DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As always, thanks and love to my beta readers, Plumeria, Naadi Moonfeather, and Darklites for their invaluable help!

Author: Penguin

OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 6 – Snowblindness

Harry didn't know whether he woke up from Hedwig's impatient let-me-out noises or from the unfamiliar weight across his chest. It took him a split second to realise the weight was Draco Malfoy's sleepy arm. His heart turned a somersault.

Draco…!

It had happened. It was happening.

Harry smiled and tried to slip out of bed without waking Draco, but Draco was already moving, and he mumbled something as Harry opened the window and watched Hedwig disappear into the cold darkness.

"What?"

"Come back to bed."

What a fantastic thing to hear. What an incredible thing to hear, particularly from Draco Malfoy.

Harry's heart was getting a lot of exercise this morning – now it skipped a beat and then started pounding. He quickly banged the window shut, hurried back to bed and slid in under the thick duvet. He found himself encircled again by warm, sinewy arms and pulled tightly against Draco's chest.

It was all a bit too much – slight overload. He was confused and unsure what to think or how to feel, or what was okay to feel. He was happier than he thought he'd ever been, and about equal parts scared and excited. Insecurity raged, but at least his body seemed to know what it wanted.

So did Draco's, very obviously.

Harry decided to go down the path of least resistance. Doubt and anxiety would probably come, but would simply have to come as an afterthought. He smiled a little at this convoluted logic and resigned himself to Draco's embrace.

He let his eyes fall shut as he felt Draco's mouth begin to move down his neck, gasps followed by an undignified whimper as it moved further down to do wonderful things with one of his nipples. Draco's hand was cupping itself around Harry's balls, and Harry slid his fingers into Draco's hair and moaned helplessly. He knew he wouldn't last long this time, either.

It hadn't been perfect last night, and yet it had. There had been so much tension to relieve, pent-up emotions and expectations, and they had both been very nervous. It had been intense, feverish and desperate, and over much too quickly. But god, it had been perfect – it had been all they'd wanted and needed just then. They'd both known it didn't matter if it was too quick or too tense or too anything else – this was only the beginning; they'd be doing this again and again in a thousand different ways.

Like now.

And Harry stopped thinking. He felt Draco's body, hands, mouth doing warm wet circling moving fantastic things to him; he listened to breaths and gasps and moans from both of them until the darkness under his eyelids abruptly exploded into fireworks and he came in pulsing spurts over Draco's hand and his own stomach.

xxx

Draco was almost dozing off again with his nose against Harry's neck. He really liked the way Harry's skin smelled, he thought sleepily. It didn't smell of anything in particular, except maybe a little of woodsmoke, but perhaps that was the air in the room. It just smelled like skin, warm and alive with blood pulsing underneath. Draco angled his head a little so his lips touched Harry's neck, and he let the tip of his tongue sneak out and caress a point just where neck joined shoulder. The reaction was immediate – a hitching gasp from Harry, an arm tightening around him, and Draco smiled, pleased that such a small action had such a noticeable effect. He sighed with contentment. His body was heavy and relaxed, Harry's fingertips were drawing tiny circles on his shoulder, and under Draco's arm, Harry's chest moved with every breath. They were acutely aware of each other's smallest move and smallest sound, both responding instantly.

It was fantastic, Draco thought, to be so close physically, but he kept worrying, too; kept wondering what Harry was thinking and feeling. They hadn't talked much after that first kiss, only shared the bare minimum of essential verbal communication. They'd had other things to do, things that were more immediately pressing. Now that they were sated and Draco had stopped aching physically for Harry for at least the next few minutes, he ached to talk to him instead, wanted it nearly as much as he wanted the physical pleasure. He was thrown by the level of his own anxiety, this silent, inward fretting – had Harry enjoyed what they had just done as much as Draco had? Was he disappointed? Was he satisfied, was he pleased, was he… happy?

Draco was wary of the words 'happy' and 'happiness', and a little contemptuous, too. He could still hear the echo of his father's voice in his head: "I'm not happy with you, Draco. I had expected more of you." When Lucius Malfoy was not happy with something, there could and would be unpleasant consequences. There was another kind of happiness, too, the female, cloying, clinging kind, the one that hung around necks and pleaded and sighed. Who wanted to be happy that way? What was that kind of happiness worth?

But this… this defied description.

Harry was stirring, moving out of Draco's arms, and Draco felt an instant, undignified twinge of fear: Is he uncomfortable? Is he not pleased with me? Is he leaving?

But Harry only changed positions. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down into Draco's face, and Draco lay still on the pillow and looked up into eyes that were so dark he couldn't see their colour. They glinted, and as Harry moved a little they caught and reflected the firelight. Harry ran a fingertip along Draco's hairline and down his cheek, over his neck, followed the collarbone to the shoulder… he bent down and kissed Draco's chest, a series of soft slow kisses that were more tender than aiming to arouse. Draco closed his eyes and gently pushed his fingers into Harry's messy, silky hair, and thought that perhaps it was possible, after all, that Harry felt the same way he did about the situation.

Harry's mouth began to move very softly down Draco's stomach; his hand was on Draco's hip... It was all beginning to feel really spectacularly good, but just as Draco was getting hard again, Harry mumbled against Draco's hipbone, "What's this?"

Draco tensed mid-moan and raised his head to be able to look at Harry. "What's what?"

"It's hard to see in this light… but what's the small tattoo thing you have here? A flower? A water lily…?"

"Oh… yes." Draco let his head fall back against the pillow, his fingers playing in Harry's hair. "Yes, it's a water lily. Family tradition." He fell silent again, not really wanting to think about his family right now when everything was so good. But Harry was still and seemed to be waiting for him to continue. "Do you really want to hear about this now?"

"Yes, why not?" Harry's lips softly caressed Draco's hipbone again and made Draco shiver and sigh with pleasure and a tinge of disappointment at the interruption.

"Well… the Malfoy family crest has water lilies in it, and my great great grandfather was interested in exotic plants. It was the fashion back then, apparently. So he built a lily house at Malfoy Manor, a greenhouse for tropical plants, and started collecting water lilies. Each male heir of the Manor has had his own unique variety of water lily, that sort of symbolises him – he uses it on his personal seal, and he has it tattooed on his body."

"Like a cattle brand!"

Draco began to laugh and then stopped and shivered – Harry's careless assessment was far too accurate for comfort. But when Harry gently kissed the tattoo again and slowly caressed it with his tongue, Draco stopped thinking about his family, stopped thinking about anything at all except the marvel of touch.

xxx

Cross country skiing was so much easier than trying to go steeply downhill. It worked, even after only a few hours of practice. Draco listened to the crisp, swishing noises of his skis and poles in the snow.

I don't want to go back. I don't want to pack my things tomorrow. I want to stay here – with him.

It was hard work, too – he was getting sweaty. He stopped and looked around.

White and blue. Deep blue mountains, mostly covered with blue-white snow. The sky overhead was a bright, clear blue, getting paler and gradually changing into turquoise and yellow at the horizon. No trees. Nothing to rest his eyes on, except a few dark areas on the mountainsides where the bare rock was visible.

It was the weirdest place Draco had ever visited. The sameness of the colours – white, blue, blue, white… and then the contrasts: the contrast between the fierce, insane cold outside and the blazing, fragrant wood fires indoors, between the inky black darkness of the long nights and the sharp light of the short daytime hours. Light so bright it gave him a headache before it turned a warm reddish gold and dissolved into blue dusk and darkness again.

Crisp, feather-light snow and warm, wet kisses.

The way the night sky had flared up as they watched, flames and jets of white and blue and green swaying and fluttering all over the sky, like luminous clouds of breath from some gigantic, mythical creature.

Strange and beautiful, and a little frightening. Like Draco's own feelings.

Draco shook himself and began to ski straight out into the untouched whiteness. He didn't really believe he'd get anywhere even if he kept going. This was a place where you could go straight ahead for hours and not get anywhere at all. Everything looked the same. He was surrounded by a white and blue nothing.

Frightening. Beautiful.

Distance. I want distance. And balance – please, please let me regain my balance. I need some distance between myself and all this. It's wonderful, but it scares me.

His eyes swept over the expanse of white, both soft and hard. Contrasts again, and sameness. Clean, cold emptiness.

He continued to go towards the centre of nothing, hoping to find a core of… something, of substance and meaning. Maybe he'd find it when he'd passed through the nothingness.

It reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember what. A dream…

…a dream of blue and white, filled with white plains… and then red flowers began to push through the snow… no, they weren't flowers but flames, small fires that made the snow melt and revealed dark mud underneath…

…the dream he'd had after the blooding.

He began to get truly frightened, and increased his speed to let the pain in arms and legs and lungs override his thoughts.

The cold must be affecting my brain. Why am I thinking like this? Why did I remember that now? Keep going. Just keep going. Arms like pistons; no thoughts. Only energy.

He had no idea how long he'd been skiing when he finally stopped, panting, rubbing his glove under his nose. Damn this place. Beautiful and magnificent, it made small, insignificant human beings so un-aesthetic and undignified in comparison. A runny nose was about the least attractive thing imaginable.

Draco looked around, and all he saw was snow. White, white, glaring white, so white that after a while he couldn't see it any more. The whiteness blurred into every colour there was, and there was no sense of either direction or distance. When he had stared at it for a while, he couldn't even see the faint blue tracks of his skis any longer. He couldn't tell whether the white surface was horizontal or vertical, couldn't tell whether it was laid out flat before him or an upright wall he'd run into if he moved.

Don't panic, Draco. You can probably Apparate back. And if you can't, you can just follow your own tracks. You know they're there. Breathe.

He tried to Apparate back to the village, but it didn't work. Maybe the village had anti-Apparating wards. Damn it, were there no spells to shade your eyes? They must have spells like that up here, but Draco didn't know any.

Turn around 180 degrees, you idiot. You'll feel the tracks. Your skis will feel them.

He laughed at himself and felt much better, turned around and began to follow his own ski tracks back towards the village. Dusk began to fall as he reached the village square, and in the dusk, shapes and forms and a sense of distance existed again for a little while, until it was dark once more.

xxx

So it had happened, Dumbledore thought and leant heavily on the windowsill. Love acknowledged and expressed; love active and working... Now they only had to make the best use of it. Allow it to grow stronger for a while, allow its roots to go deeper… and hope it would be enough. But they didn't have much time.

He sighed and went back to his desk, sat down and ran a finger over the shiny surface of Godric Gryffindor's sword. There were times when he felt abominably, abysmally alone. He missed Nicholas Flamel more than he usually allowed himself to admit – he missed having someone older and wiser than himself to turn to, someone to tell every detail without having to be careful. Everyone needed someone to go to for advice. Even Tom, although he had probably long since convinced himself otherwise.

Dumbledore's long life had landed him in various strange, complex and dangerous situations, but he had rarely been more in need of good, solid advice than he was today. Was he doing the right thing? Had he made an ethically defensible choice? That was the pressing question. And how many times before had he asked himself the same question in connection with Harry Potter?

He was avoiding Harry these days – he had been doing so increasingly over the past few years. Guilt; a bad conscience... The boy had been used since he was an infant. That didn't mean continued use of him was automatically sanctioned – certainly not using him in this particular, cruel way. The poor boy! Even his love could, and would, be exposed, discussed and used.

But surely it wasn't only cruel, not entirely bad? The attraction between the two boys was so obvious, and tonight the Sword had told Dumbledore that this attraction had been spoken of and acted on, and was quickly deepening into love. It would strengthen Harry and enrich his personal life as well as be a shield for the wizarding world. Personal and political gain – it had to count for something. It had to mean it wasn't wrong.

And in any case, it was all they had.

Love was their only effective weapon, and Harry their only hope. It was Harry Potter's bad fortune and sad fate to have been born with such strength of emotion and magical power, to have been blessed with love that strong.

Dumbledore placed the Sword on its velvet cushion, and when he covered it with its red, gold-trimmed cloth, he noticed that his eyes were watering. He was getting old, after all, and tonight he felt older than ever.

Which was only logical and proper, he told himself wryly, as this very minute he was indeed older than he had ever been.

He chuckled and felt better for a brief moment. Then he straightened his back, took a deep breath and decided it was time to call Severus Snape and Remus Lupin to his office.

xxx

The Portkey dropped Harry and Draco rather brusquely at the train station in Hogsmeade. They got up, dusted off their knees and smiled a little sadly at each other. Their magical week was over, and reality was back with a vengeance.

Harry's gaze wandered to Draco's mouth; he wanted desperately to kiss him and not care who saw it, kiss his mouth, his neck, his collarbone, push his fingers through the blond hair… hold him and never let go. When his eyes went back up to Draco's, the intensity told him the desire was mutual. He was glad he was wearing robes.

When they picked up their trunks, their hands brushed. Both of them winced. They smiled at each other again.

"I guess this is it then," Draco said quietly. "I'd have liked to stay another week."

Harry's face went hot. "At least a week," he said.

Draco's eyes held his again. "We're in the same building," he said. "I know it won't be the same, but you know where my rooms are. And I know where yours are."

Was it possible to have sex just with your eyes and your mind? In Harry's mind, they were kissing fiercely, grinding against each other with hands pushing under clothes, and he had no doubt that Draco was imagining the same.

But they had to leave, and Harry tried to ignore his painful erection as they climbed into the carriage outside the station. When they had left the village lights behind and entered the dark, winding road to the Academy, Draco was suddenly on Harry's lap, straddling him, kissing him, fumbling under his robes, pulling up his shirt to touch bare skin, unbuttoning his jeans…

"Draco - ! Oh…"

There was laughter in Draco's voice as he slid down from Harry's lap and his mouth moved down Harry's stomach. "Quickly, before we're there!"

Harry's answering laugh trailed off in a series of moans.

When they descended from the carriage outside the guarded gates of the Academy, they both looked serenely innocent, if a little flushed. Cleaning spells were very handy sometimes. Harry gave Draco a smile, the taste of him still in his mouth.

xxx

Hermione saw it at once: something had happened between Harry and Malfoy.

There was a new kind of subtle intimacy between them, a new easiness towards the other that could only follow from acquaintance and knowledge. They kept glancing at each other continually, but it wasn't the tense staring of earlier. Now there were held gazes, tiny smiles and flushed faces, and sometimes a surreptitious touch, a brushing of hands as they passed through a doorway side by side. A quiet happiness radiated from Harry and was visible from time to time in Draco Malfoy's eyes. Sometimes, when Malfoy looked at Harry, his eyes even held something that could be described as tenderness. Hermione had never believed him capable of anything so human and gentle as tenderness, but she saw it in him now.

She couldn't say she was surprised, exactly – something had obviously been going on between the two of them for a long time. Nor was she upset over Harry being gay, even though she'd never really reflected over the possibility before. His crush on Cho Chang had prevented any thoughts in that direction. But she was upset nevertheless. She supposed it had more to do with her than with him.

She knew she ought to have been pleased for Harry, who had had such an awful time for so long, but instead she felt betrayed and absurdly lonely, lonelier than she'd thought possible. She raged silently in her room at night, choked back tears when the boys exchanged looks, refused to sit next to Harry in the library. She flounced away from him more than once when he talked to her or teased her or tried to put a hand on her shoulder, and she felt ridiculous doing it, but she just couldn't stand it. She hated it when he got that dreamy look on his face and sat staring wistfully at the back of Malfoy's blond head, oblivious of anything and anyone else. But she hated it even more when he was aware of her presence, turning his smiling eyes to her and treating her like one of the guys. She wanted to be more than that, different. She had thought she was.

Sometimes she tried to tell herself that it was only the natural envy she'd feel towards anyone who was happy and in love, who had something she herself had only just begun to discover and experience with Ron and had then abruptly and brutally been denied. But she knew it was more, and more precise than that: she was furiously jealous of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione had been vaguely jealous of Cho Chang, faintly contemptuous of Harry's taste in girls, but this was different. This was serious; it was real.

She was pleased to note, though, that her feelings weren't entirely selfish. Apart from wanting her friendship with Harry to be like it was before, wanting him to depend on her and study with her and come to her when he needed to talk, she was also scared for him. His choice of partner worried her deeply, even though she could plainly see that Malfoy loved him back. She still didn't trust Malfoy. She wondered if she ever would.

Hermione gradually stopped talking to Harry, stopped having lunch or coffee with him and stopped studying with him in the evenings, and she saw that he didn't really notice her absence or withdrawal. He was too infatuated with Malfoy to see anyone else, even his oldest and closest friend.

Closest! Not any more, it seemed.

She reverted to her old, proven remedy, the one thing that always worked: she buried herself in her studies. She was good at immersing herself in books, making herself very busy, cramming her brain with so many facts and details that there was no room for anything else. It had the advantage of making her exhausted, too, so she fell asleep as soon as she lay her head on the pillow, thus avoiding long nights waiting for sleep to come.

Her serious nature meant she had never made friends easily. It was getting a little better as she got older, but she was still far from the type who made bosom buddies wherever she went. Harry had been such a close friend for so long that going to him for all kinds of things – tea, a hug, a chat, a laugh – wasn't a habit easily broken. It was obvious to her now that she needed him more than she'd thought, and she missed his company so much it hurt.

xxx

It was pain, sweet pain to keep seeing Draco in class, the corridors and the library, and not be allowed to touch him. In Advanced Charms this morning, Harry had missed a big chunk of the lecture because he was staring at the back of Draco's neck in front of him, bewitched; watching the dusting of downy blond hairs on the pale skin glint and shimmer in the light from the window. It had made heat pool in his groin, made his knees weak and his stomach liquid. He was yet again grateful he was wearing robes.

Now, alone in his bed, he thought of that neck again. He thought of smooth skin, wiry arms, the way Draco closed his eyes as he threw his head back… Harry's hand slid down between his legs. Draco halfway off the bed, lost in sensation, mouth half open, moaning helplessly… He increased his speed, pretended his hand was Draco's hand. He missed Draco so much his entire body ached; it was as if Draco's absence absurdly touched his skin… I want his weight on top of me… his tongue on my nipples... oh god… the noises he makes when he comes… – and Harry came with Draco's name on his lips, pretending it was Draco's semen pulsing over his hand and stomach.

This is absurd, totally insanely absurd, he thought a little later and had to grin to himself now that some of the tension was gone. I miss him so much I feel I'm dying without him, and he's only a floor away.

He turned on his side and fell asleep, hugging a pillow that was a very poor substitute for what he really wanted.

xxx

Draco had appeared in Harry's room just before midnight like an unexpected gift. When Harry had opened the door to him, he'd just said "Shhh," put a finger over his lips, backed Harry into the room and locked the door behind them. And he'd been right; no words were needed. Some things spoke for themselves.

Now, the boys were dozing in the rumpled bed, clothes strewn over floor and furniture.

They hadn't closed the curtains over the window. It was a beautiful night and they were on the top floor, after all – no one could see them, as protection spells prevented anyone from flying over the Academy. The moon was a cold radiant sphere and the night wind chased streaks of cloud over the black sky. Moonlight fell across the bed and outlined their drowsy, naked limbs. It didn't illuminate so much as deepen the surrounding darkness.

When Harry looked at Draco in the blue light, he thought that beauty was a word that simply begged to be used in connection with this boy. The moon didn't beautify, but there was no need – nothing could make Draco more beautiful than he already was. Nothing and no one could even come close.

Harry's eyes filled with wonder as he gazed at Draco. There was love and lust and adoration too, but mostly wonder. Some days he didn't think too much about it – he simply accepted the wonderful fact. But sometimes, like now, he had to stop and marvel. How could something as fantastic as this have happened? How was it possible that they were here?

Grey eyes opened to look into green, but no colours were visible now; everything was just shades of grey and silver in the ghostly, shimmering light.

A long slender hand hooked itself gently around Harry's neck and pulled his head down. Lips met lips in a long slow kiss that carried sleep and sweetness and traces of the salty bitter fluid that they had both recently tasted.

Harry savoured it and felt that nothing he could get from Draco would ever be enough to sate him, not ever.

xxx

The boys had been dozing, but now Draco stirred out of his half-slumber. He turned his head to look at the peaceful face next to his own. How could it be so amazing, so breathtaking, just to watch someone breathe?

He traced a finger over Harry's cheekbone, down to his jaw, down his neck. He let his palm slide down the bare arm, and Harry moved slightly under the touch.

"Mmmm...?"

He opened his eyes and met Draco's, and a smile woke in them. Draco found no words. He just gazed into those eyes, trying to grasp the fact that it was his own presence that called forth that smile. It spread to Harry's mouth, that slightly crooked smile that used to annoy Draco no end but now found ridiculously endearing.

An arm came up around Draco's neck, and a hand ruffled the hair at the back of his head.

"This is so good."

Harry's voice was no more than a murmur. Strange how it could pervade Draco's entire being. And it made him do something he'd never done before.

He asked to be held, afraid even as he said it that his request would be denied.

But it wasn't, of course it wasn't. He snuggled as close as he could and buried his nose in Harry's neck, and Harry's arms held him close. Safe. Safer than he'd ever felt before. And yet it was such a deceptive feeling – as if you'd ever be safe, anywhere.

It was wonderful, and it was frightening. No one had ever held Draco like this until Harry did. It scared him to be so close to Harry, so needy, and to know that this was something he could lose.

But I won't. Of course I won't.

He wondered why he felt like he was drowning.

xxx

A little later, Harry sat up and pulled Draco with him. He took Draco's face in his hands and looked deeply into his eyes, leant his forehead against Draco's for a moment and then began to kiss his face softly. Draco was utterly still, barely even breathing. Then his hands came up into Harry's hair, down the back of his neck, fingertips circling gently.

"Harry…?" It was only a whisper.

"Yes?" Harry whispered back.

Draco took a long, shaky breath, and hearing the words spoken shouldn't have been a shock, it shouldn't, but still it was:

"I think I love you. I think... I really... do."

xxx

Much later, they were sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and wrapped in the duvet, talking softly about Quidditch, about love, about nothing. Harry had his head on Draco's shoulder and Draco's arm loosely around him, and the darkness around them was warm. They were quiet for a while, listening to night sounds, and then Harry said in a low voice:

"I'd like you to tell me something you've never told anyone before."

Draco tensed.

"What? I mean – why? What do you want me to tell you?"

"Anything. Just something you've never told anyone. Something you've felt or thought, or something you like doing but never talk to anyone about. Like a silly habit you have, or a memory..." He lifted his head to meet Draco's eyes. "Or some occasion when you've made an idiot of yourself. But then I've seen you do that so many times."

Draco smacked a pillow into his grin.

A pillow-fight later, they snuggled down again, and Draco pondered. Something he'd never told anyone? There were so many things he'd never told anyone or talked about. Too many. He had no idea where to start.

"Tell me something about your family. I'm interested in your parents."

"My... parents? Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Possibly because I never knew mine. I never had a real family. Or perhaps because whenever I've met your father, it's been... very unpleasant. And I've wondered what it was like to grow up with... with him around."

Draco looked up into the ceiling.

"I don't really have a family any more," he said, trying to sound very casual.

Harry sat up straight and half turned around to face him, a horrified look in his eyes.

"Draco – I'm sorry. Really. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Draco shrugged.

"It's okay. I don't think too much about it any more."

It wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't a lie either.

"Will you tell me what happened? You said something happened the summer after our sixth year. It must have been something with your father. Will you tell me?"

"No." Draco shook his head. "No, I don't want to talk about that. Not now. But I'll tell you something else about my father. A memory I have of him. Just let me think for a second… I need to get my thoughts together."

Harry sat back again, pulled his knees up, waited.

Draco closed his eyes. His feelings towards his father had always been a mix of fear, admiration and frustration, a desperate wish to impress, and a deep longing for acceptance and closeness that was never fulfilled. Respect? Yes, to a certain extent. Love? Love had never been overtly given, offered, or encouraged, but it had been there in its own reserved way. Still, there was no denying that fear was, and always had been, a main ingredient in their relationship. Every time Draco had met his father unexpectedly or been called into Lucius' study, he'd been afraid. But he hadn't always known of what.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the white moon outside the window. It was the moon that made him remember an occasion when that had not been the case; the one time he hadn't been afraid of his father. Once. In eighteen years. Well, there had been fear that time, too; it wasn't so easily discarded – but it had only been faint that evening, buried deep.

He thought about it for a long time, wondering how to tell Harry this.

xxx

Draco's mother used to come in and kiss him goodnight when he'd gone to bed. She would kiss his forehead or his nose. She would stroke his cheek; her touch was light as a snowflake landing on his skin and it melted away as swiftly. She took the lamp with her when she left, leaving him in darkness.

She didn't know he was afraid of the dark.

When there was a full moon, Draco couldn't sleep. Sometimes he did go to sleep after she'd left the room, but woke up again after only a few minutes. Those nights were very long. It was as if they breathed, slowly in, slowly out, like a tide.

There were things he could only do when there was a full moon.

He could sneak out of bed and open the curtains, and then go back to bed and lie there looking at the bright moon. It looked so ghostly out there, a white luminous sphere against the black backdrop of the sky. He could lift his hand in front of his face, and if he held it in a certain position and closed one eye, it looked as if he were holding the moon between his thumb and index finger, like a pearl held up for inspection. Just like he'd seen that man do, who had the jeweller's shop in Knockturn Alley.

Once, when he lay like that, holding the moon between his fingers, his father entered the room. Draco froze in his position as Lucius did in his, on the threshold, when he saw that Draco was awake. Perhaps they both felt equally awkward, although Draco had never connected his father with awkwardness. In the moonlight they could see each other faintly but clearly, like ghosts, not quite real.

"Draco, what are you doing? You should be asleep."

Lucius' voice was cold as always, but there was a softer edge than usual.

"Yes, father. But I couldn't... I couldn't sleep. The moonlight was so bright."

Lucius didn't reply immediately. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"The moon was too bright, so you opened the curtains...?"

Draco knew without seeing it that an eyebrow had gone up. But Lucius' tone of voice surprised Draco – it was more amused than sarcastic. Lucius went up to the bed and sat on the edge. Draco held his breath. He couldn't remember his father ever sitting on his bed like that, except for a few times when Draco had been ill as a small child, and then only for a brief moment. Now Lucius was looking down at him, his face shimmering. Lucius rarely smiled but there was a faint smile around his lips now. His eyes were dark smudges and Draco couldn't see their expression.

"I couldn't sleep," he said to his father, "so then I wanted to see the moon. I like lying here looking at it. I've done it before."

It was an admission he'd never have made under normal circumstances, but this night was so extraordinary he felt he could do or say anything without risking punishment.

"At least we know you're not a werewolf," Lucius said.

The amusement in his voice was unmistakable now. What had happened, Draco wondered, to put him in this strange mood? There was alcohol on his breath, but the smell wasn't overpowering or sickly as it could sometimes be. Draco tried a smile, and his father smiled back down at him.

"So what was that you were doing with your hand in front of your face when I came in?"

And Draco felt he could say anything – almost anything.

"I was holding the moon," he whispered. "Between my thumb and forefinger. Just held it. Like a pearl."

Lucius didn't reply. He turned his face towards the window, towards the moon, and there was a furrow between his eyebrows. Then he lifted his own hand and made as if to pinch the air, as if he were measuring something, and the furrow disappeared. He closed his left eye and squinted at the cold light.

"Yes," he said slowly. "It really is like a pearl. A very bright, beautiful pearl."

He lowered his hand again and his eyes were lost somewhere far away.

"Did I ever show you The Foolish Maidens, Draco?"

"No, father."

"Then it's about time I did."

Draco waited. He could almost feel the shadows breathe around him.

"Tomorrow. Come into my study after breakfast and I'll show you. Jewels, Draco. Pearls. They live their own lives. Sometimes I don't believe they belong to us at all. Perhaps we belong to them for a while, and when they get restless they will discard us and move on. The moon now, Draco. Your pearl. You'd better hold on to it while you can, because it will leave you. They always do."

Draco didn't quite understand, but he slowly lifted his hand in front of his face, closed his left eye and took the shining sphere between his thumb and forefinger. Father and son were silent for a long while, but time was both slow and fast that night. It washed back and forth like a tide, endless waves of time.

"Isn't it extraordinary," Lucius said softly, "that we can both hold the moon? That we can be here together, but each of us holding the moon in his own hand."

Although Draco could have said anything, almost anything, he had no reply. And after a few more of those slow and fast seconds, Lucius rose from the bed and pulled the eiderdown up to Draco's chin. He went over to the window and closed the curtains. Draco couldn't see him any more but heard him mumble "Lumos". In the light from his wand he went back to the bed and reached out as if to smooth Draco's hair, but then pulled back before he'd touched his son.

"Good night, Draco. Go to sleep now."

He turned and left the room, closed the door silently, leaving Draco in the dark.

He didn't know Draco was afraid of the dark.

But at least Draco knew that the moon was still there, bright and radiant like the most precious pearl, on the other side of the curtains.

xxx

"That's the only time in my life I can remember not being scared of him," Draco mumbled when he'd finished, his face turned away from Harry. "Or, only a little. And it's the only time I've felt that I… that he... that he cared." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was steadier and clearer. "He showed me The Foolish Maidens the next day, like he'd said he would. It's a clasp, a 17th century robe clasp. He told me it's been in our family since 1688 but was probably made earlier, in the 1620s perhaps. It held the robes of Charles-Louis Malfoy in the big goblin battle in 1710. My father spoke of it in a sort of choked voice, as if it moved him so much he needed to swallow or clear his throat. I thought it was embarrassing. I don't even think it's a very pretty piece of jewellery – I don't now and I didn't then. But I didn't tell him that, of course. I never told him I don't understand his ridiculous fascination with pearls."

They were silent for a long time, their thoughts wandering in separate directions. Harry would have liked to ask Draco about the pearls and their significance, talk to him about the moon that must have looked just like it did tonight, heavy and low and white, the ghostly light turning everything chalk-blue. He would have liked to ask about Lucius, about Draco's fear of his father, but he didn't dare. It was so ironic. For once, Draco's face was naked and his soul laid bare, and it would only take one step, one move from Harry... and then he was too afraid to do it.

"What about you?" Draco finally asked.

Harry jumped.

"What about me?"

"Well, it's your turn. Your turn to tell me something you've never told anyone."

Harry bit his lip. Something he'd never told anyone…? Something he was ashamed of or embarrassed about – those were the things you didn't tell anyone. Things that were potentially hurtful or even dangerous.

He wanted to tell Draco something important, something real, not just some laughable little thing that was embarrassing in a trivial, everyday kind of way. He wanted to tell Draco something special, to show him how special he was.

"I don't know much about your family either," said Draco. "Everyone knows your story but not much detail. I hardly know anything about your… your Muggle relatives, for instance. Perhaps you could tell me something about them."

Harry felt himself go scarlet and was grateful for the relative darkness. He never thought about the Dursleys if he could help it, and when he did, it was mostly with anger at the hundred ways they had humiliated him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything!" Draco checked himself. "I mean… anything. Like… how exactly are you related to them? And why were you left with them? Was there no one in the wizarding world who could have taken care of you?"

Harry drew a deep breath. He had started this, and it was only fair, after all.

"Well. I've been told there were wizard families who wanted to take me after my parents had died, but it was a question of protecting me from Voldemort." Draco drew a sharp breath but Harry ignored him and continued, "Petunia Dursley is my aunt, my mother's sister, and blood would be the strongest protection. So Dumbledore left me with the Dursleys until I was eleven and could go to Hogwarts."

"Did no one contact you? From the wizarding world?"

"No. I had no idea I was a wizard, or that wizards even existed for real – not until my eleventh birthday, actually. The Dursleys didn't tell me anything about my dad's side of the family; they never told me anything at all about my parents except a lie."

"What was the lie?"

"That they had died in a car crash."

Draco looked shocked. "That's… that's really…"

Harry shrugged. "They hated me. They still do – they hate anything to do with magic. I think my uncle hates it because he has no imagination. He doesn't understand it and he hates anything he doesn't understand, which is most things really, except for drills and eating. And I think my aunt hates my mum because she was jealous of her being a witch, being special – I guess my mum got more attention than Aunt Petunia when they grew up."

"So your grandparents didn't mind the magic?"

"I've never talked to Aunt Petunia about it. The one time I tried, she threatened to throw me out of the house and I didn't get any food for three days. I just heard her say once – to Hagrid, actually, when he came to take me to Hogwarts – that my grandparents were thrilled to have a witch in the family."

"She didn't give you any food for three days…? They starved you?"

"It sounds a bit melodramatic, but I guess they did. Now and then. Food was their main way of showing appreciation – or displeasure. Which meant my cousin Dudley was a fat pig and I was as thin as a rake."

The mix of pity, indignation and anger on Draco's face made Harry warm inside – and the slightest bit uncomfortable. He didn't want to be pitied. But Draco's mood changed suddenly, or perhaps he wanted to make something up to Harry, try to make up for his miserable childhood. He pushed Harry down on his back on the bed, pinned his arms to his side and began to kiss him, kiss him everywhere.

"You're not a rake any more, though," Draco mumbled with his mouth just above Harry's nipple. "You're more like… like the latest Firebolt model. Slim… and splendid."

His hair brushed against Harry's skin, so soft, while his hands held Harry's hips.

Harry thought of the fantastic contrast between the Dursleys and this, and what the Dursleys would say if they knew, and he laughed, and gasped, and laughed again.

xxx

Draco stood in front of the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door and looked at himself critically. He ran his hands over his chest, stomach, hipbones, and smiled a little at the memory of Harry's hands doing the same. Harry's touch made him beautiful. It softened edges and relaxed tense muscles; it made Draco's body open up into acceptance.

But then there was the flame mark.

He turned around and twisted his neck painfully in order to see the mark. Harry hadn't asked about it the way he'd asked about the water lily, and Draco was grateful, because what would he say? "I stood naked in front of the Dark Lord, and he touched me with a finger dipped in a dead Muggle woman's blood"? Draco shuddered violently, and for a moment he thought he'd have to throw up.

The mark had begun to hurt again lately, a sick, dull, throbbing pain that made him constantly aware of it. It scared him. He wanted to know what it was; wanted to know what Lord Voldemort had done to him and whether the flame mark was related to the Dark Mark in some way. It had to be, and Draco wanted to know exactly what the connection was – no, he didn't really want to know, but it also scared him not to know. None of the books he'd looked in had offered any answers.

Should he try to use…?

He met his own wide, frightened eyes in the mirror. Well, wouldn't it be worth a try? What could happen? If he did try, would Lord Voldemort know about it? Draco looked himself in the eye for a long time, and finally gave himself a nod. He would try. He had to. What was knowledge for, if not to be used?

He reached for his wand, hesitated for a moment and then put out the light, took a deep breath and pointed the wand at the flame mark:

"Patefacio Rei recreo!"

The spell came out in a hoarse whisper. Draco could feel the wand tremble in his hand as he waited for something to happen. But nothing did, and he didn't feel anything except for the same dull pain. Perhaps he needed to be more assertive. He cleared his throat and pointed the wand again, keeping his hand steady:

"Patefacio Rei recreo!"

It was louder and clearer now. Surely this had to work.

At first, nothing happened, but then a sensation of heat spread slowly from the flame mark through his entire body and into his limbs. It was icy hot, burning cold, liquid fire, poison... Draco's wand fell to the floor with a clatter. A flickering light began to glow like a green aura all around his body. He turned to look at himself in the mirror and got a full frontal image, a towering figure, naked with his arms held out slightly from his sides, and with that eerie green light surrounding him… It was terrifying; he looked like someone he'd never met before, a complete stranger.

Help me, he thought numbly.

And then he heard the laugh, the unmistakable, soft, wheezing laugh – heard it so closely he thought Lord Voldemort was there with him in the room. It was as if Voldemort was laughing right into his ear, or inside his head.

Then the light faded, the burning sensation died out and the laugh trailed off into silence. Draco was left in the dark, weak and shivering as if he'd just woken up from a feverish dream.

No one but Harry had ever known Draco was afraid of the dark.