Author's Note: the majority of this chapter, which is way longer than the first one, takes place during chapters 22 and 23 of HBP, "After the Burial" and "Horcruxes", just to give you a frame of temporal reference.

Also, this gets really angsty. But HBP!Draco is beyond angsty, so I think it fits. Thanks for reading!

x x x x

Good lord. How embarrassing. How horridly embarrassing – if Potter figured it out. If not, perhaps Draco could save face.

He took a moment outside the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon to regain some self-control. The bewitched wall made it impossible to tell whether students were still stirring, though Draco knew they invariably had to be...

"Curtracus," he muttered, and the stones fell away to reveal the common room. Pansy and a few others still occupied the ring of chairs around the fire where Draco had been sitting previously.

"Draco, honey," she started, but Draco would have none of it – he walked past her brusquely, down the stairs to the boys' dormitories. He felt almost feverish. He couldn't even summon a violent word for Crabbe and Goyle, who would doubtless be waiting in the 6th-year dormitory. No, he was at a loss.

He made a beeline for his four-poster bed and wrenched shut the green velvet hangings, which gave him the illusory effect of enclosure, of privacy. Every night, he would return to this space after the day's work was complete and lie motionless for hours. He designated this opulent rectangle the only place where he wasn't required to think about his tasks. An Imperturbable charm was placed on the bed from within these hangings: the chorus of snores coming from Crabbe and Goyle was comfortably eliminated, and that weasely-looking Nott boy wasn't to hear even the quietest turning of a page from the direction of Draco's bed.

Unfortunately, despite these measures, Draco still found it impossible to get to sleep. Every night it was the same. He didn't keep a clock in there: he had no desire to know just how many hours he lay with his eyes closed but his mind racing, his heart crumpling unpleasantly. On more than a few occasion he'd open his eyes after getting no sleep and see a fringe of pink daylight along the horizon.

Draco remembered, bitterly, how fantastically he used to sleep. On Friday nights he'd climb into bed fat with the weekend batch of sweets from home, content with a day's worth of imparting snobbish ridicule, and sleep for hours and hours. Twelve, fourteen hours! Past noon on some weekend mornings! He'd amble up to the Great Hall in slippers at two p.m., and let Pansy Parkinson fetch him a plate of sausages and eggs!

Draco was not enjoying peaceful slumber at noon these days, oh no, or letting any girl dote on him with foodstuffs. On Saturday mornings at seven, six, five a.m. Draco was networking with Death Eaters or researching Hogwarts security gaffes from the past. He found it darkly amusing that the knowledge he'd have been gaining from classes might have helped him with his project, had his project not interfered with those classes. His Transfiguration marks were in the toilet. In Charms he fared only marginally better. As for Potions, the star student was, for some odd reason –

No. Not going to be thinking about Potter again tonight.

x x x x

It was morning. He opened his eyes. The feeling of waking up, to Draco, was most wonderful because it meant he'd actually managed to get to sleep.

He was nervous about entering the Great Hall that morning. While trudging up the stairs to the Great Hall, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle but not paying the slightest attention to them, he considered the various possibilities:

- Potter's told his minions, Granger and the weasel, and now he's soliciting their help in getting back at me. But he hasn't told Dumbledore, lest it raise suspicion as to why he was wandering the corridors at night.

- Potter has told Dumbledore, as well as his minions, deeming my misdeeds more grave than his own transgression of school rules. This one isn't so unlikely because it often seems like that old man rewards Potter for rule-breaking.

- Potter's decided to find a more personalized manner of exacting revenge. Perhaps an attempt to thwart me single-handedly and claim the credit and glory? Not a far-fetched theory either. Potter seems to have a psychological dependence on heroism.

And this was just regarding the beating – thought it was only one punch, probably barely left a mark! – not the unexpected hard-on. Somehow, though, Draco couldn't picture Harry Potter going to Dumbledore with the news that Draco had shoved him against the wall and held his hard cock against Harry's ass –

Draco missed a step on the stairs; a couple of girls heading the other way giggled at him, but not flirtatiously: derisively. He narrowed his eyes, knowing he had ghastly grey circles around them. Knowing that he looked perfectly horrid. Not quite as well-groomed as his reputation called for. Not anymore.

He approached the immense doorway to the Great Hall, and calmed himself with a few breaths. He didn't look to the Gryffindor table right away. He let Crabbe and Goyle lead the way to their usual spot at the far end of the Slytherin table, and only as he was sitting down did he let his eyes find those of Harry Potter:

And Weasley, and Granger, and Weasley's puny sister, and that Finnegan boy, and Longbottom, and – were they all looking at him? Potter did indeed have a bruise on his jaw, which he was clearly using to get attention: surely someone in his house knew how to perform a simple Bruise Reducing Charm. Draco mouthed the words piss off! in Potter's direction. Potter broke eye contact and began whispering to his fellows.

He considered what this could mean. Perhaps Potter has decided to delay the accusatory strike until he could find more evidence against him?

It was evident that Potter was fixated on him. After all, Draco had only baited him the previous night, and Potter had taken it. He was clearly spending more than a few hours each week obsessively tailing Draco. True, they had been "enemies" since before they were even Sorted, but they had never been so intimately opposed until now. It seemed almost as though he was Potter's crusade, or something: proving, once and for all, that Draco Malfoy is evil!

Giving purpose to Potter's life, and frustrating him so: it was satisfying. This was the part that Draco savoured. In years past, there had been girls who'd figured out Draco's timetable and had followed him around for weeks, dawdling outside his classes during their free periods. More often than not there'd be a gaggle of Slytherin girls waiting outside the changing rooms at the end of Quidditch practice, offering to carry his broom. On Valentine's Day he'd always received adoring messages, sweets, flowers from anonymous girls. What Potter was doing now, however, was far more enjoyable than all that. It was a delightful cat-and-mouse game. Potter had no clue how to catch him, but he was very determined. Draco was pleased by this because he knew it was not just a moral pursuit but a personal one as well. Truly, this was the only pleasure Draco got out of his days anymore.

As usual, he found he couldn't eat much, just some dry toast. He didn't say a word through breakfast, not that Crabbe and Goyle would have responded, at the rate they were shovelling food into their disgusting mouths. And Pansy was refusing to speak to him, apparently because of the way he'd treated her the previous night: this didn't matter to Draco in the slightest. He was glad he wouldn't have to endure classes with her that afternoon, since she was going for her Apparition exam and he was not yet old enough.

The morning's lessons were dull; Draco found himself too tired to pay attention. McGonagall chastised him again for drifting off during Transfiguration, and he cursed himself: why do I fall asleep now? Why not when I'm actually trying to? He took a nap during lunch, a convenient way to avoid wishing the other sixth-years good luck on their tests. Then was Potions, his only class of the day with Potter. Often those lessons seemed less like Potions class and more like Suck Up to Slughorn class, and though Draco had long since mastered sucking up to professors, he apparently didn't, in Slughorn's eyes, have the same gift for it that Potter did. Not that Draco wanted any part of that stupid "Slug Club" anyway.

When he arrived for Potions, only Potter and Ernie MacMillan were inside, and Slughorn was following closely behind Draco.

"Looking a little worse for the wear today, Potter, eh?" Slughorn said boisterously as he entered the dungeon classroom. "Been in a fistfight? Oh, I had my share of those when I was a lad at Hogwarts," he continued, chuckling to himself. "That's a right nasty bruise; I would have thought that a Potions expert like you might've brewed up a De-Swelling Solution!"

"Haven't had the time," Potter replied, shooting a sideways glare at Draco.

"Are you sure, Potter? You sure you're not just showing it off to get sympathy?" Draco hissed. He couldn't help himself.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Malfoy," Slughorn said, rounding on Draco and patting him on the back. "The petty insults are not necessary! Now, today since there are so few of us, why not have a more light-hearted lesson? Choose anything you like and brew it up, doesn't matter what it is! Something amusing!"

Draco was not amused. He didn't want to have to put any more thought into this lesson than was normally required. He looked at MacMillan and Potter, who were now both excitedly consulting their Potions books for ideas. Draco glumly hauled his book out of his bag and flipped through the index. Hiccoughing Solution, page 374. As good as any. He watched Slughorn disappear into his office, most likely thrilled with an opportunity to begin drinking earlier than usual.

Unsurprisingly, Draco caught Potter's eyes frequently during the class period, and each time, for whatever reason, Potter would be smirking. The three of them worked for about an hour, in complete silence punctuated only by minor explosions from MacMillan's cauldron. Draco's potion, which was supposed to be a shimmery blue, looked a bit more like used bathwater, but he was unconcerned.

He sighed dramatically. He was annoyed by how pleased Potter looked with himself. He was brewing something that smelled quite wonderful indeed, though Draco would never admit that to him. Where had his sudden aptitude for Potions come from? Draco was mildly entertained for a moment or two, pondering ways to expose Potter for the fraud he was, something that would surely cast him out of Slughorn's group of favourites. He wouldn't be grinning like an idiot then!

"Well, then, let's see what you've come up with," Slughorn said, emerging from his office looking rather rosy-cheeked. He winked at Potter, then strolled over to Draco's cauldron, peering disinterestedly into it.

"Hiccoughing Solution, hm? Not a very bold choice... the colour is a bit lacklustre, I'm afraid... but it's passable, Mr. Malfoy," he said, moving immediately on to MacMillan's cauldron without even looking Draco in the eye. What a waste of time, he thought to himself, shoving his supplies back into his schoolbag impetuously. He had no desire to witness the outpouring of praise for Potter that was doubtless to come. He was on his feet before the bell even went.

x x x x

After classes, Draco went to speak with Snape, who offered him the same advice he always gave. Snape was still unaware that Draco was responsible both for Katie Bell's unfortunate necklace mishap and the accidental poisoning of Ron Weasley; Draco did not feel particularly inclined to tell Snape the truth about anything now that he was a capable Occlumens. The duty he was assigned was his and his alone, and how much truth was there to Snape's claims that he'd made the Unbreakable Vow? When the time came, would Snape be there? It was best to err on the side of mistrust and assume that he would be shouldering the responsibility on his own, Draco thought. So he sat through Snape's lectures, and accepted his advice, but conveyed no attempt at gratitude.

Then it was up to the Room of Wretchedness, and more attempts to fix that bloody Cabinet. That Cabinet was the bane of his existence. He'd tried spell after spell after spell. He spent more time surrounded by library books than ever, and yet his marks were terrible.

The sun had long since gone down when Draco gave up for the evening. He made his usual stop on the way down to the dungeons: the sixth-floor boys' bathroom. Myrtle was waiting for him. He took a deep breath, trying to stifle the tears of extreme anxiety and defeat, but still they came, as they always did. Myrtle seemed genuinely concerned, and this comforting fact trumped any embarrassment or distaste Draco would have normally harboured. It was pitiable that he sought solace in her company, yes, but she was really the only non-partisan being in the entire school. An hour or so in that bathroom every couple of days was enough to keep him from completely cracking up.

God, it was sad. It was so desperately pathetic. He spit gobs of mucous into the sink. His face was a mess, he trembled all over. But it was a release.

After waiting a period for his disturbingly bloodshot eyes to return to normal, Draco gathered his things and wordlessly left the bathroom. As he walked down the dim corridor of the ground floor on the way to the dungeons, he heard the front door to the castle creak open: he immediately froze. The door opened further, but he saw no one enter, and he knew – it was Potter in the Cloak! What had he been doing out on the grounds? Likely conspiring with the loutish half-breed Hagrid.

"Potter," Draco called out, knowing he'd caught him off guard. He wondered for a moment whether Potter would just continue on, not wishing to be detected, but Draco soon saw his silhouette appear against the rectangle of pale light cast on the stone wall opposite.

As Draco approached, he saw that Potter was smiling. The bruise on his jaw had reduced significantly.

"Just my luck," Potter said, calmly folding up his Cloak. "Fancy running into you just as I'm about to go see the headmaster! By the way, I think you owe me an apology for punching me for no reason."

"It wasn't for no reason," Draco said, "it was because you won't keep your nose to yourself! And here you are again! Face it – I cover my tracks too well, and I have no qualms about telling you that, Potter, because I know you'll never figure any of it out."

"I know that Crabbe and Goyle have been changing into little girls on a weekly basis to keep watch for you," Potter replied triumphantly. "You don't cover your tracks that well! If your father couldn't keep from getting caught, Malfoy, then why—"

"Not a word about my father, Potter!" Draco growled. "Would you like another bruise to match the one you've already got?"

"Do your worst," Potter said smugly, drawing his wand – but all of a sudden they heard the crash of a chandelier. It was Peeves, rocketing down the hallway in their direction. Draco decided to run for it, but Potter was on him, bellowing "Impedimenta!" just as Peeves shrieked, "AAAAH! STUDENTS OUT OF BEEEEEEED!"

Draco stumbled and fell. It felt as though his knees had shattered. Potter was now trying to draw his Cloak around him, so Draco did the only thing he could think of. "Accio Cloak!" he cried, and it lifted off of Potter's shoulders and into Draco's hands. A moment later, Filch arrived.

Potter wasn't looking quite so confident anymore. Whatever had given him that feeling of infallibility had clearly worn off.

A horrid grin spread across Filch's sour face.

"Students causing trouble in the dead of night, eh? Fancied a midnight duel? Well, the headmaster will have something to say about this, no doubt!" he said, cackling. His detestable cat wore the same expression of acerbic glee. "Lucky for you he's just arrived back at the castle not an hour ago!" Filch began moving in the direction of the stairs, indicating that they were to follow; Draco pulled himself up with considerable difficulty. He still clutched the Invisibility Cloak. Despite the pain in his knees, he was quite glad that he'd managed to get Potter in trouble.

"It doesn't even matter, Dumbledore won't be angry with me," Potter whispered harshly as they trailed behind Filch. Draco said nothing. Whatever good intentions he may have had, the fact remained that Potter had jinxed him, which seemed like good enough leverage in Draco's mind.

After several silent minutes of walking, the three of them finally reached the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office.

"Jelly slugs," Filch said, and the gargoyle slid aside. Potter was obviously used to this routine, while Draco was not: when they reached the moving staircase Draco began walking, but Potter grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, and didn't remove his hand, as though to keep Draco in check. He did not move to brush the other boy's hand away. When they reached the oak door to Dumbledore's office, Potter was still touching him, and Draco noticed he was starting to get some feeling back in the lower part of his body –

Filch knocked on the door. A moment later, Dumbledore appeared, his eyes flitting bemusedly between Draco and Potter. It was impossible to discern what the man was thinking – he was practically expressionless.

"Thank you, Mr. Filch, you may go," he said, and ushered both Potter and Draco into the office. The door closed behind them.

The headmaster conjured two chairs; they obediently sat down.

"Professor, I need to speak with you privately, it's very important," Potter said after a moment.

"There will be time for that, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "First you both need to explain to me why you were out of bed long after midnight, when you both know very well that it's against school rules."

"Well," Potter said, "we just.. we actually.."

"We met each other," Draco said. "By accident. I was just taking a walk, because I couldn't sleep –"

"He was up to something!" Potter shot back.

"No, Potter's the one up to something! He was coming inside from the grounds! He hexed me!" Draco said quickly, before Potter could interrupt him again.

"Malfoy attacked me yesterday night," said Potter. "He hit me in the face!"

Dumbledore said nothing. He continued to peer at the both of them over the top of his spectacles. Draco noticed that Potter was fumbling with something inside the pocket of his robes. He thought he saw what might have been the glint of a piece of glass, or perhaps metal.

"It's obvious to me that you boys need a mediator. I'd like to meet with both of you tomorrow, and your heads of houses—"

"Professor, please," Potter said, "there's something else I've got to tell you, right away."

"Very well, Harry, but I'd like to speak with Draco first, alone. Would you mind waiting just outside the office? It should only be for a short while." Potter gave a nod and excused himself from the room.

"Draco, this talk is long overdue," Dumbledore began. "It is clear to me that you're going through something right now, and while it is regrettable that you didn't come to me for support, I can certainly foresee the reasons why that might be so. I'm sure you're very aware that if your marks don't pick up significantly by the end of term, your chances of becoming Head Boy are very slim indeed."

"I don't really care about that," Draco said quietly. "There are more important things than that."

"Yes, that is true," he said, and paused for a moment. "I understand how difficult things are for you now, Draco. I know that you must feel an extraordinary amount of pressure now that your father's in Azkaban."

Draco's hands became fists at the mention of his father.

"No, you don't understand, Professor," he said, attempting an air of gruffness but feeling a ball of terror forming in his throat.

"Draco, you know that whatever it is, you can talk to me about it. I can offer you any kind of protection or assistance you may need. You must remember that I'm on your side."

Draco was on the verge of tears now. I could just do it, he thought. I could just tell him, here and now, and be rid of it all. Not go through with it, renounce the ways, never have to receive the Mark. Without really realizing it, he'd found that he'd rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and was now staring blankly at his own skin. How pale he was. It seemed like each tiny vein in his wrist was visible.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Draco?" Dumbledore asked again.

Yes. Oh god, yes. But he'll kill my whole family.

"No sir," Draco said. Dumbledore pursed his lips, and looked as though he would protest, but then he said,

"Very well, Draco. But remember what I've said tonight. Please wait outside my office while I speak with Potter, and then I'd like to speak with you both again."

Without another word, Draco got up and opened the great oak door; Potter was leaning on the wall just outside of it. Draco jerked his thumb in the direction of the office; Potter scowled at him.

Obviously Potter had been on some kind of mission for Dumbledore, and he was just returning from it. Dumbledore probably wasn't even a little bit disappointed in him. Not the way he was in Draco – the headmaster just couldn't convince him that he wasn't a lost cause. He crouched in the nook of a window in the tower, and stared again at the translucent skin of his left forearm. He could see it there, already. His brain somehow traced the shape of the Mark onto his arm in white lines, the way he pictured it in his head, without really seeing it. It was going to be there soon enough. Either Draco would die, the Dark Lord and every Death Eater would die, or Draco would receive the Mark in just a few weeks. This was regardless of whether he ultimately failed in his task and became responsible for the imminent deaths of his father and mother.

He could feel it burning on his skin. He couldn't control his breathing, all of a sudden. He shuddered, and sobbed. He knew he was going to fail. His life had become a countdown. By the time June ended, someone important would be dead.

The door to Dumbledore's office had swung open again but Draco didn't notice it, not until Dumbledore himself was putting his hands on Draco's shoulders, as though trying to calm him, trying to rouse him from his fit. He opened his eyes and thought, oh God, Dumbledore and Potter are now watching me weep. The headmaster was attempting to help Draco to his feet, but Potter lingered back, still in the doorway of Dumbledore's office. He saw no contempt, for once, in Potter's eyes.

"Draco," Dumbledore was saying. "Please, come back into my office – Harry, you'd better go for now—"

"No," Draco said, his mouth somehow betraying all reason. Potter's expression changed slightly, to something like fear and confusion together. After quite an awkward few moments, Dumbledore said,

"Are you ill, Draco? Would you like to spend the remainder of the night in the hospital wing?"

This was actually quite appealing to Draco. He had no desire to go back to the dormitories, and there was something so vast and yet womblike about the hospital wing. Nobody ever gives you a hard time when you're in the hospital wing.

"Yes, please, sir," Draco said, "I'm so.. I haven't slept. I need to sleep."

"Harry, would you accompany him please, and then go straight to Gryffindor Tower," the headmaster said curtly. Draco looked at Potter, who looked bewilderedly back at him.

"Well," Potter said, "Let's go, then." He moved towards the spiral staircase, and Draco followed. Dumbledore nodded to Harry and retreated into his office.

"What time is it, do you reckon," Draco said sheepishly, once they were alone.

"It can't be that late, we were only up there for half an hour," Potter said.

"I've had a really long night," Draco said. "I suppose we both did."

"I had a great night, actually," Potter said, raising his eyebrows and smiling a little. They'd reached the bottom of the tower.

"That's really fantastic, Potter, I'm so happy to hear that." Draco could not have sounded more caustic. They didn't exchange another word until they arrived at the entrance to the hospital wing.

"Look, Malfoy, I can tell something really big is going on with you, because you never act like this. And you look like complete shit. You're right, I've been following you, because I know you're doing something for Voldemort, and that's obviously a personal issue of mine... so please stop acting like it's so bloody unreasonable! Especially since you're the one having insane breakdowns!"

Draco considered this. He looked at Potter, whose face was illuminated beautifully by the candles outside the door. He had his hands in his pockets and was staring at the bundle still in Draco's hands: his Invisibility Cloak.

"So, are you going to give that back?" God, he was acting so blasé and yet so coarse. Draco had no choice – he handed the Cloak over to Potter.

Draco felt a twinge in his stomach as he suddenly thought of their encounter the previous night. He intensely wanted Potter to come with him into the hospital wing. But he turned away from Draco without really looking back, and disappeared into the darkness.