A/N Thanks heaps to reviewers agd888, MitsuKun and K ^^ Sorry this chapter has taken so long. I'm not going to riddle you with excuses because that's a bad habit, and we all know that this update schedule unfortunately just seems to be a pattern at the moment. Thanks for sticking with the story despite the wait :)

It started when Harry returned home. The second he moved through the wards, he knew something was wrong. The air felt thick, oppressive. He scratched roughly at his arms, wondering if some kind of potion had been spilled, or a hex had been set to trigger when he came through the door.

But apart from a strange itching beneath his skin, and the dank quality to the air, there was nothing he could identify. Only the certainty that something was very, very wrong. He strode further into the apartment, looking around him in earnest, trying to pinpoint the source of the sensation. He waved his wand to make his hidden collection appear, idly continuing to scratch his arm while they surfaced into his vision.

A sharp pain on his wrist made him look down in surprise. He was bleeding. He lifted his wrist and examined it closely. There was no evidence of a spell. He lifted his other hand, looking at his nails and feeling a strange sense of disassociation from his body.

He had done this. He had scratched his skin so hard that he bled, and he hadn't even noticed.

He whipped his head up in alarm as a soft cry came from somewhere in front of him.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

The cry came again. This time, Harry saw the book move. His face paled. The books never expressed a sentience on their own; it was always in response to something. An objection to being moved, distress that they had been left in direct sunlight. It had to be something. What was the book crying over? Nothing had changed.

His arm throbbed, and he realised he was still scratching, the blood already welling under his fingernails.

"Fuck!"

He thrust out his hand and accio'd the book into his open palm, so that his fingers would have something else to occupy them.

The book crooned softly. He opened it, but it looked the same as it always had. Dark runes spread across the page. This text had a tendency to prefer being read in twilight, but no real objection to anything. It had always been a passive text, content enough with its position on his shelf. Nothing like some of the more demanding resources.

He frowned and sent the book back. Nothing had changed. His collection was exactly as it had always been.

Except for the books he'd taken. He froze, pondering this new development.

Before he could consider a course of action, his wand began to vibrate, calling him back to the Ministry.

"Don't you long for the days of boredom and apathy?" Malfoy declared when Harry arrived in the briefing room. Only half the team had arrived, since mere minutes had passed since the call was sent, but the room was steadily filling with frustrated Aurors.

It was a Friday night, and they had so nearly made it into their comfy armchairs where they could rest, unmoving for the weekend. Malfoy's posture - sprawled across the table with his chin propped in one hand, eyes partially closed - suggested he had not only made it into his armchair, but had been fast asleep. The nasty twist to his mouth highlighted just what he thought of that interruption.

An image of Malfoy curled in his armchair by the fire, relaxed in his black cotton shirt and trousers, popped into Harry's mind. He shook his head and sat down abruptly, disturbed by the thought for reasons he couldn't identify.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Wiffleston said from the front of the room as the final Auror took their seat. "It is with the utmost regret that I inform you the Ministry was almost infiltrated this evening."

"But then they saw your face, did they?" Malfoy called out. "Good show, captain." He began to applaud.

Several of the junior Aurors looked around, panic on their faces. One of the newer ones lifted his hands to clap, but was quickly smacked down by his friend.

Harry bit down the urge to laugh. Up the front of the room, Wiffleston blustered. Unable to think of a retort, he simply spoke louder.

"Fortunately, the potions - spelled to release at a predetermined time - were discovered by the cleaning staff before they could detonate."

"Could have given it half a second longer, then we might have had a week off," Malfoy muttered.

"In light of this very real threat," Wiffleston yelled, his eyes a little crazed. "We have approved the move to code red security alert. All personnel are to be accompanied by a level two Auror upon entry and exit from the building."

Well, that was alright. Both he and Malfoy were level two Aurors. They'd just have to arrive and depart together.

"If I must escort you, Potter, I insist you hold my hand," Malfoy said, baring his teeth in a grin. "I wouldn't want you to run off on me and get lost."

Wiffleston continued to detail the requirements of a code red security alert as if he couldn't hear the interruption.

Harry snorted. "If I'm escorting you, I insist on compensation pay. If you don't shut up, I'm going to suffer acute-"

"Auror Potter and Auror Malfoy will conduct the vital task of preparing and securing the wards against any infiltration, while Aurors Smith and Wilson will be in charge of field investigation," Wiffleston finished loudly.

Malfoy gaped.

Wiffleston nodded, a smug smirk on his face; the picture of self-importance. "Dismissed." He strode from the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he left.

"Where're Smith and Wilson," Malfoy growled. "I'm going to wring their-"

Harry put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, pushing him gently back down into the chair. Malfoy looked up in surprise.

"Let's just get the wards secured," he suggested. "Then we can go home."

Malfoy paused, but eventually nodded and moved to stand. As Harry's hand dropped back to his side, Malfoy's eyes slid to Harry's wrist. He frowned.

"What happened to your arm?" he asked, reaching as if to grab it, and then stopping himself at the last minute.

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Tripped just before I got the call. Didn't have time to heal it. Barely hurts anyway. Come on, let's finish this."

They spent an hour going over the wards, but could find nothing wrong. No gap, no fault, no flaw. It was as perfect as it had always been. They settled for strengthening the spells and increasing guard duty, then left. To Harry's surprise, Malfoy followed him home.

"Thought I should have another check for you," he said as they walked through the door. "Make sure you didn't forget anything."

Harry shrugged. If Malfoy hadn't found anything the first time, he was unlikely to now. And perhaps he could shed some light on the oppressive feel of his apartment. Now that Harry had spent some time away from it, he was convinced that he was over reacting. It was impossible for the books to be protesting the absence of the ones he had lent to Barnaby. There had to be another explanation, and Malfoy could help him with that.

Inside the apartment, the sensation was dulled but still noticeable. Malfoy stiffened immediately and began to look around.

"What's wrong with your apartment?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "I only just noticed it before I left. Any ideas?"

"No," Malfoy said slowly. He walked over to the walls and began to trace his fingers along the plaster. Harry watched him. His arm was beginning to itch again. "The air is thick."

"Huh?" Harry realised several seconds too late that Malfoy had spoken, but Malfoy was too preoccupied to realise.

"Mind you, it could be simply the overwhelming stench of your beauty regime," Malfoy said drily, although apprehension was still evident in his tone.

Harry barely noticed the words, let alone the jibe. His arm was suddenly in agony. He began to scratch, no longer caring if he broke the skin. He would do anything to get that sensation to stop.

"Really, Potter," Malfoy kept talking and inspecting the walls, completely unaware of Harry's discomfort. He reached the small bookshelf next to the fireplace. "I have no idea what you do to make such a strong-" he stopped speaking suddenly.

A small part of Harry was blessedly thankful for the silence. A far larger part of him didn't notice. Blood was welling in uneven spots along his skin, beginning to drip and fall over the side, and still the itch would not be sated.

"Potter, what is this bottle?" Malfoy asked, his voice tight and strangely high pitched.

Harry couldn't comprehend what Malfoy was saying. The words were audible, but they made no sense, not when his arm was throbbing so terribly. He pulled out his wand and aimed it desperately at his forearm, wondering if a stinging jinx might cut deep enough to still the pain, and then wondering what it was about that thought that seemed like very poor logic.

"Is this what I think it is?" The words were almost whispered, as if Malfoy were hardly aware he was speaking. Certainly, he was no longer talking to Harry.

Harry cast his eyes frantically around the room. He needed Malfoy gone. He needed to bring his bookcases into reach. They would have what he needed, whatever it was. They would quench this thirst.

"But, that would mean I-" Malfoy turned, his face ashen. "Potter, I have to go."

"Good," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Malfoy didn't notice. He fled.

Before the door was even closed, Harry had waved his wand and brought the invisible collection crashing into his space. He thrust out his hand, not caring what flew into it, and gave a moan of relief when a dark text bound in dragonhide shot across the room and bowled him over.

He flipped through the pages until he landed on a spell he knew he could cast. A simple offering in exchange for strength. He had never cast it, of course. Had never cast any of the spells in his collection, no matter how curious he had been. It didn't mean he couldn't.

He felt the words wash over him like silk, and the pain washed away.

Barely noticed anymore, the air in his apartment softened. Harry felt calm once again.