I do not own anything here, nor am I making a profit from this. It is purely to pass my time, and hopefully, interest other people. J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me.

Thank you for everyone who reviewed, even if you didn't like it - I promised I would get the next chapter out soon, didn't I? Here you go! Enjoy, Review, and Don't Kill Me! :P

Chapter Thirteen - Dangerous Thoughts

Harry thought he knew loneliness.

Sitting for weeks on end in that tiny hospital room, the only visitor a nurse in horrible lime green robe who didn't meet his eye. He thought he understood boredom, the horrible feeling of having to wallow in his own self pity and regret everything he hadn't the chance to do yet.

Returning to Hogwarts was nothing new. The Gryffindors ignoring him and the constant lack of decent company was fine. He was used to it, having a horrendous summer.

And then that bastard started keeping him company, started the joking and bickering. And left.

You couldn't miss what you didn't have.

And fuck, did Harry miss it.

The rumours had stopped, with everyone believing them to have had a fight and 'broken up'. It didn't matter either way. Hermione had told the Gryffindors about Harry's lack of a rise to her defence, not that it would have mattered much anyway. And the Slytherins had noticed Malfoy's distinct return to his snarly self. So, though the Slytherins had remained neutral thus far in the year, they had returned to being…themselves. Towards Harry, of course.

The jinxes didn't really increase, but the remarks were a constant.

He was called almost every name under the sun; it seemed as though everyone had their own opinion on Harry's life, as though it was any of their business.

Harry didn't sleep.

The sheer thought of Malfoy having his list was infuriating. It was his list, his accomplishments. His hold on sanity.

Harry could picture him now, handing it around the Slytherin common room, everyone having a good old laugh. Shit, an angry Malfoy was likely to spread rumours around. Or truths. Everyone should know he was ill by now. Fantastic.

So, he didn't sleep. He stumbled straight to the dungeon instead of breakfast, intending to forgo the walk of shame when class started. As it was, he didn't need to. Almost everyone ignored him, except Neville, who only gave him a rueful little shake of the head.

Malfoy didn't even glance at him when he entered the room; his mask was in perfect position.

It hurt a hell of a lot more than it should.

The entire potions class was spent in silence; Slughorn even seemed uncomfortable, shuffling awkwardly as he coughed and observed the room. It was fair to say that Harry was the first from the room, and first to the next class.

The remarks started then.

"Hey, Harry."

God.

Wanting anything other than to reply to his housemate, Harry sighed before facing him. They had been sniggering for the past ten minutes, making glances at him. It was obvious some comment was coming.

"Heard you had a little lovers spat. Didn't think you would let any one hit ya around, Rhianna."

"Fuck off Dean." Harry snarled, grabbing his bags and leaving the room. Sure, the class wasn't even half over, but who cared? What could they do? Throw him in detention?

Who the hell was Dean to comment? He barely spoke to Harry, even when they were friends. That bloody reference…sure, only the muggleborns would understand, but the fairly obvious sniggering was a bit of an indication that the statement wasn't the nicest. And after Harry had protected him from Malfoy…what a bloody wanker.

He had successfully hidden in the room of requirement all of lunch, away from the taunts and laughter. Honestly, it was as if none of them had ever known him. As if he hadn't been their friend.

Loneliness had never clung to him, not like it had today. He wanted out more than ever.

The 'Rihanna' comment made its rounds around the muggleborns by lunch. By afternoon, they had another little smart remark.

Harry didn't notice it at first; he was quite apt at minding his own business and staying in his own little world most days. Nothing much interested him anymore, anyway. No, but it was the fact most students were singing that caught his attention.

Sure, the school had always been a fan of singing. The 'Weasley is our King' song was proof enough. It wasn't every day, however, that you found pureblood Slytherins singing along to Rihanna, someone they shouldn't even know exists. It wasn't every day that said song was sung with hundreds of eyes staring you down either.

Harry hadn't known this particular song, until it was sung throughout the hall, by every student, every time he appeared in a corridor. The fact that it was clearly about S&M didn't help to ease Harry's already humiliated day.

Detention was just as bad, if not worse.

Bad as in he had to write lines, all whilst sitting a few centimetres from the utter bastard of a blonde, who didn't so much as glance at him.

It hurt.

And no one was there to see it.

Shit, no one even wanted to.

.

.

.

Harry sighed as he crossed the Great Hall, trying to ignore the chorus of tone deaf students who thought it was a brilliant idea to sing at the top of their voices. Really? Did they think it affected him anymore?

"Cause I may be bad, But I'm perfectly good at it~!"

He hadn't slept last night either, not a fucking wink. Today was Tuesday. Today would be his first time undergoing the diagnosis alone. Restrained, in the abandoned hospital wing, after this shit of a day. Fantastic.

"Sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it~!"

He had spent the last few hours trying to learn different languages again, but not a word had sunk in. How could it? He didn't even have his list anymore, how could he possibly complete it? It wasn't the same; within a day, everything had changed. And Harry didn't know how, nor even think he would, to make it better.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me~!"

They could all burn in hell. Harry did not kill Voldemort, so they could treat him like shit for the rest of his life. Fate was a fucking joke.

Sniggers echoed around the hall, bursts of giggles and snarky comments. Harry didn't care. He was numb, remember?

"Fucking faggot!"

Until now.

Harry stumbled as a tripping jinx hit him, barely catching himself before falling to the ground. As it was, his books went scattering everywhere. Great. Just perfect.

Humiliation welled up inside him, overwhelming the anger. Who the hell had the right to comment like that? Seriously? As if he wasn't suffering enough!

He made quick work of picking up his books, intending to hurry from the room. Another jinx made him trip again, this time succeeding in sending him crashing to the floor.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

Do not get upset! Do not get embarrassed! They're laughing at the bloody song, not at him. Never at him!

While Harry was trying to regain some of his nonexistent pride, a tanned hand appeared to help him up. What was even more shocking was that the hand belonged to Zabini.

What the hell did he want? To bloody jump on the dog when it's down?

He didn't look impressed, he didn't even look angry. Indifferent as always, he simply offered his hand. After a moment of clear bewilderment and remaining mortification, Harry allowed himself to be pulled up. He was already loathed; why not go for gold while he was at it? He could still make the entire wizarding population hate him too.

Snatching at his books, he realised the hall was silent again. No singing, no coughing… no bloody footsteps. Silence.

Glancing around quickly, Harry intended to mutter a quick thanks to Zabini. Truly, he did.

But Malfoy always had to have the attention, now didn't he?

He wasn't doing anything particularly threatening. He was simply leaning on a doorframe, his eyebrows raised. Staring at another Slytherin, probably in the year below him, he seemed completely at ease. If you ignored the fact the entire hall was holding its breath, waiting for his reaction to the mistreatment of Harry.

The gossipers were disappointed.

"Si vous autant que regardez mon fiancé à nouveau, et je vais te tuer."

What? Did the pompous twat have to speak in tongues all the fucking time? He was hardly understandable in English, why throw French into the mix?

Zabini seemed surprised by the statement, if his snort was anything to go by. Other than that, they left.

Before the hall could understand what had happened, so did Harry.

It wasn't cowardice. It was strategic.

.

.

.

For that day's detention they were moved to the trophy hall, to clean the million different awards and polish them. No magic, as if Harry had a choice in the matter. It felt as if she were being spiteful by just saying it.

They worked in silence.

Harry awkwardly cleaning on his side of the room, barely awake enough to comprehend that he wasn't doing much more than move the grime around on the cup, and Malfoy in a moody silence on his. Harry preferred yelling a hundred times over than this.

He still didn't understand why Malfoy went off the other day like he did. He found the list…so what? What did any of it have to do with him? It was Harry's and Harry's alone; no one else was allowed to judge it, least of all Malfoy. Shit, he was probably one of the few Harry expected to understand…not to explode like a woman in menopause and beat the living daylights out of him. It was just stupid about how angry he got…and over Harry? It was madness. Pure madness.

Harry sat in his corner for the first few hours in relative silence, barely breathing as he worked. The quiet was hell. He had had enough of it, but he was going to be damned if he was going to apologize for something that wasn't his fault.

He glanced at Malfoy, catching a glimpse of grey eyes before flicking away again. Neither of them was going to apologize. Despite the fact Malfoy was clearly in the wrong.

Eventually McGonagall returned, telling him that he should go to the hospital wing for his treatment. His legs could hardly stand, already resisting his mind. He needed to get to the hospital wing…his limbs were betraying him. They screamed for him to run. And Merlin, did he want to.

Instead he dutifully trailed up to the Hospital Wing, like the good little shell he was.

.

.

.

Draco barely managed to conceal his look of utter loathing as McGonagall demanded Potter go to his diagnosis. Didn't the bitch notice the look of bloody fear that was already creeping into his face? Didn't she see how his legs trembled as he forced himself to his feet?

No, apparently everyone was blind to Potter's suffering except Draco.

…

Well, sure, Draco was the instigator of most of it, but still. You would expect someone else to notice that Boy Wonder was falling apart. With him being the wizarding saviour and all that jazz.

But no, everyone remained blatantly oblivious, leaving Draco to wallow in his own…dare he even think it?...guilt. He shouldn't be guilty. Malfoy's didn't feel guilt. They shouldn't feel guilt…they shouldn't bloody well feel anything! And yet here he was, forced to glance at Potter from the corner of his eye and watch him deteriorate with each passing day.

Draco waited until the Headmistress left before he stopped polishing the cup, musing to himself. It wasn't his fault Potter was an imbecile. It was he who had infuriated Draco, practically bellowing in an effort to protect his nonexistent friends. Why couldn't he get it through his thick skull that he didn't need them anymore? They had obviously abandoned him. He should be perfectly content with Draco's company, not crave theirs.

…

No, he wasn't jealous. Malfoy's never got jealous, because they could bloody well buy whatever they didn't have. Potter couldn't be bought; problematic but not unsolvable. Everyone had their price. Potter's was obviously company; even the most horrendous people craved company. It wasn't natural to lock oneself away; humans were sociable by nature. And Potter had had a posse since he was a child. Of course all he wanted was friendship. He would come crawling back to Draco, apologising for some simple affection.

The thought made Draco want to throw up.

This was Potter. His rival. The only person in this castle that seemed capable of curing his utter boredom. That caught his fucking attention as soon as he entered the room. He wasn't supposed to apologize, or crave company. He was supposed to be Potter.

Salazar, the nervousness had returned to Draco's stomach. Regret at attempting to gauge Potter's eyes out? No, he shouldn't regret a thing.

And yet, the guilt remained.

Bloody Potter!

He hadn't done anything wrong, not this time. It was Potter that had decided to be selfish and hurl himself at a tree that wanted nothing more than to pulverize him. And why? For a fucking list…a list of things to do before he died.

The selfish bastard.

What happened to his ridiculous sense of Gryffindor courage?

What happened to his irritating as hell stubbornness?

What happened to the fact he couldn't be fucking killed?

And yet he had already relinquished any battle by making this fucking list, and then almost getting himself killed by completing the most dangerous activity first, without planning. The bastard.

How dare he not fight this time? How dare he risk himself?

He had the obligation to fight! He was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake!

Yes, he was Harry Potter. And he was Harry Potter chained to a hospital bed, undergoing excruciating treatment alone because of a fight Draco had initiated.

…

Fuck detention. His fiancé needed him.

.

.

.

Draco could hear the screaming before he opened the door. Just enter. Enter. Fucking enter!

His hand stayed on the doorhandle, however. He ignored the shaking, and tried to ignore the desperate shrieks. Damn it. He had seen his fair share of tortures over the past year and a bit, and he wasn't looking forward to subjecting himself to more. Being held under the cruciatus was preferable than watching Potter hurt like this. Every. Fucking. Tuesday.

Summoning his inner Gryffindor, though he would deny that until his deathbed, he opened the door and slipped inside. He was banned from being in the same room as Potty, but the headmistress didn't consider the fact he hadn't returned the infamous invisibility cloak.

Potter was alone, of course. Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen.

The screams were a hundred times worse when watching Potter's contorted face. Fucking hell.

His chest convulsed, tremors wracking his entire body, arching in on itself as much as the restraints would allow as he screamed. The sound of absolute pain and fear, all rolled into one agonizing plead. God, no one should be able to scream like that.

Potter shrieked in pain, jerking against the restraints. His wrists were strained white and red, the clasps cutting into his skin as he tried desperately to tear his way free. It didn't look as if he were breathing; his eyes scrunched shut as his face turned steadier crimson. Where the hell was that bloody witch? No matter how distraught she was, she wasn't likely to leave her patient suffering like this.

When she didn't appear within the next few seconds, Draco ripped the cloak off, diving towards the bed. Potter was still convulsing, shrieking, so Draco put trembling hands on his shoulders, trying to force him to lie still. He could feel every tremor, his shirt damp with clammy sweat.

Shit, shit. He didn't know what to do, didn't know whether he should try to get the nurse or if he should just try to still him. Blood was running down his wrists, thick, unrelenting. Fuck, Draco had to fight the steadily growing nausea rising to his throat. He couldn't help him, not like this. What the hell was he supposed to do? Why didn't they teach this in school? It would be so fucking more beneficial than History of Magic!

Another jerk had Draco trip forwards, growling to himself as he forced the shoulders back flat against the bed. As soon as he did, though, Potter's head started shaking, whipping from side to side in a grotesque attempt at bashing his own head. Draco was forced to remove the hands on his shoulder to attempt to still his head. The green eyes snapped open.

Relief washed through Draco, a small sign escaping before he realised the eyes weren't looking at him. Glazed, the eyes just stared through him, and while the screaming was finally cut off, Potter's face was still scrunched up in pain. The small thread of relief turned sickly in his stomach as the muttering began. His whispered frenzy grew in pitch every few seconds. Draco was powerless but to watch as he started screaming again, now spitting out words to echo through the hall.

"PLEASE!"

Draco slapped Potter.

Hard.

His head whipped to the right, the shrieking cutting off immediately. His chest heaved up and down as if he had run the length of the castle; his fists were still clenched in the restrictions, crimson droplets running down his arms.

"God damn it, wake up Potter."

And suddenly, those emeralds were focused on him. Shit.

Malfoy jerked backwards as if burnt, ripping his hands away from the trembling chest of the brunette. So much for composure! He was a Malfoy! Delicate and poise in all actions, including fucking heart palpation control!

Before Potter could say a word, Draco snatched the fallen cloak from the ground, flinging it to cover him. He had done his bit, he had helped Potty…now he could leave before Boy Wonder realised he wasn't imagining the blonde a foot away from his bed.

"Oi! D-don't go!"

Draco paused mid-step.

No. Don't turn around. Who cared if his voice broke? Nobody. Not one fucking person. Leave. Leave Draco.

"Malfoy?"

Draco swivelled around to stare at Potter, trying in vain to sit up and sight the blonde. His eyes swung around the room, taking in every flicker of a shadow. Taking in the shut door. No way out. Brilliant.

"…you could answer…"

Draco remained silent. He couldn't answer, now could he? Malfoy's weren't often in the wrong, and when they were, they didn't admit to it. Potty was going to wait for a miracle.

"Fine! Y-you happy now? Huh? This is what you wanted to see, wasn't it? Pathetic Potter, fucking terrified of a fucking potion! You arse! That was my list, you dick! Mine! What right do you have to judge it!?"

And thus the guilt returned.

Draco sighed as Potter grit his teeth furiously. He had tear tracks down his cheeks. His wrists were bleeding. And he was chained to a bed. It wasn't as if he could try to re-break Draco's nose.

"I don't have anything else, you bastard!"

"…I know."

Draco shuffled forwards slightly, sinking onto the bed. Hesitantly, he placed a hand onto Potter's arm. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and he felt ridiculous doing it, but he didn't remove his hand. Couldn't.

"You likely to explain why you had PMS the other day?" And the moment was gone. "If not, fuck off."

And so he did.

.

.

.

Harry had had enough.

Enough of the ridicule and the laughter and the bloody singing that followed him throughout the corridors. He was sick of being tortured every Tuesday, of having to watch as his supposed friends developed their magic whilst he sat in the background, watching wistfully.

He was sick of being so bloody weak and pathetic, and just taking everything that was handed out to him. He was Harry fucking Potter! He had defeated the cruellest wizard that had lived, to be treated like shit every day?

He had had enough.

And Malfoy's pity was just the clincher.

How dare he take the list?

That was Harry's, and his alone. It was the sole thing keeping him sane. And Malfoy thought he would just take it? Over Harry's soon to be dead body.

He entered the Great Hall for the first time in days, ignoring the fight for control as nausea swelled up inside him. He could barely smell the food, let alone try to eat it. How the hell was he likely to complete number sixteen if he couldn't go near food?

Harry ignored the other tables, but stormed up to the one bathed in green. They weren't eating much either, by the looks of them.

What the hell was going on? None of the Slytherins were eating, only picking at their food. Most were throwing filthy glares at the other tables. Most of them were pale. If Harry didn't know any better, he would have thought they were humiliated…but then, they were Slytherins. They didn't get embarrassed, not by a long shot. And they never lost any of the battles. The sheer thought was ludicrous.

Harry searched the table, finally spotting the blonde in the centre. Of course he was in the bloody centre; he always had to have the attention! Dramatic little prick that he was.

"We can't do anything, not yet." He was saying to his posse, massaging his forehead. "We don't know who it was, and we're already on a fucking obliterated standing as it is."

"Yeah, no thanks to you and your domestic with…What do you want, Potty?" Harry ignored Parkinson, keeping his glare for Malfoy instead. It irritated him that she called him Potty…only Malfoy did that. Coming from any other mouth sounded like it was a brat saying it, kind of like calling another kid 'stupid'.

"Malfoy, give it back." He didn't care if they found out; they probably knew already. He didn't give a flying fuck about it. So they would know what he was doing, big deal. They wouldn't know the mechanics behind it…probably. He would just have to ignore them if they did; like his motto. Ignore it, it doesn't exist. His illness wasn't hurting him, his Gryffindors weren't being pricks, and Malfoy didn't exist. Now the Slytherins could join the plethora of imaginary concerns.

"Maybe if you asked nicely-?"

"Give it back, before I make you." Harry ignored the several wands pointed at him under the table. They could snicker and curse all they wanted; in full view of the staff, they wouldn't do much.

"I was about to last night, but our heartfelt reunion was time restricted. I'm afraid I've misplaced it."

Harry felt rather calm as he drew his wand. It wasn't in a threatening position, not in the slightest. But Malfoy still narrowed his eyes dangerously, a warning already on his lips. Harry over spoke him.

"I'd rather not have to accio it, but I will. I've already prepared a nice little note in my room about why I had to summon it, which won't help your probation in the slightest. Because there is no way I'm leaving this hall, without my list." Hell, he would probably try to summon it regardless. He didn't mind if his letter was the initiator into Malfoy's long life in Azkaban; he wasn't just the saviour; no, he was the ill saviour. It had to count for something.

Malfoy didn't say anything, but glared Harry down. His eyes were icicles, knives. He looked ready to kill. So did his cronies, but everyone knew that Malfoy was the vicious one of the lot. He was the one you had to be wary of, and right now, he was furious.

Within moments he had pushed himself away from the table and shoved Harry against the wall of the hall. He spoke in livid whispers, eyes never leaving Harry's face.

"You're worse than a girl in puberty with your rollercoaster of fucking emotions! Pick an emotion and stick with it!"

"Anger." Harry snarled, shoved Malfoy back a step. He didn't like how close they were, not at all. No one got that close to Harry, not anymore. "I pick livid fucking anger."

"And what a novelty emotion it is." Malfoy remarked dryly. "Not entirely commendable, but novelty."

"Uncommendable? Kettle; pot; black. What about you? What the hell do you have to be so furious about? You're not the one-"

Harry winced as he was shoved against the wall again, this time held there. Malfoy was livid. "A boggart was released into the common room this morning." What the hell did this have to do with the list? "Nasty thing, really. Everyone was shitting themselves when suddenly the Dark Lord was perched before the fireplace, wand out and ready to torture. And do you know what happened when I entered the room? Can you infer what could have happened?"

"You're wasting my-"

"The boggart changed, Potty. Instead, you were in the common room. I saw you, being fucking pulverised by the Womping Willow again, and again, and again. So take a guess. Get that thick brain of yours working. Why do you think I'm angry, Potter!?"

Harry swallowed at that, glancing at the line of Slytherins behind Malfoy. They were all pale, none of them were eating…Harry wouldn't eat if he had seen the nose-less wonder either.

"You're risking your life, for a list-"

"I'm risking my life by not completing the list." Harry spoke quietly, smirking inwardly as Malfoy shut up. "I'm not letting this…this thing control my life."

"Build a snowman? Win a game of chess? These aren't life accomplishments-"

"It's the only thing keeping me from…" Harry swallowed tightly, "Just…give it back."

"I'm not going to just sit back and…fuck, you can't risk yourself, Potter." Shit, Malfoy was almost pleading with him. Though he would never admit it, he looked exhausted. His hands curled around Harry's collar went lax, barely holding him there at all. And Harry saw through the mask.

He wasn't angry. Well, yes, he was. But predominantly, he was scared. Concerned.

And it killed Harry to have been the one to place it there.

What was he supposed to say now?

They were standing almost nose by nose, pressed against the wall. Harry could feel the incredulous stares of the entire cohort of students burning into them. He could practically feel the embarrassment radiate around the room.

Malfoy was standing too close; it was warm…safe. He could feel his breath on his face, and though that was usually considered ghastly, he was finding he didn't really mind. Vanilla.

His eyes snatched onto Malfoy's adams apple as he swallowed, hesitant. Slowly, he glanced back at the exceedingly close face.

He could see a hint of nervousness swirling inside Malfoy's incredibly grey eyes.

Harry swallowed tightly, wondering where his anger went the moment he needed it. Probably ran off with his stupid courage, hidden in the depths of his mind where he couldn't reach them. Great.

Harry slowly pushed Malfoy away from him, hand trembling. For a moment the blonde didn't move; you could see it in his eyes he wasn't going to. But then, unbelievably, he took a step back.

It was all Harry needed to slide around him, and stumble from the hall.

.

.

.

What the hell was that?

His heart hadn't stopped thumping yet. He was certain that Malfoy was about to…

No. No, he wasn't. They hated each other. They were barely friends. Whatever…whatever that was, couldn't happen. He was sick, for Merlins sake!

Harry hit his head on the desk, wringing his hands through his hair. It didn't happen, it wasn't going to happen…he didn't want it to happen?

No! Dangerous thoughts, Harry! Stop it!

Oh, god, this was going to be unbearable. Hell. Torture on earth.

What was going on with him? It was Malfoy…a guy. And he had nearly…!

Well, there went their exceedingly happy friendship.

Harry hid his face in his hands as the classroom door opened, the students piling in. He was certain his face was bright red still, and darkening with each passing moment. Maybe he could sneak out and head to the hospital wing? The new teacher didn't exactly know how to control the class yet, did she?

"Hello class! How are we all today?" Her chirpiness wasn't needed. "We'll be doing a rather easy spell today, for the most of you, considering the extraordinary experience you've already had." That was one word for it. "I've found a boggart in the dungeons-"

Harry glanced up at that, growling to himself as the smug glances went around the room. The Gryffindors planted it there, they must have. What happiness did they get out of tormenting other students like this? It was escalating past simple revenge.

"Which will be perfect in this lesson. Now, I know a Patronus Charm can be difficult, especially when you don't have a dementor in the room. We can't just borrow one, now can we?" Half the class laughed. Really? Was that even classified as a joke? "But…I've heard…uh…speculation…that there is a student in this class that can transform a boggart into a dementor."

Harry sighed inwardly as every eye swivelled around to stare at him.

"I'm not trying to pressure this…student into doing anything he, I mean, he or she, doesn't want to. It's just having the effects of the dementor in the room was assist our class exceptionally."

Harry met her eyes with a blank stare, seeming to be listening like the rest of the class. He wasn't doing it. He didn't even know her name. Some attention he had given this class thus far.

"So…would anyone like to volunteer? To help the class?"

Harry remained sitting.

"…Harry?"

So much for the student remaining anonymous. Harry sighed, clenching his teeth. He really didn't want to get up. Who was to say the boggart would even change into a dementor anyway? There was the very real possibility that would change to a dead Harry. To one lying in a hospital bed, with no hair, pale, emancipated and-

"Please, Harry?"

Why couldn't they leave him alone?

Harry sighed again, inching from his chair warily and shifting to the front of the room. Eyes followed him, drilling a whole into his back.

The teacher opened a chest she had sitting on the desk, not preparing Harry and his torrent of emotions. Shit, what if just showed him dying? He couldn't handle that, he wasn't going to d-!

The room went icy cold, as if all the warmth was taken from the very atmosphere. As if it never existed in the first place. Thank god.

Harry shuffled to an abandoned desk near the front, still closest to the boggart. He couldn't go further back, or it would change to the next persons fear. And, since the Slytherins had already been tormented that morning, he didn't think it fair to risk them.

Also, he didn't want another Voldemort to pop into the room, which was most likely.

He didn't listen to her explaining to people to gather their happiest memory. Until now, he could perform the spell perfectly. Until now, he hadn't realised he wouldn't be seeing his silver stag trotting around ever again. It hurt more than it should, to have his transparent deer taken away from him. When was the last time he cast it? Should he risk casting it again?

The dementor shifted closer and silver mist filled the room, protecting most of its inhabitants. Being the only one not about to cast, naturally, it shifted closer to Harry.

He…it was awful.

Screaming filled his head, his mother dying. Voldemort was laughing cruelly, mocking him, making him bow. He could see George dead, a mountain of bodies, hear all their screams, could hear Ron bawling, howling for his brother to come back, to just wake up….

The chilly air was cut off.

Harry blinked, glancing at Malfoy, who was settling in at the desk next to him. Right there. As if the…episode this morning had never happened. Harry was mortified. Shit, he would want to talk. And it was Malfoy, he would never let it go. Not when it was perfect ammunition into making Harry's life even more of a hell than it already was.

He wasn't looking at Harry, instead blatantly kept his eyes on the shimmery thing protecting them from the dementor. And, desperate to not speak, Harry studied it too.

He wasn't expecting the incredulous mirth.

"Your patronus is a dragon? How vain are you?" He chuckled, oblivious to the dementor, or the startled, angry glares of his peers.

Malfoy glanced at him, pink touching his cheeks, a slight smirk on his face. "Jealous?"

"Tremendously."

He didn't notice Malfoy slip the folded paper precariously back into his pocket.