He wakes up normally this time, in a room larger than any that were in the Dursleys, and far larger than his car. The bed is large, bigger than even Aunt Petunia's, and Uncle Vernons had been at Privet Drive with four tall posters and a canopy above. There are also curtains, tied against the posts, in ivory and green, that seem comforting in some way. In fact, many things in the room are those colours, the floors stone with green rug, the walls a calm ivory, with emerald streaks at the top and bottom. He wonders why, before realising that it doesn't really need to know, and there are more important things to worry about. Like why he is trapped in this room, where he is, why is he not in his car, and why does it smell so sweet. He is used to petrol and rotting fruit, so much so he does not notice anymore, but the smell of lavender makes him gag almost painfully.

The duvet is warm around him, tucked up to almost his neck, but feels constricting, and his chest tightens painfully. It itches against his skin, far too clean, like Dudley's used to be, after laundry day, when Harry had been tasked to make the beds. He wants to get out. Struggling gets him nowhere, the blankets too tight around his neck, and he can barely breath, only freezing, when a small pop echoes around the almost silent room. Green eyes spins to the source of the noise, and there, stood quivering, is a funny little creature with big bug eyes, and ears almost as long as the poor things face. With a snap of wrinkly fingers the covers release him, and he shoves them as far away as them as possible, wishing he could do the same with the pajamas, and his breathing begins to ease, it is only then the tiny thing before him begins to speak.

"Beaky is sorry little Master! Beaky did not know yous would not like it!" She (Harry thinks it's a girl) speaks fast, almost so fast he cannot understand what she is saying, and merely stares blankly at her, before she pops away, hand twisting locks of dark hair, a habit he had always had. Harry sits in shock for a few moments, wondering if this is the hell, that Aunt Petunia said he would end up at. Thinking, makes him realise, that hell would have more Dursley's than Ron's, and sighs lightly. It is beginning to get dark outside, the sun dipping deep behind the low hills of the country, and the moon high, half full in the purple sky. If he strains his eyes, he can see silver stars dotting the backdrop, and he smiles at everyone of them, wishing upon the light. His skin itches to be outside again, this room is too hot and stuffy and tight, too bright with its fake lighting, and he hates it, and he misses the feeling of wind on his face. It is a physical ache, and slowly he crawls out of bed. The window, is far too high to jump out of, but there are vines clinging to the wall, which he could climb down easily.

How would Ron feel?

The voice is fleeting, coming and going quickly, but leaves the thought echoing around his mind. Yes, he could climb the house and land safely on the floor, but it would be a risk. Could he take it, so soon after scaring his friend the first time. It felt bad, made his stomach itch inside, and he couldn't figure out why. He was nine, he didn't need permission. Small hands pushed the window open, surprised at how easily it opened under his touch. Wind rushed in, cold and biting at his cheeks, seeming that tad colder after the warmth he had been wrapped in. He hadn't meant to get hurt. Had only meant to lean out of the window and look at the darkening night. He hadn't meant to fall.

And then he was falling, all at once hard and fast, and in slow motion towards the ground below. he could hear the wind whistle in his ears as he fell, high pitched like the screams he sometimes heard in his dreams. C see flashes of blue, red, black and green as he fell, body plummeting and tumbling towards the cold hard ground for what seemed like forever. Harry was struck with the cold, hard fear that most people felt before death - and then realised it didn't matter. So he let himself relax as he dropped, remembering the start of a book he had read once, long ago, about a girl who fell down a hole.

When he hit the ground, it didn't hurt; the next thing he knew were two redheads, and blonds fussing over him, with the smallest blond scolding him for being so stupid. He had a large robe wrapping him up, and strong arms lifting him from the ground. A small hand, though larger than his own, squeezed his own fingers, and Harry briefly thought about how he couldn't feel his toes anymore.

And then he smiled.

This was also, the first time he met Narcissa Malfoy, a tall blond woman, with thin features, but a soft smile on her pale lips. When she squeezed his ankle, he hadn't felt it, nor when she had tapped his knee, and though she kept smiling, there was a crease of worry between her eyebrows. Draco (the small Malfoy) explained to him, that his mother - Narcissa - was a Healer (like a Doctor, Arthur said) and she was trying to make him better.

"What's wrong with me..?" It was spoken with a tone of bewilderment, fear and confusion, the little raven haired boy not quite understanding. Draco shrugged a little, and looked over at his mother.

"She has to find that out too." He stated after a few moments of quiet. Ron, who was being quite unlike himself, strangely hadn't said a word throughout the whole thing, merely squeezing his Bonded's hand, and murmuring softly in his ear. Whenever the eldest child squeezed a little harder than he perhaps should have, Harry felt a wave of fear, stronger than his own wash through him, and he'd look towards his friend, seeing tears in big blue eyes. It made his heart clench pathetically. Slowly, the light outside the window faded completely, and lights flickered on in the room. One by one, with Arthur and Ron being the first, people began to trickle out, until Harry was left with a blond child by his side, grey eyes big and worried for him. For a few moments, minutes ticked by silently, and Harry looked down at his hands awkwardly, not knowing what to do. It was, in fact, Draco that spoke first quiet and shy as if he had never had a friend before in his life. "My name is Draco if you didn't realise. I think I told you. You're Harry. Do you know about magic?"

Magic was something he'd heard about at school, in books and sometimes on the tv shows that Dudley had liked to watch, but it wasn't real. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had told him that time and time again, hissed it to him at any moment, and beaten him, until he truly believed it. But… if magic wasn't real, than how did he wake up after being beaten to certain death. How did he survive so long alone, in a dump full of wasted goods and gone off food, how did he survive this fall. Of course, those could be all put down to luck in the end, however, if magic truly and strictly wasn't real, what had happened with Ron. Had caused the glow on their hands, and the marks on his arms, and the strands in his dreams.

Harry thought, and thought some more, staring at the wall in the distance, as he drifted away from the conversation with Draco, tuning in to his own world. One could not blame him however, he had spent years alone. Even with the Dursleys he was to be not seen, and not heard, unless they wanted something, and Ron wasn't there all the time. Draco was a spoilt child in contrast, with loving parents, who were strict but kind, and treated him right. So it wasn't a surprise when he quickly grew bored of Harry's silence. But, he kept quiet, because it was interesting to watch another child - one that hadn't grown up to be a perfect Slytherin. Harry liked to flick his fingers, or tug at his hair, as he glanced around the room, wincing at the harsh light that came from the lights hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes, small, recently whitened teeth would chew at his lips nervously and Draco wondered why.

"Not really.." Eventually, Harry answered, not looking towards the blond, his eyes darting around the large infirmary that he had been put in. Draco pouted, and scowled to himself, wanting to be looked at when he was speaking with someone, but too nervous of the younger, that he didn't touch him, or say a word. Instead, he merely muttered something about 'Muggles' which Harry didn't understand, and glared even more. To be honest, Harry did want to know more about magic, and wanted to ask, but he couldn't get the words to spill from his mouth, couldn't find a way to ask - it wasn't like with Ron, who he knew and trusted just enough to feel safe around, Ron, who could see when he was stuttering and stumbling and needed help - not at all, Draco was cold and slightly scary and he felt sick inside, tugging at his hair once more.

Eventually, after moments more of the horrid silence, filled with tension, Narcissa returned to take her child to bed, and Harry was left alone to the silence. The lights flicked off, giving his eyes a break from their glare, and he was left alone, in the hot and itchy bed sheets, wishing he had his old blanket, and the leather car seats, and smell of gasoline in his nose, for anything was better than being bundled up and stuffy, in a place that smelt far too much of clean and tidy. Harry wanted to run away, wanted to go home, but instead, he couldn't even feel his legs anymore. He wanted to cry, but had no tears left, none that he could spill, and so just tugged at his hair, flicked and picked at his fingers, and felt his breath come in quick staccatos that he couldn't control. And more than anything, he wanted Ron, and didn't know why, and that made everything even worse.

In the end, he falls into a fitful sleep, upper body tossing and turning on the bed, unable to get any semblance of rest, the world far too quiet, and therefore loud, for his liking.

When he woke up once more, he felt restless, and could still not move his legs, or even, wriggle his toes, and he was quite alone. The sun had only just rose in the window, the sky dyed orange and blue as it climbed, sending waves of light through the windows that spanned one long wall. It was cooler than the day before, and he could find the space to breath, as he pushed the thin blankets from his form, and glanced around. It was far too white in his new room, and the colour burnt at his eyes, as he stared, unable to get up. Tugging at his hair, he sighed, wishing the windows would open. What did the Malfoys have against fresh air?

Like magic (no, it was magic he told himself) they flipped open, and cool, clean morning air, still moist, rushed in through the window, and curled around him, like an old friend. That was new. Harry blinked, and narrowed his eyes, as the wind, cold and crisp, curled around his hands, and when he pointed towards the beds, lined in a row, next to his own, the sheets quivered and flipped, ruffling into a mess.

That was cool.

Seemingly pleased, the air messed his hair, until his head felt cold, but calm, and the sun warmed the room. Still, he felt dirty and tired, and couldn't help the yawn that escaped his lips, rubbing a tanned hand over his eyes. Pushing the duvet down as far as it would go, he pulled his dead weight legs into a more comfortable position to lay in, tugging them up against his chest, and let the wind curl around him protectively. For the first time, since Harry Potter could remember, he fell into a deep, comfortable sleep, and felt happy with the world.

He didn't awake again, until a warm hand was pressed against his forehead, and he blinked up into the crystal blue eyes, of Narcissa Malfoy, whose lips were pursed in worry. She didn't say a word, but let her expression melt into a smile, when she noted the jade orbs staring into her own, and pulled her hand away. Harry felt awkward and wrong, and squeezed his eyes shut, until her eyes no longer hovered above his own, and the next time he looked up, there was plain ceiling, dotted with stars, that must have been painted on.

"Good morning Harry. How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?" Before he could blink again, the Malfoy mother was bombarding him with questions, to which he turned away, and towards the window. It was closed again. She repeated herself, a little slower this time, but the small boy merely shrugged at them, tugging at a strand of inky hair. She narrowed her eyes again, not that he saw, and reached forwards, placing her hand on his head again. He jerked and pulled away from the warm skin of her palm, but it came down once more, another coming to rest on his wrist.

Harry screamed.

It was a high sound, that echoed around the room, and at the same time, each window shattered under the wave of magic that exploded from the small boy on the bed, throwing Narcissa to the edge of the room with its force. And Harry screamed for Ron, the sound carrying through the bond they shared, the marks on his wrists glowing white hot. At the scream, Lucius had rushed into the room, barely avoiding shards of glass flying into his face, and stared at the chaos around him. His wife, lay on the floor, eyes shut and body limp, having passed out after the blast; the room was in tatters, with bed sheets having ripped and tangled over themselves. Perhaps, the most shocking thing, was the boy, sat on the bed, who glowed hot silver as magic swirled around him - only green eyes really visible through the cloud.

He couldn't quite figure out what was going on, but didn't dare step closer, for fear of being buffeted away like his wife had been. But oh, the sight was intoxicating, raw power squeezing and binding the boy, so bright and beautiful. Lucius could almost taste it, so close as he was, could feel the magic thrumming through the air like a beating heart. Green eyes, locked on him, pouring with tears - pain, need, fear, joy - the Malfoy elder couldn't quite tell, but even if he had known, there was nothing he could do.

In the bubble, it was hot, as hot as the fire, that Vernon had once pushed his face into, but strangely, it didn't burn him, just broke his lungs until he couldn't breath, and god did it hurt. All he knew was pain, as it ripped and lashed at his skin, leaving no marks. It seeped into his mouth, choking him, stifling the air there till it burnt when he gulped it in.

No! Stop!

A voice echoed in his mind, and yet, all he could do was sob brokenly at the pain. In his stomach, he felt empty, such a loss, that it ached, pulling his body in on itself, until he was bent over near double, clawing at his belly with sharp nails that ripped the skin apart. Thick tears dripped down his cheeks, and when he looked up, he saw grey eyes staring into his own. Ron. He needed Ron. Where was he? Help!

Another gut wrenching scream echoed throughout the room, wind rushing in through each of the broken windows to slash its way towards the boy. It hurt, it hurt so much!

Ron woke up to the sound of screams in his head and a pleading, a begging for help. Harry. Harry, his Harry needed him, and needed him now. It was perhaps the fastest he had ever moved in the morning, rushing to rock his father awake. Mother was away with Ginny and the twins, visiting a family member, whilst Charlie and Bill and Percy were all at Hogwarts, which left Ron by himself with his father. The father he was currently trying to shove awake, because his Harry was hurting, and needed him, and he was stuck in the Burrow with no way out.

Come on! Since when did his dad sleep so deeply. Well, obviously Arthur was going to take like nine hours to wake up, and Ron couldn't just wait, but at nine years old (almost ten) he had no way of getting out to Malfoy Manor. Sighing, he scuttled down the stairs to the kitchen, and then it hit him. Or rather, he hit it. The fireplace. The Floo network! Surely the Malfoys had a Floo.

Steeling himself, he reached up to grab the pot of powder between small hands. As soon as Ron's hands closed around the pot of glittering floo powder, another wave of desperation flooded down through their bond, making the young Weasley stagger and cry out, before fumbling to grab a big enough handful of powder. Having collected himself, Ron hurriedly stood within the old fireplace, throwing down the powder; himself and his shout of, "Malfoy Manor!" disappearing in a swirl of emerald green flames.

Breaking into a dead sprint as soon as his feet touched the floor, Ron careened out of the small, parlor like room, letting his short legs carry him through the large, echoing hallways as he followed the bond that was tugging, pulling him towards his Harry. The ginger let his mind go blank, Harry's screams and cries - both metaphorically and realistically - guiding him.

It seemed like an eternity later that Ron skidded through the door, chest heaving from exertion as he looked wildly around for his Bonded, finally spotting his balled up body racked with tremors upon the bed, Lucius cradling his comatose wife and keeping a wary eye on the magic bomb that was Harry.

It was chaos. Loud, broken, hellish chaos.

Then it was over, and Ron didn't know how he'd gotten to be holding Harry's hand again, or why his head hurt, but everything stopped, went still and silent, and for a moment, was calm.

Then, he didn't know anymore.