Non Time, O Parve Mage

The sky was plastered with hues of black and gray, shielding the stars that so desperately tried to peer through. The great trees of the forest groaned under the weight of the ice and snow they bore. Every now and then, a sharp wind would nip playfully at the huge heaps of snow, taking with it a swirling trail of the sparkling cotton as it moved on to pester something else. The air was crisp ad clean, and bore slight traces of frost that made Draco’s nose tingle whenever he inhaled.
The frost crunched beneath his feet as he ran toward nowhere. He paused at a large oak tree; many years passed, and leaned up against it, catching his breath. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could muster and bit his lip such that tiny crimson drops flooded the hollow space beneath his tongue. “I cursed a student…” he mumbled to himself repeatedly—hoping that if he said it enough times, it would go away. He had used the Liquida Flama curse on another student: a curse he did not even know he was capable of using. It was the very curse that his father had used against Voldemort—one of the few that could have caused him any damage…and he had used it on a student. From what he saw of Weasley, he would be fine; not that he actually cared. But when he saw those emerald eyes staring at him in pure horror…it was too much. He had to leave. Hogwarts was no place for him anymore. He was surrounded by pain everywhere he turned in the age-old castle.
With a forlorn sigh, Draco pushed himself from he decrepit tree. As a bitter breeze wove it way through his black robes, he pulled them more tightly to his body, and headed toward the gates. There was something he needed to do.
He let himself be carried almost mechanically to the wrought iron gates that protected Hogwarts from the rest of the world. Gingerly, he wrapped a silver hand about the frozen metal. With a last look at the castle, he pushed the gate open and with a swirl of black linen, he disapparated to Malfoy Manor.

Broken glass of champagne flutes crunched beneath his feet. The once noble, velvet drapes were torn, lying in crumpled heaps on the marble floor.
“Father?” he called out. His voice echoed throughout the magnanimous hall, and reverberated throughout the hundreds of corridors. Did he expect his father to be here? Did he expect some sort of solace from returning to the place where so many foul memories were born?
He did not know anymore.
He let his feet carry him throughout the manor. He slowly walked up the steps of the great marble staircase, supporting himself on the mahogany railing. He paused at the top, when he noticed a glimmer of silver on the floor. He kneeled on the floor, and dusted it if broken marble and glass to reveal a silver serpent mask. He swallowed, hard, and picked it up carefully, with both hands, as though it were made of the finest crystal. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it, making sure that it was, in fact, empty.
Moving on, he pocketed the mask and strode lightly down the hall. On either side of him, were various framed portraits of his family. The largest of which, was hanging centered above the landing of the huge staircase—a grand oil portrait of his father, mother, older brother (who had been several years older then himself, and killed by aurors some years ago), and himself—he was only six when the portrait was painted—but each figure was magically aged to keep with the present. when a subject died, he would be transformed in the painting to the peak of his existence. His brother, Havoc, looked as though he were twenty one—just as he did the day he died. He was a mirror image of their father.
As he gazed thoughtfully at the portrait, he wondered if he was ever accosted by Lord Voldemort.
Draco continued down the hall. He caught brief glimpses of his ancestors on either side of him. There were no paintings of those who had married muggles or supported unity between the races. He paused at a portrait of his great-aunt, a veela, and turned to enter his bedroom…where his mother had taken her life. He glanced at his desk; where there was an open bottle of ink—memorial to Eara’s presence.
Draco walked over to his desk, and sat in the large wooden chair. He stroked the smooth oak with his hand as he remembered Eara’s last letter.
Dear Draco,
I’m sorry I’m leaving you again so suddenly, but it is for the best. I can’t trust that I won’t hurt you. When I see you, I see your father, and it kills me to think that he is inside of you. When I see you now, so mature—so like him—all I can see is those silver eyes glaring down at my mother before he killed her. All I feel is the need to hurt you—that’s why I left two years ago; I was afraid of what I might do to you. You mean so much to me, and I didn’t want to jeopardize your safety just because I wanted to be near you. I’m sorry.
I know you know what happened here—Dumbledore sent me here to get the details—I suppose he assumes I’ll be walking in my parent’s footsteps. He’s probably right. I revived your father. I suppose that just as much as I see him in you, I see you in him. I didn’t want you to lose everything.
I just wanted you to know…your mother did love you. I’ll pray for you, always,
Eara
Draco sighed and raised himself from the chair. He looked around the room. Aside from his desk, everything looked fairly neat. The house elves still maintained his room, though it looked as though they were afraid to venture downstairs. He walked over to his bed, and bent down to draw back the sheets. He sighed as he removed his robes and shoes, flinging them absentmindedly to the other side of the room. With a snap of his fingers, he drew the curtains closed, and shut the door. He grabbed a pillow and fluffed it, and let himself fall onto the mattress with a thud. “Harry,” he muttered to himself, before falling into a deep sleep.
~*~
Harry watched Draco sorrowfully out of the corner of his eye as he entered the hall. Ron was patting his back. Apparently, he had seen everything, and was speaking to him in what he thought was a consoling voice, “I’m not going to say, ‘I told you so’. Malfoy is nothing but trouble.” Harry, however, was tuning him out. All he could think about was how thin Draco was getting, and that he wasn’t eating anything. Meanwhile, Hermione was cooing soft words into his ear, such as, “It’s not your fault, you’re a great person, you deserve better,” etcetera, etcetera.
Harry found it rather obnoxious that they were talking to him as though they had a remote idea as to what was going on. He wasn’t upset that Draco turned him down, he understood that. He wasn’t expecting a hug and a kiss, he just wanted Draco to know that he was there for him—that he understood. What did hurt him, was that Draco didn’t trust him—that he trusted no one. It seemed that what he had said to him was true, “You can’t save everyone…”
But still, he refused to believe that.
Harry was jolted from his train of thought, when he heard Blaise yell, “But you haven’t eaten in forever!” Draco was walking briskly out of the hall, not looking anywhere but straight ahead. Harry bit his lip and looked away from him. Draco looked as though their recent encounter had hurt him more than Harry could ever fathom.
“That’s it.” He faintly heard Ron mutter. Hermione grabbed his sleeve, but let go immediately when Ron gave her his signature, “Don’t fucking touch me, I have business to attend to!” look.
Harry was still staring at the spot where Draco had been sitting, and at Blaise who was wrapping up some food to force on Draco the next time he saw him. It reminded him of something Hermione would do for him.
“Harry!”
Harry looked up, startled, when Hermione hissed in his ear. “Ron just went after Draco—he looked really angry—you’d better make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid!”
Harry dropped his fork with a clang, and ran after Ron, which gained the attention of several teachers and students. He threw open the hall doors to find Draco curled up in a ball on the ground with Ron standing over him with his wand. Before he could reach his own wand, Draco yelled, whipped out his wand, shouted, “LIQUIDA FLAMA!” sending a huge gust of red-hot energy at Ron. Ron screamed and fell over onto the floor. He was covered burns—some of which ruptured, releasing blood onto the floor. Before he could run over to Draco to help him from the ground, Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Lupin had already pushed him aside and taken charge.
He looked over at Draco, whose eyes were scarlet from weeping. His thinness was more apparent than it ever had been. He had never seen Draco so weak. Lupin saw the look of horror on Harry’s face at Draco’s situation and ran over to him. Harry’s vision began to go in and out of focus rapidly. He felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulder, supporting him. He gave Ron a last shameful gaze before he turned back to Draco who was running from the hall. Harry moved to hurry after him, but was stopped by Dumbledore’s firm hand.
“Let him go, Harry.”
Harry looked up to him with glistening emerald eyes. “But what if he hurts himself again? What if he leaves Hogwarts and Vol—“
“We mustn’t talk of such things.” He paused and turned toward Ron, who was now being magically placed on a stretcher by Madame Pomfrey. “Ron needs you now. I expect there is much you need to discuss.”
Harry looked up at Dumbledore warily. “Ron’s going to be fine…” he began, staring determinedly at Dumbledore. “Draco needs me.”
Dumbledore smiled…but his eyes did not. There was no warm, blue twinkling, no stern focus and dilated pupils…no Dumbledore.
Harry wrenched his arm away from him and began heading toward the great, oak doors to go after Draco, when, once again, he was stopped by a firm hand. “Harry—you must go to Ron, now.” He said as-a-matter-of-factly, “Do not put yourself at risk to run after young Master Malfoy--”
“Mister.” Harry said suspiciously, glaring up at the unfamiliar man. “Mister Malfoy.”
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, and slowly crept his long fingers into his robes for his wand, but Harry was too quick for him. he lashed out his wand, and threw Dumbledore against a nearby wall. He vaguely heard McGonagall scream, “POTTER!”
She ran over to Dumbledore, but paused when she saw him, sitting against the stone wall, hat askew, laughing. She gasped and quickly stepped in front of Harry. She pulled out her wand and held it firmly at the man’s heart. She yelled for Remus, who ran over promptly. His eyes glinted for a moment as he stared at the crumpled heap on the ground, and then he too pulled out his wand.
“Who are you?” McGonagall croaked, her nostrils flaring. Again, the man threw his head back and laughed. Meanwhile, Flick was ushering the students back into the great hall, and sealing the doors.
“WHO ARE YOU!” she shrieked, sending red sparks unintentionally from her wand. Again, he laughed. He looked up at the trio of wizards before him. “You spent over a year with me…and still you don’t know me?” he continued to laugh maniacally.
“no…” Harry whispered, “It can’t be…you’re—“
He laughed again and clapped his hands together. Slowly, his long white hair shortened, and darkened to the color of straw. His skin darkened and smoothed itself to reveal freckled skin. His eyes shrunk and changed from bright blue to pale gray. His legs shortened, and his chest filled out.
“Crouch.” Remus gasped as he took a step back.
“Impossible! You were given the dementor’s kiss—how can you—“
“Please,” he laughed. “If my master can unlock the secret to immortality, I’d like to think he can reverse such a thing as…unsophisticated as the dementor’s kiss!”
“How? You—you can’t—it’s impossible—“
“So is achieving immortality.” He whispered slyly. McGonagall’s mouth thinned into a barely visible line and she stepped forward. Without turning to him, she spat, “Remus—go fetch some veritaserum.” She glared down at Crouch. “Where is Dumbledore?” she demanded. Again, he merely laughed. A tear ran down her cheek, despite her effort to stop it. “WHERE IS DUMBLEDORE!” she screamed.
Harry was still too shocked to move. Twice he had been fooled by this man. Twice anyone failed to notice until it was too late. He looked back…trying to see when he was replaced. Dumbledore never would have sent Snape after Voldemort alone; especially not when the life of a student was on the line.
He heard someone running, and turned to see a distressed Remus carrying a small, clear vial. He walked over to Crouch, forced his mouth open, and let several drops fall onto his tongue. He stood back and asked the first question. “How long have you been disguised as Dumbledore?”
“Three months.” Harry felt sick.
“How did you get rid of Dumbledore?”
“I didn’t. Malfoy did.”
McGonagall gasped, “Lucius?”
“No…” he paused thoughtfully and turned to look Harry straight in the eye. “His son.”