Learning to Live

Chapter 20: Confusing Conversations

With the silence so chilling after his father's visit, Percy Weasley's appearance was like a warm blanket on Draco's mood. He sauntered out of the courtroom and started shaking everyone's hand, congratulating them on their success.

"Most excellent defence, Hermione. Very good. Quick thinking, quick thinking," Percy said briskly. "How is the baby?"

"Twins. And they're well, thanks," she replied, patting her slightly rounder belly.

"Ron," brother said to brother. "Good job."

"Hey, thanks, Perce." They both nodded, but nothing more was said. Invited to family events, because family was family, Percy had not yet earned Ron's entire forgiveness. At least they were on good speaking terms again. A bit awkward still, yes, but the war had dampened all of that. The war had done a lot of things.

"So how did it turn out in the deliberations?" Harry asked, though the results would be archived should he choose to find out.

"Oh it was very anti-Darko, but they are very worried about Draco. A few wizards were upset that he hadn't gone to St. Mungo's for rehabilitation following his rescue from the torture chambers, which, I am told, they are only just now starting to clean out, as he was one of the lucky ones who survived," Percy told him smoothly, patting the wizard in question on the shoulder. "Good stand, Draco, but I can't approve of the--"

"Shut up, Percy. He hasn't had breakfast and he's starved enough. They had at least as much sense to bring _me_ food while I sat up with him, so we shared last night. Where's Snape, Harry? Don't tell me he didn't attend Draco's trial?" Ron asked, ignoring the way Percy's ears turned red. All these years and still the same. The war hadn't changed that.

"Snape didn't show up at breakfast. He's been finishing up a new potion and it's vital that he minds it constantly during the last hours. Sorry, Draco. I'm sure if he'd known about it he would have come," Harry said as apologetically as he could.

"Then let's go to Hogwarts," Draco said shortly. "Goodbye, Percy." He pulled out his wand yet again and vanished.

"Oh I really hate it when he does that without consulting us," Hermione remarked, but followed soon after, as did the rest.

The carriage ride out of Hogsmeade was no trouble, and comprised mostly of Hermione and Ron talking about their Hogwarts days. Harry watched Draco, and Draco tried to sleep. Harry knew he was unsuccessful, because his own scar itched and Draco wasn't curling up in his usual foetal position, one hand on his wand. Draco's hands were still in his lap, wand in its holster.

Harry thought about the Wizenmagot's concern about Draco's health, and realised how strange it was that Draco, bone-thin as he was, had managed to stand and grab the rope, how he'd managed to walk across the grounds and act vaguely normal, how he'd gotten all the energy to do anything. It _was_ suspicious, but at the time he'd just been too happy to see him alive to wonder why Draco seemed to need a lot less recovery than...well, than before.

He remembered the one time during the war, Draco had come to him--Harry had been staying at a temporary flat for a bit, for safety purposes, and Draco had been missing for weeks. But there he was, in the flat, looking so...Harry could tell, even before he spoke, that something had happened to him. And he'd even apologised for coming in.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I don't...could I stay here for a short while? Would you mind terribly?" Draco had asked, trying to look suave and reasonable, capably dashing in fresh from the battle. He had been failing utterly, and the corners of his mouth kept twitching downwards, and his eyes looked glazed, and his face was smudged with soot and dirt, and Harry had tried not to notice his shaking. muddy hands as he grasped them and guided Draco in.

"Er, no, I was getting really lonely anyway, hiding out, maintaining Floo silence, all that," Harry had said, trying to look busy tidying the flat so Draco wouldn't know he'd noticed the mud on his Death Eater robes, the grimy once-white mask spattered with dry, crusted blood and something unidentifiable. They were supposed to know what Draco was doing on his Death Eater days, but Harry suddenly didn't want to find out. "Here, it's late, I'll draw a bath or something. You look exhausted. You can just sit down here and I'll be done in a bit."

He had turned down the hall and turned on the water, magicking the place clean, warm, and fresh-smelling. Draco had smelled like tears and blood and really really old death, rotting from his robes. He'd need a fresh scrubbing at least...he conjured up a brush, and good clean soap, and some white fluffy towels. Harry had turned to call Draco to the bathroom, only to give a start when he saw Draco standing there. He'd followed him, watching, like an involuntary sentinel following instructions drilled into him, an unwilling witness.

"Sorry," Draco had mumbled as they circled each other, and had shut the door in Harry's face, leaving him in the dark hallway. He pressed his ear up against the door and listened to robes fall away, bandages being ripped off, and water sloshing as Draco sunk into the tub, then walked back down to see if he could get anything for Draco to eat before he went to bed and left the spy to his own devices. It wasn't the first time they'd hidden in a flat together, waiting until it was strategically advantageous to resume operations.

He had gone back down the hallway to ask Draco if he preferred tea or coffee when he'd heard something halfway between a sob and a scream. Without thinking he'd flung open the door, and the tub water had turned red with blood, and Draco had been staring up at him from his bloodied hands, trembling in the steam.

"I couldn't save them..." Draco had whispered, eyes wide and frightened.

Harry hadn't even thought of what to say; he had been in a daze as he coaxed Draco's naked, dripping, pink body out of the bath, given him a quick magical clean and wrapped him in a towel, guiding him to the only bed he had. There hadn't even been a word of protest--Draco had seemed mildly embarassed at it all, but some other paralysing fear seemed to have overtaken even that, some agonising memory he couldn't express.

It had been a week before he got out of bed, and Harry found him with his head in his hands in the kitchen one day, looking as if he'd been about to try to make a cuppa.

"Draco?" he remembered having said, prying Draco's clean fingers away from his face. "What happened?" He couldn't guess what the Death Eaters had done, or what had happened to Draco, or what Draco had done. But he wanted to know what had shocked Draco so much, what had made him retreat that far. Draco had been present when all those people bled, spurting red hot gushing liquid at him that he hadn't been able to get off until Harry had done it for him. He had looked at Draco curiously and asked, "What happened to you?"

And then Draco had flinched, and shook his head, and poured the hot water into the cup.

He had looked absolutely miserable, and Harry hadn't asked him about it ever again. Then he'd tried to Crucio himself and Harry had to stop him, again and again and again, until Draco was convinced--Harry hoped--he wasn't guilty for all those deaths he couldn't prevent. It had been with so much uncertainty that Harry had watched him go out the door, off to another Death Eater meeting, jawline set in grim determination and possibly just blind desperation because there was nothing else he could do.

But that moment was what Harry thought about now, the moment doubt entered his mind about Draco's threatened sanity. He had wondered, Harry remembered as he watched Draco as the carriage bounced, whether all the work they were making him do wasn't going to finally drive him mad. He wouldn't ever be able to get the memory of the look on Draco's face in the bath, in the middle of all that blood that wasn't his. It was that look that Harry thought of now as he watched Draco pretend to sleep.

When the carriage finally stopped, they found Dumbledore already there, waiting to greet them all. Draco tiredly climbed the steps, and took the long path through the Great Hall, following Harry. Stares gravitated towards him after they had enough of Harry, then shied away, looking to the others who had entered behind him. Plenty had seen the front page. How many believed it? Milton Chadwick gave him an enthusiastic wave, and he returned it with a slow nod. There was one who knew the truth. The others didn't look so sure. Why did the Gryffindor first year like him so much? Wearily, he took his seat at the High Table for lunch, and wet his parched lips with pumpkin juice.

Eileen Lynch looked just as tired as he, but her feminine beauty radiated outwards in a way that intoxicated him. Without even thinking he leaned over--she'd taken Lupin's empty seat--and kissed her hand, then her cheek, like a proper suitor. It got him no insults, so he assumed she didn't believe the papers much either. He caught Ron's eye, and smirked at his open-mouthed expression. Beside him, Hermione giggled, and Ron whispered something to Harry. The ex-Gryffindor turned red. Well now. This was interesting. Was it something about last night?

"What illegal things did they do to you, Draco?" Eileen asked, and all his attention was on her suddenly, once more. She was so beautiful and mesmerising he could hardly answer. Everything in their relationship seemed to be moving all by itself, as if something had planned it and all he had to do was come along for the ride and try to enjoy it. He didn't have to try very hard. "Did they bring in a dementor at all?"

"No. I...I couldn't sleep," he replied, shuddering at the thought. "I didn't want any bad dreams. Ron was an extra guard, and they accepted that arrangement well enough. Did you fret over what happened to me or did a hippogriff attack you? You look like you spent the whole night awake."

"That's just a nicer way of saying I look horrible," Eileen said accusingly. "And for your information, I was marking papers. Snape's on his enormous research project, so I had to brew the Wolfsbane potion last night. I think I did something wrong with it, as Lupin got a bit sick in the morning. He's been sleeping it off the last time I checked. And before you even ask, I didn't come to your trial because there has to be at least a few of the staff here for the weekend helping the Prefects. We can't all go prancing off to London now, can we?"

"No, of course not," Draco replied, feeling a bit tamed for some reason. Was it the way she was talking? No...maybe how she treated him, like they were old friends? Maybe that. At least, the old friends he had known before he got along with Harry and the others. Something familiar... "And I wasn't going to ask you that."

"Sure," Lynch replied, and picked up her sandwich. A flash of red overcame Draco's vision, and he recoiled, then bounced back to grab the bleeding sandwich out of her hands. "What are you doing, Draco?" she asked, a bit more calmly than he would have thought. Maybe she was used to sudden, unusual movements, as a neuromancer.

"The meat isn't half dead in here!" Draco protested, waving a...a...a perfectly ordinary lettuce and tomato sandwich in her face. He set it back down on the plate, and shakily covered his face with his hands. Seeing things now, was he? What was it his father had said? A prison in his mind.

"Draco?" Merlin's beard, don't talk to me, he thought. "Draco, have you been seeing things like that for a while now?"

"All I ever see is pain, but all I ever know is honour," Draco whispered, partly to himself. It was like something he'd read in a book, or heard somewhere and was reciting. He stared at the sandwich, knowing what it was that he saw, even if his mind insisted something much more horrific. The bloated, bloodied arm of some nameless child, stuck between slashes of meat and hair...

As he closed his eyes and tried to swallow the feeling of bile coming up his throat, Draco felt a twinge in his head. Harry had put a hand to his scar, and was staring at Draco sharply.

"Draco, please, come with me to my office," Eileen insisted, and pulled him to his feet towards the staff door. His lunch, and hers, remained thankfully uneaten. His eyes saw them as they were. But his mind...his mind was another matter.

Everything felt like a dream, changed, bloodied, horribly disfigured. The walls of the castle were strewn with children's dead, blue faces, although Draco knew they were as clean as before, if not mottled slightly with age. Yet the fires burnt a black odour of death, and he could have sworn he stepped in blood. They were drowning in destruction... His true reality did not feel real, but what his mind told him was even less believable.

When they finally reached her office, he was in a daze, and she handed him a small blue vial. "This may feel a little weird, but take one drop in the morning, one in the evening, and then as needed, okay? Trust me. They won't hurt that beautiful body of yours," Eileen said. She unstoppered it and measured it out with an eyedropper. "Open up, let's see that tongue."

Obediently, Draco stuck out a tongue, still mesmerised by the way her face seemed to flash in and out of shadow and foul smoke. The blue liquid slid and spread on his tongue, sweet and scentless, a calm tingling of the senses, a dulling of the nerves. Something like a lemon skin wrapped around a brick hit the back of his head. His vision adjusted for a moment, and then it was back to the way he knew it should be. Clean, spotless, and entirely without blood.

It was such a relief he kissed her, hard, on the lips, right there without any overture. A relief different from the others in that final little pop of emotion, of needing the touch and contact of another person, surged through his lips and into her. He needed this, needed to connect, needed to touch and feel and want. It had been so long since he'd wanted anything for himself, since he'd allowed himself to feel. It was so right and so desperate, and he felt her hands come around his back and hold him tightly in their kiss.

Like a sigh it was over with a contented end, and he smiled down at her, certain that his grey eyes were twinkling as much as her blue. "Thank you," he whispered. Yes, there was no reason not to trust her, if the effects were so wonderful. He had no knowledge of potions used for specific psychological treatment, and would not have known its precise effects even if she had told him the name.

"Draco?" she asked.

"Yes?" he answered, eyes dreamy.

"I have to tell you, you may feel some headaches, a bit of dizziness, but those shouldn't last long. But you won't be getting any more of those nightmares or visions. If you do, you'll forget them at once, which I'm sure you'll find to be a relief," Eileen said. Hm. Not one for mood, apparently. Was she authorised to give this to him? He should have asked Dumbledore first, but this would be a lesson in trust, yes. People with normal lives trusted others. He'd have to learn to do the same.

He'd also have to learn to let her go, but that could come much much later. Right now he was content with holding her against him, soft, pleased and warm when before his body starved for heat.

"Eileen, can we do that again?" he tried to inquire as lightly as he could, aware that his arms circled her waist and she had hers around her neck. Her hands caressed the backs of his rabbit ears.

"No," she snapped. "Be serious, Draco. I want to make sure you understand what this does, and when to take it. If you feel anything wrong you have to come to me at once. I'm so worried. I don't want you to suffer, not after all you've done." That did it. Draco could feel himself cracking under her words, and he took the vial off the table and slid it into the pocket of his Auror robes.

"Oh believe me, it's mutual. I don't want to suffer either," he replied with a smile. And then they kissed.

For a while.

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She rather liked Harry's new accommodations. Hermione didn't think he would be one for decorating but all of it was nice and memorable. She squeezed the cushy armrest of his sofa and snuggled against Ron's warm body, feeling like an important part of something that had returned to her. Now they were all here together, the trio again. Well, quintet to be exact.

So it wasn't so bad that Harry was pacing back and forth before his fireplace. In her memory of their childhood, Harry was always anxious and troubled about something. Eager to please and worried about the people around him and himself. Harry was always like this. It was even reassuring to see him this way, because that meant everything was as mysterious as always, and that they didn't have all the answers.

She gave a satisfied yawn. Lunch had been very good, and very accommodating for a pregnant, hungry mother eating for three and vomiting up a lot of it in the morning.

Amazing, to know the two lives within her might have been gone forever if Draco had not awoken from the surprise attack. She'd have to send more than a fruit basket, come October, that was for certain. But now she was sleepy.

"What's wrong now, Harry? What are you trying to not tell us?" Ron asked drowsily. Harry stopped pacing, and Hermione thought maybe nothing had changed after all.

"It's about Draco," Harry said,and the sleep slipped from her at once. He told them about the previous night's conversation of Parseltongue, and the Riddle handwriting.

"It can't be Draco," she found herself saying, trying to defend him. How surreal this would have seemed years ago. "It could...oh it could be somebody with Polyjuice for all we know! How many times has he disappeared on us?"

"Or what if Voldemort is angry enough to wreck him? Even if he can't do much, he can destroy Draco. Or worse, possess him. We'll just have to keep him away from the Lockhouse as much as possible. Or what if--" This was easy to predict. Harry was going to continue on a long litany of possibilities until he got himself worked up enough to do something.

"Harry, why don't you tell Lynch and ask her to help him fight it? Or find out what is really going on?" Ron asked. Harry looked highly reluctant about talking to Lynch.

"Hasn't she got professional confidentality to worry about?" he asked.

She snorted in derision. "She's already obviously emotionally involved with her patient. I don't think she really gives a sodding bit about any other little rules. Ask Draco. He's usually honest enough with you."

""We'll see. It's bad enough his father's Minister. What a tough time. If Voldemort really got ahold of him, and it's not his own delusions, I don't know if I could turn my wand on Draco," Harry said, and silently, they all agreed.

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Dinner was very strange. The students noticed it. The staff noticed it. Harry certainly noticed when he sat down from seeing Ron and Hermione off.

Draco Malfoy was tail-less and without hare ears. What he seemed to have instead was a nice, big relaxed smile with healthy pink lips and glowing cheeks to replace his pasty deathbed expression. It was like seeing a skeleton with a facelift. Maybe it was the way he now ate with an appetite, or that he laughed instead of grimaced at the recovered Lupin's jokes. It was all in all an un-nerving experience, and Harry was determined to confront him about it as they left for his office.

"What did she do to you?" he demanded, once Draco shut the door behind them. "Are you stoned?"

"Not at all," Draco replied. Cheerfully. Harry twitched. "Eileen is great, she is quite fantastic. We spent all afternoon talking and...other things. She is just lovely. What in the world is troubling you?" Draco plopped into a seat, plunked his feet on his desk and set his hands behind his head so he could lean back.

Trying not to vomit at the idea, Harry nevertheless asked, "Did you get er...'lucky' or something? Erm...if you know what I mean?"

"No." Draco glared, but even that was too mild, too cheerful. "A relationship does not consist of having sex, Potter. Power play and money and emotions are involved."

"Okay. Fine. But why don't you tell me--" Harry began.

"I am a private person. Leave it." The cheerful tone was gone. Hurrah. All Draco did now was send death glares at him. Double hurrah.

"Well that's more like it at least. For years you've been unhappy, snobby, and generally sulky, and now you're acting like nothing's wrong. So forgive me if I get a little more than suspicious," Harry said.

"So what do you want?" Draco asked, a bit lost. "Do you want me to be unhappy? Would you like me to confess lifelong secrets for fear I shall die before I finally unburden my soul of its weight? I think I deserve a bit of peace, as do you. After all, you saved the world! You deserve to be happy too, with someone you love and a nice house without worrying about anything for the rest of your life! You shouldn't have to give a sodding fuck about anything at all. For Slytherin's sake, find yourself a life!"

"I'm just very very worried about you and what you're going through," Harry ventured, thinking of the bathtub incident again.

"No," Draco said at once. "Do not try to fill our lives with danger, intrigue, paranoia, or all of the above. Sometimes there are no more mysteries left for us to solve, Harry, no more Dark Lords to vanquish."

"Oh yeah, good speech, Draco, but there's still something wrong with the way your scar bleeds, why you get seizures and fits, and why you spoke Parseltongue last night. You can't explain those away," Harry protested. Draco's face suddenly became very wooden, and he stood up abruptly, looking at the clock as he did so. He smiled, and it was horribly cordial and empty.

"It's time for me to take my potion, so maybe you should run along to bed, Harry," he said softly. His hand had started to twitch in the pocket of his robes. "Eileen's decided you don't need to be along for any more meetings. Thank you for accompanying me on the first few." There was a sense of urgency underlying his mild tone, much like how Lupin sounded when pressed. "Look, ah, sometimes my headaches get very very bad, so I need this potion." Draco started pushing Harry towards the door. "I'm going to have a lie down, as it's dizzying sometimes too, so why don't you just go?"

"What? What potion?" Harry asked, but Draco only gave him an exasperated look. "Does Dumbledore know about this? I'll tell him if you don't!"

"Great, goodnight, Harry, I'll see you tomorrow!" He slammed the door shut just in time to hear a scream behind him. Draco squeezed his eyes shut tightly so he wouldn't see the hallucination, and with shaking fingers, pried open the lid of the vial.

He could hardly measure it correctly, with the way his Dark Mark was slicing into his skin again, and his left hand wiggled the bottle unaccountably. He painstakingly laid a drop of blue on his tongue. In his mind, it spread along his nerves and senses, and he clutched the recapped vial to himself like a long-lost trinket of his youth. Little crisscrosses of blue flooded his vision, but he thought he could see an ooze of red past the gloom.

Cloth puddled around him as he slid to the ground. His head hurt, but his hands weren't shaking. He was not seeing unbidden hallucinations of violence or gore. As the sizzle of his thoughts died down and he entered that calming blindness, he lay his cheek against the cool oak floor. Eileen was bringing him peace at last. He closed his eyes at the command of his deadened brain, and left his mind.

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As he lay in bed with his red pyjamas, Harry did not bother to watch the golden Snitches zoom across the cloth. The cotton sheets beneath his back--he suspected Draco wallowed in silk--were good and comfortable, but he couldn't get to sleep. Very well; he could try, even if it meant more meaningless dreams. So many he probably shared with Draco. He let his eyes close.

Red splashes across his vision and his stomach lurches in staggered drunkenness. He is neither in his room nor his body, but he recognises this presence of mind. It is the same as all the others. Draco's.

There's a piercing light that nevertheless doesn't give enough illumination for him to see. He can only make out the hard topography of the countless rough stones laid out on the floor, dark with old dry blood. Large, rusted manacles are too heavy for him, and cut into his wrists and ankles, rubbing flesh raw. The stabbing pains of hunger that had pestered his body before are no longer there. His blood and breath have slowed to a reptilian pace, and his cold cold skin shrink wraps protruding bone. His head floats, blackness swimming across his vision every time Avery forces him to move from one wretched patch of stone to another for no reason at all other than to see the once-haughty Draco Malfoy crawl and whimper and drag himself, weeping without tears from a body that is dried up, along the floor, his wounds refusing to heal, his body long exhausted beyond its limits, beyond his limits. Harry wonders again how Draco could have stood up to grab the rope of salvation, how he could have spoken to Harry about pine fresh, how he could have even limped across the battlefield, bloodied as he was, how he could have stood the sight of a wand in someone else's hand.

That's because Harry knows where Draco is now. He can feel the alien fear permeating Draco's mind at the sight of Avery, at the sight of a rat scuttling across the far wall, at the sight of his own fingers. His is a personal hell, where anything can produce pain specially tailored for Draco's suffering. Avery has spells to make Draco feel like his skin is being peeled away from him and his innards are reaching up to choke him, to make his eyeballs burn, to surround him in pain, to bathe him in Cruciatus. He twitches involuntarily as Avery comes closer, and a weak whine squeezes out from the back of his throat while his burning, hollow eyes watch the wand hovering above him, the wand they will not let him have, the wand that is rightfully his. There's a terrible madness, Harry feels, in stripping Draco from his power and using his own wand to cast these abominations.

Avery grabs Draco's bony, pointy chin, nails digging in, and Harry feels the panicked, blind fear tormenting him, promising an eternity of this, a new curse every day to test out on the Dark Lord's personal project--The Breaking of Draco Malfoy.

"There there, my matricidal pet," murmurs Avery, pulling pale golden hairs easily out of Draco's scalp while Draco croaks his shrieks, small chirrups now that his throat is so dry. He's not allowed a name, so Draco is called all the worst things by Avery, all the right names that would dredge up childhood memories and humiliations. Avery yanks him up easily, so Draco is standing loosely, hanging off his arm. "You're very light now, little matricide, like a bird. Wouldn't you like to fly? Fly away like a little bird? Fly free? Answer me! Would you like to fly?" He gives him a rough yank, and Draco's head jerks back with the motion, hitting the wall with a sickening thud.

"Please," Draco wants to say, but it only comes out as a wisp of air exiting his lips. It is enough. "CRUCIO!" is yelled, and Draco drops to the floor. Fire courses through his veins and the pain whispers to him, caresses his innards and strokes his stomach to make him retch even though there's nothing but stomach acid and bile left. Somewhere in the middle of it he hears a voice. Harry recognises it at once. Voldemort is whispering, "Wake up. Wake up, little dragon, wake up," and Harry feels himself lurch away from the pain that binds Draco, and suddenly he's somewhere else.

His Draco dream-self walks across a rain-slicked street with a painful headache where Harry's scar should be, then ducks into the Lockhouse. The walls are splattered in blood not yet dry--it washes up against his shoes and he knows he walks in people's lives. A stray arm, detached and shivering, lies in the far distance of the corridor.

It's as surreal as everything else in this dim lighting of sputtering candles even though there's no wind. He looks into one doorway and is captured by the stench, the sight, and the disgusting taste of the smell of a dozen blue-grey bodies. Corpses, Aurors, all of them, are heaped together unceremoniously. Their slack, blank expressions are devoid of peace and serenity, and he looks away lest he recognise someone. They did not die a good death at all.

This is all so very familiar. This is remembering the future. A whisper calls to him to do it, to finish it and finally break himself (Draco) down as punishment for all he's failed to do. For going over to a side that did nothing but exploit him. Yes...Voldemort's voice again. Harry wants to break off, to tell Draco that it's a lie, to extract him from the dream and shake him and let him know. They never used him, not selfishly. But none of it is under his control.

A dull glow pulses from a room Harry hoped would never be unguarded or unsealed. No. Not dreams about this. He could stand living Draco's torture through his dreams, but not this ultimate defeat. Draco enters the room, past the black cage of throbbing magical energy now dead and gone. His shaking hands lift jar after jar after jar after spell after spell before they bring the final Spirit Catcher to shatter in a million tinkles of doom. The green glow heads straight for his heart and burrows in. He's losing himself. Draco's losing himself, feeling the small parts drain away slowly. He feels fuzzy around the edges as they fade first, and then he's being pushed down into the deepest of pits and left there. Just like before. Draco's body stands up with a smile and Harry knows it to be Voldemort's on his lips.

He tries to stay with Draco-Voldemort, but they slip from him easily, the Lockhouse walls disappearing. This is a different vision now, but what does it all mean? A woman is talking. Everything's darkness, just this woman's voice, an old schoolmarm stiffly talking to the landed gentry. Little Draco has been brought home from Madame Crimpletop's Academy. Ordinarily little Draco, not yet out of swaddling clothes, would never be there, but there are rare instances when the governess is ill and Mummy and Daddy are busy. He has been brought home early for biting Neville Longbottom after the boy attacks him with a Puffskein.

When asked why he didn't listen to Madame, Draco, barely forming multi-syllabic words, commands, "nobody controls me! Imma big dragon! Rarr!"

And Father--having to pick Draco up--proudly kisses Draco on the forehead and says, "yes you are, Draco. You're a Malfoy, and nobody can tell you what to do. You're my dragon."

"Daddy's dragon!" Draco giggles and reaches up to hug Lucius, but suddenly it is Voldemort instead.

"No. You are MY Dragon, child. You are nothing but mine, mine to command and mine to have." Voldemort bends and kisses the top of toddler Draco's head, and Harry screams.

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The next morning, Harry, tired and exhausted from fitful sleep and Draco's dreams, slumped down in front of his porridge and wearily watched Draco talk animatedly with Lynch. No lines of sleeplessness crossed Draco's face, no dark circles under his eyes. Draco was awake, eager, and, against all that made sense in the world, in love. He held hands with Lynch at the table and kept his focus. He even ate when she insisted. Harry was sure it wasn't real. Another dream? He was having so many of those, not all of them his own. Still Draco would not claim them.

Maybe a love potion. A I've-Gone-Out-Of-My-Bleeding-Mind Potion. A I'm-Going-To-Act-Like-An-Idiot Potion. Anything at all. But Draco had shown interest before this. Or was Harry just being paranoid, seeing plots everywhere? No one was out to kill him this time. Harry wasn't mad, as he hadn't begun handing out sherbert lemons, so he could only assume he was right. Draco had gone mad. Oh why hadn't they gone to St. Mungo's straight after the battle? After what he'd gone through, it was impossible for Draco to have healed as quickly as he did. Why hadn't Harry realised that?

Harry sat sullenly next to an equally incredulous Snape and listened gloomily to a conversation too chipper for this time of morning.

"I've never been to Malfoy Manor," said Lynch, taking some coffee.

"You won't have. It is a private residence; we shall have no business with that historical tour rubbish," Draco said with a smile. Draco rarely said things with an attachment other than a sarcastic roll of the eyes or a smirk.

"Can I come visit sometime then? It must be a beautiful place. You could show me around, we could cuddle in the study...it'd be great," Lynch replied brightly, and Harry wanted to gouge out her eyes with a spoon. Slowly.

"I'm not certain that's in your best interests. It's very old. I suspect my father's taken up residence there again, so that will be no fun at all. We used to have huge galas and such, parties, faerie lights on the grounds and in the gardens. More of a woman's thing to manage however, you know how it is. Not really something I think I'd want to deal with," Draco replied lightly.

"What do you mean a 'woman's thing?' We're a lot more than debutantes who start up our little parties and auxiliaries! Look what I do!" Lynch protested. At least you couldn't say Draco didn't have it coming.

"Of course! I never implied that, Eileen. But the success of such affairs requires a woman's touch. Father always went for the dignified celebrations," he tried to cover up for his gaffe.

"Right. Drink your milk nae, Draco dear."

"Yes mam." And he did. Harry exchanged a secret look of mutual suffering with Snape, then returned to their breakfast. What could be the explanation for Draco's perpetually stoned mood? Could it be a side effect of the potion he said he was taking last night?

"Potter," Snape whispered from the corner of his mouth. "What has happened to my godson?"

"Lynch, that's what," Harry said conspiratorially. "Sanity-restoring neuropsychotherapy or whatever. Done wonders, hasn't it? Always wondered what an empty-headed Draco would sound like."

"Draco needs the neuropsychotherapy; you couldn't fathom the brokenness in his eyes, Potter, when they showed me what they'd done to him, and with his own wand, no less," Snape breathed. "But if the result is this, it isn't worth it."

"You saw him tortured? And you didn't DO ANYTHING?!" Harry hissed angrily.

"Not without drawing attention to myself, or incurring serious danger to both of us! Now remove those idiotic thoughts from your attention and listen! I'll be able to teach tomorrow, so you will not have an opportunity to further pollute the minds of my students. In your deliquency, you may get it into your head to watch how Draco does in his classes, so don't be seen. I don't even want to know you're not following him until at least tomorrow's dinnertime. Is that clear?"

"What? Why...Oh! Yes. Yes, sir," Harry replied sulkily, fists still clenched at the thought of Snape watching as they did who-knows-what to Draco. And now this brand new assignment...It wasn't being nice--but after you've let someone see you in a grey nightgown trying to sit on your godson, you've got to do something to restore your image. Harry got what he wanted anyway, which was fine. He'd just try to figure out 1) what was wrong with Draco and 2) why there was a Draco Malfoy look-a-like running around wreaking havoc.

"Harry, how about it, old fellow?" Draco asked. "A friendly Seeker match today? Show the teams how the old guard used to play?" He was so terribly eager Harry thought he'd burst. Harry really didn't like the old-friends-familiar-mate-Drake. He wanted the not-even-your-mate-go-away-before-I-Crucio-you Draco Malfoy. At least it wasn't painful to _talk_ to him.

"Er, no thanks. I wanted to ask you something else, actually. Colin Creevey was with you the night you got lost in London, right? Muggle photography now, you said. He took the wizarding photographs of your impersonator. Do you know if he's been trying to follow you at all?" Harry asked, hoping he wouldn't be put off by the question.

"No idea," said Draco, still cheerful. "But I am quite certain that you may owl him. Do you fancy a friendly game of Quidditch at all, Harry? I'm sure the students would love it!"

"No!" Harry echoed. "Someone just tried to put you in prison for attacking children and all you can think about is Quidditch?"

"Oh live a little, Harry. Have some fun," Draco sighed. "Don't be so paranoid. We're not out to save the world anymore, remember? This is such a small thing. I've forgiven whoever it was."

"Thought your Father said 'Malfoys forgive but we never forget?'" Harry quoted their dream scathingly, and Draco went a little stiff. Lynch squeezed his hand before he could reply, and he nodded slowly. "Have any dreams last night, Draco?"

"Wouldn't know what warped visions I had if I did. How did you know my father said that?" he asked suspicously.

"I saw it. In a dream you had. My scar connects to your Mark, and to Voldemort, who particularly hates you out of all his Death Eaters. I don't know what it means, but I could be connected to you. Something's up and you're too eager to be sane and normal to see it," Harry started again.

"I'm trying to have a life, Potter!" Draco spat. "Sorry if that gets in the way of your plans. Let's go, Eileen." They rose from the High Table and conspicuously exited, hand in hand.

"And don't do that tomorrow," Snape said to Harry, as he rose.