A/N: Well, the end is in sight (for me, at least.) Far from being relieved about it , I'm actually nervous about it and my desire for things to be just so has kicked into high gear. Please bear with me. There are about six chapters (including this one) left and I want them to be as great as I can possibly write them.

Many sincere thanks to those who have been following this story for years and thanks and a welcome to those who have recently discovered this. Enjoy!

Harry reads Draco's journal all night. There isn't much in it that he doesn't already know, but what he doesn't know hits him hard:

"He cries in his sleep. I didn't know that about him. I remember that I used to think that he was disgustingly perfect, that he just miraculously triumphed over evils most people can't dream of again and again and it never fazed him. Working with him, I can now say that's not true.

The other night, while we were huddled together (What use is there in being a wizard if one can't cast a warming charm to stop from freezing one's bollocks off? Stupid magic-sensitive wards. ) he cried in his sleep. I ignored it at first, but Potter sounded really pathetic—like a wounded puppy. No one should cry like that. Anyway, I put my arms around him and he turned toward me, clinging to me.

(Somehow his face ended up buried in my shoulder, his lips resting against my neck. It was a very intimate position and the response it provoked in me was awkward. Very awkward. Thank magic he was in no state to notice.)

He quieted, though, and as he settled back into sleep, I could've sworn he said my name. I stayed up half the night holding him and thinking about that moment and that sound that could've been my name. When dawn came and I rearranged us, he seemed more real to me then than ever before. Flesh and blood, capable of being hurt, capable of being upset, and capable of being soothed—by me."

Harry hastily wipes at a tear running down his cheek and flips forward several pages.

Father knows. I shouldn't be surprised, really. He always knows. Perhaps I am just that transparent. Our conversation went something like this:

'You care for him.'

'I do.'

'That is appropriate.'

'I'm surprised to hear you think so.'

'It would please you to know that I've started some legal proceedings to free him from his guardians? And offered him Malfoy Manor as sanctuary?'

'The Ministry will never go for that.'

'Perhaps, but allegations of abusing the Boy Who Lived will not be taken lightly. They will do what they can for him.'

Sometimes, Father still manages to surprise me.

'He cares for you,' he said.

'I'm sure he does. Human shields are very hard to come by.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it.'

'What would you have me do?'

'Only what you would.'

I repeat, Father still manages to surprise me.

Harry remembers something of those charges. At first, he had thought they were just part of Lucius' attempts to use the Ministry to control him, but as more and more unsavory details about his guardians came to light, it had begun to seem as if Lucius Malfoy really had been trying to help him. Draco had been very quiet about the whole thing— and rather tense.

Some days, I really want to hit Potter. Not as often as I used to want to hit Potter, but still. I especially want to hit him on days when he acts like he has no ambitions beyond defeating Voldemort, like he's content to be everyone else's errand boy. Days when he seems to want nothing for himself, I want to throttle him. I've never seen such a waste. He really doesn't understand. He has no clue why I get upset at him when I ask him what he wants to do after the war and he looks at me as if such a thing as 'after the war' has never occurred to him. His whole life he has never mattered as himself—even now, when he's so important. It continues because he lets it. He lets them use him and he has no idea how disgusting it is that the world has decided to let a child fight their war for them. But can I really be surprised that he's clueless when he doesn't even think of himself as a child—never even thinks about himself at all?

That was the last thing Harry reads before falling asleep on Draco's bed, the journal open beside him. He opens his eyes to find Draco sitting at his desk. He is, as usual, dressed in black and his face is solemn. It is beautiful. He is beautiful, unchanged and Harry can feel tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and if this is a dream, Harry doesn't want to know.

"Why are you here?" Draco asks. Harry props himself up on one elbow.

"You wanted me to be here, didn't you?" he asks, confused. Draco frowns.

"No, I didn't."

"Then why the brooch? Why the will?"

"I didn't want you to be here because I wanted you to be here. I wanted you to be here because you wanted to be here."

"I---"

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asks, cutting him off.

"I—"

"What do you really want?" Draco asks gently, cutting him off again.

"I want to belong somewhere," Harry responds. His cheeks flush when he thinks of how pitiful that must sound. Draco's frown fades.

"I wanted to give you that," he says.

"I want to belong with someone," Harry adds quietly.

"I wanted to give you that, too."

"I loved you." Draco gives Harry a small smile, the corners of his mouth quirking in a way that makes Harry's heart break.

"I'm not the only person who has ever loved you, Potter. Did you think I'd leave you in the hands of someone who wouldn't care for you as I would have?"

"Lucius…"

"You want him, don't you?"

Harry nods. Draco chuckles.

"I thought so. For once, in your damned life, Potter, do something for yourself—and running doesn't count."

Draco rises from the chair and takes Harry's chin in his hand. His touch is steady and the lips he presses lightly to Harry's are as warm as sunlight. "Next time we have to have this talk, I will hit you," Draco says with a smirk.

Harry wakes up with a strange feeling. He had been dreaming, hadn't he? He closes Draco's journal, which had lain open on the pillow beside him, and stashes it in the drawer of the bedside table. From the sunlight streaming through the windows, Harry figures that it's late morning. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the wardrobe and picks something simple to wear.

He heads to Lucius' room as soon as he is dressed. The sound of raised voices coming from the next room over makes him pause at the door. "You said what?" It sounds like Rosier's voice, except Harry has never heard Rosier's voice like this. "How could you do that to him?" he asks.

"Do what?" A voice that Harry recognizes as Sebastian's counters.

"You spare him from Michael's rant last night and then you corner him with this now?"

"I said what had to be said." Sebastian's tone is defensive.

"There were better ways to say it, more gentle ways to say it, and you chose to ignore them." Rosier's tone is too tired to be called angry. He is disappointed, maybe.

"If I had been more gentle, more discreet, do you think he would have gotten the point?"

"Maybe."

"He is only beginning to muddle through his own pain."

"Which is exactly why you should have waited before blindsiding him with this!"

"Waited for what? For someone else to die? For Lucius to slit his wrists?"

"Lucius is stronger than that, and you are wrong to forget it."

"He is lying comatose in his bed from ingesting poison. He is in pain. He has endured so much already."

"And he can endure more."

"You can't feel his pain like I can."

"And you've never been hurt like he has either. He will live through it, because as long as he and Potter are still alive, there's still hope. You were wrong about this."

"And you've been hurt? You? The last Rosier—the scion of shadow and mystery? What do you know about pain? You, who don't feel anything!"

"What I do or don't feel is hardly a matter for your concern." Rosier doesn't even give Sebastian the pleasure of raising his voice. By this point in their argument, he sounds neutrally polite, too far removed from the situation to even be amused.

There was a silence and then a sharp crack. Harry barely has time to move from the door before it swings open and Sebastian storms out. Harry is still standing there when Evan emerges from the room a moment later. "Good morning, Harry," Shadow says pleasantly upon seeing Harry standing with his mouth open in the doorway. There is a large red handprint on his cheek. He steers Harry into Lucius' room.

Lestrange is there already, reading a copy of The Quibbler. "You read that trash?" Harry asks, somewhat surprised.

"The life of a pureblood heir is hard. This is just one of many sacrifices I must make regularly," Lestrange says, punctuating his response with melodramatic sighs.

"Shut up," Harry says. Lestrange flashes a grin, which vanishes as soon as he gets a good look at Rosier's face.

"What in the name of Merlin and all that is magic happened to you?"

"Sebastian slapped him." Rosier looks at him, dark eyes unreadable. Michael's face turns dark and he glowers at Evan.

"Explain," he says.

"Sebastian and I had a disagreement regarding his discussion with Harry. I think his method was far too direct and heavy-handed. He feels Harry would have missed his point if he had been subtler."

"Is that all?"

"That's all," Rosier says pleasantly.

"Sebastian accused Shadow of feeling nothing," Harry adds. He ignores Evan's look of amused betrayal.

"And Sebastian slapped him when?" Michael demands.

"After Shadow told Sebastian that how he felt was none of Sebastian's affair."

Michael's expression turns cool. "You really told Sebastian that?"

"I did," Rosier replies. Michael sighs.

"Why is everyone here so stupid?" he asks, directing his question toward the ceiling.

"Says the Death Eater in the room," replies Harry wryly.

"Former Death Eater. I, at least, have recovered from stupidity. The rest of you are still afflicted with it."

"Are we?" asks Harry, amused.

"Yes. Severely. Particularly, you." For the briefest moment, Harry thinks Lestrange is talking to him, until he notices that Michael's eyes are locked on Shadow. "You really told Sebastian—your cousin, your friend, and an empath to top it all off—that how you felt was no concern of his?"

"I told him that whether or not I felt anything was no concern of his."

"For the – Fine. Be stupid and miserable in your damned impenetrable solitude."

"I'll have you know that I'm not miserable."

"Wait until you have to marry," Michael mutters, returning to reading The Quibbler.

Ok. More soon. Really soon. As in this month. So, please continue to be dears and review. You'll be hearing from me shortly.

Love,

J. Silver