Our almost-instinct is almost true: What shall survive of us is love.

~ "An Arundel Tomb" by Phillip Larkin

The tinkling of cutlery blended with the few dozen of different conversations. The melodious cacophony was usual for a weekday morning, children gathering at their respective tables to chatter insistently about worthless bits of drama and the occasional politics of those more involved in society's nuances. There was very little different about that Thursday morning than the previous mornings chaperoned by the faculty at the head table. Its only distinction lay in the sudden maudlin silence that rapidly descended on the three schools, prompted by the approach of Durmstrang's young, rejected champion. The Great Hall, magnificent in the display of November sky, golden plates and floating candlewicks, was abruptly buried in silence. The air was charged hostilely. In the unpleasant pause, Dyre watched his comrades.

Dark gazes surveyed him, vitriolic and shrewd. Through narrowed eyes, they took notice of his discarded habit, replaced by the uniform of a thick, inelegant black cloak. There was no insignia or crest, no loyalty to his patron school or the Scottish school that adopted him. Not even in muted colors. Even in his eyes, there was no allegiance to the furious man sitting at the head table, clutching his spearing knife in a tight-knuckled grip, nostrils flared.

Black trousers tucked into black boots, simple and without lacing. His cloak hung heavily from his shoulders to shield everything of his upper half and sides. Dyre Durmstrang no longer looked an orphaned ward of the school. Darkness swathed him, present in the Avada Kadavra glare of his right eye. There was something menacing in him, compounded by the still present stretch of his scar protruding from the black patch covering his blind eye.

The servant in him was gone.

His single-eyed glare narrowed on his headmaster before dismissing him and the rest of the Hall. Karkaroff sucked in a breath through his nose, jaw clenching and eyes ablaze furiously like the indignant gaze of an ox. Even Dyre's stance had changed, moving from some formless elegant slide to a determined and ferocious walk, shoulders squared and chin straight. Neither arrogantly up nor submissively down, it seemed a strange stroke of natural pride almost like the shiftless gaze of some noble beast, a king or an elk.

Without removing his cloak, he sat at the edge of Slytherin bench, away from rest of his countrymen and the miscellaneous Hogwarts students. Alone, he began fixing his plate, ignoring the prevalent stares fixed upon him as if nailed. Save the light touch of his silverware, there was no sound in the Hall.

Lily watched her son enter, wondering absently where he gotten his new clothes. The cut was done haphazardly, as if someone had tried much too hard to perfect it. The hem of the cloak hung uneven, though it hid everything of his clothing beneath it save his beaten leather boots. Had he made them?

They weren't sure whether or not he had intended to be so intimidating or so cold. His desolate gaze allowed nothing, not even the comfort of a friendly wave. He isolated himself in his attire, pose forbidding any recognition. As he fixed his plate, he did not look up, intent on the mechanics of his breakfast. Watching the Durmstrang students, Lily could see that they didn't know how to act. Karkaroff looked ready to blast the boy into a wall but was holding ground merely for propriety's sake. Dumbledore had kept him separate from Lily's side of the table, placing him between himself and Madam Maxine. There was little he could do from the table but glare in outrage.

The adults at the head table looked between each other, none of them sure how to approach the boy or capable of ignoring such a vagrant display of enmity.

A group of students entered from the open doors, a few Hufflepuffs and Draco, who sported a wide yawn. The Hufflepuffs immediately noted the stressed atmosphere of the Hall, huddling together nervously and running in a bundle to their table. Draco stretched his arms wide, popping a few of his vertebrae. He plopped down rather undignified at the edge of his house's table, pulling a plate from further up the table so he could sit to the other side of Dyre.

"Why's everyone so quiet?" he asked of Dyre as he filled his plate with eggs, pointedly oblivious to the avid attention of the Hall.

Dyre stared at him, holding his spearing knife over his plate of fruit.

Draco looked up when he received no answer, an agitated confusion spreading over his face as Dyre continued to stare vacantly. "What?"

Dyre shook his head, looking down. He slid a piece of grapefruit into his mouth. Only a few people caught the slight smirk hiding in the corner of his lips. Sound began again timidly, the clicking of knifes and forks bleeding into whispers then into slowly animated gestures and words until conversation had once again resumed. Lucius shook his head enigmatically, bewildered by the mannerisms of his heir. Narcissa, who had not retired the castle since called from her bed, placed a hand over his arm, wearing that half-smirk that their son had inherited. She sipped her tea, earrings glistening faintly with her mirth.

"Say Lucius," Pomela Sprout whispered, ignoring Severus' indignant mutterings as she leaned over him and his plate. "What happened to Dyre?"

"You're asking me?" he enquired in lieu of an answer, cutting into his sausage.

"Well, Draco seems rather cozy with him," she continued to whisper intriguingly.

"Will you persist from making conversation over my breakfast?" Severus snapped irritably, unsuccessfully trying to brush the woman from his breakfast.

"Just a minute, dear," she waved aside, her gaze remaining on Lucius. "He's such a dear lad," she continued. "He was injured after that debacle with the dragon, wasn't he? You don't suppose he's going through a depression, do you?"

He was sure that to someone like Professor Sprout, depression was only a vague term associated with a lingering sadness that prompted one to do excessively irrational things. But her eyes were worried, and though she obviously thought something of a contrary nature had afflicted the boy, she really had no idea what to think of the transition between helpful though quiet lab assistant to melancholy, bellicose teenager. Lucius fought the urge to sigh.

"Madam, I assure you," Lucius said with his usual political candescence. "I know nothing of Dyre's mental state."

She pouted, straightening back into her chair, obviously disappointed with such an unsatisfying verdict.

"I sure he's fine, Pomela," Lily said to the elder professor, her voice kind.

The woman had inquired upon Dyre several times, fended off by Dumbledore's and Lily's adamant declarations of his health. She had participated in the hunt for him in the forest, knowing no more than that he had been found but was suffering a slight bout of a cold from running about in the rain. She hardly looked comforted by their assurance, picking at her plate mulishly before Remus drew her into conversation about her newly potted mandrakes.

James grabbed Lily's hand beneath the table, gracing her with a comforting smile. "He's fine," he said in a low voice.

"But he looks so… not right," she protested, staring at her lovely boy as he listened politely to Draco's prattle across the hall.

"I'm not right either," James said, his brows drawing down. There was heat in his tone, threatening to alert the whole table if he didn't settle. He sighed, releasing his indignation at the same time he gave Lily's hand a gentle squeeze

"Lily, he's bound to be upset. We can't right everything in a day."

"But, James, I don't feel like we have the time to reach him," she said in frustration, brilliant green eyes swimming dangerously with helplessness. "I don't want to see him like this."

"Be happy we see him at all."

James turned his gaze to the end of Slytherin's table. Though the patch Sirius had unearthed from the medical cabinet covered the hideousness of that misty eye, there was something ominous in its mystery. He had seen what lay beyond the stiff cloth; they all had. They knew that another terrifying world threatened the child with that enigmatic eye, but it seemed as if covering it up only strengthened its potency.

They knew why Dyre had hidden it. He could not risk falling into that realm again. He could not stand against whatever demons called to him from the world beneath theirs. But coupled with his new black attire, strict and foreboding, he looked the part of a criminal, a murderer lurking between the shadows. There was hardly a part of him not entrenched in darkness. Perhaps he was trying to fend off their affection. It was not the first time they had seen him try to warn them away with his indifference. But then, perhaps, after so many long years of being parading with Karkaroff's insignia across his chest, he just wanted to wear something that belonged to no one but himself.

James knew that Dyre was staying only because he thought he owed them something for helping him. He didn't like it, but he took where he could. Though part of him chafed at tying Dyre to this place, to them, another more prominent part did not care. As long as their son was here, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, then it little mattered what stroke of luck brought him here.

"What in the world would make him happy?" Lily asked beside him, staring wretchedly at the dark child at the end of the Hall.

James shook his head. He didn't know.

o.O.o

Dyre listened to Draco talk about how Professor Binns wouldn't know History if it bit him on his incorporeal arse, that he was mad at some fellow named Blaise for exchanging his shampoo for lube and that there was a bat in the dungeons that despite silencing wards managed to keep him up all night, which was why not only was he late to breakfast but he had "horribly wretched" dark circles under his eyes and he refused to stoop to commoner level and fix it with a beauty charm. Malfoys did not need beauty charms, he had told Dyre firmly.

Dyre sipped from his chamomile tea. Though he had planned to make a quick getaway after breakfast, he found himself lingering, listening to the blond talk to him about everyday life like he was normal. Despite his resolve to remain as unapproachable as possible, he could not keep the faint smile from his mouth, hiding it in the corner of his wooden cup. Even sleep-deprived, Draco was a ball of indignant energy, suffering insults and exclamation like an over-indulged child. He reminded him a bit of Yrsa, whose loud vigor constantly rivaled the authority of the all-mothers. In the privacy of Dyre rooms, she had just about as bad of a sailor's mouth as well.

Draco had not had time this morning to slick back his hair, and like in the infirmary, it fell in gentle, unrepentant waves just like his mother's. His hands constantly moved as he talked, pointing with his spearing knife and spoon accusingly at Dyre, who, though he didn't speak, seemed to take unforgivable sides in Draco's arguments. Despite his wild mannerisms, there was etiquette in him. He made to sure to swallow before he spoke, and if he wielded his utensils as weapons, at least he did not fling about his food like a slob. His napkin was in his lap, the cup always to the right side of his plate. He sat with his thighs and ankles together and his back unwavering straight, though he occasionally leaned over when something Dyre had not-said stuck with him the wrong way.

First and foremost, it seemed Draco Malfoy looked at him as an equal.

Victor saw him as an equal, but Victor was not the son of a lord. The Krums were a farmer's family, pledged to an old clan whose eldest daughter took a liking to the young lad working in their barn. As a favor to his most beloved child, Lord Thorp allowed the ungainly lad to attend the prestigious school of Durmstrang with his son as a servant. Comley died early from a misled curse from a minor spat in the mead hall. However, Victor, whose lame leg should have immediately exiled him from the high ranks of the warrior class, picked up his liege's sword and ran the bastard through with it. Touched by this display of loyalty, Lord Thorp allowed his retainer to remain in the school and learn the nuances of battle and magic. It was much easier for Victor to accept Dyre considering that the man was once a barn-lad. Though Dyre still called him lord out of respect.

Though culture in Europe might not be as strict as that in Iceland, Dyre expected that there would have been some outrage with the sole heir of a prominent lord consorting with a servant. Perhaps it was because of his association with the Potters. Still, if his class did not outmatch him, then the curse in his soul must surely alienate him. He had died once. Surely, the young lord would understand that he was not someone to align himself with. He was dangerous and inhuman.

However, Draco seemed completely oblivious of the curse in him, and Dyre wasn't sure whether to find his disregard endearing or worrying. He admitted to himself that he was slightly enamored with the lord. Who wouldn't be? An entourage seemed to follow the boy wherever he went, fawning over his golden locks and coy stare. Draco was a beautiful boy, a beautiful rich boy whose father owned more of the land around them than the Ministry and had almost as much political influence as Dumbledore. Not to mention that Draco's magic near sang. Conceited and spoiled, there was no doubt that Draco's arrogant personality might place a person off his meal, but also there was cunning. Quick with insult and sly with his words, this was a person bred to rule an empire.

It was just that Dyre found his conceit endearing as well. Surely there was not a person in the whole world as self-absorbed as Draco. He sat there with little regard that Dyre had said nothing at all, assured that whatever he said would be listened to, if not with adoration, then at least with the utmost respect. Dyre had watched him work a crowd. There was a lusty swagger to his smile, a coy drawl to the way his eyes flickered closed. He easily had half the school eating from the palm of his hand.

It was intriguing that Draco exhibited nothing of his abundant public skill in trying to manipulate Dyre. His motions were innocent, free of all the subtle nuances of his sex. When he touched his hair, it was a self-conscious effort to tame the free, tumbling locks, not a coy flirtation. His eyes were clear and unhooded, staring at Dyre head-on instead of under lowered lashes. The timbre of his voice was natural, neither husky nor deceptively shy.

He was talking to Dyre like a person, not a tool, and Dyre found he could allow Draco his selfish chatter. Talking for the sake of talking. Without intrigue or deprecating jabs.

"Dyre, are you listening to me?" Draco asked, eyes narrowing angrily.

"You are speaking to me," Dyre said, a spark of something devious in his single seaweed-green eye.

"Yeah," Draco ceded, leaning back to take the last bite of his sausage. "Doesn't mean you're listening though."

"I was listening," Dyre promised softly.

Draco merely raised his brow, and Dyre smiled again. Dyre started to rise, throwing his napkin on his empty plate and draining the last of his tea from the small cup.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked, alarmed.

"Forgive me, lordling, but I promised that I would attend the nursery after breakfast." He buttoned his cloak, stepping from the bench.

"Um, Dyre," Draco called.

The boy turned, giving Draco his full attention. The blond returned his stare, slight trepidation in his cigar-smoke gaze.

"This weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said uneasily but a sudden, rough spike of pride obviously made him steel his tone as his next words were imbued with confidence. "I was wondering if you might like to go with me."

Dyre stared at him.

"Just as friends, you know," Draco retracted, ungraceful once more. "I mean, you don't have to or anything. But you haven't been there, so I thought I could show you around. As friends and all."

"You consider me a friend?" Dyre said quickly and a little vehemently, still staring at him with his eyes narrowed.

Draco frowned. "Well, yeah. Don't you?"

Dyre's gaze softened just a bit. It was indecipherable from the head table, where over half the table was watching the two, but Draco could see it. It was entrancing how his face changed. He wondered what Severus would look like if he smiled like that. With just his eyes.

"I suppose I do," Dyre said.

With a small inclination of his head, he turned, cloak billowing, and walked from the Great Hall. Many heads turned to watch him, but it was Draco's gaze he felt burrowing beneath the fabric of his cloak and doublet. It was Draco's gaze and his words that reached through the fortress of his curse, grasping at a part of himself he had closed off long ago. Boots clipping the stone floor, it was Draco's face that brought a delicate smile to the tip of his features, overcoming the grey pallor of his solitude.

Enamored, was he?

o.O.o

Dyre stood before the mirror, feeling like quite the idiot. He was going to meet Draco outside the school in 15 minutes and he couldn't for the life of him decide whether or not he wanted to change clothes again.

Feeling rather brazen, Dyre had tried on the navy doublet Severus had purchased for him on Lily's orders. Over his usual undershirt, it made him look very tall and composed. The crisp black rims braided into a V over his chest, silk knots pulling the piece closed at his waist. It was a simple design, meant for dueling, but the cut was elegant, much more elegant than anything Dyre had worn before. The collar clipped his neck, the sides flaring slightly over his trousers.

He pulled at the sleeves again, fiddling with the pewter buttons. Really, it was just cloth. It had no meaning whatsoever. So what if it brought out the subtle tones of color in his remaining eye? So what if it somehow perfectly suited his ink-black hair? So what if the vest Draco wore last week matched it perfectly? It was just a shirt.

Shaking his head, he pulled the doublet over his head. He quickly donned his usual black shirt, donated by Victor three years back, feeling much more comfortable in the ambiguous hue. The ribbed sides clung with elastic stretching, tight yet still movable. The neck was free and his cuffs loose enough to easily pull the small dagger strapped below his wrist. He tucked his undershirt into his pants again, straightening the doublet.

It was no effort to shrug on his boots or quickly tie his hair into a small tail at his nape. The tail was his one and only attempt to somehow tame the wild mess of his hair. Though pulling the strands from his neck, it did nothing to his bangs or the cowlick that somehow defied logic atop his head. He tugged the thin crème tie with a flourish, knotting it without a bow.

With six minutes remaining, he left the room, closing the door behind him without even bothering to lock it. He had nothing of value in there anyway. After his first failed attempts to sleep on the mattress, Dyre had abandoned his efforts entirely. Most nights he spent in the forest, dozing with the centaur herd that had given him shelter the past few weeks. Occasional nights he spent wandering the long halls of the castle, attuning himself to the strength of moon that bathed the open alcoves in white. The silence of a place spoke louder than its echoes.

He came to the rooms Dumbledore had lent him only to change robes and shower with the fresh bar of soap the elves left every morning, whether he used it or not. He saw the beasts occasionally, scurrying silently and in secret between the shadows with laundry and cleaning implements. House elves had long mastered darkness, teaching to their little ones centuries of secrets that wizards would never know. It was a quiet life they led, and some part of Dyre admired their service and loyalty while another felt very sad.

Students scurried past him in their hurry to reach the front gates. They talked excitedly amongst themselves, the youngest of them holding hands at the wrist and forearm. The older students had more reserve, but conversation was lively with talk of chocolate, butterbeers, and joke shops. Dyre knew nothing of Hogsmeade or its magical shops. Iceland was fairly isolated and Durmstrang even more so. On rare occasions, Dyre's service would demand his attention in one of the few towns that dotted the mainland. He had even been sent inland to Norway once.

Mostly, Karkaroff would send him off to deliver errands to council members and prominent lords. It was hardly anything more serious than brown-nosing but a few times it had concerned a member of the school in dire need of his or her family. It happened sometimes that the lectures were too intense, the lessons too harsh and a mishap had laid a student on a deathbed. Sometimes, it was a vengeful curse (like in the case with Comley Thorp), political subterfuge making its way from the outside lords to the school. Death was no stranger to Durmstrang.

As Dyre near the entrance, the path became clogged with students eager to make their way into town. They were coupled with new friends in both blue and ruddy brown, Beauxbatons beauties mixing with hearty Durmstrang warriors into a strange milieu of the three schools. The clock struck three when Dyre lighted the first step, searching above the heads for a shock of blonde.

"Dyre!"

Draco waved his hand over the crowd, trying to grab his attention. Shaking his head, he moved from the elevation of the stoop. He slipped easily through the mingling students, reaching Draco who was glaring at two of his housemates. A girl with trim dark brown hair and a button nose grinned slyly at him. The boy beside her, a tall dark-skinned lad with curly brown hair, gave Draco a wink before they turned away, waving hands over their heads in departure.

"Don't mind them," Draco said, still glaring at their retreating backs. "They're just being stupid."

Having only a faint idea about what they were being stupid about, Dyre shrugged it off.

"Come on." Draco grabbed his arm at the elbow and began hauling him through the crowd towards the front gates.

It seemed most the medley was waiting for more companions to join them, and only a few were making their way towards Hogsmeade. The road was dry with permafrost and a group of Beauxbatons girls huddled together in winter coats. For Dyre and even for Draco, one cloak suffixed. As soon as they were out of sight of the squirming mass, Draco released his arm, moving to stand beside him while his gaze drew far over the grey road.

It was a silent walk to the town, the wind pulling at the tails of their cloaks and nipping at their cheeks. Dyre's stride was even, his head held up as he surveyed the land around them. The forest lay to the other side of the school, but as they rounded the road, the trees curved towards the Great Lake. Cool waters greeted them as they made their way over the bridge, an arched structure of red iron girders. The Lake disappeared to the east, hedged by the tall pines and oaks of Scotland.

"Do you miss Iceland?"

Dyre turned. Draco gave a soft easy smile. His hands were stuck in his pockets, scarf trailing behind him. The thick yarn encumbered his slim neck, bunching at his burgundy cloak, trimmed with ermine fur. The hood was down, revealing a strange, clean strength to the boy's lean features. His hair was slicked back again, stealing from his grace and lending something sharper. Those blue-grey eyes were crisp but not unkind as they stared unrepentant at Dyre.

"It is very different here," he settled for saying.

"Is that good or bad?"

Dyre stared at him. Not the unbending gaze of a noble but the gentle curiosity of a fawn or calf. He breathed ice into the air, watching the misty cloud while he waited for Dyre to answer. The lake lapped softly beneath them. When Draco looked back up, the shades of Dyre's eye shifted like strips of light and shadow playing in gillyweed.

"I think, a little of both."

~ X ~

This chapter is dedicated to RebeccaSeverusSnape, who had been an avid supporter of this fic with her reviews. Special thanks also to Wolven Spirits and MidNite Phoenix, who have kept up with the story. And to everyone who has enjoyed this fic, review or not.

As a gift, I'm updating sooner than my usual lackadaisical habit. Enjoy.