Disclaimer: All of the characters used in this chapter are the property of J.K. Rowling, and... You could say I'm currently borrowing them... Not mine -_-

Hello! This is the new story I was talking about. I will try to post new chapters in a reasonable timeline. I don't have a beta, but if anyone would like to volunteer, then I'm all for it.

Constructive criticism is welcome. Now, for the good bits. I have decided to turn this story to the direction of drarry. Aka m/m. I have never written a story like this, so this is my first go.

Let me repeat, THIS IS DRARRY, M/M. If you don't like that, then please exit the story.

Otherwise, please enjoy the first chapter of A Helping Hand :)

The dark hallway stretched out, seemingly having no end. It was hard to recognize this sombre, sorrowful place as the light, airy home he remembered. His rational mind told him that 'this'…'that' right in front of him was not real, or hadn't been in a long time. However, nightmares rarely ever followed rational thought, and such was the case with his. At the end of the huge dark hallway stood Bellatrix, her dark demeanor and dressing almost completely blending with her surroundings.

"No, please."

The right side of her mouth twisted sharply upward, in a deranged facsimile of a grin. Her gleeful lips formed the words, "Get Draco….." While at the same time he uttered, "No."

The scene changed, and he was no longer a specter at the edge, but rather a character in that hellish moment. He could hear his father behind him, pleading for him to recognize the malformed face before him. The grip on his shoulder lessened, and he wished that his grip on reality had lessened along with it too. It was a fearful thing, he realized, to have someone's life in his hands. At that moment, he wished he'd never met Harry Potter, that he'd never uttered his name, that he'd never hated him enough to know his face nearly as well as his own, because then at least he could have said without lying, that he had no way of knowing who was in front of him.

He wished for it dearly, or, at least, that Potty hadn't been idiotic enough to get caught, because he knew for certain that this was Harry Potter.

It was at that point that dream melded with memory, and then Potter's green eyes looked into his. He was mesmerized by the emotion expressed in the depths of his gaze. He could see desperation and indignation alike, as wells as an irrational hope. Well, maybe not so irrational.

"I….. I don't know….."

Whether Potter knew that he recognized him, or believed that he honestly did not recognize his face, he didn't turn to see, because at this point his aunt turned to look him in the eyes. "What a difference," He thought weakly, "Between Potter's eyes and hers." The madness in the strangely black eyes was bleeding, draining into him, and for a second, he believed that his eyes were as black as hers. At that moment, he he knew he was as mad as her, as his entire family. He was falling into the madness of her, of the Dark Lord, of them all. An aberration born, his obsession for immortality, and his hatred of a little babe that refused to die. He Who Must Not Be Named had captured the minds of them all. All except his. He had doubts, and fears, oh so many fears, and if he let his fears show, his doubt, it would be the end for him as well as his family. And yet, he knew with one glance that it was already too late.

"Too late, you've already made a mistake."

Bellatrix snarled, dark eyes flashing, "LIAR!" she screamed, and everything became a slow blur. She raised her wand, lips moving. He didn't need to read her lips, or hear her words. There was only one curse used for traitors such as he.

Before the green light hit him, he remembered his palm extended, years ago, toward a boy with large green eyes and a lightning shaped scar. He remembered the pain of rejection, and the shame of his hurt. Harry Potter never accepted his hand, and now he was dying for him.

Harry Potter refused to accept my hand, and now I'm dying for him.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

He awoke with a gasp, and a shudder, and a sob of both fear and relief. Fear, because for a second, he thought that was what had really happened, and relief, because it never did. His lungs were still working as if he had never breathed in his life, and his hands shook as he moved sweat soaked strands of blond hair from his eyes. Gradually his breathing calmed, and his hands stopped shaking, but he found he could not go back to sleep. Feeling disturbed from the dream, and the darkness of the room, he magically turned on the lights without his wand, a simple enough spell for wand-less magic.

He would have to be awake at an early hour today for the children gathering school supplies, and his Potions shop would be packed. He needed sleep, but he could not calm his restless mind.

He grasped his face with both hands, massaging bloodshot eyes. He wouldn't be able to sleep, not if he didn't want another…. Nightmare.

He reached for the wand and dagger under his pillow, (call him paranoid, but with most of the Wizarding world out for his head, he considered it a just precaution) and grabbed the wand, flicking it and murmuring, "tempus."

4:34 am.

"Shit."

He would have to be up by 6:00 to set up the shop. He debated between trying to sleep again (and most likely dreaming again) or getting an early start on his day. A very early start.

The madness in the strangely black eyes was bleeding, draining into him, and for a sec—"a very early start to the day it is!"

He moved robotically, shifting the covers into a semblance of neatness, and then headed toward the shower. He was fully aware that his mind healer would be angry to realize that he slept close to nothing, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. He didn't want her getting any ideas, especially with her little shenanigans about quidd— No, don't think about that.

He just stood there, under the water, debating as to why he should even get out of the shower. Everyday it was getting harder to get out of bed, and every night was an effort not to dream. His mind healer told him to try to avoid thoughts like those, but what did that fucking mud blood know? He instantly felt bad, and he winced at that particular thought. She was actually a fairly nice lady, intent on helping him. He felt rather bad for her though, because as he lay under the shower, water pouring from his hair, he knew there was no solution for him. There was no penance. He would fail her just as he had failed everyone else and eventually, she would give up on him, just like everyone else gave up on him. Everything just took so much effort, and how could he stop thoughts such as those, when no one wanted to be close to him? At least, not anymore. And, he found that the longer he strayed from human interaction, the more he didn't want it. Ever since his mother-don't think about that.

He sighed and moved his gaze upward towards morning light, preparing himself for yet another day of monumental effort.

Thank you for reading. Please review or leave comments!