Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, the Gryffindor boys, the Dursley's, Jane Eyre, or A Very Potter Musical (you're intrigued now, aren't you?).

Chapter 6

That night Harry lay in the darkness as usual, listening to the sounds of his roommates sleeping: Seamus' confident, rumbling snores clashed with Ron's random snort – as well as the occasional "Aaagh! No! Not the spiders!" (They'd ceased asking him to tap dance, but they still invaded his dreams with other seemingly random requests – Harry doubted he'd ever understand the redhead's subconscious); in a much quieter way, Dean's calm, measured breaths found harmony with Neville's slow, sad breathing. He wondered where his own sleeping sounds fit in the harmony.

Bed-curtains cutting off any light from the window, Harry was left to stare at the shapeless darkness around him, trying to make sense of his day while waiting for sleep to take him. No, not waiting, but fighting sleep. Too much had happened for him to simply succumb to his own fatigue; for Harry's day hadn't ended as hopelessly as you may have thought in light of Malfoy's sudden and protracted silence.

o0o0o0o0o0o

When all the books were piled on the table once more, Harry surveyed the damage with a sigh. Things looked pretty good physically, thanks to Malfoy's private knowledge of spells, but the reality was Harry had passed an hour or two on his assignment (ok, so he had been a little distracted) with nothing to show for it. He decided to call it a day – or at least take a break, maybe try something else – and half turned to the blonde, but kept his eyes from searching the pale face. He wasn't sure how to handle Malfoy – maybe looking him in the eye would show support, show he cared? – but then, he'd already tried that, with no effect. Maybe if he ignored the subject, and didn't push, Draco would slowly find the courage to open up… Or maybe he'd just let the enquiry fade from memory, along with their friendship, and push Harry away. Still, it was Harry's only option til he had time to give this more thought; he wasn't giving up without a fight.

So, eyes scanning the shelves casually, he addressed Malfoy: "I'm giving in. Do you want the books?"

Draco glanced towards the source of the noise – his silence seemed to be that of one distracted, rather than helpless. Of course, he is a Malfoy; what did Harry expect? The blonde shook his head; Harry assumed it was in answer to his question, though it seemed to serve as well to bring his attention back to reality. Once there, though, he still seemed distracted, and when Harry noticed his struggle to find words, accompanied with a glance at the only remaining parchment, he cut off any further attempts.

"Don't even think about apologising for the ink. It was my own damn fault; I shouldn't have nudged you when I did. Let's just put these bloody books away."

Harry grabbed an armful of the nearest poisons books, deciding to make another trip with the rest; he wasn't confident with his skill at levitating, he'd leave that to the Hermione's and Draco's of the world. However, when he began to tread the familiar path, threading between bookshelves and not-quite-expertly navigating the different sections, he heard a second set of footsteps echoing his own. A sideways glance as he turned a corner confirmed the pretty solid suspicion: Malfoy, his own arms full of books, was following him through the maze of shelves.

Harry was surprised: this was going against all their unspoken rules. Yes, the two were friends; they weren't, and never would be, ashamed of each other, either because of house, family name or behaviour. Still, they knew better than to let themselves be seen in public. But with things resting between them as they did now, he decided against criticising the other boy's actions, instead pretending the awkward 'companionable' walk was a part of their daily routine. As the two stretched to put the last of the books in their place (Harry occasionally giving a small start as Malfoy silently levitated a book from his arms and to a high shelf with a graceful swish and flick), the silence was finally broken.

"Necessity; my father."

When Harry just looked at him in confusion, but didn't say a word, he continued.

"When I was six, my father began to teach me about our family history. He'd pace up and down by the fire, droning on about the great Malfoys, who were either terribly dull, or horribly cruel. I would take notes at his priceless mahogany desk, sitting on the rare Persian rug – a child with a pot of unforgiving black ink." Draco's voice was bitter and sad, and Harry longed to reach out, to comfort him, at least to tell him that this wasn't necessary, he understood. But Draco wasn't looking at him, didn't want his assurances; he needed to speak, so Harry held his breath and waited.

"I'd learnt to write in a precise cursive when I was four, and was already well-schooled in the Malfoy grace and poise, courtesy of long, arduous afternoons under the tutelage of my cold, neat mother. Still, I wasn't used to the company of my unfeeling, absent father; and his remote voice, repeating those pitiless tales, made me tremble. I spilled the ink.

"He could easily have cleaned it up of course, just a wave of his wand. But no, he settled for teaching me a more physical lesson; it emphasised both his and mother's teachings, and taught me all I needed to know about my great and noble family: you must be cruel, and you must be perfect, if you want to survive." [AN: For a bit of further insight into Draco's past, check the end notes.]

Harry stood, the last book forgotten in his arms, as he stared at Draco's profile. The Dursley's had beaten him often, but nothing in his past seemed quite as bad as this. At least his aunt and uncle hated him for a reason, for his magic they would never understand; Malfoy was beaten by his own father, for nothing more than being a child, and making a mistake! Anyway, what was he thinking, telling a six-year-old such gruesome stories as Harry imagined must make up their history?

Shock was quickly replaced by rage, but Harry knew from experience that such a reaction wouldn't help Draco. He struggled to find the right words, hampered by his usual inability and the growing anger; but it seemed Malfoy wasn't finished.

"Within two weeks, I'd mastered the cleaning spells; just in time to be readmitted to Father's company. I'd be a fool if I didn't learn from my mistakes. When you're a Slytherin and a Malfoy," he glanced at Harry and smiled, "or the Boy-Who-Lived, it can be dangerous not to."

o0o0o0o0o0o

Now, in the privacy of his bed, Harry thought back to his own mistake; that endless repetition of a name. Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy…

Well that lesson was pretty obvious; he, Harry Potter, was obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

Great.

Strangely enough, it wasn't an unhappy realisation. He'd been denying the knowledge so long, admitting it almost came as a relief. Now things made sense. I mean, just look at the past few weeks… All the Moments that passed between the two of them; just today, there'd been that time with the sunlight, and the Look in the hallway… At least Malfoy seemed to be affected too, though not so much as Harry. Still, it was a small consolation.

Harry lay in the darkness, his eyes roaming the night while his mind wandered over this Thing with Draco. He ran through the Hallway Moment once more, pausing to savour that feeling of oneness, and homecoming that had blossomed between them. It felt significant somehow, like the completion of something that had been slowly threading between them since that shared glance the first day Malfoy walked him to the Tower; like a connection.

Suddenly another, older, memory tugged at Harry's focus, and he reluctantly let it pull him from that almost physical squeeze deep in his chest. It was of a lazy evening spent in the Tower with Ron and Hermione, years ago, before all this business of darkness really began. The three were all collapsed on the same couch, limbs overlapping, and the two boys listening as Hermione rhapsodised about some quote from Muggle literature, and how it perfectly applied to them. Harry remembered glancing at Ron, whose ears were flushed pink at her words, and whose gaze, he knew, was dwelling on the excited flush in her own cheeks, and the curl of That Hair about her face.

It had been so long ago, he couldn't remember the exact words, but the general idea had stayed with him. He did remember part of the beginning, something about "a queer feeling with regard to you" – Ron had snorted at that bit. Then there was "a string… tightly and inextricably knotted", it was joined to his heart, with the other end tied to the heart of the novel's heroine. Then there was the part that made his own heart clench painfully, that reminded him how much his friends cared – if something came between them, the string would break, "then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." *

The whole idea had made Harry feel fuzzy at the time, as had the occasional remembrance in the years to come. But the reality of it now hit him like a blow to the chest, stealing all his air and leaving him gasping; because the cord had broken, and Harry was suddenly painfully aware of his internal bleeding. Somehow, though, Hermione and Ron carried on, oblivious. Perhaps it was because the darkness had crept inside him, cutting the string one thread at a time; perhaps it needed a snap to grab their attention. Maybe it was because the cord between the two of them was stronger than anything connected to him, though they were of course unaware of it. No, Harry couldn't let himself believe it was stronger; it was just made of a different material, a different love. Anyway, he reasoned with himself, they cared about him, he knew that, and the separation was causing them pain; it was part of what made the darkness and the voice so difficult to cope with.

But Harry's breathing was still erratic, the memory forcing him to realise the enormity of his loss, the pain becoming suddenly too much to live with. In the bed nearest him, Ron stirred.

"H'rry…"

He froze; there was something rather personal about an anxiety attack, at least one which had begun when you'd forgotten you weren't alone, and he didn't want Ron to realise what was happening, and cause him more pain. Besides, judging by his general reaction to Harry's behaviour as of late, he didn't imagine hyperventilation when completely awake, rather than dreaming, would go down too well.

"Harry?" He was trying to shake himself to awareness now, and Harry's heart bled more, with love for him for trying. "You alright mate?"

Harry forced himself to breathe out the unnatural amount of air beginning to sting in his lungs, and draw in a new, smaller breath. His voice only shook a little. "Yeah Ron, I'm fine. I'll be ok." And though Ron couldn't know it, wouldn't even remember this in the morning, Harry really meant those three words, had put his entire being into them. He would be ok.

Out of the darkness, Harry heard the redhead stretch, yawn, and roll over, snuggling back under his blankets. He sighed a little. "S'good. Night mate."

Harry listened as Ron's breathing quickly returned to its deep, even rhythm, letting the sudden burst of pain fade back to a dull, empty ache. He thought about Malfoy, living each day in the light in direct defiance of the ever-hovering shadow. Draco had reclaimed his life; and so would Harry. He thought again of his two best friends, and that lazy evening; thought of Ginny's stubborn determination to never just let him be; thought of Hermione's notion of cords, and hearts. Maybe things weren't lost… maybe they could be salvaged, and he could have that again. Maybe his life would shine brighter than ever, for having known and conquered the dark. Maybe…

But enough of that. Hope was all well and good until the smothering blackness discovered the flame, and fought tooth and nail to extinguish it. Luckily hope is resilient, but Harry wasn't sure he was ready to risk it, so he cast his thoughts back to the beginning of this chain: the connection.

He really did feel different now, and not just in the – he cringed to think it – spiritual sense. He rubbed his chest, the place where this cord was supposed to be connected; he could feel his heartbeat. Not just beneath his palm, but everywhere, filling the huge empty space inside him. The space that had been making him nauseous for months; the emptiness that would cause him to panic, and breathe deep so the feeling of his lungs expanding could prove he was still alive, not just an empty husk whose existence had fizzled out with no fanfare, and no mourning.

Harry could feel the cord, knew where and how it was tied, so he decided to give it an experimental tug. He imagined a scenario where the ink had fallen the other way, quickly spreading to cover Malfoy's (more useful) parchment. The fictitious blonde turned to him in shock, and saw Harry's parchment covered with repetitions of his name. Those lips, so devastating when smiling, curled into a sneer, all the words he dreaded falling from them at a dizzying rate. The malicious voice pointed out how natural they seemed; after all, it was Malfoy saying them. Had Harry really thought there was something between them? Poor, naive boy… No amount of wishful thinking could ever make that happen!

Draco, of course, would never speak to him again. He'd be left alone, to fall back into that darkness with a sickening crunch. Every glimpse of white-blonde hair, the absence of that smile turned upon him… It would be torture—

Yep: Harry winced; definitely bleeding inwardly. So the cord was really connected… Wow, that made things confusing. Life did seem brighter! … But at the same time, he was suddenly sadder. It was almost like he was lonelier than ever, because suddenly he was aware of what he was missing – painfully so.

But still, he had more important things to dwell on. The real question: was the cord connected to Draco?

o0o0o0o0o0o

That night, Draco lay in the darkness. This was unusual: he'd never had much use for introspection. If that's what this state could be called… His blood was racing, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins was forcing his eyes to remain open, as if the lids were glued to his skull: no, not introspection; he was in a rage. *

The furious haze in his mind was broken for a moment, as he was distracted by a sharp pain in his chest; it was like someone had tied to a rope around his heart, and was now trying to pull the damn thing straight from under his ribs. He rubbed at the spot absentmindedly. It'd been doing that for a while now, starting up whenever he thought about—

How dare they? He couldn't believe it. He'd always said Muggles were animals, hadn't he? Well, this just proved it. How could they do that to him? He was Harry Potter! Courageous, modest, selfless, caring, sweet… How could they treat family like that?

Of course, the voice of Draco's reason – sometimes welcome, often not – interrupted him at this point:
'It's no worse than what Lucius has done to you. In fact, hasn't he done worse? Didn't you almost die, at least once? That never happened to Potter; at least, he didn't mention it.'

Today, Draco was in denial, and so Reason was particularly unwelcome.
'I don't care! That was… different. Father is a Death Eater, and a Malfoy – he's supposed to be a bastard. But Harry had already lost his parents; he didn't deserve what they did to him.'

Yes, Draco knew about the Dursley's. He knew about the cupboard under the stairs (while Harry may now be amused by the direction of his first Hogwarts letter, Draco wasn't), Dudley's gang, the beatings… The cooking! Treating the Boy-Who-Lived as some sort of Muggle equivalent of a house elf; it was unheard of.

He knew quite a bit now about Harry's past: it was probably a bad move considering the steadily accumulating homework, but the two had spent the afternoon swapping stories about life at 'home' – well, I say swapping… Draco didn't share much. He trusted Harry more than anyone else on Earth – more than he should – but sharing his deep, dark – shameful – secrets? That went completely against his nature.

Because he was holding back himself, Draco could perfectly recognize the same signs in Potter's tales and behaviour. He was keeping quiet out of self-preservation, he could admit that – and a bit of shame, which he wouldn't acknowledge. But why was Harry? Draco suspected it had something to do with voices: he knew all too well the struggle it took to subdue that voice, your voice, as it tried to convince you nearly every second of every day that you were worthless, and pathetic, and didn't deserve to live, but didn't deserve to die. Naturally, Harry would want to avoid giving it more ammunition than he needed to. Indeed, the fact that he gave it any at all in his effort to show Draco he understood caused a rush of gratitude to dull the Slytherin's anger once more, or at least push it aside.

But, of course, the fury came back with a vengeance when he considered this further virtue that had been betrayed by the Dursley's, and he fell asleep to plans of revenge, such as only a Malfoy and a Slytherin could conjure. In his rage Draco had forgotten all the other, more pleasant, events of the day: a Look in the hallway, a dazed Potter watching him in the library, a glimpse of a certain Gryffindor's parchment, mere moments before it was submerged in a river of ink…

AN: Sorry for the late update. I was pretty sick on Friday night, then spent my weekend frantically doing homework… But I've reviewed and edited tonight (and I didn't change a thing, go figure), so here's the latest update! I quite like this one. Apologies again.

Draco's past: I don't really feel my words here did justice to the image inside my head. The whole scene couldn't really be incorporated without Draco waxing even more lyrical, and getting a bit self-obsessed. I can perfectly see little Draco, with his pale blonde hair and effeminate features, staring up at Lucius with wide, grey eyes. He's wearing black robes with a white lace collar sitting over the top; and white socks inside brightly shined leather shoes. (A little Edwardian perhaps?) His father would seem impossibly tall, long blonde hair and black suit and robes silhouetted by the fire, the edges of the memory blurred with age. Draco would know to fear the elegant, silver-handled cane, wary of it tripping, jabbing, lashing or hexing him. Lucius would be staring down at his son, almost dismissively, hard eyes cool and remote – unmoved by his child, unless stirred to anger. Then there's Narcissa, as cold in appearance as Helen McCrory from the films, but without the emotion, or love for Draco. The memory of her is in harsh daylight, standing tall and straight by the large windows, only speaking to criticise his progress in those long lessons, less terrifying than his father's, but infinitely more dull without the fear to take the edge off the boredom. He wants to please her, to make her proud. He wants her to love him.

Blatant theft:
"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you-especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." – Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

"I'M IN A RAGE!" – A Very Potter Musical