Somewhere Only We Know

by Kris RL

Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play

14. Transition

Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

Spoilers: I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

Note: Thanks Bezzie and Dragenphly, for reviewing! I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Fourteen

Transition

Harry walked around the end of the bed. He unwrapped his arms from around himself and yawned. Well, Draco was on his bed. It wasn't a big deal. He had his own covers. It was cold, so it was probably a good thing he had brought them, anyway. If Draco ended up crashing in his room, if he was too tired and lazy to head back to his room by whatever time they were done talking or brainstorming, Harry wouldn't mind. He groaned, under his breath, as he placed his hands down over his own comforters and pushed upward. He lifted himself up onto the covers and then fell back into them, so he was left staring up at the dark canopy of the bed in the dim room. His bed was like a cloud. The comforters were so heavenly, and his body sunk into them, creating the very most perfect, relaxing sensation in the world. He sat up on his elbows, however, and looked toward his left, toward the bundle of Draco. He could only see a bright head sticking out from under a dark comforter at the foot of the bed, "You all right?"

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows, again, staring down at his pillows, "Who did you mean?"

Harry pulled himself all of the way up and wrapped his arms around his inclined knees, "Clive."

Draco spun around and sat up so fast that the covers didn't have a chance in restraining him, "What, Clive?" That was impossible. Not only was it impossible, but... but... it was Clive! Clive was amazing-looking, and he and Draco had been friends for quite some while, but Draco had never seen Clive take interest in him other than in the way of a friendship. He stared at the figure sitting diagonal of him, who was just giving him this look of doubt and skepticism. It was a look that Draco didn't think was very appropriate for the situation, so he quickly defended himself. "He's straight."

"Draco, you and I claim to be straight to the world, but look at the situations we get ourselves into."

Draco had not expected, ever, to hear that sort of response from Harry, "Yes, but, we are profoundly different, and to compare what we have to what we have with anyone else is just... pointless." Harry shrugged. "He's... Clive."

"That whole fight you shared started because he was jealous. There is no other reason he would have reacted as he had. He was mad at me, and I'd never even met him. If he was glaring at me, glaring at you, picking a fight with you over me, if I assume correctly—what else can be concluded? He's into you that way." He didn't see the option any other way. He saw what he saw, and he was amazed that Draco hadn't seen it! Draco seemed very keen on sensing others' feelings, but, perhaps he was immune to pinpointing such emotions when they were directed at him.

Draco was frowning. How could he not have seen that? He sighed, again, though, and growled, "But, he has a girlfriend!"

Harry didn't take Draco's exclamation with much regard, "Well, he likes you, Draco. You have that effect on the male species. The whole of Hogwarts would probably agree. Maybe he's not straight, and maybe he's not gay. Maybe he's somewhere in the middle."

"Are you cold?"

Harry, who was very tired, blankly gave Draco a stony face, confused as to the topic change.

Draco motioned to the end of his comforter, "It's big, plenty of room. You don't have to mess with your covers, yet.

Harry shrugged and pulled part of the dark blanket up over his knees, "Why don't you come up here?"

"I didn't think you'd want me on your bed, much less laying on your pillows."

Harry fell back into his pillows, mentally laughing. He stretched his arms out above his head and extended his fingertips up into the dark abyss of heavy curtain. When he felt the bed move, he dropped his arms down to his face and rubbed over it, his fingertips taking lead to his temples, to rid of the unwanted pain that brewed there. He needed to sleep—and, Draco looked as if he were not as ready for talkative conversation that the moment had suggest. He dropped his hands when the movement on the bed stopped, and his face fell to his right shoulder, and he was staring, eye to eye, with a good foot of distance, with a pair of steely, light eyes. His eyes examined the mess of hair on Draco's head, and he figured that Draco had moved under his comforter instead of over it. He snorted, but looked away, because Draco was already seeing to it that his hair was smoothed down with his hands, "I never picked up the new tray of coffee."

"We weren't going to drink it, anyway."

Harry grinned, his eyes fluttering to a close. He took in the moment and the silence. His body was very ready to fall asleep. Plus, the room was very chilly, and that felt nice, beneath the comforters. It made him want to bury himself in the covers and sink into a dark slumber. He thought he rather deserved a nice, full sleep, after the night he had experienced. His eyelashes began to tap together, and he looked up at the canopy, his attention hesitantly switching back to the reason the night had taken its informative turn, "Earlier, you mentioned Gringotts?"

Draco sunk down next to Harry, so their shoulders were even, and he stared up at the canopy, "I have to sign some paperwork for your belongings," he quietly returned, and let his right cheek meet his own pillow, which he had fluffed down behind him. A pair of dark eyes were looking back at him, with expressive emotion. "I'm not going to have them move your things. I'm going to keep your parents vault, so when you're back, nothing will have changed."

Harry mumbled something about a thanks, but it was so low that neither truly made it out.

Draco just took in the features he was free to examine and explore with his eyes, "We were talking about where memories could exist. I figure there is no better place for your parents to have put their important belongings than in their vault. Maybe there's something there, some information that will point us in the right direction—fuck, any bloody direction."

Harry gave a lone nod, "If there is information, we'll find it."

"Oh, lovely. We can spend the day, tomorrow, sitting amongst galleons in a dungeon."

Harry laughed, under his breath, at the true joy in Draco's voice. He finally turned his eyes away from resting above Draco's head on the pillow. He didn't want to indulge in staring at Draco, not yet. There were far too many feelings and questions open to Harry's mind. He was far too vulnerable to go about wanting to look back at Draco just how he wanted to. He had things on his mind—he was even becoming hesitant about falling asleep, for fear he'd end up in dream-state, again, and something horrible would happen. He sighed, however, and just tossed his attention, fully, onto the iridescent skin of Draco's face. It was the right place to look, because his eyes landed on Draco's, and he remembered that he was not alone in what he was feeling and what was plaguing at his nerves. His mind became silent, and he began to smile, at ease, "Your natural preference of a place to be, Malfoy?"

"Yes, but I'm rather fond of your bed, and this might be my new natural preference."

Harry laughed, harder and louder, "Do realize I'm not opposed to kicking you out."

Draco turned on his side, facing Harry, a couple of minutes later. They had been laying in complete silence, both staring up above them, both lost in their own thoughts. And, the covers were very warm, and the room was very cold. It was perfect, at least for Draco. The temperature that was created, between his covered body and his exposed head and one shoulder, was just right.

Harry peeked at him, and then frowned, deeply. Draco's expression was serious, "A knut for your troubled thoughts?"

Draco's eyebrows lifted, and then he smirked.

Harry laughed at the automated, perfected reaction, "Okay. Fine, then. A galleon?"

"A kiss and you have yourself a deal." Therefore, there would be no sharing of Draco's troubled thoughts.

Harry smiled, looking up at the canopy top, again. He didn't make any sudden movements as to make Draco defensive. He had wondered, as they were laying there, if Draco had fallen to sleep, but he had his answer. He felt unsure of what to say to Draco. He wanted to ask if something was wrong, and he wanted Draco to tell him. But, there were many things wrong in both of their lives, so there must have been something particular making Draco's eyebrows furrow and stitch.

Harry turned on his side, a second or so later, and he pulled Draco's blanket up over his right shoulder. The comforter smelled like Draco. It smelled of something sweet and something cool. He didn't know what it smelled like. He just knew it smelled good and natural. He snuck his fingertips up to his mouth, as he covered it with the comforter, hurriedly kissed his fingertips and then reached out to Draco's face and pressed them against Draco's warm, unsuspecting cheek, with a smirk.

Draco hadn't had time to struggle. But, his face did fall, as Harry's hand withdrew, "That doesn't count."

"I have the upper hand, because you gave it to me, which means I get to rule. I say it counts."

"I say you're an arse, and goodnight to you."

Harry turned his back to Draco, pulled his wand from his pocketed and muttered, "Lumos Silencia."

Draco fell onto his belly, beneath his comforter, and stuffed his hands under his two pillows and the pillows that sat further up on the head of the bed. His back arched, his toes stretched, and he yawned into the pillow. Potter hadn't kicked him out. He smiled, softly, to himself, when he rested his head down. He almost went to say something, but decided against it. He thought about the body to his left, and his face shyly snuggled out of its straight-on position against the center of his cool pillow. His eyes latched onto the back of the dark head opposite of him, and he smiled even harder. With a mental groan, he made himself pull his eyes away and dove right back into the comfort of his pillow to keep from mumbling, murmuring and beginning to talk gibberish. He was far too thrilled to be unrestrained and able to make noise—noises which Harry would immediately question.

Harry looked over his shoulder, suddenly, "Did you say something?"

Draco pulled his head up, "What? No, of course not."

Harry stared, extremely interested, as Draco's face flooded with amusement, and then collided back with his pillow. His own left eyebrow hooked up, and he questioned, "Malfoy...?"

Draco pulled the comforter up over the back of his head, smiling too hard to be able to mask it, "I didn't say anything."

Harry's eyes narrowed in the dark, in a friendly way, but he carefully turned his face away and rested his cheek.

At some point during the night, Draco woke and drowsily saw that Harry was facing him. It made his heart ache.

It was sometime later that Draco felt himself fall from his dreams and land in a fully-alive body into a dark tunnel. He immediately turned around to see that he was back in the hallway he had been in earlier that night, and he was alone. When he turned back to face the open end of the hallway that lingered out in front of him, he threw himself back against the wall and covered his heart, because a man had stepped out from the darkest corner beside him. It was Lucius, and Draco went to say something, but Lucius grabbed a hold of his upper arms, strongly, gripped them as hard as he could, as if to make it very clear to Draco that he was in dream-state, and he dipped his head, stared into Draco's eyes and, just over a whisper, breathed, "They're on their way to the manor, the whole lot of them, and by now, they're close. They've been blowing things up all night to get attention—especially Cornwell's. Get everyone out, go somewhere they won't expect, anywhere—and, make sure Harry's bookcase is with you, along with anything that he might have been writing in or using. Go, now."

Draco went to take a deep breath, and a second later, as his eyes flew into an open terror, he inhaled. He pushed himself up, onto his knees, and immediately threw back the comforters from over him. The freezing room shocked his warm body for a good second before he went to shake Harry. But, Harry, probably having awoken at the sudden disappearance of the warmth around him, was drowsily looking over his shoulder, as if for an answer. But, he sat right up, immediately, on his hands, "Death Eaters. Manor—make sure everything you've written in is put back in the case—that journal thing you write in—run down to the servants quarters, gather the house-elves and come right back here with them—all of them."

Both of them were already off of the bed and hurrying toward the door, stumbling to do so.

"Number twelve, Grimmauld place—the Black Estate, Order Headquarters. We'll go there, have you got it?" Harry demanded, over Draco's shoulder.

When Draco threw the door open, with a strong "Yes!"

Harry ran toward the left, and Draco ran toward the right.

Draco had never run so fast in his entire life, and he was sure of it. His feet pounded down the wooden hallways of each and every hallway and stair he had to, his heels taking sharp pressures of collision because of doing so. His strides were long, and his blood was pounding like thunder in his veins, and he was able to hear it in his head. He felt like the Death Eaters would burst into the quiet, peaceful manor at any moment, and that scared him to death. He had his mother, father and brother and family of house elves, that he had grown up with, in the manor. And, with the exception of Cornwell, everyone else was innocent to the situation—innocent to the capture and possible torture of frustrated, hungry death eaters, who were, no doubtedly, looking for Cornwell, and because Voldemort now knew of Draco and Cornwell's fully relation-knowing relationship, he also must have realized where Cornwell had been staying, and there was no doubt that Voldemort wanted Cornwell.

What he wanted to do with Cornwell, Draco didn't know. He just knew that it was bad.

Draco first got to his mother's room. He slammed his body into the door as he turned the knob, as to not waste time with the unnecessary art of turning the doorknob, calmly and without force, to open the door. The door gave way, and it burst open. The knob hit the wall with a bang, which succeeded in making his mother jump out of her sleep from a couch she was sitting on, snuggled up, in front of a fire, in the cold, very-air-conditioned room, with a book in her hands. She screamed, her hand over her heart as she threw the book with the other. He could see her, with the hallway light behind him, but he knew she could only see his shadow. He hurried to her, "You have to get up—right now—death eaters are on the way in."

Narcissa just stared at him before her eyes widened, in obvious horror, "What!"

Draco just motioned toward the door with his hands, "Death eaters! NOW! We have to get to Cornwell and Dickie." She no longer seemed to be processing the shock, because she hurriedly pushed away her blanket and jumped onto her feet, still dressed in the black pants-suit he had seen her in earlier in the day. He hurried out of the room, leaving her to follow him. And, when he looked over his shoulder, at a run, she was already rushing after him, looking horrified and terrified at the same time. He let her catch up, which only took about two seconds, and she led the way for Cornwell's previously unused wing of the house, which Draco hoped Cornwell was sleeping instead of sitting in a lounge, library or other room, somewhere, where Draco wouldn't have been able to find him very quickly.

Draco took the lead toward Cornwell's wing, and his mother kept up very well. He kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still with him, and she was. She was rather fast, actually, and Draco realized that he hadn't seen his mother run since he had been about six years old. And, as they reached Cornwell's wing, his mother was nearly crying, and the word "Dickie" and "little one" kept tumbling out of her mouth. Draco only heard her words through the tiny spaces of time when his own blood-pounding was not hounding over his brain and ability to hear.

Draco pointed at Dickie's door, but his mother was already hurrying down the hallway. He turned his attention away and ran toward Cornwell's door, to the left. He had a bad feeling. As he turned the doorknob, he groaned. All of the candles were still brightly lit, and his bed was perfectly made. Pissed off and feeling ridiculously anxious as to the whereabouts of his father, Draco spun out of the room in a pivot on his right foot, and he hurriedly began running from door to door, and, at last, he just screamed, "CORNWELL?"

When nothing returned his voice, Draco grasped the top of his head and turned around, just in time to see his mother hurrying out of Dickie's room. And, Dickie was sound asleep on her shoulder, in a pair of white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt. He looked peaceful, but the woman holding him looked very panicked and desperate, and she looked beside Draco, as if for Cornwell, but Draco shook his head, to his own miserable fate. He had to find Cornwell. "Go to Harry's—Judas's—room. Don't stop running—and, once you're there, don't MOVE. If Judas isn't there, stay put. He'll be there soon enough. Do you understand me, mum?" Draco asked and grasped her upper arms, as Lucius had done to his own.

Narcissa blinked, "Yes, but—did you say Harry?"

Draco let go of her arms, "No, I said hurry." It wasn't too far-fetched, actually. She said nothing else to him. She just turned and ran out of the room, without saying anything else back to him or questioning his safety or plans. This left him alone in the wing, stabilized and silent. He turned around and started straight for the end of the hallway, breathing deeply to prepare for what might come before him on his search of the estate. Cornwell could have been anywhere.

When he reached the wall, he pressed his wand against it, hard, and uttered the Malfoy code of arms.

The wall in front of him gave way and opened a tiny dark hole. He stepped in through it, heard the door close behind him, and then he swished his wand. The hallway lit before him. It was a hallway Draco hadn't been in since Cornwell had moved out. Draco had rarely set foot in Cornwell's wing, once he had left, because it had hurt too much. So, Draco had left everything preserved as memories rather than a continued part of his life. The hallway was narrow, dusty and led to a hugely narrow, extensive set of steps that led down onto the main-floor of the Malfoy estate and into one of the libraries—which was his best bet to get to Cornwell, secretly, in-case the death eaters entered the house, which would prove to be tricky in trying to get around without being seen.

When Draco entered the library, it was empty. He hurried back into the passageway through which he had entered, heard it seal behind him, and them he ran down the narrow walk-way for his next-best guess. He re-emerged, seconds later, in another empty room—his study. He jumped out, closed the open portrait through which he had entered, and then hurried toward his study door, in the dark room. He knew no one was in there, because he had set a spell on it, before he had set up for Harry's bedroom, earlier in the night. He had just done it out of paranoia, for no particular reason, but he was beginning to understand that he had reason to trust his instincts in ways he never had, before.

Draco hurried out of his door and closed it behind him, quietly. He ran down the hallway, opened the door to the next hallway, and instead of going straight, he turned right, into a lesser-used pathway, and he ran down it. It lead to Lucius's study, a library and random sitting rooms, plus the left-side gardens of the left wing of the house. It was a long hallway, but it passed very quickly. When he reached the end of this hallway, he peeked around the left corner, which led out into the grand entry room.

When he saw or heard nothing, he breathed, inside, with great relief, and he proceeded forward with careful footsteps. He didn't know why he did not run. Everything in his body, in his gut, wanted him to run, but his mind told him other wise. His mind told him that the entry hall was too bright and too silent, for the middle of the night, to be natural. He hurried down the wall, toward the end of it, carefully switching sides as he did so.

There, walking out of the dining hall, shirtless, with a sandwich of some sort, was Cornwell. With a huge sigh, Draco went to step out of the hallway, but as soon as his eyes poked out an inch further, he quivered. Every inch of his body shook. About forty death-eaters were standing, with their backs to him, about fifteen feet to the left side of his hallway. They were hidden behind the staircase, but could easily see Cornwell, whereas Cornwell could not see them.

Draco's entire body nearly burst into flames, and he felt like he was going to cry.

Cornwell was taking his merry old time toward the steps.

For a brief moment, he stopped, licked one of his fingertips and murmured a satisfactory sound, as if musing to himself.

Draco's eyes flickered and digressed onto the numerous amount of wand-gripped hands that were preparing to have their ways with his father. He wanted to do something! Anything! He wanted to scream! He wanted to yell! He wanted to—thank fucking God. Draco's eyes lifted up, at the last minute, to the grand banister above the staircases. To the right of the banister, in the dark, was a face peeking around. It was Harry.

Draco stepped out from beside the wall, because no one could have seen him, and he frantically waved.

Harry's eyes landed directly onto his own.

Draco pointed to the group of Death Eaters that Harry could not see, and he mouthed, "DEATH EATERS!" He flashed both of his hands up, four times, as if to suggest to Harry that there were forty of them. And, Harry immediately looked away and fixed his eyes onto an oblivious Cornwell, who was making his way toward the staircases. Unsure of what to do, and what was going to happen, Draco realized that they had to make the best out of their situation. He knew that Voldemort wanted Judas and himself. He knew that Voldemort wanted Cornwell, so no one would kill Cornwell, right there. They would seize him and flee, and with the massive amount of the death eaters that were present, it was clear that Voldemort had sent an army for a reason.

He seemed to suspect quite the bit of fighting from Cornwell, which would require several men and women.

Harry watched the helplessness wash over Draco's face, as their eyes locked, again. There was only one thing to do, with Harry in front of the Death Eaters, and Draco behind them, with Cornwell in between the whole lot of them. The end would justify the means. Harry blew breath out from his lips, sucked in his hesitance, fear and pure regret, and casually walked out from behind the wall, looking down over the banister, "Cornwell, there you are."

Cornwell stepped, about fifteen feet to the right of the stairs. He looked up, "Hello, Judas. What can I help you with?"

Harry hurried along the length of the banister, staring very hard at Cornwell, "Is that a sandwich? I'd love a sandwich."

Cornwell's eyebrows furrowed as Harry hesitantly began to walk down the steps, "It is a sandwich."

Draco could nearly see the ideas popping up in front of the Death Eater's eyes—if they brought Judas and Cornwell, both, to Voldemort, it would be a double-deal. They would be praised. They would be celebrated. They would have killed two birds with one stone. But, knowing to not yet do anything, Draco began taking very careful steps out of the hallway. He was glad he wasn't wearing socks or slippers, as he was scared to death to make a sound—in fact, if someone turned around, just for the sake of it, to keep watch, he would be doomed and screwed, but he figured he was doomed either way. If they took Cornwell, Draco would never, ever forgive himself. It was a lose-lose situation, but it was also a win-win situation—a win-win situation that Draco wanted to take a risk on making sure happened.

Harry walked on the left side of the stair-case, staring at Cornwell, right back, "I don't know how to make sandwiches."

Cornwell stopped chewing. He blinked, "Don't you, then? Come on, I'll teach you."

Harry swallowed as he reached the bottom step. He didn't turn his back to the staircase. Instead, he looked right to his right, as if he did not see anything out of the ordinary, and he pointed at a painting on the wall, hanging grandly and innocently, "You know, that's my favorite painting in the estate." And, knowing that all of the death eaters would have had to duck down for their own safety, Harry snapped his head back to Cornwell and mouthed, "DEATH EATERS!" But, Cornwell had already, apparently, known, because he did not look around for anything suspicious, but rather held his sandwich up as he took a giant stride to get to Harry.

Harry realized Cornwell had picked up on the flaws of the moment when Harry had said he didn't know how to make sandwiches.

As if right on cue, Draco slammed the front door to a close in such a furious bang that the room shook.

The distraction caused the death-eaters to divert their attention to the doorway and become discombobulated.

Harry grabbed onto Cornwell's shoulder and watched Draco disappear about a millisecond before they did.

But, that millisecond appeared entirely too hesitant of a departure, and as they disapparated, the pressure of a spell shot at Cornwell collided with Cornwell's chest and into Harry. And, as they disappeared into the time and space of the universe, the weight in Harry's arms became dead and paralyzed, and when he landed, seconds later, on the black marble entry-room of number twelve, Grimmauld place, he was on his knees with his arms wrapped under the arms of Cornwell, who was sprawled out on the floor, lifelessly, with closed eyes.

There was no need for Harry to call for help, because help had been waiting.

A massive amount of Order members swallowed down the space above Cornwell, in a giant circle. They had been waiting when they had appeared in the room, and Harry knew it was because Narcissa Malfoy had told them to be prepared. He had run back to his bedroom, at the Malfoy estate, with the whole group of house-elves. And, when he had arrived, Narcissa and Dickie had been waiting. She had told him that Draco had gone off looking for Cornwell, so Harry had told her to apparate everyone, and his bookcase, to Grimmauld Place, the Order Headquarters. It was the only place he knew was safe, even though he was sure only a hundredth of the members at the Order knew who he was, or why he would know to apparate to number twelve Grimmauld place in the first place.

But, it seemed that everyone in the room knew exactly who the man was on the floor.

"Bloody hell, it is him," hissed a medi-wizard. "Set his head down. He'll be okay."

Harry carefully pulled himself back, on his knees, and lowered Cornwell's upper body down onto the floor, trusting the men and women around him to be right—amongst those men and women, Remus, Tonks and a very weary, tired-looking Dumbledore. His attention diverted from the group, however, when a pair of hands appeared, from his left. It was Draco. And, it was Draco who leaned in, beside Harry, as Harry let go of Cornwell's arms and shoulders, who placed his hands under the dark head and slowly lowered it down onto the hard, cold floor that they were all kneeling on, with the exception of a few.

Draco leaned down over his father's face, upside down, and silently stared.

Harry glanced at Draco, and then at Dumbledore, hesitantly.

Albus was still wearing his night-cap, but appeared very alert. He returned Harry's expression.

Harry looked back at Draco, "He'll be fine."

Draco lifted his spine. He sat back on his heels, without looking at Harry. He knew Cornwell would be fine, but that didn't mean that he wasn't worried or scared. Cornwell's body was still warm, that Draco had felt, and he looked just as healthy and aglow as ever, which was good news for Draco. But, he didn't like just sitting there watching the medi-wizards playing with tools on his father that they didn't need to be using, when Draco already knew what was wrong. He rolled his eyes and looked at Harry, finally, who looked back at him with curiously suspicious eyes. "You know, Cornwell, I don't know how to make sandwiches! Teach me how, won't you? You were practically drooling over him."

Harry began to laugh, loudly, "What! What would you have done, then, genius? It worked, didn't it!--I do not drool."

"But, sandwiches? Who doesn't know how to make sandwiches! It was a giveaway—and, you were drooling."

"You know, Malfoy, if I wasn't so in love with you, I might hit you."

Draco smirked before looking back down at his father, "Though, I must say, he is very good-looking—fit, too."

"Look at you, partaking in family dysfunction."

Draco paled. He turned to Harry, immediately, who was looking at him with widened, challenging eyes. Oh, it was a total boundary. And, while the rest of the wizards went on examining Cornwell, Draco didn't realize that he and Harry were probably being watched, as well. Only Dumbledore knew that "Judas" was Harry, so it was only Dumbledore who would not have been stunned by why the Malfoy family, plus Judas Cliffdale, had apparated into Order headquarters—yet, they had not made anyone leave, it seemed. But, none of that mattered, because Draco lunged at Harry, but halfway into the lunge, it turned into a hug, and when they landed, ungracefully, they were both laughing, and Draco clutched onto Harry like a leech while Harry thrashed to get away from him, cracking up and snorting with laughter, "For that, I will scar you for the rest of your miserable, brooding life with a humiliating kiss."

"Scar me! I rather enjoy your little hugs by now. And, like I said, you keep your mouth three feet away from me!"

Draco glared, as he pushed himself up, over Harry, with his arms, "You were drooling, and so was everyone else."

"You know," Harry returned, as he sat up on his butt and pulled his knees up, "he's not bad-looking, Malfoy. At all."

"You're already admittedly in love with my looks, so you couldn't not find him attractive."

Harry snorted, "You're a bastard, you know, though I still love you—well, like you—or, deal with you. Well, tolerate you."

"Yeah, that's what you were saying last night—did I say saying? I meant feeling! No, I meant visualizing!"

A throat cleared.

It was at that very interval that Draco and Harry realized that the room had since become silent, slowly. Perhaps they had figured the room had begun to clear, but it hadn't. The whole entire group, including a sitting Cornwell, who had his arms wrapped around his knees, loosely, was staring at them, with opened mouths, confused eyes, amusement and bewilderment. But, the person who looked the most anything, out of all of them, was Cornwell, whose eyebrows were so high on his head, and his forehead was so wrinkled, that they might have disappeared into his messy, dark hair. His mouth was twisted, his eyes were darkly doting on them, his cheeks were sucked in, and he gave them one very long, expressive, quizzical, all-too-emotional, breath-catching eye lock. His eyes and eyelashes were so large and dark, so expressive, that it seemed he was the most important person to look to—and, perhaps, he was.

Draco itched at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at Harry.

Harry was staring back at him, but then he rubbed his cheek down onto his shoulder, incredibly embarrassed.

Draco looked away from everyone. When he had passed Cornwell, with his eyes, he had remembered the events of the night before. He had remembered how little he had known about Cornwell, and how much he hurt over it. His destiny had been written out before he had had a choice to decide, and both of his paths, apparently, led him back to Voldemort, somehow. He was intertwined with Voldemort from both of his fathers, and it killed him. He hadn't realized the emotion that looking at Cornwell would have brought to his body. He suddenly felt broken. He felt furious, helpless and empty, even though the room was filled with his favorite people, in the world. His eyes flickered from the ground and back to Harry. He pushed himself up, "Come on, Cliffdale, show me where I sleep."

"How would he know?" Questioned Remus Lupin.

Draco looked at him, blankly, and then back to Harry, who gave him a strong warning glare, "Because he knows."

Harry lifted both of his hands into the air as Draco offered his hand down, carelessly, and he grasped Draco's one hand with both of his own. It was not hard to see what had happened when Draco had last looked at Cornwell. And, perhaps no one else had noticed, and if they had, they would have had no idea of the extent of the emotion that had flickered over Draco's face for a brief moment, and the look of complete and utter heartbreak as Cornwell looked away from him and to a standing Lucius Malfoy, who had been standing beside Dumbledore the whole entire time.

Draco pulled Harry up.

"Draco, are you feeling all right?" Narcissa quietly asked, from her knees beside Cornwell.

Draco looked at her, and then Cornwell, and then he looked at Harry, with even more deadened eyes.

Harry grimaced as Draco began to count, quietly, backward, and he turned his back to the entire group and started for the staircase that his eyes had landed on, and he had absolutely no idea where he was going. Draco appeared to be on the verge of a meltdown, and Harry didn't blame him for just wanting to get away from everyone in the room, so he could relax himself. There were far too many issues in one room for him to handle at one time—especially around a group of people he, nor Harry, knew.

As Draco passed Dumbledore, he openly glared and scowled.

"Draco," hissed Narcissa, at his expression, who had stood up, her face very upset.

Albus did not glare back, just gave a goofy, helpless glimmer of a grin, "Sleep well."

Harry clasped his hand over his forehead and leaned back, heavily, against a wall to watch the inevitable begin. Oh, Dumbledore, bad timing.

Draco stopped, abruptly, and he heard Harry choke a cough from a distance. Sleep well? Draco spun around on his right foot, from in front of the stairs, and he stormed back toward the group of men and women. As he did so, Cornwell stood up, with the help of Lucius—who Draco had not even realized was in the room, because he had not been paying full attention—and another wizard who Draco did not know. He walked toward Harry, who was frowning and rubbing his hands over his face, obviously stressed, "Come on, Judas. We'll go get some rest—oh, that's right, we CAN'T." He turned from Harry and stared, horribly, at Cornwell.

Cornwell's eyes filled with despair, and he stepped forward, blindly.

"You're damn right. You can't get rest until you've told us what happened!" Insisted a nameless Order member.

Draco looked at him, and then at Harry.

Harry shook his head, seriously, "Save it for tomorrow. It needs more time to settle."

"What needs more time to settle?" Asked a woman, crossly, apparently in a very pissy mood.

"Like you don't know," Draco spat, viciously, turning to accuse everyone, again. "I bet you all know what I don't—"

"Well, Draco and I are going to go find somewhere to, um, rest," Harry interrupted, at last. He stepped off from the wall and grasped his hand over Draco's mouth. Draco did not struggle with him, so Harry dropped his hand and gave Draco a very hard, obvious shove toward the stairs. He knew people saw it, because they immediately looked at him as if there were something wrong with him, but Harry ignored them. He followed Draco toward the stairs, and when he caught up with him, he pressed his right shoulder behind Draco's left. "Don't say anything stupid in front of people you don't even know."

"They all know Cornwell better than I do. They all know why Cornwell is Cornwell."

"You know that isn't true—they don't know him better, and I'm sure none of them know why he is who he is."

Harry glanced over his right shoulder and gave an easy smile to the group, sheepish. But, they were all waiting. None of them seemed intent on letting Harry shove Draco up the stairs without their answers—answers they rightly deserved, as the Order, but Harry was put in a difficult position. On one hand, the Order needed information, but on the other hand, Draco was easily the most important person in his life, anymore, and having Draco start slashing everyone around him with verbal whippings and screaming matches didn't seem like the best way to spend the night if the night could have prevented it from doing such and given Draco more time to calm down.

A couple of wizards started insisting that they not move, that they turn around and tell them what had happened.

Draco turned around, finally. His eyes fixed on Harry. He shrugged his shoulders up and sunk his hands into his pajama-pants pockets. Harry's eyes were so very protective, so very hesitant. It was a good feeling, that Harry was just as concerned about Draco as Draco was concerned about himself. This made Draco laugh, quietly, and he gave Harry a sheepish, embarrassed grin, ashamed of his temper. The members of the Order wanted information, and he knew that they should have had it—but, could Draco control himself? Perhaps, "I'm okay."

Harry looked, hesitantly, back at the lot of adults in the not-so-far distance, "Just concentrate on what they ask."

Draco squinted, staring at Harry's cheek, "Lucius and Dumbledore undoubtedly know. Maybe Lupin, too."

Harry examined Dumbledore, carefully, who was watching between them with curious eyes, "You're right."

Draco sighed. He put aside the idea of sleep, of rest and peaceful nothingness, for the night. He backed away from Harry a bit and motioned his head back to the group of adults. In the very front was his father and mother—Lucius and Narcissa, and his mother was so tightly clinging to his father's arm, and Lucius looked just so smitten with her—so much more smitten than Draco had seen him in years. For a second, he was stunned, and then awed, and then he felt something that resembled a twinge of happiness spark inside him. He started for them, and he saw that Harry was trailing him in the mirror, but his eyes were taking in the house they were in—it was a look of love and peace. It might have also been the reason why Harry had been so quiet, and not just by way of his voice. He seemed different, there, in the house. It was, after all, his house. It was where he had spent most of his free time in the last two years, that Draco had known about, and Harry had told him so.

A few minutes later, the group moved into a room. The center of the room was a very long, elegant, dark table, and around it were matching chairs, and on the table were piles of notes and notebooks, in front of each chair-space, along with cups and random wrappers for things—like chocolate. There were even a few empty Butterbeer bottles lingering, and two cups of still-steaming coffee sat in front of two of the seven empty, clean spaces at the table. The group took their seats, each one claiming a chair that already belonged to their possessions.

Harry sat down next to Draco and glanced at him, "Nice place."

Draco couldn't help but give a small smile, feeling for Harry, "You know, I'll own it in about seven hours."

Harry chuckled. He looked down at his hands, on the table. They were folded, and they only wanted to be. He was very tired. He really hadn't had very much sleep in the prior nights, and that very night before had just been restless and annoying. He lifted his eyes and found that Cornwell was staring, deeply, at Draco, across from him, resigned in his seat and his posture. He seemed very put off by Draco's reluctance to look at him, or even acknowledge him. His fingers were tapping, distractedly, on the table, but he did not pull his eyes from Draco.

"There's something you should probably know before they tell you what happened."

Draco's eyes lifted from the tabletop, and he felt his heart grow very warm at the sound of Lucius's voice—of Lucius, in general.

Lucius was, however, looking at Dumbledore.

Naturally, Draco did, too.

But, Harry's eyes slanted between Lucius and Cornwell. Lucius was directly avoiding looking at Cornwell.

"I love my son very much, Dumbledore."

Draco's heart glowed, and he looked at Harry.

Harry, amused, looked back at the impressed young-man next to him, but then back to Lucius, as Draco did.

"What'd you do, Malfoy?" Spat a random Order member, who apparently did not like having to listen to Lucius speak.

Lucius's expression flickered from genuine sincerity to extreme distaste. He looked the man over, simply, sneered as if it were nothing, in front of the entire table, and then looked back at Dumbledore. But, he looked to Cornwell, and then Draco, and then back to Dumbledore, with a very hesitant sigh of displeasure for having to admit what he did, "I brought them into dream-state with me."

Draco's stomach felt like it had been punched. Lucius hadn't been supposed to do that?

The admission brought about silence in the room.

Harry looked at Dumbledore, who simply looked at Cornwell. Harry's eyes followed.

Cornwell had stopped tapping his fingertips. He was, instead, staring across the table at Draco. But, he didn't seem to realize he was staring at Draco. He lifted his chin, sat straight up in his chair and leaned over the table and in toward Lucius's direction. He jaw clenched, noticeably, his teeth clenched together, and he whispered, rather than spoke, "You did what?"

Draco and Harry exchanged glances.

Lucius's eyes moved from Dumbledore to Cornwell, and they stuck, hard, "I took my son into dream-state with me."

The words seemed to infuriate Cornwell, and when Draco saw, he felt a rip in his stomach—it was something he had never felt before. He had never heard Cornwell and Lucius fight over him. He had known they argued about Draco's life choices, especially in the year before Cornwell had left, but they had never argued over the "my son" part in front of Draco, and Draco began to wonder if they ever had, before that moment. To anyone else listening, aside from Harry, Cornwell, Lucius and his mother, no one knew what the underlying message to Cornwell was.

Cornwell looked at Draco, blankly, and then back to Lucius, "You took your son into dream-state, Lucius?"

"Yes, and, apparently, I'm the only one of you who has the girth enough to tell him what he needs to know."

"Lucius, we don't even know what it is that he needs to know," Dumbledore spoke, very deeply and seriously, across the table.

Draco spewed hot air out from between his lips. He looked at Harry, who wasn't even paying attention. Really, it was amazing. Harry's attention seemed to be a million miles away, and those miles away was where his thoughts were, because they certainly weren't in the room. He was probably following the conversation, but didn't seem to be putting much thought into what anyone was saying. Annoyed with everyone, Draco spoke up, "Look, it's not what I need to know about anything. That's not what the issue is. It's what our friend-in-disguise needs to know." Meaning Harry, of course. His eyes flickered from Dumbledore to Cornwell to Lucius, and then back to Dumbledore. "I don't know why you've held back from him what you have, and, frankly, I don't know why he's not the angry one, but it makes me angry, because if you'd have told him what you ALL knew—an important PIECE of his life—of his parent's life, you might have spared him all of the SHIT he didn't need to go through."

Harry looked up at the ceiling, innocently, and then back to Draco.

The room was silent, once more.

Draco looked at Cornwell, "If my father hadn't taken us, I never would have learned about you what I have."

Cornwell's eyes narrowed at Draco, "What are you talking about? What, exactly, is it that you have learned about me, Draco?"

"Naturally, nothing. I know as little about you, now, as I ever have."

Cornwell sat back, silently, and looked at Lucius.

Though Cornwell expertly tried to cover up his reaction, Harry could see that Cornwell was furious beneath his mask of coolness. He was hurt. He was angered. He even did something with his mouth that Harry decided he had seen Draco do, before, when attempting to silence the splurge of information he shouldn't have. He turned his eyes away from Draco, and set them, like a fire, burning in the path of Lucius, who looked as hesitant as Harry had ever seen him look—which was never, "What did he hear, Lucius?"

"Why don't you just ask me what I've heard? You threw me into a destiny, didn't you, Cornwell? Treat me with a little more respect, would you?" Draco snapped, and, this time, he didn't go to look away when Cornwell's eyes cautiously settled back upon his own. But, Cornwell was not expressive with emotion. His face did not waver. He did not hide a thing, nor did he share a thing. He appeared very indifferent as to where Draco was concerned—but, he had appeared somewhat alarmed when Draco had muttered the word "destiny" at him. "Lucius is the only person who has ever told me the truth—even the not so nice truths. But, you, you just lied and threw me away, and then I come to realize that you, too, are buddies with Voldemort, just like my father! I mean, it's bloody fitting, isn't it? You and Voldemort."

"Draco, don't," Lucius responded, before Draco could continue. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Draco just stared Cornwell down, "You must have had quite the relationship with him, Cornwell."

"What did you just say to me?"

Harry felt the blood rush out of his cheeks.

Cornwell had shoved a binder at Draco, hard, and it had collided with Draco's arms, so Draco jumped. But, he didn't step down, even as Cornwell pushed his chair back and stood up from his seat, with his eyebrows hooded, furiously, over his passionately, emotionally bleeding, lethal brown eyes. Draco, too, stood up, pushing his own chair back, furious over Cornwell pushing a binder at him, as if Draco had done something wrong, when Cornwell had been doing things wrong, to Draco, since before he was born! He clenched his fists, "I listened to him talk about you, you know. He sounded very pouty—didn't he, Judas?"

Harry opened his mouth, but it never closed.

Cornwell looked at Harry, and then at Draco, "Fine, Draco. Lord Voldemort and I have a past. A very volatile past."

Draco laughed, in disbelief, "Do you understand what you've done?" He nearly whispered, not even being able to fathom where the minds of the adults were, in the room. He knew perfectly well that Cornwell had hidden whatever he had for a reason, and he was a smart man, so he hadn't gone into keeping his identity silent without having given it obvious thought. And, sure, Cornwell had just blurted something out, just to do it, as if Draco would have been interested in hearing an admission rather than a denial or explanation. He stepped backward, resigning with a frustrated sigh. He was too tired to be dealing with Cornwell, right then. He should have listened to Harry. He should have just gone to sleep. He clasped his hands over the top of his head. "Whatever it is that you are, that you've never told me, has ended up writing out my life—and Potter's life. If you'd had told him—if any of you had told him—what Cornwell was—or is—or appears to have been—you could have saved his life. You could have spared me for what Voldemort wants from me. But, no, and why? Why?" He asked it, like it was a real question. Because, it was.

Draco saw the other adults look at each other, but Cornwell simply looked down, his thick, dark hair falling over his eyes and forehead, preventing Draco from examining the somewhat familiar features to his own.

"I just don't understand how any of you could withhold that sort of information. He wasn't a bloody toy, you know—he wasn't your bloody weapon. And, now, you throw us together, with one of us already dead, and you continue to not give us answers? Not even one answer? As to who Cornwell Black is? As to who charmed James Potter? As to who was James Potter's best friend? As to who Cornwell Black is to Voldemort? As to why Voldemort wants his grimy, bony fingers on me, because I have the blood of this man named Cornwell Black? I deserve an answer, Cornwell, if all else, because I am your son," Draco breathed, completely discombobulated. He pointed at Harry, helplessly, who had pushed his chair back and was standing up and walking toward the doors—it was clear he wasn't interested in dealing with anything more, that night. "And, that is Harry fucking Potter, who you all owe one astronomical fucking APOLOGY to, because most of you lot, of whom are carefully called regal and of the thinking, intellectual mind, have single-handedly murdered him by withholding information."

Liquid seeped out of silent, gaping mouths all over the table and the room.

Harry, at the door, just turned around and stared at Draco, not at all having been prepared. He paused, "I'm Judas Cliffdale."

"No, you're Harry Potter, in Judas Cliffdale's fucking body."

Harry blew a warm breath out of his lips and then pressed them together, clutching the doorknob, "I'm going to sleep."

"Yeah, good luck with that, Harry."

Harry watched Draco turn and exit a different door, with a slam. When he was gone, everyone was still staring at Harry, blankly, with the exception of Lucius and Dumbledore, who were looking at each other. Cornwell was staring at Harry, and Harry gave him a very cold, decisive stare back. Truth was, he had never seen it as Draco apparently did. He didn't think anyone had murdered him. But, they had withheld information—information that would have put together the puzzle. They had withheld it for a reason. This reason was unfathomable, "You know, I grew up really not caring for Draco. But, going by tonight, I can see how screwed up you are—twisted, for not thinking twice about telling me who you are—were—to the fight, and even to my father—and I wonder how screwed up I'd have been if my father were anything like you."

Rude and harsh, fine, but not uncalled for.

Cornwell turned his face away, completely, and pressed his nose into his shoulder.

"If I would have just died regularly, I would probably be with him right now."

If was such a heartbreaking word.

"Of course, nothing could be as simple as that. No. Your lack of information—really, I don't see any reason you could have withheld that IMPORTANT of a piece—to me, has brought me back in a different body—and, I didn't ask to be brought back. You brought me back without my permission, and here I am, again, trying to figure out how to bring Voldemort down, and I come to find out that you are the missing piece, Cornwell Black. And, I asked myself why no one had ever even told me about you, when everyone knew you were a dear friend of my father's. I still couldn't find an answer. I still can't. But, I'm not going to ask you for your answer, now. I'm going to go fall asleep—or try—if something else doesn't happen to me on the way up to my room, and, if by tomorrow morning, no one has told me who Cornwell Black is—or what he is—or what it has to do with Draco or Judas—I will take Draco with me, we will find Voldemort, and I will pledge myself, as Judas Cliffdale, to Voldemort, because, after all, I am no longer Harry Potter."

Dumbledore had finally turned around to him and begun to stare, as if he did not know Harry at all.

Cornwell had stood up, he, too, was just watching Harry, his mouth buried in his right hand. His gaze at Harry seemed far more progressive and in-depth than anyone else's, including Dumbledore's. Cornwell was the one person who could deliver the answers, directly, to Harry. He was the one who Harry wanted to hear it from, and they both knew it.

"I am Judas Cliffdale, with Harry Potter's powers—powers more powerful than Voldemort's, and any other nameless, faceless wizard. Harry Potter is already dead, and Voldemort already fulfilled his prophecy. My duties to my parents have far outweighed the benefits of anything in my life, seeing as how it got me killed. I see no reason to stay on the side of those who purposefully deny me and refuse to offer up information that is—was—essential to my life, to my fight. And, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Voldemort's stands, while harsh in action, are not so misplaced. What's a world without Harry Potter? It's just a world. What's the magical world without Harry Potter? Oh, it's not the same world. What's a world without muggles? It's no world. But, what's the magical world without muggles?" He paused, leaned forward, with a cruel grin, at Dumbledore, and then at Cornwell. "A perfect, magical world."

Dumbledore began to stand, and Harry had never seen or heard him so perturbed and insistent, "Harry—"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I am not Harry to you, anymore, my dear sir. Please, call me Judas, as you've made me."

This response received nothing from the room full of intelligent adults.

"Do not treat me like I am a child. My powers, at seventeen, far exceed the power in this room. It's true that I don't even know my own power, or how to use it, but I know it's there. This is the battle of MY life—not just the battle to get rid of Voldemort. It's not about the blood of wizards, anymore. It's about the fact that Harry Potter is dead, Voldemort has won, and there is a mix-matched human named Judas Cliffdale who will wait in the balance and decide who to side with." Naturally, he was only saying these things to shake them up, and he did it rather well. "I expect to be treated far better than I am—in fact, I am so powerful and so important to this fight, that the next person who pisses me off is going to get a nice tour of my foot in their arse—and, this is my house, by the way, and I'd appreciate it if you'd use saucers for your cups. That table is very old, and I don't want to see it ruined by cup rings."

Harry opened the double doors that were behind him and walked out through the center.

Draco stood, awkwardly, in front of Harry. He had been listening, in awe, the whole time, "Nicely done. I must say, it was a little dramatic, what, with you pretending you could ever pledge yourself to Voldemort, but I definitely bought it. I especially liked the part about telling Dumbledore to call you Judas, as you've made me—it was a nice touch."

Harry grinned at him, as Draco led him away from the doors and down a hallway. As soon as they were a good ten feet away from the doors, Harry jumped in front of Draco, enthralled with the whole entire night, "I think I scared myself a bit, Malfoy. I was spewing all of this stuff about not knowing which side to choose—and Voldemort's stances not being so off, and I think I began to believe it!" He gave a chomp down onto his bottom lip, as Draco laughed at him with enflamed, bright gray eyes. A second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, so he glanced down at it. But, then it wrapped around Harry's shoulders, and Harry choked on his breath.

Draco tilted his head, "Does being evil turn you on, Harry? Harry Potter? HARRY POTTER!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Draco's happy, excited exclamation into the hallways, "No. Like any other normal human being with a heart and conscience, I feel horrible."

Draco dropped his arm and followed Harry toward the stairs. He turned serious. He softened himself as best he could, and he found that he didn't have to try very hard, "You feel horrible?"

Harry sighed, his eyes feeling heavy with emotion. He just didn't know what to do with himself, anymore. He knew he could only trust Draco, truly. That was not a problem. The problem existed in the fact that he was supposed to bring Voldemort down to his knees—he was the one who had to do it—and the people around him, who he had always trusted, had HELD the ONLY information back from Harry that could have helped him fight. It hurt. It hurt so bad that it burned. He wished he had his parents there. He wished he hadn't been him. He wished he had been a normal, wizard child, whose parents sent him off to school and adored him when he was home. He wanted that so badly. He wanted a father-figure in his life. He wanted SOMEONE in his life. He was so empty, inside, and it was so much more empty than it had ever been.

Harry sat down on the fifth stair from the bottom, "I shouldn't have scolded Cornwell. I don't even know him. He's not stupid. There must be a reason he never told... well... it's not really his fault, is it? I am truly angry with Dumbledore, though. He should have told me about Cornwell." He sighed with a pause, his forehead wrinkling so intensely that it hurt. "I just don't understand what I did to deserve this life—I don't. I don't, Draco. Tell me, Draco, what did I do? Why am I sitting on this step, in a different body, defying the laws of physics, wanting nothing more to go to the top of the roof and throw myself off of it? I do. I really, really want to."

Draco sat down beside him, "Harry," he murmured, and he lifted his right arm from resting on his thigh. He moved it back behind Harry, as he slouched over and buried his face into hands. It was a very real, raw moment. Draco hadn't ever seen Harry like he was, at that very second, crying into his hands and talking in such a barely-there way. He stayed audible, which just made Draco realize that Harry was at the point where he was so crushed, ruined and confused that he knew it was pointless to cry hysterically—which meant he was crying out of hopelessness. He rubbed his hand over Harry's upper back, and leaned down to Harry's shoulder, too. "Harry, I tell you I love you—teasingly—but... I really do. I love you like a best friend—you are my best friend—my only, and first, ever, best anything. Because you are the best of everything, to me. Your... your life has been more difficult than I could even begin to imagine, but you're still here for a reason. It hasn't a thing to do with Dumbledore and his physics-plays or his risky potions and spells. You know you want to bring Voldemort down, Harry, because it will feel good—and, when it's all done with, you're still going to be the same person."

Harry gave a sad moan into his hands, as he cried, "Great, an empty, lonely, bitter—"

"No, Harry. Your life will change, eventually, but I'll be with you, whether that matters or not. I'm not going to let you feel this lonely forever. I know nothing can fill up the holes in your heart, I do, and I know you don't think you'll ever feel happy, but you will feel happy, again. When Voldemort is gone, and Hogwarts is over, you're going to have your whole life ahead of you, and if you don't want to be the Harry Potter that the world sees, because people will treat you differently, there are plenty of things you can do for the world to see you as someone else—but, I'll still see you as you, Harry, because I already do see you, even though you're someone else." He rubbed the back of Harry's neck with his thumb, gently, looking down the tear-stained cheek not far from his own. "Besides, I'm sure you'll find a wife—a loving one—and, you'll have lots of little ones to run around and distract you. You can bring them over, and they can play with my cats."

Harry coughed, through his cries, a surprised hiccup of a laugh.

Draco smiled and pressed his nose against the back of Harry's shoulder. God, he smelled good, "You're going to be all right, Potter."

"Sorry," Harry cried, into his hands, again, about everything.

Draco rubbed down Harry's back, gently, in circular motions, taking his time, "Come on, Potter. It has been a very dramatic day—one I'd like to forget, and soon. We should go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

Harry lifted his face from his open, comforting palms, "I don't feel like me, anymore, Malfoy, and it kills me."

"There is no way you could feel like you used to after everything that has happened. You'll adjust, I swear."

"I won't adjust. I'm not good," he cried, distraught and helpless, downhearted, "at adjusting."

Draco pushed himself up and stepped down to the step below Harry's feet. His hands reached out and grasped gentle holds over Harry's shoulders. He paced them, and Harry dropped his hands from his face. He looked up, a truly hopeless, depressed, finally broken mess. Draco knew it wasn't something that would clear up with one well-rested night of sleep, but he did know that, eventually, it would clear up and things would brighten for Harry, "Come on, Potter. Show me around your place."

Harry stood, with Draco's help, and then looked down into the serious, light eyes, standing on the step above Draco's, still sniffling.

Draco managed a reassuring, easy smile, "Long day, huh?"

Harry could only nod. Heartbroken and feeling weak, he led Draco up the stairs and into a bedroom.

As Harry collapsed down, heavily, over a made bed, in the pitch-black darkness, he muttered, "Want to take a guess on what time it is?"

Draco joined him, and crossed his right ankle over his left. He closed his eyes, "Dear God, no. This has been the never-ending day from hell. To think, the last couple of weeks had been so calm and nothing had happened, and I was beginning to feel like everything was going to stay that way. Yesterday was long enough, and then tonight rolled around, and the day decided to extend itself another couple thousand hours."

"I'd toast to that, Malfoy, had we some coffee—or Firewhiskey."

"I would toast to a lot of things if we had coffee, and even more things if we had Firewhiskey, but I'm too angry for alcohol and toasting, and even more angry to say things I'd definitely regret in the morning, as I'm already trying to block out my strange love for you."

Harry laughed a splitting, drunkenly drowsy laugh.

After a couple of minutes had passed, Harry frowned, "You shouldn't have been so hard on him."

Draco, whose face was buried into a cool pillow, only grumbled, "I know."

"I can't wait to have a good night's sleep."

"Stop anticipating it and make it happen, then, Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter, who is mine and of like mind."

When Harry rolled over in his bed, the next time, it was still dark outside the windows, and he blearily opened one brown eye. He had to adjust to the bright light of candles that were flooding the room. Everything was foreign, at first, until he recognized the woodwork on the headboard. It had caught his attention more than once when he had stayed in the estate home before.

The events of the prior night flooded in front of his open eyes, so he closed them, in attempt to escape, but it just made them more prominent. He hadn't had a good night's rest in God knew how long. Every time he woke up, he was overcome with pressure and what-felt-like a physical paperweight resting over his chest. He was sad that he had been growing accustomed to that feeling, "You woke me up, Malfoy."

Draco sat up on his elbows, sleepily. He had done no such thing! Had they woken at the same time? Perhaps. When he had opened his eyes, for the first time, he had breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken part in a dreamless, dream-state-less, non-dramatic sleep. It had been wonderful to wake up to something less than a frightened rage. No sooner had he closed his mouth from yawning had Harry opened his eyes, too, "Hardly. You woke up when I did."

Harry dropped the left side of his face down onto the pillow. He carefully opened his eyes and studied Draco, rather than the rest of the room. He looked oddly peaceful and complacent, as he dropped himself back into the pillows and dropped his long, magnificent hands over his palely glowing face, "I have a question for you."

"Good, more questions," he gruffly spoke, into his hands.

Harry ignored the snidely pointed comment. It was very clear that Draco had woke up in a mood similar to his own. He seemed to begin to tense up, and his sense of serenity seemed to be leaving him. Not tired, and feeling startlingly refreshed, Harry pushed himself up on his left side, his elbow holding his upper body weight, "Why is it dark in here?"

Draco looked around, and, for the first time, he noticed that outside the windows, it was pitch black, "It's nighttime."

Harry rested onto his back, "We slept all day?"

"Apparently."

Their voices were hardly warm, hardly friendly. They were hard, and raw, and very disconcerted for separate reasons.

"We were supposed to go to Gringotts, today," Harry muttered, and he pushed himself right up. They had fallen asleep on the bed, the night before, over the covers. But, there were two blankets strewn over their bodies. The blankets were rather lumpy and extremely warm, which Harry suddenly found to annoy him when he was feeling so hot-headed. He pulled his knees up and pushed the blankets off, over them, at the same time. He turned and tumbled off of the four-foot-high bed. He walked around the end of the bed and to the door, patting his pocket to make sure his wand was still there, and it was. "Might as well get this over with. Come on."

Draco stared at him, blankly, at first, "We're going somewhere." Downstairs. Obviously. And, so quickly? Brave.

Harry didn't look at him, just opened the door. Yes, he was going somewhere. He was going to run downstairs and see who was there, and he was going to demand answers. He was tired of waiting. The sleep had done him well, but waking up just made him realized how much time he had missed when he could have been getting answers. Plus, he was well-refreshed. He took his time on the shiny, cold wooden floors of the upstairs. He walked down the steps, into the empty entry hallway, and then turned down the hallway to get to the kitchen.

When he stood in the doorway, his eyes came in contact with an entire table of silent, eating wizards. He just stared, at first. No one was talking. The only sound in the room was the clinging and clacking of forks and knives onto plate. His eyes shifted to their food, and his attention diverted, completely. God, his stomach growled like it hadn't had food to eat in decades. It became so loud that he was surprised no one jumped and turned around to see who the monster was in the door-frame. But, he felt incredibly awkward as he stood there, unbeknownst to the damper wizards—all of them! He just...!

They all just looked so tense.

Upon further inspection, Harry's eyes began to trace the familiar faces in the room. First his eyes landed on Narcissa, who was sitting, silently, next to Dickie, staring down at her plate. It seemed that she didn't even realize there was food on it. Dickie, beside her, was the only animated being in the kitchen, as he was playing with a colorful baby-spoon—it was green and gray, and for a second, Harry felt appalled that someone had bought him a Slytherin-themed spoon, but then his bewilderment turned to amusement.

Narcissa looked very blank.

Harry's eyes shifted to Remus, and he felt a thud at his heart. He was hunched over his plate, with one arm somewhat clenched around it. With his free hand, he was separating the foods on his plate, and as he stabbed something—a green vegetable—he lifted it to his eyes and stared at it, as if in great, deep thought, before he put it in his mouth. His face, which had never been completely aglow with youth, such as Cornwell's had, had become even more gaunt and flawed. Around his eyes were deep, dark bags, and his demeanor seemed to suggest that he hadn't slept—in fact, one entire side of the table—the people who had been there, the night before, all looked as if they had not had sleep.

The other side of the table was a group of wizards that Harry had never seen, before. They seemed timid to speak.

Harry was very hesitant with himself, with his emotions and feelings, as he allowed his eyes to drift to the furthest left side of the table. The figure was merely sitting. The frame was not moving. He was not eating. There was nothing on his plate, but there was a large glass of bubbling Firewhiskey sitting over it. In front of his plate, an entire bottle of Firewhiskey, which Harry knew would be gone with a few extra sips from the bottle, sat.. There wasn't even enough left to make a full glass. And, at this man's presence, Harry did not know what to do or what to feel.

Harry didn't know how to regard anything about Cornwell Black.

However, his eyes could not pass over the face of the man. His entire structure was slouched into his chair, and his wrists were simply resting on the edges of the long, wooden kitchen table. The work of art that Harry had registered Cornwell's face as, previously, had faded away into nothing more remarkable than a nearly identical resemblance to Draco—just older and more ragged. His tanned skin was no longer tinted. It was pale—pale, as in Draco-pale, which was a remarkable change from the night before. His eyes were surrounded in red, rather than black, sleepless patches that would have matched the other states at the table. His beard was growing in, as well, so he was very scruffy all around his jaw, which created an astonishing contrast to his skin and imbedded, into his brain, more than ever, the chiseled cheekbones that Cornwell black possessed—cheekbones which Draco had gotten from him—Draco...

Harry heard footsteps behind him, but he never turned around, just stepped aside.

Draco walked into the kitchen, silently, and walked to the refrigerator. He glanced at Harry, in the door-frame, "Thirsty?"

The question provoked the shock and clattering dishes of startled Order members from around the room.

Harry placed his hand over the back of his neck, watching the reaction. Everyone immediately turned and looked at Draco—except Cornwell. But, Draco kept his back turned to everyone, and Harry couldn't help but feel awed by Draco's ease of ability to ignore everyone in the room at his own will. He pulled a carton of something of the cooler-box and placed it on a counter. As he did so, Harry saw everyone searching for something to say to Draco. They were looking at each other, but they were speechless.

Draco began opening the dark, wooden cabinets, looking for glasses. After the third, he turned around to the table, and acknowledged them all, at last. He looked at his mother, only, who seemed to be just as stunned as everyone else. It seemed that she didn't know what to say, and, if she did, she knew better than to corner him in front of people he didn't even know. Immediately, the warm, motherly, loving smile that he had grown up seeing, spread across her pretty face, as if to reassure him and tell him that she was glad he was awake. He could not have forced himself to smile even if he had been cursed to, at wand-point.

"Third cabinet from over the sink," she instructed, softly.

Draco glanced over at the door-frame, for Harry, as he grabbed two cups down from the cabinet. He didn't know what to say. Once Harry had left the bedroom, Draco had begrudgingly followed. He had wanted to give himself time before confronting the challenges that were ahead of him, that day—or night, or whatever the hell time it was. Harry, on the other hand, had been determined to get to the bottom of everything as soon as he had woken up. Except, there, in the kitchen, it was Harry who was lingering, and Draco who had burst through the kitchen, to break the awkwardness, "Are you thirsty?"

Harry held in his breath.

The attention of the room switched from Draco to Harry, who everyone had to turn, in the opposite direction, to see. Immediately, the Order members, from the night before, who knew who he was, stopped chewing, and some left their mouths wide open. He looked down at the floor, rubbing his socked toe there, shyly. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted to keep his identity secret until that moment. It was horrible—the way they were staring at him. Granted, yes, they had every reason to look as if they were seeing a ghost.

Though, the other half of the table seemed completely clueless.

There was a small sob at the table.

And, before Harry knew it, Remus had pushed his chair back and thrown his napkin down onto his plate. He hurried around the table, and Harry felt himself look even further down into the floor, helpless. He could feel the emotion welling at the base of his throat, and he wished that he could have been invisible, just for a while longer—but, before his eyes could truly settle their intensity to the floor, a pair of arms had tightly engulfed him, in a way that no pair of arms had ever embraced him, before. He didn't have to question it, nor did he have to question the sob that entered the side of his head, against his hair. He did what was only natural, and he clutched his fingers into the robes of the only man, left in the world, who he was closest to. He rested his cheek, roughly, on the equally tall shoulder, squeezed his eyes together and dropped his entire face until it disappeared—and, he cried.

Where it came from, the sudden sob of emotion, of something igniting of pain within him, he didn't think he would ever fully grasp.

But, suddenly, Remus withdrew, harshly, and he grasped his large hands around Harry's upper arms, as hard as he could, and he paced himself about a foot from Harry, bent down about an inch so he was directly level with Harry. Harry had never felt so separated or heart-broken, than he did at that moment, having had a foot of space forced between them. He didn't want space. He wanted Remus to hug him, again, and squeeze the mother-fucking life out of him to make sure he was real—and, he was! He was real! And, he was Harry Potter—and, that was Remus Lupin—and... and... and he was Harry, again, and he felt like Harry, again, and he wanted to feel like Harry, forever.

Never did he ever want to leave that very moment, within himself.

The kitchen was silent.

Remus then clutched Harry's face between his palms, just as hard, and he roughly kissed Harry's forehead, before peering into his eyes, again, and announcing, "God," before releasing the hard restriction his arms were holding, and Harry was pulled into Remus rather than being embraced. He took it, and he clutched his arms around the older man, who had been through everything with Harry the previous years two years. After Sirius had died... things had just taken a turn for the worst, and the only person that Harry had turned to, when the world had him down, was Remus Lupin. And, Draco—in a way that took his mind off of the sad things. And, Ron—who took his mind off of the Draco-things. But, Remus in a fatherly way. They had grown more close than they ever had been, and Harry had tried his hardest, from the moment he had woken up in Judas Cliffdale's body, to ignore the fact that he was going to be lying to Remus and causing Remus, probably, more pain than anyone else.

Remus squeezed him and pulled his face back, a bit, "I can't... when you said... I mean, when Draco said—"

Harry, at the mention of Draco, turned his large, expressive brown eyes from the brown eyes he had been staring into. He had been mentally apologizing, and he hadn't been able to stop. A great deal of weight felt as if it had been lifted off of his shoulders. People knew, now. These were the people who were most important to Harry, and they knew. Sure, he was angry, a little, with some of them, but he knew he would, hopefully, eventually, be given good enough answers that he could have easily forgiven them.

Draco was standing against the counter, with a smirk.

Harry smirked back, "Malfoy, you're looking sexy, as always. What's that hair-style called? Sex romp?"

Draco tried to look appalled, but he only succeeded in laughing. Instead of beginning to smooth down his hair, as he might have done, at any other time on any other day, even if he was on his death-bed, he stepped away from the counter and slid his hands up over his chest and then back behind his neck. He latched is fingers there, stretching out as blatantly as he could, grinning shamelessly at the brunette who was taking every ounce of joy at his reunion with their old professor.

Draco knew that Lupin was like a father-figure to Harry, and meant the world to him. Draco, himself, had wanted nothing more than to see Harry grin, in the way he currently was grinning, since day one. It was almost as if Harry Potter, himself, was in the kitchen with him. It was like an explosion of green eyes and vulnerability and everything meshing together, "Yeah, you running your fingers through it while we had wild, passionate sex last night really gave it that extra bounce." He tossed his hair. "I call this hot-orgasm."

Harry distinctly heard someone choke on something, but he couldn't stop his laugh, as Remus let him go, but hesitantly. Harry just gave him a nod, before he turned to Draco and began taking tiny steps toward him. Draco's grin grew wider and wider, and Harry had to stop himself to truly appreciate it. He squinted, feeling his cheeks hurting. They were in a room with people who knew that Harry was Harry, which meant that people were seeing himself and Draco interact for the first time. It was, after all, somewhat of a legendary relationship.

Draco relaxed his arms behind him, as Harry stopped in front of him.

"You had sex with yourself, last night, Malfoy. Must have been some orgasm for your hair to have gotten to that state."

Draco leaned his face in, two inches, grinning childishly, "You heard that, huh?" He joked.

Harry leaned his face in, too, pointedly, "Oh, I was definitely listening." He paused.

The two just stared at each other.

Harry blinked at him and whispered, "What are we doing? Your parents are listening."

Draco snorted with hysterical laughter, and he stretched his arms up over his head, "You're fucking asking me?" He had been asking himself the same exact question in his mind. He looked over at the table of adults, rather quickly, not wanting to make eye-contact with anyone. He just wanted everyone to know that Harry was Harry, so he could go ahead and start calling him Potter, but he knew he could do no such thing. It was not appropriate for anyone else to know that Harry was actually Judas. Everyone who needed to know already knew.

Draco dropped his hands down to Harry's shoulders, simply, and looked him in the eyes, seriously. They were such lovely, emotional eyes. When he had heard Harry begin to cry, into Lupin, something had happened inside of him. It felt good. It was good to watch Harry have interaction with someone else who knew who he was—someone so important to him. It had changed something about who Harry had become. No longer was he brooding, throne-like or distracted. He was bright, with glowing cheeks and sexy body-language, ready for a go at Draco, even though there was nothing verbal that they needed to battle, "No, but, really, did you sleep well?"

Harry nodded, as the next step of Draco's intention began to unfold. He appreciated it, "Yeah, did you?"

Draco nodded. He moved closer, and in the most non-awkward motion he had ever initiated with Potter, he draped his right arm over Harry's left shoulder, and let it drop down his back. He gave Harry a slight hug—it was boyish, friendly—and it suggested nothing other than it was to anyone else watching. He couldn't help it, damnit! He had emotions! He had feelings! He had to show affections to his Harry Potter when his Harry Potter was feeling the need for it, "Honestly, Cliffdale, you're beaming. Then, again," he sighed, loudly, as he pulled back from the friendly tap of palms to backs, "I shouldn't be surprised that you light up after hugging men."

Harry only smiled at him. He did it silently, with glittering eyes, and finished it with announcing nothing in defiance.

Draco felt a warmth creep up his cheeks. He turned away, "It was a moment—be glad I didn't kiss you."

"You'd rather the kiss, naturally."

Draco threw his middle finger up over his right shoulder, "Fuck you, and your damn lightening bolt."

Harry sputtered with laughter, as he joined Draco at the sink, their backs turned, "I love you, Malfoy."

Draco grinned to himself, staring down at the white, porcelain sink. He whispered back, "I think you're falling for me."

Harry leaned in to his cheek, with a smirk, "I don't know about that, but I would snog you—without being drunk."

Draco laughed with amusement and intrigue, silently, just shaking his head, "Don't, Potter, in case they don't see our twisted relationship."

Harry looked over his shoulder, but then immediately blushed and turned his face straight, again, "Uh, Malfoy?"

Draco rubbed his hands together, staring out the window, "What?"

"I think they get it."

Draco glanced over his shoulder, to see that most everyone was snickering into their fists. He just gave everyone a smile, as if to say thank-you for watching and enjoying the show. But, it was no show. He looked back at Harry, with more serious eyes. He had seen Harry look at Cornwell, and then back at him with something that resembled hesitance. And, Draco knew exactly what the message was that Harry had been trying to relay. The first person Draco had looked at, that morning, was Cornwell. He looked like hell—miserable, and he was the only one not laughing, smiling, or even, apparently, expressing any sort of emotion. He hadn't even looked at Draco, not once, and Draco had been staring in reflective surfaces, all around the kitchen, in attempt to see if Cornwell would have been brave enough to do so. But, he hadn't, and it was making Draco feel horrid. He looked down at his hands, as he clutched them around the edge of the counter.

Harry stepped backward, with a yawn, and gave the back of Draco's shin a light kick, "I'm glad we're safe, though."

Draco turned around, too, bravely. He rested back against the counter, watching Harry. He was examining something on the wall, now. It must have been something he had already seen, in his life, in the house, and not something new, because his fingers were tracing over it in an adoring matter. But, Harry looked back at him and stepped away from it, "I can't say I missed Voldemort."

"I don't know," Harry quietly responded, as they talked, but only to each other, by the sink, again. "I miss him a little."

Draco just half-smiled. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep warm in the cold kitchen. He raised his eyebrows.

Harry saw it, and then defended himself. He forced a face, though, and took in a deep gasp. He saw a flicker of genuine confusion and worry cross over Draco's usually controlled features, "Lucius, what have you done to your hair?" He clutched his hand over his heart, as he rested against the counter, jokingly, and began to hunch over, staring up at Draco as he did so.

Draco immediately snorted with loud, genuine laughter, which was exactly what Harry had been after. They had been putting on a show, as soon as they had started talking, just to make things less awkward for everyone around them. But, it was easy to truly tune everyone else out when they were separated a few feet from everyone else. "I'm dying, Lucius. I miss your hair."

Draco covered his mouth, his mouth wide open and his eyes scrunched into half-moons, "Spot on! Frightening!"

Harry laughed and stood straight back up, again, his focus intently on Draco's glinting, gray eyes, "Gringotts?"

Draco turned his head and looked over at the clock on the wall that he had seen when he had entered the room, earlier. It was a large kitchen, with tall ceilings. Everything was dark, shining wood and dark grays of stones that made up the walls. There were a few nicely-placed pieces of art on the walls of the kitchen, and even, he saw, some animated, black cookie-cutters that were propelled onto the wall to the right of a generous, unlit fireplace, "It's seven—they're open until ten on Tuesdays." He looked back at Harry.

Harry licked at the corner of his mouth, giving a heavy sigh and a serious, intense squint, "Should we go?" Or wait?

"I think we should," Draco murmured, as they turned so their backs were to everyone else, "just to get out."

"Draco, is it true? Are you really Cornwell's son?" Someone blurted out, out of no where, from the table.

Harry watched the side of Draco's face. Draco didn't flinch. He didn't appear apprehensive. He didn't appear to be at all irritated, either, by the question. He turned around, immediately, and Harry watched, with curious eyes. It wasn't like Draco was going to deny it. But, that Harry had noticed, Draco had been going to great lengths to avoid looking at anyone, directly. Least of all, Harry knew, a very devastated, drunk, red-eyed, intense, scruffy, messy Cornwell Black, who was dressed in the same attire as the night before, just with a long-sleeved black shirt on, even though it seemed a little big for his lean, toned, tall frame.

Draco nodded, simply, and lifted the glass of orange-juice, he had just filled, to his mouth.

Harry cleared his throat as he started for the door. He glanced at the full table of people, "Have a good dinner."

"Where are you going?"

Harry stopped, dead, in his tracks. He felt as if he could not move.

Cornwell had finally spoken.

Harry pulled his eyes from the floor, with all of his might. He felt as small as an insect that could fit into the hairline fracture cracks of the wooden kitchen floor. He felt horrible for the night before. He had been very rude to Cornwell, but it had been for good reason, and even though Harry still felt as if Cornwell had deserved to be given a lashing about having kept what he had from Draco—from him—he knew it wasn't even Cornwell's fault. Anyone else, in the world, could have told him about Cornwell, but no one had. He tried to clear his throat, but it only cracked when his eyes finally met up with Cornwell's face.

Harry's mouth closed.

Cornwell was staring at him, blankly, and his dark eyes were extremely condescending.

Harry felt like a child—no one ever made him feel like a child, anymore. It was... it was... almost... almost... He didn't know what it was, but he knew that he didn't like it. He didn't like being talked down to. Cornwell had made his tone very clear, and it was obvious as his eyes bore into Harry's, as if daring him to try and say anything like he had said the night before. Harry found his mind become furious with words, but the words calmed, somehow, and left his head, completely, when Cornwell's eyes narrowed at his own, for some sort of answer, "Why, I'm going to go purchase some Firewhiskey, as you've seemed to drink up my stash."

The chattering in the room, which had never been very loud or too noticeable, silenced, once again.

"You're underage, you can't have Firewhiskey."

Harry seethed, openly.

"Go on, do it. Do something, if you're so angry. Go ahead, I dare you."

"You don't want to dare me, Cornwell," Harry assured, his voice low.

"I do want to dare you, but I know it's wise that I shouldn't—take Lucius's son with you, would you?"

Harry felt the blood rush out of his face, and he looked back at Draco.

Draco was all ice and stones. His gaze on Cornwell was very hard-core, very practiced. Very Draco Malfoy—he could hold his own against Cornwell's words.

Harry looked back at Cornwell, "Don't you mean your son?"

Cornwell looked away, "I signed my son away a long time ago. Lucius has made that clear to me."

"You're a bastard," Harry declared, before he could stop himself, mentally reeling for Draco.

"And, you're a pain in my arse. If you bring Firewhiskey into this house, I will hex you."

'This is my house! Who do you think you are!" Harry's insides itched with overprotective desires... over himself.

Cornwell pushed his chair back and then stood up. He glanced at Harry, "I know who I am."

Harry watched him, helplessly, "Speaking of which, don't you have something to tell us?"

"He won't tell the truth, anyway," Draco interjected the biting conversation, as he joined Harry. He glanced at Cornwell, taking a hold of Harry's elbow and moving him toward the door so they could leave. He had watched the whole conversation happen, with intent eyes. There was something about Cornwell that made Harry stop in his tracks. The way Cornwell spoke to Harry rang of something of the past, as if he had every right to ask Harry where he was going, and tell him that he couldn't purchase Firewhiskey and then bring it into a house that wasn't even his, but rather Harry's. And, Harry hadn't shouted about it, or questioned it, or even yelled about it. He hadn't fought against it. And, though he hadn't exactly taken it with open arms and blank eyes, it was clear that Harry saw something in Cornwell opposite of what Draco did. Sure, Cornwell was Draco's father, and that bond would never be broken, though, at the moment, it was rather bruised and swollen.

To Harry, Cornwell was the answer to his past, and that boggled Harry. Draco could feel it. He could see it. He heard it.

"Why wouldn't I tell the truth?" Cornwell asked, as he placed his cloth napkin down on his plate, watching Draco.

Draco didn't look back at him, "You telling the whole truth about anything is a laugh. Trusting anything out of your mouth is like trusting something out of Voldemort's mouth."

A collective shudder began to run through the group, but it was quickly extinguished.

Cornwell had lifted the bottle of Firewhiskey and thrown it, with all of his might, at the floor in front of his son and Harry.

It shattered and everyone sort of screamed, shrieked or jumped, hurriedly, up from their seats, stunned and nervous.

Harry and Draco stared at Cornwell, gape-mouthed, shocked out of their socks and speechless, breathless.

Cornwell walked to Draco, grabbed his wrist, and hurled him out the kitchen door, all the while Draco just followed, without a word. He looked back at Harry, with honest hesitance, and the rest of the people in the kitchen, as he was taken through the dark hallway, at a rather hurried pace. His wrist was being tightly clutched, but it didn't hurt. He could feel the adrenaline and dread beginning to pump through his blood, veins and into his organs. He didn't know where he was being taken, but Cornwell was not happy with what had been said. The way he had just looked at Draco, after he had smashed the bottle, was still boggling Draco's mind, "What—let go—I am not a child—I demand you to—let go of me, Cornwell—you fucking—where are we going—thank-you!"

Draco rubbed his wrist when it was freed, his lips pinched together to alter the pain that his pride felt, because his wrist didn't physically hurt.

Cornwell closed the door to the room they had just entered. It was dim, "Ask me."