A/N: Here's your chapter, dear readers! Lots of shifting in this one, so I apologize in advanced. I'm rusty like woah.

Hopefully you guys won't have to wait another… uh… year for an update; chapter 19 is in the works. I'm motivating myself to write more as a sort of pseudo-nanowrimo.

P.S. I don't research very much, sorry to say. If all the inconsistencies in the story bother you, click back! You wouldn't believe how much gnashing of teeth it'll save you.

Chapter 18
Lucky Number Thirteen

Something was wrong.

Riddle frowned at his reflection in the mirror, his pale fingers tying the knot of the silk tie. He didn't know what prompted the thought, but his intuition told him something was happening, something he was not yet aware of. Eyes scanning the area around him, the lawyer stepped out of the pristine bathroom, a hand on the slot where his revolver should have been.

There was no movement in the room other than the light fluttering of drapes caught in a mid-afternoon breeze. Two steps later, Riddle had closed the window and sealed it, his dark eyes still darting around the hotel room. Nothing felt or looked different… yet, he knew something was "off", for instincts had never failed him before. Taking the black gun and silencer from the coffee table, Riddle fell onto the plush sofa and pushed a few strands of hair back, releasing a large sigh in the process. There was nothing here. Premonition or not, he could not act suspicious in a city which still remembered his name and its infamy.

Waving the notion aside, Riddle sat up and retrieved his laptop, all too eager to review his funds. Counting money always seemed to calm him. He paused as the page came up and felt an instant gratification flood his system.

Though to be fair, twenty-five million dollars would make anyone smile.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Ah… damn."

Malfoy gave him a strange look as soon as the phrase came out of Harry's mouth. The doctor flushed red, withdrawing from the wall as if he were a skittish animal. Second time today, good god. This was not going to end well.

There was a moment of silence in which Draco was completely underwhelmed.

"Oi Potter, you… you initiated a kiss twice in one day and you're still squeamish about it?" The blond's tone was caught between amusement and dry disbelief, "you're certainly picking a poor time to have second thoughts. If you're really not a virgin, stop acting like one; it was a snog – and not even a proper one – not a deflowering session."

Throwing a glare, the doctor fell mute and tried to think of something witty or, at the very least, coherent. Unfortunately for Harry however, this was the precise moment where all cognitive ability disappeared.

Something that almost sounded like a chuckle echoed through the room, and Harry found his client a little too close for comfort again.

"Though… I suppose one of those sessions is imminent?"

Harry growled, about to say something scathing when he noticed the spread of redness across the gray cloth of Malfoy's shirt, centered on the collared area. Taking a deep breath, the doctor's trained instincts rose to the surface.

"Malfoy, stay still. You're bleeding, presumably when…" Harry faltered, spots of red still remaining in his cheeks, "…when your head made contact with the wall. Take off your habit."

The blond's brows raised a fraction in curiosity before he touched the base of his head lightly and felt wetness. He looked at his fingers for a second, observing the stained crimson. Shrugging, Draco licked a finger, savoring the metallic, coppery taste on his tongue. He smiled faintly for a second, a feral fire lit within him.

"Malfoy! Habit off now, and stop touching the wound." Harry scowled as he looked around the room for some sort of radio device, only to remember that his client was mentally unstable with no tolerance for electronics. He was not at all perturbed by his client's vampirical palate, since the thought of Malfoy dying of blood loss was much more distressing. "Take it off and settle it against your head; I have to go get a nurse."

With a swish and a quiet click of the hydraulic door sealing closed, Potter was gone. Draco disrobed, looking at the growing red stain and promptly wrinkled his nose.

"This was just cleaned." He said to himself in disdain before balling the cloth up and holding it up to his head, away from the wall.

The wound was a rather serendipitous coincidence for Draco, who had needed a few moments to think. He felt a jolt of pain and swore as he tilted his head back unconsciously, thoughts churning quickly in his head. Potter had done it again. Kissed him. Spontaneously. It was ridiculous to expect anything, but at this point it would be damn near impossible for the doctor to untangle himself out of this situation. A pang of sympathy hit, but Draco shook it away quickly. Potter had dug himself into this hole; whatever happened to him wasn't any fault of his.

Draco masked a sigh as a thick, stocky woman whom Potter called "Grubbly-Plank" entered the room with a white box beside her. He was talking quickly, albeit coherently about what had happened, conveniently leaving out their embarrassing exchange.

The woman looked at Draco expectantly.

"Sit up," she said gruffly, taking a seat on the wooden pallet. Draco did as told, removing the bundled cloth from his head. Grubbly-Plank peered at the wound and then at the gray smock before throwing the cloth towards Harry.

He caught it with an expression of confusion. The nurse skimmed through the items before offering him the white first-aid kit.

"Clean it, and then bandage him up." She said shortly, shooting Harry an extremely unimpressed look before exiting. He turned slightly pink and muttered something inaudible before turning back to Draco.

Opening the kit, the doctor took out a swab and a bottle of disinfectant.

"Keep still."

Draco grinned. His eyelevel was just below Potter's ribs, and he could see the dark maroon sweater lurking behind the white coat. He inhaled and then looked up with a perplexed expression.

"You wear cologne, Potter?"

Harry looked down, quirking a brow. "No?"

"Hmm… Guess that best mate of yours likes the heavy perfume, then?"

With a pause, Harry stopped swabbing and glared down at Malfoy's nonchalant face. "What are you talking about?"

"It's rather strong," replied Draco flatly – how could Potter not smell that perfume on himself? – "and unless you naturally smell like … sandalwood and lavender, I'm thinking I interrupted something bigger than you though down there."

With a sigh, the doctor continued to clean the wound, dabbing a bit of antiseptic onto the cotton. It stung, which was apparent from Malfoy's hiss of pain below him.

"Christ, it's already stopped bleeding. Do you really need to do this?" The sociopath voiced loudly below him, with a disgruntled edge to it.

"Sorry," replied Harry unapologetically, taking a large roll of bandage from the box. He made sure all blond hair was out of the way before patching on a piece of gauze, "but I'm pretty sure Ginny just came for a visit. Maybe Mercy sent her over or something. Anyway, we're meeting for dinner so whatever you wanted to interrupt, you didn't."

Malfoy smiled knowingly. "Oh, I didn't intend to interrupt anything, really. It's a shame that I won't be able to watch the proceedings."

Harry grimaced but said nothing more, busying himself with the cut. Secretly, the doctor was pleased at the distraction from the talk about what had happened, and well, what might happen. Trying to convince Malfoy to go to Chicago was one thing; prostrating himself at the blond's feet was a completely different story. He still had a shred of dignity, even if his body refused to afford him any more than that.

With the last bandage in place, Harry realized that his client was once again topless and staring blankly at his sweater. He couldn't help but look: Malfoy seemed sickly, and he was much paler than usual, pallor tinged a faint green. His shoulders sagged downwards, as if his body was waging a war against gravity and losing.

"Er." The doctor paused, averting his eyes quickly. "Well, I'm going to get you another habit and then I'll leave you alone to decide. I'd prefer if you agreed of your own free will, for your sake."

Chuckling, Draco shook his head. "Oh Potter, is that a thinly-veiled threat? It's a shame there's no substance in it at all."

The doctor scowled and gathered the first-aid kit, tucking it under his arm. "I'm not joking."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

13th Session
May 24th
Mattewan Psychiatric Institute
Client: Draco Malfoy
Diagnosed with: Psychopathy

Draco sat up and stretched against the smooth granite wall, feeling the coolness of the stone spread across his back. A faint sandalwood scent still lingered around the room from yesterday, causing nausea to bubble in the pit of his stomach. He let his scowl soften before resting his forehead on his knees, exhaling slowly to calm himself. It was hard to keep up this mask of his. He felt like he was coming undone at the prospect of leaving this place; the idea was a seduction, dangerous and inviting. It'd been too long since he had seen the world, but he valued his life more than whatever abstract freedom he would find out there.

The door clicked open and Draco drew a sharp breath, scathing greeting on the tip of his tongue.

"Good morning, Malfoy."

Draco involuntarily gripped the pallet, eyes widening in consternation. Definitely not the man he had been expecting.

"You – why are you here?"

Smiling wolfishly, Tom Riddle brushed himself off as he entered the small room. The gaunt man then frowned faintly at his surroundings, as if offended by the meager constituents before turning his attention back to Draco.

"My my, that's no way to talk to a family friend, especially when said friend has valuable information."

Draco eyed Riddle with skepticism. "Information? My father is dead; you know I killed him. Unless you're here to exact some sort of twisted, overdue revenge, you have nothing to do with me."

"On the contrary."

Drawing the tiny, shiny cellphone from his pocket and snapping it open in one fluid motion, Riddle bared the screen at Draco with a flourish of self-satisfaction.

"I know they have found you, and a way to get in here."

There was only one word on the screen, one Draco had seen many times over in his fathers' letters and memorabilia, their word.

Morsmordre.

Pain spread through the sociopath's arm; Draco gasped and peered down at his white knuckles, surprised at how hard he had been clutching the pallet. A million thoughts and instincts ran through his mind at once: kill Riddle, escape, how long had it been, what would be their motive, how would they get in… He shook his head vigorously, willing himself to calm down and rationalize this. It made no sense for the group to turn to Riddle, no matter how much they wanted him dead. The lawyer had done worse deeds, killed more people, sold more secrets. Why would they trust him?

"Impossible." The blond paused, measuring each word carefully. If any of this was true, Riddle had suddenly become very dangerous. "Why… would they contact you? Of all people?"

Riddle watched him, smile growing larger. "You forget I was a former Death Eater, Malfoy, and you forget how many of them you betrayed. I am in a very convenient position to kill you – at the very least; I would be able to lead them to you without too many obstacles."

"You do realize that one of those obstacles is Dumbledore," quipped Draco quickly – like a reflex – before falling silent, berating himself for how pathetic the statement sounded. He noted with scorn that his breathing had sped up and body temperature had risen considerately, like an animal being cornered. Riddle was whittling away at his self-control, chipping away the mask he hid so persistently under.

The lawyer chuckled, amused by Draco's naiveté. "He might have been, but now… have you not noticed his fallibility lately? His age is catching up with him. The old man is dimmer, slower and he's turned a blind eye to your case and Potter. You thought he could protect you forever?"

When he received no response, Riddle grinned, showing teeth. "You've always been a fool."

Feeling his heart hammering in his chest, Draco's brow furrowed with anger. "Then why the fuck are you telling me this? I hardly imagine that you'd have enough of a soul to – "

"Is this hypocrisy I hear?" The dark-haired man's laugh was hollow and chilling, even to Draco. "I owe your father a favor for something he did for me. Let that hang on your nonexistent conscience."

With a soft click Riddle was gone, as quick as he came. Draco stared at the opposite wall, panic closing his throat and blurring his sight. No doubt he had grown accustomed to MacEwan and Dumbledore's safeguard, because the trepidation that engulfed him felt alien and surreal. No, he couldn't fall to this. Maybe Potter could – Potter! He just had to leave. Go to Chicago. Dodge the bullet that would surely kill him if he stayed here.

No, thought the blond after a moment, this is too convenient. Riddle knows about the trip. It's his job to know.

Was this a trap? Could he afford to treat it as such? If he stayed, he was dead without a doubt. If it was a trap, he would probably wind up dead. Probably trumped definite.

Chicago it was.

However, conceding to Potter so quickly could potentially be suspicious… But he could only be accused of seeming too fickle and eager to spend extra time with the doctor, which, in retrospect, sounded like typical behavior.

Now, all he needed was access to a phone… perhaps he could borrow Pansy's again. He would just have to move everything up a few days.

A smile flickered across the blond's expression.

Draco licked his lips, and started to plan.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Harry squinted ahead of him, trying to make out a dark character in the distance. The sunlight streamed in from the small, high windows, casting a particularly nasty glare across his line of sight.

Within a few seconds, he realized with a start that it was Tom Riddle, his handsome face contorted into a strange, unreadable expression. What was he doing here, in the terminal ward?

"Good morning, Doctor Potter," greeted the dark-haired man smoothly, all traces of angst dissipating so quickly Harry thought he might've imagined it, "Malfoy again?"

Harry nodded gravely, exasperation clear on his face. "Idiot bashed his own head in. I swear, I'm going to be here forever."

Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be gone soon."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

She was never sure what his apartment number was. As much as Tonks liked to think she visited the professor often, she honestly didn't. There had been that one time in the rainstorm and a conveniently flat tire that had forced her to stay at Lupin's house for the night, but alas, nothing had come out of it. Guilt bereaved the women for the umpteenth time – what would he think of her? She had skipped class to avoid that awkwardness that had certainly sprung up between them, and because he would no doubt notice her puffy eyes.

Tonks hesitated, hand hovering above the doorbell. Was it 248? Or 284? She always hated this building because of the obnoxious lack of tags. At least the Columbia dormitories had enough courtesy to install nameplates. Gathering her courage, the bright-haired woman pressed down on the button firmly, hearing the familiar buzz inside the complex. There was a shuffle of footsteps – Tonks unconsciously held her breath, the recited speech she had prepared flashing across her mind's eye.

The door swung open. Without missing a beat, the woman bowed her head and spoke the words that she had practiced. It still sounded awkward, but she couldn't do anything about it.

"I'm sorry about skipping class! And I promise I won't do it again; we'll stay as a platonic student-teacher relationship if you want – it wasn't my intention to get upset and do something as silly as storm out, but I'm sure you knew just as I did about my feelings and I – I just thought it would be worth it to confess."

Tonks swallowed, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

"And that's obviously impossible, so please-forgive-me!"

She spoke the last few words clumsily, dread and steadily deflating self-esteem taking its toll. Tonks looked up, a mixture of expectancy and horror curling in the pit of her stomach.

"Er. Ummm. I'm figuring you're looking for Rem?"

There hung an extremely pregnant pause as Tonks blinked, staring at the shaggy-haired man in front of her. Judging from the disheveled hair and topless pajamas, he looked like he had just gotten out of a bed or a fist fight.

Sirius scratched his head, wondering what exactly would prompt a girl with bubblegum-pink hair to crop up on his friend's doorstep. If anything she had just said was anything to go on, this was his apparent love interest. This was going to be fun…

Making a wide sweeping movement with his arms, Sirius beckoned Tonks in to the apartment with a smile he hoped was inviting.

"Rem's just gone for a bit, buying some vegetable shit. I don't really see what's so bad with steak but… well, yeah. Too expensive, I guess? He should be back soon, s'not like him to be late."

Blinking again at this particular anecdote, Tonks' mind was whirring. So, was this… Professor Lupin's friend? He was… interesting – eccentric? – to say the least, but at least not hostile or… well, a significant other. Tonks didn't want to think about how she'd be feeling if the door had opened to reveal a woman. Dislodging the idea out of her thoughts with a vigorous shake, Tonks turned her attentions to the man in the kitchen, raiding the fridge for microwavable goods.

"So what's your name?"

The woman blinked.

"Umm... People just call me Tonks."

There was another pause and a dull clunk! as Sirius' head met the ceiling of the refrigerator in surprise.

"Tonks? That sounds… eh, vaguely familiar." He mulled it over in his head for a few moments before returning to dig through the empty refrigerator. "I think my … eh, cousin knew someone named Tonks… eh. Haven't talked to them in ages, though. M'Sirius."

Unsure of what to say, Tonks twiddled her thumbs absentmindedly. To be frank, this person – Sirius? – seemed almost… er, homeless. Like someone the Professor would pick off the streets. Tonks grinned; it actually sounded like something he'd do.

Suddenly, a shuffling and tinkling of keys could be heard from the hallway, making the unkempt man perk up from his scavenging.

What amusement Tonks felt a few moments prior dispersed quickly. The professor was home, and she had basically invited herself in. The woman felt a rush of heat to cheeks in embarrassment. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, just like how last time wasn't supposed to be.

"Hey, w-what's this – is this steak?! You bought steak! But it's the cheap kind. What the hell?"

"I'm not buying a premium slab at sixty dollars a pound just for you."

"Damnit, your salary can handle it! Indulge once in a while – "

A sigh.

"Just put these two into the freezer."

Sulkily doing as he was told, Sirius trudged into the kitchen with two moderate-sized bags of seafood and meat, cradling the packaged steak like an infant.

Tonks balled her fingers into fists, urging herself to get off the stool. Confront him. Talk to him. Offer to help. Anything. She slid off the chair reluctantly, dreading what the professor's reaction would be.

"D-do you need any help?"

Remus looked up, only to find himself staring directly into Tonks' umber eyes. He blinked back at her, like a deer caught in headlights before looking around the multitude of plastic bags.

"Er, these, thanks." He motioned towards two large brown sacs full of greens. "Vegetables, lowest compartment."

The pink-haired woman nodded mutely before taking them, trying to navigate through Sirius' frantic weave between counter and freezer. Well, the professor didn't appear upset. Well, he never really appeared upset. Even that day (last week, was it really just last week?), he had been kind – always kind, of course – and soft-spoken and damn, did he have a good poker face. Tonks bit her lip, concentrating on the large head of lettuce in her hands instead of bursting into tears.

When the storing was finished, Remus set about making dinner for the house. He turned to Tonks in the middle of chopping a bundle of green onions, suddenly remembering an important inquiry.

"Tonks, are you staying for dinner?"

"E-er." The question caught her off guard. "Well – "

Sirius slammed the pepper shaker on the table, making the two turn around to look at him; Remus with an expression of disgust and Tonks with one of confusion.

"S'no problem if you stay! Rem always makes too much food anyway, 'cause he's a lonely old man."

Turning a pink to match her hair, Tonks spun back around in her seat and stared at the suddenly interesting grain of the kitchen table.

The professor sighed and stopped prepping, laying the knife carefully on the chopping board. When Sirius began to protest, Remus shot him a glare and pressed his fingers to his lips in a not-so-subtle message to be quiet.

He touched the woman's shoulder to catch her attention, bending lower to speak to her in discretion.

"Could I talk to you for a bit?"

Tonks nodded wordlessly as she followed him out of the kitchen, stopping only to give a half-hearted smile at Sirius, who watched them leave with suspicion.

He's right to suspect, though, thought Tonks with a sinking heart as she weaved through the small apartment, because this could be the disastrous. Painful. Stupid. Why did I come here?

Remus guided her to a small, well-kempt room and sat her down on the bed before stepping back. The mood was totally platonic to Tonks' dismay, but it wasn't as if she hadn't expected that. In her dreams, maybe?

The door closed behind them as he sat down beside her, a million questions and answers drifting between them. The air was stifling, as if the awkwardness was tangible.

"Tonks – "

The bright-haired woman made a face, raising her hands to her face in defiance. "Don't."

She flinched as the shabby man leaned forward, indecipherable expression on on his face.

Remus pressed a soft kiss into her hair, pulling the woman close as she crumpled in shock. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, chanting a mantra in her head.

No, don't do this… Stop stop stop stop stop –

"I'm sorry Dora," he whispered, voice tempered with sympathy and concern, "I realize this is cruel to you."

"Damn right." Tonks mumbled into his shirt, her heart fluttering painfully. She tightened her grip and hugged the professor closer, relishing in his warmth for a short while.

Remus laughed lightly and gently eased himself from her grip. Crestfallen, Tonks let her hands fall to her sides, keeping her gaze on the ground. She was naïve, had hoped that maybe for once – just once – love would work out for her.

Sunshine filtered through the blinds in the small bedroom, illuminating everything around them. Remus took Tonks' hands in his and smiled warmly.

"Don't skip anymore, alright? I don't want to see someone as bright as you flunk out because of something like this."

The bright-haired woman looked up immediately, her forgotten and wasted speech resurrecting itself. "Oh! I… I'm so sorry for – "

"No need," replied Remus reassuringly and promptly released her hands, "I've missed having your enthusiasm around."

As he turned around to leave, Tonks tugged on the hem of his jacket, disappointment and resentment obvious in mannerisms. She hadn't gotten any of the answers she had wanted completed; instead, she'd only gotten the celibate reaction of a teacher's concern for his student.

She looked up at the older man, heart in her throat.

"And… what about this? …Me?"

A ray of light caught the professor's face, turning his hair a strange, prophetic gold.

He smiled, expression bittersweet.

"I'm sure it'll all work out for the best."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Session Thirteen.

Harry paused, eyes on the printed sheet in his hands, expression sour. Damn unlucky number. He was definitely not a superstitious person, but considering the utter waste of yesterday's period, it could easily be a premonition of just how shit today would go.

The doctor groaned, rubbing his left temple with the respective hand. Where were these thoughts coming from? Superstitious or not, it wasn't like he could afford to be self-loathing, especially right before a meeting with the client. If his emotions could rub off on Malfoy, it could very well be the fuel to the blond's particularly responsive embers.

The number also indicated that he had been here for two weeks. Two weeks. What an incredibly short amount of time to go from composed to completely repulsed to whatever he was now. He was steadily becoming a worse doctor as the case progressed; Malfoy was sucking him into the void of violence and immorality and Harry had chosen to ignore these obvious flaws of the man's character in favor of what little physical gratification and curiosity he satisfied.

He couldn't stop himself, either. He was simply in too deep.

He's going to kill you, piped up the voice in his head, the one that had been absent for a while, or get you killed. Or make you miserable.

I know, countered Harry with a little more friction than he intended.

Then why keep doing this?

It was a good question, and one he didn't know the answer to.

As the doctor came up to the telltale keypad and concave door, he hesitated. Did he want to go in and go through another session of pointless bickering and inappropriate comments? Especially since today's talk would most likely hinge on the Chicago trip and Malfoy's refusal to go. If there was any conversation at all.

Gripping his papers tightly, Harry keyed in the numbers he knew all too well and watched the door slide open.

He was met with a disturbing congruence of his imagination when he stepped into the cell. Malfoy was silent, seemingly bad-tempered and unresponsive, just as he had done a week (was it only a week?) ago. That had been followed by days of fruitless nagging and painful stubbornness, all of which Harry was not eager to relive again.

"Malfoy?"

No response.

… Damn.

"Malfoy, is there anything you wish to talk about?"

Still no response, but his client's eyes had flickered to his face for a second before returning to stare at his feet in thought. Acknowledgement. Good.

"We don't need to discuss Chi – "

"I'll go." The blond turned abruptly, as if waking from a trance. His voice sounded strangled, garbled somehow, as if centuries had passed between the previous session and today.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"To Chicago."

"You… will?" The doctor sounded unconvinced and hesitant; it wouldn't be the first time the blond had lied and promptly screwed him over.

"For a price."

Malfoy's tone was now so smug it made his teeth hurt. Harry groaned, crossing his arms in an act of defiance.

"Of course; I'm guessing… impossibilities, sexual favors or illegal substances? Or maybe all three?"

With a bemused smile, the pale man pulled a contemplative face. "Well no, but now that you mentioned it…"

"Get up," growled Harry, all wisps of concern disappearing. He gave Malfoy's arm a solid tug, "I don't want to hear the insane ultimatum you've got."

"Easy now," replied the blond smoothly, cradling his bandaged head, "you shouldn't treat a client that you wounded so roughly! Imagine what the public would say if it got out."

Harry sighed. "It's disheartening that damaging your fragile little head is the least of my problems. Now look here, Malfoy, I'm not giving you an option. Whether you want to or not – "

" – I just request that we just leave as soon as possible."

Furrowing his brows, the doctor scowled. "What? You do realize that annual check-ups aren't exactly flexible?"

His client shrugged. "Either you tell Dumbledore that we're leaving tonight, or I'm staying. It's your choice."

"But why tonight? Unless you're plotting some – "

In mid-sentence, something clicked. He was supposed to see Ginny tonight, to apologize for Malfoy's conduct and his neglect of their friendship the past few weeks. But if he left… then it would be at least three weeks before he got to see her again.

"I don't understand the vendetta you have against me and Ginny," started Harry, trying very hard not to grind his teeth together while talking, "but I will not be taking off to Chicago at your whim so I can skip the dinner I had planned to apologize for your behavior!"

Malfoy looked at him blankly before breaking into a quiet, almost malicious chuckle.

"Oh yes Potter, I want to sacrifice the only leeway I hold over you and that idiot of a Dean because I'm pettily jealous of a dinner you're having tonight, with your pseudo-girlfriend? Really?" Malfoy paused to let it sink in, a grin growing as Harry turned pinker and pinker. "I mean, it's convenient, but if you think me stopping your so-called 'date' is the reason I want to leave this dingy hellhole, please think again."

His smile fell as quickly as it came. Malfoy glared and pointed towards the door; his voice was soft and raw, forcing Harry to hang on to his every word.

"Now, if the chauffeur will escort us to the airport around six, it would be excellent. Otherwise, get the hell out and don't come back to lob another trip plan my way."

Wordlessly, Harry left the small room and closed the door behind him, still stunned from the small tirade Malfoy just had. He paused, fingers on the keypad as he contemplated the idea of going back in to talk with him, but dismissed it quickly. The blond man seemed particularly volatile with the idea of freedom looming overhead, but he was still stubborn as a mule and had a plan – something dangerous.

Surely there was some other way for this to happen. Not tonight. Ginny was already angry beyond words at him, and this... well, it'd be the final straw. But with Malfoy's demeanor tonight – so much more desperate than usual – how much would it cost him to say no?

The cellphone suddenly felt heavy in this pocket.

With a small sigh, Harry reached in and dialed Dumbledore's number.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ginny watched the hands on the extravagant clock on the wall revolve slowly, counting each second, each minute, each hour.

Harry was late.

Thirty-six minutes late, actually.

Thirty-six minutes, forty two seconds.

She knew the waiters were watching her suspiciously; she had seen them from the corner of the eye since the beginning of the night, but they had only started to eye her (and one even sniggered) five minutes ago.

Thirty-seven minutes.

There was a certain temptation in throwing her hands up and leaving, because Ginny didn't want to waste her time or money or dignity, but she knew she can't leave – if she left, everything will fall apart, her trip would be pointless and –

I'll hate him, she thought bitterly, tears quickly blurring her vision. She wiped them away with a napkin, scowling at the thought of what little make-up she had on running.

A horrible, rational part of her brain told her this would happen. Harry won't come because Harry isn't able to put anyone or anything ahead of his work, because even though she's been there for so many years, he's never ever looked at her that way. Though to be fair, he hasn't really looked at anyone that way. He was born to be something great, not to trifle with petty insignificances like love, or feelings.

She stared at her empty wine flute, to look at something else besides the clock, to think about something that isn't Harry and his not being here.

Ginny's finger hovered above the glass, and she smiled with sad recognition as it made a soft ring.

He wasn't coming.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Count to three minutes," instructed Harry to the five suited guards outside the cell, "then move as quickly as possible. Signal me, if you get the chance. Don't let him see you. He's smart, and I don't have to remind any of you that he's dangerous when he wants to be."

Each stony face looked back at him, expressionless, before the one in front nodded stoically.

They're a bit scary, thought the doctor nervously as he typed the numbers into the keypad. He tucked a small syringe into his front pocket as the padded door slid open, revealing the small cell.

Malfoy was waiting for him, head propped on a bent arm.

"Evening, Potter."

Harry cocked his head and took a seat opposite the psychopath, all attention focused on how he'll get close enough for everything to work. He didn't plan on making the chaperons outside wait for too long, either.

Picking up a scent of something unusual, the blond yawned and sat up from the makeshift bed, matching Potter's stare with his own. The unspoken question dangled between doctor and patient, making the malaise palpable.

Malfoy's gaze was the first to shy. He always found Potter's bright eyes gave him a strange pins-and-needles sensation – similar to when a limb has fallen prey to inactivity, and it made him puzzlingly uncomfortable to be interrogated by them.

"Well? What's the news on our little trip? Surely you're not here to watch me, though I imagine you'd also enjoy that."

When Harry said nothing, the blond crossed his legs in objection, pale eyes narrowing in suspicion.

If the doctor wants to play a game, mused Draco with a sneer, lips curling unpleasantly, I'll go along with it.

"Malfoy."

The man arched a fine brow at the mention of his name. "Hmm?"

Holding up the clipboard, Harry pointed to a spot Malfoy couldn't see. "Your flight leaves at eight-thirty."

Draco felt a weight disappear from his shoulders. Thank god, he was leaving. For a stupid, paranoid moment he thought Potter had come in to tell him Dumbledore refused, that he couldn't leave today… or that maybe a large group of suited men with firearms had congregated outside the institute. He squinted at the piece of paper claiming to be an itinerary. "Eight-thirty you say? May I inquire where my chauffeur and respective limousine is?"

Harry smiled coyly, "Who knows? It might not even be to leave yet."

"Don't fuck with me." Draco growled, his pent-up irritation flowing freely. Intimidation had worked before; why wouldn't it work now?

Unfazed, the dark-haired man stood and folded the clipboard under his arm, casting a quick glance on the watch on his wrist.

Ten seconds.

"I don't plan to," quipped Harry nonchalantly, setting the papers down. He leaned down so that his face was inches apart from Malfoy's, forcing the sociopath shrink back slightly, against the wall.

His expression was unreadable. "What are you – "

A small tap from the door interrupted Draco in his train of thought. His gaze flickered to the door before returning to Potter's expectant face.

"Time's up; your ride's here," murmured the doctor with a small smile before drawing the syringe.

Draco recognized the sedative the moment it entered his system, yet there was nothing else he could do. He swore under his breath, willing his body to react. Shit! The drug had already made his movements sluggish in such a short amount of time, smothering his senses. The blond's eyelids fluttered as his vision grew blurrier, thoughts dimming. Why did he not anticipate this? Why hadn't he put it past Potter to… do… something like this…

"T-this is… Potter…" His voice was slurred and weak, "damn … s'fast…"

The blond's body crumpled, falling into Harry's arms without a sound. He stiffened immediately, startled, but caught Malfoy and gently set him against the floor. Bending down over the body, the doctor placed two fingers on Malfoy's neck, counting the beats of a pulse and checking the underarm area. The pulse was weak, but no allergic reaction thus far, and no cardiac complications.

A modicum of guilt burrowed itself into the pit of his stomach as Harry looked down at his client and immediately wondered if this was a little too underhanded.

…

Not in the least.

Slipping the used needle back into his pocket, he motioned for the men to enter. The bodyguards were professionals; within seconds they had Malfoy held tightly, like a human cocoon.

"Don't bruise him," remarked Harry absently as they exited, "or there'll be hell to pay when we get there."