Mama never taught me how to love

Daddy never taught me how to feel

Mama never taught me how to touch

Daddy never showed me how to heal

I've walked around broken

Emotionally frozen

Gettin' it on, gettin' it wrong

How do you love someone without getting hurt?

How do you love someone without crawling in the dirt?

-Ashley Tisdale

Harry returned to Burrow late that morning, all smiles and wind swept hair. He followed his stomach into the kitchen where he knew he would find some of Mrs. Weasley's scrumptious poppyseed muffins. The Weasley family, however, cornered him as soon as he walked through the door.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed when he entered the foyer. "Merlin! Where have you been all morning?" She pulled him into one of her back-breaking hugs. "You had us worried half to death!"

"Mum," Harry heard George's laughing voice. "I've heard somewhere that people need to breathe."

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley immediately released Harry, leaving him gasping. "Sorry, dear." She smiled apologetically.

Harry merely nodded, feeling unable to speak with so little oxygen in his lungs. He felt the weight of several pairs of eyes upon him, obviously expecting some sort of explanation. He gazed from Hermione who looked strangely placid, to Ron who looked like he wanted to rip apart the pillow he was holding.

"I was out with Malfoy," Harry said simply, trying to sound plain. "Didn't Ron tell you?"

Eyes shifted to Ron who reddened, the seam of his pillow splitting between his fingers. "What are you talking about?" he seethed, keeping his gaze locked on Harry.

Harry shrugged, though the gesture came off less nonchalant than he had hoped. "Oh I'm sorry, are you trying to imply that you didn't go through my mail?"

The tension grew to the point where the air was almost tangibly stiff, and Harry noticed Mrs. Weasley and Hermione begin to shift nervously. Ron bit his cheek, giving Hermione a concealed look. "Upstairs. Now"

"Fine," Harry replied monotonously.

Together the three made their way out of the kitchen, bound by rigid silence. Hermione cast several worried glances back at him, which he pointedly pretended not to notice. Whatever elation he had walked into the Burrow with had been swept away by a cool anger, solid and full in his chest. It was none of their business what he did. He wasn't a child that needed his hand held.

They entered the room that Ron shared with George, which Harry assumed was supposed to be neutral ground. They stood in a spacious triangle, though Hermione was noticeably closer to Ron, and Harry was suddenly overcome with the feeling that he had been lured into a trap.

"Harry," Hermione began nervously, her eyes darting between the two boys, "what is this about? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Harry said, finding it difficult to keep venom out of his voice.

Ron took a foreboding step forward. "You snuck off in the middle of the night to meet up with Malfoy and you want us to believe that nothing is wrong?"

"It was the only time he could meet," Harry returned, bristling at Ron's nearness. Sometimes he forgot just how much bigger Ron was than him.

"The only time—" Ron flailed his arms out. "Harry, are you out of your mind?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Ron, I'm fine! He didn't attack me, or try to hex me, or whatever it is that's got you so upset!"

"He's a Death Eater!"

"He was a Death Eater," Harry growled. "Voldemort is dead, remember? Death Eaters don't exist anymore."

Ron's eyes were like twin lakes on fire. His fists balled at his sides, the line of his shoulders trembling in effort to reign in his temper. "Harry, are you even hearing yourself right now? Do you realize how absolutely insane you sound, making excuses for someone who's tried to kill you more times than we can count?"

"Something happened didn't it?" Hermione said, her voice so small and soft compared to Ron's that both boys went abruptly silent. Harry looked at her, pulse pounding. "Something happened when he was here last week."

Sometimes Hermione was too bright for her own good. When Harry didn't respond, Ron began to glance nervously between them.

"What?" Ron asked, somehow sounding both horrified and vindicated. "What happened? What did he do?"

The accusation was enough to jar Harry out of his stunned silence. "He didn't do anything."

"But something happened," Hermione insisted.

Harry shifted his weight uneasily. "It's not my business to say."

Hermione's expression was hard as stone. She was impossible when she was like this—stern and resolutely determined to find out what she needed to know. Had they been able to take their NEWTs, Harry imagined she would've made quite the Unspeakable. "Harry," she implored.

"I—" Harry struggled, the truth stumbling on the tip of his tongue. "I had a dream, if you must know. And it was like…"

"It was like those dreams you used to have about Voldemort," Hermione finished for him.

"But it wasn't like those," Harry bemoaned desperately. "I mean it was—but it was different too. It didn't feel the same. It didn't feel evil."

Hermione waved him off like the brisk turning of a page. "What did you see?"

Harry shook his head. "Hermione," he said, "I can't."

"Why not?"

It wasn't that he didn't want to tell them. He did. More than anything. But they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't be able to see it for what it really was. "It's private."

Ron's cheeks went a furious shade of red. "That's not a good enough reason not to tell us. What if he's putting things in your head just like Voldemort did—things that aren't real? You remember how that turned out, don't you?"

"Ron!" Hermione's voice was like the crack of a whip.

Ron flinched, but the blow had already landed and Harry was left reeling. His stomach turned, and for a moment he was sure he was going to be violently ill.

"It's not like that," was all Harry could say.

"Look," Ron started forward once more, a crestfallen pain pulling at his mouth, "I didn't mean—I'm just worried. We both are."

Ron reached out for him, but Harry shied away. "I think…I think that I shouldn't stay here anymore."

"Harry…" Hermione's resolve cracked, leaving her looking cold and broken in the brightly lit room. "We're trying to help you."

"I know." And Harry did know. "But this isn't something you can help me with."

Harry sat alone in the darkness of number twelve Grimmauld Place, musing over the day and, vaguely wondering why he wasn't sitting at the Weasley table enjoying a nice bowl of stew. As if to voice its opinion, Harry's stomach grumbled irately at him. It was dinnertime now, and the only food Harry had available was a bit of stale bread and cheese. Kreacher—as it happened—wasn't much of a cook.

He hadn't said a word to the Weasley family before he left, which he had immediately regretted. Mrs. Weasley was sure to go into a fit upon realizing he'd left. But no one had followed him, so he could only assume that Ron and Hermione had handled whatever fallout had occurred. They would be upset, he knew, but they would understand in time. Maybe. Hopefully not before Harry understood it himself, because that would be downright embarrassing.

He was being ridiculous. Two weeks ago he would never in a million years have envisioned himself where he was now—sitting over a plate cold bread, alone and miserable because he'd somehow got it in his head that Malfoy was suddenly worth sticking up for. Regret swelled like a balloon in Harry's chest. He'd definitely screwed up.

It's not that simple anymore.

Harry shook his head and rose from the table. The day had worn him thin, his nerves frayed and splitting at the ends. Sighing, Harry abandoned his food and made his way upstairs to the bedroom. He fell into bed without bothering to change, the metal of his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose and sleep settling over him like a warm blanket.

The next thing he knew he was in a library, shaded pale pinks and yellows from the morning light and draped in soft shadows. It was soft here—quiet—like a warm breath against your cheek. Harry's eyes drifted lazily over the room, catching on a lone figure silhouetted by moonlight in the window. Harry stopped breathing, worrying the noise would somehow disturb the image before him. It was Malfoy, perched on the edge of the windowsill with his back resting against the stone side, one leg tucked against his chest and the other draped over the ledge so that the toe of his shoe barely graced the marble floor.

His hair was a stark halo of white in the crisp light of the sun, and the line of his jaw looked smooth and cold as stone. He was gazing up at the sky, a strange sort of smile lighting his face.

The doors suddenly crashed open, shattering the stillness like glass. Harry's head whipped to the side as he pressed himself flush against the shadowed bookcases.

"Draco," Lucius Malfoy stormed into the room, tight lipped and paler than Harry had ever seen him. There was a wad of crinkled parchment clenched tightly in his fist. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

Harry saw Malfoy turn slowly, his cool demeanor unruffled by his father's entrance. His grey eyes met his father's, cold and indifferent as ice. "I don't think anyone is stupid enough to mistake you for a fool, father. Not even me." His voice was gentle, despite his glacial expression.

He waved the papers in his hand at Draco before throwing them to the ground. "Where were you?"

Malfoy blinked down at the scattered pieces of parchment before his eyes lifted back up to his father. "I was out," he replied calmly.

Lucius' high cheekbones bloomed with red fury. He took an ominous step forward, and Harry noticed that he leaned heavily on his cane as he did so. Harry frowned—had Lucius ever actually used his cane before?

The elder Malfoy glared at his son, his normal sneering mask contorted with anger. "Don't play coy with me, boy. Tell me where you were!"

Malfoy sighed and turned away from his father once more. "I can't tell you. You won't approve."

"That's not an excuse!"

"And I'm not a child anymore."

"Why you—" Harry's whole body jolted violently as Lucius leapt towards his son, grabbing him by the front of the robes and thrashing him against the wall. Malfoy didn't move to stop him—his expression never even changed. Lucius backhanded Malfoy hard across the face, nearly falling over as he did so, but nevertheless the strike brought blood. Bile surged up Harry's throat as he remembered the blackened skin on Malfoy's torso.

Malfoy's father thrashed him once more. "I'll kill you!" Lucius spat through bared teeth, "You have no idea what you're doing! Merlin, I'll kill you! This is all your fault! Don't you look at me with that superior look of yours! I won't have it, I tell you! No one looks at me like that!"

Harry had to do something. But as he jerked forward he found his feet fastened to the ground. He stared wildly down at his feet then back up at the Malfoys, his heart racing.

Then something very strange happened: the edges of Malfoy's mouth lifted into a small smile. "If it makes it easer for you, father, to be angry with me…it's all right. I don't mind."

And Harry saw something in Lucius crumble at that moment; the fury in his eyes melting into revulsion laced with heart sickening sorrow. His white-knuckled hold on his son slacked, and as Malfoy's feet hit the floor, Lucius collapsed to his knees. The sound of his cane rattling to the stone floor echoed like a clap of thunder. Malfoy merely stared down at him, his brows knitted as his father buried his face and hands into his son's robes.

"I'll kill you," Lucius' shoulders shook with a great sob.

Malfoy wrapped his arms around his father's head, stroking his long blonde hair. He then pressed his eyes closed as he bowed over his father, burying his face into the elder man's hair. Harry stared at them with wide eyes. What was Malfoy doing? How could he…?

"It's going to be all right, father," Malfoy whispered solemnly. "I'm going to fix it. You'll see."

Bang!

Harry started awake to the sound of frantic knocking at the door, his heart beating frantically and his vision blurred. Ignoring the haze of the dream that still fogged his brain, he felt around for his glasses which must have fallen off while he slept. Harry pushed them on his nose; the knocking grew louder. Harry glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced—who would be knocking on his door at 11:00PM? Grumbling, he threw himself out of bed and made his way downstairs towards the door. Maybe one of them had finally come for him. That must be it. Ron or Hermione. Who else could it be?

He creaked open the door. "Hey, listen—" There was a flash of red and suddenly arms were around his neck, holding him in a strangling embrace. "G—Ginny?" Harry cried in half bewilderment.

"Harry!" Ginny sobbed into his shirt.

"Ginny, I—er" He peeled the crying girl off his neck, and stroked her cheek gently, wiping away the trails of moisture her tears had left in their wake. "Are you all right? What are you doing here?"

Ginny trembled faintly in his arms. "You left."

"Ginny," Harry cupped her face in his hands, "does your family know you're here?" He stared at her face, so familiar to him he could trace the freckles with his eyes closed.

"Why did you leave?" her voice was barely audible.

Harry frowned, feeling a sharp pang of guilt shoot through his chest. "It's complicated." he replied shortly. "I just…needed to get away for a while. That's not what all this fuss is about, is it?"

"I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes flashing frantically. "You were supposed to be with us. Mum's frantic, and Ron won't speak to anyone. Harry, what happened?"

"Ginny, I—I didn't mean to worry you."

"Did you leave because of Draco?"

Harry jerked his hands back like he'd just touched an open flame. Worry flashed across Ginny's features. "It wasn't because of him," Harry said.

"I—" Ginny's blue eyes darkened, "I heard you arguing about him."

"Ginny…look—"

"I didn't think that inviting him over would cause a fight. I didn't—I didn't even think he would come." She paused, her breathing shallow and uneven. "He was just…so different those last couple of weeks at Hogwarts. He was there, and he talked to me, and he sat with me when everyone else was gone and I didn't know what to say. It was stupid. I know it was stupid. But everywhere I looked there was death and I couldn't stand it, and he just seemed so alive that I thought…" She fell off in a choked whisper.

"It wasn't stupid, Ginny," Harry said gently.

Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks, and she scrubbed them away furiously. She looked suddenly very small and very pale. "It still hurts, Harry," she said in a shaky voice, her lower lip quivering. "It still hurts so much."

Harry's arms were back around her in an instant, and she buried her face into his neck and curled her fingers into his shirt. "Don't cry," he whispered, running a hand through her hair as she trembled against him. "I'll take you home. Please don't cry."