Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Draco had stopped pretending the bathroom was an accident several weeks ago. The first time, he had told himself he had taken the wrong staircase. The second, that he wanted somewhere quiet and this happened to be quieter than the dormitory, the library, the common room and every corridor in the castle where somebody might look at him for half a second too long. By the fourth visit, even he had exhausted the patience required to lie to himself about it. It was simply where he went when he could no longer bear anyone alive.

Moaning Myrtle drifted above the row of sinks, talking about a prefect from 1949 who had once cried in the third cubicle. Draco had stopped listening several minutes ago. He stood with both hands braced against a basin and stared at the fractured version of himself in the old mirror. There was no point pretending he looked anything other than dreadful when there was nobody present worth impressing. His cheeks had sharpened since Christmas. Shadows sat beneath his eyes no matter how long he spent in bed pretending to sleep. Even his hair had begun refusing to behave properly, which felt like a personal betrayal on top of everything else.

Myrtle floated closer and peered at his reflection. "You look worse today."

"Your powers of observation remain astonishing," Draco said. He did not turn around.

"You were crying before."

His fingers tightened around the porcelain. "I had something in my eye."

Myrtle gave a high, sceptical hum. "Both of them?"

Draco looked up at her reflection. "Is there some particular reason you elected to haunt a boys' lavatory if you find the occupants so disappointing?"

She smiled, apparently pleased rather than insulted. It was one of the reasons he tolerated her. Living people were generally more difficult. Water dripped steadily from one of the taps. Beyond the thick bathroom door, the castle went on being a castle. Feet crossed corridors. Portraits complained. People worried about homework and Quidditch and who had kissed whom behind which tapestry. Draco tried not to hate them for it.

He had failed again that afternoon. The cabinet had hummed beneath his hands, the connection catching for three hopeful seconds before collapsing into silence. Yesterday the inside had gone cold enough to frost at the edges and then done nothing at all. The day before that, Draco had thought he heard a scrape from impossibly far away, perhaps Borgin and Burkes, perhaps only the wood settling, before the link vanished again. He could not afford almost. Almost was merely another word for failure now, and failure had acquired a face. His sleeve shifted while he leaned over the sink. Only a fraction. It was enough. Black curved against the pale inside of his forearm. Draco snatched the cuff down and fastened it with fingers that would not quite stay still. He stared hard at the button until the bathroom blurred around it.

The room at home had smelled of smoke and flowers left too long in their vase. His aunt had been there. His father had not. Azkaban had taken him from the house earlier the previous summer, and for one disloyal second Draco had been grateful he would not see this. His mother had stood so straight beside the mantel that she had looked carved from the same white stone. Someone had held Draco's arm flat against the polished table. He remembered thinking, absurdly, that his mother would be furious if he scratched it. Then the pain.

Not heat exactly. Heat stopped at the skin. This had gone through him, black and vicious, as if the thing being put into his arm had teeth. He had bitten the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth because his mother was watching, because his father was not, and because the Dark Lord was smiling. His mother had not made a sound. That was the part that still came back most often. A scrape sounded behind him. Draco spun so quickly his hip struck the basin. Potter stood in the doorway.

For one second neither of them moved. Potter looked as though he had been running. His hair was damp at the temples and even more disorderly than usual. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose. There was colour high in his cheeks and his right hand was already halfway inside his robes. His eyes dropped once, quickly, to Draco's left sleeve before returning to his face. Cold went through Draco's stomach. Of course it was Potter. Of course, after months of being watched across tables, followed through corridors and hunted around the castle as though Draco were some particularly interesting species of vermin, Potter would choose this room and this moment to catch him without his face properly arranged. Humiliation went through Draco so sharply that fury followed almost at once. Fury was cleaner. Fury could be used.

Potter took another step into the bathroom. "What are you doing in here?"

Draco looked deliberately at the sinks before returning his gaze to Potter. "I should have thought even you could identify a lavatory."

"You know what I mean," Potter said. His hand closed around his wand inside his robes.

"Do I?" Draco straightened and made himself release the basin. "You have spent the better part of a year skulking after me. One would imagine you ought to know what I am doing before bursting in to interrogate me."

Potter's face tightened. "I've seen you coming in here."

"How gratifying." Draco drew his wand with deliberate care. "Perhaps next term you can try following someone stupid enough not to notice. It might make you feel more competent."

Myrtle made an interested little noise above them. Potter glanced up at her, then back at Draco. His eyes narrowed.

"Katie Bell," Potter said.

The name struck exactly where he must have intended it to. Draco kept his expression still, though his grip shifted on his wand. "What about her?"

Potter came farther into the room. "You know what happened."

"Half the school knows what happened." Draco heard how smooth his own voice sounded and clung to it. "Unless your latest theory is that gossip itself constitutes evidence."

"And Ron," Potter said.

A bottle on Slughorn's desk flashed through Draco's mind. Weasley's hand reaching. Weasley on the floor. Potter shouting for help. His stomach turned so sharply he nearly felt it in his throat.

Draco let his mouth curl instead. "I realise it may be difficult for you to accept, Potter, but not every unpleasant event at Hogwarts revolves around your personal obsessions."

Potter's face flushed. "You nearly killed them."

For one dangerous second Draco could not answer. Nearly. The word was almost worse than if Potter had accused him of succeeding.

He raised his chin. "If you intend to accuse me of something, at least have the courage to do it properly."

"Fine." Potter pulled out his wand. "I think you're behind it. I think you've been trying to do something all year and people keep getting hurt because you can't manage it."

The last words went through Draco with surgical precision.

He lifted his wand before he had consciously decided to move. "Say that again."

Potter's wand came up too. "You heard me."

Myrtle drifted backwards. "Oh, boys."

"Stay out of it," Draco snapped. He could not take his eyes from Potter.

Potter stepped closer. "What are you doing, Malfoy?"

"At present?" Draco's hand had begun to shake, so he tightened his fingers until it stopped. "Resisting the increasingly persuasive urge to hex you through a wall."

Potter ignored the threat. "Tell me."

A laugh escaped Draco, short and ugly. "You really do believe the entire world owes you an explanation."

"People have nearly died," Potter said, and the accusation in his face was worse than the words.

"And naturally that appoints you investigator, judge and executioner." Draco heard his voice sharpening. "How very convenient."

Potter took another step. "I'm trying to stop anyone else getting hurt."

The Dark Lord's voice slid through Draco's memory with terrible softness. You understand what failure would mean for your family. Potter was still talking. Dumbledore. Snape. Questions he had no right to ask. Draco heard the names and almost none of the words between them. He saw his father's drawing room instead. The Dark Lord seated in Lucius's chair as though it had always belonged to him. His father's place in the room conspicuously empty. His mother looking down because looking directly at humiliation only made it more visible.

Then Potter said, "You don't have to do whatever it is you're doing."

Draco cast. Potter moved at the same instant. The spells met badly between them and burst apart in a shower of white sparks. One struck the basin between them. Porcelain exploded across the floor. Myrtle shrieked and shot upwards.

Potter ducked behind another sink. "Are you mental?"

"You followed me in here," Draco shouted. His heart was hammering now, every bit of fear converted into something hot enough to use. "If you dislike the reception, leave."

Potter came up with his wand already moving. Draco threw himself sideways. The curse passed close enough to tug at his robes before smashing into a mirror behind him. Glass fractured with a sound like ice breaking across a lake.

Myrtle gave a delighted squeal as the panel slid from the wall in glittering pieces. "Do it again!"

Draco fired back. Potter blocked it. The deflected spell struck a row of taps and ripped two free. Water burst from the exposed pipe hard enough to hit the opposite wall.

Myrtle's delight vanished when the stone around the pipe cracked. "Draco, stop!"

"Go away, Myrtle." He barely heard himself over the rushing water. Myrtle stared at the cracks spreading around the torn pipes, gave a frightened wail and vanished through the nearest wall.

Potter's next spell came with a word Draco had never heard. "Sectumsempra!" Draco twisted aside. The curse missed his ribs by inches and struck the stone behind him. Three long cuts opened across the wall, too clean and too deep, as though an invisible blade had raked through it. For the first time that evening, cold punched clean through Draco's anger. He retaliated without thinking. Potter twisted away and Draco's curse struck low beneath a bank of sinks. There was a dull impact beneath the noise. Draco scarcely registered it. He was breathing too hard. Potter was coming around the broken basin, face flushed, wand raised.

"Tell me what you're doing," Potter demanded.

Draco backed one step and nearly slipped in the water. "I would sooner discuss my affairs with a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

"Malfoy."

"Stop saying my name as though it gives you some claim to an answer."

Potter cast. Draco blocked. The force jarred his wrist to the elbow. He sent another curse back. Potter ducked and replied almost before Draco had finished the movement. The spell struck stone. This time the floor moved. Not much. Barely enough to see. Draco felt it through the soles of his shoes, a sickening little drop followed by a grinding sensation from deep beneath them. Both boys stopped. Water continued to roar from the broken pipe. Without Myrtle's shrieking, the room felt abruptly and horribly empty.

Potter looked down. "What was that?"

A crack had opened between two tiles near Draco's left foot. It lengthened while he watched.

"Potter," Draco said.

Potter followed his gaze. "Don't move."

Draco looked at him. "Thank you. I had planned to dance."

The crack split in three. A basin shifted on its pedestal.

Myrtle screamed properly this time. "Get out!"

Draco stepped backwards. His heel found nothing. The floor dropped. There was no graceful moment in which to react. One instant the bathroom was beneath him and the next it folded away in a roar of stone, water and shattered tile. Draco fell hard, struck his hip against something, lost his wand and reached for the edge by instinct. His fingers closed on empty air. Something caught the front of his robes. Potter. Draco had time to see Potter's face above him, distorted by dust and panic, before the remaining stone gave way beneath both of them. They dropped again. Draco hit first. His shoulder slammed into something too hard to distinguish. Potter crashed partly across him. A heavy piece of masonry landed nearby with enough force to punch air and grit into Draco's face.

Then darkness swallowed everything. For several seconds there was only noise. Pebbles struck stone around them. Water poured somewhere above. Something large shifted with a deep, ugly scrape that Draco felt through his ribs more than heard. Potter swore in the dark.

Draco tried to move. Pain shot from his hip up his side. "Get off me."

"I'm trying," Potter said, breathless and much too close.

A knee pressed painfully into Draco's thigh. Draco shoved at the shape above him and found Potter's shoulder.

"Well, try without crushing me."

"There isn't any bloody room." Potter shifted again. His weight lifted enough for Draco to pull one leg free, but the movement put Potter even closer along his other side. "Hold on."

Draco reached out blindly. His hand met wall almost at once. He tried the other side and found stone there too. His breathing caught. No. The darkness seemed to press forward until it had weight. Draco's hand went to the holster inside his robes. Empty. He searched the ground beside his hip, fingers scraping through wet grit and broken tile.

"My wand's gone," he said.

Potter patted at his own robes. "So's mine."

Draco shut his eyes, which made absolutely no difference. "Excellent. Truly an outstanding evening's work."

Potter shifted against the wall. "I didn't make the floor collapse."

"No." Draco stretched farther along the ground and found only a jagged piece of porcelain. "You merely followed me into a lavatory, accused me of attempted murder and began throwing curses in a room full of old plumbing."

"You threw the first spell," Potter said.

Draco turned his face towards the sound of his voice. "Would you like to keep score, Potter, or would you prefer to work out whether we are about to be buried alive?"

That silenced him. Draco hated the silence more than the argument. The air smelled of wet stone, old pipes and Potter's robes. There was enough of it. Logically, there had to be. Draco was breathing. Potter was breathing. Somewhere water was still moving, which meant the space could not be sealed. His body was not interested in logic. Malfoy Manor had rooms larger than some houses. It had still felt impossible to breathe when the Dark Lord was in one of them. Draco saw his father's empty chair beside the long drawing-room table and the Dark Lord's pale hand resting on its carved arm. Lucius was in Azkaban. The room had looked wrong without him and worse with somebody else in his place.

"Malfoy."

Potter's voice cut through the memory.

Draco realised he had gone completely still. "What?"

"Are you hurt?"

The question was so unexpected that Draco nearly missed it. He forced air properly into his lungs before answering. "What sort of idiotic question is that?"

Potter did not rise to it. "Did you hit your head?"

"No," Draco said.

Potter leaned a fraction closer, trying to see him in the dark. "You sure?"

Draco's temper flickered. "I am capable of identifying my own skull, Potter."

Potter shifted slightly. Draco could hear fabric scraping stone. "You went quiet."

"Some of us do not feel compelled to narrate every thought we have."

A faint crack sounded above them. Both boys froze. Dust fell across Draco's hair and shoulder. Potter inhaled sharply.

"Don't move," he said, his voice much quieter now.

"I wasn't planning to."

They waited. Nothing else fell. Draco swallowed. He hated that Potter might hear it. He lifted one hand in front of his face and concentrated. Wandless magic had never been particularly fashionable in his father's opinion. Showy. Imprecise. The sort of thing people performed at dinner parties after too much wine. His mother had been rather good at it, though. Small things. Candles. Doors. A dropped glass caught before it shattered. Draco had practised because being told something was unnecessary had always made it seem considerably more necessary. Light. Nothing happened. His stomach tightened. He tried again. A pale blue point trembled into existence above his palm. It was pathetic, no larger than a marble and scarcely brighter than moonlight through fogged glass, but the darkness receded enough to show stone.

Potter was less than a foot away. His glasses were crooked. Blood ran in a thin line from a cut high on one cheek. Dust had greyed the edges of his black hair and caught in his eyebrows. He was crouched awkwardly because the ceiling sloped too low for him to sit upright where he had landed. For once, Potter had nothing to say. He was staring at Draco's hand. Then he looked at Draco. The surprise on his face was slight and almost immediately hidden, but Draco saw it. Something settled strangely low in his stomach. He looked away before the feeling could become identifiable.

"Do try not to look so astonished," Draco said, concentrating on keeping the little glow steady. "It is unbecoming."

Potter blinked. "I wasn't."

"Of course not."

"I just didn't know you could do that," Potter said. His eyes returned to the light despite himself.

Draco turned his hand and sent the glow along the wall instead. "There are, astonishingly enough, several things about me you do not know."

Potter's mouth tightened as though that was precisely what irritated him. Good. The light was barely strong enough to show the shape of their prison. Calling it a room would have been generous. It was a narrow stone cavity, perhaps some ancient service space between floors, crossed at one end by a mess of pipes and blackened timber. The collapse had filled most of the opening above them. Broken tile, stone and the remains of at least one sink formed an uneven ceiling that looked capable of killing them if either boy moved carelessly. At the other end, the cavity narrowed into darkness. Potter leaned forward to look.

Draco caught the front of his robes before he had moved more than an inch. "Don't."

Potter glanced down at Draco's hand and then back at him. "I was only looking."

Draco kept hold of his robes for another second. "And apparently your preferred method of looking involves putting your head directly beneath unstable masonry."

"We need to know if there's a way out," Potter said, though he settled back.

Draco released him. "We need not to cause another collapse while doing it."

Potter's expression suggested he resented the fact that Draco had a point. That was at least familiar. Draco released his robes. The movement made pain flare across his palm. He looked down. A shard of tile had cut the heel of his hand deeply enough that blood was running towards his wrist.

Potter saw it too. The cut ran across Draco's left palm. "You're bleeding."

"Thank you again for the commentary."

Potter reached towards him, then stopped before touching him. "Let me see."

Draco stared at the offered hand. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your hand, Malfoy."

"I am aware which part of me is bleeding."

Potter's patience visibly frayed. "Just give it here."

The command was so presumptuous that Draco's first instinct was refusal on principle. Then the blue light he had fixed against the wall flickered and Potter's eyes darted towards it before he could stop himself. Draco hated that too. He shifted the injured hand into the glow. The cut was not especially deep, but grit had worked into it. Potter frowned as though it had personally offended him. Before Draco could ask what he was doing, Potter pulled at the bottom of his shirt beneath his robes and tore off a strip of cloth.

Draco watched him. "Have you always been this destructive with clothing, or is tonight special?"

Potter held out his hand again. "Give it here."

Draco should have refused. Instead, because allowing an open cut to fill with whatever filth had been lying beneath Hogwarts for several centuries would be stupid, he surrendered his hand. Potter took him by the wrist carefully. That was somehow worse than if he had grabbed him. Draco's shoulders went rigid. Potter did not seem to notice. He wiped what dirt he could from the cut with one corner of the cloth, then wound the strip around Draco's palm.

"Too tight?" Potter asked, glancing up.

Draco looked at the bent crown of his head. "No."

The answer came out more quietly than intended. Potter tied the cloth and let him go.

Draco withdrew his hand immediately and inspected the bandage as if assessing workmanship rather than the fact that Potter had just wrapped his bleeding hand in a piece of his own shirt. "Passable."

Potter gave him a flat look. "You're welcome."

Draco turned away. For several minutes they worked without speaking. Potter shifted loose fragments from around his knees while Draco moved the light carefully along the stone and stopped him whenever something looked wedged beneath something larger. The little spell trembled when his concentration slipped, but he held it. There was no obvious route upwards. The bathroom had not simply fallen through one floor. The collapsed material had jammed itself into the void beneath, leaving them caught beside the main weight of it. Broken pipes vanished into stone. One had split and leaked steadily into a corner, which at least explained the damp.

Potter examined the slope above them. "We can't go back the way we came."

Draco looked at the mass of broken masonry over his head. "Yes, Potter. I can see the ceiling too."

"Do you want to be useful?" Potter asked, irritated now.

Draco gestured towards the light hovering against the wall. "I had thought I was."

Potter rubbed dust from his glasses with his sleeve and only made them worse. "You know Hogwarts better than me in places like this."

Draco almost laughed. "Why? Because you imagine my family keep architectural plans of servant passages beside the silver?"

"I didn't say that." Potter frowned. "Slytherin's under the lake. You've spent six years down there. I thought you might know what these pipes connect to."

That was irritatingly reasonable.

Draco sent the weak light towards the narrow end of the cavity. "The pipes have to go somewhere. Whether we can follow them is another question."

Potter shifted onto one knee. The stone above him gave a faint tick.

Draco's stomach dropped. "Potter. Slowly."

Potter stopped at once. A little dust sifted between them. When nothing else moved, he nodded and began again with more care. The ease with which he accepted the warning was disconcerting. They moved towards the narrow end one painful inch at a time. There was not enough room to crawl properly. Potter had to twist sideways to get past a section of pipe, and Draco followed, drawing the light after him until it hovered close to his shoulder. His injured hip protested every movement.

Halfway there, the gap narrowed sharply. Potter stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "I can't get through."

Draco studied the opening beyond him. "You are broader than is useful."

Potter gave him a look. "You might fit."

The black slit beyond Potter's shoulder seemed to contract while Draco stared at it. His body reacted before his mind did. The weak light beside him faltered. Potter noticed. Of course he did.

"We don't have to do it now," Potter said.

Heat rushed into Draco's face. "Do not patronise me."

"I wasn't."

"You were about to. Move."

Potter hesitated. "Malfoy."

Draco's voice sharpened. "Move, Potter."

Potter shifted back as much as the passage allowed. Draco edged past him. There was no dignified way to do it. His shoulder dragged against Potter's chest. One of Potter's knees ended up between Draco's for a moment because neither had anywhere else to put their legs. Draco fixed his eyes on the darkness ahead and pretended the proximity was purely an engineering inconvenience. His pulse had begun to pound. The gap beyond was perhaps eighteen inches wide. Plenty. Enough air. Enough room. Draco put one hand against the stone and pushed forward. The Mark beneath his sleeve burned. Not really. He knew that. The skin was not burning now. His body remembered it anyway.

A dark room at Malfoy Manor. Curtains closed in the middle of the day. Bellatrix's fingers biting into his shoulder while the Dark Lord spoke almost pleasantly to his mother. Your son has been given a great honour. His mother's face had been white. His father's chair had been empty. He was in Azkaban, which had not stopped Draco from wanting him there. Draco stopped moving. The stone seemed suddenly to be touching every part of him.

"Malfoy?" Potter's voice came from immediately behind him.

Draco shut his eyes. "What?"

"Can you see anything ahead?"

The question was careful. Too careful. Draco forced the light farther into the gap. The passage ended less than three feet ahead in a wall of fallen stone. Relief came first, absurd and humiliating. Then anger.

"Nothing useful," he said, backing out too quickly. His foot slipped.

Potter caught his upper arm before he could fall. Draco flinched. Potter let go immediately. Neither commented on it. They returned to the slightly wider part of the cavity and sat with their backs against opposite walls, if opposite could be used for stone less than two feet apart. For a while, neither spoke. The silence should have been easier. It was not. Without Potter arguing, Draco could hear everything else. Water ticking against stone. The occasional soft slide of grit from above. Potter's breathing. His own heartbeat. And memories, because exhaustion had apparently weakened the part of him responsible for keeping them where they belonged.

His mother at breakfast in August, before term began, unfolding a letter with hands so steady nobody else would have known anything was wrong. His father not at the table. His father's chair still there. The Dark Lord walking through their house without asking permission to enter any room. Draco had grown up believing Malfoy Manor belonged to them in a way other houses did not belong to other families. It had been built into him almost as early as his own name. The portraits were his ancestors. The gardens were his mother's. The west drawing room was where his father took brandy after dinner. The peacocks had been there before Draco could walk. Then the Dark Lord had arrived and ownership had turned out to be another story adults told children. Nothing belonged to them.

Not the house. Not even the empty chair that still belonged to his father. Not Draco's arm. Perhaps not even his mother's life. He realised the blue light was trembling.

"Malfoy."

Draco looked up sharply.

Potter had turned towards him. "You all right?"

"Perfectly."

Potter's eyes travelled over Draco's face. "You look like you're going to fall over."

"I am sitting down."

"You know what I mean."

Draco looked away. "Yes, and I remain disappointed by it."

Potter's gaze dropped to the weak glow trembling against the wall beside Draco. "You can let that go for a bit."

Draco bristled at once. "Stop ordering me about."

"I'm not ordering you about," Potter said. He sounded tired rather than angry. "You can barely keep your eyes open."

Draco stiffened. "I can manage a light spell."

Potter glanced at the trembling glow. "I can see that."

The lack of argument made Draco more defensive, not less. He tightened his concentration around the magic. "Do not mistake temporary inconvenience for incapacity, Potter."

Potter stared at him for a moment. "I didn't."

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, Draco heard himself say, "Then stop looking at me like that."

Potter frowned. "Like what?"

Draco had no answer that did not reveal too much. He looked towards the rubble instead. "Never mind."

The silence returned, heavier now.

After a minute, Potter spoke again. "That thing on your arm."

Every muscle in Draco's body tightened.

He angled his left side away. "What thing?"

"I saw it upstairs."

Draco kept his gaze fixed on the weak blue light. "Then perhaps you ought to have your glasses checked."

"Malfoy."

"You have been wrong about so many things this year that I cannot imagine why you remain attached to the habit."

Potter leaned forward slightly. "I'm not wrong about this."

Draco's mouth went dry. The Mark seemed to pulse beneath his sleeve though he knew it did not.

Potter's voice dropped. "You're a Death Eater."

The words landed softly. That made them worse. The drawing room returned. His aunt smiling. His mother looking at his arm. The empty place where his father should have been. Pride had been expected of Draco. He had produced it. He had stood there with his forearm on fire and told himself this was what it meant to be trusted. Later, alone, he had vomited until there was nothing left.

"You know nothing about me," Draco said.

His voice sounded controlled. He was grateful for that.

Potter's expression hardened. "I know enough."

"No." Draco's fingers curled around his knee. "You know whatever story you have invented while creeping around after me beneath that ridiculous cloak."

Potter went still.

Draco saw it and felt the smallest, meanest flicker of satisfaction. "Oh, please. Did you honestly imagine nobody had worked that out?"

"That's not the point," Potter said, visibly annoyed at being diverted.

"It rarely is when you have been caught."

Potter ignored the insult. "Did Voldemort give you something to do?"

The light flickered violently. Potter saw. Draco hated him for seeing.

"Do not say his name."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

Potter kept looking at him. The silence had the unpleasant weight of another question.

Draco met his stare. "You will get nothing more from me."

Potter's face changed. The anger was still there, but determination had pushed in beside it. Potter had always worn that expression badly. It made him look as though he was about to do something reckless and expect the universe to rearrange itself around the decision.

"He's making you do something," Potter said.

Draco let out a short, contemptuous laugh. "Congratulations. You have constructed another theory. Shall I applaud?"

Potter did not rise to it. "What happens if you don't?"

Draco stopped breathing. The question was too simple. It did not accuse him of anything. It did not mention Katie Bell or Weasley or Dumbledore. It went straight through every defence he had prepared and found the thing underneath. His mother in a dark green dress, standing beside the drawing-room door while the Dark Lord spoke of consequences in that almost gentle voice. His father in Azkaban. The words spoken quietly enough that only Draco and Narcissa had needed to hear them. Failure has consequences. Draco looked at Potter.

"You really are extraordinarily fond of questions," he said.

Potter held his gaze. "What happens?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"If someone's threatening you, it does."

The sheer arrogance of it made Draco's vision sharpen. "Does it? How convenient. Is there anything you do not consider your business?"

Potter's brow furrowed. "That's not what I meant."

"No, of course not." Draco could feel his control beginning to fray and hated Potter for being present to witness it. "You mean to save everyone, don't you? Whether they ask you to or not."

"I'm not trying to save you," Potter said.

That hurt. The fact that it hurt was so appalling Draco almost laughed.

He made himself smile instead. "How fortunate. I should hate to find myself indebted to you."

Potter's gaze dropped, just for a moment, to the strip of his shirt tied around Draco's hand. Draco followed it. The bandage looked suddenly obscene against his skin. He curled his fingers.

Potter looked away first. "I just want to know what you're doing."

"And I have told you nothing."

Potter looked back at him. "Not with words."

Draco's head snapped up. Potter looked almost surprised by his own answer. For one fierce moment Draco wanted his wand back simply so he could hex him.

"Do be careful, Potter," he said softly. "You are beginning to sound intelligent."

Potter flushed. "You know what I mean."

Then he made the mistake of looking at Draco too closely.

"You're scared."

The light went out. Darkness dropped over them so completely that Potter swore. Draco sat rigid, breathing too quickly again. He tried to bring the light back at once. Nothing. Panic rose beneath his ribs. He tried again. Still nothing. Potter shifted in the dark.

"Stop moving," Draco snapped.

Potter went very still. "I'm not moving."

Draco could feel warm breath against his cheek anyway. "You are breathing on me."

"I can't stop breathing," Potter said, sounding incredulous.

Draco pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. "For once in your life, make an effort."

Potter made an incredulous sound, but before he could answer another groan came from above them. Both fell silent. A pebble struck Draco's shoulder. Then another. Potter's hand found Draco's forearm in the dark.

Draco jerked so hard his head struck stone. "Don't touch me."

Potter released him instantly. "Something was falling. I was trying to pull you back."

"There is nowhere to pull me to."

The words came out harsher than necessary. Potter did not answer. Draco hated the silence more than the touch. He lifted his hand again and forced himself to concentrate. This time the weak blue light returned and settled against the wall beside them. Potter was watching him. Not triumphant. Not suspicious. Worried. Draco wanted to strike him.

Instead, he drew himself up as much as the ceiling allowed. "If you ever tell anyone I had difficulty with that, I shall deny the entire evening and suggest you sustained brain damage in the fall."

Potter's mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile. "Fine."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Fine?"

"Fine," Potter repeated, settling his head against the wall. "I'm not telling anyone about your light spell."

The simple agreement wrong-footed Draco more thoroughly than another argument would have done. He looked away. Time blurred after that. The cold settled deeper into the little space. Draco's robes were damp where he had landed. His hip throbbed. Maintaining the wandless light had become an effort he could feel behind his eyes and along his teeth. Potter tried the narrow passage twice more and achieved nothing except more dust in his hair. On the third attempt, Draco told him to stop before he wedged himself permanently between two stones.

Potter returned to the wall beside him. "You have a better idea?"

"At present my better idea is not becoming part of the architecture."

Potter wiped his forehead with his sleeve and left a grey streak above one eyebrow. "Helpful."

Draco almost replied automatically, then found he did not have the energy. His head tipped back against the stone. The blue light trembled.

Potter noticed. "Let it go."

Draco opened one eye. "Again with the imperatives."

"I don't know what that means."

For the first time that evening, Draco nearly laughed for a reason that was not entirely unpleasant.

He stopped himself before the sound escaped. "Of course you don't."

Potter frowned. "Was that an insult?"

"It scarcely needed to be."

Potter rolled his eyes. The movement was so ordinary that something in Draco's chest twisted. He looked down at the light. He could keep it going. Of course he could. He had performed more difficult magic exhausted before. He had spent hours alone in the Room of Requirement until his hands cramped and his vision doubled. He had continued because there was no alternative. There was always an alternative, if one was prepared to accept what happened afterwards. Draco closed his fingers. The light vanished. He hated the darkness immediately. Potter said nothing. That helped slightly. Draco shifted until his back found the wall. His shoulder touched Potter's. He moved away by instinct and struck stone on the other side. There was simply nowhere to go.

"Do not get comfortable," he muttered.

Potter's voice came from beside his ear. "Wasn't planning to."

Another stretch of silence followed. Draco's eyes closed without permission. He opened them again. Darkness looked exactly the same. His head dipped once. He jerked upright.

Potter moved beside him. "You should sleep."

"I should do no such thing."

"You're nearly asleep already."

Draco turned his face towards the sound of Potter's voice. "I am resting my eyes."

There was a pause. "In the dark?"

"I am beginning to understand why Granger does most of the thinking for your little group."

Potter exhaled through his nose. "Sleep, Malfoy."

"No."

"Why not?"

Because the Dark Lord had entered his dreams twice since Christmas. Because Draco had woken one morning with his left arm clawed bloody by the nails of his right hand. Because sometimes he dreamed of the Mark and sometimes of his mother, and the dreams about his mother were worse.

"Because I do not trust you," Draco said.

Potter was quiet for a beat. "Fair enough."

Draco frowned into the dark. "That was much too easy."

Potter shifted beside him. "What do you want me to say?"

Draco shut his eyes. "Nothing."

"Right," Potter said.

Draco considered objecting to that as well and decided he lacked the strength. His head tipped back. He did not mean to sleep. That remained true even when his shoulder slid along stone and came to rest against something warmer. Potter. Draco surfaced enough to recognise the fact and tried to correct himself. His body ignored the instruction. His cheek settled against wool and fabric and the hard line of Potter's shoulder beneath it. Potter went very still. Draco should move. He knew that. His eyes would not open. Something shifted between them. Potter's arm, trapped awkwardly where Draco had slumped against his side. There was a brief, uncomfortable movement, then the arm came free and settled around Draco instead because there was nowhere else for it to go.

Draco registered the weight across his back. Warm. Steady. Humiliating. He would move in a moment. He did not. The last thing he knew was Potter's breathing beneath his ear. Then the bathroom was gone. The drawing room at home was too bright. Every candle had been lit although it was afternoon. Draco stood beside his mother and could not make his feet move. The Dark Lord was seated in his father's chair. That was wrong. His father was in Azkaban. He could not be standing behind the chair, pale and wandless and watching, but he was. Dreams did not care.

"Come here," the Dark Lord said.

Draco did not. Bellatrix's hand appeared at his back and pushed.

"Such an honour," she whispered near his ear. "Do not embarrass us."

His mother said nothing. Draco looked at her. Please. He did not say it. He could not say it. Narcissa's face barely changed, but her fingers moved at her side as though reaching for him before she stopped herself. The Dark Lord smiled.

"Your arm."

Draco held it out. He was sixteen and six and twelve all at once. He could see his cuff. Mother-of-pearl button. His mother had chosen the shirt. Someone rolled the sleeve back. His skin was unmarked. Not yet. The wand touched him. Pain tore through his arm. Draco screamed. His father's face did not move. The Dark Lord laughed softly. Draco tried to pull away and hands held him down. The Mark spread black beneath his skin, branches or snakes or cracks in ice. It burned deeper. Bone. Blood. Everywhere.

"Stop," he heard himself say.

Nobody did.

"Please."

His mother flinched. That was worse than the pain.

"Mum."

A hand closed around his shoulder. Draco fought it.

"Malfoy."

Not the Dark Lord.

"Malfoy, wake up."

Draco came awake violently. He struck out before he knew where he was. His elbow hit something solid. Potter swore. The darkness was absolute. Draco dragged in a breath that hurt.

"Get off me."

"I'm not on you," Potter said. His voice was close and alarmed.

Draco realised his hand was fisted in the front of Potter's robes. He released it as though burned. His face was wet. Merlin.

He scrubbed at it with the heel of his good hand. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. You were having a nightmare."

Draco's stomach twisted. "I was not."

Potter did not answer that lie at once. Draco became aware of the position of his body by degrees. He had slipped farther down while sleeping. His head had been against Potter's chest rather than his shoulder. Potter's arm was still around him, caught loosely across his back. Draco went rigid. Potter seemed to realise at the same moment and moved his arm away. The absence of it was immediate and cold. Draco hated that he noticed.

"You were shouting," Potter said quietly.

Draco's humiliation sharpened into panic. "What did I say?"

There was a pause. Too long.

Draco turned towards him in the dark. "Potter. What did I say?"

"Not much."

Draco waited. In the dark, Potter shifted against the wall.

"You said stop," Potter said. "And you called out for your mum."

Shame burned hotter than the Mark ever had.

"Forget it," Draco said.

Potter shifted as if he meant to say more. "Malfoy."

Draco's voice sharpened. "I said forget it."

Another pause.

Then Potter said, "All right."

Again, too easy. Draco could not bear it. He forced himself to concentrate on the dark wall beside them. It took three attempts. When the blue glow finally caught there, Potter's face emerged opposite him. There was no amusement on it. No triumph either. Only concern. Draco looked away.

"Why did you wake me?" he asked.

Potter glanced upwards. "That."

Draco followed his gaze. A crack had opened across one of the stones above where they had been sitting. It had not been there before. Fine dust sifted steadily through it.

His embarrassment vanished beneath something colder. "How long has it been doing that?"

"A few minutes, I think. I was trying not to move."

Draco looked at the unstable ceiling, then at Potter. "You should have woken me sooner."

Potter stared at him. "You looked like you needed the sleep."

The words went through Draco strangely.

He made himself sneer. "How touching. Next time prioritise not being crushed."

Potter's expression hardened. "I did wake you."

Draco turned away before he could say something even more ungracious. They could not remain there. The problem was no longer theoretical. He brought the light close to the ground and began searching again, this time with urgency stripping away some of his caution. Potter did the same, moving loose fragments with his fingertips rather than his whole hand.

Potter reached beneath a tilted slab and stopped. "I can see something."

Draco moved the light towards his hand. "What?"

"Wood."

At first Draco saw only dust and the edge of broken stone. Then something dark brown caught the blue light. A wand. His pulse jumped.

"Your wand, Potter."

Potter looked at him immediately. "How do you know?"

The question came too quickly. Draco's mind stalled for one fatal second. Because he knew Potter's wand. Of course he knew it. He had seen it aimed at him in corridors, classrooms and on the duelling platform in second year. He knew the dark wood, the length, the shape of the handle. He knew it in the same useless way he knew Potter favoured his right side when he cast quickly and pushed his glasses up with one finger when he was reading. None of which Potter had any business knowing.

Draco lifted his chin. "Who else would have dropped a wand into this filthy little house-elf crawlspace?"

Potter stared at him. "You."

Blessed irritation arrived at once. "Mine is not there."

"You can't even see all of it."

"I know what my own wand looks like."

Potter's eyes narrowed.

Draco realised his mistake one second before Potter said, "So you know what mine looks like too."

There was a beat of silence.

Draco made his expression glacial. "Do you want the damned thing or would you prefer to conduct an interview about it?"

Potter's mouth opened.

Draco cut him off. "Because if you are genuinely more interested in my familiarity with your wand than getting out of this hole, then perhaps the fall did more damage than I thought."

Potter looked almost pleased. Draco hated him for that.

"Right," Potter said, turning back to the slab. "We'll get the wand."

Getting it was considerably less simple. The wand lay beneath the edge of a slab that had dropped at an angle between two thicker stones. Only the final few inches were visible. Potter could reach the tip with two fingers, but every time he tried to hook it closer, the slab gave a minute answering scrape.

Draco watched the crack above them widen another fraction. "Stop."

Potter withdrew his hand. "I'm barely touching it."

"And it is barely holding half the bathroom above us. I am sure that will be a great comfort when it lands on your skull."

Potter sat back. "So what do you suggest?"

Draco moved the light around the floor. A broken copper pipe lay partly trapped beneath rubble near his left knee. He reached for it and pulled. It did not move.

Potter put one hand beside his. "Together."

Draco nearly objected simply because Potter had suggested it. A small shower of dust came down beside his knee, and he decided there were limits even to principle.

"On three," Draco said.

Potter adjusted his grip. "One."

Draco looked at him. "I am counting."

Potter's mouth pressed flat.

"One. Two. Three."

They pulled. The pipe came free so suddenly that both lurched backwards. Potter's shoulder hit the wall. Draco landed against him and swore as pain tore through his hip.

Potter caught Draco's elbow. "You all right?"

"Stop asking me that."

"You just went white."

Draco looked down at his own hand. "I am white."

Potter's grip loosened but did not disappear. "More than usual."

Draco looked pointedly at the hand on his arm. Potter let go.

Draco hesitated, then decided refusing to answer would only encourage further questions. "My hip. I landed on it. It is bruised. Nothing more."

Potter nodded once. He did not make a fuss. Draco found that easier to tolerate. They wedged one end of the pipe beneath the slab. The problem was leverage. There was barely enough room for one of them to brace properly, and moving the wrong stone could collapse the arrangement around them.

The light trembled against the wall beside him as Draco studied the arrangement. "If we lift here, the weight should transfer onto that block."

Potter followed the line of his finger. "Should?"

Draco's patience thinned. "Yes, Potter. Should. I cannot see through six feet of stone."

Potter looked at the wand. "I'll hold the pipe. You get it. Your hand's smaller."

That was true. Draco disliked how often Potter had been sensible since the collapse.

"If the ceiling moves, let go," Draco said.

Potter frowned. "Then the slab drops on your arm."

"I am aware. If the structure shifts, you let go. I would prefer a broken arm to being flattened."

Potter's jaw tightened. For a moment Draco thought he would argue. Then he nodded.

"Fine."

Draco lowered the wandless light until it hovered near the floor. Maintaining it without direct focus made his temples throb. Potter wrapped both hands around the pipe and braced one foot against the wall.

"Ready?"

Draco lay awkwardly on his side with stone inches from his face. "No. Do it anyway."

Potter pushed down. The pipe groaned. The slab lifted perhaps half an inch. Draco slid his injured hand beneath it.

"More," he said through his teeth.

Potter's arms shook. "That's all I've got."

Draco stretched. His fingertips touched wood. The stone above them gave a sharp crack.

Potter's head snapped up. "Malfoy."

"Hold it," Draco said through his teeth.

Potter looked up at the ceiling. "Something moved."

"I heard it." Draco reached farther. Pain pulled across his bandaged palm. "Hold it."

He got two fingers around the wand and dragged. It caught.

Potter's breathing had become harsh with effort. "Hurry."

"I am hurrying."

A trickle of grit landed in Draco's hair. He twisted the wand sideways. It came free.

"Got it."

Draco snatched his arm back. Potter released the pipe. The slab dropped into place with a thud that shook the floor beneath them. For one horrible second neither boy moved. Nothing followed. Draco rolled onto his back and held the wand up between them. Potter stared at it with naked relief. Draco felt much the same.

"There," he said, because somebody had to speak. "Try not to lose it again."

Potter reached for it.

Draco did not hand it over immediately. His eyes had gone to the blocked passage ahead. "Wait."

Potter's expression sharpened. "What?"

"You cannot cast from that position without moving half the rubble around you." Draco turned the wand in his hand. "I can."

Potter held out his palm. "It's my wand."

Draco looked at the hand, then at him. "I had noticed."

Potter looked unconvinced. "It won't work properly for you."

"No, but it may work sufficiently."

Potter hesitated.

The hesitation irritated Draco more than it should have. "If you imagine I intend to steal it and leave you here, I would be fascinated to hear how you think I plan to get past the same obstruction currently preventing you from leaving."

"I don't think that." Potter looked at the wand instead. "Just be careful with it."

Draco stared at him. "It is a wand, Potter, not a beloved family pet."

"I know."

Something in Potter's face suggested the distinction was not as clear to him as it ought to be. Draco turned away before he had to think about that. Potter's wand felt wrong. Not unpleasant exactly. Merely unfamiliar. The balance sat differently in Draco's fingers and the magic answered half a beat away from what he expected. His own wand was an extension of habits formed over years. This one seemed to wait for instructions with wary attention.

He aimed at a loose stone near the narrow passage. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The stone lifted too quickly and struck the ceiling. Both boys ducked.

Potter hissed, "Careful."

Draco lowered it at once. "I am aware."

He adjusted his grip and tried again with less force. This time the stone rose an inch and held. The relief on Potter's face was immediate. Draco felt an absurd little flicker of satisfaction and crushed it.

"Take that piece," he said, indicating a wedge of broken tile. "Put it beneath the left side."

Potter crawled forward and did as instructed.

"Farther in," Draco said. "No, turn your hand."

Potter glanced back at him, irritation flashing. "You do it."

Draco's temper flared. "I am holding several stone blocks above your head with a wand that dislikes me."

Potter looked up.

His expression changed. "Right."

He turned his wrist and shoved the tile deeper. They continued like that. It was slow. Miserably slow. Draco used Potter's wand to lift only what he was confident could be moved without taking the rest with it. Potter crawled into the opening and wedged pieces beneath larger ones. Twice Draco made him retreat when the ceiling shifted. Once Potter spotted a supporting stone Draco had missed and stopped him before he pulled it free. Draco did not thank him. Potter, to his credit, did not ask. The opening widened by inches until Potter could finally fit his shoulders through. Draco handed the wand back. Potter closed his fingers around it without comment.

Potter looked back. "I'll go first."

"Obviously."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "Why obviously?"

Draco heard the beginning of another argument and had no appetite for it. "Because if it narrows again, I would prefer the person blocking the passage to be in front of me rather than behind me. Go."

Potter held his gaze for a moment, then crawled into the gap. Draco followed. The passage beyond was barely more than a crawlspace. Ancient pipes ran along one wall, patched in places with newer metal. Dust lay thick enough to record the marks of their hands. House-elves must have used it at some point. Draco could not imagine anyone else being expected to tolerate the dimensions. Potter stopped ahead.

Draco nearly ran into his shoes. "What now?"

Potter lifted one hand. "Feel the air."

Draco held still. A faint current touched his face. Cold air. Moving air. Relief opened inside him so abruptly that he had to clench his jaw.

"There is an outlet," he said.

Potter glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah."

"Try not to sound so astonished. Even Hogwarts generally provides ventilation before entombing its servants."

Potter's expression tightened. "You really think this was for house-elves?"

Draco looked at the narrow stone channel. "Who else would be expected to crawl through it?"

He saw Potter's face and knew exactly what was coming.

"Do not start," Draco said.

Potter's eyebrows rose. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to," Draco replied.

Potter turned forward again. "Fine."

Draco nearly snapped at the flatness of it. The thought of his father in Azkaban returned instead and killed the impulse.

"Move," he said.

Potter did. They followed the airflow. The crawlspace turned once and dipped beneath a beam. Then a dull crack travelled through the stone behind them. Draco stopped. A breath later dust pushed along the passage in a pale grey rush, rolling past their hands and sleeves from the direction they had come. It was not falling now. Something behind them had moved hard enough to drive it forward.

Potter looked back over Draco's shoulder. His face changed. "Keep moving," he said.

Draco did not need the instruction, which made receiving it irritating. He crawled faster. The passage narrowed until his shoulders brushed both sides. Another grinding noise followed them, lower this time, and the floor gave a small shiver beneath his knees.

Ahead, Potter stopped so suddenly Draco nearly collided with him. "There," Potter said, raising the wand.

The light found an iron grille set into the stone. Immediately before it, the passage opened into a shallow recess where the masonry looked older but blessedly less fractured. Stable was too generous a word. It was simply the first part of the tunnel that did not appear to be considering immediate collapse.

Potter crawled into the recess, turned awkwardly and looked back at him. "Come on."

Draco stared at the amount of space Potter had left. "There is not room for both of us."

A sharp crack answered from behind. Dust surged forward again. Potter caught a fistful of Draco's sleeve and pulled. "There isn't room back there either."

Draco would have objected to being manhandled if the stone beneath his left hand had not shifted. He scrambled the last few feet and Potter hauled him into the recess. There was, as Draco had correctly observed, nowhere to put two people. His shoulder wedged against the wall. Potter was pressed along the entire front of him, one knee trapped between Draco's and one arm bent awkwardly beside Draco's head so he could keep hold of the wand. Draco turned his face because otherwise their noses would have been touching. His cheek came to rest against Potter's neck.

For several seconds neither of them spoke. Potter's pulse beat hard beneath the skin against Draco's cheek. Draco could feel every one of them. His own heart was behaving no better, hammering as though he had just spent an hour chasing a Snitch rather than crawling through a hole beneath the castle. The air between them was hot despite the cold stone. There were too many elbows, knees, buckles and folds of robe pressed together to make sense of any one point of contact. A treacherous thought suggested that the closeness was not entirely unpleasant. Draco crushed it at once.

Potter shifted his wand hand towards the grille. The movement pressed them closer still. "Cover your face," he said, his breath stirring Draco's hair.

Draco shut his eyes and turned farther into the side of Potter's neck because there was quite literally nowhere else to go. "Do try not to miss. I should find surviving the collapse only to be blinded by you rather tiresome."

Potter cast. The spell struck the lock with a violent clang that Draco felt through Potter's chest as much as heard. The iron held.

Draco opened one eye. "Excellent."

Potter's jaw tightened near his temple. "Shut up, Malfoy." He tried again. The second spell split the lock casing and made the grille jump outward, but one side remained caught. Potter swore under his breath.

The tunnel groaned behind them. Draco felt Potter's heart kick harder. His own answered unpleasantly. He looked down as far as their position allowed. "Do take your time. It is not as though the castle is coming down behind us."

Potter made a frustrated sound and twisted his wrist, trying to find an angle past Draco's shoulder. Draco's gaze fell to the wand in Potter's hand. "Mine is probably in pieces by now," he said. He had not intended to say it aloud.

Potter stilled for half a second. When he answered, his voice was quiet beside Draco's ear. "You don't know that." Then he raised the wand again. The third spell caught the twisted lower hinge. It snapped. The grille fell outward with a shriek of metal and struck tile beyond. A thin line of yellow light showed beneath a door several feet away. Real light. A room. Space. Potter looked at him, though at this distance looking mostly meant turning his head a fraction. Something behind them gave a long, grinding groan.

Draco's stomach dropped. "Move."

Potter did not need telling twice. He shoved through the opening shoulders first and landed badly on the other side. Draco followed, caught his torn sleeve on the broken grille and swore as the fabric ripped. He kicked free and tumbled onto a tiled floor. He rolled onto his back. There was a ceiling above him. An intact one. High enough that he could not touch it. Draco laughed. The sound escaped before he could stop it, short and breathless and slightly mad. Beside him, Potter began laughing too. They looked at each other. The laughter died at once. Draco pushed himself upright.

The room appeared to be an abandoned washroom, smaller than the bathroom they had destroyed and unused for years. Cracked basins hung crookedly along one wall. Hooks had rusted nearly through. A dirty lamp burned beside the door, and some ancient charm must have kept it alive because no human being had been there recently enough to light it. There was space everywhere. Too much of it. Potter stood. Draco stood too. Without discussion, they moved apart. The sudden absence of Potter within touching distance was so noticeable that Draco despised himself for registering it. He brushed dust from his robes. It achieved nothing. His clothes were grey, wet and torn. Potter's makeshift bandage had darkened with blood and dirt. His hair felt full of grit. Potter looked worse. That helped.

Potter crossed to the door and put his hand on the handle. Draco's stomach tightened. Leaving the room meant returning to everything that had existed before the floor gave way. The cabinet. The Mark. Dumbledore. His mother. Potter knowing far too much.

"Wait," Draco said.

Potter stopped and looked back.

Draco hated the speed with which he had spoken. He made himself straighten. "My wand is still down there."

Potter glanced towards the broken grille. A faint vibration passed through the wall around it and dislodged a little dust. "We're not going back for it."

"I did not suggest crawling back into a collapsing wall."

"Good."

Draco gave him a cold look. "Do not sound so surprised."

Potter looked at the grille again. "We can get a teacher to stabilise it and retrieve the wand. Flitwick, maybe."

Not Snape. Draco noticed the omission immediately. He wished he had not. Potter turned back to the door.

"Potter."

This time Potter did not touch the handle. "What?"

Draco looked at him across the room. There was dirt across Potter's face. His glasses were still crooked. One sleeve was torn where he had sacrificed part of the shirt beneath it for Draco's hand. He looked exhausted, bruised and thoroughly unlike the self-satisfied accuser who had walked into the bathroom. None of that mattered. What mattered was what he had heard. What he had seen. Draco's sleeve seemed suddenly too thin over the Mark.

"What exactly are you planning to tell them?" he asked.

Potter's face went still. There it was. The moment Draco had known would come eventually. Potter had spent months insisting he was right. He had followed Draco through the castle, turned up at corners and doorways with maddening regularity and muttered about him to anyone prepared to listen. Now he had enough to make the obsession respectable. A Mark. Fear at the Dark Lord's name. A question Draco had failed to answer. A nightmare in which he had called for his mother like a child. Potter could take all of it straight to Dumbledore. Draco imagined the Headmaster's grave blue eyes on him. Snape's expression. Questions. Surveillance. The Room of Requirement discovered. The cabinet removed before it was ready. Failure. He had no difficulty imagining what came after that. His father's punishment had been Draco's task.

What would Draco's punishment be? His mother's face surfaced in his mind. A letter from home with four paragraphs devoted to rain because there were things she could not safely put on parchment. He could not let Potter destroy the only chance he had of keeping her alive. Draco's hand curled at his side.

Potter looked towards the door, then back at him. "We fought."

Draco waited.

Potter pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "The floor collapsed. We got trapped underneath it and found a way out."

Draco stared at him. "That is all?"

Potter met his eyes. "That's what happened."

Something cold and tight in Draco's chest shifted. Not relief. He would not call it relief.

"That is very obviously not all that happened," Draco said before he could stop himself.

Potter's expression tightened. Draco could have bitten his own tongue off. He had been offered exactly what he needed and challenged it on instinct.

Potter looked at the bandage around Draco's hand. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "No. It isn't."

Draco did not know what to do with that answer.

"Why?" he asked.

Potter's gaze returned to his face. For once, the answer did not come immediately.

Then Potter said, "Because I don't know enough."

It was almost insulting. It was also such a profoundly Potter answer that Draco could have laughed. Not mercy, then. Not pity. Potter still thought Draco was a problem to be solved. That was familiar. Familiar was manageable.

Draco let a little disdain back into his expression. "How reassuring."

Potter's eyebrows drew together. "Would you rather I told them everything?"

"Obviously not."

The answer came much too quickly. Potter noticed.

Draco lifted his chin. "I merely find your sudden capacity for discretion unexpected."

Potter looked away for a moment, jaw tight. "Maybe I don't want to get you killed."

The room went very still. Potter seemed to realise what he had said only after it was out. Draco felt the words somewhere beneath his ribs.

He covered it with contempt because there was nothing else available quickly enough. "How noble of you."

Potter's face hardened. "Forget it."

He turned towards the door. Draco looked down. His injured hand hung beside him, wrapped in Potter's shirt. The strip of white fabric had gone grey with dust. A little blood had seeped through near his palm. Potter had grabbed him when the floor collapsed. Potter had bandaged his hand. Potter had sat motionless while Draco slept against him because waking him had apparently seemed less important than letting him rest. Potter had woken him when the ceiling became dangerous. Potter had heard him call for his mother and, somehow, had not used it against him. Draco disliked the shape those facts made when placed beside one another. He disliked even more that he could not explain it away.

"Potter."

Potter stopped again, one hand on the door. Draco had no idea what he intended to say. Thank you was impossible. An apology was absurd. Anything honest was dangerous.

He looked towards the broken grille instead. "If you tell Flitwick where the collapse began, he should be able to locate my wand without bringing the rest of it down."

Potter watched him for a moment. "Right. I'll tell him."

Draco nodded once. That was apparently going to be the end of it. Potter opened the door. A narrow corridor lay beyond, dimly lit and empty. Draco recognised the stonework after a few seconds. They were on the eastern side of the castle, lower than he had expected, near a collection of classrooms that had not been used since before either of them arrived at Hogwarts.

Potter stepped into the corridor and looked both ways. Draco remained just inside the washroom, unwilling to present himself to the castle in his current state until he knew who was coming. He had barely made the decision when footsteps struck the staircase at speed.

"Potter!" Professor McGonagall appeared at the far end of the corridor, tartan dressing gown showing beneath hastily fastened robes and her face drawn tight with alarm. She crossed the distance quickly. "What on earth has happened to you?"

Potter glanced once towards the washroom. Draco's body went rigid. Then Potter looked back at McGonagall. "The bathroom floor collapsed," he said. "I ended up underneath it."

Draco waited. Potter had only to say his name. McGonagall was already reaching for Potter's shoulder, checking the blood at his cheek and the dust ground into his robes. "Are you injured?" she demanded. Potter shook his head. "Not badly. But the floor's still unstable. There are old passages under it."

Still nothing. No Malfoy. No duel. No accusation. McGonagall turned Potter towards the stairs with one hand firm between his shoulders and began asking questions as she marched him away. Potter did not look back again.

Draco listened until their footsteps disappeared. Only then did his knees stop cooperating. He slid down the wall beside the washroom door and let the back of his head rest against the stone.

He meant only to close his eyes. This time there was no drawing room waiting for him. He was on his Nimbus over the Highlands with clean air tearing at his robes and cold burning pleasantly in his lungs. He pulled the broom into a steep climb, broke through a scrap of cloud and laughed when his stomach dropped behind him.

Another broom followed. A dark figure banked after him, fast enough to stay close when Draco rolled and dived towards the green sweep of the hills. He tried to look back, but sunlight caught across his eyes and he could not make out a face. It did not matter. Whoever it was kept up.

Something touched his shoulder lightly. "Draco." The dream broke without violence. Draco opened his eyes. Potter was crouched in front of him.

For a moment Draco could only stare. Potter had cleaned his face and most of the dust from his hair. His glasses sat straight again. He looked tired, but less like something recently excavated from beneath the castle. More importantly, he was holding out a wand. Draco's wand.

Draco looked from the hawthorn to Potter's face and back again. He took it carefully. Before he could decide what to say, Potter lifted his own wand and cast a small spell over Draco's injured hand. Blue light spread across his fingers and palm. It felt cool against the skin and strangely warm underneath, easing the throb around the cut. Potter lowered his wand. "Give it a minute," he said. "McGonagall's gone back upstairs. You can leave when the corridor's clear."

Draco looked up, but Potter was already standing. He hesitated as though there might be something else, then turned and walked away. Draco watched until he disappeared around the corner. Only then did he look down at the wand resting across his palm. His wand. Whole. Clean. Returned to him. A small tear slipped free before he could stop it and fell across his knuckles. Draco stared at it. He did not wipe it away.