Unlike the bright shadowless light of noon, it was a whiteness wrapped in tatters, amid soiled, unsightly, dusty quilts: and drew me to it all the more… Her face, too radiant and kaleidoscopic by day, now wore a mysterious cast, a melancholy frown, like that of one who's just swallowed bitter medicine, or of one who's been strangled. I loved her sleeping face.

~ Naomi by Tanizaki Junichiro

Dyre did not sleep for long, at least not as long as everybody wanted. Only a few hours after that horrible incident, his eyes flickered open, defying both logic and Severus' well-crafted sleeping draft. He coughed red phlegm.

Pomfrey was beside him immediately, helping him lean up to expel the thick contents of his lungs. They had left the antler stubs on his head. They were not causing overt damage to his cranium, and they had so many other places demanding their resources. Dyre fell back on the bed. They had expected him to fall back into slumber, but his eyes had opened, staring despondently up at the ceiling as he struggled to breath.

His arm had been bandaged and set. It lied limply beside him, the skin slowly fusing itself as the bone knitted back into place. The covers lied across his bare chest, lined with rail track scars and yellow patches of fading bruising. The cut that had split him open was invisible.

Those eyes were immovable, older than the world it seemed. Heavy shadows marked his pale face. It was obvious that sickness clung to him. His coloring was a ghastly green and slimy with foul-smelling sweat. He coughed again. It was Lily who moved this time. In silence, she offered him the glass of water, but his eyes did not take her in.

His mouth moved again, and they understood that he was trying to speak. Lily rested her hand on his thin chest, but words could not make their way past her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears. She bowed her head, her copper hair making a curtain around her face.

"May…" Dyre said, his voice a horrible imitation of his heavy, Nordic lilt. "… I… stay here… for a bit?"

They stared at him, none of them able to speak. That he should even have to ask… As if he had the strength to leave…

"O-of course, Har – Dyre," Lily said, her hand on his and her eyes filled with remorse. "Just rest, alright. Just please. Rest."

He nodded, closing his eyes.

The day carried on into night. His sleep was filled with coughing. The small reprieve that Severus' potions lent him did not last the hours. His skin was clammy. He wheezed and spat up thick fluid. His eyes did not open again.

Victor left the infirmary only once. Draco did not know what he did, but he suspected it had something to do with Karkaroff. When he returned, he did not leave again. He offered no solace, deigning neither to speak to nor touch his countryman.

Lily and James both shirked their duties, James to Lucius and Lily to Dumbledore. Sirius lost his job, not that he seemed to care. Harry was his godchild after all. His happy wit and clumsy hands had no room in the infirmary, and with Lily and Pomfrey tending to him, he had little responsibility to the dark child. Still, he remained a sentinel at the foot of the bed, his dog form giving warmth to Dyre's feet as he shivered in the night.

Lupin rushed back to the ministry, requesting temporary leave. He made some excuse of a fake relative on his sickbed, picked up his papers and potions, and fled the offices. He worked diligently on potions with Severus, restocking the stores that Dyre had depleted and creating the ones that would hopefully lead to the boy's health.

Draco was perhaps the most surprising of them all. After his father had deposited his exhausted mother to his rooms in the castle, Lucius had returned to inquire what he wanted to do. Draco didn't know. He didn't know why he was here. He had a small kiss stolen from the back of his hand, a single glance, not even a full moment, and a hand clenched in his between the curtains of a tent – they were such little things, things he had never before measured with any worth.

He had told his father that he would stay. He didn't know why, how his entire world had seemed to suddenly shift towards this stranger. But he was unable to leave, unable to want to.

It was only on the third night that Dyre's fever finally broke. Dyre had turned his head, the wet cloth Lily had placed upon him sliding to the pillow. His eyes opened. The ever present blindness of his left eye was prevalent, the green buried in the tome of the pillow. Still, it seemed to focus, like the glassy stare of a dead crow, on Victor Krum. The Bulgarian lord was sitting in patient silence on the edge of the bed, his harsh unwavering gaze stoic and unreadable.

"Victor?" that blind eye seemed to recognize.

His voice was thick and weak. It was strange to see weakness in him, peculiar, even after witnessing the overwhelming fragility of his body, to imagine him as anything other than a pillar of stubborn strength.

"Yrsa?" he asked of him, wetting his mouth with his dry tongue.

Victor shook his head. "You are in the Hogwarts infirmary."

"What happened?"

Lily helped lift him up. Dyre accepted her assistance silently, sipping water slowly.

"You ran into the forest," Victor said as she maneuvered him on the bed. "Your leg gave out, and you collapsed. On top of a fever, you only managed to slightly regain your human form."

Dyre nodded as he was set back among the pillows. "Firenze?"

They blinked, not aware that he knew the centaur.

Victor nodded. "You crushed your heart. However, the Norns saw fit to extend your time here. These people saw you to health."

"They nursed me?" Dyre said in surprise, looking around the large number of people that scattered the infirmary.

"They did."

Dyre swallowed. "The dragon?"

"She will most likely have to be put down," James answered.

He closed his eyes, looking pained. He said nothing. Lily ran her hand over his dirty forehead, smoothing back his bangs.

"Sleep, Dyre," she said softly, trying to coax him deeper into the pillows.

Dyre offered little resistance, exhausted even by these few moments of coherence. He expelled his breath, the rattle in his chest not nearly as prominent as it had been. As he succumbed to sleep, his voice entreated one last time upon the land of the living. It was a child's voice, peculiar in his perpetually stubborn pride.

The words were rough and enchanted. They fled into the stillness of the night air in a single breath. Lily leaned forward to catch them but received no more luck than Victor. Dyre was speaking in a language none of them could understand. When no one responded, Dyre added a single syllable, like a question but even that small thing was lost in translation.

Dyre fell to slumber.

o.O.o

When Draco returned the next morning at six o'clock, sleep still in his eyes and a yawn curling his tongue, he was shocked to walk into the infirmary and see Dyre awake in his bed. The boy was braced on a multitude of pillows, his hands in his lap and those odd antlers that they had never rid him of finally gone. He was facing the window, the burrowing owl perched inside its feathers on his shoulder. Dyre had allowed the door to be in his blind spot, and Draco wondered if the boy knew he was there.

Still, he straightened his wrinkled clothes, working to rub the sleep from his face and wishing he had taken more time with his appearance. His boots made light noise over the stone as he approached, wondering where the ever-present Potters and his miscellaneous uncles were. It seemed as if Dyre was alone.

As he approached, Draco took a moment to regard him. The scar that crossed his face was not so disfiguring. It lent him a cruel beauty. His skin was still sallow with sickness but pale not unlike Draco's porcelain whiteness. His dark, dark hair was roguish and unkempt, giving him the look of a savage belied by the intellect in his eyes and his proud figure. At sixteen, his jaw was firm, firmer than James, and Draco suspected that if he had not been malnourished, he would be quite broad as well. As it were, his shoulders retained a slender shape that was not on his animagus.

That was another thing. Though everyone's questions had been staved by the boy's brush with death, no one could deny that they weren't dying of curiosity. While his animagus was outstanding (not to mention that the semblance to Prongs was beyond uncanny), his ability to speak to dragons was something none of them could even comprehend.

What other talents lay beneath his servant attire?

As Draco watched him, his mind awhirl, Dyre did not acknowledge him. He remained stoically surveying the sky beyond the window. It was a bright November morning, the sky a wide encompassing blue, cloudless from the aftermath of the last storm, and stunning in its brilliance. Dyre did not seem quite as transfixed by it as such pure and pleasant days usually demanded. His stare was far away, catching something seemingly beyond the sky. His expression was closed and cold, his lips a single unbent line. His lowered brows were the only indication of his intense thought.

Draco rounded the bed, careful not to bump the frame. He held his hands behind his back, leaning in to try to see more of his face without actually getting in his view. Dyre had a strong silhouette, a profile that would not look out of place on an etiquette school poster. His posture was strict and straight, unusual for a servant. But what about Dyre wasn't unusual?

When Dyre still did not seem capable of acknowledging him and Draco was starting to feel awkward, he coughed, straightening himself out of his silly leaning.

"Um, how are you feeling?" Draco asked uncertainly.

"I am quite well," Dyre responded in a subdued tone, oddly formal. Neither his expression nor his posture changed. There was a strange heaviness to his tone. Something that made the boy seem very sad, though there was certainly no sadness in his answer.

"Oh, that's… good," Draco said, fumbling with both his words and his emotions. Consequentially, he ended up blurting his next thought aloud. "Where is everybody?"

"I requested some time alone."

"Oh," Draco said. He blushed, guilt pervading everything else as he started backing away towards the door. "Sorry. I didn't know."

Dyre turned to him. That gaze, so powerful in its stillness, settled upon him. The mismatched eyes, each carrying some sentient secret caught his stare. He stopped retreating, not from any conscious effort but just because that stare bade his full attention with such depth that he could not move.

The green eye, always faster, turned curious. It reminded Draco of his mother's cat. With the change, it seemed to become softer, more approachable than its brother, which was as unmovable as a lizard's. Or a spider's, Draco thought uncomfortably.

Dyre was thinking. It had possibly only been ten minutes when the others had left. His request, spoken with as much respect as he could muster, had unexpectedly been taken to heed. They seemed overly quick to please him, which Dyre was certainly not accustomed to. It was overwhelming enough to consider that they had stayed by his side this whole time, fetching towels for his sweat-soaked body, potions for his fever, and bedpans for the thick syrupy spittle that leaked from his lungs.

It was uncomfortable considering how much he owed them. He had so little left to give.

Still, his vulnerable, awkward plea had given him some reprieve, enough to watch the lingering sunrise stretch into a blue sky. Then, Draco had come to him. In the stillness of the infirmary, it was easy to make out his hesitant fumbling and his shock at seeing him so recovered.

Though, recovered seemed to be a relative term. His body felt miserably weak and unclean. However, he knew it would be much worse had his curse not defended his life. He knew also that they would want answers from him. Some he knew would be unanswerable. Others, though it would cost him dearly to recount, could be given in the great magnitude of his boon to them.

He was surprised when the young lord approached him. He could feel the uncertainty in his footsteps. Then, curiously he did not immediately launch into questions but watched him. His inquisitive face peeked out from his peripheral vision, child-like and innocent in his interest. It shocked Dyre how innocent he seemed. Spoiled as sin, wrapped in his trim uniform and with his smooth hands, but with the strange sweetness of mint, fresh and clean in its luxury.

The boy's hair was a halo. It fell so softly. Though he most often saw it slicked back, it was now free and full. Its curls lent him a boyish glow. His face was as sharp as his father's, lean and aristocratic with adolescent pride. The clarity in his grey-blue eyes was refreshing. Everything about him seemed untainted by the world.

Clean while Dyre was dirty.

Now with his clumsy bashfulness, Dyre could not help admiring the rosy color that his blush brought to Draco's cheeks. The squirming of his gaze, the worrying of his lower lip between his teeth, his hands fisting and unclenching in the hem of his sweater – it all seem so remarkably innocent. And when that gaze finally met his, Dyre was filled with that purifying beauty, like a dive into the Crystal Lake in the depth of winter.

"Did you wish to ask something of me, my lord?" Dyre asked, curious as to why the boy was so invested in someone like him.

"No, I – I've just been coming up here. I didn't think you'd be awake yet." Or alone, he seemed to add.

Dyre's eyes widened as he realized that this lord had been caring for him as well. A pleasant warmth settled in his chest, filling him like the heady flavor of mead. Then, reality struck him, and he realized that he owed this boy something of his self as well.

"Dyre?" Draco called, seeing his face fall.

Dyre looked up, wiping his emotion away.

"Do you want me to leave?" Draco asked.

Surprising even himself, Dyre shook his head. "I do not mind your company."

What was he saying? He was dangerous. He shouldn't be letting anyone, especially someone like Draco, near him. But the boy smiled. Wringing his hands, he sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"Are you really alright?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, your injuries – and your sickness – it is surprising that you survived. Everyone thinks so."

"I doubt Master Krum thinks that," Dyre said, picturing the roguish Bulgarian in his mind.

Draco's brow crinkled. "He was worried. He didn't leave the infirmary either. I think he was afraid you were going to die too."

Dyre's eyes widened. Even Victor… It had been that bad?

"I'm sorry," Draco said. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"I am not insulted," Dyre responded, his uneven gaze centered on the boy across from him. "Lord Krum knows better than most how difficult it is to kill one such as myself."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, thinking that something of the mystery that shrouded this boy might be revealed.

Dyre eyed him wryly. Draco blushed, embarrassed by his eagerness. Still, he did not retract his words, his gaze focused on Dyre's. Dyre held his gaze for a moment longer before smiling softly.

"It is nice, my lord, how you can hold my eye."

Draco blinked. "You mean the scar?" he asked, pointed to his own unmarred face.

Dyre laughed. It was a quiet laugh, surprisingly gentle.

"Aye," he said. "I mean my scar."

"It's not that bad," Draco said, not sure if he was being made fun of. He gave a teasing smile. "Kind of devil-may-care."

Dyre stared at him and his shining grin. The boy did not respond, and Draco grew quiet. He looked down at the bedding, his gaze wandering to his right hand.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked suddenly.

Dyre was silent for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to read the emotion in his voice.

"I have no other reason than that I wanted to," he said at length.

Draco looked up at him, his eyes wide.

"I apologize if I offended you," Dyre continued.

Draco shook his head. "No, it was – I wasn't offended," he settled for saying.

Dyre smiled again, somehow displaying such simple honesty in his gaze that Draco was slightly blinded by it.

"I am glad."

"Yeah," Draco murmured. "Me too."

Dyre laughed again. Soon however, his rare gaiety turned into a hacking cough. Draco started forward, resting his hand on his hot back. Dyre coughed violently into his hand. Draco rubbed circles onto his back until he calmed, only realizing after Dyre had stopped that he had half crawled into the bed to assist him.

"Um."

It was at that moment that the infirmary doors open. Dumbledore was the first person they saw, his blue eyes sparkling happily at the both of them. However, the first to enter the room was not the elderly wizard but a large black dog. The shaggy beast, blue eyes glacial and happy, easily pushed Draco aside. Its dirty paws muddied the bed as it reached up and proceeded to lick Dyre's face.

The boy gave a muted cry of surprise, too weak to fend the beast off. The rough tongue slicked cold drool on his cheek, a cold nose nuzzling his chin. Dyre remained still in shock.

"Padfoot!" someone shouted, and the dog was hauled off of him.

Dyre immediately recognized the werewolf. His golden eyes were soft and malleable as gold. Thin scars coated his face, barely visible. There were crow's feet around his weary gaze, yet still there pervaded a happy glow in his whiskey stare. Premature grey hairs streaked his brown hair, but overall, he was very handsome.

"I'm sorry," the werewolf apologized, a restraining hand on the dog's scruff. "He gets excited very easily."

Dyre surveyed the dog as the others filed into the room. Draco slid away from him to stand beside the adjacent bed. The beast was still grinning wildly at him, baring sharp white teeth. Staring into that cold stare, Dyre recognized the split of the pupil, a smaller fleck of black beside the larger. The blue edge circled darker then lighter in sharp layers from each circle.

"It's a Grim," Dyre said quietly.

The werewolf paused. The dog quieted, closing its maw with a quiet whine. The werewolf's hand buried itself in the creature's neck, scratching comfortably at its skin, bunching the heavy black fur. He gave a soft, sad smile, still patting the beast.

"Dyre," a woman called to his left, breaking the silence.

Dyre turned. He had never seen this woman, but he knew immediately who she was. The resemblance was absolute. This was Draco's mother. Draco had inherited her slim figure and wavy hair. Her curls were more golden than flaxen. Her dark eyes were beads of wet jet, set in dark lashes and slim face. Pale as a lorelei, her pink lips seemed set in the perfect pout. Sly and beautiful and as deadly as a scorpion.

"I need to give you a check-up," she said, moving towards him. "Just to make sure the transfigurations have settled."

Dyre nodded, saying nothing. She expertly pushed the crowd beyond the bed, drawing the curtain round as Dyre haphazardly slid out of his nightgown. Her fingertips were cool as she tested his flesh, pressing against the organs beneath. Dyre's insides felt strangely sensitive, and he flinched back instinctively. She prodded him professionally, her face impartial and clinical. Dyre remained silent save for unexpected gasps of surprise.

She paused only after she had turned him over. She had been impartial to the scarring along his chest, scarring that looked very reminiscent of a whip. She had been prepared to survey a mass of ridges. However, she was not prepared for what lay along the length of his shoulders.

Dyre lied naked on the bed, holding the pillow to balance his upper body. There was no expression on his face when Lady Malfoy gasped, fingers drawing away from him. Neither said anything. Soon, she was working again, ignoring the rough design. Satisfied, she summoned in a fresh nightshirt.

Dyre straightened. He pulled the soft cloth over his head. It fell all the way to his feet covering his arms and legs. He buttoned the neck, fingers trembling only slightly, glad that the lady offered no assistance. When she pulled back the curtain, Dyre saw that no one had left. Indeed, it seemed that several more people had come including Professor Snape and Victor.

"It seems everything is in place," she said to James and Lily. "He will be sensitive for a long while but nothing is swollen or punctured."

Dyre finished with the last button, used to being talk over like a piece of furniture. He was grateful that she said nothing of the scarring on his back. Even that little piece of discretion meant a lot to him. The head nurse walked over and felt his chest through the nightshirt. He obliged her by breathing in and out slowly, feeling the pinch of his tight lungs.

"There is some drainage, but it should be cleared up by tomorrow," she informed them, scanning him with her wand.

There was a great sigh of relief. Dyre sat on the edge of the bed, looking neither relieved nor happy with the diagnosis. His gaze was far away again, caught in a distance none of them could recognize. His arm was fully healed, but the sickness had drained him of most of his strength. In the awkward silence, there was no movement, everyone waiting for someone else to act.

After a moment, Lily stepped forward. "Dyre, you should get more rest. I'll bring up some soup later, alright?"

Dyre turned to her. She stumbled under his indifferent stare and was forced to look away, her eyes swimming.

"You have questions, do you not?" he asked.

"Those can wait, Dyre," Dumbledore said. "Your health comes first."

"Sir, may I inquire as what has happened to the Horntail?" he asked, turning his half-stare to the headmaster.

Dumbledore's gaze turned sad. "I'm afraid the governors are convening to execute her."

Dyre stood. His legs wavered beneath him. Lily rushed forward, begging him to return to the bed, but he ignored her. He stood before Dumbledore, gaze firm and his jaw set.

"Please sir, is there any way you could save her?"

"She almost killed you and several students," Severus said offhandedly. "She's wild."

Dyre ignored him. He bowed, arms to either of his side and his head down. It was easy to see the tremble in his limbs. It was a deep bow from the waist, and Dumbledore looked suitably shocked to receive it.

"Please, Headmaster," he said, his voice strong and imploring.

Dumbledore rested his hand on his shoulder, pulling him back up. It was painful to watch someone as proud as Dyre beg. Dyre allowed himself to be maneuvered, his gaze troubled and hidden in his fringe.

"Why does her fate worry you so?" he asked softly, his wrinkled hand still gripping the boy's shoulder firmly.

Dyre seemed to struggle for words for a moment. "She does not deserve to die."

"She is dangerous," Dumbledore said softly.

Dyre's eye gained an edge. His brows drew down. His stare was suddenly resolute and unyielding as stone.

"She does not deserve to die."

Dumbledore smiled, his grip massaging his shoulder lightly. "I agree. I will speak with the governors."

Dyre's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he hid his emotions once more. Dumbledore patted his shoulder.

"Now, you should rest," he advised.

He led him back to the bed. He moved the covers back wandlessly, aiding Dyre onto the mattress. Padfoot jumped up, curling around his feet. Dyre stared at him, and they wondered for a moment if perhaps the boy was going to reject him. Instead, he settled for reclining on the pillows, staring at the dog without expression.

Padfoot laid his head on his paws, staring back morosely. His tail flicked once before settling inquisitively on the covers. Sad, hopeful eyes begged. Lupin rolled his gaze, slightly amazed by how low his lover could sink, though his reproach was tempered with fondness.

Dyre stared at the beast a moment longer before dismissing it, closing his eyes. Padfoot raised his head, panting happily and wagging his tail.

"Pathetic," Severus scoffed, sweeping out of the room.

Narcissa followed, her wand tight in her grip. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes blazing in anger. Victor limbed out as well, satisfied with Narcissa's and Pomfrey's diagnoses and returning to his classes. Pomfrey pushed James and Lily out as well, claiming that the boy needed sleep without their anxious hovering. She wasted no reserves, pushing Dumbledore and Draco out as well, leaving the lad alone with Padfoot while she retired to her office.

Dyre stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing special in the pocked surface. The hanging lanterns were unlit as sunlight flooded through the tall windows. When Dyre seemed quite resilient to sleep, Padfoot clawed forward, belly low to the bed, covering only a few short inches with each movement. His tail wagged twice.

Dyre ignored him. Padfoot managed to get all the way up to his shoulder, tail loudly tapping his thigh.

"You're rather spoiled, aren't you?" Dyre said, his still steady and dispassionate on the ceiling.

The burrowing owl, which had been sunning on the windowsill, hopped on Dyre's chest. It stared at the Grim before puffing out its feathers and quite arrogantly disregarding him. Padfoot sneezed indignantly.

Dyre held out his finger. "Leave him alone, would you?" he asked of the little fellow.

It hopped up, scooting back and forth over the appendage.

"I know," Dyre said in response to something Padfoot couldn't hear. "But he's more comfortable like this."

It was silent for a moment before Dyre raised his head behind him towards the window. The owl flew off. Dyre sighed, lying his arm beside him. Padfoot thumped his tail again.

"If you are going to rest here, then you are to sit at the bottom," Dyre said.

Padfoot whined. Dyre turned his head, giving him full view of his mismatched stare. Padfoot sniffed again but rose, sulking as he moved back towards the end of the bed. He stopped halfway, entreating pitiably with wide animal eyes. Dyre had closed his eyes and said nothing. The dog slowly settled only halfway from his destination, watching Dyre cautiously.

After he had lied down and was not pushed off the bed, he curled around the boy's side. The warmth of his thick coat pushed through the blanket, heating Dyre's hip. Half an hour later, right as Padfoot was beginning to fall asleep, a single hand made its way to his neck. The fingers attached to his slightly oily fur, kneading gently into the flesh of his scruff. Padfoot relaxed fully, not sure whether or not he was dreaming, but he reached up, eyes closed and gently licked the palm that met him. The fingers scratched lightly at his muzzle before falling back to his coat.

Sirius Black slept.