Archive of Our Own ^beta

WHO CAN STAND

Hopelessness lingered after the battle, hovering above the pockmarked field. Clouds hung heavy overhead, black as soot, and the air was so thick and leaden that the wisps of smoke that still drifted were trapped near the ground, hovering like wraiths. An unpleasant odor remained — one that no one who ever smelled it was likely to forget. It wasn't the scent of seared flesh, or the sulfur of the burnt peat, not even the smell of death. It was the acrid odor of despair, and it hung over the battlefield like a heavy blanket.

Lightning flashed overhead, and moments later, thunder rolled across the scarred plain, deep and ominous. When drops of rain began to fall, there was at first a soft hiss as the cool water put out the last of the fires, but even that was drowned out when the rainfall increased. Soon it was a deluge, drenching both the living and the dead.

A young woman moved along the fringes of the field, searching through the gloom. The rain stole the curl from her golden-brown hair and plastered it to her cheeks; chocolate-brown eyes searched the barren landscape, and a frown creased her forehead. She'd seen him at the end, fiercely angry when the last of the enemy forces had once again escaped. She knew he wasn't down, so where...?

And then she saw him, standing on a small rise, his back to the field. Square shoulders were slightly rounded, and his head was bowed, as if he carried the weight of the world on the back of his neck. In that moment, she thought he probably felt that he did, and she sighed before making her way to him.

She approached cautiously from the rear; it wasn't smart to startle him. She stopped several feet away.

"Harry," she ventured, just loud enough to be heard.

Immediately he straightened, squaring broad shoulders, shrugging off the attitude of defeat as he turned his head. In the dim light, his eyes, even weary as they were, looked very green.

He waited for her to speak, and she stepped closer.

"There are prisoners."

He nodded grimly and turned to her, closing the distance between them with a few steps.

"How many?" His voice was deep and smoke roughened.

"Three."

He went to pass her, but she reached out and touched his arm, stopping him.

"One of them is Malfoy."

The only indication of reaction he showed was the stiffening of the hard arm beneath her hand.

"Which one?"

"Draco," she answered, and saw the fierce light that entered his green eyes. "Harry, he wasn't captured. He surrendered." She paused. "He'll only talk if you're there. He's even offered to be questioned under Veritaserum."

Harry Potter studied Hermione Granger's eyes for a moment, and then nodded curtly.

"Well, let's see what he has to say, then."

When Harry entered the underground bunker that was serving as temporary headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, people immediately looked up, and then hurried to get out of his way. As de facto head of the Army of the Light, he'd grown accustomed to the attention his presence generated. In many ways, his entire life had prepared him for that attention; when Voldemort had been unable to kill him when he was just a baby, the madman had left more than a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. At twenty-one, Harry had been stared at for a decade; he scarcely noticed any longer.

He saw Nymphadora Tonks with her head lowered, speaking softly to Molly Weasley. Her usually vibrantly-colored hair was a dull, wet, mousy-brown, and her face looked pinched. The two women looked up as Harry and Hermione approached.

"Where...?" Harry didn't even need to finish the sentence. Tonks gestured down a short hallway with her head.

"Down there. Remus and Ron are with him."

Harry nodded tightly.

"Harry, you need to eat something," Molly said quietly, reaching out with a careworn hand to touch his arm. "You need to keep up your strength."

She looked so old, he thought sadly, so tired. He paused long enough to give the cold hand a squeeze.

"And I will, Molly, I promise. As soon as I take care of this."

She nodded and returned the pressure of his fingers briefly before he moved away.

There was a thick, reinforced metal door at the end of the short hallway, and he gave a brisk knock before turning the knob and pushing it open. Hermione was right at his elbow, and he stepped aside to let her enter before he followed her.

As Hermione moved to join Ron Weasley where he stood against the far wall, arms crossed over a broad chest, Harry's gaze fell on the man sitting in a plain wooden chair in the center of the room. Torches burned in brackets on the four walls, giving the room a distinctly 'dungeon-like' feel. The flames illuminated the prisoner's pale, faintly pointed features and caught in the shining, shoulder length white-blond hair. When Harry closed the heavy door with slightly more force than necessary, the slender man jumped and turned his head, and Harry saw the grey eyes for the first time in years.

Draco Malfoy had changed, Harry thought absently. His clothes, once the finest that Galleons could buy, were dirty and threadbare, and his face had the pinched look of someone who hadn't eaten regularly in a while. Harry noticed the white-knuckled grip on his boney knees, the only indication of his nerves, but Harry had learned to read even the subtlest signals during interrogations, and it gave him a moment's grim satisfaction to see that Malfoy was anxious.

"Harry."

The soft voice spoke from behind him, and he turned to find Remus Lupin leaning against the stone wall. He looked exhausted, his thinning grey hair hanging over weary eyes, his shoulders slumped. But the brown eyes were still quick with intelligence.

"Draco has surrendered himself to us. He says he has information for you— important information."

"It's not from me."

Harry turned his head and peered at Malfoy. His voice had deepened, Harry noticed, much as his own had, and he sounded anything but frightened. He lifted his chin under Harry's scrutiny.

"It's from Snape."

That caused an instant reaction from those standing around the perimeter of the room. Ron straightened, blue eyes widening. Hermione's soft lips fell open slightly. Lupin's shoulders lifted, and his head went up.

Harry knew his own eyes had narrowed as he stared into the face of his one-time nemesis, and he studied it for any signs of duplicity. When all he found was an open stare returning his own, he turned to Lupin.

"This goes no further without the Veritaserum," he said shortly, then looked back at Malfoy. "You did agree, I believe?"

Draco dampened his lips with his tongue, but then nodded once curtly.

Lupin pulled the slender vial from his pocket and pushed away from the wall, uncorking it as he went. When Malfoy held out his hand, Harry felt the corner of his mouth lift grimly.

"He'll give it to you," Harry said tightly. "Some of you Death Eaters are just too gifted with sleight of hand.”

Malfoy returned his regard, and for the first time Harry saw traces of the old animosity in his eyes even as Malfoy lowered his hand to his lap. For some reason, he found that spark of anger reassuring.

"Tip your head back," Lupin instructed gently, and Malfoy gave Harry one last hard look before arching his head back, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. Firelight caught in his long pale lashes where they lay on his cheeks, and Harry noted the elegant line of his throat. Harry watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed the few drops that Lupin let fall on his tongue, saw him grimace at the bitter taste.

They all waited in silence, watching Malfoy carefully for the next few minutes. Veritaserum was a fast working potion, and it didn't take long for Malfoy's grey eyes to take on the slightly unfocused look that indicated a successful dosage. Lupin glanced over at Harry, who crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Harry nodded tightly to indicate that questioning could begin.

"Who are you?"

It was a standard first question, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. They had all learned the hard way what Polyjuice could accomplish.

"Draco," Malfoy intoned mechanically. "Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"Who are your parents?"

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and..." He paused, dampening his lips again, and Harry watched the pink tongue slide over the plump lower lip.

"Yes?" Lupin prodded. This was another standard question to affirm identity, usually tossed out and easily answered. This reaction was not common, and Harry's interest sharpened.

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and..." He stopped again, and Harry was startled when he saw the sheen of tears coat the grey eyes. Veritaserum was supposed to remove all resistance to questioning, making it impossible not to answer. He took a step away from the wall.

"Who are your parents?" he repeated harshly, and Malfoy swallowed again. He blinked, and a single tear slid down his pale cheek. Harry straightened.

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and..."

Lupin turned his head and stared at Harry when Malfoy stopped again, clearly at a loss. It was Hermione who spoke next.

"Has something happened to your mother?" she asked gently, and Malfoy seemed to cave in a bit in the center, his shoulders rounding, his head dropping. He nodded, his pale hair swinging forward to block his face.

"Is she dead?" Harry asked, his own voice softer, caught on a jagged edge in his chest. They'd thought that their intelligence about the remaining Death Eaters was good, and there had been no reports of Narcissa Malfoy having been killed.

Malfoy nodded again, his head still down. The occupants of the room exchanged startled looks over his bowed head.

"When did she die?" Lupin asked.

"Monday," Malfoy answered, his voice still vague, but steady.

It was Wednesday. Harry shuddered. Malfoy's mother had died not forty-eight hours before. Harry tried to swallow past a throat that had begun to feel uncomfortably tight.

"How did she die?"

There was a pause, not a long one, just long enough to let them know that even with the potion, this was a difficult answer to put into words. Harry frowned as he watched Malfoy struggle to respond.

"She was murdered," Draco finally answered from behind the fall of pale hair. Another round of startled looks was exchanged.

"By whom?" Lupin asked sharply.

Draco's shoulders shuddered, but he lifted his head in response. He didn't lift his hand to move his hair, so it lay over his eyes, absorbing the eerily emotionless tears. "Her sister."

Hermione's sharply indrawn breath was loud in the silence of the room.

"Lestrange?" Harry asked. Again, Malfoy nodded mechanically.

"My aunt. Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Are you certain?" Hermione asked softly. "Perhaps they only told you she was dead..."

Malfoy's hair swung as he shook his head. "She is dead," he said flatly. "She was taken before the inner council and questioned under torture, then killed." He paused to dampen his lips again, and the information he was relating was all the more horrible for the toneless way in which it was presented. "I know this to be true, because they made me watch."

Hermione's hand lifted reflexively to cover her horrified gasp. Harry suddenly felt very much as if he might be sick. What kind of people did that, he found himself wondering angrily; forced a son to watch his own mother tortured and then killed? But the answer made him stare at the blond man with a whole new surge of uncomfortable compassion. He knew exactly.

Ron and Lupin seemed all but at a loss as to what to do with the information. There had been so many atrocities committed as the war had dragged out into three years, then four, but they'd never heard of such upheaval within Voldemort's inner circle before. It was Hermione who stepped forward, and with surprising gentleness, pushed Malfoy's soft hair back from his eyes. They were still wide, emotionless, and tears continued to streak unimpeded down his thin face. The sight of them made Harry's own eyes sting, and he blinked quickly.

"But why, Draco?" she asked as her hand dropped away. "Why did Lestrange kill her?"

"She was found to be in collusion with the traitor Snape," he answered evenly.

When Snape's body had been found, his throat torn out by Voldemort's vicious pet Nagini, the Order had known that the man's double life had been discovered. His loss had been mourned even by those who had once hated him, including Harry, for his contributions to the cause could not be minimized. Since his death, there had been no one who could feed the Order warnings of impending attacks, or the position of Death Eater hideouts, or of Voldemort's own movements. Harry had made more than one narrow escape thanks to Snape and had come to, if not appreciate the man, at least appreciate his service. The Order had been making some in-roads before, but Snape's loss had been keenly felt as the war had ground to a virtual stalemate over the last few weeks.

The news that Voldemort had considered Snape a traitor was merely confirmation of what they'd already feared. The idea that there had been someone else within the Death Eater ranks who had been working against Voldemort, the wife of his right hand man no less, was a shocking revelation.

"Was she?" Harry asked roughly. "Was she working with Snape?"

Draco nodded automatically, eyes still staring. "She was feeding him information about their plans," he answered perfunctorily. "They would always talk in front of her; they trusted her."

"Why did she betray them?" Lupin asked, his brow furrowed. "What did she hope to accomplish?"

"Voldemort's destruction," Draco answered evenly. "And my freedom. She wanted me out."

The small room grew very quiet, the only sound the soft hiss of the torches. "Why?" Harry breathed. Draco turned his head automatically, empty grey eyes finding green.

"Because she knew that you would win," he answered mechanically. "She wanted me out before the end. She knew that it was coming."

Harry took another step forward, his eyes narrowed. This was news to him; it had seemed inevitable that the war would go on for years. "How did she know the end was coming?"

"Because Snape had the key to your victory," Draco replied smoothly. Harry stared as his friends gasped.

******

"It's a trap," Ron hissed, arms still tightly crossed, eyes shooting to where Malfoy sat staring into space. After Malfoy's startling announcement, the four Order members had gathered and put their heads together. "He's figured out a way around the Veritaserum. He always was a daub hand at potions. That's the only answer."

"Ronald," Hermione said with a scowl, her patience clearly being tested, "there is no way 'around' Veritaserum. Its results are incorruptible."

"There's something not right about this, I tell you," Ron persisted in a heated whisper. "Why would he just... bring us this information?"

"Watching your mother tortured and then murdered would be a powerful motivation," Lupin said softly. Harry sensed both Ron and Hermione's glances, but he continued to stare at the blank expression of the man seated across the room.

He'd been moved by Malfoy's story. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he'd felt something. Certain that the war had somehow deadened him inside, he'd been startled when his heart had ached as Malfoy, in that coolly dispassionate voice, had related what had been done to his mother. Harry had lived the whole of his life with the knowledge that Voldemort had murdered his parents, but he didn't consciously remember it. To have been forced to stand there and watch, unable to help... how did one live with that kind of horror? He chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip, unconsciously lifting his hand to rub the spot on his chest where that hurt seemed to be located.

"Harry, are you all right?" Hermione asked suddenly. He started and turned to look into her eyes. The concern and compassion he found there made him straighten. Hermione was often too intuitive for his peace of mind.

"I'm fine," he answered gruffly, dropping his hand. "So there is no way he could be faking this?" He gestured towards Malfoy with his head. Lupin shook his head. Hermione crossed her arms.

"No one is that good of an actor," she whispered, and Ron snorted, but Harry was inclined to agree with Hermione. He'd witnessed dozens of questionings under Veritaserum; no one had ever cried before. He took a step back, and then approached Malfoy, standing before him for a long moment before speaking again.

"You said that Snape had the key to our victory," Harry said, his face and his voice stern. "Do you know what it is?" Malfoy shook his head slowly from side to side.

Ron snorted indelicately. "Then what bloody good is he? I knew that this was shite."

"Ronald!" Hermione hissed. "You are not helping."

"Well, bloody hell..." Ron grumbled. "He's probably just making all of it up to save his own arse."

"Are you?" Harry said intently, his eyes boring into Draco's. "Are you making this up?"

Draco shook his head again, the same slow robotic motion. Only this time when he was done, he reached for the hem of his robe and slowly lifted it into his lap, turning the fabric so that the once-fine lining was visible. Harry watched as Malfoy's fingers curled in the soiled fabric and began to pull. Within moments, there was a soft rending sound, and he was reaching those long, mobile pale fingers into the gap. They reappeared, holding a thick square of parchment. He held it out to Harry, who hesitated only a moment before taking it from him. Harry turned it in his hand, and saw his name scrawled across the face in tight, cramped text— text he immediately recognized. He'd looked at it for nearly all of his sixth year at Hogwarts, and a chill streaked the length of his spine.

"This is from Snape," he said softly, and Draco nodded. "How did it get in the lining of your robe?"

"My mother sewed it in before..." His voice trailed away into silence. Harry stared at his name before lifting his eyes to the pale face of the man before him.

"Did you read this?" he asked Draco pointedly. The fair head again shook from left to right. "Why not?"

"It was spelled sealed to anyone but you," he answered hollowly.

"Would you have read it, if you could have?" Harry asked.

Draco blinked, but didn't look away. "Of course."

For the first time in days, Harry felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "That sounded like the Malfoy I know," he said wryly. "Nosy git." Malfoy's eyes remained fixed and impassive.

"I haven't changed," he said softly. Harry returned his stare, finding himself wondering if they were talking about the same thing. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable under that unblinking regard, Harry took a step back and turned away from him, slipping his calloused fingers under the dark-green wax seal on the back of the note. It opened with an audible pop, and he unfolded the thick paper carefully.

The salutation inside read simply, "Potter," and it was almost as if he could hear his old Potions master speaking briskly into his ear.

"If you are reading this then I am dead. While I find this regrettable on some level, I am not unready for death. Actually, I have long desired it. However, at this juncture, there are things you must know in order to triumph over the evil that Tom Riddle has become.

"Dumbledore has entrusted me with the means with which you can defeat the last of Voldemort's Horcruxes. There is another that you are currently unaware of."

Harry stiffened briefly, catching his breath. They had hoped that they had identified them all; now here was Snape saying there was still another. Harry cursed under his breath.

"Harry, what...?" Hermione began. Without looking up, he held up his hand to stop her.

"The location of the final Horcrux you shall have to figure out on your own. The means of defeating it has been entrusted to me. Because of the confidentiality necessary in order to protect this 'weapon', your journey to recover it must, of necessity, be split in two, and your instructions bound by deep enchantments." Harry thought back to the journey through the bowels of Hogwarts to recover the 'Sorcerer's Stone' during his first year, and the many charms and booby traps that he, Ron, and Hermione had had to over come. Those had been of Snape's devising, as well. "Part of this weapon resides in one location, part in another. It was the only sure way to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. Just know that in order to recover it, you and Draco Malfoy are going to have to put aside your past differences and work together. The rest of your merry little band may trail along, but Draco is the key ingredient to your success. He is the Secret Keeper, the only one who knows the exact location of my home at Spinner's End. Your journey begins there.

"You will want to read this one more time, and then put it down. It is charmed to incinerate three minutes after having been opened: the amount of time I have estimated that you, with even your limited intelligence, will need to read it twice.

"You must not fail, Potter. The future of our world depends on your success. Merlin help us.

S. Snape."

Harry read it through again quickly and was just about to release it when with a soft puff, the parchment burst into flames. He dropped it, shaking his singed hand, and it drifted to the floor where it was quickly reduced to ash.

Hermione rushed to his side, grabbing his arm as she stared down at the smoldering remains of the letter. "Harry, what did it say?"

He looked up at her, then over at the blond who still watched him, grey eyes wide.

"It said we're going to Spinner's End."

******

Early in the war, George and Fred Weasley had developed a muffling charm that made the sound of Apparition almost undetectable. It had become part of what every member of the Order now considered essential, as Apparating in secrecy was a huge advantage. When they arrived on a country lane not far from Spinner's End, it was in relative silence.

Harry stumbled a bit on arriving, as Apparition was only slightly higher on his list of ways to travel than by Floo, and he still wasn't comfortable with it. He felt a strong hand beneath his elbow, and it was a testament to how far he and Malfoy had come in two days that he wasn't shaking him off angrily.

Malfoy had surrendered to them on Wednesday evening. Once the Veritaserum had worn off, he'd seemed utterly exhausted, pale and silent, and since there were no vacant quarters in the rambling underground facility, he'd been given a cot in the room where he'd been questioned and placed under lock and key. There would be no opportunities for him to be alone with Harry— not until his loyalties were no longer in question. As far as Ron was concerned, that day would never come; Harry was no longer quite as sure.

The morning following his unexpected appearance, it had been Harry who had remembered to unlock the door and let him out. He'd half-expected Malfoy to be in a snit; they'd left him locked up and alone for nearly twelve hours. But instead of pacing and snarling, Harry had found him seated calmly on the side of the neatly made cot, hands wrapped around his knees, eyes on the floor. When he'd glanced up and politely asked permission to use the loo, which startled Harry into immediately giving him permission, Harry had noted that his eyes had been red-rimmed. Ron had spent most of the night trying to convince both Harry and Remus that somehow what Malfoy had told them was all a ruse to infiltrate the Order, but when Harry had looked into those blood-shot eyes, he'd recognized grief. He was familiar enough with it himself.

Since that morning Malfoy had been quiet, speaking only when spoken to, sitting at the end of the vast table with his head down, picking listlessly at whatever food was available. Harry had quietly told Molly Weasley about Narcissa Malfoy, and in typical fashion, she had taken to 'mothering' him. Harry had held his breath the first time Molly had stopped and leaned down at eye level to speak to him, but Malfoy had not snapped at her or sneered; he'd merely nodded quietly to whatever she'd said to him, his eyes never lifting from his plate. It had been disconcerting, actually. This person was wearing Malfoy's face and body, but he couldn't have been more different from him in personality. The war had changed them all, Harry thought philosophically. He certainly wasn't the same as he'd been before.

Harry had gathered Ron, Hermione and Remus, along with Malfoy, in a closed-door session that next afternoon. He had maps of the small village where Snape's home was located, as well as a carefully crafted re-creation of the note he'd received the night before. He had been certain things were missing; he'd never have Snape's way with words.

While Harry had leaned over the table where the map had been lain out, Malfoy had stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, but his eyes had strayed to the note, and Harry had noticed. When he hadn't reached for it, Harry had pushed it towards him.

When those grey eyes had lifted, a question in them, Harry had shrugged. "We can't get there without you, can we?" he'd asked. "I see no reason you shouldn't read it." Instead of picking it up, Malfoy had merely leaned over to read it, and their shoulders had brushed briefly. Harry had taken a deep breath and stepped away, but not before he'd felt a surprisingly strong physical reaction to the accidental contact.

There hadn't been time during the last four years for Harry even to think much about the fact that he'd had no romantic entanglements since Ginny. When they'd broken up just after sixth-year, he'd been convinced that it had been because of his concern for her. He'd really liked Ginny; she'd been fun, and adventurous, and he'd especially enjoyed the physical part of their relationship. But the longer they'd been apart, the more he'd realized something about himself; while he'd admired and enjoyed Ginny's tight, coltish body, he hadn't experienced the same appreciation for a woman's form that the men around him had.

When Fred and George had 'surprised' Harry with a visit to a prostitute for his twenty-first birthday, he'd at first been horrified by the very thought of sharing such intimacy with a perfect stranger. He'd had to get very drunk to even go with her to a private room, and while he hadn't humiliated himself completely by being unable to perform, that night had cemented something he'd realized about himself: women were lovely, but if he was going to have sex with someone, he wanted it to be a man.

He hadn't discussed his conclusion with anyone. There really hadn't been a point, and fortunately, he had found that he wasn't sexually attracted to Ron or any of his brothers. But there had been that one bloke who had briefly shared their room on his way home from the front. His name had been Brian Callahan; he'd had black hair and brilliant blue eyes, and the way he'd looked at Harry had sent every nerve in his body into tingling alert. When Brian had cornered the younger man after dinner one night and pushed him into the small bathroom that they'd all shared, Harry had been going to protest until Brian had kissed him. By the time Callahan had dropped to his knees and opened Harry's denims, the deal had been sealed: Harry knew he was gay. Callahan had left the next day, and Harry had accepted his sexuality without much anxiety and put it from his mind. He was fighting a war; he didn't have time to worry about it.

And he hadn't for the next six months. Until Draco Malfoy's shoulder had brushed against his, and then he had to concentrate to think of anything else. There had been rumors about Malfoy's sexuality back at school. Harry had never gone so far as to call Malfoy a 'great ponce' as Ron had, but now he couldn't help but wonder if the rumors had been true. As they planned the trip to Spinner's End, Harry had had to fight his body's natural inclination to take the half step closer to Malfoy that would bring them into contact. While Ron had blustered about the necessity of having Malfoy go with them, even though the note had been quite clear on that point, Harry had wanted nothing more than to tell Ron to shut the hell up and wipe the resigned, wounded expression from Malfoy's eyes. Ron was right; he knew that Ron was right, and yet even as he told himself that again and again, he couldn't erase from his mind the memory of the anguished tears that had spilled down the pale face during questioning, or the red-rimmed eyes he'd looked into that morning. Finally, he'd listened as long as he could.

"Make him tell you where it is," Ron had been arguing. "Use the Veritaserum if necessary, but taking him with us isn't safe..."

"Enough!"

Everyone had jerked at the sharp, tight sound of Harry's voice, loud in the small room. Ron's eyes had bulged, Hermione's mouth had fallen slightly open, and Malfoy, who had remained silent throughout the argument, had taken a step away. Remus had simply arched one graying brow and waited. Harry had needed a moment, and had taken a deep breath to calm himself.

"He is going with us," Harry had then said evenly. "He knows where the house is, and he knew Snape better than any of us. Malfoy has to come. Ron, let it go. I understand that you don't trust him, but that doesn't matter right now. I do. So enough."

Ron's face had reddened, and he'd looked away, but Harry hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy drinking in the surprised gratitude in Draco's grey eyes.

And now they were on a country lane in the middle of rural England in the dead of night, and Draco Malfoy's hand was curled warmly around Harry's elbow, and he had no desire to shake it off.

"All right there?" Malfoy asked near his ear, and Harry straightened and nodded quickly.

"Not much for Apparition," Harry said gruffly, finally pulling away from the warm hand.

"I noticed." Harry thought he heard amusement in the soft voice, but when he looked into Malfoy's face, it was as impassive as it had been for the hours previous. Hermione and Ron appeared almost silently in front of them, and the four began to move resolutely down the deserted road.

The village that housed Snape's childhood home was small, and the streets short. They were on the rutted, gravel covered Spinner's End before they knew it and Draco silently led the way, searching the picket fences that lined each small front yard. When he came to a lot that appeared vacant, he paused and turned back, his pale face a pointed oval shape in the moonlight. He took a deep breath before speaking.

"The address of Severus Snape's mother's house is 312 Spinner's End."

Behind him, a tired and worn two-story house appeared, windows boarded, shingles missing from the roof, shutters hanging by one rusty hinge. The front walkway was overgrown, and the gate was lying on its side in the overgrown grass.

"We should go around back," Draco said softly, his eyes shifting up and down the deserted road. "It wouldn't do for anyone to see the four of us disappearing into nothing."

Harry nodded in agreement, and they went through the opening in the gate and made their way soundlessly around the darkened house.

"Charming place, this," Ron said a bit drily. Harry steeled himself for some snarky comment from Malfoy about the Burrow, but it didn't come.

"Severus' mother died several years ago," he said instead. "He's only stayed here infrequently since, and not at all in the last four years."

They'd arrived at the back door of the small house, and Malfoy put out his arm when Ron tried to go up the rickety steps. The redhead brushed the arm aside roughly.

"Ron," Hermione cautioned tightly.

"I'm tired of this git thinking he's in charge of this," he responded in a heated whisper. "Far as I'm concerned, he's just a convicted Death Eater on a pass."

"Fine," Malfoy said, showing the first fire any of them had seen in him since he'd surrendered. "Go ahead. But you might want to remember that Severus knew damned well that eventually someone would find out about this place, and that if I was with them, I probably wouldn't be here of my own free will. So go on then. Walk into whatever welcome he left in that eventuality."

That stopped Ron in his tracks, but his lips curled in a sneer. "Fucking Slytherins," he snarled.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Malfoy retorted, and Harry bit back a smile. He stood aside as Malfoy carefully climbed the rotting stairs, and then stopped before the back door. When a voice sounded from inside the house, they all jerked in alarmed surprise.

"Who goes?" it asked politely, and Hermione gasped. It was Snape's unmistakable deep voice.

Harry saw Malfoy's shoulders jerk at the sound before he straightened and squared them.

"Your Secret Keeper," Malfoy answered steadily, and then stepped back when the door popped open. The gap widened with an ominous creak.

"Enter," Snape's disembodied voice intoned, and Draco slipped into the darkened house beyond. As if realizing that he was getting ahead of them, Ron charged after him, followed by Hermione, who shook her head as she entered the house. Harry brought up the rear, and quietly closed the door once he was inside.

"Someone cast Lumos," Malfoy said softly from somewhere within the darkened room, and Hermione instantly complied. The bluish light shining from the tip of her wand showed them that they were standing in a small, cramped kitchen. There were wooden counters and a tiny scarred table, all covered in a thick layer of dust, and rotting gingham curtains hanging in tatters at the boarded window over the sink. It all looked so... completely rustic that Harry had a very difficult time imagining that Severus Snape had ever so much as stepped foot in the door.

"So what are we looking for?" Hermione was asking, looking around the room curiously. She turned to Harry. "What was it the note said again?"

Harry thought for a moment. "That Malfoy and I would have to put aside our differences and work together, and that our journey began here." He looked at Malfoy to find the other man watching him, grey eyes level. "You knew him best; what do you think?"

There might have been a brief flash of that heady gratitude in the light eyes again, but before Harry could be certain, Malfoy had turned to look toward the two doors that led from the shadowy kitchen.

"The sitting room and the entry are that way," he gestured toward one. "But the bedrooms are upstairs, and I think Severus would have put anything important in his private space." He turned to Hermione. "I've no wand, Granger," he said very steadily. "But I think it might be safer if I went ahead."

"Well, you sure as hell can't have hers," Ron snarled, and Malfoy closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists as if attempting to restrain himself. Harry stepped forward.

"Here." He took his wand from his sleeve and turned it, presenting it to Malfoy handle first. Malfoy stared at it, and then lifted startled eyes to Harry's.

"Harry, have you gone daft?" Ron said sharply. "You can't give Malfoy your wand!"

"It's just so he can see going up the stairs," he responded to Ron even as he and Malfoy continued to stare into one another's eyes. "Besides, I trust him not to try anything."

Ron snorted. "Well, I don't!"

"Then keep your wand drawn," Harry retorted a bit sharply, sparing a glance at Ron.

"I will," Ron retorted, pugnacious chin forward as he pulled his wand into his hand. Harry looked back at Malfoy, who was still staring at the offered wand.

"Here, take it."

There was no mistaking the emotion in his eyes now, and after lifting them briefly to Harry's, he took the wand into his hand. Harry saw him catch his breath as the wood made contact with his palm, and then he was turning toward the darkened doorways. With a softly muttered "Lumos", Harry's wand tip lit brightly, and Malfoy slowly moved toward the door on the left.

A narrow staircase was revealed, and as they climbed, Harry moved until he was directly behind Malfoy, Hermione behind him with Ron bringing up the rear. The staircase was extremely narrow and musty, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and wallpaper peeled away from the wall in strips. Harry couldn't see anything but the back of Malfoy's fair head, so he paced himself based on the measured steps of the man in front of him. When Malfoy paused just before the landing, Harry was unprepared and walked into his back.

"Oh, sorry," Harry said quickly. Malfoy stumbled, and Harry reached out and curled his hands around his arms, steadying him. His rather nicely developed arms, Harry discovered, and he released him again reluctantly. Malfoy shot him a quick look over his shoulder before turning to continue up the stairs and the light from the wand made his eyes look more blue than grey. Harry took a deep breath and tried to rationalize his behavior even as his body reacted to the closeness of the man in front of him in a very fundamental way. Ignoring the increased heart rate and the flush he knew was filling his cheeks, he stepped into a dank upstairs hallway just after Malfoy had.

"It's this way." Malfoy gestured with his hand, and Harry followed him. He could hear Ron and Hermione behind him whispering, but he wasn't even remotely interested in what they were arguing about now. He was looking around the upstairs, forcefully reminded of the sad condition he'd found Grimmauld Place in all of those years before. The runner on the floor was frayed and threadbare, the paper on the walls grimy and pulling away in spots, and the framed paintings hanging every few feet were so filthy that the subject matter was obscured. Malfoy moved cautiously, looking left to right, and Harry frowned.

"What are you looking for?"

Malfoy glanced at him again before resuming his study of the walls. "I knew Severus," he answered. "If what he sent us after is as valuable as I think it is, he'd have taken precautions. I just don't want to run into any nasty surprises."

Harry watched as he carefully searched each side, moving forward very slowly. The next time he stopped, Harry was prepared, and was able to prevent himself from colliding with him. Malfoy leaned toward the wall and made a slightly rough sound in the back of his throat.

"What is it?" Harry asked, peering at the wall as well. He didn't see anything.

"It's a trigger," Malfoy answered. "Here, hold the wand for a moment..." He turned and handed Harry his wand, then propped himself against the wall and bent down, removing his leather shoe. He glanced back at Harry again before tossing it forward about five feet.

Immediately there was a sharp snapping sound, and a section of flooring about four feet square simply fell away in front of them. Malfoy jerked back into Harry, who reacted instinctively and curled his arm around the narrow waist.

"What in hell...?" Ron said from behind them, and Harry let his arm fall away as Malfoy straightened.

"Booby trapped," Malfoy answered. "Severus must have been afraid that someone other than me would come looking..." He gestured towards the wand now gripped Harry's hand. "May I?" Harry handed it over, and Malfoy turned, making an intricate motion in the air. "Inreverto ut praevius positus," he said firmly, and the floor slid back into place with an echoing thud.

"What was that?" Harry asked as they began to move forward again.

"Latin," Malfoy answered, recovering his shoe and slipping it back on. "With Severus, it's always Latin."

They entered the last door on the short hallway, and Harry looked around in the ghostly light cast by his wand. They'd entered what was unmistakably a bedroom, but it was almost monastic in its simplicity. There was a bed with a dark duvet, covered as everything else was in dust. A plain desk and chair sat against one wall, and there was a simple armchair before a dark fireplace. There were no paintings on the walls but for one hanging above the dusty mantle, and its occupant was veiled by a thick layer of grime. The curtains at the windows were a simple black muslin, grey with age, and the four of them left footprints in the undisturbed layer of fine dust on the floor.

"He told me once," Malfoy mused, glancing around the bedchamber, "that he had a wall safe in his bedroom. But where..." Malfoy's voice trailed off as he spotted something on a far wall, and Harry followed him as he moved towards it. There was a picture hanging just above the desk, interestingly not as filthy as everything else. Draco leaned in to study it, and Harry looked over his shoulder. He recognized it instantly.

"The Slytherin coat of arms," he said, taking in the serpent on a field of black, silver, and green.

"Indeed," Malfoy answered, handing Harry the wand without looking back. He reached out with both hands for the small painting, but it didn't move when he pushed at it. He took his hands away and said, "Patefacio commodo!" When he pressed on it again, he was still unable to move it.

"Sticking Charm," Hermione said, stepping up beside Harry. She waved her wand and muttered the counter charm, but still the small painting didn't move.

Malfoy cursed softly, then turned to look at Harry. He seemed to be pondering something, his grey eyes narrowed. "With Severus," he said softly, "it's either Latin, or it's..." He paused, his head slightly angled to one side. "Tell it to open, Potter."

Harry frowned. "Me? Isn't that what you just did?"

"Not in Latin, in Parseltongue."

Harry's eyes widened. "Did Snape speak it?"

Malfoy nodded. "Not fluently, but enough for this."

"Would he ward something important with a language Voldemort can speak?" Hermione asked, brows furrowing.

Draco looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned back to Harry. "He knew Potter could speak it, too. I'd be willing to bet he added additional safeguards. Try it, Potter. "

Harry nodded and looked at the small painting, concentrating on the image of the snake, breathing slowly, deeply. He'd only really been proficient at Parseltongue when he'd actually been speaking to a snake, so he focused on the serpent. "Hello," he murmured, but it came out a combination of air and sibilant hisses. As he stared, he was quite certain that he saw the image begin to move. The snake's head turned from profile, and the painted eyes blinked as a forked tongue appeared and flicked briefly before retreating.

"Who goes?" the little reptile asked, eyes suspiciously intelligent in its depicted face. Hermione made a sound of fascination as she leaned closer and stared.

"Harry Potter," Harry answered, glancing at Malfoy. He nodded slightly.

"Can you prove this?" the sibilant voice asked, caressing the syllables of the ancient language. "Answer this, if you can..."

Harry stared and waited as the small head dipped back and forth in a slightly hypnotic movement.

"The spell that spilled pure blood on tile when you were a sixteen-year-old child, from whom did the Boy Who Lived learn of it?" Harry paused. "You may speak but once, so do not fail..."

Harry squared his shoulders, and began to say 'Severus Snape', but stopped, realizing that the answer wasn't quite right. "The Half-Blood Prince," he answered in Parseltongue instead. The little creature almost seemed to smile, then nodded in a surprisingly elegant and condescending gesture. It slithered across the field of silver, black, and green before sliding from the canvas, then slunk over the narrow frame to slip beneath the small painting. A moment later, there was a soft click, and the picture swung silently away from the wall, revealing a small, dark opening behind it. Harry started to say thank you, but the painted image of the reptile had vanished.

Harry turned to Malfoy, and found him staring at him with something very like awe on his handsome features. He was also faintly flushed, and seemed to be a bit out of breath. Harry frowned.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Malfoy inhaled sharply, blinked quickly, and then turned his attention to the opening behind the frame.

"Yeah, fine," he said quickly, and he even sounded a bit breathless, but when he brought the light from Harry's wand forward, his hand was steady. Harry forgot all about Malfoy's blush when he saw a narrow wooden box in the simple square opening, and he began to reach for it. "Wait!" Malfoy said sharply, his hand curling around Harry's wrist. "Just, wait a moment."

Malfoy glanced around on the top of the desk, and found a bottle of ink and a long, once-white quill lying next to the blotter, as if waiting for the man to return and begin writing out lesson plans. He picked it up, and tentatively breached the opening with the tip.

With a harsh rush of noise, a sharp, slender blade slid from the top of the frame down, much like a guillotine, neatly slicing the quill in two. It stopped, a slim half inch shining wickedly above the bottom of the small window.

"Shit!" Ron said harshly. "That would'a taken off your hand, Harry!"

"I believe that was the idea," Malfoy said drily, sounding more like himself than he had in the entire time he'd been in their company. He laid what was left of the quill aside and reached over Harry's shoulder into the small safe, picking up the wooden box and pulling it out.

Harry leaned anxiously over his shoulder, staring at the shiny case. It was of dark wood and was about eighteen inches long and six inches wide. On the lid was a pattern in ivory, and Harry frowned down at it. "What is that?" he asked, looking at the complicated design of intersecting lines.

Malfoy didn't speak for a moment, but then he shook his fair head. "I've no idea," he answered, turning the box to look at the concentric circles and spirals that seemed too complicated to be merely decoration but had no clear significance.

"Well, isn't it what's inside that's actually important?" Ron asked impatiently, and Malfoy nodded before spreading his long, pale fingers over the complex markings on the lid, hooking both thumbs over the side of the box near the clasp. It opened soundlessly, and they all stared inside.

"Ohhh," Hermione breathed almost reverently.

"Whoa," Ron said softly, leaning closer over Harry's other shoulder. Harry and Malfoy merely stared, eyes widened.

Lying on a bed of hunter green velvet was the hilt of a dagger. It was formed of heavy silver, and there was an intricate and stunningly carved form of a snake wrapped from the base to where the blade should have begun. Its eyes were two large, perfect emeralds, and there were dozens of tiny emeralds forming the layered shapes of the snake's scales. Its tail curved around the base of the grip, and its immaculately rendered head rested atop the hilt. Where the blade should have been, there was a depression in the velvet, but the blade itself was gone.

"Oh, my God," Hermione breathed in awe. "You don't suppose...?"

Harry turned and looked at Malfoy, who had lifted one hand and was running his elegant fingers over the heavy silver carvings. "Is it?"

The light eyes shot quickly to his, then back to the box. "I'm sure it is," he answered, his voice deep. "It's the only reason for it to be hidden here."

"Is it... a Horcrux?" Ron whispered, sounding nervous. Hermione smacked his arm, and he flinched. "What?" She jerked her head towards Malfoy; he ignored them.

Malfoy shook his head quickly. "I don't think so," he answered instead. "But I believe it may be the means of doing away with one."

"You know what Horcruxes are?" Hermione breathed, eyes wide. Harry stared into his face as well. He remembered what Slughorn had told him, how Dark the magic was, how few wizards knew of it. Malfoy merely spared her one irritated glance.

"My father is Lucius Malfoy," he said as if that answered everything, and in a very real sense, it did.

"We can't do away with anything without the blade," Harry interceded, changing the subject and touching the empty indentation. "Where do you suppose it is?"

"No idea." Malfoy lifted the heavy hilt from the box, searching beneath it, then turned the whole of the box upside down. When he found nothing, he searched the now-empty space with his hand, then shook his head.

"What?" Harry asked.

"I was certain there would be a note," Malfoy answered. "Something to tell us where to find the blade, or what to do next." He replaced the beautiful handle back in its box. "It's magnificent, but it doesn't help us much."

"Do you think there might be a message somewhere else?" Hermione asked, glancing around the room.

Malfoy sighed, following the direction of her gaze. "I don't know."

"Well, this is a desk," Ron said offhandedly. "Makes sense that something written might be in it."

Malfoy looked as if he were about to retort, then paused thoughtfully. "You know, Weasley, that may be the smartest thing I've ever heard you say."

"I manage to come up with one or two," he responded with a huff.

"Step back," Malfoy said, and the three who had crowded around the safe moved away. They watched him open each of the small desks drawers, and two small cupboards on either side. Finally, he pulled out the spindly chair and crouched down, looking under the center drawer. He went still for a moment, then turned his head and looked up at Harry, and smiled slowly.

The transformation of his face was so stunning that Harry could only stare. He wasn't certain that Malfoy had ever just... smiled at him before. Smirked, yes. But smiled? He was still reeling in surprise as Malfoy reached up and pulled something free from where it was stuck to the bottom of the drawer, and then stood. He read the front, then turned to Harry, hand extended. Once again, the front said "Potter" in that same cramped writing. When Harry started to turn it over and open it, Draco put a staying hand on his wrist, and Harry looked up at him.

"Might I advise that we wait on that until we get back to your headquarters?" he said softly. "I'm not certain how secure this location actually is."

"Good plan," Harry agreed, taking the small, thick square of parchment and secreting it in an inner pocket in his heavy black robe. Malfoy handed him the bulky knife case, and Harry shrunk it with a quick spell before adding it to the pocket with the note. "We should probably get back."

He took his wand when Malfoy offered it, then led the way back down the narrowed stairs. They passed through the silent kitchen, and Ron was first to exit through the rear door.

Harry knew there was trouble immediately. There was a red flash, and he heard Ron yell, then the sound of something heavy falling down the rickety rear steps. Harry started for the door, but Malfoy was in front of him and reached it first.

"Get down," he shouted over his shoulder, then threw open the door and shot through it into the darkness.

"You don't have a wand!" Harry shouted back, even as another jet of red shot over his head and exploded into the cabinets behind him. Debris rained over them as he felt Hermione clutch his robes and drag him with surprising strength to the dirty floor.

He heard yelling in the distance, curses being fired. He even thought he heard Malfoy's name screamed, but he couldn't be sure. He stared at the gaping doorway, his heart in his throat. He had to get out there; Ron was down, Malfoy was unarmed. He tried to pry Hermione's fingers from his robes, but she wouldn't let go.

"No, you can't," she cried. "You can't, Harry..."

Anything else she might have been going to say was lost when Harry saw a head of fair hair begin to move slowly back through the opening, near the floor. Malfoy was crawling, and Harry's heart lurched at the thought that he might have been hit too. And then he saw that he was dragging something heavy behind him, and Harry registered the pale hand wrapped around Malfoy's forearm, and the head of tousled hair near his knee...

"Ron!" Harry cried, finally prying Hermione's hand loose and crawling forward, grabbing Malfoy by the shoulders and yanking hard, pulling both men into the room. Malfoy turned Ron and leaned him against the wall, and Harry slammed the door shut behind him just as another vicious curse exploded against it.

"He's hit," Malfoy said breathlessly, leaning against the door. Harry turned his attention to Ron, saw the inky, slick stain that was spreading down his side, and the rent in his robes. Ron looked up at him, and his blue eyes were glazed with pain.

"How bad?" Harry asked Ron tightly, hand reaching out to keep him from falling over.

"Bad enough," Ron answered roughly, and Harry nodded tightly even as his heart pounded in his ears.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione gasped, but Harry held out his hand to stop her from throwing herself on him. He looked at Malfoy.

"Any reason we can't Apparate from in here?"

Malfoy shook his head, his own eyes drifting closed, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe. That's when Harry noticed the blood on his left hand— blood that was slipping from beneath his sleeve.

"You're hit, too," Harry said tightly. Malfoy just shook his head.

"It's not bad. Just get him out."

Their eyes locked for a moment, then Harry turned to Hermione, who was staring at Ron, her heart in her eyes.

"Take Malfoy," he said, but she didn't look at him. He grabbed her arm and shook her hard, and she looked up at him, dark eyes wide in her pale face.

"Take Malfoy," he repeated sternly. "He's hurt, and he has no wand. I'll take Ron. Now go!"

More curses were slamming into the rickety house, and Harry could smell smoke drifting under the door. There was no time to argue now.

"Take him, Hermione!" he shouted, and shoved her towards Malfoy. She hesitated just a moment. "The house is fucking on fire, Hermione. Take him! I'll bring Ron!"

He watched as his words spurred her to action, and he saw her grip Malfoy's robes, and with a sharp crack, they were gone. He turned back to Ron, whose eyes were starting to slide closed and who was listing dangerously.

"Stay with me, mate," he said through clenched teeth. "Stay with me."

He wrapped his arms around his oldest friend, and they vanished with a crack just as the door to the kitchen crashed in.

*******

The underground complex was surprisingly large. To those who'd lived there for more than a year, navigating its warren of underground passageways could still be something of a challenge, but Harry felt he could make the journey from the somewhat primitive hospital wing back to the living quarters in his sleep, he'd done it so many times. He made that journey now, in the middle of the day following their narrow escape from Spinner's End, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, and the robes he still wore stiff with dried blood — Ron's blood. He ran his hand wearily through his messy thick hair and sighed wearily.

Ron was going to make it, but it had been a near thing. A vicious slashing hex had cut into his side just beneath his left arm, smashing his ribcage, and lacerating his lung. Thank God for Pomfrey, Harry thought as he turned into the hallway that led to the kitchens. She'd been able to stop the bleeding, and had administered Skele-Gro and Blood-Replenishing Potions, and had healed the hideous wound. As was the case with most curse related injuries, this one would leave a rather spectacular scar, but Ron was going to recover. He'd be out of action for at least a week in order for his lungs to regenerate completely, but he would be all right. Thanks to Poppy Pomfrey. And Draco Malfoy.

Harry had seen Malfoy briefly when he'd arrived with Ron in the hospitals' massive Great Hall-sized dormitory, but hadn't seen him since. He'd been too busy answering a flood of frantic questions, and with Ron holding tight to his hand throughout most of his initial treatment, he'd been unable to get away until his friend had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep. Then there had been Molly's fears to ease and Arthur's questions to answer before he'd been able to ask Hermione about Malfoy.

"Lupin took him back to the quarters," she answered, not looking away from Ron's pale face. Harry touched her hand briefly before he left the hospital, and she spared him a quick, if somewhat wan, smile.

And now he stepped into the dining hall and looked up and down the long table. Lupin was there, and several others, but there was no distinctive blond head. Lupin caught sight of him and pushed back from the table to stand.

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked, glancing around wearily.

"Back in the room he slept in." Harry started to protest, but Lupin touched his arm lightly. "It's for his own protection, Harry," he murmured. "Not everyone is convinced he's on our side." Harry glanced around at those gathered, and then nodded. He could understand that; he wasn't sure even he completely understood what was going on. He left the room and made his way to the interrogation cell and knocked softly, then used his wand to unlock the door.

Malfoy was sitting on the cot, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up and his eyes on the door. Harry stepped into the room, and closed the door at his back.

"Sorry about this," he said, feeling suddenly extremely self-conscious. One of Malfoy's brows arched slightly.

"Sorry about what?"

"You, being locked up like this." He gestured awkwardly around the small room.

"You shouldn't be," Malfoy said, letting his head lean back against the wall, but his eyes remained on Harry. "Up until two days ago, I was the enemy, Potter. You should never allow yourself to forget that."

"Two days ago, you hadn't thrown yourself if front of a dozen hexes, without a wand I might add, to save the life of someone you don't even like." Harry's eyes stayed on Malfoy's until he glanced away, but Harry saw the flush that started up his fair neck. "Care to tell me what that was all about?"

The pale fingers near Malfoy's hip plucked absently at the rough blanket that was spread over the thin mattress. "How is Weasley?" he asked finally.

"He's going to be fine," Harry answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "And stop avoiding the question."

Malfoy glanced up at Harry's implacable face, and then grimaced before looking away. "Maybe I've just... seen enough death. Can't we leave it at that?"

"We've all seen enough death, Malfoy," Harry said softly. "Throwing yourself into the line of fire and adding yourself to the list scarcely stops it."

Malfoy sighed explosively, then dropped his feet heavily to the floor and leaned forward, looking up into Harry's face. "You aren't going to let it go, are you?" Harry shook his head slowly from side to side. "Fine," Malfoy said tiredly. "I was closer to the door, and I knew that if I didn't go, you would. So, I went. I'm expendable." His grey eyes were level and completely void of emotion as he stared into Harry's. "You aren't. Severus knew it, and died trying to make sure you had what you needed to beat the bastard. My mother knew it, and was killed for the same reason. Without you, we're all fucked, Potter. I went after the weasel so that you wouldn't. End of story."

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. "How very... Gryffindor of you," he said finally, and Malfoy rolled his eyes and sat back negligently against the wall again, mask of indifference slipping back into place.

"It's self-serving, which is about as Slytherin as you can get," he drawled. "I don't suppose you've had time to look at the second note?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he patted down his robe pocket. He hadn't even thought about it in his concern about Ron. He pulled the parchment free of the fabric, grimaced a bit when he saw the rust-colored stain near one corner, then turned it in his hand and pried up the wax seal. He started to read it himself, then glanced up and saw Malfoy watching him. Walking over, he kicked at the man's foot lightly. "Budge over," he said when Malfoy frowned at him.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to sit so we both can read it."

Malfoy rolled expressive eyes. "I can read it after you."

"Fine, I want to sit because I'm bloody tired, all right? Budge the hell over."

Malfoy huffed, but scooted slightly to one side, and Harry sat heavily on the edge of the cot, unfolding the parchment. He didn't gloat when he felt Malfoy lean forward to look at the written words over his shoulder.

"Potter,

"If this is in your hands, then you and Mr Malfoy have put aside your differences, temporarily at least, and managed to work together. I shall assume that is because of his vast intelligence and common sense, and not because of any talent on your part."

Harry heard Malfoy grunt in amusement at his side and ignored him.

"You are now in possession of the first half of the weapon you shall need to fulfill your destiny. The other half, of necessity, still awaits you at your next destination. The next part of your journey must be undertaken by the two of you only. None of your rabid fans should be allowed to accompany you, Potter. This is not another one of your insipid annual rule-breaking adventures. If you value the lives of people who will follow you, even unto death, I suggest you heed my words. You will have to make do with Mr Malfoy, alone.

"As to that location, you both need to think of the single place that you have thought of as your true home. It is one of the things that you have in common. There are a surprising number, if you will take the time to see it.

"Once you have reached your destination, search for the owner of what you now possess. He will lead you from there."

S.Snape"

Harry continued to stare at the signature until, near his elbow, Malfoy spoke.

"Drop it," he said softly. Harry looked at him, one dark brow arched. "The letter, Potter," he explained sourly. "Drop it before..."

Just as the last one had, this parchment burst into flame with a soft puff. Harry cursed and dropped it, and it incinerated to ash before it reached the floor.

"This little habit you have, Potter, of not learning from past mistakes," Malfoy said dryly when Harry put his singed fingers in his mouth.

"Shut it, you," he muttered when he'd removed them, but found himself surprised that the exchange had a teasing quality that he could not ever remember sharing with Malfoy before. He looked into Malfoy’s eyes, and they held his for several moments before Harry spoke again.

"So, the single place we've both thought of as home..."

"Hogwarts."

They said the name together, eyes still locked. One of Harry's dark brows arched in mild surprise.

"Still?" he asked. "Even after..."

Malfoy turned his face away, but not before Harry saw the rusty stain that filled his cheeks. "I'm not proud of that, Potter," he said very quietly. "In fact, that night is probably one of the greatest regrets of my life. Had I known who was going to be coming, I'd have never have fixed that bloody cabinet. But before that year—" He paused, swallowing deeply, as if what he was about to say was very difficult. "Before that year, even before my father went to prison, my home wasn't..." He paused again, his eyes closing, his jaw rigid. "I never measured up." He managed finally. "Not with my father. Nothing I ever did was... quite enough. But at Hogwarts..." he sighed deeply, rolling his head as though to ease taut muscles, and Harry realized then that his own shoulders felt tight. "At Hogwarts, I was somebody; I was good at something. And there was Severus..." He stopped, staring down at his pale hands. "Hogwarts was more of a home to me than the Manor ever was." He looked up then, eyes despondent but level on Harry's. "Can you understand that?"

Harry nodded. "Better than you can imagine," he said softly. And for perhaps the first time, they understood one another perfectly.

"Last I'd heard, though, getting into Hogwarts is impossible," Malfoy said, and Harry nodded thoughtfully.

It was one of the great mysteries that had come with the second vast Wizard War. Hogwarts' doors had remained open for as long as McGonagall had lived, as long as she'd had even one student whose parents were willing to send them. When those last children were no longer able to attend, she had sadly closed the school's doors and died not long after. For three years, the castle had sat empty, professors either dead or fighting in the war, its darkened silhouette a stark reminder of what the war had cost them all.

And then Voldemort had decided that he wanted to use the old place as his headquarters, and had planned his triumphal entry as a way to demoralize his enemy. Had he succeeded, it would have been more effective than he could imagine, for everyone on both sides considered Hogwarts their own. To see him ensconced there would have been a true blow to the side of Light. However, his plans could not be implemented, because he could not seem to get past the castle's wards.

He'd brought in everyone on his side who had either taught at the school, or who was an expert on defeating wards, and he had many. None of them had been able to breach the castle's defenses. It seemed that Hogwarts had decided that it would not allow itself to be used, and had made it impossible to enter. Three years later, it remained inviolate, its gates sealed, and wards so strong around it that it could not even be approached by broomstick.

"We'd heard the same," Harry said, thoughtfully rubbing his rough jaw. He'd not shaved or slept in two days, and he was certain he must look pretty rough. He'd never much cared how he looked, but in that moment, with Malfoy staring at him, he suddenly wished he weren't quite so haggard. Even after everything he'd been through, the bloody man was still breathtakingly handsome from his longish white- blond hair to the wide grey eyes and the smooth, faintly pointed chin. Harry felt himself flush under that unblinking regard and dropped his hand away from his face.

"I doubt Severus would have sent us somewhere that we couldn't get into," Malfoy said softly.

Harry nodded. "I guess we'll have to figure out how when we get there. There were some secret passages; one in from the cellar in Honeydukes."

"Yes." Malfoy nodded, and Harry angled his head inquisitively. Malfoy saw the look. "Gryffindorks weren't the only ones who brought in contraband, Potter." He smirked, and it had been a long time since Harry had seen that particular expression. He found he was glad to see it back.

"What, like booze?" he asked, finding himself faintly amused. Malfoy scoffed.

"Please," he drawled. "We were doing that by third year." He leaned back against the wall again, all long legs and long body, and even in the tattered trousers and stained button-down shirt he still seemed to wear his breeding like a badge. "I do recall one memorable occasion, during sixth year, when Zabini actually managed to purchase the services of a lady of the evening and set her up in the Prefects' bath."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "That's a lie!" he said, even as he was laughing.

"It's not," Malfoy countered smoothly. "The other Slytherins sixth year and up were indebted to him for months."

"Including you?" Harry asked, then could have kicked himself, but Malfoy didn't seem offended.

"Hardly." He grimaced. "My taste doesn't run toward whores—" He paused. "Or women, for that matter."

Harry knew that he looked startled, not by the information but by the bald way in which he just... said it. But apparently, Malfoy misunderstood his expression, for Harry saw his features harden.

"Gee, sorry Potter," he said snidely. "Didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities." He pushed himself up from the cot and stalked across the small room, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched.

"No, Malfoy," Harry said, instantly regretful. "That isn't it. Not at all." Malfoy turned and pierced him with a pointed look, and Harry swallowed heavily.

"Then what?" he asked sharply.

"I just..." Harry started, then paused to take a deep breath. "I was surprised that you just... said it, like that."

"What would you have me do instead?" He crossed his long arms, his eyes still frigid. "Pretend to be something else? Not bad enough that I'm a Death Eater, but now I'm queer as well?"

"NO!" Harry hadn't meant to shout, but his voice echoed off of the stone walls. "No, that's not it," he said more quietly and pushed to his feet, closing the distance between them. "It's just..." He glanced around nervously, then back into the grey eyes. "I've never had the nerve to just say it, all right?" He said quickly. "I haven't said it, in fact. To anyone."

Malfoy blinked, for the first time since Harry had met him looking frankly startled. Much as Harry must have moments before. "What are you saying?" he asked faintly.

"Now who's being thick." Harry scowled and began to turn away, but Malfoy caught his arm.

"You..." Malfoy began, then paused. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"What? You think I'd joke about it?" Harry frowned, and Malfoy leaned back against the door and shook his fair head. "What?" Harry blurted.

"Just thinking of all your little fans," he said wryly. "Does the Weaselette know this?"

"Ron and Hermione don't even know," Harry answered, exhaling heavily. Malfoy's brow arched toward his hairline.

"Well, you may be the straightest gay man I've ever met," he said with an ironic twist to his lips. "Although you've got to promise me something, Potter."

Harry looked suspicious. "What?"

"That when you do get around to telling the Weasel you'll let me sit in. I think I'd pay for that privilege."

Harry rolled his eyes, but Malfoy's smirk deepened. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"You know what?" Harry said finally. "We just had a conversation. Without either of us ending up with a split lip."

"So we did," Malfoy agreed.

They continued to look at one another, and when something began to warm in Malfoy's grey eyes, Harry felt his face heating in response. He took a step back and ran his hand through his thick hair, and didn't see amusement tug at the corner of Malfoy's mouth.

"So, uhm, how should we..." He gestured towards the small pile of ash on the floor, feeling incredibly awkward.

"Well," Malfoy said, pushing away from the wall. "He was pretty clear that we do the next part alone." He turned and searched Harry's face. "So how are you going to be able to get away from here? And—" He a paused to cross his arms again, "—are you comfortable taking me with you if there isn't anyone around to watch your back?"

Harry returned his level stare, embarrassment fading in the face of confronting the logistical realities. "We'll wait until everyone else is asleep," Harry said in answer to the first question, then paused thoughtfully. "And as to the other part, I think I can trust you." Malfoy just returned his stare, and the corner of Harry's mouth quirked slightly. "As long as I have your wand."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but didn't comment.

*******

"Alohomora," Harry whispered, and the lock on the back door of the deserted sweet shop made a strained scraping sound before it clicked and the door popped open. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was watching him, and gestured him into the deserted store ahead of him before following and closing the door at his back.

It had been surprisingly easy to leave the bunker. When he and Malfoy had walked out through the doors, the guards had taken one look at Harry and merely nodded. It was not uncommon for him to leave at all hours, and they'd scarcely glanced at the second man, whose distinctive hair and pointed features had been covered by the deep cowl of his cloak. They'd walked a safe distance, then Apparated into Hogsmeade. The village had been deserted for at least two years; Harry wasn't surprised that it was unoccupied.

Harry looked around at the empty cases and deserted shelves, and felt a sinking sadness in his chest. Honeydukes had been one of his favorite places when he'd been at Hogwarts, and seeing it so silent and empty, dust covering the surfaces, reminded him more forcefully than anything had in a long time how much all of their lives had changed, how their world had changed. Simple things, like candy, and Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, and the simple act of going to school. There was soon to be an entire generation of magical children who had never known the simple pleasure of shopping for books and cauldrons in Diagon Alley, and with a renewed sense of resolve, Harry guided the way to the stairs that led to the basement. They had to find a way to end the stalemate; they had to.

He lit his wand and made his way down the narrow wooden stairs into the empty basement, then over to where he remembered the trapdoor being. Apparently, someone else had been there before them, for the door lay thrown aside, the tunnel exposed. Harry paused, but the dust on the floor appeared undisturbed, so he thought the last people who'd been there had probably been Death Eaters trying to get through the tunnel. He directed his wand down through the opening, saw that the floor below was also unmarked by footprints, then lowered himself down to drop to the stone floor. He waited for Malfoy, and they set off through the tunnel together.

It was eerie, the silence that settled around them. They could hear the occasional drip of water that seeped from the walls, and once a vague scurrying ahead that proved to be a mouse, but other than that, there was no sound. Outside of the scope of the wand light, the darkness was complete and Malfoy stayed close to Harry as they moved through the increasingly close confines of the tunnel. When they rounded a corner and were confronted by an iron gate, Harry paused and frowned.

"This didn't used to be here," he muttered, lifting his wand and leaning closer to check it.

"I imagine it's part of the castle's defenses," Malfoy murmured, raising his hand and stretching it out toward the gate. When he was within inches, a sudden arch of raw power shot out and slapped at his hand, and he jerked it back with a pained hiss. Harry caught his elbow as Malfoy rubbed his palm with the fingers of his other hand.

"All right?" he asked. Malfoy nodded, eyeing the gate with irritation. "Well, that didn't work."

"Hadn't noticed," Malfoy said dryly, and Harry sent him a slight smile before examining the ironwork yet again. "You try it."

Harry turned his head and shot him a look. "Why? So I can burn my hand, too?"

Malfoy shook his head. "No, I just had a sudden thought. Seriously Potter, you try."

He didn't sound as if he were trying to get Harry to hurt himself, but there was still a moment before Harry gingerly reached out his hand toward the gate. When he was within two inches and nothing had come streaking out of the metal to burn him, he lightly touched the pads of his fingers to the crossbar.

Instantly, the gate creaked then swung open, and the passageway beyond lit up as torches in the braziers along the wall burst into flame. Harry stared, his mouth open as Malfoy shook his head.

"Fucking unbelievable," he muttered, and Harry looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Malfoy answered, shaking his head. "Just, let's go." His lips twisted wryly. "And I believe I'll follow you, if you don't mind."

Harry muttered 'Nox', then started forward once again, Malfoy behind him. The gate slamming shut with a loud clang made them both jerk in surprise, and they looked back before moving on once again.

When they came to the trap door that led into the one-eyed witch, Harry pocketed his wand and reached up, grasping the handholds inside the bronze statue and lifted himself easily from the floor. He reached the top and found the small door, pushed it open, and then leaned down to offer Malfoy a hand up, only to realize that he was staring rather pointedly up under Harry's cloak. He snapped his fingers, bringing the grey eyes to his hand, then to his eyes.

"Focus, Malfoy," he said sharply. Malfoy lifted his arm, and caught at Harry's hand. Harry leaned back and slipped out through the opening in the statue, pulling Malfoy with him, and they slid down past the pedestal to land, first one, and then the other on the stone floor. Harry stood, and offered his hand, pulling Malfoy easily to his feet.

"Well, that was an impressive show of brute strength, Potter," he said a bit breathlessly. "You've added a bit of muscle since school."

"I'm not sixteen any more," Harry commented evenly.

"No, you certainly aren't," Malfoy said softly, leaving Harry wondering just what he'd been staring at, and tried very hard not to be pleased by Malfoy's obvious admiration.

"So, where do we start?" he asked, changing the subject while enjoying the flush that filled Malfoy's usually pale face.

"Severus' note said to start with the owner of what we already possessed," Malfoy said, one mobile brow arching. Harry stared, waiting. "Oh, for God's sakes, Potter, it's got a snake curled around it..."

"I know that," Harry said drily. "So it's Slytherin's, I get it. But he isn't exactly hanging around the castle now, is he?"

"Actually," Malfoy answered, a mischievous light beginning to shine in his pale eyes, "you'd be surprised. Follow me."

He set off down the corridor, torches flaring to life just ahead of him as he walked, and Harry followed close behind.

*****

As surreal as finding Hogsmeade completely deserted had been, walking through a still and silent Hogwarts was worse. Even the castle ghosts seemed to be absent, and the portraits on the walls didn't respond to them, either. They looked like Muggle paintings now, static and flat, and Harry was forcefully reminded of a story he'd heard as a child; — one about a fairy princess who was thrown into a deep enchantment by a wicked witch when she pricked her finger on a spindle, and how she and her kingdom had fallen into a deep sleep for a hundred years. But for the torches that burst into flame at their approach, the castle felt as if it were sleeping, or waiting, for something to wake it, and Harry felt certain that Hogwarts wouldn't return to normal until the stalemate was at an end.

When they arrived in the dungeons, they found the door to the Slytherin common room standing open, and Malfoy frowned.

"It makes sense," Harry said, speaking softly, still finding himself a bit unnerved by the ringing silence, and Malfoy's grey eyes turned to him. "Have you noticed that the paintings have all gone still? There's no one to keep out. Why bother closing off the common rooms?"

"I suppose," Malfoy mused, but his brow was still furrowed. "Come on, then. It's through here..."

Harry didn't tell him that he and Ron had been in the Slytherin common room once before, in second year. He doubted that the knowledge that the two of them had taken Polyjuice Potion to spy on Malfoy would be well received, even now.

When they arrived in the expansive rooms, and the lights slowly lifted to reveal the furnishings, Harry looked at it through an adult's eyes for the first time. At twelve, he'd thought it cold, and uncomfortable. Now, he realized that what he'd thought cold had been the color scheme that he'd associated with people he didn't like, and what he'd found uncomfortable had been austere. The Slytherin common room, in actuality, was a beautiful space, with white marble floors covered in sumptuous green and black oriental carpets, enchanted stained glass windows that threw squares of tinted light on the stone walls, and deep couches and chairs upholstered in deep-green velvet. There were busts of famous Slytherins on pillars, and vases full of white flowers. It was a beautiful room, and he could now appreciate that. It was also immaculately clean, and the flowers in all of the vases appeared to have just been placed there.

"Weird, isn't it?" he said, still speaking softly. Malfoy looked at him. "How clean everything is."

"I imagine it's part of the castle's own magic," Malfoy answered, turning away.

Harry looked at the flowers through new eyes, finding it interesting that the magic inherent in the castle would find a way to keep the school in pristine condition, even while barricading itself from the outside world. Malfoy strode over in front of the fireplace, and then gestured up with a meaningful lift of one eyebrow. Harry glanced up, then stared.

It was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin, of course. He'd been depicted in wizard's robes, long black beard brushing a broad chest, peaked hat upon his head. He didn't look evil, Harry thought as he stared at the keenly intelligent face. He looked... smart, clever, even a bit arrogant. Very much like Malfoy, he realized, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. But then he noticed something that had his mouth dropping open.

Slytherin had been painted standing before a potions table, a cauldron bubbling over a fire beneath it. There were vials of ingredients near his right hand, but there was also a dagger — one with a heavy silver hilt that had a serpent with emerald eyes.

"Malfoy, the knife," he said, pointing, and he saw Malfoy's eyes register surprise.

"I'll be damned," he breathed. "I looked at that portrait every day for seven years, and I never noticed..." But as the words were leaving his mouth they trailed away into surprised silence, for the item depicted began to glow, faintly at first, then brighter, until there was a brilliant, shining white border around the entirety of the wickedly sharp blade.

"What do you think we're supposed to do?" Harry said, watching the light begin to pulsate.

"I'm not sure," Malfoy said softly, but he was studying the sides of the mantle piece as he said it. It, too, was white marble, and there was a frieze of entwined snakes starting at the floor on both sides and linking over the top of the portrait. After a moment, he unclasped the cloak he was wearing and shrugged out of it, then moved forward and reached up, grabbing the head of one of the larger snakes and pulling himself up. Harry watched him find footholds and push up, then reach up and climb further.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Laundry," Malfoy answered snidely. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing? I'm climbing up to take a closer look."

"Do you think that's wise?" Harry asked. When Malfoy shot him a brief look over his square shoulder, Harry just held up his hands. "Fine. Just asking."

After that, he contented himself with just watching as Malfoy stretched and pulled himself up, long legs lifting at the knee as he stepped into indentations between the snakes to push himself higher. Each upwards reach pulled his shirt higher, revealing a strip of pale, taut skin between the bottom of the worn fabric and the top of the dark slacks, each lift of a knee pulled the wool tight across a well-shaped arse. Harry found himself staring at that arse with a whole new appreciation, and also realized with a heating in his cheeks that this was precisely what Malfoy had been doing when he'd scaled the inside of the one-eyed witch. He felt his lips curving at the thought.

And then Malfoy had reached the wide marble mantle, and was navigating his way gracefully around candlesticks and vases of flowers to reach the center of the portrait, right where the knife was depicted. He leaned over and stared at it carefully, blond hair swinging forward to hide his face, angling his head, then cautiously reached out and touched the painted surface.

A deafening bang had Harry recoiling, but he moved without thought when he saw Malfoy thrown backwards as if he'd been shoved off of the high mantle. He jumped into place to block his fall, arms out, and when Malfoy struck his chest, they crashed to the floor hard, rolling. Harry gripped him tightly and they finally came to a halt near one of the sofas, Malfoy lying on top of Harry, one of his long legs between Harry's thighs, his hair a soft white cloud blocking Harry's vision. They lay there breathing hard for a moment, then Malfoy lifted his head and looked down into Harry's face, grey eyes wide. He stared just long enough for Harry to register the weight of a slender thigh pressed into his groin.

"Damn, Potter," he finally said, "your body is as hard as your head."

Harry huffed and shoved the lithe body off of his. "You're welcome, you prat. I could have let you hit the floor."

Malfoy rubbed his chest. "I'm not sure there was much of a difference, actually," he muttered, but the corner of his lips lifted as he sat up. And then the pale eyes were widening. "Potter, look!"

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched as Malfoy scrambled to his hands and knees. When he turned, he was grinning broadly, and in his hands, he was holding a long, wickedly sharp silver blade. Harry gasped and sat up quickly, reaching into his interior pocket and finding the still-minimized mahogany box. He pulled it out along with his wand, restored it to its original size, and flipped the lid open. Almost reverently, Malfoy lifted the hilt from the aged velvet, and fitted the blade into the slot in the heavy silver. There was flash of blindingly bright light, and they each lifted hands reflexively to block their eyes. When it faded, Malfoy was holding the restored dagger in his hand.

"Sweet Circe," he said softly, staring at if in awe.

"That's a wickedly beautiful thing, isn't it?" Harry said, his voice hushed.

"Do you want to hold it?"

Harry started to reach out, then stopped. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to take the dagger in his hand. Instead, he shook his head and held out the case. "Let's just... keep it safe, yeah?"

Malfoy looked into his face, his brow furrowed, and was about to say something when from above their heads, there was a puff of sound and they both looked up. Much as had happened during their fourth year, the portrait seemed to have belched in the same way the Goblet of Fire had when four champions' names had been chosen. There was a small square of faded parchment floating gracefully down towards them. Harry reached up and caught it, then turned it to read what was written there. Slowly, his full lips curled in a smile.

"What does it say?" Malfoy asked breathlessly.

"'Sugar Quills'," he answered, looking up at Malfoy.

"What in the hell does that mean?" Malfoy asked crossly.

"Ah, this one I understand." Harry pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand once again. "Come on," Harry prodded when he didn't immediately take it. "I'll show you."

Malfoy stared at the offered hand, then reached up and let Harry pull him to his feet, musing privately on how far they'd come.

******

"Wait, what's up there?"

They were standing before the winged gargoyle, and Harry was just about to step onto the curved staircase when Malfoy's hand on his arm stopped him, and he looked back.

"The Headmaster's office," Harry answered. He was surprised when Malfoy swallowed nervously and stepped back. "What's the matter? Come on."

"I...." Malfoy began softly, and Harry was startled when he saw how pale he'd suddenly become, how wide the grey eyes were.

"It's all right," Harry started. Malfoy stared at him, still unsure. "Draco," Harry said softly. The eyes blinked in surprise. "It's all right."

Malfoy hesitated just a moment longer, then he and Harry started up the stairs side by side. Harry glanced over at him, and saw him looking up and swallowing nervously. "You've never been up here before?" Malfoy shook his head quickly, not meeting Harry's eyes. "These stairs used to move, like an escalator in a department store..." Malfoy shot him an uncomprehending frown, and Harry just shook his dark head. "Never mind."

When they arrived at the heavy oak door, Harry pushed it open and entered, Malfoy not far behind. Harry looked up at the portraits on the wall, but the frames were either empty, or the occupants were depicted asleep. Dumbledore's large canvas was empty save for his throne-like chair. Harry glanced back and saw Malfoy lingering nervously near the door.

"It's all right; he isn't here. And the portraits are all frozen, anyway."

Malfoy pushed away from the door and came to stand next to Harry in front of the massive desk. "I still don't understand 'Sugar Quills'," he said softly, looking around the office with vague interest.

"Dumbledore's passwords, to gain access to the stairs, were always candy of some kind. He had a wicked sweet tooth..." He paused as he looked around the office. "But now that we're here, I'm wondering if maybe I got it wrong..."

Just as he was saying the words, they both heard a distinctive click from behind them, and turned. A bluish light filled the room, and as two of the tall wardrobe doors slid slowly open, Harry saw Dumbledore's Pensieve on a pedestal. The light slowly filtering into the room was from the silvery-blue substance swirling within the basin. Harry smiled slightly. "Not wrong, then."

"A Pensieve," Malfoy breathed, and Harry shot him a quick look. "Severus showed me his. I used it a time or two," he answered the unspoken question, moving toward the shining bowl. Harry went with him and stopped in front of it.

"Well, I'm guessing we're supposed to see whatever this is..." he mused aloud.

"We?" Malfoy turned widened eyes to his face. "What makes you think this is for both of us?"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry answered ironically. "Maybe the fact that everything that's happened has been about us working together? Isn't that was Snape said; that we'd have to put aside our differences and work as a team?" Malfoy looked at the swirling mist, then back into Harry's eyes.

"Yes," he answered. "Yes, he did."

"All right, then." Harry gestured towards the bowl. "After you."

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then sighed and turned, leaning forward until the ends of his long blond hair touched the surface of the swirling memory, and Harry watched as his body was sucked into the Pensieve. Once his feet had cleared the surface, Harry leaned forward, immersed his face in the cool, swirling mist, and felt himself pulled from the room and into the fog.

But he wasn't pulled from the room, he realized when he landed hard and looked up. Both he and Malfoy were seated on the floor in front of the Headmaster's desk in the very room they'd just left, staring up at the back of a tall man with long black hair wearing austere black robes. Even from the back, Harry knew instantly who it was and from the startled gasp that came from his side, he knew that Malfoy did, too. Snape was staring up at the portrait of Dumbledore on the wall and now, it wasn't vacant. Clearly the man was agitated as he paced in front of the portrait, and when he turned, his face was taut and angry.

"There has to be another way," he was saying, deep voice harsh. Harry pushed himself to his feet and felt Malfoy do the same.

"Severus, you know that there isn't," Dumbledore was saying wearily. He was seated in the elaborate chair, one elbow on the arm, his ruined hand curled limp in his lap. "It is the only solution. And there is no point in bemoaning the fact any further; this was prophesized before they were both born."

"And so once again, we demonize the Slytherin," Snape sneered.

"Leo planto ultimae vitualamen , tamen Serpent pao pretium ", old friend," Dumbledore said sadly, and Snape hissed harshly.

"Spare me, Albus," he growled. "I know what it says."

Harry felt Malfoy stiffen beside him, but he was so fascinated by the argument that he scarcely noticed.

"I thought," Snape said between clenched teeth, "that the point of the last eighteen years was to keep the boy alive, to prepare him to fight." Now it was Harry's turn to stiffen. "And now you're telling me..."

"The night that Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the killing curse rebounded itself upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort's soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself to the only living soul left in that collapsed building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort's mind that he has never understood. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die..."*

Harry knew he took a step back, knew that he was shaking his head, but all he was aware of was a deep and spreading horror... he was a Horcrux... Dumbledore was telling Snape that he was a Horcrux...

******

Draco felt Potter begin to step back and reached out instinctively to grasp his arm. He understood the other man's reaction; he'd had one very similar when he'd heard what Dumbledore had said in Latin. But he knew that there was more, more that they had to hear, more that they needed to know...

"So the boy," Snape said, his voice catching, "the boy... must die." Dumbledore nodded somberly. "Why can't he just... do it himself? It plays perfectly into that insufferable martyr complex of his..."

"Suicide is by definition a selfish act. This must be a self-less act on both sides for it to be successful. And a Slytherin must be the instrument," Dumbledore intoned sadly. "I know this is difficult for you Severus, and if there were any other way..."

"But why Malfoy?" Snape said, straightening again. "Why not Zabini, or Nott, or me?" He clutched his long fingers in the front of his dark tunic. "He's already vilified, Albus, for something he had no part of. But to add this..."

"We've all our part to play," Dumbledore shook his head. "We've all our price to pay for the future of our world."

"He won't be able to do it," Snape said emphatically. "You yourself knew that he wasn't a killer! You relied on that fact all throughout his sixth year."

"No, Severus. Everyone can kill with the right motivation. Everyone can be made into a killer." Dumbledore shook his head. "Draco, however, is not a murderer."

"And you think there's a difference?"

"Oh, quite a great one." He nodded. "Murder would imply sin and everything that it entails; guilt and a crisis of conscience. But one kills for survival when there is nothing else left to do and it is the only option available. One costs him his soul and the other does not. That is the difference."

"You still have not explained to me why it must be Draco!" Snape shouted, hands fisted. "If any Slytherin will do..."

Now Dumbledore's eyes began to look angry. "Any Slytherin will not do, and you know why, Severus. You are an intelligent man. There has been something between these two boys for as long as they have known one another. Whether it is hate, or something else that neither of them understands yet, there is an undeniable passion! The whole of this conflict, this battle of good against evil, of pure-blood versus Muggle-born, was begun of such a passion and you know it! Had Slytherin and Gryffindor not both loved and hated with that same passion, had they not made such cataclysmic mistakes because of it, we would not be where we are now. It has to end, Severus, and it has to end in this way. Draco Malfoy must take Salazar Slytherin's dagger and stab it into the heart of Harry Potter so that the evil within him, the evil that has borne this nightmare, can be killed once and for all. It is the only way." He paused, his features softening with both understanding and sadness. "I'm sorry, Severus. There is no other course."

Draco felt Potter pulling against his grip then, turning away, fighting off his fingers. He tried to hold on to him, tried to listen to what else was being said, but he wasn't strong enough and even with both hands curled around Potter's arm he was being pulled back, sucked into a vortex...

He landed hard on the Headmaster's office floor, his head connecting with a dull thunk, and the room tipped dizzily for a moment before settling once again. By the time he pushed himself up onto his elbows, he saw the hem of Potter's robe as it disappeared through the office door.

"Potter!" he called after him, trying to get up. His head swam for a moment, and he had to pause. He heard running footsteps fading away down the stairs, and then all was silent.

"Shit," he said, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Shit, shit, shit..."

"Go after him."

Draco froze in place, wide eyes going to the portrait above the desk. The frame was still empty, but that was unmistakably Dumbledore's voice.

"Go after him," it said again, more insistently, and Draco looked around the office frantically. He was the only one there, and a chill ran the length of his spine.

"I... have no idea where he's gone..." he said faintly.

"Where he feels most at home," the voice provided, and after a pause, Draco nodded.

He turned away from the desk and managed to stagger toward the door.

******

The only place that Draco could imagine Potter 'feeling most at home' was the Gryffindor tower, and he made his way through the halls, headed in that direction, even as his mind whirled with what he'd heard.

"Draco Malfoy must take Salazar Slytherin's dagger and stab it into the heart of Harry Potter so that the evil within him, the evil that has borne this nightmare, can be killed once and for all..."

He also couldn't help but wonder about the revelation that Slytherin and Gryffindor had both loved and hated with passion, but that was secondary to the main point. In order for the war to end, in other for Voldemort to be weakened to the point where he could be killed, he had to kill Potter. Every step he took brought the box in the inner pocket of his robe into contact with his thigh and it suddenly seemed to weigh him down. He had to kill Potter, he had to stab Harry Potter, or the war would go on and on...

When he arrived at the portrait hole that led to the entrance to Gryffindor house, he found it standing open, just as the one in the dungeons had been. Entering carefully, he walked down the short, narrow hallway that led to the large common room and looked around. It was, of course, a study in red and gold, but he scarcely noticed. The only thing he noticed was that Potter was nowhere to be seen, but across the room, there were two arched entrances to staircases that clearly led up in two different directions. Taking the one on the left, he carefully, quietly climbed the stone steps that led upwards past several heavy, studded oak doors. Finally, near the top, one of the doors was standing open and he paused in the doorway.

Potter was across the room with his back to the door, his arms spread and his square hands propped on the window frame. His head was forward, and Draco felt his heart turn over hard when he saw that his shoulders were trembling.

"Potter," he said in a soft, aching voice.

Potter whirled then, and the eyes that peered at him from behind the lenses of his spectacles were both red-rimmed and full of fury. His lips parted and pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hissed, and Draco fought the urge to take a step back from the unmistakable rage on his face.

"Potter, we need to talk..." he said, trying to sound conciliatory. Potter laughed humorlessly.

"About what?" he spat. "The fact that I've got a piece of a madman living in my head? Or the fact that you get to kill both it, and me?" He shoved away from the window and stalked towards Draco, green eyes full of wrath. "Works for you, doesn't it, Malfoy? You get to avenge your mother and take out the one person you've always hated in one fell swoop. Sort of a coup for you, I'd say."

Anger rose up inside of Draco, choking back any pity he might have felt. "How dare you," he gasped, seething. "How dare you say... anything about my mother and the way she died!"

Potter laughed again, and it had an almost mad, desperate sound. "Oh, fucking spare me!" he shouted. "Your mother died the same way that mine did. I've lived my whole bloody life with the knowledge that she sacrificed herself for me. And for what? For what, Malfoy? If you think I'm going to feel sorry for you ..." He made an angry slashing gesture with his hand. "Just... get out the knife and do it! Do it!" Hands made unsteady by fury went to his chest, and Potter grabbed his robe and his shirt and ripped both open down the front, sending buttons flying to ricochet off of the stone walls. He stood there, pale, muscular chest exposed, eyes filled with both wrath and despair. "Do it!" he screamed, his face a mask of torment. "Do it! You've always wanted me dead, here's your chance..."

"You fucking prick!" Draco screamed back, his own voice ragged with grief and pain. "I've never wanted you dead! Never! I never wanted you dead!"

"Then what did you want?" Potter began. "Because you did a bloody good impersonation..."

Draco would never remember closing the space between them. He would never remember grabbing the tattered remnants of Potter's shirt and yanking him hard against his own body. He only knew that he had to shut the mouth, stop the words; that one moment he was staring at the mobile mouth, twisted in an ugly sneer, and the next he was forcing his own open mouth over it, no thought other than to seal it shut.

He felt Potter stiffen against him, and tightened his hold so that he couldn't pull away. But he wasn't pulling away; he was suddenly pushing back, head angled, mouth open as he mashed his own lips, hard, against Draco's, pressing the soft flesh against unforgiving teeth. Draco gasped into his mouth, and then his was filled with Potter's tongue, thrusting, searching. He felt Potter's hands reach up and clutch the sides of his head, then fist hard in his hair as that demanding tongue moved into his mouth and harsh sounds of need vibrated through the muscled chest pressed to his.

After that, there was no thought, just action, and reaction. Draco let Potter grab him by the shoulders, let himself be thrown down roughly onto one of the bare mattresses, didn't fight back when Potter shoved his legs apart with his knees and settled on top of him. He felt the hardness of Potter's erection aligned with his own, and knew he was just as hard. Potter began to move against him, fast, hard thrusts, and Draco knew he was moaning, felt the needy sound fill his own throat. Potter continued to steal Draco's reason with his tongue, bit at his lips until Draco tasted the metallic hint of coppery blood in his mouth, but reason was lost, caution was lost, burned up in a blaze of the very passion that Dumbledore had spoken of.

And then the passion was all there was; it took over, surrounded them, drove them. Potter continued to kiss him voraciously, even as he thrust fiercely with his narrow hips, dragging his hard cock over the ridge in Draco's trousers, grinding down against it. Draco lifted his legs, locked them around Potter's waist and spread himself for the blinding, driving rush of raw, graceless need. He threw his head back, gasping for air as Potter held him pinned beneath him, cried out when Potter's teeth sank into the pale skin of his throat. Draco's hands lifted to the back of the dark head, fisted in the black hair even as one of Potter's hard hands slid the length of Draco's spine and opened on his taut arse, fingers biting hard into muscled flesh as Potter held him fused to his body, moved roughly against him. Draco's lungs felt as if he couldn't draw enough air, and Potter's tortured breathing was loud in the silence of the room.

"Oh, God," Potter finally gasped, his movements frenzied. "Close," he groaned. "Close, Malfoy..."

Draco dragged his fingers the length of Potter's spine and grabbed the hard arse that was flexing beneath the layers of fabric, countered each downward plunge with a responding thrust. Potter pushed himself up onto his hands, moving purposefully, violently into the cradle of Draco's thighs, his green eyes tightly closed, his usually pale face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead then slipping down his hard cheek. Draco left his eyes open, staring at the taut, muscular chest, the ridges along Potter's stomach contracting with each emphatic movement. A slight shift of Potter's hips to the left, and suddenly Draco's cock was under direct assault and that forceful massage yanked his orgasm from him, causing him to arch his back and cry out as the pounding on his body never eased, as he spilled himself into his pants with a violence he could never remember experiencing before in his life. And still the plundering of his senses went on, for Potter wasn't done, didn't stop, moved against him so furiously that the old bed frame shook and squeaked and slammed into the stone wall.

"Potter," he gasped. "Come on. Come on!"

"I'm there," Potter sobbed through clenched teeth. "I'm there, I just..."

Draco held tight to that flexing arse and arching his neck, lifted his head and covered one of Potter's small, tight nipples with his mouth. He heard the air dragged in harshly through Potter's teeth, felt the arms on either side of him begin to shake and heard the shattered cry when he took the hard nub between his teeth and bit down. Potter's entire body recoiled, curving like a bow, stiffening and shuddering hard, and he cried out, the sound both triumphant and anguished. Draco felt the warmth of Potter's orgasm as he spilled, and to his intense shock, his own cock lurched and pulsed again, and his eyes rolled back into his head as consciousness spun away...

The next thing Draco was aware of was the weight of Potter's limp body on top of his, the dark hair beneath his chin, the feel of harsh breath against his neck. Potter was shuddering still, hands now clutching Draco's arms hard and his lips were moving against his skin, but Draco had to struggle to understand what he was saying.

"Pretend, if you have to," Potter was gasping, his voice a thick, broken sound. "I don't care if you don't mean it, just..."

"What, Potter?" he muttered, the hand still entwined in Potter's hair moving against his scalp. "What?"

"Just for now, just for tonight, pretend you don't hate me. Please. I need there to be someone here who cares. Lie if you have to, imagine I'm someone else just please-" And then the broad shoulders began to shake, and Draco felt the dampness on his neck. His own throat felt thick, and his eyes filled as he wrapped his arms around the man on top of him and held him, hard.

There weren't any words Draco could offer to soothe him. He didn't know them; he never had. So instead, he offered strength through the tight cradle of his arms, warmth through the heat of his skin and compassion through the blurring of his own vision.

*****

They moved through the deserted castle side by side, silent, and purposeful.

There had been no discussion about what had passed between them once they'd risen from the old cot and righted themselves, casting cleaning charms, Potter abandoning all hope of resurrecting his shirt, just closing the robes down his chest. They didn't really look at one another, either, but a new understanding had been reached. Their conversation about what was to come had been Spartan, and direct.

"You're sure this is the only way?" Draco asked, watching Potter close the clasps, fighting to keep his voice level. A muscle had flexed in Potter's jaw, but he nodded briskly.

"If it means it can be over, then it's the only choice."

"You could just... leave, you know," Draco offered, faintly hopeful. The flinty look he'd received had been answer enough.

"The sick bastard has to die, and if this is the only way—" Potter's eyes had come to his then, and stayed, "then this is the only way. Will you be able to do it?"

Draco had swallowed hard then, even though his mouth was dry and his heart was hammering against his ribcage. "I..." He had to stop. His throat was so tight that words were almost painful to utter. When Potter saw his distress, he stepped closer, a large, warm hand coming out to curl around Draco's wrist.

"You can do this," he said, green eyes boring into grey. "You can; you can do this."

"I'm not you, Potter," Draco answered, his voice thin. "I'm not the Gryffindor Golden Boy. I'm not a hero. I..." His voice broke, and he stopped to blink back tears that shamed him. "I couldn't kill Dumbledore," he went on in a rush. "I couldn't even save my own mother... I..."

"It isn't the same," Potter said ardently. Draco shook his head, blond hair swinging before his eyes. "It isn't. Listen to me, Draco," he went on quickly when Draco tried to pull away. "Listen to me! You couldn't kill Dumbledore because you knew that it was wrong, and you couldn't save your mother because if you'd tried, they'd have killed you, too!"

"But I should have tried!" Draco gasped out, no longer even caring that there were tears on his face.

"You couldn't save her any more than I could have saved Cedric Diggory," Potter said gently. "Any more than I could have saved my parents. You'd have simply added yourself to the list. It wouldn't have changed anything, other than that it would never end. But now it can, don't you see? We're both here for a reason; we have to do this together, because now we can end it."

"But..." Draco began, then stopped, biting his lower lip as his eyes fell shut. "Now I want..." He couldn't finish the sentence, but his meaning hovered in the air between them. He heard Potter's soft sigh, then felt his hand gently grasped in another firm hand, and when a hard, stubbled cheek pressed against his own, he groaned with longing.

"I know." The deep whisper was directly in front of his ear, and Draco felt his body drift forward until it encountered the hardness, the strength of Potter's, then rested there. "I know. It seems like the cruelest sort of joke, doesn't it? That this should happen... now?" Draco nodded mutely, tears slipping from beneath his closed lids. "But we have to do this, don't you see? If we don't, it will never end, and more people we love will die."

"I've lost everyone I loved," Draco muttered miserably.

He felt more than heard Potter's deep sigh. "I know," he breathed against Draco's ear. "I'm sorry it has to be you. But it does, Draco. It has to be you. I-I don't think I could go through with it if it was anyone else. I know for a fact that Ron and Hermione wouldn't have been able to do it. And I don't think I could be this strong in front of them. You understand that, right?" Draco swallowed heavily but finally nodded, his cheek scrubbing against the roughness of Potter's beard. He turned his face and pressed a kiss to Draco's cheek, a kiss of soft, lingering need, and Draco gripped his hand hard. After another moment, they stepped apart, Draco turning away to mop at his face with the sleeve of his robe, fighting to steady his breathing and calm his racing heart, Potter turning to the window to grant him a moment to restore his dignity.

The sky was lightening beyond the Forbidden Forest, and Draco turned back to see Potter watching the pink light beginning to spread across the sky. "Dawn," he murmured. "A new day."

He'd turned back then, shoulders squared and chin firmed, any sign of weakness gone. Had Draco not been so determined to restore his own equilibrium, he'd have been impressed by the transformation. But then, Potter had been groomed to be a hero, hadn't he?

Draco knew that had never been in the cards for him; he'd cut his teeth on duplicity, had learned self-preservation at the knee of a master. But even as he thought it, his resolve hardened, and his shoulders stiffened. His father had stood idly by while his wife and the mother of his son had been brutally tortured, and murdered. He'd not said a word, not lifted a hand to help her, and Draco knew that he'd never consider himself his father's son again. And if this... act, this sacrifice, was what was required of him in order to stop Voldemort, he'd find the strength to do it, and then he'd find the strength to live with it. He glanced at Potter's profile, at the fierce look in his eyes, and knew that the second part of the equation was going to be infinity harder than the first.

Potter hadn't wanted to complete their mission in the boy's dorm room: "I have good memories of this room," he'd said pensively, sparing Draco a slight smile before looking away. "I don't want it to become about... that, for the next group assigned here."

They'd decided on the Great Hall, and as they entered through the vast double doors, Draco felt a tremor begin in his arms, but he shoved them into the pockets of his robes to hide it. When they arrived before one of the great dark fireplaces, Potter turned and drew his wand, and Draco stopped, eyes wide.

"Expecto Patronum!" Potter said firmly, and Draco watched in wonder as a large white stag erupted from the tip of the wand, turned its mighty head, and looked at Potter, wide eyes milky and yet still quick with intelligence. "Go to Remus Lupin," he said firmly. "Tell him that under no circumstance is Draco Malfoy to be blamed for anything that has been done here. Tell him to go to Dumbledore's office as soon as the wards will allow it, and view the memory in the Pensieve. Tell him... I'm counting on him to make sure that Malfoy is safe. Now go."

The stag nodded its regal head once, then turned and bounded down the aisle between the tables and out through the doors.

Draco stared at him, his lips slightly parted in surprised and dismay. "You didn't have to do that," he managed around the lump that had filled his throat.

"I did," Potter answered, laying his wand on one of the long tables. "This isn't your doing. They need to understand that." Potter began to resolutely unfasten the robes down his chest, and glanced at Draco. "Get it out."

Draco couldn't stop the trembling that started to move through his body as he reached into the long interior pocket and pulled out the mahogany case. He paused though, when he saw that the design that had made no sense when they'd found the hilt had morphed into lettering that could now be easily read. He touched it with his fingers, his eyes drifting shut on a pained grimace.

"What does it say?" Potter asked, his own voice rough.

"Leo planto ultimae vitualamen , tamen Serpent pao pretium," he whispered without opening his eyes.

"It's the quote Dumbledore used. Do you know what it means?"

Draco nodded faintly, still not opening his eyes. "The Lion makes the ultimate sacrifice, but the Serpent pays the price," he managed, and then set the box away from him on the table, rubbing his hands on the front of his robes.

Potter's robe now hung open revealing his muscled chest, and he looked at Draco, a hooded, enigmatic glance, then reached forward and opened the box. The sunlight streaming in the windows far above caught in the burnished silver, and the ancient weapon seemed to glow. Potter let the robes fall from his shoulders to slide to the floor then and turned, bare chest pale in the morning light, facing Draco, his eyes clear, almost empty. Draco could sense no hesitation, no fear, and he knew that he had no choice but to attempt the same.

Draco swallowed once again, but his mouth was dry as dust and his tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth. He reached out and picked up the dagger, and it felt warm and heavy in his hand, and when he turned back to face Potter, he could hear the sound of his own maddened heart thundering in his ears. Draco glanced down at Potter's defined chest, marked with his eyes the place where he knew his heart must be beating as fiercely as his own, and looked back into the eyes, so open, so green. To his dismay, he saw both trust and something else he didn't dare examine in that moment. He tried to dampen his lips, and situated the weapon in his hand.

"We do this together," Potter said softly, his eyes level. "We finish it together."

Draco nodded, unable to form a response. He tightened his fingers around the hilt.

"I should have taken your hand," Potter then said quickly, and Draco paused, his mouth dropping open slightly. "It's the one thing I regret; I should have taken your hand. Everything might have been different then, at least up to this point..."

Draco felt his eyes begin to fill, knew from the suffocated feeling in his throat that tears were coming and that he wouldn't be able to stop them, so he did the only thing he could think of. He reached out with his free hand and curled it around Potter's nape and hauled him in, catching his surprised lips with his own and kissed him. Kissed him as if his life depended on it, as if it were the last kiss he'd ever know, the last that would ever matter.

Potter stiffened for just a moment, then his lips softened and parted, and he was kissing Draco back with the same desperation, the same ardor, stroking Draco's tongue with his own, and as Draco felt him surrender to the kiss, he thrust forward hard with the hand that held the dagger, felt it pierce the skin and the muscle beneath it, felt it slide smoothly through cartilage and bone until it was buried to the hilt. He felt Potter stiffen and gasp into his mouth, and Draco pulled back, allowing the tears to come as he pressed his forehead against Potter's.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly. "I'm so sorry..." He hadn't been able to do it any other way. Certainly not with Potter looking at him so trustingly, just waiting there to die. But this - this he could do. It was easier to do this against closed eyes and with a claiming kiss.

"Always were a ...sneaky.... bastard," Potter managed with a watery chuckle as his knees began to buckle, and Draco released the knife, leaving it embedded, then caught Potter's elbows as he began to collapse. He lowered him as gently as he could onto the fallen robes, going to his knees with him, catching his upper body and holding it against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, but Potter turned his head and looked at him, clumsily lifted his arm and placed his fingers over Draco's mouth.

"No," Potter gasped, his hand falling limp to the floor. "No, don't be sorry!" His breaths were coming out in short pants as he tried to force the words past his lips. "Th-there's nothing to forgive... 's not your fault." He paused, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling far above, the light in them dimming. Draco bit his lip, but sobs were crowding in his throat, suffocating him.

Blood welled around the dagger but there was surprisingly little of it, and for a horrified moment Draco was afraid he'd missed somehow. But then Potter's head was drifting heavily back against the curve of his arm and his eyes took on a horrible, vacant look.

"Potter?" Draco whispered, arms tightening around him. "Potter!" he cried, but there was no response. He was gone.

Draco stared, numbed to his soul. Tears slipped down his cheeks unheeded, falling onto Potter's face and still Draco stared. Shouldn't there be something, his tortured mind screamed. Something other than... the vast emptiness in those green eyes? Did the 'Boy Who Lived' really die so easily? It seemed wrong somehow, anti-climactic. What if they'd been wrong? What if Dumbledore had been wrong, and this wasn't the way; had they made a mistake?

Draco began to tremble violently, his whole body shaking. What if they'd been wrong, and Potter had died for nothing. What if he'd killed him for nothing? Shouldn't there be something, some sign that the Horcrux was gone?

"Oh, God," Draco began to mutter, rocking the still body in his arms. "Oh, God, oh, God..."

It was then that he realized that it wasn't just his body shaking, that Potter's was as well. That in fact the violent shaking wasn't him at all, but the dead man in his arms. Draco released him quickly, scrambling away as Potter slid limply to his back, dead eyes still staring, but arms and legs jerking and torso shuddering. As Draco stared in wide-eyed awe, he saw the dagger begin to glow, much as it had in the painting, almost as if it were heating to a white-hot radiance. The light grew and grew, until great beams of it began to fill the vastness of the Great Hall. Draco winced at its brightness, but didn't look away and saw the dagger begin to lift, pulled up by invisible hands, sliding slowly from the fatal wound in Potter's chest, leaving his body until it floated free, then higher, turning slowly in mid-air.

An evil hiss filled the room, like the sound of a bow drawn roughly over violin strings. An oily, black substance began to lift from the wound in Potter's chest, drifting upwards like smoke but thicker, darker. It was ugly, and a horrid stench reached out to Draco, and he nearly gagged as it continued to grow and lift, swirling, coiling in on itself until it seemed to be taking a shape, not man, not serpent, but a horrible conglomeration of the two. Just as the slithering tail of it cleared Potter's now-limp form, the dagger turned horizontal to the ground, and sank into the very heart of the darkness, the beams of light that had still streamed from it swallowed inside.

A scream, so loud, so terrible that it filled Draco with terror echoed off of the stone walls. The oily cloud writhed and thrashed mid-air, and then it exploded, blasted apart from within, torn into non-existence, nothing but glittering cinders left to float harmlessly to the stone floor.

Draco stared, unable even to blink, eyes fixed on the place where the horrible figure had been. The dagger was gone as well, and silence settled. Silence broken moments later by the sound of a harshly indrawn breath.

Draco jerked, his eyes going instantly to where Potter's body still lay. Not only was the dagger gone, but the wound it had made was gone as well, leaving the chest smooth and unstained. As Draco watched, he saw color flood the pale face, and saw light return to the green eyes. Potter's hand lifted weakly to his chest, and then his head turned, his eyes finding Draco.

"Draco...?" he whispered, his brow creasing. "What happened?"

To Draco, it seemed as if one moment he was sitting five feet away, and then he was holding Harry in his arms, holding him so tightly that neither of them could draw breath.

"Oh, God," Draco sobbed, his fingers digging into Harry's bare back and clinging. "You're not dead. You're not dead."

"What happened?" Harry asked again.

"We did it," Draco said, leaning back and taking Harry's face between his hands. He stared into the confused green eyes, his own still streaming. "We killed it, Harry. I saw it. I saw it die."

"Then, why am I still here?" Harry asked, his hand scrambling over his unblemished chest as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"Maybe you didn't have to die," Draco said, joy beginning to fill his chest. "Maybe, you just had to be willing to. Maybe it was enough..."

Draco saw the joy that was building inside of his own chest begin to shine in the widened green eyes. "That was it, then," he murmured. "While I was... gone, I saw Dumbledore. He told me that we'd done what we had to do, that the sacrifice was complete." He lifted his hand and curled it around Draco's nape. "I thought it meant that I was dead, but... We can end it now, Draco," he said breathlessly, wonder suffusing his face with light. "We can do it together."

Draco felt startled, joyous laughter fill his chest as Harry wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down, holding him tight.

********

In the midst of a foggy moor, in a chamber underground the creature that had once been a man twitched in its sleep, then jerked awake with a pained gasp, red eyes staring frantically around the blackened hollow, searching for what had wakened it from its sleep. Long white fingers scrabbled over a sunken chest, searching, searching... then stopped, splayed as cold began to spread through the painfully thin form. In that moment, Lord Voldemort knew that something had gone terribly wrong....

**

*Quoted directed from 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows', Chapter Thirty-Three, Page 686.
**Lyrics to "Lullaby", sung by Loreena McKinnett and available at Youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWqQ9uwqQxk