TRIQUETRA BELONGS TO MOTTLEMOTH. I WAS INSPIRED BY THAT STORY TO WRITE THIS ONE, BUT IT IS NOT THE SAME. IT HAS BLACKMAIL, AND THE CHARACTERS HAVE THE SAME ROMANTIC INTERESTS. THOSE ARE THE ONLY SIMILARITIES. Draco is completely human. Voldemort is dead. The blackmailer is not the same. The blackmailer is captured in a different way and the characters react differently than in Mottlemoth's story. I love Mottlemoth's story. I really don't like comparing mine to hers though because in many ways, hers is much better than mine and they are independent fanfics. I put this warning up because she deserves recognition (the same way I would recognize a song or peom if I used one or J.K. Rowling) and I don't want flames. So once again...

HARRY POTTER BELONGS TO J.K. ROWLING AND TRIQUETRA BELONGS TO MOTTLEMOTH. Also, slash warnings.

Harry Potter didn't feel well. Though he didn't feel particularly sick either. Strange things had been happening all month. Though really, he mused, strange things were just part of his life. He stared down at the treacle tart that had accompanied the dinner he did not eat, wondering why he was just holding onto to the fork like a nitwit and staring at it. Maybe it was because he couldn't remember if he liked it. He couldn't really recall eating it before, though he was absolutely sure he had. But, he had no idea what it tasted like.

Now, he was pretty sure normal people would just eat the damn thing and stop thinking about it. If he didn't remember what the bloody hell it tasted like, the most obvious solution was sticking the blasted thing in his mouth. He set the fork down. It didn't really matter anyway. He wasn't all that hungry.

"Harry, you haven't touched any of your food."

Harry found himself turning to Hermione with a smile on his face, though his first response was to grimace. The words tumbling out of his mouth sounded like him. They were exactly the sort of things he would say to keep Hermione from worrying about it, which of course meant they were completely untrue.

"I'm just excited about tomorrow's quidditch match." But he wasn't, which was rather strange wasn't it? Because he loved quidditch. Didn't he? "You worry too much, 'Mione," he said with a chuckle, slinging his arm around her shoulder.

He didn't normally like touching people, but he found he was doing it quite often these past few weeks. He was a little cheekier with the teachers than he thought appropriate and he had even poised for some of Colin's shots three days ago. He remembered the day because it had felt so odd doing it. Three days and he still felt embarrassed.

He watched some poor second year Slytherin trip on a hex and land on his palms.

He laughed. "Snake's not used to legs."

"What's with you?" Hermione hissed.

"What do you mean?" he said completely bewildered.

"You're… acting like a prick," she said, sounding as confused as she did upset.

"It was just a joke," he snorted. "See, he's fine," he said, watching the kid stand up and scurry over to his table.

He took a sip of pumpkin juice, though it felt a little tasteless on his tongue. The small feeling that something was horribly wrong was baseless and ignored.

o.O.o

Harry woke in bed that night with a scream unvoiced, covered in cold sweat and absolutely no idea what he had dreamed.

o.O.o

Harry was serving detention with Professor Snape for telling Cassiopeia Crossing that her aunt and uncle deserved to be Kissed. He grumbled to himself, making a half-ass effort to scour the filth from the cauldrons. It was caked on tough, and Snape could probably just clean it with a swish of his wand anyway.

He was such an idiot when he was younger, actually cleaning the things. He was missing quidditch practice for this.

"Apparently cleaning cauldrons is too difficult for you, Potter," Snape sneered above him, viewing the layers he hadn't troubled himself to slave over. "And it seemed like such a simple task."

Harry bristled. "You could always do it yourself, sir," he snarled. "I don't even deserve to be down here."

His eyes narrowed, his lip thinning. "You think telling a twelve year old girl that her family deserves the Kiss doesn't merit a detention?"

"She's a Slytherin."

Snape grabbed him by his collar. Startled, Harry cursed at him and flailed against his hold.

"I seem to recall that you were almost put in Slytherin yourself," he hissed, somehow managing in that special way to turn all whispered words into barbs.

Harry almost spat in his face. "You're delusional."

"Harry, what the hell in wrong with you?" he said, his voice changing into something that Harry could not understand.

Harry sent him a disgusted look, succeeding in smacking his arm away. "Wrong with me? Are you mental? Where do you get off calling me 'Harry?'"

"Get out," Snape said lowly, black eyes burning like tar.

Harry sniffed, pleased to have gotten himself out of detention early. "Gladly."

He didn't close the door behind him as he stormed out, his stomach churning like it had when he had faced a Hungarian Horntail with nothing but a broom.

o.O.o

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, his voice loud enough to carry across the Hall as he recounted the last quidditch game. He moved the pieces of bread and potatoes about his plate as he spoke. He cut the slab of roast into quarters, then into strings before mixing it in with his potatoes and continued talking and laughing, allowing Ron and Seamus to interrupt only with brief exclamations. He ate nothing, and he certainly didn't look up at the table where the teachers were watching him in confusion and concern. Hermione's small quips about his health and his new viciousness was ignored as neatly as her nagging about homework, which he hadn't completed in weeks.

He ignored how his memory continued to fade, and he ignored how his wand was starting to fail him. He ignored the nightmares and the way he sometimes slashed his razor over the neck of his reflection when he shaved in the morning. Everybody wanted to be him. He didn't feel guilty about pushing that third year down the stairs or hexing that first year's pants to make it seem like he wet himself constantly throughout the day. He didn't acknowledge the regret he had for shagging Lavender in the broom closet two days ago, though he wasn't even sure if he had been a virgin - of course he wasn't - or that Ravenclaw girl yesterday.

He smiled as Colin's camera flash went off, wishing he had been looking so he could have smirked.

"Hey Harry," Lavender called.

For a second, he flinched, but the feeling was as brief as his appetite. He pulled her into his lap. She gave a squeal, making a show of fighting him off and hiding her exposed underwear. When she righted herself, she pretended to be irritated at him a moment before flinging her arms around his neck.

"You said I could borrow your notes from Herbology."

He reached under the table for his bag, making a show of brushing his face against her breast. Lavender slapped him while Mauchery wolf-whistled. A shiver that felt strangely like repulsion went through him, but he took another look at her pretty face and it was gone.

"I gotta warn you," he said, handing her a notebook. "I do shit in class." He perfected the statement with a grin, counting how many people were watching him and how many of them had decent tits.

Lavender smirked in response. She was perfect really. Dumb as fuck, thought sex meant love, blonde, and had an hourglass figure that couldn't have been more proportionate in a magazine. She started to say something, a smile on her face, before she opened the journal. For a moment, Harry could only see the stupidity on her face and none of the prettiness, which made him upset. She looked so ugly when she was trying to think. But before he could talk to her, she decided to speak.

"What is this?"

He had a sarcastic comment ready, but the page was sitting open, and he couldn't help a single glance. The words froze in his mouth, and he sat up, not caring the way she whined about being pushed against the table. The words were pressed together in shorthand, written over and over and over.

help me

He shoved Lavender out of his lap and flipped through the pages. It was the same on almost every page. Large. Small. Jagged. Desperate.

help me save me HELP kill me please I don't want this help me KILL ME

He stared at it, his hands trembling before he threw it away and rifled through his bag, tearing the other notes from the bottom. His writing slanted and the words screamed.

"Is this someone's idea of a joke?"

Other students crowded around him. Normally, Harry would have enjoyed that, but he wanted to bite them.

Hermione had picked up the journal. "Harry, this is your handwriting," she said, staring at him with concern.

Harry shook his head. "No. No! I didn't do it! I didn't write any of that!" He stood, slamming into someone behind him, who scrambled to get out of the way. "I didn't write any of it! This is a joke!"

His voice echoed throughout the Hall, coming back to him. He didn't write that. He didn't write that. He was doodling. He had been doodling. He could remember doodling. He thought but couldn't remember the pictures.

"No, I was…"

Draco Malfoy was suddenly standing beside Hermione, reading the pages with an ashen expression. Something about him, he thought, and he started a scream. His breath fell short, blackness gathering at the corner of his eyes. The journal was moving from both their hands. From a small space, nausea rising like a curtain call, he could see Snape's face. And something about that was familiar too.

"You… and… I… you…"

It came back to him suddenly, emotions that he was sure – almost sure – no, they weren't – were his. What was… Changes. He had… like his father. He couldn't… memories, things were missing, he was wrong. It was wrong. The pages weren't real. Sssss- A name like… It wasn't… and it wasn't real. When had he… When was the last time he ate? When was the last time he could remember anything? Why had he…

He slapped a mouth over his mouth, but bile came through anyway, spraying his fingers and chin. Someone screamed in disgust. Harry fell like he was falling.

He...

"Catch him!"

Help me.

o.O.o

Seven months earlier:

Harry watched the landscape roll by the window. The cars knocked against the tracks, making him sway in familiar motions. The glass was cool on his forehead, the land beyond it perfect enough for a poster. The greens and blues mixed so well. They were happy colors.

He sighed.

Ron and Hermione were making rounds. In a few more hours, they would be at Hogwarts. He really shouldn't feel so downhearted. He was coming home. But Neville's death still weighed on him. The funeral was not too far behind him. He had never been that close to the boy, not like he was with Ron and Hermione, but he had still been a friend, and he had died in his place.

Harry thought about the trials. After Voldemort's fall, the Ministry had been in a mad frenzy to round up and condemn the remaining Death Eaters, eager to prove some use. Kingsley had dragged him to all the trials, saying it would be good for him. He didn't know what watching men and women sentenced to be Kissed or imprisoned was supposed to feel therapeutic. Admittedly, he was still reeling with the grief of Remus' and Neville's deaths. He would have much preferred a stiff drink and a bed, but he never voiced it. Mrs. Weasley had enough to deal with and thinking about Hermione would look at him made him more disgusted than a bottle of firewhiskey would have given him relief.

So he stiffened his lip and watched men fight and even more beg, ignoring the still fresh scent of graveyard soil. When called, he gave testimony against Malfoy's incarceration (not the elder but the son). He didn't like the Malfoy barrister, a pompous little git who obviously wanted to be there even less than Harry. It wasn't Harry's job though, and he was less than sympathetic with the snot's attitude, fawning over him and looking utterly confused about why he would want to help his case. Snape had rejected a barrister altogether, wasn't even present for the sentencing, and Harry wondered if that was legal. He gave his memories anyway and argued with the woman who protested, Hermione whispering in his ear as he did so.

It was a long, gross affair that he was very happy to wash his hands of later. Snape wasn't given an Order of Merlin like he'd petitioned, but at least he kept his assets and was released from wherever the hell they were keeping him. Malfoy Sr. was incarcerated and lost just about everything but the Manor. He wasn't too upset about that, since it had been the Malfoy fortune that ran most of Voldemort's campaign and the man himself who tried to have Ginny possessed and killed second year.

The entire business was so damn messy. He knew Kingsley expected him to feel vindicated but he just felt tired. He'd mistakenly believed that everything would just fall into place after Voldemort died. What an idiot, he thought. And he kept having to decline memorial services and reporters and bureaucrats who wanted statues and speeches and political clout that Harry didn't have.

The carriage door opened. Harry didn't turn, thinking Hermione and Ron had finally returned from chewing out the upper years and comforting the firsties. When it remained silent, he glanced over, and was startled to see Malfoy staring at him mulishly, stationed at the door as if to prevent flight. Harry stared back, too exhausted by that familiar glower to even consider being antagonized.

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it, rolling his jaw as if extremely irritated with himself. Harry exhaustion moved to shock. Malfoy couldn't possibly be struggling with thanks.

"Why did you do that?" Malfoy said eventually. Harry was caught momentarily by the burning of his eyes and couldn't hear him. Surely, Malfoy's eyes had never looked like that.

"Do what?"

Draco's jaw twitched. "Speak up for me and my mother," he snapped, like he thought Harry was playing coy. "What do you want?"

Having finally understood why he was here, Harry turned away. "I don't want anything from you."

Unsurprisingly, he didn't believe him. "The Ministry has already stripped us of our heirlooms and taken our vaults. What could you possibly want from me? I won't beg," he said suddenly, not giving him time to answer.

He didn't turn but it was only because he already knew exactly how he would look. Draco had the pride of a wounded animal, that fierce but desperate stubbornness that showed he would rather chew off his arm than surrender. But he knew also that Malfoy would look vulnerable too, as only small, white animals could, and he didn't want to have that image messing with the spoiled bully that he had placed in his head.

"I don't want anything from you," he said slowly. "Go away."

Draco bristled and just to be contrary plopped down on the bench. Harry checked a growl and rolled his eyes, ignoring Malfoy's reflection in the window. There was brief moment of silence in which Harry could pretend he was alone, but of course, Malfoy had to ruin it.

"Why did you do it then? And I'm not saying I believe you. Because I don't."

"I don't give a goddamn fuck what you believe," Harry snapped, losing it. "You didn't kill Dumbledore. You didn't kill anybody. You didn't deserve to go to Azkaban."

"How do you know I didn't kill anybody?" he responded waspishly.

Harry turned to look at him. Malfoy's hair was ungreased, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that hadn't healed from the trials and likely never would, not that Harry was going to be around to see. His robes were still an expensive brand available only to the elite, but they were wrinkled. Even though Harry saw all of this, he concentrated on how his face was still pointy and pale, how the curve of his lips still looked snide.

"Because the only shred of decency you have is in your cowardice. You were too cowardly to betray your parents, and you were too cowardly to obey them. You survived because you're a stinking snake, and you kept your head low enough for me not to blame you for all the devastation your family wrecked on innocent people. Now leave me alone."

Draco left.

Harry rested against the window, trying to blot the happy hills over the ruins of war.