Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
XII

Rapture

Waiting for someone to put you together

Waiting for someone to push you away

There's always another wound to discover

There's always something more you wish he'd say

- Vertical Horizon, Everything You Want

: : : : :

The two months leading up to Harry’s practical testing for his Auror exams flew by. Between his actual duties as a cadet and his unofficial – but more important – work for the Order, he was hardly sleeping at all. He tended to cat nap whenever he could find a couple of hours in which nothing was on fire and nobody was dying, and was doing just that when he awoke with a start late one evening to someone hellbent on breaking down his front door.

Ron was already in the entryway, wand drawn, hand on the doorknob. Harry, shirtless and without his glasses, his own wand grasped in his hand, nodded. Ron unlocked the door, yanked it open, and leapt out of the way.

Blaise stood there on the threshold, breathing heavily, rain cascading off his broad shoulders. He looked at Harry with that fierce, haunted expression Harry knew all too well, and at once Harry understood. He grabbed Blaise by the upper arm and dragged him inside.

Harry let him stay, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Who could face their own mother, doing what he had done, had to do? He didn’t have any money, not without walking into Gringotts and having to see people—nice, innocent, ordinary, everyday people that might at any moment end up on the other side of his wand. It was all right, though; Ron went to stay with Hermione for a couple of weeks, and let Blaise use his room.

And then it was July 31st. Harry had forgotten, what with Blaise appearing on his doorstep and Auror finals, that it was his birthday that weekend. He would have happily forgotten it, but Harry’s friends, as they so often did, insisted on celebrating, because it was always nice to have an excuse to get drunk and forget there was a war going on.

Hermione sent the invitations. Harry was supposed to get there at nine. He wandered into the den at half past, looking for his trainers. Blaise was sitting on his couch, dirty boots propped on his coffee table, beer in one hand and some dramatic cop soap playing on the telly. Harry fished his shoes out from underneath the table and sat on the armchair across from him to pull them on.

‘You sure you don’t want to come?’

Blaise glanced at him before turning his attention back to the television. ‘Can’t really risk being seen in public with your lot, but thanks anyway.’

‘Fred and George rented out the pub for the night,’ Harry told him. ‘Anyone there will be in the Order.’

Blaise answered with a shrug.

‘Open bar,’ Harry tempted. ‘You’ve been holed up here a week, c’mon.’

Blaise seemed to consider this only briefly before turning the telly off. ‘I’ll get my cloak.’

Harry was never on time for his own parties. It wasn’t that he made an effort to be late, it just always seemed to happen that way. But this way, at least, he didn’t have to sit around awkwardly as people slowly arrived. By the sound and volume of the music on the other side of the door, Fred and George had everything in full-swing by the time they had Apparated into the entryway of the Ashwinder.

When Harry opened the door, Blaise blinked. ‘Survivor? Really?’

‘It’s George’s favourite song,’ Harry explained, trying not to smile and failing.

George was, indeed, on the tiny, make-shift karaoke stage at the far end of the dance floor. Fred climbed up to join him, and together they welcomed Harry to his twentieth birthday with an off-key but enthusiastic rendition of Eye of the Tiger.

‘Sometimes,’ Blaise began, several hours and many rounds later, ‘it really sucks being the only Slytherin at a party.’

Harry, who had been birthday-punched in the shoulder enough times to leave a substantial bruise, smirked. ‘You’re just saying that because nobody’s naked.’

‘One of many points,’ Blaise agreed, glancing around. They were the only ones at the bar now; almost everyone was slow dancing with their respective others, or respective others they’d borrowed from others—and George had actually fallen asleep on the dance floor, somehow. ‘How do you lot afford this, anyway?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Fred and George’s shop has some sort of deal with the place, and anyway they probably make more in a month than most of us do in a year, so,’ Harry shrugged again. ‘I asked once, and they mentioned something about selling themselves on a street corner.’

Blaise snorted and downed the rest of the gin and tonic he’d been working on for the past quarter of an hour. Harry sighed and rested his chin on his hand, watching Neville twirl Luna expertly into a dip.

‘Feeling left out?’ Blaise prompted.

Harry shrugged again; the alcohol was severely limiting his communication. ‘I can’t dance,’ he added, as way of explanation.

Blaise smirked a little and twirled his empty cup in his hands. ‘Want to get out of here?’

Harry looked very critically at the half-empty bottle of bourbon he’d been working his way through. ‘Yeah.’

Harry said goodnight to people while Blaise waited at the door. He even managed to get a thumbs-up from George, still semi-comatose on the floor, when he gave him a goodbye-nudge-in-the-ribs with his foot. He really was far too drunk to Apparate on his own, even such a short distance, so he took Blaise’s proffered arm and let himself be yanked back into his flat via Side-Along. He collapsed on his couch clutching his head, the acid turning over in his stomach.

‘Why,' he groaned, 'why do I do these things?’

Blaise answered him from the kitchen with another question: ‘D’you have anything to drink?’

‘You want to drink more?’ Harry thought he would be happy never to see another alcoholic beverage in his life. ‘How could you possibly drink more?’

‘You know,’ Blaise said, returning to the couch with a new-found bottle of tequila and two shot glasses, ‘if would you eat before drinking, like an intelligent person, it’s a lot easier on the stomach. Oh, right—Gryffindor,’ he added after a moment, wincing as if he’d had a sudden oncoming of a headache. ‘Forgive the oxymoron.’

Harry held up a warning hand, wincing. ‘Bite me. And also, if you mention food again, I am going to be sick. On you. I don’t – ’ Harry attempted, as Blaise slid a shot along the table to him. ‘What are you trying to do, kill me through liver failure?’

‘Such a lightweight, Potter,’ Blaise admonished, downing his own shot quickly and pouring himself another. Harry considered his for a moment before shrugging and following suit. Blaise reached over to refill Harry’s glass, and his left sleeve slid up his arm as he did so.

Blaise saw Harry looking and pulled back so quickly, he spilled tequila all over the table.

‘Shit.’ Blaise went to clean the mess with a flick of his wand, but Harry caught his wrist. Blaise tensed and dropped his wand, but did not pull away.

Harry pulled back the sleeve, and stared at the fresh Dark Mark there. He looked at it for a long time, while Blaise looked away towards the window, fist clenched so hard that the muscles and veins in his forearm stood out, disfiguring the cursed tattoo with small ridges and valleys.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Harry asked abruptly, releasing his wrist.

Blaise pulled his arm in, cradling it like it was injured. ‘No.’

He put down his glass and picked up the bottle instead, and Harry looked up and watched the amber liquid churn in the bottleneck as Blaise sucked it down. Blaise finished the swig with a wince, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back on the couch. He started to talk anyway, so quietly at first Harry couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. But Harry waited, watching him, and listening. Blaise still wasn’t looking at him, and his voice was fluctuating; rising, trembling, but hardly pausing for breath. The words poured out of him like a tap left on to run until the sink filled, spilling out, overflowing into the room and drowning him.

Harry did not interrupt, and listened impassively. He took mental notes on important things the Order would need to know later, and filed away the rest, the horrible details that had gotten Blaise that mark, that earned his place among the most loyal, the most revered of the Dark Lord’s followers. He knew that every last one of those details could land Blaise in Azkaban when the war was over, spy or no spy. Blaise talked and talked and Harry listened, because who else could, who else would and lock it away? He knew Blaise had done what he had to do, did what he did because Harry had asked it of him, knowing that it was invaluable and important and only came at the low price of his own soul.

‘I—’ Blaise’s voice finally faltered and his shoulder faltered with it, falling sideways against Harry. Harry leaned back and took the weight. ‘I don’t know how long I can keep this up.’

Harry was quiet a moment, refilling both their glasses, and handed one to Blaise, who kicked it back before it had time to even settle properly in the glass. ‘How long will it take?’

‘I don’t—too long,’ Blaise said, sagging. ‘Years. Years, Potter. It’ll take years.’

Harry refilled his glass again. ‘If you want to pull out,’ he said slowly, ‘you know I won’t blame you. Nobody would.’

Blaise broke the solemn atmosphere by laughing, sharply, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. ‘Bit late for that.’

Harry started to say that that wasn’t necessarily true, and then realised he’d misunderstood. It wasn’t too late to disappear, to vanish off the face of the earth and hope to God they didn’t find you. That option was always there, always tempting, even for Harry.

But it was too late to forget.

Harry tossed back his own shot. The tequila was Ron’s. Harry actually hated the stuff, but the burn felt good going down anyway. ‘Anything you need,’ he said, desperate to be able to offer something, anything other than his thanks.‘Anything. Anytime. You know I’ll—’

Blaise laughed again, deeper, bitterly, mouth close to Harry’s ear and snarling. ‘Yeah, right. What the fuck can you do for me?’

Harry did look at him then, head turned sharply sideways. ‘What would you like?’

Blaise sat up then, slowly, shoulders hunched like an angry vulture, and drank directly from the bottle again. Harry leaned forward to meet him, his knee knocking into Blaise’s thigh, and waited. Blaise was hesitating, staring at the coffee table, unfocused. Harry often wished he was better at Legillimency.

‘Anything,’ Blaise repeated.

‘I said that,’ Harry said, his voice daring Blaise to challenge it. A promise, something Harry had vowed never to break again.

Blaise nodded, probably mostly to himself, and then turned to face Harry and shoved the bottle of tequila into his hands. ‘Drink,’ he ordered.

Harry blinked at him. ‘What is this, the worst hangover ever? Is that what you want?’

‘Drink,’ Blaise repeated, and the smirk Harry had hoped to see did not appear.

Harry took the bottle and started to drink, tentatively. Blaise watched him hungrily, impatience emanating from every pore. Harry dared to pause so he could ask, ‘Now what?’

That seemed to break whatever spell had held Blaise still—he lunged at Harry, who immediately went for his wand, and stopped when he remembered with some surprise that Blaise was unarmed, and with even more clarity, that Blaise was not hurting him, that—Blaise had—was—what?

Suddenly, drinking seemed like a very, very good idea. A thousand fragmented thoughts were suddenly whirling through his head like a drunken tornado, jumbled and disorganized and out of control because his blood-tequila ratio was too high to think about this properly, to know how to react, and it hurt whenever he tried. So Harry stopped trying to think altogether and tried to absorb the here and now, here being on his couch next to Blaise, dark and hard and dangerous, now being Blaise’s mouth on his, tongue sliding along his bottom lip, challenging his promise.

After all, he’d said anything.

With every single nerve in his body Harry could feel Blaise against him, warm and unyielding, and thought, simply: I can give him this.

It was the least he could do.

He parted his lips, and Blaise seemed to interpret that as Harry giving consent. It wasn’t like kissing anyone Harry had kissed before. In all fairness, Harry had only kissed girls before, so maybe that was the difference. There was no softness, no control. There was just hot saliva and tongue and teeth and Harry found his back crushed against the arm of the couch, mind spinning and light-headed from a combination of an alcohol-enhanced sense of touch and sudden lack of oxygen.

He was rather surprised to realise that the connotations of what was going on didn’t really bother him, as Harry had never given much particular thought to his sexual orientation because he’d never had to; he’d never even fantasised about it—but then, he’d never actually considered the possibility, either. He supposed that, objectively, Blaise was attractive for a guy. Harry had never thought of him that way before, and wasn’t sure he would in the morning, but right now—the desperation, the pain, the cursed alcohol poisoning their veins—right now, Harry could be attracted to him.

Right now, Harry could want him.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the lack of oxygen, but Harry had never realised how much bigger Blaise was; taller, broader, heavier, stronger—Harry wasn’t used to being overpowered, but Blaise held him down easily. Harry felt like he was drowning, suffocating underneath him, twisting and arching under pressure. And then Blaise slipped a hand up the inside of his shirt, cool fingers searching over warm flesh, and Harry made a noise into Blaise’s mouth and Blaise shoved his hips down into Harry’s, hard.

Harry found his hands gripping uselessly at the couch cushions and wondered what he should be doing with them. That had never been an issue before. With girls, well—there were their shoulders, their waists, the curve of their hips and breasts and things—always somewhere to put his hands; he sort of always figured it out on autopilot. And sure there were hips and things, but not breasts, and the hips weren’t curved and soft but hard and angular, the shoulders broad and stronger than his, and Harry didn’t know what to do with them.

He tried, anyway. His hands fumbled only briefly in the region of Blaise’s hips before Blaise found Harry’s wrists, grabbed them in one hand, and slammed them above his head and held them pinned there.

Well, that was new.

Harry sometimes thought about how he had sex before he had stopped; stopped letting himself give in when he so desperately wanted to and so easily could, and afterwards always wished he hadn’t. He didn’t like what he remembered. He knew he was rough, rougher than most of his partners liked. Even worse was when he let himself go, when he relinquished control, he knew that unpleasant things tended to happen. Mostly in the form of the sounds he would make. Not the sort of noises that, upon reflection, could be considered embarrassing or silly, not the sort of uneven, trembling noises girls made—similar, but worse. So much worse.

Gasps laced with hisses, moans made so deep in his throat that they came out as more of a snarl. Eyes that, instead of becoming glazed and glassy, changed—became sharp, predatory, terrifying.

Many intimate relationships had been abruptly shattered by something he had no control over, a trait he couldn’t discipline, a power that was as much as blessing as it was a curse. Harry sometimes thought that maybe something was wrong with him. It wasn’t even him or his hissing, more the fact that anyone who survived the savagery and stayed would be scared out of his bedroom in the middle of the night when, inevitably, his own dreams turned serpentine and he woke up screaming. Even then, even when and if they tried to ignore it, the midnight whispers were on his lips about the graveyard. It never seemed like enough - the warm flesh under his hands, the soft, beautiful noises they would make. The tight wet warmth was pleasant and the inevitable orgasm enjoyable, but it always left him wanting.

Blaise was warm, but he wasn't soft. He used the hand not holding Harry down to bunch Harry’s shirt up under his arms, the fabric gathering around his neck and collarbone, and busied his mouth on the revealed flesh. Harry hissed through his teeth and heard the sibilant tones there, faint, rising from the back of the deep cave and slithering closer.

Harry wondered how long it would be before Blaise could hear them, too, and what he would do when he did. Blaise wasn’t Cho, who afterwards would shy away like a wounded animal, leaving Harry confused and bewildered and out of control; wasn't Ginny, who would wince and recoil and make Harry hate himself, hate what he was, hate what he made her remember.

No, Blaise—Blaise could actually hurt him; Harry flexed his hands experimentally, and Blaise tightened his grip. He tried again, twisting his right arm, but Blaise had him good; his thumb and forefinger locked around the bones in Harry’s wrists. Harry felt Blaise’s mouth curve against his abdomen, and then got completely distracted from trying to escape as Blaise started to undo the clasp of his belt.

‘Blaise—’ Blaise wasn’t looking at him, and Harry was grateful for that, because he could feel his pupils shrinking in the darkness. It was possible Blaise didn’t even hear him, because Harry was trying so hard to hold back the murmurs resonating in his voice. ‘Fuck, I’ve—I’ve never—’

Blaise pulled the last of the leather strap of his belt through the clasp, and proceeded to undo the button of Harry’s jeans with his teeth. Blaise dragged his tongue back up Harry’s chest and kissed him, hard and slow, teeth scraping over his bottom lip.

‘I figured,’ Blaise murmured against the corner of his mouth, his free hand pulling down Harry’s zip and then sliding its way inside. Harry bit down a hiss and Blaise kissed him again, quickly this time, and withdrew his hand. ‘Should I stop?’

Harry swallowed thickly - when had it become so hard to breathe? He took several shallow breaths, trying to still the snakes slithering up his throat, while Blaise made a meal of the soft skin below where his jaw met his ear. Harry, unable to find words, finally just settled for shaking his head.

Blaise reached up and pulled Harry’s glasses off while he kissed the side of his neck once more, causing Harry to shiver. He suddenly felt cold as Blaise pulled away, just a little, and released his wrists. ‘Take your shirt off.’

It wasn’t a request. Harry took it off.

And then Blaise was on him again, sliding down his chest, pushing his knees apart and slipping between them, and Harry’s hands, freed, found Blaise’s shoulders—rubbing, grabbing, fingers getting tangled in the dark, curly hair at the base of Blaise’s neck. Harry let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, arching into the slick, fervid cavity that was Blaise’s mouth.

He tensed and bucked. Blaise was using his hands and tongue and teeth and, sweet Jesus, it was the best fucking blowjob he’d ever had—and he tried and failed to bite down on the breath escaping his mouth in a low, wavering hiss that hung in the air.

Blaise paused, and Harry’s head snapped up, horrified. Blaise was watching him carefully, clearly unsure of what he was hearing. He looked at Harry’s naked eyes, and at once Harry could tell he’d figured it out. Harry’d seen his eyes after sex in the bathroom mirror, the change lingering too long after, shocking even in the darkness, irises dilated, forming thick, bright emerald pools laced with yellow around tightly constricted pupils that weren’t quite as spherical as they should have been.

The only other times Harry had seen his eyes like that were immediately upon waking from a nightmare involving Voldemort, and on the night that Sirius died.

Harry had never blamed Cho for leaving, Ginny for giving up, never once blamed any of the others for running away. If he could have, he would have run, too.

But Blaise wasn’t running, and was still watching him, dark eyes lurking under long lashes. He went back to work with his hands, mouth temptingly half-open, slick edge of his tongue glinting off the feeble light from a street lamp coming through the window, his eyes on Harry’s. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry tried to hold his gaze, tried to keep his breathing under control, but the Italian sonofabitch in his lap was relentless and patient with experienced hands and Harry tilted his head back, surrendering to the feeling, eyes rolling back into his head as the low, breathless sounds interwoven with an alien tongue began to leak out.

When the tropical paradise that was Blaise’s mouth went back to work, the sounds went uneven, and Harry felt the growl in his throat before he heard it.

The aching, painful coil of pleasure was winding up so tightly that Harry couldn’t think. His left hand grabbed ineffectually at the cushions of the couch while his right wove into the thick curls of Blaise’s head, tightening, pulling so hard Harry was surprised he didn’t hurt him—or maybe he did, and Blaise just didn’t care. And then Blaise pulled away and Harry did snarl, loud and deep, and Blaise swallowed it with a violent kiss.

Blaise broke away abruptly, panting. ‘Tell me how you really feel,’ he drawled, voice thick and dark eyes raking over Harry hungrily.

Harry stared at him. ‘I didn’t—I can’t,’ Harry paused to swallow again, his voice still scratchy from the Parseltongue, ‘I mean, I’m not trying to—it’s not—’

‘You’re not?’ Blaise looked him over again with that same hungry, calculating look, and gave Harry an incredulous smile. ‘Really? Well, then,’ Blaise lowered his face until his mouth was angled against the side of Harry’s neck, lips and teeth grazing Harry’s skin with every word, ‘start trying.’

He bit down, hard. Harry hissed.

Apparently pleased, Blaise licked the welt he’d made and sat back, quickly pulling off his own shirt. The fresh Mark was still visible against his olive skin even in the dim light. Blaise didn’t see him looking because he was too busy finishing taking Harry’s jeans off. Then he grabbed Harry by the hips, yanked him forward, and threw one of Harry’s knees over his shoulder.

Harry steeled himself, the muscles in his stomach contracting, the sudden intake of breath a hiss in reverse, and crushed down the urge to panic. Blaise was bent over him, sandwiching Harry’s thigh in-between their chests, and kissed him again. He took his time, tongue sliding over Harry’s in slow, fluid motions, drinking down the sibilant noises, one hand under the back of Harry’s knee and one hand between their hips. Harry’s eyes flew open and he grabbed Blaise’s wrist, just as Blaise closed his fingers around the hilt of his wand.

Blaise pulled back and raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit paranoid, aren’t you?’

Harry tightened his hold until Blaise winced. ‘I sort of have to be.'

‘If I was going to do you in,’ Blaise said, the thick, sultry tone returning to his voice, ‘I’d wait until after the fun, trust me.’

‘Can I?’ Harry threw the question at him like a challenge.

Blaise ran the hand he had under Harry’s knee down the underside of his thigh and curled it underneath him. Harry’s entire body tensed because Blaise had just done something with his finger that Harry probably should have been expecting but hadn’t really been thinking about at all and, fucking Christ, what the hell was he doing?

Unreadable dark eyes held his gaze firm. ‘You fucking better.’

Then Blaise leaned down, mouth by Harry’s ear, and his voice changed; no longer harsh, it was almost gentle, persuasive, liquid. ‘Relax. No, really, relax—there you go.’ The tip of his nose and his lips were tracing the edge of Harry’s ear with a feather-light touch, and Harry gave in to the sounds trying to escape him.

‘Unless you’ve got some body oil lying around, I really do need your wand,’ Blaise added. He paused to sit back up, a corner of his mouth slanting upwards before turning his head to the side and biting down on the inside of Harry’s thigh, leaving a bright red crescent in its wake. ‘Assuming you don’t, of course, want this to hurt more than it has to.’

Harry took several slow, deep breaths, the strain in his body slowly ebbing as he forced his muscles to relax. He was watching Blaise carefully and Blaise held his gaze, looking hungry and determined and desperate, but the hunted, shadowed terror in his gaze was gone—and Harry remembered why he was doing this, whythey were doing this, what Blaise was doing for him, sacrificing for him, and he slowly released his wrist.

Blaise grinned at him then, predatory and pleased, and leaned in to kiss him again. It took all of Harry’s self-control not to squirm as he felt the slick, cold touch and instead concentrated hard on the kiss, biting down hard in retaliation on Blaise’s lips and tongue whenever Blaise pressed harder, further, the coldness turning hot and a constant stream of sporadic bursts of pleasure and pain shot up his spine like electric shocks.

Later, long after the initial pain had faded into a wild haze of feeling, when every single sound he made was twisting along the boundaries of English and Parseltongue and making no sense at all, when Blaise had long swapped smirking for a laboured sort of panting, teeth and nails dragging relentlessly at any available flesh—later, when the savage tidal wave they had been riding came crashing down and Harry almost blacked out from the sensory overload, the bottle of tequila on the table exploded, showering them in a fine mist of sweet, sticky liquor.

They stared at one another for a moment before Blaise collapsed, laughing breathlessly into the slick curve of Harry’s neck.

: : : : :

Blaise appeared standing in a cold room that smelled strongly of blood.

The Dark Lord stood not five yards before him, reclining lazily in a high-backed chair and trying to look bored with the scene before him, but the hungry look in his eyes betrayed the façade. Snape stood beside him, along with Dolohov, who had a weedy, quivering man held at wandpoint. Three figures stood before them; one stood apart, tall and at ease; the second holding the third, who snarled and tried to lunge at Blaise as he stepped forward. Her fangs flashed yellow in the firelight.

Blaise scowled and stepped quickly to Snape's side, out of reach. He hated vampires.

The man held at wandpoint was tossed forward, and Dolohov conjured thick chains that wrapped around the screaming female vampire like a leash. She was obviously newly-made; her yellow eyes were wild and hungry, and she shrieked and clawed as the metal tightened around the skin of her neck, dragging her down to the floor. The nondescript wizard was seized and held easily by the vampire making the exchange—without a wand, he couldn't possibly put up a fight.

The eldest of the creatures, still standing apart, appraised their prize quickly before nodding. 'Acceptable. Although,' Blaise assumed it was female—it was impossible to tell with the low hood, and all vampires spoke in that seductive, androgynous voice, 'the blood of a muggleborn isn't nearly as sweet as one pure.'

The Dark Lord, who had been eyeing the young vampire hungrily, laughed hollowly. 'Perhaps if you brought me something more potent than one of your infants, Andronia, I would consider it.'

'Their blood is strong.'

'But not nearly as powerful as yours, correct?'

'It is a fair trade,' Andronia the vampire agreed, bowing. 'My Lord.'

What the Dark Lord was doing trading muggleborns for vampires Blaise did not know, but it was interesting. He filed it away to dissect later, careful not to think thoughts that could betray him. As the vampires took their leave, the Dark Lord turned to address him. 'Zabini, come forward.'

Blaise turned to face him, eyes downcast. 'My Lord.'

'I have an assignment that requires rather... delicate handling. Severus has told me that your discretion is unmatched in such matters.'

Blaise could feel Snape probing at his mind as he processed this, but he wasn't bad at Occlumency himself; his guards held firm. 'I would be honoured, my Lord.'

'Splendid. Severus will fill you in on the details. You are dismissed. Dolohov, bring the creature here.'

Severus followed Blaise to the door. He had just reached for the handle when the Dark Lord's voice made him pause.

'Oh, and Zabini, need I not remind you, that failure would be dealt with most severely. If you are successful, however...'

Blaise turned his head, just enough to see Dolohov holding the vampire at the Dark Lord's feet, her neck stretched over a cauldron, a knife at her neck. '… you will be amply rewarded.'

As they stepped through the door there was a shriek that cut off abruptly, followed by a gurgle as the vampire choked on her own blood. Severus closed the door and led him down the hall in silence.

: : :

Draco was getting a headache.

Well, it was to be expected, really. He had been lucky to get a couple of hours of sleep each night, what with the noises of the Congo constantly waking him up in a panic. Mandibles of Doom notwithstanding, Africa had already tried to kill him via heat, exposure, and a large mammalian predator. There were probably crocodiles in here somewhere, hungry and waiting for him to expose an unwary arm or leg in range.

This probably counted as a suicide attempt, he thought dismally. He was voluntarily walking into a pit of unfriendly dark magic, aided by Harry Potter, sure, but it was Harry Potter that was the lucky one. Cedric Diggory hadn’t been very fortunate, after all. In the interest of his long-term health, Sirius Black would have been better off in Azkaban. It wasn’t even that Harry was unaware of the fact – the fact that people around him always seemed to die. How Granger and Weasley had survived so long was a mystery to Draco.

And who knows how many others? a little voice chimed in. Potter puts people at risk all the time, often thoughtlessly, selfishly. Like your mother. He couldn’t give a damn what happens to her, he let her stay at the Palazzo, left her there with a man who had raped her, shamed her, and who could hand her over to the Dark Lord any day now…

No, that wasn’t right, Draco thought, shaking his head. Harry was a lot of things, but selfish wasn’t one of them. Stupid, maybe. And thoughtless was the wrong word – ignorant sometimes, definitely reckless, but not uncaring. Occasionally oblivious. Well, almost constantly oblivious. But he hadn’t left her there, Draco had. Anyway, she wouldn’t have come, no matter what Draco could have said, because even Draco knew she was right. Yaxley may have been a scheming sonofabitch, but he would protect her, because he, unlike Harry,  was  selfish. He could keep her safe so long as she played along with whatever ungodly fantasies he wanted her for.

Potter shouldn’t have let her go in the first place, the niggling voice insisted. Potter wouldn’t have let his own mother go, not even if it meant getting dirt on a known Death Eater, even if meant sacrificing a Horcrux. He would have found another way. But  your  mother, well, that is a risk Potter can afford to take, isn’t it? Sure, he might feel a bad if she died, but he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. He doesn’t care about either of you; he’s just using the both of you for his own agenda. Why else would he bring you all the way out here, into the lair of the Dark Lord, right to another Horcrux? Do you think he actually trusts you?  You?  Don’t flatter yourself. You think he’s forgetting those six years of hell you put him through? That it was you, indirectly or not, that led to Dumbledore’s death? To Bill’s scars? To Snape’s escape? He  wants  you to suffer, he  wants you to be in harm’s way – because if you died, wouldn’t that be convenient? Hell, he might even kill you himself. Nobody would question him if he claimed it had been an accident.

Draco grimaced. What the hell was going on in his head? Even shift-lag didn’t make him this paranoid. Harry had sacrificed more than he had by getting him off with the Ministry, and he had more than enough opportunities to hurt Draco over the past couple of weeks if he had really wanted to. But Harry wasn’t vindictive –

Isn’t he? the little voice interrupted. Potter wouldn’t kill Snape given the chance? He was certainly vindictive towards  him . And to the Dark Lord, well…

Draco stopped walking, rubbing at his right temple, wincing.

‘Malfoy?’ Harry had noticed Draco’s pause and stopped, turning to face him. ‘What is it?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ Draco admitted, massaging both of his temples. He gazed, unfocused, at the stone floor between them. ‘Something’s – something feels off. I don’t – I can’t put my finger on it.’

Harry cried out suddenly, sharply, and when Draco looked up, startled, Harry was clutching his forehead with his left hand, fingers digging sharply into his scar, while his right held his wand at Draco’s chest.

‘Potter,’ Draco spread both arms reflexively in surrender. ‘What – ’

‘Shut up,’ Harry snapped, his left hand falling to his side, his eyes suddenly sharp, focused—and bright, almost glowing in the darkness. ‘You can quit the act, Malfoy.’

‘Uh, okay?’ Draco attempted, perplexed. A hot, sharp pain lanced across his chest, following the path of the scar there, making him wince. ‘Would you mind pointing that somewhere else?’

‘I said shut  up ,’ Harry snarled, and Draco did so, arms still spread but tightening his grip on his wand. Harry was moving towards him, and Draco could see his eyes were not actually glowing, but changing. The green was growing brighter in the darkness, his irises growing interlaced with a luminescent, putrid yellow. ‘You think I don’t know what you’re up to, Malfoy? You think I actually trusted you?  You? ’ Harry laughed, a nasty, unnerving laugh that was laced with a hiss, and made Draco shudder involuntarily. ‘Really, Malfoy, I know your friends weren’t that bright, but I didn’t expect you to be so thick.’

I told you so, the little voice pointed out smugly. I told you, didn’t I?

‘Shut up!’ Draco shouted so suddenly that it startled Harry, and he took the moment of distraction to dive behind a pillar. The side of it exploded a moment after Draco took cover, a near miss from Harry. He winced at the impact, the dust of shattered stone flooding his nose and mouth as he inhaled sharply.

‘That’s just like you, isn’t it?’ he heard Harry sneer, dark amusement and hisses lacing his words. ‘Run and hide, like always.’ Harry’s voice was slithering around to the left, and Draco shuffled, scrambling to his feet, to his right around the pillar, keeping it between them. ‘You always were a fucking coward.’

Draco’s mind was reeling. The ache in his chest was almost disabling, white-hot stabs of pain shooting across his sternum, into his stomach and plunging into his lungs. That wasn’t Harry. Harry didn’t talk like that. Harry wouldn’t attack him like that. Something was wrong. Something they missed –

Wouldn’t he? The voice returned, smugly, tauntingly. He’s attacked you before.

He was drunk , Draco thought back, wildly.  I provoked him. I was asking for that, I knew he was drunk, hell, I was drunk –

Oh, he was  drunk , that’s all right, then. When he almost cut you in half, was he drunk then, too?

Draco heard Harry’s footsteps change course, and made a quick dash for the nearest pillar in the opposite direction. Harry’s hex left a crater in the spot Draco had occupied only a moment before.

I provoked him then, too , Draco remembered, wondering wildly why he was having to argue with his own thoughts,  I nearly cast an Unforgivable on him, I wasn’t thinking.

He had no right, the voice continued, cackling nastily. Always snooping around, following you, looking for an excuse to expose you, to attack you, to  hurt  you. You’re just another Death Eater to him, no better than your father, no better than your traitor mother –

Draco thought of his mother – golden and smiling and beautiful and stronger than he could ever hope to be – and it was like he had flipped a switch. His mind cleared. The cackling, snide, whispering, coaxing voice was gone.

In an instant, he knew what was wrong. He knew what was going on. The curse's mechanics seemed to focus on any hateful or grudging feelings and memories in the target's mind and exploit them. Sensing the history between the two of them and the recent turn of events, it had fuelled and fed on the doubts and suspicions already there, trying to trick them into turning against one another. Failing that, it would likely turn to disabling them individually – and while Draco, trained to protect his mind from unwanted Legillimens routing around inside, was better able to protect himself, Harry’s mind was wide open for infiltration.

Oh, fuck.

‘Come on, Malfoy,’ hissed Harry, his voice coming closer. Draco took a deep breath and sprinted again, putting another two pillars' distance between them. A red flash of light illuminated the area, ricocheting off a pillar and exploding somewhere in the ceiling. ‘Even for you, this is pathetic.’

This was  bad . Harry had always been terrible at Occlumency. He might have quicker reflexes than any wizard alive today, he might have bested the Dark Lord on multiple occasions – he might have more lives than a litter of bloody  kittens  – but he couldn’t protect his own mind to save his life. He was too impulsive, too forthright, too desperate for affection, too fucking  trusting  to understand the concept behind the art. His mind was like an unlocked safe, there for the taking to anyone or anything with the inclination. Harry, who had seen and suffered more than any child should have, was too vulnerable. He would never be able to fight through this on his own.

The only way to stop Harry would be to turn this around on him, assuming that was even possible.

If Draco was wrong, Harry would probably kill him.

The pillar at his back shuddered and cracked, spitting shattered rock on either side of him. Draco gripped his chest with his free hand, where the scar was the deepest, and winced.

Harry would probably kill him either way.

Draco closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and stepped out from behind the pillar.

Harry was about ten feet away, standing between two pillars, wand held casually at his side. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His yellow-green eyes, pupils too small, flashed as Draco came into view and he twirled the wand in his fingers, apparently unconcerned that Draco already had his wand pointed at Harry’s chest.

Draco extended his mind as quickly as he could, and was met with a tumult of emotion. The throbbing in his chest became almost unbearable, eliciting a gasp of pain as it shot through him. Harry’s mind was a storm of rage, roaring over the pain, confusion, sorrow, the hidden memories of red, slitted eyes. But there was fear there, too – buried deep, silenced beneath the crazed, impenetrable tornado of hate.

Draco concentrated on that fear, knowing he had only moments, if that, before Harry attacked again. The fear mostly came in the form of those he loved – Draco felt, rather than saw, the people Harry loved and feared for – Granger, Weasley and his family –  Harry’s  family – Lupin, Luna, and, surprisingly,  Zabini?  And there were also those he had already lost. Fear for Sirius, for Cedric, his parents, Dumbledore, and a myriad of people Draco couldn’t identify, faceless swells of worry and fear, simmering beneath deadly unfamiliar eyes.

And there, buried deep beneath them all, Draco felt himself, too.

The fear blurred, and Draco saw the spell a heartbeat before Harry cast, as quick as a snake striking, and reacted instantly.

‘ Expecto patronum! ’

He shouted the incantation because he didn’t trust himself to cast it all, but the Patronus appeared, a blinding light in the darkness, claws unsheathed, incorporeal muscles rippling beneath ghostly skin. The roar reverberated through the cavern, echoing infinitely off into the darkness even as the Patronus was silenced abruptly when the spells collided.

Harry stared at the leopard as it was torn to shreds in absorbing his curse, his yellow-green eyes wide.

Draco, breathing hard, lowered his wand. He was going about this the wrong way. Draco knew he couldn’t take Harry in a duel. Harry was too quick, too powerful, too dangerous. And despite his failings at Occlumency, he had mastered silent spell-casting as early as sixteen. Even if Draco could manage to predict his spells, sooner or later, Harry would overpower him. Draco could not win. Not here, not now, not one-on-one.

Anyway, he was fairly certain he knew how the spell was working, now. Harry would have never cast that spell at him again, not after sixth-year, not if he was in his right mind.

If he would, well, then Draco was screwed.

Harry was still staring at the space the Patronus had vanished, and Draco took the moment of distraction to unbutton his collar and then, in one swift movement, pulled his shirt over his head. When he could see again, Harry was staring at him, his mind still a hurricane of hate and anger and sibilant whispers, but hesitating.

Hesitating was progress.

Draco dropped his shirt at his feet and spread his arms out to his sides. ‘Well? Come on, Potter. You may as well finish the job.’

Harry opened his mouth, and then quickly closed it. He raised his wand again, a look of renewed determination on his face. Draco inhaled sharply, the muscles in his abdomen tightening reflexively against the pain, the  pain , which had never been this bad before. When Harry still hesitated to cast, Draco wondered if he should push his luck. This thing was powerful, whatever it was, and he knew he couldn’t give it time to convince Harry to do anything he’d regret. He had to keep Harry distracted, off-balance. He had to be cruel.

Well, cruel he could do.

‘You’d be doing me a kindness, honestly,’ Draco told him, fighting to keep his voice even. It was hard when Harry’s serpentine eyes were narrowed over a wand pointed at his chest – his chest, naked and perfect but for the memory of the laceration, a line of fire and pain, twenty-seven inches long, not unlike the one Harry carried on his forehead. Four years had turned it a shallow, pink depression that began as a thin, jagged mark just above his collarbone and, widening, cut diagonally down his chest like a pink lightning bolt, cutting through his stomach and past his navel, tapering off over his abdomen and disappearing beneath his trousers. ‘Really, I’m sick of the pain, the hiding, and really,  really sick of kissing your arse. So do us both a favour.’

The tip of Harry’s wand faltered, but his eyes were still clouded with that dirty yellow colour. Draco waited. Harry bared his teeth and tightened his grip on his wand. ‘I didn’t – ’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Draco interrupted quickly. ‘You never do, do you? Mean for people to get hurt, that is. But they do. I’m surprised any of your friends are still alive. But I suppose it’s only a matter of time.’

The tip of his wand wavered again, and the rage shuddered as the fear underneath it began to boil. Draco plunged on, wildly grasping at any knowledge he could muster up and twist, throwing them at Harry like curses. ‘I can’t believe people can stand to be around you at all, after what happened to Diggory. After how you went and got your godfather killed – how did Lupin feel about that, by the way? I mean, he only lost all of his friends in one night, one killed, one presumed dead, one called a traitor and thrown in Azkaban. And then, and  then , a miracle happens – he gets his best friend back after twelve years of being alone, only to lose him again because you were too weak to realise the Dark Lord had set a trap for you. How do you even look him in the eye?’

‘Shut up!’ The only part of Harry not shaking was the hand holding his wand. The anger was getting worse, but this time it was laced with fear and guilt and – and shame? Really? Draco nearly lost what little hold he could get on Harry’s mind, startled. Guilt he expected, but shame? For what? ‘You don’t know what you’re – you have no idea – ’

Fear. Guilt. Shame. Draco concentrated on these. He had to. The anger was strong, but he could throw it off balance if he played his cards right. It was mean, and Harry would hate him for it, he might still try to kill him afterwards – but Harry upset would be easier to overcome than Harry out of his mind.

‘Even your parents,’ Draco continued, ‘nobody really blames  you  for their deaths. I mean, you were just a baby, right? But fact is, Potter, if it hadn’t been for you, well, they still might be here. If you had never been born, if they’d had another baby, a  normal  one, they’d still be alive, wouldn’t they?’

Harry was staring at him with a mix of horror and bewilderment. The yellow had faded slowly from his eyes, the green losing the glow and his pupils returning to the proper dilation. His wand, still held upright, was no longer pointed at Draco with any sort of conviction. Harry’s mind was more unstable now than it had been five minutes ago, and Draco was beginning to panic. It had been hard enough to get any hold on Harry’s mind, however wide-open it was, when it was a chaotic mess of fury, but now it was so torn and jumbled with different emotions that Draco was barely managing to hold on.

‘I guess Diggory was easier, you didn’t really give a shit about him, did you?’ Draco said lightly, trying to ignore the scorching whiplash against his chest. ‘Prick was snogging your girlfriend, anyway, you were probably pleased – ’

Harry moved so fast, so impulsively, Draco had no warning whatsoever. He hadn’t attacked with his wand – cast aside, fallen uselessly to the ground – but with his hands, tightening painfully along the junctions of Draco’s neck and shoulders, slamming his bare back into the rough stone of a pillar. Draco felt his wand go flying, and then the back of his head hit the sharp stone, and he thought for a moment he had blacked out until the spots in his vision began to clear.

‘I couldn’t – I – ’ Harry was choking on his words, all the sibilance in his voice gone, and as Draco’s vision slowly returned, he was horrified to see that Harry was crying. ‘How dare you – you’ve no – ’

Draco gasped for breath as he suddenly found himself released, bewildered, stumbling away from the pillar, hands on his knees, chest heaving with the effort of breathing through the pain. Draco stared at Harry, who had collapsed with his back against another pillar, hands wound painfully tight in his hair, glaring through tears at the ground. It was as if it had worked  too  well – Draco had meant to snap him out of it, but had not only managed to sling-shot Harry’s mind in the other direction, but out the other side and into a completely different mess.

‘It – was all my fault.’ Draco became aware that Harry was talking, or rather whispering, apparently mostly to himself. ‘I told him to take it.’ He looked up at Draco suddenly, eyes tear-stained, the grief there painful to witness. ‘ I told him to take it! ’

Draco stared at him. He had no idea what Harry was on about, or what to do with it. He was terrified of going near that mind again – the pain was bad enough with Harry so angry, so out of control – when Draco reached out for his mind, it was a million times worse, and if he blacked out he wouldn’t be able to do any good at all.

Draco leaned down and grabbed one of Harry's wrists, attempting to untangle it from the knot he’d woven it into. ‘Hey. Hey – calm the fuck down, what are you – ’

‘He told me to go. He  told  me to. If I had just – he wouldn’t – he’d still be – how was I supposed to know what – ’ Harry jerked his hand away from his touch, bringing both knees up to his chest, re-tangling his hands in his hair, tight as a vice. ‘I told him to take it with me!’

The images spilled into the forefront of his mind, as conspicuous as a billboard on the motorway: Harry standing by the Triwizard Cup with Cedric, and they both reached out at the same time—

‘Oh, Christ,’ Draco said, sinking to his knees.

He really should just knock Harry out, and drag him out of there. But even if he did, there was no way to know if it would wear off if they simply left the area. The fact that it attacked their mentality made this even less likely. No, they needed to beat this. Either that, or Draco could take his chances alone.

Yeah, right.

‘Potter. Potter – no, stop that, god damn it, snap out of it!’ Harry, startled at the sudden shouting, blinked at him.‘You need to fight it—what you’re thinking, whatever the fuck it is you’re feeling, none of it is real. Well, it is, but not – fuck. I can’t explain it – this isn’t something a wand can fix. You need to  fight it .'

Harry wrenched his wrist free and re-tangled both hands in his hair, dragging his head down to the floor, face contorted as if in unimaginable pain.

‘Potter. Potter. Harry! Look at me, damn it, yes – hey,’ Draco grabbed both of Harry’s wrists this time and tugged them, firmly but gently, out of his hair. ‘Look at me. Listen  to me. Here – ’ Draco took Harry’s right hand and pulled it to his chest, Harry’s palm against the mark there, and bit down on his tongue, swallowing the noise that rushed to escape his throat. It hurt worse than anything Draco had ever felt, but it was where the connection was strongest. After all, Harry made the mark, and his moods seem to affect it. Harry stared at him, then at his hand on Draco’s chest, his eyes widening in horror. Draco closed his eyes and concentrated.

Myrtle was screaming. Draco saw himself, pale against a splash of bright red, choking on his own blood. Harry was over him, horror-struck, shaking, muttering incoherently –

‘No!’ Draco opened his eyes and Harry was still staring at the scar, his hand balled into a fist over the mark. ‘Damn it, stop giving it weapons! Look at me! ’

He shouted the last remark with his voice and with his mind, and this seemed to do the trick. Harry looked at him, eyes a little more focused, red and raw but dry. Draco forced his palm open and back flat against his scar, ignoring the pain, keeping his eyes open and locked on Harry’s. Draco leaned in, pressing his forehead against Harry’s, his free hand on the back of Harry’s neck, firmly holding him there.

‘You need to let me in,’ he told Harry. ‘Look at me. Focus on  me .’

He had no idea if Harry knew what he was talking about. Harry had to fight it, fight that evil, cackling little voice, but stop bombarding Draco with memories he couldn’t possibly subdue. Harry might have been shit at Occlumency, but he wasn’t ignorant to its effects – he was fighting, he had to be, or he would have killed Draco by now. He just didn’t know how to defeat it, and that was all he had to do, once he got it out, he’d be fine – if he would just let Draco  help him .

Harry closed his eyes, and Draco felt him shudder. Well, here went nothing…

It was like diving into a Pensieve. Draco opened his mind’s eye, and found himself in a graveyard. There was Harry, wide-eyed and impossibly young, crouched beside the figure of Cedric, standing tall but looking terrified, both him and the Dark Lord with their wands drawn. There was a quiet, amused sort of cackle, and a raspy voice hissed, ‘ Kill the spare .’

There was a flash of green light, and the memory changed. He was in a dark, circular room. It was loud; people were shouting, stone walls incandescent with red and green, and a familiar, high-pitched laugh. He looked around, and in the centre stood an ancient stone archway, in which fluttered a shimmering, incorporeal veil. A dark shape fell through it, and disappeared. Somebody screamed.

The rage rose like a tidal wave in Harry’s mind. He was fighting back, but he was fighting against Draco, not the spell. He wasn’t fighting well, either, his anger swallowing up the grief in self-defence – but even still, the rage  hurt . Draco’s chest felt as if it were being cleaved into, again and again, by a white-hot scythe. Every heartbeat felt as if it would cause his heart to burst, every breath as if it would tear his lungs apart. From where he held Harry’s palm tight against the naked scar, his skin burned like he’d laid on an oven coil. He tried to concentrate on blocking out the pain, but the whirlwind of anger and confusion in Harry’s mind washed over him in waves, throwing him off-balance before he could get a firm hold.

Draco opened his eyes. Harry was staring unblinking at his own hand, clawing into Draco’s chest. Draco gripped Harry’s hair with the hand on his neck, and forced his gaze back up into his own. He struggled to keep his voice from breaking despite the pain. ‘Stop fighting me, you idiot. I’m trying to – ’

Flash . Draco was looking at himself on the Astronomy Tower. Momentarily confused, he faltered, and the memory washed over him. He was watching himself from about ten feet away; wand drawn on Dumbledore, shaking, wavering, about to cave. He might’ve thought it was his own memory if, to his immediate left, he hadn’t seen he was standing next to Harry, looking transparent in his own memory, locked frozen against the wall beneath his Invisibility Cloak. The scene seemed to unfold much faster from Harry’s perspective than it had from his own experience. The Death Eaters flooded into the room, sneering, laughing. Draco could feel Harry’s emotions that went with the memory, the anxiety, the terror, the shock, the overwhelming sensation of helplessness Harry had felt, unable to move, unable to  help , unable to save Dumbledore…

When Snape raised his wand against Dumbledore, a feeling of dread and betrayal so powerful surged through Harry that Draco cried out from the pain and felt himself fall away, losing the physical and mental link completely.

Draco paused for an instant as his backside hit the rough floor, cushioned only by an inch of muddy dust, to reflect how entirely screwed in the head Harry Potter was, before gritting his teeth and scrambling back onto his knees, seizing Harry again by the neck and knocking their heads together so hard that he winced. He could feel Harry’s scar, smooth and jagged across clammy skin, against his own forehead. Harry didn’t resist when Draco replaced his hand on his chest, but refused to open his eyes until Draco tightened his grip against the base of his neck to the point of causing him to gasp in pain.

‘Harry,’ he said, as the dazed look in Harry’s eyes began to waver, fighting but failing to keep his focus on him. ‘You need to let me in.’

Harry tried to shake him off, cursing incoherently, re-screwing his eyes shut. Draco held on firmly. ‘Stop fighting me, for Merlin’s sake, the longer you – Harry, you need to  trust me .’

Harry opened his eyes. The fury was still there, but the fear was gone, replaced by a look of sheer determination.  Yes .

Draco inhaled deeply, and plunged back in. The same, terrible memories from before swirled around him, dimly, still there but no longer powerful enough to overpower him. Gaining confidence, Draco pushed ahead and nearly panicked when he found himself in the graveyard again. A dozen robe-clad, masked figures, standing in a circle, many of their eyes familiar – the Dark Lord, wand locked against Harry’s by a jet of magic made of pure gold – ghostly images of souls, shining like beacons in the darkness.

No, Draco thought, this wasn’t strong enough. He had an inkling of what would be – hell, it had worked for him – but only a real memory would suffice, and Draco didn’t know if Harry  had  any real memories of his mother. He had been so young when she died.

As Draco thought of Lily Potter, Harry’s own mind responded. He could hear a woman’s voice, crying, pleading for her son’s life,  not Harry, please not Harry, kill me – Harry’s only real memory of his mother was of her murder? Well,  that  wouldn’t do. Another flash of green, and Harry’s mind shuddered, and Draco could feel the darkness, that cold cackle, digging in its claws...

What else? Draco found himself struggling to keep hold as the sneering little voice moved in, digging into every terrible memory it could find; and in Harry’s head, it had plenty to choose from. Disjointed, random images drifted by Harry’s conscience as the curse worked its way deeper, digging for terrors Harry had forgotten and buried long ago. Draco was horrified to see himself in some of them, silly pranks from school, much crueller from another point of view. Faces of his father’s old associates – and Lucius Malfoy himself, cold, grey eyes unmistakable beneath the Death Eater mask he wore.

Draco pushed past these, carefully navigating to avoid getting tangled and drowned in the nightmares, and searched. Didn’t Harry have any happy memories at all? Maybe happy was the wrong thing to look for. Draco changed tactics, and narrowed his search… he’d know what he was looking for as soon as he found it…

If  he could find it.

Draco tried feeling for any one he could think of that was important to Harry: Granger… her image surfaced, younger, at the Yule Ball, smiling in the arms of Viktor Krum; Weasley, present-day, laughing, holding Harry, bloody but grinning, stumbling towards the wand of a waiting Healer – the blackness wavered, dimming,  yes , as the warmth from these memories spread… Weasley’s sister, crying, yelling, hurling something heavy, darkness, cackling, overwhelming – and Draco shoved that memory away as hard as he could. And… Luna was there, bright and cheerful, but unsteady, and Draco moved on. Lupin? Surely, Lupin…

The shame hit Draco so hard it nearly uprooted him, and the darkness swallowed both of their minds. There was the stone archway again, its shimmering, ghostly veil swallowing the shape of –

‘ Sirius! ’

It was like watching an explosion go off in space. The cold, aphotic atmosphere of Harry’s mind ruptured silently into a burning, gushing white light. The shame, guilt and fear that poisoned the anger was replaced with rapture so powerful that, unprepared, it expelled the curse and Draco from Harry’s mind in one swift tidal wave of radiance.

Draco lay on his back on the cool, dusty floor of the cave, catching his breath. Harry may not have had many, if any, truly happy memories, Draco mused, but in the face of love that strong, he didn’t need them.

After he was able to breathe evenly, Draco struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. His head and chest were throbbing something terrible. Squinting in the darkness, he could see Harry, still propped against the pillar, staring vacantly past him.  Uh-oh .

Scrambling over to him, Draco squatted beside him. ‘Potter? Harry – hey,’ Draco reached out to touch Harry’s shoulder, and Harry jerked away so quickly he nearly fell sideways off the pillar. Draco withdrew his hand instantly, sitting back down on the cold floor.

‘I,’ Harry tried. His voice was rough, and sounded like it was coming from a long way off. He swallowed and tried again. ‘I’m – okay. I think. Uhh.’ Harry winced, rubbing at the scar on his forehead. He had not yet looked at Draco. ‘What the hell was that?’

Draco massaged his hands together. ‘I think it was some kind of Coniuratus curse.’ Harry did look at him then, blankly. God, where was Granger when you needed her? ‘It’s like… think of a spell that’s less of a hex and more of an… atmospheric element. One that feeds off your doubts, fears, and insecurities, and turns them against you. Sort of how a Dementor works. Only instead of sucking the happiness out of you, it gets inside your head and drives you mad before drowning you in your own misery. It's Old Dark magic. I mean, really old—like, Merlin-age curses and such. I've only seen them mentioned in a couple of history books, and even those—it's in the same league as the Horcruxes, really, not much was ever written about them, so I could be wrong, but. Uhm. Shit, I'm babbling, aren't I?' he said, laughing a bit breathlessly. 'Are you all right?'

Harry looked away and seemed to consider this. After a moment, he stood and walked over to Draco, and offered him a hand up. Draco just stared at his hand for a moment, surprised, but took it and was hoisted to his feet and found Harry looking him in the eye. They were normal again, deeply green and hugely dilated in the darkness. ‘Thank you.’

Draco tried to nod and shrug at the same time, and then realised he was still naked to his waist. Harry seemed to notice, too, and looked away again. ‘What happened to your shirt?’

‘Buggered if I know,’ Draco said, looking around. The pillars surrounded them like a maze, many of them sporting craters where Harry’s spells had missed. He looked at Harry, still looking off into the middle-distance, and almost reached out but remembered Harry’s reaction from before and stopped. ‘Potter,’ he said, and waited for Harry to look at him. ‘God damn it, Harry,  look  at me.’

Harry did look at him then, if anything surprised and a little shaken, jarred slightly by the use of his given name.

‘If something like that happens again...’ Draco began.  I won't be able to help you.

No, won't was the wrong word— couldn't . It hurt too much.

‘I remember,’ Harry said, looking away again. ‘I—felt it. Felt... him,' he finished, unable to say the name. 'I’ll—I think I’ll be all right.’

‘Okay,’ Draco said, with finality. Harry nodded, keeping silent. Draco was relieved that he was not alone in wanting to avoid this conversation. The whole clichéd notion that men hated to talk about their feelings was a cliché for a reason; he knew that, like him, Harry would rather face that entire ordeal all over again than continue to talk about it. ‘Okay, well, now what?’

‘Now we keep going,’ Harry said. His voice was no longer shaken—now that they were once again heading into unknown, possibly very lethal danger, Harry Potter was back in his element. He bent to retrieve their wands, and put his flat on the palm of his hand and whispered the Four-Point spell; the wand spun in a half-circle, then wavered back, finally focusing on a direction. Harry looked up at him and tossed him back his wand. ‘Ready?’

Draco wanted to point out he was feeling rather exposed, actually, and he’d feel more prepared if they could find his shirt, or possibly could he have Harry’s, but that would likely cause even more distraction. ‘After you, Hero.’

Harry gave him a look, but didn't bother to comment.

The pillars continued on around them. Determined not to become separated, they walked side-by-side, wands out and ready. It was so dark that Draco felt the chasm before he saw it. The pillars had suddenly fallen away into the darkness in front of them, and from the feeble light of their respective wands, he could see they continued again in the distance. All that stood in their way was a massive, jagged canyon carved into the floor of the cavern. It looked about thirty yards wide, and impossibly deep.

Draco looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 'Well, we can't Apparate.'

'No,' Draco agreed, looking around. There was no debris, either, nothing they could levitate over to use a make-shift bridge. 'Too bad my Animagus form isn't something useful like a bird, I suppose.'

'That wouldn't help me,' Harry said, then paused and looked at him. 'Couldn't you transfigure a bridge?'

Draco had thought about that, too, but shook his head. 'This place is too unstable. Whatever caused that chasm in the first place points to an underlying structural issue. You don't want me to go persuading these rocks to twist and change and hope they don't collapse underneath us.'

'Right, no, you're right,' Harry said, looking away. 'That would be too easy, anyway. No, this is part of it, somehow.' He kicked at a loose stone, sending it over the edge and down, down, down into the darkness. ' Shit .'

Harry started pacing. Draco retreated to lean against the form of a pillar and let him, alternating between watching him and looking around the cavern. The stone was rough and cold against his bare back; he was glad it was dark in here, anyway. It kept Harry from staring at him, or rather, staring at his chest.

It wasn't that the scar was horribly ugly, or anything. It was just very  obvious . It was worst over his heart, where the scar became a twisted, knotted form before branching off up to his neck and down to his waistline. It was only a faint reminder of a wound compared to the still-pink lines leftover from the lion attack, but that was likely due to the fact that Harry wasn't as skilled as a proper Healer.

Harry laughed sharply, jarring Draco out of his musings. He was standing on the very, very edge of the chasm, close enough to make the muscles in Draco's abdomen clench involuntarily. He looked up at Draco and smiled brilliantly. 'You coming?'

'What?' Draco approached him slowly. 'Do you think you could back up? You know, before you  die? '

'I'm not going to die,' Harry told him.

And, as if to prove his point, lifted a foot and took a step off into the abyss.

Draco went to shout, and then stopped. He glared at Harry, who was standing with one foot on the edge of the cliff, and one foot suspended on what looked like thin air. 'See?'

'I am going to  kill  you,' Draco told him, coming forward warily. 'How—how did you even—'

'Indiana Jones,' Harry said simply.

Draco just stared at him.

'Oh, right,' Harry said. 'It's a Muggle film. Point is, there's a part in one of the films where he's got to cross this big chasm, and he can't figure out how, and—well, long story short, he figures out it's a leap of faith. There's a bridge there the entire time, he just can't see it at first.'

'Bridge?' Draco asked, incredulous. 'How can there be a bridge there if you can't—I mean, magic, obviously—but you just kicked a rock over the edge!'

'Yeah, I think it only works for people,' Harry said, looking over the edge. 'Or wizards, probably. Considering who built this, I wouldn't suggest any Muggles giving it a go.' Harry looked back at him and raised his eyebrows. 'What?'

'Let me get this straight,' Draco said. 'You saw something like this in a  Muggle film  and decided it would be a good idea to step off into open space and hope for the best? Are you completely out of your mind?'

'Look, it worked, didn't it?'

'I  am  going to kill you,' Draco told him again. 'All right. Fine. You're not in a crater, so okay, there's an invisible bridge. Great. How do we make it appear?'

'I think it's less of a bridge and more of a... well, I don't know. I mean, there is definitely a giant hole in the floor. But I think we can just... walk across.'

'Just walk across?' Draco looked at the chasm, and then at Harry. 'You  are  out of your mind.'

'Oh, come on, it'll be fine,' Harry said, taking another step so he was standing completely on what looked like thin air. The sight made Draco want to be sick. Harry extended his left hand and smiled at him. 'Trust me.'

Draco looked at his open hand, then looked down.

Trust me.

Closing his eyes and sighing, Draco reached out with his right—Harry caught his hand and pulled him forward, slow and steady, until Draco could feel their arms wedged firmly between them. Harry loosened his grip on Draco's hand, and for a terrifying moment Draco was worried he was going to let go, but Harry was just readjusting his grip, lacing their fingers together. Draco exhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes more tightly closed.

'Draco,' Harry said, gently. 'Open your eyes.'

Draco did, and squeezed his hand.

Beneath them in the darkness, was the night sky. Or what looked like the night sky at first – but down there surrounded by stars was an entire galaxy, planets and rocks and dust spinning around a golden, burning sun. It looked similar to the enchantment that kept the ceiling of the Great Hall mimicking the outside sky, only instead of on the ceiling it was spread out along the depths of the chasm beneath them.

Despite the obvious danger of impending death, it was actually quite breathtaking.

It took Draco a while to remember that he was, in fact, standing out in the middle of thin air. His free hand was still clasped in Harry's between them, holding on like his life depended on it. It sort of did, come to think of it.

When he looked up, Harry was looking at him, not the floor. Or lack of floor, for that matter. There was an ethereal sort of glow coming from the galaxy below them, casting exaggerated shadows across his face; his eyes, though, shone through his glasses like gems in starlight, greener than any ocean or jungle or emerald Draco had ever seen.

Draco thought rather wildly that, if he knew for a fact that the invisible force holding them up was stable and not going to randomly vanish any time soon, he might have done something rather daring and romantic, like try to kiss him.

Clearly this place was slowly driving him insane. He cleared his throat, which made Harry blink. 'I told you we should have brought the bloody brooms,' he muttered.

Harry grinned, his shoulder gently grazing against Draco's as he turned around. He didn't let go of Draco's hand, though. 'What fun would that have been?'

When they reached the other side, Draco would have collapsed in relief if Harry still hadn't been holding on to him. In fact, Harry seemed to have no intention of dropping his hand. He was holding on firmly, fingers still entwined with Draco's, and Draco wanted desperately to return the pressure but was worried if he did, Harry would remember himself and let go.

He didn't want Harry to let go. They might be walking into their certain deaths at any moment, but, somehow, Harry's reassuring grip on his hand made him feel better about it.

: : :

It was the first time in Hermione's life that she had ever felt the pressing urge for a drink, and now she couldn't have one.

'This is ridiculous.'

'You're telling me,' Ginny said, and knocked back her pumpkin juice like it was a shot.

'Have you told him?'

'No. Have you?'

'No.'

'Well, I think my excuse is a pretty good one,' Ginny went on. 'What's yours?'

'He's your brother. Take a guess.'

'Huh. All right, fair enough. Still, he is my brother. You should tell him.'

'Of course I'll tell him. Eventually. In another seven months, perhaps.'

'Oh, please,' Ginny said, refilling her juice. 'At least you don't have to explain to your mother why you've having one man's child while dating another. And out of wedlock, for that matter.'

'Well, you could get engaged at least—secretly, obviously—couldn't you?'

'Er.'

'Oh my god, Ginny, really? He proposed? When?'

'Six months,' Luna said, returning from the kitchen with a biscuit, 'two weeks and three days ago, to be precise.'

'It's really annoying when you do that,' Ginny informed her grumpily.

'Anyway, I just—we're so  young ,' Hermione continued, exasperated. 'I'm not even halfway to thirty, I've still got three years with the Inquisitorial Department before I'm up for promotion, I've not even thought of settling down and Ron and I aren't even  together —'

'Oh, come on,' Ginny interrupted. 'You two are always together, officially or not. You've been in the perpetual state of an old married couple since you were eleven.'

Hermione just gaped at her while Luna snickered. 'Well, she's right. Even when Ronald was with Lavender, he was just doing it to make you jealous.'

'Thanks for reminding me.' Hermione huffed. 'I've been so careful—I mean, what's the use of magic if it doesn't work one-hundred percent of the time?'

'Well, you could always—' Ginny made a vague motion with her hand. 'You know. Terminate. I know Muggles have their own tricks, but magic makes it literally painless.'

'It's not just my decision, though, is it?'

'That's really up to you,' Luna chimed in. 'Daddy told me it's always a woman's choice, what she does with her own body. But I can see why you'd feel that way. It does take two, after all.'

'Which brings you back to telling him,' Ginny pointed out.

'Well it's not like we got pregnant on  purpose ,' Hermione said.

Ginny took a very long swig of her juice.

'Ginny... did he know?'

'Do you think he'd have let me?' Ginny snapped, suddenly defensive. 'Fuck, Hermione, every time he leaves I never even know if he's coming back. Of course he didn't know I was trying.'

Hermione settled back into the couch and threw an arm across her eyes. 'Oh, hell.'

: : :

They walked in silence through the forest of pillars for another five minutes, before it ended rather abruptly. With only their wands for light, all they could see is that the space they now found themselves in was part of the same cavern, but had a much higher ceiling that spiralled off into the darkness. The floor was different, too. Rough, natural stone had given way to elegantly carved tiles that, from what Draco could see just around them, suggested an overall circular pattern. The lines twisted and weaved through the stone, their polished surface glinting from his Lumos , as if enticing him to follow.

'I should have brought a bloody torch,' Harry said irritably, making Draco jump.

It was the first thing Harry had said since crossing the chasm. Draco took a deep breath and flexed his fingers; Harry, obviously thinking he wanted his hand back, loosened his hold as if to drop his hand. Draco redoubled his grip and stared resolutely off into the darkness. He could feel Harry's eyes on him, questioning, but he thankfully remained silent.

A gentle tug against his hand indicated that Harry was moving again and Draco let him lead. The room, from what they could tell in the dim light and the echo of their footsteps, was expansive and open. It wasn't long until they reached the centre, where the circular tiles converged around an ornately carved altar, about the size of a coffin, supporting a wide brazier. Bringing his wand to the rectangular basin, Harry's wand illuminated a large pile of debris, consisting of what looked like dried roots. It smelled musty but looked very flammable.

Harry looked back at him; Draco shrugged. 'Would help to have the light.'

Harry nodded and, after a muttered ' Nox ' pointed his wand at the jumble and said, ' Incendio .'

The effect was immediate; the fire roared to life, spreading rapidly, bathing the room in amber light. Draco looked down and, squatting down to make sure he wasn't seeing things, peered closely at the floor. The polished lines sparkled and winked in the light, and Draco realised quite suddenly why the Dark Lord had chosen this cavern as his personal vault.

Every surface of the room was naturally embedded with  gold .

'Holy hell,' Draco heard himself say.

Draco felt Harry's hand tighten in his, grip vice-like. It actually kind of hurt. 'What?' Harry was staring straight ahead, eyes wide, and face as white as a ghost. Draco stood up, following his gaze, and froze.

It must have been twenty-feet tall, the front half rearing off the floor, another thirty feet of tail coiled behind it. A bright red plume rose out of the crest between the Basilisk's eyes, mouth wide-open in a frozen hiss. Its eyes were closed. It wasn't breathing. But everything about it said it was very, very real.

And there, clasped in its open mouth, was a small, golden cup.

'Oh, God,' he heard Harry say beside him. He was looking over his shoulder at something.

Draco turned to look and suddenly wanted to throw up.

Directly behind them, far too close for comfort and arranged in a semi-circle to face the red-crested Basilisk, were six  more . They were smaller, probably females, since they were all lacking plumes of their own. They also had their eyes and mouths closed, heads inclined with that looked like submission to the larger one in front.

Draco turned back around to face the frozen Basilisk in front of them. It was almost directly above the brazier; the smoke from the fire swirled up and around its open mouth. The golden cup between its teeth glinted in the firelight.

'Is that...' Draco began, staring.

' Yes .'

Harry made to move around the brazier altar, then halted when he realised he was still gripping Draco's hand and that Draco wasn't moving.

'This is wrong,' Draco said, looking once again at the Basilisks behind him and back to the massive one before them. 'Potter, these are  real . They've been Petrified!'

'Good,' Harry said, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go. 'Then they won't bother us. Give me a hand up, would you?'

Draco followed him around the other side of the altar with a rather large amount of trepidation. Petrified or not, the Basilisks looked alive enough to be breathing. Sighing, Draco joined his hands together, fingers tightly entwined and squatted to place his hand on the top of his thigh. Harry placed one hand on his shoulder, fingertips gripping the bare flesh, and then delicately placed his right foot on Draco's hands.

Draco heaved him upwards, but Harry still fell a good three or four feet short of the height. He came back down heavily, stumbling. 'Blast,' he muttered.

' Accio  might be easier,' Draco suggested, dusting off his hands. The Basilisks had distracted them before, but he was beginning to feel a bit self-conscious in the bright light from the fire. Not that his body was anything to be ashamed of; he knew he was beautiful, and he was proud of the fact. He was not proud of the scar, though, a constant reminder of that horrible year and how close to death he had come—and a constant, vivid, sometimes very painful indicator to Harry's moods, particularly when he was angry.

'No, that won't work,' Harry said. 'He wouldn't make it that easy.'

'All right,' Draco said, concentrating. 'How about this?'

Harry turned around and blinked. 'Oh,' he said, and then smiled. 'Yeah, that'll do.'

The hair on his neck tickled as Harry wove his hand through the horse's mane and hauled himself up. It was no longer an awkward exercise; the motion was fluid, confident, familiar. Draco shifted beneath him, then slowly angled his larger form directly underneath the mouth of the frozen Basilisk.

'Good thing your Animagus form is something useful, like a big ruddy horse,' Harry said, leaning down over his neck, breath hot against the back of his ears. 'Try to hold still, okay? I'm going to have to stand up.'

Draco snorted to show he understood, and did his best to keep still. He could feel Harry's hands move down his neck to the centre of his back, his legs sliding up his sides as he brought his shins to rest behind them.

Even as a horse, the touch left his skin tingling.

When Harry stood up, slowly, hands out to keep his balance, Draco winced inwardly. The hard soles of his shoes against the spine of the horse was uncomfortable, but bearable. He tilted his head to look up, and could see Harry reaching into the mouth of the creature, taking one handle of the cup with a slow, careful grasp.

He struggled with it for a moment, cursing, but managed to dislodge it with some delicate wriggling. Coming back down was more awkward, especially one-handed. Harry nearly fell off as he came to rest on Draco's back, still clutching the cup.

'This is definitely it,' Harry said, wincing. 'Damn thing is heavy. Hurts, too.'

He didn't let it go, though. Draco didn't even notice him dismount; the horse's senses were kicking in, and the animal was getting uneasy. There was a faint crackling noise that he originally thought was coming from the fire, but was slowly getting louder and more obvious.

There was also a pungent scent that he hadn't noticed before; it was musty, with a sharp edge. It reminded the human part of Draco of the crisp bite from a menthol cigarette. The horse's nostrils flared, and Draco tried to identify it, but it was hard to do with the horse's simple brain in the way.

Harry was looking critically around the room. 'That's weird,' he said. 'Still feels like that was too easy, somehow. Are you going to stay like that? I don't know if the bridge'll work if you're a horse.'

Draco popped back, grimacing. The crackling noise was still there, fainter to his human ears, but he could still recognise it. 'Do you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Draco walked back towards the altar and froze.  That smell...

He felt all the blood drain from his body in one swift intake of breath and spun around.

Harry was still standing underneath the male Basilisk, staring at the cup as he slowly turned it over in his hands. When Draco looked up, it was just in time to see the lid of the serpent's eye twitch and slowly begin to open.

'Close your eyes!'

'What?' Harry said, looking up at him. 'What's—'

'Harry, the roots!' Draco, eyes cast purposefully at Harry, pointed at the fire. ' Mandrake! '

Harry stared at him for a moment, his face contracting slightly, and then in the span of a heartbeat going slack with dread. ' Go! '

: : :

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