Disclaimer: I don't own Draco's brooding, Harry's uncontrollable hair, Ron's temper, Hermione's... enthusiasm, or Blaine's perfect rock-hard abs (but who's noticed those?). I do own a certain Sacrificial Slytherin, however. I don't own the works of literary geniuses such as Austen or Shakespeare.

Chapter 7

Draco awoke the next morning feeling tired, pissed off, and resolved. His long overdue sleep had been poisoned by dreams of a small boy with scruffy, dark hair and a lightning scar being tormented by three much larger figures, distorted by dream reality into looming and threatening creatures. They crowded around the boy, laughing, jeering, mocking, taunting, shouting, striking… Through it all, he stood with the child just out of reach, helpless to do anything but watch, unable even to comfort the trembling hero.

Somewhere towards the end of his revenge plans, as sleep began to take him, Draco had come to a decision. He couldn't go back, couldn't change the past and save Harry hurt, but he could change the future. If he was totally honest, Draco had come to this conclusion long ago – the day his eyes first connected with Potter's in that echoing hall – but last night, tired and frustrated, he gave into his better feelings and let himself acknowledge the fact: Potter was his to protect.

In the unforgiving light of morning, his decision was reinforced by the lingering memory of dreams; as the bone-reaching cold of the Slytherin dungeon penetrated his sleepy haze, those thoughts dissipated like mist, and he was left with only the resolution, inexplicably stronger after a night's sleep.

The door to the bathroom slammed shut as Blaise made his way back into the room, towel clutched around his waist with one hand. Draco averted his eyes, steeled his feet against the cold and his composure against the day, and threw back the covers.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Harry woke up happy. Beautiful thoughts had drifted him to sleep, beautiful dreams had floated by in the night, and now the beautiful morning light pierced him to consciousness. Unfortunately, the beautiful warmth of his beautiful, big bed was not really conducive to getting up… Still, it was Sunday, and the day's possibilities loomed in his mind. He'd see Draco today; of course, he saw the blonde every day, but today was different. Today was yesterday's tomorrow. Today was a gift.

Alas, it is a truth (not as universally acknowledged as it perhaps should be*) that just because the sun is shining on you, it doesn't mean the rest of the world is not in darkness. Ron did not wake up happy. He'd been woken sometime in the night by the familiar sounds of his best mate in the grip of a nightmare; this almost nightly occurrence hadn't changed simply because the rest of Harry's life had. Remembering a conversation with Hermione earlier that day, he'd recalled her insistence that they had to help Harry in any way they could. Years of habit making it almost a reflex, he did so – or as much as he could when half asleep, anyway.

But this morning it was all the same: Harry got up with the same quiet reluctance, the other boys ignoring him as they stumbled around the room finding clothes, throwing insults and objects. The only difference Ron noticed was in Harry's ritualistic glance in his direction. It happened every morning, but from the other boy's determination, it seemed today he was actually supposed to notice it. But other than that one change, that one small acknowledgement, Harry was the same man; unfortunately, so was Ron.

He was fed up with all this drama, utterly sick of all this crap. He knew, somewhere in the very back of his mind, that Harry couldn't help this. It wasn't his fault; he wasn't himself; he needed help. Unfortunately, somewhere in the forefront of his mind, Ron also knew that Hermione cried herself to sleep most nights; Lavender and Parvati hadn't needed to ask why. He knew that Ginny's grades were suffering – she was distracted in class, and spent all her free time trying to lure Harry out of himself. Ron knew his mum was frantic with worry, terrified to lose another child, but unsure what she could do. He knew McGonagall had gotten more frown lines in the last few months than during the twins' entire education. Ron knew the Quidditch team couldn't survive without their seeker. He knew he couldn't survive without his best mate. And Ron knew that Harry noticed none of this.

The fool'd never realised how important he was to the people in his life, never in all their years together. No, it was Ron who was the listening ear to most of his worried friends, Ron who noticed what Harry was oblivious to. Normally Ron understood; Harry just wasn't as people smart. But this… Anyone with eyes could see the impact his problems were having on the people around him, but all his attention was focused inwards; Harry was as blind to reality as if he hadn't been wearing glasses.

When he and Harry left their room, Ron noticed the hesitant smile on the other boy's face as they joined Hermione. He noticed the way her eyes lit up, in a way they never had when he smiled. Hermione, of course, knew better than to push Harry, so she didn't hound him with questions and expectations on the way to breakfast. Still, after ten minutes of traversing the well-known corridors, the silence was becoming a little awkward – ok, a lot. Ron had tried a few topics already, but each statement was greeted with a curious, hopeful look towards Harry; after the seventh such reaction, he gave up.

By this stage, Ron was reigning in anger with every step – maybe he had changed a little. So when Hermione spotted a fellow Ancient Runes student, a nervous Ravenclaw boy, he waved her off to discuss the latest essay. He watched her run, unruly brown hair streaming behind her, regretting the inevitable pain even as he planned the betrayal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Harry, too, had stopped walking; he had a nervous look on his face, as if he could feel the air thicken – when Harry was angry, it was always crackling magic; with Ron, it was just tension.

They had stopped in the Transfiguration courtyard, about five minutes' walk from McGonagall's classroom. A few students, mostly Gryffindors, were taking their time to cross the rare patch of sunlight, dawdling as they ambled to the Great Hall. At last, Hermione disappeared around the corner, and the sounds of enthusiastic debate faded behind her.

Harry swallowed. Ron turned.

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Draco Malfoy?"

Draco looked up, torn away from his alternating thoughts of gathering anger and fluttering joy. He was surprised – no one ever spoke to him with that much politeness, especially not at Hogwarts. And surely there was no one in all of the Wizarding World who didn't know the face of the youngest Death Eater on sight.

He was even more surprised when he glanced around the hall, and no one was there. After all, what good would it do him to hallucinate hearing a polite voice with no body attached? Draco was sure there would be method in his madness *, like in all things – there was even method to Potter, though nothing could be done about that hair.

"I'm sorry to bother you."

More politeness – it sounded from behind him this time. Draco spun around – and on the wall was a portrait. Nothing unusual about that, but most portraits tended to be 'subtly' observing the live inhabitants of the halls, or gossiping with their neighbours. This portrait – a young woman, dark hair swept off her neck and crowned with a wreath of flower buds, feet bare and body clothed in a pure white cotton dress –was staring at him expectantly, hands clasped before her. Despite the relaxed pose, she had an air of urgency. It was obvious she was standing in someone else's frame: the Sacrificial Maiden look didn't really fit with the bloody and dark battlefield behind her, though it did provide a striking contrast.

The girl's – woman's? – lips curved up in acknowledgement, and her head bowed for a moment. When he still said nothing, she raised an eyebrow, not-quite-impatiently, but still managing to communicate that she had no clue what-the-bloody-hell could be more important than listening to her right now. Right, yes. Responding was advised.

"It's no bother," came his smooth reply, followed by the reflexive cool-polite smile reserved for political situations and afternoon tea with his mother. His own pale eyebrow arched delicately and inquiringly. "Now, was there something you wanted?"

The slightly narrowed eyes relaxed, but then she spoke and her words distracted Draco from all else, throwing his mind into a frantic action that was most unpleasant at this early hour.

"Harry Potter is in trouble. He's been cornered by the Weasley boy in the Transfiguration courtyard, the portraits heard some students talking about it—"

She broke off as Draco abruptly turned and began sprinting down the corridor. Transfiguration… damn it, that was at the base of Gryffindor Tower, right across the other side of the castle – apparently the teachers felt it was best to keep Gryffindor and Slytherin as far away from one another as possible. Well, as possible for the Muggle world – surely Dumbledore could enchant some corridors or something. Hmm, a floating tower... That would be interesting. Alas, he didn't. Probably didn't want anyone getting lost; or falling.

Now Draco wished the founders had made use of enchanted corridors, preferably one that would bring him out right by the courtyard. But if Hogwarts had any such secrets, they'd rarely, if ever, been revealed to the likes of him.

He scowled, and picked up the pace, muttering all kinds of non-magical curses under his breath.

"There's an enchanted corridor ahead. It won't take you right to the courtyard, but it will get you out of the dungeons."

The voice came from his left, and startled him, breaking his stride for a moment. That was… convenient. When he'd regained his footing, he glanced sideways. The Sacrificial Maiden was keeping pace with him, leaving a path of disgruntled portrait inhabitants in her wake. As he watched, she shoved a gallant knight to the side in the middle of his proposal, rolling her eyes and muttering something about time-wasting buffoons. She acted like a Slytherin, but surely none had ever been stupid enough to get themselves sacrificed…

The painted lady caught him watching her and smirked. "Yes, I was in Slytherin. Why do you think I'm in the dungeons?" Her eyes followed his glance down. "Ah, yes. It was Halloween, a Costume Ball at the castle." Then, surprising him, she grinned. "Aranea Black, which I suppose makes you my distant cousin."

Draco nodded; he knew her well. On meeting her, a lot of things suddenly made sense – she really was strikingly beautiful. Dearest cousin Aranea, while not the worst of his ancestors by far, had quite the reputation as a Black Widow – she'd had thirteen husbands in her time, before being murdered by an angry mistress. Well, I say mistress – it was more of a society really; they called themselves The Grieving Inamorata. Coincidentally, there were thirteen women in the society – this specific Black didn't kill for pleasure, but revenge.

"There, the tapestry at the end of the corridor, on your left. Yes, that's the one, with the very angry demon hordes. I'll meet you at the exit; hurry!" With that, Aranea hauled herself out of the top of a frame, using the head of some distant relation of Flitwick's as a stepping stone. Not bothering to soothe the portrait's nerves, he shot some spell at the tapestry, immobilising the threatening creatures in time to tear it aside and dash up the corridor.

He felt like he'd been running for hours, though the reality was probably only a few minutes. The path was taking far too many turns to be economical, even if it did ensure secrecy, and the thoughts churning in his mind only served to increase his panic, doing nothing good for his breathing or speed. What had happened? Why had Weasley gone off his nut all of a sudden, when Harry was improving? What would Draco do when he got there? Undoubtedly there would be a crowd, but he had to interfere somehow; this was the whole point of his attempts to help Harry, to make sure there was someone he could rely on when it all went to hell in a hand basket. What if it had already broken up by the time he arrived, how could he help Harry then? Would Harry even need his help? If he tried to stop the Weasley, would Granger interfere? Or would she be looking out for Harry? What if Harry got hurt? What if they'd gone by the time he made it there, what if he couldn't find them? What if Harry was in the hospital wing? Would they let him see him? They'd have to let him in!

All too soon Draco was gasping for breath, the effect of the break-neck running turning quickly into hyperventilation, and he had to stop. Leaning against the wall, body aching with the need to keep going, to get to Harry, Draco had to force himself to calm, drawing in one deep breath, holding, and letting it slowly out. It was a trick he'd learned during his own odyssey through hell, when the ugly voice had spiralled out of control in the dead of the night, and he would find himself sitting in the darkness, audibly screaming but unable to hear any sound. He hadn't used it for years, but it worked just as well now, though his patience was a little threadbare.

When he felt that he could breathe once more without puncturing a lung, Draco started running again, careful to control his thoughts and body by counting his breaths, timing each stride, running for endurance and speed. At last, he reached the end of the lengthy passage, and broke through the covering tapestry. True to her word, in the portrait opposite stood Aranea; she opened her mouth to speak, probably to ask what took him so long, but after one look into his frantic eyes she changed her mind, and merely said, "This way," taking off again without waiting to see if he heard.

A few more moments of running, pushing, stumbling and falling – all with forward momentum – brought them to the final hallway; the door to the courtyard was right there. He glanced at Aranea – a proud smile, "Good luck, little cousin; I'll keep in touch" – then pushed through into the sunlight.

AN: Here's another update for you all – the second last chapter. Which means I should probably finish Chapter 8 sometime... So here's a little background on Aranea (Array-knee-a) Black: Aranea used to be a constellation, though it's now a genus of spider. According to Wiki, Aranea means long-legged spider. Think about it, a Slytherin and a Black, whose name means spider? Black Widow anyone?
Also, she's my first OC! She has the commanding composure of McGonagall and the beauty of the Black sisters, but really she's like a seductive, Slytherin Tonks. (The Grieving Inamorata – how awesome does that sound?)

Thank you to kura-wolfgoddess, who had lovely things to say about my writing. Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
To JustR – hope you're ok sweetie, can't wait to hear from you again. Your reviews have been great motivation for me to update.

Next, there was a little of my personal experience in this chapter again. Other than Draco 'steeling himself for the day' – because don't we all have to do that sometimes? – there was the scene of night-time screaming. It's one of my more vivid and creepifying memories, sitting on the edge of my bed and seeing my reflection in the window, because my bedside lamp was on. I was rocking back and forth, and my face was all contorted, and my mouth was wide open, like I was screaming. It really felt like I was grieving; I can't tell you why I felt that way, or what prompted it, or articulate anything other than a huge deep feeling of grief. The strange thing was I was distant from it all – it's not like I was looking down on the scene, but I think seeing my reflection let me distance myself further. I remember thinking how strange my face looked, and noticing in a detached way that I was really upset – just upset, nothing more dramatic than that. Then the next thing I remember is Mum suddenly sitting down next to me, and grabbing me, and rocking me, and I remember staring without focus at nothing, not even a fixed point, and not saying a word – because I didn't want to worry her more. I couldn't make things worse, so I didn't react at all. It wasn't until much later that it clicked – I hadn't just looked like I was screaming. That was probably my darkest/strangest moment.

Blatant theft: (Not quite so blatant this week, just some vague references)

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." – Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

"Though this be madness,
Yet there is method in't" – Hamlet, William Shakespeare