Author: Etherea.

Rating: T – PG-13 (Slight Sexual connotations and Foul Language; nothing unbearable.)

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, I seriously doubt their adventures would be published as Children Literature.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Ethereal Desire

Chapter Seven

The Other Side of the Mirror

(Part II)

Harry watched Severus Snape's retreating back, rooted to the spot and unable to breathe properly all of the sudden. The room hadn't stopped spinning since he had cast that blasted spell; the ground felt as if it had been shaken from under his feet, and he seriously didn't know how somebody could feel so disoriented and motion-sickened standing so very still, so awfully petrified. In fact, Harry didn't know how in Hades' name he was standing at all.

Flashes of what he had seen in Snape's mind raced without any order or sense inside his head, a hideous battle between madness and reality, between the feasible and the absurd: Snape's conversation with Draco before the infamous hearing, the one they'd held in the bathroom after Harry had left, Draco's breakdown in Dumbledore's office, the old wizard's explanation, the casting of the mapping spell, Narcissa's letter, Draco's admissions that morning… It had been so much to take in that Harry had had to pull away from the memories, horrified and unwilling to know more. For a few moments there he'd thought he was definitely going to lose it completely; there's just so much a man can handle no matter how powerful and strong he may be; and Harry was sure he had reached his limit…

Until Anger had flared. Anger, the most simple and manageable of emotions; the most potent anaesthetic. Harry knew by experience, anger was the only thing that could keep a person sane sometimes. It didn't matter if what you said or did in anger wasn't the real you, or if you would –most probably- regret it all afterwards; the important thing is that anger gives you strength, even when your whole being is screaming in agony. He had let his anger burn freely through him, had virtually summoned it, let it speak up for him. He had believed those words his anger had spoken with every fibre of his being; had felt them spewing upwards from deep inside, fuelled by his panic and disbelief. It had felt incredibly good to say those words. It had been the supreme act of defiance: defiance against Life and Fate and the fucking Powers that seemed resolute to destroy him. Harry would not let them accomplish that; he would speak his mind, he would shout to the world that they could go fuck themselves backwards… He didn't give a damn. And his anger would be right there beside him, pouring fire into his veins and cruel words out of his mouth, and he'd be perfectly fine because, as long as he was angry, he didn't have to think. He didn't have to feel anything else, for that matter.

At least, he had believed he was fine. That is, until Snape spoke those final words, imbibed with a loathing Harry had never felt before from the man, not even after years of enduring what he had believed were the most hideous comments and taunts ever uttered by that venomous mouth. Harry didn't understand it, but that last sentence had gone directly to his core, each syllable as poignant as a blazing knife being driven through his heart. It had hurt so much that he had forgotten how to breathe, how to move. It hurt so fucking much that all his anger deserted him in an exhalation, as if it had never existed at all, and now he could only stay frozen, his throat impossibly tight as he fought with all his might the tears that kept threatening to fall; as he fought as hard as he could to get back his self-control, even when his world seemed to have stopped being his own and he was utterly paralyzed and scared and… lost.

Of all the things that could have ever crossed his mind, of everything he could have ever imagined he'd find out by coming here...

Harry had had to deal with so many shocking revelations throughout his life that he had reached a point when he actually believed he was somehow immune to them. In retrospect, his whole existence seemed to be a series of unbelievably surreal events; if he hadn't gotten used to that fact, he knew he would have never been able to survive this long. How many times his whole world had been shattered by one single, little truth? How many times had he had to pick up the pieces one by one, glue them all back together as best he could, and circumvent the pain and disappointment so he could regain some modicum of balance, no matter how small, just to have this new equilibrium ripped again from him, later on? It was some sort of vicious cycle, his life, but he had wanted to believe that it was finally over; that all the madness had finally stopped, for good. Harry supposed he should feel like a complete moron, knowing how mistaken, how naive he had been. Surprisingly –or perhaps, not entirely so- his own naivety was the last thing he could care about right now.

This was supposed to be simple, solvable. In fact, Harry had actually thought he had the answer to this mess. Now, he couldn't believe how derisorily foolish he had been. A Life Debt Harry wasn't sure if he should explode in maniacal laughter at the idea; although, he didn't think the whole sentiment would be completely unjustifiable. Never mind the stereotype, but that had been the ultimate Gryffindor action, jumping into conclusions like that. One would think he would have learned his lesson by now. Yet, after everything he had seen in Severus Snape's mind, Harry could tell that getting to the conclusion that this bond and all the inexplicable feelings he was experiencing towards Malfoy was somehow related to the haughty Slytherin saving his life the day of the Last Battle was not such an erroneous approach, just one huge understatement.

Still, how is one supposed to react to such a momentous discovery?

Perhaps it was the best if he didn't react at all, if he just pretended it was all a dream. A hideous nightmare. A farce. Some kind of practical joke… Anything, just to regain his footing again. It didn't matter if he had seen it all. It didn't matter if he had known all along, deep down, that it wasn't as simple as he wanted to believe, because right now his mind –his overly-neglected common sense- kept shouting at him to turn around, to run back the way he came, to forget it all, at the same time as something… deeper kept telling him that a joke could never feel this true, that he couldn't deny his own instincts, that he knew what it was he should do. Merlin's teeth, but it felt as if he were being torn in two, pulled in opposite directions while at the same time being forced to compromise, to make a choice within a context that defied his comprehension. Harry had had to make difficult choices countless times before, but this time it wasn't the destiny of the whole world being dropped on his shoulders. This time, it was… his own sense of self, his own peace of mind. His whole goddamned life.

And Draco's, too.

No wonder why, so far, he hadn't been able to move at all…

'POP!'

Harry registered the familiar sound of Apparition, followed by the muffled noises of somebody moving about, and it was then that his alertness kicked in, compelling his body to cooperate; reminding him that life still carried on around him, and that he had never allowed himself to sink into helplessness, no matter how desperate or overwhelming the circumstances might have been. 'What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger' was the Great Maxim in Harry Potter's life, and Harry, if nothing else, was a true survivor.

He quickly readjusted his robe collar and pushed his glasses over his nose before heaving one deep, cleansing breath. How long had he been staring dumbly at the doorway? That's not 'Boy Wonder' behaviour, he thought bitterly. Praying he would not face the Master of the house –and pasting on his face the most natural expression he could muster just in case- he turned around to the source of the sound to see a house-elf clothed in pink, busying herself clearing the forgotten tray and tea things.

A most appreciated small mercy.

Harry cleared his throat, privately berating himself for feeling so bloody self-conscious. "Hullo," he said in an affable tone, trying to appear as relaxed as his current state would allow. The elf jumped a little, startled, before she turned swiftly in his direction and bowed low until her long nose touched the floor.

"Oh, pardon Dixie, Sir! Dixie didn't know any guests were still here, Sir! Is Sir wanting anything?" Her high-pitched voice floated from under her curtsy, and Harry found the sight the house-elf made somewhat amusing: how she managed to keep her nose attached to the floor, balance a heavy tray in her tiny hands and speak in the process. It must be Elf Magic, he concluded.

"No, it's ok." Harry's smile was a bit strained, but it went unnoticed as the elf hadn't looked up yet. "I'm actually on my way out. Thanks, though." Thinking he'd better leave the elf to her duties, he was just turning around when she arched back. The moment her eyes settled on Harry, the tray slipped from her hands, falling onto the floor with a loud clatter.

"Tory the Tireless, Sir is him!" she screeched, her blue eyes widening impossibly. Harry, who hadn't expected such an effusive reaction, didn't know if he should feel flattered or annoyed by it, not to mention that he wasn't in the mood to deal with unsolicited fawning.

Despite himself, he fidgeted under the elf's unwavering, wide-eyed stare. "Er… yes, I guess. I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you," he said with a little wave, trying his best to be polite. The little creature merely gaped at him some more.

"Sir is also Harry Potter, the wizard hero?" she exclaimed in an awed, nearly breathless voice. Harry was starting to consider a quick escape –never mind the pouring rain outside- when her words made him recapitulate.

"What do you mean, I'm also Harry Potter? Who else would I be?" he asked, his brow knitted in confusion.

The moment he said that, he had the strange feeling that perhaps he shouldn't have: The elf blinked a few times, wringing her thin hands in her funny pink uniform, before she asked in a small voice, "Then… Sir is not here to see Master Draco?"

Harry felt all the air escaping his lungs. What did she just say?

He took a few steps towards the little elf and bent on one knee to be on her level, minding the broken glass on the floor. "Dixie-- That's your name, right?" She nodded, her lips quivering. "Dixie, what do you mean? Why would I want to see Draco?" Harry asked softly, heart beating a little faster than it was probably necessary.

"Because... because Master Draco needs you, Sir!" she said quickly, almost vehemently. "Dixie knows it's you! Dixie has seen you, Sir! One night, in Master Draco's rooms! Dixie didn't want to snoop! Dixie thought Master Draco was in pain!"

Harry didn't know what was more upsetting: the tears now pooling in the house-elf's wide, blue eyes or the way his heart had leapt at her words. He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the goosebumps spreading underneath his clothes. "I've never been in Draco's rooms, Dixie. In fact, this is the first time I've been here," he reasoned.

"Sir is thinking Dixie is saying lies! Dixie says no lies!" she shrieked, shaking her head fiercely. Harry opened his mouth to say that that wasn't what he had meant, but she beat him to it. "House-elves' eyes can see much more than wizards' eyes, Sir! Dixie is seeing with her own eyes what Master Draco cannot, and what Dixie's seeing is you, Harry Potter! Dixie speaks the truth! No lies! Dixie says no lies!"

"I believe you!" Harry hastened to say when the elf started pulling hard at her long ears. "Please, don't hurt yourself. It's just that I… This is…" He sighed helplessly, fighting the urge to pull at his own hair. "You said you saw me in Draco's room. What did you see? What was I doing?"

Dixie's cheeks flushed hot pink beneath her tears, and she sniffed loudly before she answered, "You was making Master Draco happy, Sir! Master Draco is never happy, only when he's with you. Master is mean and cold to most people, but Dixie knows it's because he aches. Inside, Sir. For you!

"He cries, Sir. He cries at night," she continued in a whisper. "Dixie knows it's because he can't see you, because Master thinks you is not real. But Dixie cans! Dixie knows you is real, Dixie saw your magical body! That's why Dixie thought... Dixie thought that you was here for... Oh, poor Master Draco!" she cried then, covering her face with her hands. "Young Master is so alone! Dixie feels so sad for him! Oh, poor Master! Poor Master Draco!"

Harry could only stare at the house-elf, at a loss for what to say or do. It wasn't just the fact that he didn't know how to deal with a crying female –least to say one of a different species-; there was also the bitter pang of guilt pressing on his chest, guilt for his earlier, horrible words, mixed with that something else he couldn't quite name but which he could only describe as a deep, aching emptiness. Torn and confused without measure, he took out a handkerchief from his robe pocket and held it out. She accepted it with another sniff and immediately blew on her long nose.

"Dixie, do you know where Draco went today?" Harry asked when he saw that the house-elf had calmed down somewhat; not knowing that he had wanted to ask that question until it had stumbled out of his mouth or perhaps just being able to hold it back until then. She looked up at him with her huge eyes shining with hope. "Master Draco is at the Ministry of Magic, Sir," she hiccupped. "Is Sir going to look for Young Master?"

Harry knew then that he was in the proverbial tight spot. Right there, in that fancy parlour, with just a weeping house-elf as his witness, he felt helpless and exposed like he had never felt in his life. It was as if the whole world had stopped and zeroed in on him, waiting for his response. He decided he didn't like that feeling.

He turned to look out the parlour's windows, waging an internal battle with himself. Beyond the glass panels, the wonderful sight that was the gardens had turned into a grey stain, blotched and intermittent in the pouring rain. Harry couldn't believe how such a beautiful day had become so depressing so quickly. The crude analogy wasn't lost on him; actually, he thought it was most appropriate.

"It's raining an awful lot, Sir." He heard her murmur after a short while. "Dixie can drop the House Wards so Sir cans Apparate from here. No soaking! If Sir is wanting Dixie to, that is."

Harry's eyes caught Dixie's knowing gaze, and the helplessness only intensified. "I…"

She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, which was just in her reach in his crouched position, and gave him a watery smile. "You is here for a reason, Sir. Dixie knows Sir is a very powerful, very wise wizard, but Sir needs help. Dixie can help. Will Sir let Dixie help?"

Was her mysterious Elf Magic playing tricks on him, or was it some sort of epiphany he'd just had, Harry would never know. All he knew was that in that exact moment, as he looked into the pleading, puffy eyes of Dixie the house-elf, all his doubts, his confusion and desperation, were gone. All of the sudden, he knew what he had to do.

"I'd appreciate that very much," he said; a soft smile on his lips.

Dixie's face lit up like the sun. "Thank you, Sir!" She cleared up the mess of broken china and tea with a snap of her fingers, and moved on to do a complicated wave of her hands until Harry felt the wards surrounding the parlour fade away. Grinning brightly, she said in a high-pitched, ecstatic voice, "Harry Potter cans Apparate now! Good luck finding Master Draco, Harry Potter, Sir!"

Harry nodded his thanks to the little elf, feeling as if some impossible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps coming here had been the right thing to do, after all.

Well, Draco. We're both in this together. Let's just hope we both know what we're doing, the raven-haired wizard thought as he closed his eyes and Disapparated.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Draco was sure he had sworn sometime yesterday that that would be the last time he stepped foot on this place, but he had to admit, this new excursion to the Ministry of Magic was proving to be quite satisfactory. Not only had he walked out of that small conference room where he had had the meeting with the judges for Inheritance Affairs exponentially richer; it felt incredibly good to have people's recognition back, to have other wizards and witches look at him with something other than fear or disgust, and it felt even better knowing that it was all on his own merits. Granted, not everybody gave him the same loving treatment; he wasn't as naïve as to think that a lifetime of hatred and prejudice could be erased with one favourable verdict; but it was a start, and Draco was resolute on restoring the Malfoy name to its former glory. His mother would be proud.

The meeting had taken longer than he had expected; there had been a bunch of formalities to see to, like the analysis of his blood to confirm he was indeed a Malfoy –which Draco had found utterly redundant and insulting- and the inventory of every single one of the Malfoy properties going into the Inheritance. This particular task wouldn't have taken so long if it weren't for the fact that the old wizard in charge had been, well, old, and kept going over the same line over and over again and one had to remind him that it was the fifth time already he had listed 'Rosé Croix Chateau, 13500 square yards, Santois, France'. Other than that, it had been a very good meeting; very private, with just him, three Judges, and a scribe in attendance. Draco guessed the Ministry hadn't wanted to take any chances this time, and to tell the truth, he couldn't have agreed more. He was starting to find his newfound celebrity status quite annoying; what with the constant flood of owls and the press following everywhere and the scary looks this obnoxious witch was sending him at the moment… He knew he was a dashing wizard –and these green robes looked extremely well on him- but, Is the term 'subtlety' completely lost on you? Didn't your parents teach you any good manners? Bloody Hell, woman!

But all those small nuisances were completely inconsequent on the overall scheme of things. Right now, as he stood on the small confines of the magical elevator, the Weird Sisters' newest hit playing on the background, Draco focused on setting his mind for his next task. The idea had sprung as somewhat of a last resource during last night's virtually futile research, but it turned into Plan 'A' after reading the letter from the Ministry, and although he hadn't quite figured out how -exactly- he was going to handle the whole situation, he knew it was at least worth a try. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained –or so people say.

The cheerful 'ding' resounded around him, the doors opened and he stepped out, not before sending a particularly vicious glare at the young witch, who for a second there looked as if she were about to follow him.

SECOND FLOOR

MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT DEPARTMENT

Wizengamot Tribunals -->

-- Prisons and Correctional Programs Division

-- Aurors Headquarters

The blond wizard glanced at the sign on the wall and felt a slight shiver run down his spine. So carrying on with his improvised plan might present more than just a few inconveniences... big deal. He would not bother himself with the most inconsequential details, such as running into that nitwit, Ron Weasley, or that brute, Finnegan, or… well, whoever.

Harry Potter, perhaps? a voice quipped inside his head. Draco was appalled to realise that this time it sounded a lot like Albus Dumbledore's.Of all the voices in the world, did his conscience have to pick that one?

Leave me alone. I know what I'm doing.

Ah, but isn't the fact that we're having this conversation contradicting that?

Of course not! And I'm not having this conversation. You are. So go away.

I can't. I'm your conscience.

No, you're the pain in my arse!

I don't think your mother would approve…

Leave my mother out of it!

But she didn't want to stay out of it, did she? That's why she did what she did. You, in the other hand…

I'm not running away, if that's what you're implying!

I'm not implying anything. I'm merely stating the obvious; you're filling in the blanks.

You think you're so smart, don't you?

I don't know. Are you smart?

Stop pestering me!

Oh, but that's my job.

Well, I didn't hire you, so sod off!

It's quite amusing how you forget your elite vocabulary when you're angry…

And you'll find out the extent of my amnesia if you don't shut up!

I'm willing to compromise.

What the Hell are you talking about?

Compromise; give and take. You know what that means. In theory, at any rate.

Listen you! If you're talking about…

Ah… but isn't it the heart of the matter?

Draco caught himself just in time before he said something very unflattering out loud. That was all he needed, really: going irremediably mad on top of everything else. Squaring his shoulders and pasting on the infamous Malfoy mask –which appeared much more like a scowl at the moment- he turned left and started with smooth steps down the long hallway.

Soon enough, he reached a glass double-door from which he could see a large waiting room. There were several witches and wizards in uniform going to and fro, as well as many visitors sitting on the yellow sofas set by the walls. Draco took a deep breath, opened the door, and moved towards a round front desk placed in the middle of the room, ignoring the gaping stares and the pointing 'Look!'s and the breathed 'Sweet Merlin, it's him!'s.

Well… Maybe he wasn't too annoyed by that.

"Good morning," he said to the brunette witch sitting behind the desk, who was currently busy spelling her fingernails in different –all simply awful, he'd have to add- colours. "I'm here to request a special permit to visit a convict in Azkaban Prison."

"Petitions Office. Down that corridor, door number six," she answered mechanically as she pointed behind her with a lazy wave of her hand, not even raising her eyes from her task. Draco resisted the urge to scowl at her, and instead muttered a prim 'Thank you' and moved in the direction she had indicated.

This hallway was much narrower and was flanked on each side by common office doors, from which he could see Ministry Officers behind small desks or amongst cubicles. The first sparks of irritation let themselves known, though, when he found that the first door in the corridor featured a black '40' painted on the middle of the upper glass panel; he didn't need to see the number on the next door to know that he'd have to walk across the whole bloody building to reach his destination.

Resigning himself and trying very hard not to let his optimism drop as he recognized the telltale beat of a headache, Draco started down the long hallway, counting each door mentally as he went. Every so often a door would open and out would come one or more officers in their ridiculous robes, talking amongst themselves or looking at the files in their hands, and every time Draco had to resist the urge to lower his head to hide behind his hair –Right, much help that would be...- or turn around and walk in the opposite direction, to the point when he was starting to feel quite annoyed with himself, which was completely unacceptable.

Finally, he reached the glorious Door Number Six, pointedly ignoring the relieved breath he let out at the sight of it. He knocked a few times, and just when he was starting to feel truly impatient –and yes, somewhat cantankerous- the door swung open and in front of him appeared… a huge pile of folders. With legs, he remarked dryly just before the pile started talking.

"Good morning! I apologize for making you wait! I was in the back looking for some documents and I didn't hear the knocking until I… Malfoy?"

Doesn't this day keep getting better and better? Draco thought with just a hint of sarcasm as he pierced the lopsided, gaping face of –Yes, it's him. You're not hallucinating- Neville Longbottom with a stony look. His lips turned into an equally warm smile.

"Longbottom," he acknowledged with a curt nod. "How… unexpected. May I come in?" he said lightly as he pushed the door open further and walked past the aforementioned wizard (which wasn't mere rudeness on his part: he just wasn't up to waiting until Longbottom reacquainted himself with his vocal chords) into the office.

If he could call this dump an office. There were stacks of papers and boxes sitting on every available surface and no less than a dozen paper airplanes flying overhead; most probably memos waiting to be read. The air smelled of stale coffee, and Draco didn't think he could see the desk under all that rubbish. The decor would suit his occupant perfectly, he reflected cynically, if it weren't for the conspicuous lack of plant life. Although, he wouldn't be too surprised if there was a Mandrake growing happily in the wastepaper basket.

Longbottom seemed to recover from his shock soon enough: he hastily searched for a place to unload his cargo on –which after a second's hesitation ended up being on top of another tottery pile placed by the door- and scurried towards his desk. He cleared it up a bit, to Draco's great relief, before he offered the blond a chair, which was revealed when he levitated a mountain of rolled parchments to a small cabinet in the corner.

"So, Malfoy. This is certainly a surprise. What can I do for you today?" he said once they were both seated, giving Draco a wary look that belied the jovial tone of his voice.

Not that Draco would have expected differently. It had been a surprise to find Neville Longbottom of all people standing behind that door, but Draco was determined to be succesful in his endeavour. This called for the utmost diplomacy, and the Slytherin was very good at improvisation. It was part of the Malfoy assets.

"Yes, it is," Draco replied with a very genuine smile. "I was referred here by the charming young woman at the front desk. She indicated this was the place to request a permit to visit Azkaban Prison, but I must admit, it never crossed my mind I'd find you of all people, Neville. Never pinned you as the bureaucrat type," he added with a raised eyebrow.

His strategy appeared to have worked, if the sudden, blank look on Longbottom's face was anything to go by. So predictable these Gryffindors, really. Always clinging to their pathetic preconceptions…

Does that mean you're a bit of a Gryffindor yourself? That treacherous voice let itself known once again. Draco just told it to shut the Hell up.

"Er… Well, my grandmother passed away two years ago, and between her debts and the hospital bills, I didn't have any other choice but to find a job to pay for my studies," Longbottom said, still looking puzzled. "Why do you ask? It's not as if we were friends back in school," he remarked guilelessly.

Draco was tempted to reply that, actually, he hadn't asked. Instead, he regarded the hazel-eyed man with a reassuring (patronizing) curl of his lips. "It's been three years, Neville. Of course I'm a bit curious about what happened to my classmates. And it's good to find out that they're doing well… all things considered," he muttered as he glanced discreetly around.

Longbottom blinked a few times, but then loosened up in his seat, giving Draco a small, tentative smile of his own. "Yes, I really can't complain. The pay is good and I get to have my own office. It's been rather busy lately, what with all the Death Eaters trials and stuff," he gestured around, a blush patent on his cheeks, "but nothing I can't manage. I'm even waiting for a promotion," he added proudly.

"No kidding? Those are excellent news, Neville." Amazing, really. "I'm sure your bosses are quite pleased indeed. Now, about my reason for being here..."

But the other wizard didn't seem to hear him beyond the word 'pleased'. Longbottom simply went on, beaming, "Oh, they are! I'm first in line, I think, and I've just been here for fifteen months. That's quite fast, or so they tell me. I'd never considered a career in the Ministry, so I wouldn't know exactly, but so far…"

Draco had not other choice but to listen, nodding at appropriate intervals and inwardly dumbstruck –if not a bit alarmed - by the vision before him. Not only had Longbottom grown quite… manly since the last time Draco had seen him, but he had apparently got over all his insecurities. The blond was having serious trouble reconciling the overly-shy, clumsy, forgetful boy he had had the absolute displeasure to meet ten years ago with this tall, broad-shouldered, bubbly young man in front of him. It certainly brought a whole new dimension to the 'late bloomer' definition. Of course, he could tell that Longbottom still retained some of that candour of his youth; the recurrent colour on his cheeks and the light-hearted way in which he was treating Draco at the moment were proof of that; but his movements were no longer awkward and unsure and his bright, hazel eyes never wavered from Draco's; his auburn hair was acceptably styled and the awful Ministry robes looked rather good on his strong frame. In fact, he had become someone Draco could very easily find… well, attractive.

It was horrifying!

Not to mention that all of Longbottom's wariness had apparently vanished.

"…from yesterday. It must have been really frightening! I mean, what with Luton being so set out to get you. I know I couldn't have handled it! Thank Merlin Dumbledore showed up in time! Why didn't you tell us you were working for our side? You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble, Malfoy."

"Please, call me Draco." He's not really staring at my lips, is he? "And yes, I guess it would have saved me some difficulties, but you know me. Always going for a bit of drama," he said with a teasing drawl meant to cover his sudden unease.

"Yes, yes... You were always something of a drama queen, weren't you, Draco?" Longbottom said; his lips quirked in an odd sort of way and his hazel eyes fixed on the Slytherin's.

Draco's sneer froze on its place; in fact, he could actually feel his facial muscles congealing into what he was sure had to be a mask of utter horror. Is he bloody flirting with me? Oh Gods, he bloody is, he thought, astonished, as he caught Longbottom's eyes darting to his mouth practically out of their own volition. For a moment there, Draco was caught in the absurdity, in the dreadfulness of it all –Longbottoms simply do not flirt with Malfoys, no matter how currently good-looking they may be… And in any case, it should be the other way around!- but then the full realisation of what that simple gesture conveyed sank in and the Slytherin wheels started turning inside his head. Draco nearly kicked himself for his momentary lapse in judgement. It wasn't a dreadful development at all. In fact, it was a most convenient little twist.

And Malfoys grabbed an opportunity whenever, wherever and however they might find it.

Smirking rather suggestively, Draco brushed blond locks from his eyes as he settled more comfortably on his chair with smooth, deliberate moves. "Something like that," he said cryptically, allowing his tone to drop a notch and his eyes to roam subtly over Neville's visible form behind the desk.

The reaction was instantaneous: Longbottom's mouth went slightly agape for a moment, which had Draco suppressing a sneer of pure satisfaction. His face broke into a huge grin, and his eyes shone with glee as he replied with a chuckle, "Yes, I can see you're something else… But then again, you always were."

"Glad you noticed," was Draco's teasing reply. To tell the truth, the blond wasn't sure if he should feel pleased or completely ill be the sight before him. Who was this wolf sitting in front of him and what had he done to Neville 'Gryffindork Extraordinaire' Longbottom? If Draco hadn't known that casting a very potent Anti-Morphing Spell on the wizard before him would have landed him in jail quicker than he could say 'Fizzing Wizzbies', he certainly would have taken his wand out ages ago... But then again, war and sudden emancipation could do strange things to people. Longbottom must be one of those extreme cases. He smiled charmingly. "Now, Neville, about that permit..."

"Oh, right! I completely forgot you were here on business!" Longbottom's grin turned sheepish, and it was all Draco could do not to roll his eyes. The young officer cleared his throat, affecting professionalism. "So, Mr. Malfoy, what kind of permit are we talking about?"

Sweet Athena, finally! "I want to visit my father in Azkaban Prison. There are a few matters I need to discuss with him," he replied casually, running a hand through his hair as he crossed his legs in a smart pose.

"Then you're in the right place!" Longbottom grinned. "Just let me go get some files in the back really quick," he said as he stood up and disappeared through a door on the far wall the blond hadn't noticed before.

"Well, that wasn't so hard," Draco muttered, scowling at the paper airplanes roaming about over his head and crashing against each other and into the walls. Gratefully, he'd be out of here soon; his headache was gaining momentum and dealing with Longbottom was only making it worse. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Yes, 'soon' was not soon enough.

A chair complained with a loud squeak and Draco opened his eyes to find Longbottom looking at him from across the desk, a piece of parchment in his hands. Draco's lips turned immediately into a contented smirk –perhaps he does deserve that promotion after all…- but his confidence wavered when he noticed that the playful expression that had adorned Longbottom's face moments ago was gone.

"Draco, I'm afraid I have some bad news," he said cautiously, his face contrite. "Apparently, it's not… quite possible."

It was Draco's turn to blink. Frowning, he cleared his suddenly dry throat. "What do you mean, not quite possible?" For as much as he tried, it still ended up coming out between gritted teeth. Longbottom winced and Draco was able to see the vestiges of his former self. It didn't help matters much.

"I mean… you can't. Visit your father. It's… forbidden."

Draco's amiable mask dropped altogether as he sat up abruptly in his chair. "What?"

"I said..."

"I heard what you said!" the blond snapped, questioning the sense behind the action as he felt his headche increase tenfold. He decided he didn't care. "Why the Hell can't I? He's been locked up in there for five years and I haven't seen him ever since! He's my father! Even if he was a Death Eater, it's my right to see him! It's not as if we're still at war! I demand to see him! I'll talk to whoever is in charge, I'll go to the bloody Wizengamot if I have to, but I will see my father!"

Longbottom waited patiently until the blond finished his tirade. When Draco at last stopped for air, nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze, he offered in an apologetic tone, "I understand that, Draco. Honestly, I do. But you see, it doesn't have anything to do with your father being a Death Eater…" he trailed off, apparently unable to look at Draco in the face now. "He… has abdicated his visitation privileges. He doesn't want to see anybody."He heldout the document for the other wizard's perusal.

Draco stared from Longbottom's face to the parchment and back again, all the wind gone from his sails. He realised this probably was what the word 'dumbstruck' meant. Clenching his jaw, he took the proffered document and skimmed quickly through it.

Below the usual official mumbo-jumbo, his father's signature glimmered in metallic green ink under the Malfoy Household Seal. Next to it, a red stamp declared the petition 'Processed and Filed'.

"When was this signed?" Draco heard himself ask, but it sounded from very far away. His eyes were fixed on his father's penned name.

"On January the 13th. 1997," Longbottom said. "That's soon after…"

"Hogwarts was closed, yes." Draco roamed one last time the rest of the parchment before he handed it back to Longbottom.

"And I guess this is definite?" he asked, his tone monochromatic.

Longbottom sighed, shaking his brown head. "Azkaban Prisoners have few privileges, specially convicted Death Eaters. Once they renounce to those privileges they cannot take them back, even if it's for their relatives' benefit. That's how the law stipulates it." He looked at the parchment held in his hands before he ventured a glance at the blond. "There's nothing I can do to help you. I'm sorry."

Draco had the sudden impulse to hex that diffident smile off of the other wizard's face in the most painful way imaginable. He settled for a wry sneer instead. "I see. Very well." He stood up regally, offering his hand to Longbottom, who took it after a moment's hesitation. "Thank you for your time, Neville. It was nice seeing you again," he said before moving towards the door.

"Wait, Draco!" The blond stopped and turned to face him. Longbottom waved his hands aimlessly. "I really am sorry. If there were something I could do…"

"It's ok. I understand," Draco said firmly, face unreadable. "Good bye, Mr. Longbottom. Good luck with your promotion."

He opened the door and stepped out, not bothering to glance once at the puzzled wizard he'd left behind.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Draco crossed the main hallway of the Ministry of Magic with hard, long strides, his robes and hair billowing behind him, not knowing exactly which emotion was compelling his legs to move so fast, his blood to roar in his ears. He could practically hear his teeth grinding together, and he was sure his nails were branding purple crescents on his palms. He pushed past a group of wizards and witches waiting in a line; if he accidentally knocked over somebody, he didn't notice it nor he gave a damn.

He reached the glass doors of the entrance and banged them open with both hands, ignoring the startled looks directed at him by oncoming visitors. He trotted down the stairs leading to the square outside the building and moved to sit on one of the benches surrounding the large fountain in the middle; the one which used to be inside the Main Hall of the Ministry, the same one the Dark Lord had virtually destroyed during that skirmish in Fifth Year...

"Damn you, Lucius! Damn you to Hell!" Draco said between gritted teeth, holding his silver-blond head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed. He breathed in and out a few times, trying to regain his self-control, but finding it rather impossible. Of course his Dear Father would shut the door on his face! Of course Lucius Malfoy would burn all the bridges between them! How could he have been so naïve to think that Lucius would help him when he had never been there for him in the first place, when the only thing Lucius had ever done was to abandon his mother and him? How could he have been so foolish to think that Lucius Laurent Malfoy would care for anybody else but himself? How could Draco have been so stupid to believe, after everything he and his mother had gone through, that he still had… a father?

In that moment, Draco knew he was alone. The last link to his past, to the life he had once had, was gone. To his surprise, it was a bitter realisation -or should he say, confirmation? Yes, he had Severus, his godfather, who Draco loved and he knew loved him back despite all their petty disagreements. But Severus was not his blood; nothing tied him to the older wizard other than a deep respect and admiration born of many years of acquaintance and shared adversity, and as close as he could be to the mercurial man, Draco knew Severus would never be more than what he already was: a friend, a confidant, a mentor. And even that Draco wondered how long he would have. Nothing in this life was for certain. Nothing, nothing at all.

The time for childish ideas and stupid fairy tales was over. Yesterday morning, he still had a dream, a last bit of hope, something he had safeguarded with all his might and which had been the only real thing he had had to look forward to in the future. Today, all he had left was a black hole in his memory and a bond positively driving him round the bend. Not to mention, of course, an unknown culprit to hunt down and destroy, and whom in all honesty he might never find. To top it all, the only person he'd thought could have helped him bring a chink of light into this mess was as good as dead. Or was it the other way around?

You probably wish I was dead, don't you, Lucius? Your faggot of a son, your traitor of son? What a waste, isn't it, Father? You probably wish I was never born to carry your name…

And, at the core of everything, Harry Potter.

It was as if he had unwillingly stepped into a parallel dimension, where everything was the opposite of what it should have been. In his world, he was the sole sovereign of his life. He wasn't cursed with dark spells, nor he found himself in love with his childhood rival, nor was he compelled to do moronic things such as considering the possibility of becoming a Squib just so he would rid himself of an unbreakable bond that could very well destroy him, tied as he currently was to the whims and choices of another person. Because that was exactly what this entire situation came down to: Power. Taking matters into his own hands, even if it meant doing the unthinkable, or relinquishing what little control he still had to the one person he had taught himself to call his enemy and... pray for the best.

He had never been much of a believer.

The blond opened his eyes and stared, jaws clenched, beyond the gold fountain and past the iron fence surrounding the square to the street, where oblivious Muggles carried on with their lives, blinded to what was in front of them by magical spells and wards. He wondered how much alike he and those people really were. How truly powerless, hopeless, pathetic. He could summon socks out of thin air, blast concrete walls into dust, appear and disappear at will, and yet, he still was subjected to the games of Fate; even with all of his so-called magical power, he still couldn't stop death, or make a dark soul pure, or turn back the hands of Time. Just like them, he didn't have a clue. He could pretend all he wanted that he had control over the situation, but he knew the truth: He was desperate. Lost. Forced to walk upside down and figure out why things had been glued to the ceiling.

Yes. Somewhere along the line, his life had gone from 'Fucking Brilliant' to 'Brilliantly Fucked Up', and he didn't think it could get any worse...

"Hello, Malfoy."

I seriously take that back...

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

TBC...

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Very Important Author Note: First of all, an apology for taking so long to update this. I want to thank you all for your patience, for reading and believing in this story despite all the mishaps and terribly late updates. Your words have meant the world to this writer-wannabe, and it's with great regret that I inform you all that I've decided to put Ethereal Desire on hold for a while. As I said in my previous note, I'm in the process of moving to another country to study, so -as these past few months have proved- my life is too full and hectic right now to give this fic the attention it deserves at the moment. This doesn't mean that I'm abandoning it! I've spent too many sleepless hours and brain cells on it -not to mention my beautiful Beta Enchant's time as well- to do that. I just want to make sure that when I sit down to write, I'll be able to give to it my 100 percent, as I've tried to do so far. I hope you understand.

Also, I wanted to clear one thing about ED's concept: In this story neither Draco nor Harry is Veela, Vampire, Draconian, Elf, Goblin, or whatever other magical creature in fandom. The bond between them doesn't make them 'mates', or at least not in the sense most Vampire/Veela fics portray; it just means they're 'magically in love', literally. (Hopefully, by the time this story is finished, that will make some sense to you all.)

Now, I didn't want to leave you without giving you a few glimpses of what's to come (What did you all think, that I would be that cruel?) just so you have something to look forward to in a few months. (Although, now that I think about it, maybe I am cruel... 0o)

The Potions Master turned to send the most earnest of his glares to his Mentor, but of course, the man was infuriatingly immune to them all. Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, a personification of Merlin himself, wearing a placid smile on his ancient face and moon-splattered, cerulean robes on his back. A plate full of baked goods hovered over his desk as he beckoned the younger man to join him. At first look, any person might thing this man had not a care in the world. Such person would be surprised.

Nevertheless, Severus couldn't honestly imagine this office without Albus Dumbledore. It was comforting to come in here and always find the same welcoming image. The old coot was a sly, cunning, manipulative bastard, but he was so with such an honest heart that one could only forgive him for his flaws... Of course, the Potions Master would sooner ingest cyanide than confess that out loud.

"Drop the courtesies, Albus. You know very well why I'm here," he barked as he paced a small circuit in front of Albus' desk. The older wizard made a noncommittal sound as he picked his way through the cookies.

"I must admit, Severus, your call was rather unexpected," Dumbledore said lightly, blue eyes fixed on his former Professor. "What's happened to get you in such a tizzy?"

The dark-haired man stopped abruptly on his tracks, his black gaze narrowed. "Your goddamned Golden Boy happened, that's what," he hissed through his crooked teeth, ignoring the reproving frown that appeared on his Mentor's face.

Draco's eyes followed the other wizard's movements with some sort of wicked fascination. It was incredibly easy to read Harry Potter; the man wore his heart on his sleeve all the time. Draco could see the irritation, and yes, the frustration in the tight lines of his jaw. But there was also huge tension there, anxiety, etched on the rigid, broad shoulders. Draco knew that the raven-haired man had to be feeling the same things he was feeling right then, even if Harry didn't know what they truly meant… Or did he? Would Harry Potter be oblivious to what was so obviously happening between them?

Had he found out about the bond?

Harry let out another sigh, shaking Draco from his alarming thoughts. When he looked up, Harry was staring at him, his green eyes shining like polished emeralds in their intensity, and for a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe. Then Harry spoke, his voice firm and yet somewhat restless, "We are not enemies anymore, Draco. Hell! We never were, not really! Why can't you see that?"

So, with that, I say 'Farewell', my lovelies. But just for a short while.

Take care,

Etherea.