Disclaimer : I do not own any aspects of Neil Gaiman's Stardust franchise or J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise.
AN : hi all! So this chapter was hard to write, because nothing really lives up to that gorgeous montage in the movie, but... I tried.
Warnings/Other : bad language (my apologies), darker themes, possibly graphic content. This chapter title was taken from Shakespeare's "Sonnet 129."

Your Heart in Exchange for Mine

by nightofowls

Every star was once darker than the night,
before it awoke.

― Dejan Stojanovic, The Sign and Its Children

part six: behind, a dream

Fenrir Greyback was enjoying himself immensely.

"Well, boys! Look at this sad sack, would you?"

His companions dutifully crowded over, and found themselves gazing curiously at a bloated dead man in a rusty bathtub, his front stained with dried, flaking blood. His varicose veins bulged grotesquely from the corners of his eyes, which were still open and unseeing, rolled up towards the heavens.

The stale smell of sanguinated bathwater filled Greyback's senses, and he felt a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"What's a fancy old bloke like him doin' over 'ere?" One Snatcher named Scabior picked at his crooked yellow teeth. The others muttered among themselves.

Greyback held up a gnarled hand, and the chatter died. His senses clouded with smells and thoughts, and with them an onslaught of scents and scenes, and he felt himself sinking into a soporific daze. He closed his eyes once, before opening them again. When his lids peeled back his eyes were a vibrant, blinding white. Then he saw it.

He could see the images carved out in white mist: the boy in the rain with his Thestral, the witch who tried to trick him, the intruders who pried him from her grasp. He felt the splattering of tell-tale raindrops beating down on his back, and the swift brush of a silken robe flutter by his arm. He saw a locket, gleaming jade and gold, swing from the boy's neck.

He could smell everything. He could see everything.

He saw the man, felled by a knife, choking on his own blood. He saw fire swallow up the inn, saw the boy with the locket and a stranger―a newcomer with a most curious aura about him, whatever that meant―being spirited away in a cloud of powder, saw the witch scream in insatiable fury and destroy her cleaver in a rage, saw the inn crumple into corrugated wood like a rag doll, saw the witch's trap turn to dust before her. He saw her age in seconds, the wrinkles multiplying and carving grotesque lines down her cheeks, around her temple.

He saw the star with the locket around his neck, and the other boy with the magic shimmering about his form, transported safely into the sky. And then they were gone.

Greyback's senses exploded, and he returned to the land of the living.

The star had disappeared, but that didn't mean it wouldn't return to land. In fact, Greyback had a feeling that he knew exactly where the star was going to land next.

"Boys," he grinned, an unspoken snarl on his lips, "it seems we were but a step behind."

One of his pack grimaced.

"What do you mean?"

Greyback cracked his knuckles menacingly, feeling his heartbeat quicken and his blood run hot from the impending chase.

"Looks like Stubby Boardman got to 'em first. But I know exactly where we need to go next, and it's real close."

A black riderless carriage sped along the dirt trails of the Grimmauldian plains, unheeded by all, noticed by none.

Not a soul in sight noticed the suspicious image of the dark silhouette streaming across the grasslands, a harbinger of evil. Had there been any passersby, he or she would have noticed the single gloomy face peeking out through the window on the inside.

Bellatrix glared out at the plains, her expression gelid enough to crack ice. Morosely, she inspected her reflection in the window. A wrinkled, anile face stared accusingly back at her, as if blaming her for its current state.

She growled, low in her throat.

Her cheeks were sunken in, her eyes protruding, weighing down upon her saggy lower lids. Her eyebrows and eyelashes had begun to flake, and there was flab about her arms and neck and abdomen where there hadn't been before. Heavy wrinkles were etched across her skin, wearing and grey, and her hair was more string than hair, by this point.

The witch dragged a hand across her face in infuriated despair, and clutched at her hair. When she pulled her hand away, off came a gargantuan clump of what once were her thick and luscious tresses.

Now they just looked like long, greying rat fur.

Agape, she screeched and threw the clump of hair aside, batting it from her fingertips, and frantically looked back at her reflection in the window. Her head was balding, and fast.

Bitterly, Bellatrix pulled the quartz dagger from her dress and whispered a few impatient sibilant words. The quartz surface simmered, and was replaced by the image of her disapproving sisters, both of whom eyed her most disdainfully.

She hated them with a passion in that moment.

"What is it now, sister?" Narcissa rolled her eyes, hands on her hips.

Andromeda frowned.

"Look what she's done, Cissy," she remarked, wrinkling her nose further so that her face resembled that of a prune. Her next remark she directed at Bellatrix.

"You've gone and wasted your magic, and for naught!"

Bellatrix cursed under her breath.

"Spare me your caviling," she groaned. "Ask for the star's location. Do it."

"We have," Narcissa raised a thinning, almost nonexistent brow. "You asked us to not a few hours ago."

"Ask again!"

"We have asked again!" Andromeda hissed. "The answer is still the same: the star is airborne!"

"Well, he can't remain so forever, can he?" Bellatrix snapped back. "Inform me as soon as he touches ground―immediately! Do you understand?"

"Watch your tongue, sister." Narcissa glanced at her nails with pursed lips. "Remember, it is you and not we who have lost the star."

"Lost him and broken the knife!" Andromeda interjected hotly. "Even if you do apprehend him, how will you complete the deed?"

Narcissa, cool as ever, raised her chin.

"Perhaps you should return and send one of us in your place."

"Don't be absurd!" Bellatrix glowered. "I'll bring him home and deal with him then. Make sure everything is ready for our arrival."

Harry came to with a crick in his neck and limbs that were stiff from immobility. A groan rumbled in his throat as he blearily blinked, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling.

Then it came back to him. The veela court, the trudge through the endless woods, getting lost, finding out Draco had disappeared, Councilor Pettigrew―that shifty man and his untimely demise―and the witch, and then sky pirates―

He shivered with realization as he remembered where he was.

He had dozed off, his head leaning back against Draco's shoulder, and now as he woke he could feel Draco's tender breaths tickle at his temple, could feel the star's soft hair getting in his eyes.

"You're awake."

Draco sounded weary, but offered him a small smile. He looked as though he hadn't slept a wink, his hair mussed and eyes half-lidded. Surprisingly, the sight was rather endearing.

For once he looked soft, blurred around the edges by circumstance.

"Haven't you slept at all?"

Harry realized the slip-up as soon as he heard it.

"Right, sorry. I'm not really in the state of mind to be saying things right now. Are you alright?"

Draco nodded.

Outside, there no longer came the wayworn battering of rain against the roof, and the shouts of the pirates above the deck had long since died out. Harry had the notion that had they any windows, there would have been sunlight spilling across their faces, harkening the morning come.

After a while, Draco finally spoke again, something heavy in his voice.

"Tell me about Cho, then."

Harry's face fell, smile dropping.

"How do you mean?"

Draco's voice was deceptively airy. "Just passing the time. Unless you'd rather not."

That's right. Cho.

"Well, alright. Cho―she―"

Harry found himself struggling to find the right words, gaze darting about, frowning. He found that he had no idea what to say.

He racked his brain and pictured Cho standing in front of him, reaching a hand out to caress his cheek, then laughing and turning away, disappearing into mist.

But he found he still had nothing. As much as he tried to conjure up an image, all he could think of was how warm Draco's laugh was, even in the gloom of the cellar, how searing his hand felt interwoven with his during that one brief moment they had touched, how smooth and soft his hair was.

"There's n―there's nothing more to tell you," he finished lamely while Draco expectantly stared up at the dingy ceiling. "Why are you asking? I already told you everything there is to tell, didn't I?"

"No need to get defensive," Draco murmured. "It's just, what little I know about love is that it's unconditional. It isn't something you can buy."

Harry bristled. "Hang on. This wasn't about me buying her love! This was a way for me to prove to her how I felt!"

"Ah! I see," Draco made a sound vaguely reminiscent of an enlightened gasp, and thoughtfully pursed his lips.

He emphatically shook his hair out of his face and turned as far as he could to look at Harry.

"And what's she doing to prove how she feels about you?"

"Well―" Harry spluttered, and then abruptly closed his mouth, for he had no idea how to respond. It wasn't too long before a wry smirk crept upon his face.

Behind him, Draco hid a self-satisfied smile. Everything about their situation was absurd.

"Look, Draco, you'll understand when you meet her, alright? Provided we don't get murdered by flying pirates first."

"Murdered by pirates; heart torn out and eaten; meet Cho." Draco perused his options, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

He'd heard quite enough about her from Harry's love-struck blubbering for the past few days, but he honestly couldn't see the allure.

"I can't decide which sounds more enjoyable."

"Don't be like that," Harry chastised, elbowing him gently, but there was a hint of worry in his tone.

"Look, I don't mean to impede," Draco started, "but from what I've heard, Cho doesn't seem to be doing much to show you how much she cares. It makes one wonder if she's really as great as you say she is."

Harry recoiled.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, really. But you're expending so much effort to impress her, and she isn't doing anything in return for you. Would you say that's worth it?"

Harry's voice dropped two notches, his tone dark and foreboding.

"I hope you're not saying what I think you're saying."

There was a frore anger stirring in the undercurrents of his voice as he pulled away from Draco and sat up straighter, ignoring the blast of cold wind and chills that came once they separated.

"That's―"

"You're just jealous that the two of us have something that you can't."

Draco drew back, furthering the scant distance between them.

"Harry―"

Harry's tone was frigid.

"Let's not."

Deep down, he felt an unspeakable emotion boiling within him, and did his best to tamp it down. Frowning, Draco sucked in a breath and stared at his feet.

Draco's silence hung in the air, unebbing like a sting.

Perhaps he had gone too far. After all, the star hadn't meant to hurt him―he was just asking Harry to think it over―and now he had gone and mucked it up, as he always did.

Harry felt remorse curling within his chest upon rethinking what he had said.

It had been completely uncalled for to bite back like that, hadn't it? Or had it?

As the tenseness returned with a vengeance, the heavy atmosphere in the stuffy room became unbearable. Harry felt compelled to apologize, and was just about to open his mouth when the brig door burst open.

The captain strode in, his figure looming over the two where they sat on the floor, tied together. He slammed the door, and Harry felt Draco flinch as it banged shut against the frame, enclosing them in shadow once more.

The man began sauntering in slow circles around them, his tall frame towering over the two.

"This is the part where you introduce yourselves and tell me why you're here." His eyes glinted fiercely in the dimness of the room. "And why you thought it fit to intrude on my ship."

Draco shuddered as the man came to a stop in front of him, but refused tear his gaze away, fixing the man with a steely silver glare.

Harry resisted the sudden urge to shield the star from the captain's piercing gaze as the captain chuckled at the his gall.

"How about I start?" the captain finally proposed, as if they had all the time in the world.

He removed his hat with a flourish.

"My name is Captain Sirius Black, Grim of the Seas, mistakenly known to many as the Captain Stubby Boardman, and you are currently aboard the Free Ship The Avenging Marauder."

With a sweep, he removed the longsword dangling menacingly at his side. Harry jumped.

"No!"

"Silence!" the captain thundered. As if electrocuted, Harry shrunk back, and Captain Black tilted Draco's chin up with point of his blade.

"Now, I've graciously offered you the liberty of knowing my name. After all, you'll be taking it with you to the grave if you don't cooperate."

The captain leaned in close, eyes widening menacingly under his dark brows.

"Now, tell me who you are and why you're here," he spelled out, each word with a rumble. "Or I snap the golden one's pretty fingers one by one like dry twigs."

Harry heard the muffled sounds of the crew members clamoring and pressing their ears up against the door, and swallowed a nervous breath.

"My name is Harry Potter," he mumbled, then cleared his throat. "And this is... m-my boyfriend, Draco―"

"Boyfriend? Inconceivable," scoffed the captain. There came titters behind the door, and both Harry and Draco flinched as he circled around them, and exclaimed, his voice booming louder by the minute, "Far too young and radiant to belong to just one man! We share and share alike aboard my vessel, sonny! Isn't that right, lads?"

From behind the door there came a raucous cheer, and Captain Stubby Boardman bellowed a laugh that had the floorboards reverberating. Harry felt his blood run cold at the insinuation as Draco stiffened behind him. Rage festered in his veins.

He clenched his jaw, locking eyes with the captain, and grated out (much to the older man's amusement), "If you dare even lay a finger on him..."

The captain held up a hand to silence him, and tutted. He turned to Harry and paced over so he loomed over him.

"Quiet. Your lover can fend for himself. Now, I understand that you're trying to show a little spirit in front of your sweetheart," the man said, and crouched down so he and Harry were eye level. His frigid gaze was even scarier up close. "But if you talk back to me again, I'll feed your tongue to the dogs, you impertinent little scoundrel!"

Harry jumped, and blinked a few times to steady himself. Then, shakily: "Sir?"

The captain considered this. "Better, but still interrupting. Let me see. A hanging's always good for morale―" He paused briefly, and as if on cue there came a resounding catcall from behind the door. Once again, he began pacing, boots smacking heavily against the floorboards. "―Or we could send you swinging from the gallows with a merry jig; that'd be a sight worth seeing―" Another cheer.

Captain Stubby Boardman fisted a handful of Harry's shirt and pulled him forward. "―Or maybe I'll just tip you off the side and be done with it, hm? It's a long way down. Gives you plenty of time to think about your pretty paramour before your head gets smashed in and you turn to nothing but a pile of bloody mush."

Draco's face drained of color. Harry opened his mouth, allowing the words to spill out before he could attach any coherent thought to them.

"Please, sir, look―we're just trying to make our way home, back to a place called Little Whinging, where I come from," he babbled, and then paled when a shadow passed over the captain's face and he cast his stormy eyes upon him.

"What did you say?" The grip on his shirt tightened. The captain's face twisted in rage, and Harry reared backwards, knocking against a tensed Draco.

"Um... Little Whinging... sir..." he trailed off, terrified to the core. Before he could react, the captain whipped a knife out from nowhere and pressed it hard against Harry's jugular.

"Say that one more time, boy. I dare you."

"Sir, please―I-I'm telling the truth!" Harry said beseechingly, blood pulsing wildly.

The captain only pressed down harder, eyes ablaze. "That's one lie too many, boy."

Outside, the crew members were abuzz with anticipation, jostling to and fro in an attempt to get the chance to press his or her ear against the door.

"Wall?" hissed a member with sandy hair and a thick Irish accent. "What's 'e mean?"

"Shut up!"

"What are they saying?" pressed another shipmate named Lee Jordan, one with dreadlocks and a scarf bundled about his head. "Can you hear them?"

From inside, the captain's voice echoed out. "Thought you could wander in over on my patch of the woods and leave with your head intact, did you?"

"Oh, he is."

"Yeah, he's gonna―"

"And live to tell the tale?"

As soon as they heard the phrase, the other members stiffened, eyes widening, and began animatedly shoving at one another, scrambling to get away from the brig and back up on deck. "He's gonna throw 'im overboard!"

"All right, go, on the deck!" One of them whispered harshly, and they all joggled one another in their haste to reach the edge of the ship in time to see the oncoming spectacle.

"Now, go go go!"

"On the deck, on the deck!"

Frenetically, the crew members scaled the laddered steps, knowing where to step even in the dark, and burst up onto the deck, slamming open the doors and scurrying to the railing. The crew members tripped over and crashed into one another as they made for the landing. As they made their escape, they could still hear Captain Stubby Boardman's resounding threats filter through the gaps in the floorboards.

"That's a big mistake!" roared the captain. "The last one you'll ever make!"

Eagerly, they all peered over the side of the ship, leaning against the railing just in time to see the captain fling someone with dark, shaggy hair and glasses out of a window below deck, and were all greeted with the sight of passing clouds and pastel yellow corn fields spread about beneath them like shimmering golden blankets, and said figure plunging headfirst towards the unforgiving ground thousands of feet below.

The captain, who had propped himself up on his elbows against the sill, watching the descent satisfactorily, whipped his head up to look at the inquisitive crew members. As soon as they saw the sharp glare headed their way, everybody reeled back and returned to their duties. The captain shut the window with a thump.

The peace on board was broken not a moment later when there came a litany of yells from below deck. Nosily, the crew members gathered around the entrance to the staircase. The cries grew louder, accompanied by the thudding of heavy boots against the stairs, and the captain emerged, dragging a struggling Draco after him.

"No! No, you brute! Let go of me!" he thrashed about under the man's grip, shouting empty threats and insults, as the rest of the pirates looked on, exchanging looks among themselves.

"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" muttered the very chagrined captain, raising his brows and tugging the star along. "Come along now, get up, you brat."

Draco remained unrelenting, and continued flailing, almost tripping over himself as he thrashed about. "No! You monster! You pig! You cold-blooded murderer! How dare you! Don't you even think about―ah!"

Fed up, the captain sucked in a displeased breath, picked Draco up like he weighed nothing more than a sprig of grapes, and tossed him over one shoulder.

"Put me down, you heathen!" Draco frantically beat his fists against the captain's back, but his kicking protests were paid no mind.

Captain Stubby Boardman strode over to his cabin, and paused in front of the door. "I'm taking this one to the cabins. Anyone who disturbs me in the next few hours," he promised threateningly over the sound of Draco's quibbling, "will receive the same treatment."

Some of the crew members looked mildly uncomfortable at this.

"What, you'll...?" ventured the sandy-haired one, wincing and making a face and then trailing off.

"No, you idiot, Finnigan," the captain deadpanned, twisting the doorknob and stepping over the threshold. "I'll toss your lumpy arse overboard as well! Now get back to work!"

Finnigan looked rightfully disconcerted.

"R-Right."

The door closed with a snick, shutting off the sound of Draco's insults and leaving silence atop the deck. Barely a murmur rippled through the crew. Finnigan stepped forward and blocked the doorway to the captain's lodgings, the epitome of nonchalance.

"Captain's busy," he raised his brows meaningfully, hands motioning for the onlookers to shoo. The crowd grudgingly dissipated. "So should you be!"

"We've located the sky vessel."

"About bloody time!" Bellatrix threw up her hands in frustration.

"Patience, sister!" snapped Narcissa.

Andromeda blithely went on, ignoring the charade and dutifully citing her findings. "It's headed south for the port town near Hogsmeade, and you are no longer the only one seeking the star! There's someone following your tracks!"

Bellatrix peered through the quartz at them, her gaze urgent and unseeing, like looking for a shadow in rippling water. "A witch? A warlock?"

"Hunters of the night, and they are gaining, fast. You must proceed with haste, sister!"

The witch flung aside the dagger, brushing off the acerbic words the way one brushes gnats off ripening fruit, and pointed a finger forward, through the open screen of the carriage. The whip lying idle on the driver's seat righted itself and jauntily snapped forward, tickling the horses' hinds and urging them on.

In the distance, she thought she could hear the wailing howls of wolves.

"Get in there, boy!"

The captain gruffly shoved Draco through the narrow hallway and into the cabin, and then whipped around and shut the doors securely, making sure the locks atop the frame were all bolted. Then he turned, and smiled, the expression lighting up his face with a mirthful youthfulness that had been undetectable earlier, and that revealed him to be really quite handsome.

"I thought that went quite well. How about you?"

Standing by the window with a panoramic view of the sprawling vernal landscape below, with its ribbon-like waterfalls and its samite waters, dressed in naught but his undergarments, was Harry, unharmed (if not slightly ruffled) and holding a porcelain saucer of tea. The boy turned upon hearing their entrance, and grinned. The upturn of his brow was the only betrayal of his incredulity at the farce. Draco seemed to share the same sentiment.

"Alright," Sirius Black rubbed his hands together and reached out to pull at Draco's wrist. Excitedly he guided the star over to the table of a rich cherry, upon which sprawled decrepit scrolls and ink cartridges and quills stained royal blue with scrawling color. Ever the gentleman, he dragged out a plush chair and beckoned for the blonde to sit. "Now that we're all settled, tell me all about my beloved England. I want to hear absolutely everything."

Captain Stubby Boardman ― known more fondly as Captain Sirius Black by his crew and his loved ones ― was a paradox. The fearsome sky pirate Captain Stubby Boardman did not exist, but Sirius Black did. He was an honorable man who had been wronged by the world many times over but had never turned jaded because of it, but he was also one who hid his true self behind a mask of lies, a veneer of power. He had, in the secrecy of the brig, disguised a mannequin in Harry's clothes and tipped it overboard, allowing the boy to steal into his cabin after him under his Invisibility Cloak.

"Hang on―how on Earth did you manage to pull that off?" was all Harry could think to blurt out, as he edged his way over and took a seat across from the captain. "I can't believe your crew fell for that act."

"And where could you possibly have found a mannequin?" goggled Draco, who was warming his hands about a frothing teacup, letting the steam curl over his fingertips. Neither of them could stifle their smiles. The captain looked suitably pleased with himself.

"Ah, works every time," the man held up an index, knowingly, eyes twinkling with a wisdom beyond his years. "Allow me to divulge Sirius Black's very own recipe for success: a dash of trickery, a pinch of bargaining, and another ounce of intimidation, and voila! The end result? A towering reputation, with not a single drop of blood spilled. Mind you, I'm not a fan of gratuitous violence."

He leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee. "That's right, folks. Besides, have you ever tried getting blood out of a leather jacket? Nightmare."

Harry gave up trying to wrap his head around it. "Right," he nodded blandly, and then the spark returned to his eyes as he leaned forward. "So, um, I still don't understand how the crew won't recognize me."

"Harry, m'boy," Captain Sirius Black's brows rose into his hairline, and Harry suddenly felt a little small and out of his element. Draco only looked on, bemused. The man made to get up, and the two younger followed suit. "By the time I'm through with you, not even your sweetheart here would recognize you. Come, you two, we've no time to waste."

(Here, the captain winked jauntily at Draco, who flushed a bright red and turned his face haughtily away.)

They followed the captain over to a pair of screen doors ― "I got these from my travels to the Isles, mind you," the man proudly pointed out as he wrenched a worn bronze candelabra sideways and the frames parted majestically, like rich crimson stage curtains ― where, laden in rows of hangars and shelves, hung outfits and costumes of all shapes and sizes, their colors illuminated on a canvas of silk. Twin mirrors waited patiently at the long end of the aisle. The two new arrivals were entranced by the shades threatening to burst at their seams, coupled with the rows of black leather jackets and shelves-worth of biking helmets, and idly wandered in after the captain, who was purposefully perusing the rows and rows of garments. In the corner proudly stood a sleek black motorcycle, its sides gleaming.

"You've a bike!" Draco exclaimed, running his hand over the refined leather seat. "May I?"

"Oh yes, be my guest," the captain glowed with pride, fondly gazing at the contraption, and chuckled, voice heavy with nostalgia. "Don't tell the others, though. They don't know about my sordid delinquent past. Or about my Animagus form, for that matter."

"Animagus? What's that?" Harry asked, quizzically.

Sirius blinked at him for a moment, and Draco snickered.

"I can transform into a dog."

"That's so cool! Can we see later?"

"Perhaps. But, first and foremost, we have to get you out of those rags. They're dreary," ordered the man, turning to face them with his hands clasped stolidly behind his back, as a colonel does when giving orders. "We have only a few hours until we make port. Until then, you're under orders to clean up, fellows."

"Yes, Captain," Harry hid a smile.

"Bah! We're in private! Call me Sirius."

Harry felt a rush of warmth when the man grinned at him, his smile blinding. "Alright... Sirius."

"Alright, Harry." Sirius clapped his shoulder and edged him towards the mirrors, before rifling through the dozens of hanging clothes. "I'm glad you'll be getting out of those clothes―very small-town errand-boy; tediously parochial, and definitely not for you, young man. You, friend, are destined for greatness."

"This?" He held up a few hangers in front of Harry and narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, yes. I wore this when I was younger, actually; I hate to throw anything away―it's all fine quality material, gone to waste. You know, one minute, you toss something out, and then the next day, it's all the rage again... It's not worth the hassle, if you ask me."

Without another word, ignoring Harry's protests, Sirius tossed the pile of clothes into his arms.

"This?" Harry spluttered. Draco hoisted himself up onto the bike seat and snickered at Harry's bewildered expression.

"I'll have you know, I was voted Best Dressed and Best Hair back at school," Sirius countered indignantly. "Believe me, what I've got trumps those rags you've got on any day. Now shoo."

Then Sirius turned to Draco and gave him a once-over, surveying the racks. With a flourish, he grabbed an elegant top the color of midnight and a pair of extremely tight leather trousers. "Alright, Draco. This'll fit your complexion perfectly―brings out the grey of your eyes."

"Oh, no, that's completely fine," Draco blushed upon seeing the outfit.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Really," he smirked, "kiddo, you're wearing a bathrobe."

The star's cheeks flushed a rosy red as he glanced down, only just remembering his getup. Standing and looking highly entertained, Harry hid a snicker as Draco glared at him and demurely set off to hide in the corner.

"No looking," he grumbled softly.

"Who'd want to?" Harry snorted back at him. He swore he did not peek at Draco shrugging into those heavenly tight ― um, those perfectly normal and not-at-all-tight trousers in his peripheral vision, not even once. Nada.

"Now," Sirius dragged Harry over to stand in front of the diptych of mirrors and piled the clothes into the younger's arms. As Harry shrugged off his garments, stained and filthy from his days galumphing through Grimmauldian forestry and starkly stiff from having dried after the rain, the captain took to nudging and prodding at his sleeves. "Now, tell me about England. I want to hear everything."

"You're not from England?" Harry inquired, slipping his head and bare arms through the sleeves of a crisp white dress shirt. From where he leaned against the mirror, arms crossed, the picture of aplomb, the captain heaved a sigh and stood to help him with his cuffs.

"No, no, sadly not." Sirius glanced up, meeting Harry's gaze in the mirror. "But I was always regaled with tall tales of the place, and I lapped the stories up from even my earliest days. People told me they were all poppycock, that they were but embellishments of old wives' tales, but deep down I knew they were true. As a boy, whenever I needed an escape, I'd run away from all the drama to―to peek over the wall, dream of perhaps maybe crossing it one day and seeing England as it was, for myself. Truly terrific, really."

Sirius stopped, and Harry shifted so he could tuck in the shirttails. "Really? So you were―so you were just looking over there? The wall?"

"Oh, yes," sighed the captain, wistfully, a faraway look in his eye. Then he perked up once more, spell broken, and pointed decisively at the twig-ridden bird's nest perched atop Harry's head. "Hair. We need to do something about that."

"Hair?"

"Mhm. Now, Harry, I understand you youth like the messy updo, but it really is an abomination on all mankind and we must get rid of it immediately."

"Duly noted, Sirius."

Early at dawn, the rickety, flaking red door of a small post office along the alleys of the port town Knockturn swung open, and in swept two figures, dark as midnight, trailed by shadows. Unperturbed, the clerk at the counter did not look up from where he was hunched over, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose, wispy white mustache twitching, as he examined an aged copper Sickle.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

The two figures wordlessly glided over, looming over the small, creature-like man, who had long, spindly fingers and a nose pointed like a hawk's. As their shadows fell across the counter and obscured his view, he sighed and finally looked up at them.

Griphook was not an impressionable goblin, and that was the only reason why he was not impressed by the sight of Tom Marvolo Riddle and Severus Snape, standing, in all their misty glory, in front of him, cloaks wet from the dew that hung low in the air.

"I need to enter the Gringotts Vaults." Tom's voice was low and deep and full of intentions murkier than a silted riverbed. Along his shoulders slithered a restless Nagini, coiled like a grotesque scarf, her slitted eyes translucent and pallid. Had he felt like assuaging his ethical side so early in the morning, Griphook would have found the sense to refuse such a request.

But Griphook was a goblin, and goblins were not known for their moral standards.

They were known for business, and business was what Griphook did.

"Have you any identification?" he asked, his voice rough like crunched gravel.

"I'd say I do not need any," Tom said, a warning heavy in his voice, but simpered a laugh anyway. "But, alas, goblins are all known for their honor codes, are they not?"

Griphook did not rise to the bait. Goblins were, after all, sensible creatures, and Riddle spoke no enigmas. He stared the man down through his black beady eyes, and finally Riddle lightheartedly relented and tossed him a parcel packaged in scratchy brown paper.

The goblin pocketed the item without a further glance. "Number?"

"You know which vault number, Mr. Griphook," Riddle grinned, mouth a single bleeding gash across his face. "We do not have time to waste."

"So be it," the goblin grunted, and beckoned for the two to follow him. They rounded the counter and followed him, in silence, through the door marked with a crude "Staff Only" painted in fading white, and down a series of dimly-lit passageways, each narrower than the next. Finally, they emerged through a stone arch, its bricks crumbling, and into a corridor lined with tracks not unlike those of a train station. In front of them sat a solitary cart, rusted from years of wear. Griphook glanced up at Riddle, and extended a hand, gesturing towards the lone barrow.

"Go on. Be my guest."

"Mind you, I did my best to fit in."

Harry found himself seated on a spool chair, dwarfed in a haircut cape, while Sirius was methodically dragging the brush through Harry's hair, talking lightly to ease the silence. In front of them, Draco sat at the table, daintily nursing a cup of tea and clandestinely hiding his laughter at Harry's plight behind the cup rim, all the while fixing his gaze in rapt attention at the captain as he spoke.

"Tried to make my parents, Orion and Walburga Black, proud. Father was once a buccaneer of sorts too―he was a jack of all trades, and so he expected a lot from me, I suppose, since I was the elder brother."

"You have a brother?" Harry couldn't help but venture, twisting about in his seat, but Sirius nudged him so he was facing forwards once again.

His voice was laced with an indescribable melancholy. "Had," he said gravely, for a minute, and then loosened up once more. "His name was Regulus. We all loved him, but the two of us fought a lot because I was so different from the rest of the family, and he just wanted us all to get along... He ended up getting mixed up with the wrong sort."

"I'm sorry," Draco murmured, placing the teacup down on its saucer. Harry could see the open sadness on his face, in his wide grey eyes.

"No worries," Sirius waved the concern off, plights removed, and made a face. "It was years ago, when I was younger. But it did make me forge a decent reputation of being a cold-blooded killer and a ruthless marauder."

At this, both Harry and Draco smiled.

"But then, my parents both died, and my father always wanted me to take over the family business of doing political work and managing businesses. I never fit in from the start, and I wasn't planning to then. That was Regulus' promise. Instead, I went and continued this line of work, kept the old girl flying for years. Commandeering my own life and ship brought me a freedom I never had when I was confined to the limits of our house, and once I was out of there, I never wanted to return. The Grim has always been the right place for me."

Sirius paused, putting down the brush thoughtfully, and eyed Harry and Draco. "You know," he admitted, grinning, "you have no idea the lightness it brings to my heart being able to confide in you charming youngsters. The pressure it takes to keep up the whole Captain Stubby Boardman, Captain Sirius Black persona for the sake of the people, the crew? Ah, I don't know, sometimes..."

As he spoke, Harry glanced about himself, only to gawk. As Sirius brushed, his hair had become longer, and now flowed over his shoulders in a wild dark mane. He wisely spoke nothing of it.

"You see, I'm very much a man of my own creation. Not particularly with the name, though―I was debating between that and something more poetic like Captain Shakespeare or the like, but the press pinned me as the wily, merciless Captain Stubby Boardman, and who was I to deny the people what they wanted to hear? I suppose the important thing was that I did my business and did it right, that's all. If my enemies saw me as someone formidable, that was fine with me. Little things, you see, lads."

"I don't understand that," Harry spoke after a great deal of thought. From where he sat, he lifted his eyes so his gaze just brushed the tip of Sirius' chin. "Surely it would make you happier to just be yourself? Why fight to be accepted by people you don't actually want to be like?"

Draco hid an eye roll and nodded, feigning sympathy.

"Yeah," he mused aloud, pursing his lips, tone heavy with meaning. "Why would anybody do that to himself?"

When he caught the other boy's eye, he shrugged innocently, smirked, and sipped his tea.

Harry frowned, and looked away, feeling very much the butt of a joke. His voice was quiet with contemplation, the image of Draco's teasing look burning into the backs of his eyelids.

"Exactly."

If the ride towards the vaults had been a whirlwind, none of the guests gave any indication of it, save for slightly creased, damp clothing.

The cart screeched to a halt, the sound of its braking reverberating through the empty caverns of the underground. Carved into the rock wall was a single arch, a crudely defined platform, and a door of black titanium, its patterns weaving like snakes.

They had arrived at Vault Number 981.

Griphook placed his palm against the door, which had no handles, and the intricate patterns on the door began bending and warping, slithering amongst one another, rearranging. With a solid click and a mighty groan, the door heaved itself open, the lock wheezing. An interminable, hollow darkness sat beyond the door, and greeted them with the sound of nothingness. A stale breeze blew, and Griphook's lantern flickered out, leaving them with nothing but dark.

Pleased, Tom Riddle sauntered in, unwary of the shadows lurking within.

"Lumos," he hissed, voice sibilant, and a chandelier dangling precariously from the ceiling lit up, casting an eerie yellow glow across the hall. The light caught onto several piles of shelves, each teeming with gold and copper and silver. Behind him, Snape pressed his lips together in a firm line and narrowed his eyes. Across the hall came miscellaneous glimmers as the light spilled unto precious treasures and ancient artifacts.

"Severus," said Riddle, and Snape turned to attention. "Search with me."

He did not need to say what it was he was looking for, for Severus Snape knew, deep down, exactly what it was that a man so evil and greedy as Riddle could possibly want. But, dutifully, the group split up and he searched, strolling through the aisles, surveying his surroundings, wondering how large the underground really was. Griphook stood guard by the door, beady eyes alert, tracking the two men for any signs of theft.

Then, as he turned a corner, he saw it.

A crown. A tiara, placidly lying atop a pile of weathered chests and chairs, gleaming atop a tower of junk.

A diadem.

Or, rather, the legendary diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.

"Port ahoy! Ready the lightning barrels!"

Draco gazed down over the ledge, his hand clutching at the edge of the ship, marveling at the view of Grimmauld, the ribbons of samite rivers and sweeping golden fields, the violet hills rising in the distance. He clasped his hands together, his heart in his throat. He had always wished he could come to Earth, so he could feel the wind whistling across the plains and hear the sound of songbirds serenading each morning, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought it would come true. It was like walking on thin ice and feeling the cracks beneath your feet, but still walking on.

He could feel Sirius walking up behind him, and did not turn his head as the captain approached and placed both hands on the railing. Together, for a moment, they reveled in the silence; in the backdrop, the crew bustled about busily, screaming orders and expletives at one another. In the distance, a jutting crag of rock protruded from the cliffs, resting atop stilts of stone pillars. A settlement of boulders lay atop the arches, its walls high and gray and majestic in the sunlight.

"Hogsmeade, Draco," Sirius leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "The heart of commerce. Perhaps I'll take you and Harry about once the crew have wandered off. Once we're done, we're going to make a few more stops, if you're alright with that."

"That'd be lovely," Draco turned to the man, a smile illuminating his face.

"Now," Sirius warned, "I can't bring the two of you all the way to the wall ― there's a restriction a few hundred miles around that area lest airships be spotted ― but I'd be happy to take you as far as I can, so don't get so happy so soon."

"I wouldn't dare." Draco grinned all the same, and threw his arms around the captain's middle. "Thank you, Sirius!"

The man patted his head fondly, and then prodded him to look up. "Ah, look, we're here."

The Grim skimmed the clouds and drifted toward the monticule, gliding atop the breeze. Once it neared, the ship glided to a halt, barely grazing the cliff face nearby, and the rusted steel plank flung open from its latch, landing with a thump on the grass. At once, the crew members yelled in glee and spilled down onto the grass. Sirius kindly offered Draco a hand, and the two traipsed on after the others rambunctiously began heaving black leather barrels and large metal tanks towards town.

Once they had reached the town, they quietened. The group began sneaking glances to and fro, making sure that nobody saw them as they tiptoed across the narrow cobbled streets. After a few turns, the motley crew stole down a darkened alleyway, shadowed by the towering stone buildings and houses, to a single wooden door, the engravings and knots decorating it neat like stitches, tucked deep into a dead end. On the door hung a sign that read "Horace's Office." Seamus beckoned to the others as they crept through, gesturing for them to move faster, and once they were inside, poked his head out to ascertain that no onlookers were milling about in the streets.

They found themselves in a warehouse, crowding along lines of shelves and piles of miscellaneous goods, crowded upon one another haphazardly. There were jars of pickled eyeballs and canteens of a smoky, viscous black liquid, and glasses and trunks of brilliantly-colored furs lay strewn about most carelessly. A portly, balding man waddled out from between the racks, his moss green waistcoat straining at its buttons and his ruffled collar hanging limp from his neck. His greying sideburns and his knob of a nose were both drenched with sweat as he hurried about.

"Ah, Captain, good to see you again," said the man, approaching.

Sirius tipped his hat, and then leaned over to the apprehensive Draco and whispered in his ear, "Horace Slughorn. He's a fence. Thiefspawn."

"'Day. Lightning today," he said succinctly to Slughorn, lowly, and stood to his full height, looking every bit the tall, dark stranger, but Slughorn paid him little to no mind. His eyes roved over Draco, briefly, before his gaze settled on the tank of lightning, and his face lit up.

"Ah, let's see what you've got for me, then." Slughorn rubbed his hands together, anticipatory. His greedy fingers eased the hatch open, and instantly there poured out a streak of lightning, crackling and potent and beautiful. Hastily he reattached the latch, and the lightning was sealed again, but he was not satisfied.

"Well, I'll be honest. Doesn't seem very fresh, does it?"

"Shall I give you a taste then, dear Horace?" Sirius arched a brow, and Finnigan passed him a boarskin cannister. Carefully, he aimed one end at a corner of the ceiling, and Slughorn could only sigh and shake his head disapprovingly.

"No, no―oh, there you go." He observed, sounding resigned.

Sirius popped off the cap with gusto, and suddenly there spilled forth a thick white beam of lightning, splitting the air thunderously as it streaked across the room, coursing across branches, and the ceiling was left charred. Several items were seared and knocked off the shelves, and clattered to the floor.

"Brilliant," Slughorn muttered under his breath. "Like they're cheap."

Expectantly, the captain recapped the cannister. "Seems to me like it's still cracking, very much alive. Very fresh. So, name your price."

"For ten thousand bolts?" Slughorn reiterated contemplatively.

"For ten thousand bolts, grade A, finest quality of lightning you can get your hands on," was the affirmation.

"Yes," the old fence pondered. "But it's difficult to move, isn't it? Hard to store, hard to shift. Lots of trouble. If I get the DMLE sniffing around, what with―eh." He flipped his hands about for emphasis, but raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment. "Ten thousand bolts. Hmm. Best price, one thousand and five hundred galleons."

"Gentleman," Sirius pursed his lips, and stuck out his hand, "kindly return the merchandise on board and prepare to set sail! Horace, always a pleasure."

"Alright, hold on, hold on!" Slughorn waved his hands about, worked up. "Just hold on one moment, would you? Give an old man some time to think, for goodness' sake!"

"Oh, he's―"

"One thousand six hundred, one thousand six hundred!"

"Ah, since I'm feeling particularly generous today, I'll settle for a very generous two thousand galleons."

"Two thousand?" Slughorn exclaimed, the picture of incredulity. "Alright, you're having me on, aren't you?"

The fence glanced the other crew members and Draco, all of whom were waiting at the side, watching the debacle unfold, and continued. He gestured to the crate of lightning indignantly.

"You must be joking! Stuffed your brain in there too, have you? Been sailing up where the air's too thin?" Wildly gesticulating, Slughorn pulled his hat off and dabbed at his forehead, exchanging a glance with Draco, who looked mildly concerned for everybody's well-being.

Sirius remained unimpressed. "Had enough laughs yet, old man?" He raised his brows. "That was crude."

"Not anymore," Slughorn put, and then turned serious once more.

"Two thousand."

"Eighteen hundred."

"Two thousand."

"This is not a negotiation!" Slughorn blustered. "Fine, I'll change my number. Eighteen fifty."

"Did I hear you say twenty hundred?" Sirius glanced at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Twenty hundred? From you, you did! Yeah," Slughorn swiped a hand in his direction, aggravated. "I said eighteen fifty."

"You said twenty hundred."

"If I did, you're a ventriloquist. Alright, alright! Nineteen hundred, final offer." He held out a hand expectantly, as if he knew Sirius would take it regardless.

"Nineteen hundred says the man!" Sirius crowed, and firmly shook Slughorn's outstretched hand. He did not let go, eyes twinkling. "So, with sales tax, let me see―that'll be two thousand Galleons."

At this, Slughorn's smile dimmed instantly. "Brilliant," he muttered as they shook and withdrew. "Put it in the back then. Mad times these are. Mad!"

"These are tough times, Horace," Sirius quipped, just to make him feel better, but Draco got the feeling that he wasn't feeling abashed at all. Slughorn only waved him off dismissively. The others hefted up the crates and began herding them to a back room. "Unbelievable. Well, come on, then."

The captain and the middleman shuffled over to a desk piled with papers and seals and scrolls, and Draco hesitantly followed, only to be met with Slughorn's pointed stare.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the fence urged disapprovingly, very clearly signalling that this was a private conference. Peeved, the star withdrew and instead took to standing alone in the corner, admiring the piles of junk, as the crew bustled about. "Nosy little thing."

Dean Thomas, a tall, handsome shipmate with rich dark skin and a brilliant dimpled smile and an artist's hands, sidled over to keep Draco company.

"Don't worry about 'em," he reassured the star, who returned his words with a small smile. "They're probably not talking about anything special anyway. Slughorn just likes people with a reputation, but the captain's never going to believe in him anyway."

Slughorn tugged at Sirius' sleeve urgently. The two faced the wall to maintain the semblance of confidentiality.

"Have you heard any of those rumors 'round the grapevine about a fallen star? You get your hands on one of those, you could shut up shop! Retire!"

"Fallen star?" The captain hid his pity with feigned curiosity.

Grimmauld was a land of faeries and dragons and chivalry, but it was also a land of shadows and thorns and warlocks of the night. Clans waged war against one another, and mountains fought, and seas raged. Every day, people starved, and conspired, and thieved, and slaughtered.

Without a doubt he knew that nothing so beautiful as a star could survive in a land so thirsty for blood.

After all, how could anybody possibly sanction this? This was another's life they were talking about!

"Yeah," Slughorn nodded fervently. "Those are worth tens or hundreds of thousands if you find the right kind of buyers."

"Right," muttered the captain, who frowned and glanced at Draco through his peripheral vision. As if aware of the newfound attention, the star startled and met his gaze head on, his mercury eyes swirling, and gave him a tense, halfhearted smile.

Sirius had heard about that. In fact, he had heard some of the crew members talking avidly about how a star had recently fallen in Grimmauld, landing with a brilliant shower of starlight.

Then, not a few days later, he picked up two strangers in the sky, both of whom had no reason for being there.

Unless...

Draco turned away, hiding his alarm, arching his neck to look at a few dangling chains of plaid grass baskets and mead bottles suspended from a ladder, and then suddenly Sirius knew.

Quickly the man turned back to the conversation, and nonchalantly shook his head.

"Nothing on your travels?" asked Slughorn.

Sirius lied through his teeth. "No."

Nobody noticed Draco letting out a relieved breath.

Slughorn remained blissfully unaware of the eavesdropping. "Really? Not even a sniff of a whisper? Everyone's going on about it down at the market."

"Which market? The one by the wall?"

"That's the one."

"Well," Sirius pitched his voice louder, signaling an imminent end to the conversation. "Horace, you're wasting your time listening to gossip from the ragamuffins and cads trading down there. They're getting into your head, old boy."

"Well," Slughorn said dubiously, "if it―"

Another figure rounded the corner, toddling over, and Sirius tilted his head. "Oh, my word! Speak of the devil!" he exclaimed with fake courtesy as the figure came into the light. Her ragged hair stuck up in frayed strands, and her gait was wobbly and mantis-like. "If it isn't the lovely Petunia!"

"Oh yeah?" the witch snarked back at him most unattractively, placing her hands on her hips. "What were you two nasties saying about me then, hmm?"

Slughorn plastered a smile that very much resembled a grimace onto his face. Sirius did not falter in his showering of praise.

"Oh, what a wonderful, enjoyable woman you are, Petunia. How the world wouldn't be the same place without you, how Earth would stop spinning on its axis if you weren't here, all that."

Petunia directed him an exasperatedly fond gaze, and nodded tiredly. It seemed she was used to hearing this from the dashing captain of The Grim.

"You look fabulous, Petunia dear," Slughorn remarked weakly. "You've had your hair done recently, haven't you? Very flattering."

Sirius took this as his opportunity to escape.

"Accentuates your features, dear. But anyway, you two, you both have business to attend to. Petunia, Horace. Good day." He nodded at the both of them, and as they bid him adieu he hurriedly fled. Wrapping an arm around Draco's shoulders and gently nudging him out, the captain barely spared a glance at the pawn shop, and left to find The Grim.

Mind having wandered, Slughorn gestured to his desk, now fully engaged with Petunia's business. Captain Stubby Boardman's visit had been all but forgotten. "Come on, then. I have something new for you..."

Needless to say, he was a busy man.

"Two thousand Galleons!"

The crew uproariously tromped back on deck, their footprints ringed with mud, leaving tracks on the oiled steps, Finnigan and Jordan in the lead. As they approached the deck, though, they quietened, for something was not right. The men reached for their scabbards, and clambered up. Their footsteps slowed to a halt.

Reclining on a heap of crates and barrels in the very center at the ship was a young man with messy hair dark as midnight and eyes that made forests look grim and unbecoming, smoking a pipe which puffed out rings of heather smoke. He wore a billowing coat the color of fresh cream and a waistcoat of fine suede and had the most handsome boots, and looked the essence of casual unconcern.

"Captain Boardman." The stranger tipped his head.

The crew weren't fooled, for the most dangerous adversaries never look like true adversaries, and so advanced, baring their teeth. Before they could move, the captain had barreled over his men, placing his hands on their shoulders.

"Stand down!" Sirius ordered righteously, pushing to the front of the crowd. When he saw the youngster he grinned an impish grin and stepped forward to greet him. Harry clambered up. "Everybody come and meet my godson, the fearsome buccaneer: Harry Potter!"

They shook hands like they had never met before, and the crew looked on in wonder.

"He'll be joining us for our journey down south." The captain firmly clapped Harry on the shoulder, and the newcomer stifled a cough. "And I have the perfect gift to keep you entertained along the way."

For a moment all was suspended in confusion, but when Sirius beckoned to the group, one of them shoved Draco forward, and he stumbled into Harry, who quickly steadied him.

Once he realized everybody was looking at them expectantly, Harry hesitantly pulled Draco against him by the waist, formed a fist with his free hand, and let out a halfhearted growl. "Oh―um, argh."

Very much convinced, the onlookers hooted and catcalled, and once more tumult was restored to the ship. Finnigan rolled his eyes at the pervasive air of obliviousness that seemed to seep through the floorboards and into the skulls of everybody around him, but only shook his head and closed his mouth and set off to work.

"Alright, you lazy dogs!" Sirius barked, demeanor changing. "Let's get young Harry on his way home, then!"

The proclamation was met with more caterwauling, and the crew immediately set to work, withdrawing the bridge and setting to the stern. The Grim took off, sailing through the valley between the mountain ridges, gliding through the clouds once more. In the distance, the sun rose hot and red in the sky, and miles below the grass and forests of stone crevice shone a sleek gold. Finnigan and Thomas began turning the gears at the sides, and the two metal wings, each grand and glorious, unfolded in all their criss-crossed wire glory, flapping, propelling the ship forward.

Standing side by side on the deck, Harry and Draco gazed at the landscape sprawled out before them, and shared a clandestine smile.

The next few days passed in a haze of bliss, and by the first day the ship found herself dozing through the pleasant lull of repeating activity.

During the day, Sirius took to teaching Harry how to spar, and gifted him his very own sword, claiming that the weapon worked best for those who were worthy, that it was an ancient heirloom passed down from Godric Gryffindor, one of the four founding noble houses. Naturally, Harry was not as perceptive to this as any Grimmauldian history aficionado would have been, but he made do. Together on the platform by the steering wheel they could be seen during the brighter hours of the morning, when the winds were still soft and the air was still cool, practicing together. The captain would demonstrate a move, and Harry would strive to replicate, and the two would cross blades, only to have Harry trip and stumble into the wheel. The others rolled their eyes at this endless cycle, and went about their own business as per usual, such was the norm.

"Alright, remember to keep your wrist loose, Harry, but your grip firm; it gives you better form..." Sirius straightened Harry's elbow. "Right. Now give it a try."

Harry thrust at the thin air about him, lunging forward as if fighting an invisible adversary, unsteady on his feet; he was still getting used to the grip, the weight of the blade. Sirius prodded him with the blunt of his sword, and he swiveled around.

"Good. Now do it again," the man prompted, gesturing with his blade, and Harry obliged, readying his stance. For a moment there was silence, and then a flurry of movement as Harry flourished his sword and began his swift assault, lunging forward.

Without breaking a sweat, Sirius sidestepped and met the point head on with his own, maneuvering the blade and tugging so that Harry's fell from his grasp, and the boy stumbled, bumping into the steering wheel. Immediately the man rushed to steady him. In the background, the others could be seen bustling about, shimmying up the mast.

"Careful there. Alright, let's give it another go, shall we?"

Down on the deck, Draco spent his mornings burning through the books stacked in heaps on Sirius' shelves, and was often found curled up against the mast or standing by the bow, eyes lidded against the sun, casting gold sparks across his face. It was during these times that Dean would cautiously sit by the star and paint or draw, often leaving stirring charcoal stills or dainty portraits of Draco reading scattered about in the wind. On a few occasions he slipped them to Draco, who used them as bookmarks and could not hide his smile whenever he accidentally flipped to them.

(At other times, the blonde could be found fiddling with Seamus' reed pipe, or tinkering with the captain's old pocket watches, for which he often sought out Lee's set of screwdrivers, wherever he'd found them. Or assembling strange mechanical creatures out of scrap bits and bobs. Among other things.)

...

Lunch they ate together at the long table in the mess hall below deck, the captain and crew and all. The shipmates would sit themselves down along a single oaken table stretching from one end of the hall, to the stone furnace, to the other, near the kitchen window, and out would waltz the shy, soft-spoken Neville Longbottom, resident plant junkie ― really, if one entered the kitchen, all one would find would be ingredients and hanging greens, everywhere ― and proclaimed cook, piling plates upon plates, the silver pans clanging against one another in merry cacophony.

(Nobody, for Neville's sake, commented on the quality of the food. Not to say that it was bad ― there had simply been times when they'd all had better.)

Sirius would seat himself at the head of the table, and the others would bellow to and fro, their laughter carrying through the cabins. They would screech and cuss and holler at one another, pitting insults and compliments back and forth like the swings of a pendulum, and occasionally these heated discussions would devolve into quarrels and brawls that required interference and blushing apologies to both Harry and Draco, esteemed guests as they were. Mealtimes were jolly that way.

It was through these daily gatherings that the two came to learn a great deal about the rest of the crew. Each was fascinating.

Seamus, though originally hailing from Ireland, had no memories of his home, for his parents had fled in terror of what might happen should people find out about their magical origins; is father had left when he accidentally found out about Seamus' mother's magical background. Dean originally had been an unhappy Healer's apprentice. Lee Jordan once thought he would work with the Board of Governors. Neville's parents had been cut down fighting the Basilisk, a terror that had for years now slumbered underground, to be awoken only by a Chosen One. So it went.

(Harry was initially skeptical about that last statement, but, then again, this was Grimmauld. There were falling stars who were alive, ships that could fly, and lightning that could be snatched up and bottled straight from the skies. That was statement enough.)

When they were done the crew would disperse to their stations once more, on the lookout for stormy skies, and Draco and Harry would retreat also to their separate stations: Harry back to sparring lessons with Sirius, and Draco to the kitchen quarters, where he would help Neville with the cleanup. More than oft the two would stay hidden away in the kitchens, confiding in one another for hours on end; at other times, Draco would disappear off to nowhere, flighty as he felt, and people would happen upon him curled up in the most unusual of places.

Not that anybody minded ― he was a delight. They all were, really.

...

Dinner found Sirius regaling the two guests with his own cooking ― a hobby, he whispered to them, that not even the crew knew about: he piled upon them plates and plates of exotic delicacies he claimed to have picked up during his travels when he was younger. They ate separately from the rest of the crew, holed up in the captain's own cabins, just the two of them. Neither would admit how much they came to enjoy this time alone, away from the hubbub.

"I think you'll like this," Sirius announced, sweeping through the twin doors with two more plates balanced in his hands. "Salmon mousse, foie de gras. Bon appetit, you young 'uns. If you need anything, I'll be up on deck with the others. Enjoy!"

The room was dark save for the single candle whittling away at itself at the center of the table, where Harry and Draco sat patiently, and the captain winked at them both as he sidled out in a manner that perfectly juxtaposed his dramatic entrance. Once he was gone, they were alone.

"Oh, try this!" Harry piped up, holding out his fork, and Draco leaned over to nibble at the end. He watched as Draco's hair fell gracefully over his forehead and tried to hide the tremors in his hand as the star's warm breath teased over his knuckles, and felt blood rush up to his head when the blonde moaned.

"Oh," Draco did not hide his pleasure as the mousse melted on his tongue, "it's absolutely brilliant!"

"Y-Yeah." Harry dug into his plate with gusto so as to hide his reddened cheeks. "So, how've you been these past few days? I've been meaning to ask. I―I'm sorry about the other day, you know."

Draco fell silent at this. "Don't worry," he smiled softly, "it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"

"And, um, how about the crew? They aren't... bothering you too much, right?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "No. How come? Concerned for my well-being, are you?"

"Well, wasn't I the one who said we'd get to the wall safe and sound? I intend to keep that promise, you know."

For a moment they shared an unreadable look, and time stopped. The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner faded, the tossing of the wine amidst a current of turbulence splashed against the glass rim and stopped mid-wave, and the wavering of the candlelight stopped flickering. Harry found himself tripping and falling, swallowed by the iridescent grey of Draco's irises, which glimmered, sending him spiraling into unending stormcloud depths. He found himself leaning forward, ever so slightly ― it felt right, letting his baser instincts take over, and Draco was so close, his eyes wide and unblinking and his cheeks flushed―

Then the thread snapped, and the moment was over. He blinked, and drew back, and Draco startled like he had been stung, and looked away.

"R-Right," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Harry added unnecessarily, releasing a breath he had no idea he had been holding.

They made it through the remainder of the meal with stunted, stuttering conversation, most of which ended in tense, trailing sentences and secret smiles, but neither seemed to mind.

...

Come evening, Draco and Harry split once more. On clearer days, when the clouds gave way to a misty midnight sky spattered with stars, the latter could be seen jostling about and mingling with the crew ― many of whom Sirius suspected were teaching Harry underhanded tricks like the sleight of hand, while the captain spirited the former off to hidden rooms in his cabin for sessions unknown.

On evenings like these, Sirius taught Draco how to play the piano, a habit he had picked up in his earlier years living as nobility. The man never had the chance to pick up where he left off, back in the day, but a few years back he had won a rickety antique piano in a barter gone well, and on days he felt pressured he would steal off in the dead of the night to play a few notes. Together they would huddle on the bench, squinting beneath the candlelight ― they dared not use any stronger source, lest they be discovered ― inching their way through notes, until Draco, who was a remarkably quick learner, could intuitively play Grimmauldian medleys off by heart.

(When the crew, who post-prandially retired beneath the deck when there were no chores to complete, played Exploding Snap cards and passed around Firewhiskey till they were sloshed, they could sometimes hear the telltale sound of music, tinkling and lovely as a brook, filter through the floorboards. They passed these sounds off for the souls the captain had supposedly drowned in earlier years, lulling them to sleep with their songs.)

At other times, Sirius taught Draco how to waltz. His reasoning behind this was that now that he was in Grimmauld, he was expected to behave most nobly, and one could not accomplish that without having at least a basic understanding of ballroom dance. When the crew snored with the rocking of the ship, Sirius would lead Draco out and lead him through the steps on the abandoned deck, alone with no company save for the stars above. The hours before dawn found them laughing as Draco stumbled about, adamantly trying to follow the captain's lead, but miserably failing.

Needless to say, Draco did not pick up dancing as quickly as he did music, but that was alright.

On stormier days, though, when the clouds billowed angrily about The Grim and none could see her silhouette through the bleak roar of the winds, they collected lightning. The galleon's majestic wire wings would spread, jagged and ominous, and they would soar through the storm, and blinding white cracks of lightning would thunder past, latching onto the tips of the metal. Each spark would rush down the lengths of the overlapping appendages, crackling, racing, and the crew would yell at one another over the sound of the beating rain.

Everybody would rush about the slippery deck, decked in their signature raincoats, sporting leather canisters. They plugged their casks into the mechanical openings, each sturdy and built as a cannon, and let the lightning course through into each container, thundering rebelliously, relentlessly, fighting to break free, for nothing could ever contain lightning.

Draco and Harry were paired together, because of course they were, as per the unspoken accord aboard the ship. The first night, Seamus tossed Harry two baggy ponchos and goggles and hurried aboard without another word, and Harry was at a loss as to what they were to do as the ship tumbled and rocketed through the sky. It was only until Draco prodded him into action that he passed one overcoat to the blonde and slipped into his own, feeling very much like an unattractive sack of rotting potatoes, and stumbled up onto the deck.

Above the racket of the storm, Sirius motioned them towards the nearest portal, where several of the other crew members were haggling over the spokes. Bolts of lightning flashed closer, and closer. Together they lugged one of the empty caskets over and planted it atop the open electric terminal, and waited.

Not a moment further, a streak of light raced across the sky, fuming as it snapped at the ship's wire wings, and began curling in, winding recklessly down the wires, traveling down and under through the countless cables, then up towards the port ―

― and suddenly it struck, sharp as a whip, heaving so heavily that Harry and Draco almost lost their grip on the slick exterior of the container, and those who were struggling to keep the metal latch open tripped. Only a single bolt was formidable, lashing to and fro, feral, but the two at the heel kept at it, digging their nails into the leather to keep from dropping, scrabbling in all directions as the light flashed before them ―

― and then it was done, and the spark withered, and their work was done. They could feel the subdued rumble of the bolts inside, and it was complete. The others cheered and let go of the bars, and the metal port snapped shut with a sound thud, and Harry quickly screwed on the lid to prevent bits of lightning from escaping, successfully stoppering the transaction.

"We did it!" Harry whooped.

"Huzzah!" hollered the rest.

As soon as it was complete, Harry and Draco tore off their goggles and burst into exhilarated laughter and embraced, and everybody rejoiced. For catching lightning is an experience that only those who have experienced it can firmly express: one that so fills the soul with adrenaline, as if one has been struck by lightning oneself. And both Harry and Draco knew now the rush of glory it felt to be flying free, facing the elements.

...

By the final day, Harry had become an expert marksman, having finally bested master duelist Captain Stubby Boardman in a standoff. The man had been beaming with pride the whole day afterwards, and Harry had felt the glow of achievement rise in his own chest, and all was well. After dinner, Sirius took everybody aside.

"We'll be stopping at the island tomorrow," he announced sagely, and murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire. Harry was intrigued by this progression. "But tonight, we have another activity to worry about! Start the music!"

The crew burst into raucous cheers once more, and everybody filed off to their stations. Neville tinkered with a few knobs on a handy mechanical gramophone his grandmother had once owned, one that had to be manually played like a windup musical box, and he was happy to sit aside and oblige. With a few slow turns, it crackled to life, and on lulled the sensuous, wistful music of old Grimmauld, a nighttime serenade.

For the evening they had set up several torches in a wide merry circle on the deck, casting warm, flickering shadows across the floor. With much flair, Sirius straightened and held out his arm, and Draco hid a smile behind his hand and took the proffered hand and let the captain guide him to the center of the floor, just as they had practiced.

They began waltzing to the tune, almost perfectly in sync save for Draco's occasional stumble, and it was so simultaneously human and lovely that the others looked at them with a varying mixture of indolent fondness and amusement on their faces. Many hummed along to the music. Others were nodding along to their steps.

Harry leaned back against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, watching the pair bemusedly. His eyes were drawn to Draco, who, clad in an elegant white shirt that billowed ever so slightly in the breeze, looked the picture of bliss, the corners of his mouth curving upwards mirthfully.

He found he could not look away from the smooth arch of his neck, or the soft swaying of his hair in the wind, or the slow blink of his half-lidded eyes. He found that now he truly did not wish to.

He could not hide his smile at this.

Draco could not hide his laughter as he narrowly avoided stepping on Sirius' toes once more, his face alight. It was then that the captain noticed how his features were alight, how his hair seemed to have gained a shimmering sheen, and all his previous reservations were confirmed.

"Draco," Sirius dipped the star backwards, lowering his voice so none could hear, and muttered into his ear, "Draco. I know what you are."

He pulled the blonde up, and Draco sucked in a sharp breath. The glow he was previously basked in faded instantly, and his eyes widened in terror. Sirius kept his grip firm as the star stumbled and tried to pull away, and reeled him in once more, feeling the fingers at his shoulder clutch harder.

"No, no. Have no fear," he whispered in Draco's ear. They continued their waltz. "Trust me. Nobody here will harm you, but once you get out there, there are plenty who might."

Relieved, Draco released the breath he'd been holding, the glow returning slightly. Sirius did not relent.

"Your emotions give you away, Draco. You're turning on and off like a switch. You have to control your emotions, you know. Your glow's been getting stronger by the day, and I think we both know exactly why."

He darted a glance in a certain lackadaisical youngster's direction and very un-subtly raised his brows.

Draco faltered, oblivious to his lack of discretion, and frowned.

"Of course we know why I'm glowing," he protested matter-of-factly, as if it were obvious. "I'm a star. And what do stars do best?"

Sirius grinned. "Certainly not the waltz, I'd say."

Before they could continue, the captain felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see Harry standing behind him.

"May I?" Harry asked, and, being the amazing, all-knowing, magnanimous man that he was, Sirius Black the Honorable, First of His Name, graciously stepped aside. Mentally, he made sure to have his future peers carve that onto his headstone.

Promptly, Harry took the captain's place, gently taking Draco's hand in one of his and placing the other on his waist. His initial burst of dumb courage subsided the moment he felt Draco's fingers wrap around his own, and suddenly he felt completely unsure and out of place, like he was a specter detachedly watching the view from above. But he did not withdraw, and found himself pulling Draco closer, and it felt so natural that he did not dare do otherwise. At this, Draco laughed, his features lighting up.

"Have you practiced dancing before?" Harry inquired with a raised brow.

"Have you?" Draco shot back, unable to suppress his smile, eyes glowing. "You're even worse at this than I am!"

"You didn't deny it. Was this what you and Sirius were doing in the evenings?" Harry's eyes widened, and he faux gasped like he had heard something scandalous, grinning. "How delightful to hear."

Draco playfully stuck out his tongue. "Sounds like you could use some lessons, too."

"You just stepped on my foot, mi amor," teased Harry.

"Okay, okay!" Draco stared intently his feet, as if willing them to cooperate, and skittered to an abrupt halt. "Alright, try now."

They began dancing once more, only to scatter about just as miserably as before, and both of them burst into peals of delighted laughter. Neither noticed the way Draco seemed to suddenly be emanating an aura of brilliant white light.

"See?"

"Hmm, very good," Harry smirked, and the two picked up their pace in time with the music. "I think you're qualified teach a three year-old now."

He dodged Draco's halfhearted whack on the shoulder with all good grace, and spun the star around in a circle with all the poise of a professional, feeling jittery in spite of his seemingly laid-back exterior. Around them, the others also began toddling about in their own meager attempts to dance gracefully. The night was calm and the air was alive with the telltale whispers of a summer long gone, and, once more, as those aboard The Grim danced and chatted the hours away, all was well, and all their troubles were forgotten, swept away with the breeze.

Harry woke to the sun in his face, a wracking pain in his head, and a weight on his chest. There was something hard digging into his back. As soon as he tried opening his eyes, the sunlight was blinding, sending a sharp pain shooting through his skull, and he groaned weakly in protest.

"Morning, sunshine!" Sirius called from the helm. "Had quite a night, didn't you?"

For the second time, Harry cracked open his eyes, with great difficulty, raising a hand to shield against the glare of morning light. Pulling his glasses down from where they lay askew beside him, he squinted and glanced up. He was lying on the bench lining the cabin walls. Some of the crew were sprawled out across the deck in various positions, each more sluggish and embarrassing than the next. Others had already risen, and were bustling about the deck as per usual. Sirius was at the steering wheel, jocundly drumming his fingers on the wooden spokes.

"W-Wha...?" Harry grumbled, and tried to move, only to stall from the weight draped over his side. When he looked down, he was met with Draco's fine features and a faceful of his soft blonde hair.

Draco was fast asleep, his arms crossed on Harry's chest and his head resting delicately atop them. When in slumber, his features looked vulnerable, mollified by unconsciousness. It seemed no darkness could reach him. Harry swore that from his angle, Draco had some of the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.

Not wanting to wake the star, Harry lay still for a few moments, watching the steady, inconspicuous bob of Draco's head as his chest rose and fell. Stubbornly, his sleep-ridden mind very reasonably insisted on him putting Draco to bed since he looked so tired.

Reaching out a hand, he ever so softly rested his fingers on Draco's shoulder. When he did not wake, Harry grasped his shoulder and eased the sleeping star off him, and sat up. In a quick, fluid motion, he crouched down and hefted the blonde up onto his back, stifling the protests from his aching muscles.

As if in automatic response, Draco sighed contentedly and buried his face in the crook of Harry's neck, arms wrapping around his neck snugly. He showed no signs of wakefulness. Harry drew in a sharp breath, feeling the tickling of Draco's even breathing down his cheek and his hair on the nape of his neck. His face was on fire, and cursed himself to the very ends of the earth as his body suddenly began reacting in perhaps what was the most inappropriate manner possible.

(He told himself it was just nature's way of punishing him so early in the morning. It had nothing to do with Draco. It was just... biology.)

He was pulled from his self-deprecating thoughts by Sirius' footsteps clanging down the steps.

"Hello there, Harry," said the captain, whose brows rose into his hairline when he saw him carrying Draco. "Oh, pardon me. It seems I'm interrupting something."

"Sirius!" Harry hissed, blushing in spite of himself. He groaned once more as his head thundered.

"Lad, you might've had a tad too much Firewhiskey last night." Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Luckily for you, we're almost at Ottery St. Catchpole's, so you can take however many naps you want once we've arrived. Molly has a wicked hangover cure."

"Wh―" Harry spluttered, unable to string together any coherent thoughts. He grimaced. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Before he could say anything else, Draco stirred, inhaling sharply as he slowly blinked, sleep fading from his eyes.

After a moment, through confused, half-lidded eyes, he frowned and mumbled softly, "Harry?"

Hurriedly, Harry let him down, bracing him by the shoulders lest he fall.

"Morning," he said quietly, marginally tightening his grip when Draco blinked and stumbled against him. The sight of a bedraggled Draco was so endearing that for a minute his heart did a funny little dance in his chest. He really needed to see a physician after this whole thing was over, what with these occasional pains in his chest.

"I see you're doing well, Draco," Sirius piped up as a means of greeting. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mm, good morning, Sirius." Draco rubbed his eyes blearily. "I―"

The ship jolted then, rocking them all sideways with a swing. A mighty gale blew, blasting them with a mighty gust of hot wind, and Sirius latched onto his hat to keep it from flying off. Harry's grip around Draco's shoulder tightened inconspicuously.

From the perch atop the fore topmast, Seamus roared, "Land ho!"

Sirius' expression turned alert. Those of the crew who had not yet roused finally came to, muzzily wiping the last remnants of the night from their eyes. The rest crowed raucously in response.

"Land ho!"

"We're here!"

"Captain!"

"It's happening!" Sirius yelled, eyes ablaze, and swung up onto the ship shrouds for a better view. "Land sighted, men! Get to work!"

Harry and Draco exchanged a look, all vestiges of the previous night slipping away like sand in a glass, and rushed to the edge of the ship. As the galleon tilted precariously to one side, and they clung to the railings for dear life lest they fall, the clouds brushed past them with the softest of touches. All around them were plains of glorious white, of clouds with sunlight glinting off their dewy veneers.

"Is this what you saw on a cloudy day?" Harry hollered above the wind, shielding his eyes from the glare. With his free hand he gripped the railing, and cheered with an echoing whoop that was carried off into the wind.

"Oh, piss off," Draco laughed good-naturedly. "It was a lot darker when it rained."

For a moment the ship indolently sailed through the sky, suspended, and then the stern angled downwards, its figurehead of a ferocious lupine creature with glowing eyes and a snarling, gaping maw cutting a clean path through the clouds. Continuously they angled downwards, so far down that the ship was almost perpendicular to the ground below, and the people and the trunks on deck began sliding downwards, scrabbling for purchase. The clouds were so thick that they crowded them like too much cream in a pie.

Then they were through the clouds, and found themselves soaring over an obsidian mountain swathed in violets and vernal greens, where there were peaks were the slate grey of the rock faces jutted out like carved faces. The mountain twisted farther and farther up till it touched the sky, and then curved downwards like a tidal wave, as if it were a person grown too tall for the sky, forced to bend at the waist. Firmly ensconced among the mountain and the sky was a bay that swept inwards to a lagoon of crisp azure, the only noticeable passage of entry, shadowed by trees. Large birds shrieked, their cries echoing through the valleys. The area seemed so vivid and larger-than-life that Harry almost lost his footing, like he had found himself spirited away to Neverland. Beside him, Draco's eyes lit up, riveted.

Seamus strode up to the two as the ship began its descent, and clapped them both on the shoulders.

"Ain't it a beaut?"

"That's Ottery St. Catchpole?" Harry gawked.

Seamus shrugged, and swiped at a grease smudge on his forehead.

"Yep. We call it the Burrow, if that helps. Bit of a nasty shock for me when I found out, too."

"Why the Burrow?" Draco frowned.

"Beats me," quipped Seamus. "Never got 'round to askin'. It isn't always good, asking questions. Could get you in a real pickle at the best o' times."

Draco only nodded slowly, waving off his confusion, and Seamus set off to work once more. As he and Harry leaned against the banister, a dark shape passed by overhead, its shadow flashing, wings beating, and darted down towards the forest green below. Its eerie, primeval cry reverberated back at them. Draco leapt backwards as if stung.

Harry whipped around in alarm. "Did anybody see that? What was that?"

"Here be dragons, Harry, m'boy!" Sirius bellowed. "Dragons, I say!"

Draco turned to Harry, eyes wide, and could see his own incredulous expression reflected back at him on the other's face also.

"Dragons?" the two mouthed at each other simultaneously, and turned away, unable to stifle their gaping.

"Captain at the wheel!"

With a fervid bluster, The Grim nose-dived into the glimmering clear bay water. The collision had the floorboards quaking, and everybody save for Sirius was thrown of their feet as they were bombarded with a surge of water, spraying across the deck, drenching them in salt. Draco and Harry, who stood side by side at the helm, clutched to the railing for dear life as the wave crashed down around them. Draco threw his head back and laughed, and the tips of his dripping hair glowed a lustrous silver in the sunlight, and his eyes gleamed fey, and for a moment Harry's mouth felt drier than sand and his heart thumped so painfully that it felt too big for his chest.

As the water cleared and splashed off the sides of the ship, they held onto each other and laughed, brushing their dampened hair out of their eyes. Sirius dusted his hands and stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

"Impeccable landing, eh, boys?"

The others collectively heaved a sigh.

They sailed on into the curve of the bay, where the sand shone gold and the waves demurely ebbed and disappeared. Harry could not see a single soul, but he felt the dense jungles ahead buzzing with life, coiled tense like a wire. The hubbub had settled, and the crew mingled about on deck, poised. Aside from the whispers from the trees, the air was rendered oddly silent, and it made Harry's skin prickle and his head swim, like there was a faint shimmer in the air all around them.

As they approached the shore and docked, the galleon scraping against the sandy beach alcove with a satisfying groan, floating not meters away from dry land, Sirius retired from the wheel and made his way over to where Harry and Draco stood. He clapped them both on the shoulder.

"Lads, I'm sorry this is the farthest we can take you. The winds are troubled beyond these shores of late, and something wicked stirs. I can feel it. We have to investigate, but we'll be back in no time with news." The captain fished a rolled-up piece of parchment out of his breast pocket and discreetly slipped it into Harry's hands. "Give my best to everyone when you reach the Burrow, alright? You tell them that Captain Stubby Boardman will be back in due time."

Harry nodded and pocketed the note, and warily began descending the steps, his belongings swinging over his shoulder.

"How do we get there? How will we know where it is?" he asked once his feet had hit the shallows with a splash. As Draco stepped down after him, Harry held out a hand to steady his landing. Ripples pooled about his boots.

"I'll let you both in on a secret," Sirius called conspiratorially, leaning against the railing on deck. "There are times when things appear not when you search for them, but only when you stop searching."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll figure it out, lads." The wind picked up, and the captain turned towards the sun, facing the breeze, his hair fanning out behind him. "Looks like now's the time. We'll meet each other again soon. Sooner than you know."

With that he sent them his signature wink and disappeared, materializing once again behind the wheel. The engines hummed as the ship revved into motion once again and turned on its tail in the water, its metal wings emerging and unfolding like those of a great swan in flight. The crew waved at the two, and Sirius saluted them one final time, and then the ship put on a burst of speed and soared gracefully towards the sky once more, taking flight, and was soon lost from sight.

All that remained of The Grim were its two bedraggled passengers and calm circles of cresses disturbing the previously unblemished lagoon surface.

Harry bit back the wistfulness clinging like damp water to his heart, and turned towards the trees, through which he saw nothing but foliage and uncertainty. He turned to Draco.

"Ready to go?"

"Of course."

Idly Harry wondered how he had managed to land himself in an unfamiliar forest... for the third time the past six days.

He should have been used to it by now. Life happened in cycles, after all.

Only this time, he had nothing. Not even an inkling of an idea. While he had been at Hagrid's, he had followed his gut feeling, had had a sense of where he should be headed, but this time he was completely stumped. His blood ran silent, and did not seek him out.

This time the dense forestry was unlike that of the murky undergrowth in the Beauxbatons ruins, where in the shadows lurked the dead and there was deceptively little of life.

This time the trees were alive.

They breathed with the air, teeming with life. Around them there was no silence; the air rang with a low buzzing, pierced through by intermittent shrieks and howls echoing in the distance. Shadows danced, flitting to and fro amidst the branches, and as they trekked deeper through the vines and fallen logs Harry could make out the occasional glow of fireflies and will o' wisp lighting up the groves. Branches rustled ahead, and Harry felt unease settle deep in his bones as the natural aromas of exotic flowers tingled against his skin.

Now, if only they could just find a proper path...

So stuck in his reverie and so low was Draco's voice that he almost missed it when Draco spoke.

"You're thinking too hard."

Harry stumbled over a stray root as he was jerked from his thoughts. His fingers had dents where he had clutched his compass―an ugly, bent old thing―and the needle on his pathfinder wavered constantly, spinning like a hatter off his rocket. "What?"

"You were speaking to yourself," Draco elaborated after a pause, pointedly staring at the ground where he trod. "Don't you remember what Sirius said before he left?"

"Oh, sorry about that." Harry thought on this, before conceding, and stopped in his tracks, slipping the pathfinder into his pocket. "I suppose I was just preoccupied."

"With Cho?" Draco stared ahead resolutely, avoiding his gaze. His tone was light when he said this.

In truth, not a single thought of Cho had plagued Harry in the past two days, but the reminder sent him reeling. It made him restless with unease.

Right, Cho.

"Right, um. So, uh, how long have we been walking?" he blurted out in a meek attempt to divert the topic. Mentally, he pictured slapping himself on both cheeks. Draco narrowed his eyes. "I keep getting the feeling that we haven't made any progress."

"I've no idea," he said slowly, stepping over a puddle. About them, the leaves glistened with condensation and dew from the early morning. "An hour? I suppose we'll just have to―"

A snapping through the treetops behind them cut him off. His eyes widened, and nervously he cast a cursory glance at the leafy canopy above them. A few beams of sun peeked through the leaves, sending columns of smooth golden light shooting through the undergrowth.

"Did you hear that?" Draco's fingers found Harry's sleeve and unconsciously tightened, snagging the cloth.

Harry turned to raise a brow at him. "Hear what?"

At the unimpressed tone of Harry's voice, Draco sighed and released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. With some difficulty he unlatched his fingers from Harry's jacket wrist and tamped down the unsettling feeling stewing in his gut.

Valiantly he shook his head. "I thought I heard something."

"It was probably nothing," Harry reassured absentmindedly."After all―"

As he reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Draco's shoulder, Harry caught a flash, a quickening of shadows, in his peripheral vision. Under his touch, Draco stiffened.

"You saw that, too?" Harry murmured, momentarily spooked, and felt for his pocket once more. Better at least have a sense of direction, he reasoned, opting for logic over faith. "Let me get my pathfinder."

"It'd be hard not to." Draco's frown was tinged with worry. Urgently he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist, which still laid heavy and foreboding on his own shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine, and in spite of the heat he felt chills prickling at the back of his neck. "Harry, this place gives me the creeps. I feel like we're being watched."

Harry furrowed his brow as his fingers, while rifling, closed around nothing. He patted at all his pockets, but came up empty. It was no use being spooked easily; they had already come this far, and Sirius had guaranteed that they had nothing to fear. He trusted Sirius―the man was a great one. "It was probably just a trick of the light. Hold on, I think I dropped it somewhere over here just now."

Draco didn't look convinced, but did not press the matter further. They turned back, hoping to hasten, when suddenly behind them there darted by an unmistakable rustling, which faded as fast as it came. Harry stilled and looked back again, and Draco tugged at his sleeve desperately.

"Harry, please. This doesn't feel right," he hissed. Harry waved him off.

"Hold on," he glowered, and backpedaled a few steps. When he scanned the ground he saw no glint of rusted gold, or any sign of tracks in the dirt. "I don't see anything."

"I thought we already established that whenever you think something is wrong, it probably is! Now can we please go?"

Harry crouched among the leaves. "No, I swear I just had the stupid thing. Let's face it―" He lifted a large leaf and peered under it, before repeating the action for another. "―we're lost."

"Didn't Sirius tell us to just follow our instincts?" Draco wrapped his arms forlornly around his middle as he stood a few meters away, watching Harry fumble around for the stupid golden contraption. "If it's bothering you that much, I'll find you another one, but can we please just get out of here first?"

"Don't be like that," Harry protested, and shuffled away some more. "Look, we'd be out of here in no time if you stopped and helped me look for the damn thing. Quit being so impatient, will you?"

"You don't even need it!" Draco threw up his hands in frustration. "If you're going to stay here, I think I'm going to go first. This place gives me the creeps."

"Fine," Harry grumbled, shooing him off with a vague gesture. "Be that way. I'll catch up in a moment."

He missed the upset look Draco threw his way.

"Alright," the blonde sighed, expression undecipherable, and headed off briskly. "You go do that, then."

Harry shook his head and bent down, brushing away at some fallen twigs, when his fingertips brushed against a cold metal surface ridden with bumps and scratches. His heart leapt, and as he reached out and grasped at the object he crowed victoriously.

"Aha! There we go." When he stood, brushed the residues of dirt off the worn surface of his compass, and looked up, Harry found Draco to be nowhere in sight. Sucking in a breath, the brunet ran a hand through his hair and stalked off. "Oh, honestly."

He batted a few low-hanging vines away and ducked under an arch made by an archaic tree trunk, ignoring the way droplets of water rained down upon him whenever he disturbed a few too many plants. Around him swayed bunches of fleshy pink flowers, and if he strained his ears he could make out the rustling that meant Draco's footfalls a little ahead of him.

"Draco!" he called, lackadaisically.

What he would give for a cup of Sirius' home-brewed tea right about now. His head still throbbed from his late-night toils.

"Come on, you're joking. Draco! Would it kill you to slow down a little?"

As if on cue, there suddenly came a muffled crash and a panicked cry up ahead, as if somebody had fallen. Harry felt his heartbeat pick up.

"Draco?" he ventured cautiously.

When there came no answer, Harry shoved through the stray branches and bushes, clambering over yet another arched trunk. The forest around him rumbled a warning, and he unwittingly found himself breaking into a run, racing through the mist.

"Draco! Draco! Damn it."

He tore through the wood, free of the looming trees, and burst into a patched glade, obscured from view by a ring of trees. Suspended from a branch, dangling archly in a thick net woven from coarse twine, was Draco, unscathed save for the few stray hairs falling over his face.

Draco's eyes widened as Harry tumbled into the clearing, and gasped in relief. "Harry! Oh, thank goodness."

His earlier panic forgotten, Harry struggled to stifle his laughter as he watched Draco flail around in the net.

"Got yourself caught in a bear trap?" he smirked.

"Stop laughing, Potter," Draco bit his lip in indignation.

"Potter?" Harry couldn't help but grin, but reached for his blade all the same. "What happened to Harry?"

"If this is a bear trap as you say, then we should go," Draco raised a brow. "Now can you please, by all that is good and safe, let me down, Harry Potter?"

"I don't know," Harry mused, surveying the trap, his gaze following the rope as it looped around the branch and down, around the tree trunk, and―

"Oh, look," he exclaimed. "It ends behind that tree. I'll be back."

"Okay." Draco yielded, and closed his eyes.

Heartily Harry strode over past a wizened, gnarled root hidden beyond the ring, and pulled experimentally at the taut knots. It was tough and coarse and rough to touch.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I've got it," Harry called back, fingers tracing the rope. His eyes narrowing, he crouched and sought out the knots.

As he set his blade and began sawing at the rope he found that it resisted from fraying.

"Is it working?"

Draco's voice was quiet, but it still carried through the trees with a strangely tense gravity.

All around them, the forest stirred—a beast waking from slumber, like a single entity with thousands of tiny parts interspersed in the air around them.

Harry grunted offhandedly.

"I'm getting it."

He was not getting it. The rope stubbornly evaded the blade, slipping to and fro like a live snake, and he cursed. Finally, he gave up and reached for one of the larger weapons hidden in his coat.

There came a whisper of the wind behind him, followed by a rustling of footsteps, but Harry was too preoccupied with trying to worry the rope to notice.

The sound of a string strung taut filled the air the next moment. There came a telltale prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and very suddenly Harry felt something approach from behind him.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you."

Harry's blood ran cold, and he froze, fingers stilling in their place.

"Very good. Hands off, pal. Now stand."

Ever so slowly, Harry stood, the muscles in his back aching and his heart pounding fists against his rib.

"Drop the dagger."

Hopelessly, Harry grit his teeth and reluctantly pried his fingers apart. The dagger slipped easily from his grasp, landing in the piles of dead leaves with an unintelligible thud.

"I can sense your curiosity." This time he definitely felt the sting of a sharpened weapon point. "Turn around."

He squeezed his eyes shut and jerkily clenched his fist, and inched his way around, feeling a lump in his throat. As he turned there came that sickeningly familiar whistle through the air and the same dreadful feeling of falling and all of a sudden there was that very same revolting thump and that very same wet, hot pain erupting in his temple and shooting through his head.

As he fell, Harry registered only few sensations, his vision blurring and his ears ringing and the dirt on the ground beneath him damp.

He heard Draco's frantic cry of his name, colored bright with worry, distorted by his wavering senses. He thought he saw his knife hilt, catching the sunlight and gleaming not a few feet away. He thought he saw the obsidian tip of an arrow nocked on a wych elm bow, carved with an intricate W.

Before the darkness washed over him in calming waves and the world spun like a spinning top, he thought he saw hair made of fire and eyes that burnt like embers.

Perhaps, he thought, he imagined it.

Then the blackness pulled him under. Everything disappeared, and he was gone.

endnote: These forests are never-ending. Anyway, tell me what you think!