Time dances lulling past

I gaze through the looking glass

And feel just beyond my grasp is heaven

Dance me into the night

Underneath the moon shining so bright

Let the dark waltz begin

Let me reel let me spin

Let it take me away, turning me into the light

-Hayley Westenra

The night was dark, and the large corridor down which Harry was walking was unnervingly cold for such a warm summer. Harry continued at a brisk pace through the elaborately decorated hallway, trying to ignore the angry glares from silver haired wizards depicted in the portraits on the walls. The hatred in their unabashed stares was like a spotlight on the back of his neck, and Harry found he felt inexplicably guilty for it. What had he done? Why did they hate him?

And then a startling chill raced down his spine. He stopped, turning his head to look at the nearest portrait. Lucius Malfoy leered back at him, his upper lip curled in a sneer while his icy blue eyes froze Harry to the core.

"What are you doing in my house, boy?" Lucius snarled.

Heart leaping, Harry ran, pushing himself faster and faster until his feet barely touched the floor. Fear coursed through his veins like the strike of a match, making his blood run cold. What he was afraid of exactly, he didn't know—all he knew is that he had to keep moving. The maze of corridors drew him deep into the core of the manor like a fish caught on a hook.

He was finally drawn to a stop just outside of a pair of large, blackened doors. The air was noticeably colder here; darker. He tried jiggling the knobs, but the doors were securely locked, and he was without a wand.

Harry was just about to turn to find another room when a sounding crash echoed from behind the double doors. Harry froze, and suddenly the halls began to shake with the thundering boom of a voice.

"I will not allow this to happen!" a man shrieked from somewhere beyond the doors. "I—can't! Crucio!"

Screams of agony rang in Harry's ears, sending bouts of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The very walls vibrated like the cords of a base as cry after cry struck them, and something about it made Harry feel sick.

He knew that voice…

"I won't allow it, do you hear?" Lucius Malfoy screeched, his voice high and broken. "You're my son, and I won't—" but the rest of his words were lost on Harry. My son…

It…that couldn't be Draco in there? No…Lucius wouldn't…

But a weak trembling voice confirmed Harry's fears. "Father, please, I can help y—"

"Don't touch me!" There was another crash, followed by another cry of anguish.

All at once, Harry's senses came alive. He rushed to the doors once again, beating his fists into the hard wood, but no sound came from his pounding. He opened his mouth, screaming with all his might, only to find his voice hollow and silent.

He grabbed at the doorknobs, pulling at them with such force that he could feel his shoulders joints unhinging. Malfoy's screams echoed endlessly, chilling Harry to the very marrow of his bones and making his body tremor.

Why couldn't he do anything?

"Harry!" Malfoy cried.

Harry threw himself at the doors, slamming into them with all his might. "I'm here!"

"Harry!"

Something was gripping his arms, pulling him back.

"Harry!"

"No!" Harry struggled blindly, clawing at the hands that gripped him.

"Harry, for Merlin's sake, wake up!"

Harry jolted, his world swirling into a flurry of color. His chest rose and fell harshly, the sheets of his bed sticking to the thick sheen of sweat that covered his torso. His bed—so it had been a dream. He was at the Burrow, and it had all been a dream. Ron hovered above him, looking green.

"Harry? Are you alright?" Ron croaked. "You're not having nightmares again are you? I thought those would've stopped when…when You Know Who died." All color rapidly drained from his freckled face. "He is…dead this time, right?"

Harry clamped his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing and steady the fierce pounding in his chest.

"Harry!" Ron squeaked urgently, shaking him by his shoulders.

Temper flaring, Harry shoved Ron's hands away. "It wasn't him, Ron!"

"What was it then?"

"It…" Harry frowned. "It was nothing. Just a dream." With a furrowed brow, Harry settled himself back under the sheets. "It was just a dream," he repeated, though he wasn't sure who he was talking to this time; Ron, or himself.

"But—"

"Just leave me alone, Ron!" Harry snapped unkindly. He knew that Ron would sulk about the reprimand, but there were too many thoughts whirling through his head to sort through them for the sake of Ron's peace of mind. He watched Ron retreat back to his bed with only a mild pang of guilt. There was something about that dream—it had felt too real. Just like before when Voldemort had…Harry shook himself. No, it was nothing like those dreams. It couldn't be. Harry rubbed at his right shoulder, trying to soothe the ghosting ache away.

It couldn't have been real.

Harry and Ron spoke very little the following morning. The larger part of the Weasley family decided to ignore whatever little spat the two boys were enduring, believing it to be yet another unfortunate side effect of teenage hormones. It was not however, ignored by the two eldest women of the household: Hermione and Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry!" Hermione whispered for the third time that morning during breakfast. A sudden, sharp jab to the ribs finally caught Harry's attention. He'd been busy listening to Charlie and Bill's recounting of the latest Cannon's pre-season game, while Ginny argued with them about the probability of the Harpies making it to the World Cup.

Harry turned in his seat, glowering. "What is it, Hermione?"

"What's up with you?" she hissed, giving him one of her don't-think-you-can-get-away-with-lying-to-me looks. "Ron's been acting weird all morning, and you might as well be on another planet. Did something happen?"

Harry shoved a biscuit into his mouth. "Why 'on't you 'alk to 'im bou' ih?" Crumbs fell over his lips, landing in messy splatters on his lap and earning him a rather disgusted look from Hermione.

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley chirped, "don't talk with your mouth full."

Harry swallowed. "Sorry, Mrs. Weasley." He then promptly tore into his pancakes, thankful to now have an excuse not to answer Hermione's interrogating questions.

But Harry's strategy of evasion was not beyond either of the women. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look, and Harry instantly knew they were speaking in that sort of telepathic eye speech that all women seemed to be endowed with, and frankly, it thoroughly pissed him off.

"I have a splendid idea!" Mrs. Weasley chimed suddenly. The rest of the Weasley family went quiet, lowering their heads and silently preparing for some monotonous chore that would inevitably ruin their Saturday morning. "How about," everyone held their breath, "a game of Quidditch?"

A universal sputter broke out over the table, contrasted only by Hermione's quiet giggle.

"Mum," George said, "you can't be serious. Do you realize what Percy could do to himself?"

Percy glared over at his younger brother, but the look held no malice. "Worried you're out of practice, little brother?"

George beamed at him. "Hardly."

Harry couldn't help but stare at them. The two had become nigh inseparable ever since Fred's death. No one had expected it. But at the funeral, it had been Percy who'd held George in his arms and sheltered him from the restless, prying condolences of the crowd. It had been Percy who'd picked up the pieces of the original Weasley's Wizard Wheezes prank box off George's floor after he'd broken it, and it had been Percy who'd helped him charm it back together again. Percy even sat where Fred had once sat, and Harry didn't know why, but it felt wrong somehow. No one had brought Fred up even once since Harry had arrived.

"Oh, George," Mrs. Weasley admonished. "Come now, it'll be fun."

Fun. Harry paused, his fork poised halfway between his plate and his mouth. Was that what she wanted? Was it even possible for them with all the empty seats at the table? All the seats they never talked about. All the bodies that had piled up that no one had even been able to stomach looking at.

Mrs. Weasley smiled. "You could even pick captains. And we have enough brooms for everyone, I'm sure."

So many bodies. So many empty seats. His parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Hedwig, Mad Eye, Dobby, Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Snape…

"Come now! What do you say, Harry?"

Harry started. He turned slowly towards her, trying his best to grin innocently. "Well—I—uh—" but just then—a sound from the heavens—a sharp knock sounded at the front door. Harry practically threw himself from his seat and rushed from the room.

"Harry?" Mrs. Weasley called, but Harry was already halfway to the door.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Weasley! I'll get it!" Anything to get out of that room. Anything to get away from that deceptively cheery guise. He slowed himself once he neared the door, pushing out a heavy breath and forcing his nerves to calm. He hadn't realized how tight his chest had gotten.

It didn't even cross his mind to wonder who would visit the Weasley house at 9AM on a Saturday morning until the door was already halfway open. And by then it was already too late.

"Oh, hello, Potter!" the young blonde smirked. "What a not-so-pleasant surprise. Then again I suppose I could've done much worse considering where I am."

Harry's jaw dropped. "Malfoy?" he squeaked.

"Well spotted, Potter. Your powers of perception are still in tact I see. Can't say much about everything else though." Malfoy replied, arching one of his pale eyebrows as he eyed Harry's state of dress with undisguised disdain. "So, are you going to invite me in, or are you going to be rude and have my freshly starched robes wither in this heat?"

Stunned, Harry shifted, leaving space for Malfoy to walk in. He stepped through the threshold, a content smirk plastered on his face. "I must say, Potter," he said, turning to examine entryway of the house. "I didn't really expect you to answer the door, what with you trying to keep the fact that you're staying here hush hush and all."

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley's voice came from the dining room. "Who is it?"

Harry jumped, somehow startled by the prospect of talking to Mrs. Weasley in Malfoy's presence. "It's…um," Harry turned, giving Malfoy a stern look. "What are you doing here?"

"What? You're not happy to see me?" Malfoy sneered unbecomingly.

Harry fumed, the kindling of his temper beginning to ignite. "Malfoy, I'm not going to ask you again." It was a struggle to keep his voice even.

Mrs. Weasley's voice rang once more. "Harry? Did you hear me?"

"You have no right to be here," Harry seethed. "You know very well what your father has done to the Weasleys. They won't want you here!"

The sarcastic mask on Malfoy's face vanished abruptly, and was replaced with a hard, cold blankness. "You think I came uninvited?"

"Harry?" There was the distinct sound of bustling footsteps and before Harry had the chance to gather himself, Mrs. Weasley had entered the room. She froze; her eyes pinned on the young Malfoy.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," Malfoy said, inclining his head. "I'm sorry I'm late. I'm still not very adept at Apparating, I'm afraid."

"Late?" Harry very nearly shouted. He felt as if he'd just been slapped.

"Oh…Draco dear," Mrs. Weasley rushed forward and helped Malfoy out of his robes, completely ignoring Harry's outburst, "so glad you could make it!" Her voice sounded tight, and her smile looked strained. "Ginny will be so happy to see you!"

"I appreciated the invitation."

Harry pinched himself, but surprisingly, he didn't wake up.

"Come and sit with us! We've only just started breakfast," Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry did not miss the triumphant smirk Malfoy sent in his direction before replying. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

The two moved towards the dining room, while Harry followed in their wake, completely and utterly aghast. This couldn't actually be happening. Malfoy had not showed up on the Burrow doorstep early on a Saturday morning, and he certainly wasn't about to join the Weasley family for breakfast. It wasn't possible. The three entered the dining room, which immediately fell into a staring silence.

Hermione glanced at Harry for an explanation, but all he could do was shake his head helplessly. Ron, in the meanwhile, simply went through a myriad of expressions, ranging from surprise, to terror, to absolute rage.

"Mum," Ron's voice was strained, "what is Malfoy doing here?" Malfoy's name sounded like sour venom, filled with underscores of loathing that even Harry couldn't match.

"He's going to eat breakfast with us." Mrs. Weasley smiled. Everyone else gaped. "Ginny invited him, didn't you, dear."

Ginny's face bloomed with a dark red as she smiled up at Malfoy. "Hello, Draco," she said quietly.

Mr. Weasley stood, smiling in a way that made him look much older than he actually was. "Draco, I'm glad you got our owl. Ginny—uh—said that you've been a great comfort to her over these past couple of weeks. I'm so glad you could join us."

Harry turned his gaze on Ginny, disbelief rooting him to the spot. The red in her cheeks was deep enough now to drown out her freckles, but she wasn't denying anything her father said. He implored her to look at him—to give him some sort of hint as to why the impossible had suddenly made its home in the Burrow dining room.

"Why don't you take that seat there," Mr. Weasley said. "Next to Harry."

Harry paled as reality yanked its chain around his neck.

Malfoy threw Harry another one of his smirks before sitting down at the table. Harry felt a sudden urge to slam Malfoy's head into the platter of biscuits.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, "sit. Your pancakes are getting cold."

Not knowing how else to respond, Harry sat. And he wasn't sure how, but breakfast continued despite the snake in the room. No one besides Ron and Hermione seemed to even care that one of their worst enemies was sitting at the table, eating their food and talking like an old family friend. Conversations continued as they normally would have, with the elder Weasley brothers arguing about Quidditch stats, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talked about work across the table.

All the while, Hermione kept sending Harry distressed looks, while Ron proceeded to demolish his food with his fork, but Harry wasn't paying attention to either of them. He was trying to catch words from the hushed conversation Malfoy and Ginny were having as Malfoy piled pancakes and fruit onto his plate.

Harry didn't understand. When had Malfoy and Ginny become close? Hell, the last time Harry and Ginny had discussed Malfoy, the word bastard had practically replaced his name. And yet here they were, sitting at the table with their heads bent together, their whispers soft and intimate. Harry didn't miss the way that Ginny's hand would occasionally brush against Malfoy's, or the way her eyes grew darker when she looked at him.

"Oh, Draco!" Mrs. Weasley fussed. "I hope that you'll stay and join the others for a Quidditch game! Ron mentioned that you played." Ron choked profusely, while Harry nearly gagged on his juice.

Harry felt Malfoy's stormy eyes flicker over him. "That would be wonderful, Mrs. Weasley, if you have an extra broom to spare."

"But, Malfoy," Hermione leaned forward looking anxious, "you're really not dressed for Quidditch, are you?"

Malfoy favored her with poisonous smile. "You're quite right, Hermione," her first name sounded thick and syrupy in his voice. "Harry," the hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose at Malfoy's informal address. Harry turned, his eyes locking with Malfoy's. "You'll let me borrow something right?" he asked, his sweetness something beyond mocking.

"No," Harry replied, glaring

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley chided.

Malfoy's grin widened, and Harry felt his blood rise to a boil. His hands balled into a fist around his fork, and he felt the sudden overwhelming urge to jam the utensil into Malfoy's eye.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley repeated, her voice closer to a warning this time.

Harry bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. "Fine," he said tightly.

He could feel Ron and Hermione gape silently at him, while Mrs. Weasley's laughed cheerily on the other side of the table. But his gaze remained locked with Malfoy's, questioning him, searching. Malfoy merely reflected the expression, grey eyes asking questions of their own.

With a broad smile Mrs. Weasley leaned towards the two boys. "Well, Harry, why don't you go ahead take Draco up to your room now and get him some clothes. We'll get everything else ready down here."

The two stood in unison. "Thank you very much for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley," Malfoy voiced, breaking his locked stare with Harry to give Ron's mother a pleasant smile. "It was brilliant."

Harry didn't bother to be discrete when he rolled his eyes. "Come on, Malfoy, this way." Harry trekked through the narrow hallways and staircases of the Burrow, intensely aware of Malfoy's steps behind him.

"You never answered my question," Harry said once they were out of hearing range of the dining room.

"And since when am I required to answer all the questions you ask me, Potter?"

"What are you doing getting close to Ginny?"

Malfoy blinked. "You act as if she needs your permission to be my friend."

"That's not an answer," Harry spat.

"And yet it's the only one you'll get. What she does and who she does it with really isn't any of your business. You're not her boyfriend anymore."

Harry reached the doorway of the room he shared with Ron, and spun ferociously. "Oh, what, and you are?"

Chest bowing, Malfoy stretched himself up to his full height. "She would only be so lucky," he said jauntily. "But actually, if you must know, I vowed when I was eight to never date gingers."

"You don't fool me Malfoy. You're up to something."

"Potter, stop acting like an idiot." Malfoy spoke in his usual drawling tone. "Everything I do isn't part of some grander plot against you. I'm not here to do your precious Weasley family any harm. And that fact also stands for any of the other people you decide to waste your breath on. Hell, Potter, you'd think I have the word 'evil' tattooed on my forehead or something."

"No, just on your arm." Harry returned, and felt an annoying pang shoot through his stomach as soon as the words met air.

Malfoy's face set into a cold fury. "Better than a stupid scar," he said tersely.

"I don't want a fight, Malfoy."

"Then don't start one, Potter."

Harry could see the other boy struggling, his jaw tensing and relaxing in rapid repetition. The Gryffindor sighed, his brow knotting in frustration. In one swift motion, Harry turned and entered the room. He made quick work of rummaging through his trunk, and threw Malfoy the first appropriate set of clothes he could find.

Malfoy didn't even take the time to ridicule the old tattered clothing Harry had thrown him. Instead he merely stared at Harry as he brushed past him out the door. "See you on the field," Malfoy sneered.

Harry fumed in silence. How could he have ever felt pity for that sorry bastard, even in his dreams?