anyway. Oh, and pray I get some inspiration for the next chapter, its Harry and Draco's first...conversation. Please review!

Warnings: See first chapter, SLASH

Storms Brewing

Harry was woken the next morning by the pre-dawn light filtering through the window above his bed. The previous day, after the…incident in the hallway, he had sought refuge in the tower. He had eventually calmed down enough to stop staring at the door and decided that he really needed to distract himself.

For as much as Harry tried to deny it, he knew that the voice that he had felt brush across his mind was real. And that was as far as Harry was willing to think at the moment. He most certainly did not want to think of how he had heard that nasty little voice, nor did he want to fathom how a long dead boy, who was probably the mystery murderer of the mansion, was communicating at all in the first place. Yes, Harry didn't want to think of any of these things. His nerves were far too tense already, thank you very much.

He had quickly dug out a book from his bag, not at all caring which one and had focused on reading it with intensity that would have made Hermione exceptionally proud of him. In fact, he had kept reading all afternoon and then some, until he could not remember giving in to slumber. That would probably explain the book he found, lodged between his shoulder blades that morning. Though how it got there of all places was a mystery.

So with a sore back and a still slightly rattled mind, Harry's second morning was not much better than the first. Especially as it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning either, what with all the drama that filled that particular Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday. By checking his phone, Harry was able to ascertain what day of the week it was. It really shouldn't have made him as happy as it did.

The light got brighter as Harry attacked another set of sandwiches furiously, after furtively checking the wrappings for pink notes. As he polished off the last one, sucking on one finger musingly, Harry remembered his unfinished plan of exploring the rest of the castle. After the previous day's surprises he was a little reluctant to do so, but his damn curiosity was welling up in him once again and Harry knew perfectly well that it would have to be answered sooner or later. And, well, honestly, what was the worst that could happen? 'He could get mauled by sinister, eerie little dead spirit boys and have his corpse turn up weeks later'. But Harry decided to ignore the dire warnings his common sense was giving him, and go explore anyway. He would just blame it on his curiosity later.

How many fucking times was it possible to get lost in this bloody place?! These were Harry's thoughts as he ended up in the entrance hall for the twelfth time in the past forty-five minutes. It was as if the house was purposely trying to confuse him. And infuriate the pissing hell out of him at the same time of course. Needless to say, it was managing quite well in that aspect.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to pacify his ire. Right, he should just pick a room to investigate and just try to get there, instead of randomly walking about. Harry was feeling a lot better than earlier, nothing out of the ordinary had happened on his little wander and in the face of his anger any remaining uneasiness had left him. A little labelled room on the map drew his eye, the 'drawing room'. It appeared to be just off the hall.

After a few moments to get the correct direction, Harry walked to the right, towards one of the doors. Nearly all of the inside doors were the same, painted in peeling white with a tinge of blue-green, with ornamental handles. The rest, like the door to the tower, were much plainer; thin wood with sometimes no handle at all. He gently pried open the door and entered the drawing room. It had large rectangular windows lining the right side and another large window on the left, with an alcove and bench beneath it. There was a long table in the middle of the room, with a large, dusty, sheet-covering protecting the wood underneath. Matching chairs were stacked in the corners and the carpet, though obviously once very lavish, was now faded and thinning.

One of the tree branches outside rustled and Harry saw one of the wood pigeons fly off across the grounds. He gave a melancholic smile and dragged his fingers over the sheet covered table. The air, like the rest of the house hung with a stillness that seemed as if it had never been disturbed. As Harry glanced around he felt as if he finally appreciated how old this place truly was.

As he turned back around he saw a small wooden door stationed in a corner. He had at first not seen it as it had blended so well with the rest of the wall. Curiously, Harry walked over, as if subconsciously drawn to it. There was no handle, so he had to use his nails to dislodge it from the wall. It opened onto a small, dark passageway. The light from the windows behind him illuminated it enough for Harry to glimpse some stairs going down. He peered into the darkness, and a wind from down below twisted its way past him. He bit his lip. Where could wind come from down there? He couldn't see anything past the first step.

Chewing his lip a little more, Harry took a step into the passageway, and then another. He quickly spun around to check that the door was still open; it was. He took another step and stood on the balls of his feet, hoping to get a better look of what lay down the stairs. Nothing. He glanced behind again, door still open. He swept his gaze around the passage, it seemed to be carved out of stone or rock, whether it was the same as what made up the rest of the house Harry couldn't tell. It was uneven though, showing it was not normally used, and the stairs were of the same quality.

Gathering all his daring, Harry nimbly made his way down the stairs, taking the utmost care not to trip. A fall would most certainly be very painful. As he reached the bottom of the stairway, he paused to take a brief look. In the dim light it was hard to tell, but it appeared to be a room made of stone, roughly the same size as the drawing room above. He peered through the darkness once more; there were iron bars, and possibly something that looked like a lock. It was distressing not being able to see and in effort to see better, Harry took a step forward.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he knew something was wrong. A force immediately rushed to meet him. It was strong and felt exceedingly spiteful in nature.

It pressed against him fiercely. Harry tried to draw breath but his lungs refused; the pressure was too great. He stumbled back and fell on top of the stone steps, the rough edges callously tearing into his back. He spluttered slightly as he choked on his own spittle, vainly trying to breathe. He started coughing slightly, his hands desperately trying to find purchase on the rock beneath him so he could flee. He at last pushed himself up and clambered his way up the stairs, attempting to keep the ominous black spots out of his vision. He practically hurtled his way out the door and only managed a few steps before collapsing next to the long table.

He frantically grasped the edge of the table to hold himself up, tears gently spilling from his eyes. He drew in great hacking breaths, trying to reduce effects of his near asphyxiation. After several minutes just sitting there, and when his breathing had calmed to only harsh instead of desperate, he finally got a grip on himself. He turned fearfully to the door in the corner. It fluttered innocently on its hinges. It took a couple more minutes before Harry managed pulled himself to standing and slam the door shut. He wished it had a lock.

He leant against the table, thinking about what the hell had just happened. He was sure that the room he had seen had once been some kind of dungeon or holding cell. The iron bars were enough to tell him that. But what had been that…pressure? He had justly felt as if he was about to die. He had never truly felt that experience before, and had no want to do so again; his heart was stilling beating at an abnormal pace. He gave a rather shaky sigh; his throat was stinging as well, as he despairingly rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. He would quite like for all the bad things to stop now. It was disquieting his mind far too much.

Before Harry could think anymore on how this situation was removing the last remnants of his sanity, a sound resounded through the quiet. Harry jerked his head up. It took him a moment to identify it as a piano. Someone, somewhere in the house, was playing a piano. At this point, Harry didn't much care who was playing, all that mattered that whoever was, was very good. Very good indeed. Harry closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, soothing his shot nerves. It was a light little melody, but one that seemed bittersweet. It haunted through the house very well, in Harry's opinion.

He opened his eyes once again, determined to find the source of the music. He stalked up the staircase of the entrance hall, and turned right, following the sound through several floors until he came upon a sort of sitting room, which spilled over into a balcony.

As soon as he entered the room, however, the music faded. He knew it had originated from here, as some of the notes still lingered in the air. He sighed forlornly and rested his head against the doorjamb. The piano sat proudly before a set of shuttered French doors, the small balcony to the left of them. He walked slowly to the railings, and lent over slightly to observe the sky. The thick blanket of cloud hadn't left since yesterday. In fact, it appeared to have condensed; they sat heavy in the sky, just waiting to pour. He turned still faintly wet eyes to the ground. The dead front lawns could be seen to one side, but on the other were the autumn remains of what was surely a fabulous rose garden.

Harry was not really seeing it however; he was busy mentally scolding himself. Harry had not shed tears in years; he couldn't even remember the last time. So to be reduced to such a thing by a room of all things, was to Harry, nothing short of shameful. He accepted that the risk of death by suffocation had been distressing, but the tears were completely uncalled for!

But Harry knew why this place was getting to him so effortlessly. He had faced far worse things in his life, but he had never been so alone before, so isolated from everyone else. Harry was certain that if he wasn't here all by himself, then he would probably wholly appreciate the quietness. He sighed again, he just needed to stop letting these things get to him. Surely nothing could surprise him anymore.

Harry shook himself. Feeling a little better with his new mental philosophy, he decided that it was safe to explore a few more places before it got dark again.

Harry glared at the map, hoping that the highly sought after effect of spontaneous combustion would occur. He had been walking about this place for two days now and he still kept getting lost. At the present moment, Harry had absolutely no idea where he was, not even what floor he was currently standing on.

Suffice to say, it was irritating him slightly. He had been wandering around for several hours, trying to get his bearings and possibly even memorise a couple of routes round the castle. He had failed miserably, if there was ever any doubt. The thing really grating on his nerves though, was the unshakable urge that he was being watched again. It was making him vastly uncomfortable. Not to mention that the occasional tingling in his scar had decided to ascend into a nasty prickling sensation. Perhaps he was more than slightly irritated.

At the moment Harry was standing in a sort of confluence of various hallways. Thus, the reason for his confusion, and subsequent frustration. Knowing which corridor led where was nearly impossible. Some of his anger also stemmed from the fact that night was beginning to set in. Harry did not want to be caught out of his tower after dark. Enough traumatising incidents happened to him in the daylight.

He looked around hopelessly, perhaps some clue would reveal itself. He spotted a pair of double doors to the side, slightly ajar. The sky rumbled once more, causing Harry to jitter forwards. That was another thing; the sky finally seemed to be giving in to the storm that had been threatening for days, and the affect it was having on the general ambience was making Harry anxious. Well, more than he normally was anyway.

Harry, as soon as he saw the double doors, felt the mounting temptation to fling them open. He resisted of course, but the impulse to see what lay behind remained. A light smattering of rain struck the upper windows, making a tick noise against the glass. Harry moved nervously towards the doors, the day's happenings had made him somewhat wary of entering unknown rooms. The doors were merely resting shut; a little push and they would glide open. Just one look and he would leave.

Harry wished he hadn't of looked.

It was a small, enclosed, cosy-looking room. Perhaps it would have been an office; it had a weathered, high backed chair and a snug carpet, along with a gilded fireplace. But that was not what Harry saw as he gently pushed the door open. His attention was fixed on what was lying, unmoving, on the shag rug.

A boy, no older than his late teens. He was, unquestionably, dead. His eyes had a thick glaze and his pale skin was grey round the edges. Harry stood frozen on the threshold, his breathing shallow, yet oddly calm.

This must be the boy Neville spoke of, Mark Evans, who disappeared a week ago. Harry managed a swallowed and moved slowly closer to the body laying on the floor. It was not the first time he had seen a corpse, but he was struck again by how still it was, almost peaceful in a perverse way.

His mind wasn't working particularly well. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should be doing something. Call someone…do something…anything, yet he did not move, nor did he cease his staring.

He did not feel upset, or frightened. In fact he didn't feel much at all, apart from a little shock. He had just not …expected to see it. That was all. Nothing else.

Harry moved away a few steps, seemingly deliberating on something internally, before he quickly grabbed a sheet that was lying over a chair near to him, haphazardly throwing it over the body and rapidly backing out of the room, shutting the doors closed behind him.

On the other side of the doors, Harry was still vacantly staring in the same direction since he had seen what was inside the room. He knew he shouldn't just be leaving it there but he had the oddest notion that it would take care of itself. And frankly, Harry just didn't want to deal with it.

Still gazing at the door, it took Harry a moment to realise that the moon had risen and that night had well and truly arrived. He jumped at another grumble from the sky and hastened off as fast as possible back to the tower, not caring whether he took the correct corridor or not.

A shadow emerged from darkness, flashing silver eyes focused on the covered body on the rug. Due to the random placement of the sheet, half of the person's face was still clearly visible.

Draco's lip curled in distaste as he glanced at the immobile figure. The boy had tasted far from palatable. With an aggravated sigh, Draco crouched down. He supposed he really should have disposed of it straight after he had fed, but the boy had left such an unsatisfying aftertaste that at the time, he had had no desire to set eyes on the thing again. Another sound of irritation whistled through his teeth. He thoroughly detested having to clean up after meals.

A lightening flash illuminated pale skin and silky platinum hair. A few broken words were uttered and a flare momentarily lit the room. When it faded, the shadow was gone, as was the body of Mark Evans; leaving behind only a little blood staining the shag rug, to prove he had ever existed at all.

A/N: Some reassurance that I'm not just writing some recycled shit would be great round about now. I have never fought so much with a chapter. I really hope my next one is better.