Come Undone

Body


Warning and Disclaimer: please refer to part 1.

Notes: this part sucks. If not for how vital it is to the plot, I'd suggest skipping it. As it is, I ask that you not respond to this chapter as I am well aware how badly it sucks . Thanks.

Every Mink Walks Two By Two

Number 2: The Goddess and God; perfect duality; projective

and receptive energy; the couple; personal union with deity;

interpenetration of the physical and spiritual; balance.-- Scott

Cunningham, Wicca: A Guide For the Solitary Practitioner, 1988

"It is done."

Lucius Malfoy sat at the feet of his resurrected master, clutching a bloody rag in one hand and a small jar in the other.

"Add them and complete the ssspell," the Dark Lord hissed in his serpentine fashion.

Though he always felt inclined to flinch when addressed by his master, Lucius maintained his composure. He'd been skating on thin ice with Voldemort since his rebirth the year before. He had to work harder than any of the others at proving his loyalty to the Dark Side. Voldemort had taken it as a personal insult that Lucius had foregone his rightfuearned ped punishment in favour of cowardice and to signal that he felt anything other than pure and simple reverence for him would be nothing short of suicide.

He stood and crossed the room to where a cauldron was suspended over an icy fire. On the table there stood the jar that held the bit of Harry Potter's muscle, the bloodied handkerchief containing his blood, a small finger kept intact with an ever-fresh charm, and another small vial that was filled with a deep red liquid.
ciuscius mentally reviewed the procedure. This was a difficult potion to brew and a difficult spell to cast. There was only one chance; he had to make sure that everything went just perfectly.

Steeling himself, Lucius began the incantation.

"Conligare en viscera," he began, enunciating every syllable with utmost perfection. As he spoke, he emptied the contents of the jar and the finger into the potion. It turned from green to black.

"Conligare en sanguis," he continued, falling into the rhythm of the spell. The blood soaked cloth and the contents of the smaller vial went into the cauldron. The potion turned red.

"Vita et mors portio." The liquid swirled into red and black, but each colour was still clearly visible.

"Duo fieri unis," he finished. The potion turned a bright white. It swelled until it threatened to overflow, but as soon as it reached the brim of the silver vessel, it retreated.

He had successfully created the solution to all of his problems.

"Remove it," Voldemort commanded, "and sssend it on itsss way."

Lucius took the cauldron from the fire and placed it on the table he'd used for his preparation. On the table there now stood two fresh vials and a small ladle, placed there by one of the elves that was constantly running about. He ladled a small amount of the now transparent fluid into each of the vials, just until they were full. They were promptly sealed with Lucius' trademark red wax, mildly scented with dragon's blood. He liked the dragon's blood for two reasons: it was a very pretty scent and it scared the life out of his son. When Draco was going to bleed, Lucius always let him know. Too bad, really, that he couldn't divulge this information beforehand. He would have liked to see the boy sweat.

A box containing parchments stood nearby; he removed two sheets of parchment and two envelopes. A note was scribbled on each paper, giving the contacts -whose names were not mentioned- vague instructions as to what to do with the vial. Should the messages fall into the wrong hands, he did not want to give too much of the game away. He sealed the notes and containers into the envelopes and tied them each of the two owls sitting on the windowsill. The owls took off as soon as their messages were attached to them.

As he watched the birds disappear into the night, Lucius began preparing himself for the next part of the operation.

*****

Blaise Zabini clutched the small glass tube in his hand like it was the greatest treasure imaginable. In a sense, it was. The contents of that vial guaranteed Blaise a spot in the hierarchy of Voldemort's ranks. His successful completion of this task would grant him a place directly at the Dark Lord's side. His name would go down in future history books as the boy who did Harry Potter in and turned the world over to Voldemort. He would be a hero. The days of being overlooked by his peers, his teachers, and his parents were over. His moment had finally come.

The wax seal was broken with a quick clenching of his fist. The cork would come out at the last minute, while he casually passed the Gryffindor table.

"What the hell?"

"Goodness! I apologise, Potter; didn't mean to run into you like that," Blaise said cheerfully as he pulled himself up from Harry's lap.

"Fine," Harry replied in his monotone. "Are you okay?"

"Right as rain," Blaise chortled. "Have a lovely summer, Potter."

Ron, Hermione, and a great many other Gryffindors watched him walk away with no small measure of suspicion evident in their faces. What was a Slytherin doing throwing himself at Harry like that? Harry gave no reaction, being the only one not concerned with the minor altercation. Content that if Harry wasn't upset, they weren't upset, everyone went back to eating their breakfasts.

Taking his seat at the Slytherin table, Blaise began chatting animatedly with a second year. No one had noticed that his hand passed over Harry's breakfast plate or the clear liquid that had soaked into his porridge when he'd tripped himself into the boy. He had successfully done what was asked of him. His name was as good as Potter's now.

Anger surged through him when he saw that the Gryffindors had gone back to ignoring him as they always did, thinking he was just trying to make a pass at the Boy Who Lived. After all, what could anyone like him want from life? He was perfect there in the shadows, the presence everyone could ignore because it had nothing special to offer. But no one had ever bothered to find out how much he really did have to offer. Except for Draco Malfoy's father. He took interest in Blaise, saw his talent and praised him for it. The Dark Lord knew of the things he had to offer. That was why he'd been given such an important task.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Blaise caught Harry eating his porridge. His anger vanished as quickly as it had surfaced.

Several seats down from Blaise, Pansy Parkinson was breaking the seal on the vial she'd been carrying with her for the last two weeks. She'd waited for that moment for two weeks, since she had received an owl from Draco's father. He had brewed her a love potion to make Draco's interest in her spark. The pairing had been arranged, though Draco had seemed none too happy about it. He thought he'd help Draco along by giving Pansy a love potion, he told her. It had to begiven only on this, the twenty first of June, the Summer Solstice.

Beside Pansy, Draco was looking rather blank and picking disinterestedly at his muffin. He was trying to ignore Crabbe and Goyle who were sniggering over Crabbe's latest issue of Bound. (They had not been expelled on the grounds that there had been no concrete evidence to incriminate them. The memory spells they'd worked on the area it had happened at were too powerful to be broken and very difficult to be detected.)

"Draco," Crabbe said, getting his attention. "Check this out."

He held the magazine out to where Draco could see. Draco looked down to see a moving picture of a Betty Page-looking girl who was tied to some kind of contraption that looked like it had once been implemented for torture in the fifteenth century. Her wrists were bound to the top and her ankles to the bottom of the frame with leather straps, making her spread-eagle in midair. There was a look of pain on her face and she was crying as she was being gang-raped by at least a dozen faceless men.

"That's disgusting," he said as he turned back to his muffin. He'd never found rape to be charming like his two apes did. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of that, and found it thoroughly repulsive that anyone could find it erotic.

"What's disgusting?" Pansy asked, though she already knew. All the Slytherin boys except for Blaise and Draco had been ogling the mag for the previous week. But she leaned over Draco as though to get a look, pouring the potion into his goblet.

He pushed her away without really noticing her or what had happened. He lifted the goblet and as soon as it was drained, he caught it. Something that frightened him beyond all belief. It was the worst joke his father ever played on him; it was the worst irony in all the world. Every time he ca tha that scent, it meant that he was going to bleed. Badly. It was dragon's blood. And it came from Pansy.

Grabbing her hand, she immediately dropped her fork and squealed in delight. (Perhaps he didn't need the potion after all, she thought.) Then he smelled it. Her palm was saturated with the harsh opium and soft floral scent. He practically threw it back at her. "You're sick," he hissed.

"But Draco," she whined. "What did I do?"

"You're fucking sick. Dragon's blood. Honestly!" he exclaimed. "That's really twisted, you fucking degenerate."

Before she had a chance to explain, he had stormed out of the dining hall. Of course, she hadn't thought of an explanation and didn't think she could. She never wore dragon's blood and she wasn't sure how he could smell it on her. Then she remembered the wax. Again, she started hoping that he didn't figure it out. The rejection and hurtful words were lost on her in light of the impending effects of the potion. She could be patient for another few days.

**

Having nowhere else to go, he waited at the station in Hogsmeade. He had left the Hall not long after breakfast had started, he was so distressed by the scent that he'd caught on Pansy's hand. Every single time he'd ever caught that scent, he wound up bleeding at his father's hand. But what was Pansy doing wearing it? She couldn't possibly know of its implications. Besides, she never wore it so far as he was aware. What could it possibly mean?

So distressed was he that he hardley noticed he'd been waiting for nearly twenty five minutes before anyone came down to the platform. The first person who arrived was none other than Harry Potter. The dragon's blood vanished from his mind. Just before he boarded the train, Harry caught Draco's eye. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then, at the exact same moment, they both smiled small, secret smiles. Secret but genuine. Then Harry was gone and Draco was left wondering what had just occurred.

**

Harry waited at the station for his aunt and uncle to arrive. He watched the rest of the crowd -witches, wizards, and Muggles alike- without a whole lot of interest when heght ght an almost glowing figure out of the corner of his eye. Before he even focused on it, he knew that it could only be Draco Malfoy. He turned just slightly to see Draco following at his father's heels with his head bowed.

Not for the first time did Harry wonder what was going to happen to the other boy when he got home. There was no identifiable source of his concern, but it was there nonetheless. He tried writing it off as paranoia and delusions of grandeur induced by the boy's bowed head and black face. The dream he'd had when he'd fallen asleep on the train was enough to convince him to pay more attention to the Slytherin, but not enough to convince him he wasn't being delusional. Nevertheless, he quickly took note of the lack of sneer and general blankness of Draco's face and the obvious disgust Lucius felt for his surroundings.

'Still uses Muggle transportation,' Harry thought bitterly as he watched the pair disappear into a great black limousine. 'Fucking hypocrite.'

The car containing his aunt, uncle, and cousin pulled up to the curb, taking the place of where the Malfoy car had just been. Harry quickly loaded his trunk into the trunk of the car and took Hedwig with him to the back seat. Not a single word was spoken all the way back to Number 4 Privet Drive.

This promised to be a very long summer.

**

"I shall ssspeak to the boy alone," Voldemort hissed.

Draco shivered inwardly. He hated being alone with the Dark Lord and he hated being in this room. The combination of the two were nearly lethal so far as he was concerned. There was no window in the room; the only light was cast from a blue fire that made it ghostly and freezing. Many things that Draco wanted to but couldn't forget happened in this room and he had the feeling that this was going to be no exception. Nothing good ever came of an interlude with Voldemort, so far as he was concerned.

His father, who was backing out of the room while singing Voldemort's praises, had been treating him very kindly since they had left King's Cross that afternoon. The memory of the dragon's blood on Pansy's hand confused him. If he was to be looking forward to punishments, why was Lucius going out of his way to make him comfortable? Why was Lucius bending over backwards to please his every whim if he was just going to bloody him again? Why had he taken the place of Draco's personal house-elf for the day if he was just going to turn around and beat him? And why had he offered Draco every kind of luxury he'd never been offered before if he'd failed at anything?

Once the door had clicked shut and been locked from the outside, Voldemort turned his attention once more to the boy before him. Red eyes burned when they fell on the younger Malfoy as though he was highly pleased but somewhat disgusted at the same time. Every gesture the Dark Lord made was accentuated with a kind of serpentine grace. It unnerved Draco, but none so much as when he spoke. "The time hasss come, Draco, for you to make your decsssion."

"You already know my answer," Draco replied mechanically. This was the correct answer that he had been taught since the day he was born. He had been preparing himself for that very moment all his life. It was the moment in which he would finally prove to his father that he could make it, that he was worthy.

"Remove your robe," demanded the Dark Lord.

Letting his robe fall to the floor, Draco stood straight in his too-big black jeans and white tee shirt. He was mentally cursing himself for his poor taste in fashion and lack of judgment when dressing that morning. He had hoped to change before facing Voldemort. But he stood straight and tall and wore his cheap clothes like the finest of silk robes.

The Dark Lord secretly appraised Draco for his posture, thus forgoing any remark in regard to his taste in clothing. He admired Draco, though he was apprehensive about the boy. He never bowed, never showed fear, and he never let anything get under his skin. He was the sort of person that Voldemort always told his followers to be but feared that they might actually turn into. A person such as that was not prone to submission, and Draco was no exception. Only Lucius could elicit the fear of God from the boy, which was why Voldemort insisted upon his harsh hand when it came to his son. But he wouldn't be a threat for much longer, he reminded himself with a sadistic smile that wrinkled his flat face and made him look that much more inhuman.

Pointing his wand at Draco's left forearm, Voldemort let a stream of green light from his wand. For a split second that felt like a thousand hours, the stream of light burned the boy's milky skin. It felt to Draco as though a million tiny needles had found their way into his very soul and were poking irreparable holes in him. His skin was on fire and his heart was ready to explode when the contact was finally broken.

Though his arm throbbed painfully, Draco was relieved that the worst of it was over. He caught his breath and looked down at his arm. On the inside of his forearm, just below his elbow, a skull with a snake in its mouth was burnished into his skin in vivid black lines. He had achieved it. He had finally accomplished the one thing his father wanted for him more than any other: he had become Lucius' clone.

And yet, something was missing. There was no elation at having achieved what was wanted of him. There was no content feeling that he'd done the best thing, like he'd done the right thing. There was nothing in him except a big empty. The feeling of achievement that he'd expected never came. He brought himself no happiness, no satisfaction, and no feeling of higher purpose like he'd expected -or hoped- to achieve. But he hadn't really hurt himself, either, he decided. It was just another impersonal step to becoming what was desired of him in his life of constant shortcomings and wretched downfalls.

"You are disssmisssed," Voldemort hissed as the door was unlocked and swung open.

Nodding curtly, Draco gathered his robe and practically fled the tiny room in his father's dungeon. He barely noticed the small congregation of men at the other end of the dungeon's common room who were laughing as he retreated. He barely noticed Wormtail, whom he'd nearly trodden over on his way up the stairs to the main floor of the Manor. The house-elves fled as he ran past them, fearing that he was the Master, coming to punish them. He was little more than a blur of black and white clothing and blonde hair.

He ran to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. It was a silly, useless gesture, but it gave him a sense of security, nonetheless. If anyone really wanted to get in all they would have to do would be to mutter 'alohamora'.

These thoughts didn't really occur to Draco. He thought of nothing but showering. He just wanted to stop feeling dirty, though he had no idea when the feeling really started. It seemed almost like a disease that spread from the mark on his arm throughout his entire body. He felt as though all the filth in the world had been thrown at him; it was on his skin, in his hair, under his clothes, inside his mind and heart.

The hot water in his private bath was turned on to the max. Without much thought except that he had to get under the water, he stripped himself in one fluid gesture. Hardly wet, he began soaping himself up immediately. He rinsed and repeated. Again and again and again. The feeling was not washing a He He felt like he'd been violated again.

Finally giving up, he turned the water off and stepped out of the stall. Two figures in black cloaks and plain white masks were standing directly three feet in front of him.

The last conscious thought Draco had was that the dragon's blood was coming into play.

**

Dinner was almost finished and Harry was carrying the dishes to the table. He had just picked up the butter plate when a pain unlike anything elssaussaulted his arm. Thousands and millions of tiny daggers were driving some lethal kind of poison into his every molecule through his arm. The daggers themselves had entered his bloodstream, going straight to his soul. They tore at his hope, ripped up his bowels, assaulted his will, raping his very heart. His scar had begun throbbing at exactly the same moment, causing him to drop the plate he'd been holding. His ears rang with the pain, drowning out the sound of the plate smashing against the porcelain tiles of the kitchen floor.

"Christ, boy, can't you do anything right?" Vernon Dursley bellowed upon entering the kitchen.

His scar went cold again and the sharp pain in his arm ceased, leaving him with only a dull throb. "Uh, s-sorry, Sir," Harry spluttered as he came back to himself. As he kneeled down to pick up the broken plate, he glanced at his arm. The image he'd feared he'd find was indeed burned into his arm with astounding clarity.

A black skull and snake stood out on his arm as if to challenge the whole stinking world into a fight with a Dark Lord it had little hope of defeating.

**

"Crucio!"

Draco couldn't scream. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. The pain that was coursing through his body was unequalled by even the worst beatings Lucius had bestowed upon him. At least with the beatings the pain eventually dulled. The pain caused by the Cruciatus Curse never wavered, even for a second. It was like being branded again in every single fibre of his being.

Then it stopped. His head cleared almost instantaneously and he began to recognise where he was and what was happening. He was lying in the dead center of a circle of Death Eaters. Each one held in its hands either a drum, pipe, or rattle. Music is a very powerful form of magick and one that the Death Eaters had learned to manipulate to the fullest extent. The level of energy that was present at that gathering was almost enough to smother Draco to death. That was the object, of course. Spirits were being summoned.

This was no ordinary meeting. This was a sacrifice.

**

Harry lay in the dust on the floor of his neglected bedroom. His entire body burned with pain that only the Cruciatus Curse could produce. He knew; he had been subjected to it before.

It stopped. Harry sat up straight and closed his eyes. He began rocking back and forth with the effort to concentrate on the sudden, foreign presence in the back of his mind.

"Draco

**

The rhythm was intoxicating. It took hold of his willpower and squeezed. It grabbed his reason and twisted it in two. It stomped on his hope and crushed his passion. It took away his happiness, his heart, his will to exist. The steady beating of the drums, the heavy melody of the flutes, and the hypnotising rattling were working their magick. They were raising demons from the soil and spirits from the sky. They were bringing the messengers of death to the land of the living.

Draco was falling into the rhythm. His heart began beating in time with the drums and his breathing mimicked the flutes. The rattling turned into ringing in his ears. He could no longer tell the difference between his body's nature and the musical influence.

Then, amongst the deep tones of the Death Eater's instruments, there rose a different sound. It was unearthly, but never frightening. It was insistent but never aggressive. It was forcing his body to regain itself. It was urging him to focus. It was urging him to fight the desire to die. It was pushing him off the ground, forcing him to stand.

Around him, the Death Eaters and their master were swaying to the music. They were entranced, thrown so heavily into the magick they had summoned that they didn't even realise it was no longer affecting their target. Their magick never faltering, Draco wondered how he was able to transcend it.

Focusing for the first time since Goddess only knew when, Draco finally became aware of his body. He looked down to see his nakenaked body shining red in the light of the lanterns the Death Eaters had placed around the edge of the circle. The red, he realised, was his own blood, flowing from deep gashes in his face, neck, chest, stomach, legs, and arms. He felt the heat and wetness flowing from what he knew were gashes on his backside.

Deeper even than the gashes, he began to feel the pain only one man had ever caused him. It wasn't a physical sensation so much as it was a kind of carnal knowledge of his own susceptibility. It had happened again.
min mind reeled. Without warning, the images of a man much taller than himself were invading his brain. He could feel the hands on his hips, moving to his thighs, and digging their nails into his soft flesh, bruising him like a peach. He felt the insistent pressure of the man's erection against his unwilling opening tearing him apart and claiming him as his own. The one thing he'd tried so hard to forget came rushing back to him tenfold.

"Go," a voice said. It was a part of the music that the Death Eaters weren't making and it helped to ground him.

"Now." It wasn't a part of the music. It was the music.

Draco pushed the reality of what had just happened to him to the back of his mind and walked on undsteady legs toward the edge of the circle.

"Hurry

Two of the figures parted, their playing never missing a beat. As soon as he had passed them, they once again closed the circle.

"Run

But to where? There was nowhere to go. He was in the middle of a forest. He couldn't hide from those creatures, no matter how hard he tried. They would find him. They always did.

But the more he looked around, the more he recognised his surroundings. These woods had been his playground for his entire childhood, whenever he could escape the confines of his father's mansion.

"Go, Draco

He ran. His legs felt like they were breaking, his back was trying to shatter, and his lungs didn't want to allow him to breathe. The only thing that kept him going was the soothing voice telling him to be strong and that was doing a good job.

It was fir first encouragement he'd ever received and he had no choice but to trust in it.

**

The dust filling his lungs didn't bother him anymore. He had far more important things on his mind. He was trying not to concentrate on the burning in his chest, the stabbing pain in his head, the gelatinous feeling of his legs, or the willingness of each of his bones to snap. He was trying so hard not to feel the pain that was infiltrating his senses. He tried not to acknowledge the blood that was threatening to drown him. He didn't want to allow himself to become immersed in the feeling that he'd been violated because someone else needed him to be strong.

"Please, Draco," he sobbed. "Fight them."

**

The footsteps were drawing closer. They were only a hundred meters behind him. The light of their wands was just behind his heels. They were almost upon him.

There! The cottage was so close... Just a few more minutes.

"There he is!"

"Crucio!"

Draco dodged the curse. The voice was leading him, telling him where to go. The bush at his right exploded into flame. He had barely missed it. His legs were weakening. He had to make it. He was almost there.

The light was still shining in the windows of the cottage. Someone was awake in there. Draco threw his body at the door, pounding it with all his might.

The footsteps of the Death Eaters had ceased. Everything had gone deadly silent.

The door opened and a woman with long, black hair looked around. She couldn't find the source of the knocking and was just about to close the door when she looked down. A small boy, covered in blood and sobbing heavily, was lying on her doorstep.

She knew what had happened to the boy. Miscreants and casualties of violence often found their way to her home. Sighing, she whispered, "Mobilicorpus."

No sooner had she shut the door did she hear the detached scream coming from deep in the woods. It was no werewolf; the moon wasn't full. The sound was enough to curdle her blood for she knew the implications of it. It was the scream of the darkest wizard in five hundred years. She hadn't heard that sound for over a decade and all her worst fears proved true. But inside the cottage, she knew, she was safe.

She set the boy gently on the bed and went about tending to his wounds.

**

Draco woke to unfamiliar surroundings and wondered briefly if he had died. The pain in every fibre of his being was enough to convince him otherwise. He felt as though every bone in his body had been bent if not broken and then shoved back together. For a moment, he'd forgotten what had transpired the night before. Then, all at once, it rushed back to him and he started sobbing uncontrollably.

"Quiet, son," a woman's voice said. "You're safe now."

Safe? Nowhere was safe when Voldemort and his father were on the loose. It would only be a matter of time before they found out where he was and destroyed it. But why did they want to hurt him so badly? He had done everything right; he'd played by all the right rules, and never wavered in any of his convictions. At least, not outwardly.

"Here," she said. "Drink this."

Draco opened his eyes. The one room of the cottage held the bed he was lying in, a small table, a cast iron cookstove, and a small chest of drawers. On the ceiling there hung at least a hundred different bundles of herbs and flowers that were drying and a rack holding cast iron pots and pans. The floor was hard-packed Earth, but looked swept and neat. A patchwork quilt covered the bed he was lying in.

He looked up to see an ageless woman with long, black hair sitting beside him. She wore on her slender frame a dress of the deepest forest green he'd ever seen. It seemed to flow around her like it was made of air and water, giving her a very ethereal appearance. Her soft brown eyes were lined with the same green of the dress she wore. Aside from a few rings on her slender fingers, she wore no other adornments.

"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Antha," she answered quickly as she helped prop him upright against the pillows. "Drink this," she repeated, holding out a wooden bowl and spoon.

She raised the spoon to his lips and he caught the scent of honey and citrus rising from the steaming liquid. He sipped carefully and immediately felt his insides warming. The pain began to ebb with the more broth he consumed. She fed him until it was gone, then stood, crossing the room to where the cookstove sat and began crumbling herbs into the kettle sitting atop it.

"What is your name, son?" she asked without looking at him.

"Draco," he replied.

She stopped, mid-crumble, and turned back to face him. "Draco?" There was a look of intense concentration on her face that made her look more than slightly intimidating.

"Draco Malfoy," he clarified.

"Yes, I know who you are," she said. "But do you?"

Draco was baffled. Of course he knew who he was. He was the son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and Dark Lord's throne. He was a Death Eater now, too, he realised. He shuddered.

"It is not by some random act of chance that you found your way to my doorstep, son," she continued, turning back to her kettle. "Many victims of the Dark Ways find their way to this cottage, and have for as long as I can remember," she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but what do you mean?" Draco asked.

"My great grandmother was a very powerful creature indeed. She was the strongest of her kind."

"Faeries," Draco whispered, realisation dawning on him. The broth she'd fed him made more sense because those methods of healing that required only natural ingredients were becoming obsolete even in the modern wizarding world.

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled broadly. "Yes, indeed. I daresay you've something of the faerie in your blood. Catch on quickly, you do." Once again, she turned back to her task. "Some called her the Queen of the Faeries."

"Auriel," he whispered, once again interrupting. "So it is true, then."

"Was there ever a doubt?" Antha asked patiently.

"Not doubt. My father-" he stopped. It was painful to think of what he'd done.

"Was wrong about many things," she finished for him. "It was people like your father that made my great grandmother and her people first retreat into these woods."

"But faeries live everywhere. Don't they?" Draco asked.

"True, true," she answered with a nod. "But here I am referring to the time when there was no division of people. Muggles, as many are now inclined to call them, were not created from a natural mean. There was a time when everyone was just as magickal as each other."

"What does that have to do with my father?" he asked. "He's not a Muggle."

"And I never said that he was," she quipped.

"So what caused the separation?"

Antha sighed deeply. "That is debatable. Some say it was the introduction of alchemy."

"Alchemy? But that's a wizard's science," Draco said, confused. quotquot;No, it is not. Alchemy is science, Draco, like you said. Those that believe that science caused the rift believe that there is a conflict between logic and magick. Science, they say, took away the belief in magick and when a belief in something fades, the thing itself fades."

"But if that were true, why are you still here? Why does magick still exist?"

"Because I, like many others, know that science is not to blame. There was a man, two thousand years ago, who was gravely misunderstood." She covered the kettle and took a seat on the stool beside the bed. "He spread the message of peace and tolerance, healed many people, and gathered quite a following. The following grew and angered many of the governments of the region, so he was sacrificed. His story was written years later, but it was distorted. Power corrupts, Draco. Never forget that. These men that recorded the story changed many of the events and used it to their advantage. The distribution of the story warped the truth and, since there were few who knew what had actually happened, it was widely believed. Over the years, it gained popularity."

"Christianity," he said.

"Christianity isn't necessarily the problem. What Jesus preached was the message of many past and present witches and wizards. Some say that he himself was a very powerful wizard and I am inclined to agree. But, as I have said, his message was distorted. Before Christianity was just that, men and women were treated equally in more societies than were not. It was the system of belief that put men on a higher plane than women and took many of their rights away. Women were very influential in certain fields, medicine being one of the most prominent. Midwives were taking the place of men's obstetrics and this didn't make them happyot; ot;

"Thus, the Burning Times began," Draco whispered.

"Yes. And it was in those times that the rift was coming to its head. There was no exact moment that it happened in, but the separation can be traced to roughly that period in time. Those that followed the belief that no man is created equally to another lost their magick because their minds became so closed that their bodies no longer had the capacity to perform. Muggles and wizards became two separate peoples."

"Then how come my father still has magick?" he asked, confused.

"That, I cannot say. Not everything is perfect, you know. The world works in mysterious ways, and I have no choice but to believe that everything happens for a reason, even if those reasons are not always clear," she replied patiently.

"And they drove the faeries out," sighed Draco.

"Indeed they did. But our magick never faltered. It has only grown stronger. When my great grandmother and her people came to these woods, they built this cottage. It was to be a safe place that only those who had been caused harm by the Dark Ways could find."

"Does that mean that Muggles can find it, as well?"

"Aye, it does. They don't realise it, of course, but that is unimportant. Your father," she continued, "is very much like those men that drove the faeries out. It is the idea of superiority and inferiority of races, creeds, and genders that have led such men to performing such unforgivable deeds. And leave victims such as yourself to find people like me."

"Please, Ma'am, what do you mean do I know who I am?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Do you know why the Death Eaters betrayed you?" she asked. The intensity of her gaze shocked Draco so that all he could do was shake his head. "Unless I am mistaken, there is a very powerful spell on you."

"Wh- what kind of spell?"

"Can you think of nothing?" She raised an eyebrow. "Did nothing odd happen yesterday?"

For a moment, he fell silent, recalling the events of the previous day. "The whole day was odd. Well, first Pansy smelled like dragon's blood," he said. "But then my father tried to kill me, so there you go." No change was evident in the woman's pose. He thought harder. "Harry smiled at me at the station. That was odd. But I smiled, too."

"You need to rest," she said suddenly. "There is much work ahead of you."

"Harry," he whispered. There was something about Harry in the back of his mind that he couldn't identify but wouldn't go away. Draco suddenly felt very tired. As he drifted into sleep, he realised that the voice in his head the night before was not a feminine voice.

It was Harry's.

**

An owl pecked at Harry's chest, waking him up.

"What?" he muttered groggily. His whole person hurt, from his head to his toes, he was in utter agony.

The owl pecked at him again and Harry finally forced his eyes open. "Oh, hello," he said to the oIt sIt stuck its leg out so that he could take the letter off of it. "Thank you," he told it as it flew out the open window.

Taking a look at the envelope in his hands, Harry immediately recognised the handwriting as that of the Headmaster. It was apparently quite pressing, as it bore a stamp declaring 'URGENT' in bright red ink. He ripped it open and unfolded the letter.

Harry,

Have your things together by nine o'clock. A car will be waiting outside to

take you to Hogwarts. We shall discuss the rest when you arrive.

Albus Dumbledore

Harry looked at the shining red numbers of the clock on his bedside table to see that he had only five minutes to make it downstairs with his trunk and his owl, who was sleeping soundly in her cage.

It took literally every ounce of his willpower to stand up. Everything ached. His bones felt like they had been crushed and hastily glued back together and they might very well fail him at a moment's notice. Head swimming, he thought he was going to be sick. After steadying himself, he began to feel better. The cold that had practically consumed his insides was warming.

Finally, having gotten hold of himself, Harry re-packed the few articles of clothing he'd taken out the night before but had not yet worn.

"Hedwig," he cooed into the sleeping bird's cage. "Hedwig, we've got to get going. Wake up."

She woke up looking grumpy. Hedwig liked her sleep and she hated to be woken up after having been hunting all night. She glared at Harry.

"I'm sorry, but Dumbledore said we've got to go," he explained.

Though she looked far from convinced, she allowed him to lock her cage and shen't n't look quite so irritable.

"You can sleep as soon as we get there. I promise."

Still aching, but able to force his mind to focus with his feeling progressively better, Harry dragged his trunk down the stairs, meeting Dudley halfway.

"Good god! What happened to you?" he excaimed.

Having pushed his injuries to the back of his mind, Harry had nearly forgotten that he must have looked a wreck. "I don't know," he replied honestly.

"Where are you going?" Dudleyed sed sounding half hopeful and half nervous.

"Hogwarts," he said.

Dudley made a face, but didn't reply. Harry continued on his way, only stopping to open the front door. He pulled his trunk out onto the sidewalk, heaving a sigh of relief to be through with that part of the task. He took a moment to catch his breath and convince his body that it really could make it back up the stairs to collect Hedwig.

On his way out the door for the second time, Harry ran into his uncle.

"Where do you think you're going, boy?t; ht; he growled. "The dishes need to be washed, the garden needs to be weeded, Dudley needs his laundry-"

"Then he can do it himself," Harry replied with no small amount of disdain in his voice. "I'm on my way out."

"Like hell you are!" Vernon shouted.

Harry turned around and Vernon caught his breath.

"What happened to you?" he asked, repeating the very words his son had spoken not two minutes earlier. "If I find a single drop of blood-" he started menacing.

"Thank you for your concern," Harry said, sarcasm lacing his words. "I'm fine."

Skirting his fuming uncle, Harry dashed out the door. A black car was indeed waiting and beside it stood none other than Severus Snape. Harry mentally cursed his luck, but tried to remain cordial.

"Professor," he greeted.

"Potter," Snape replied with a quick nod. "We've got no time. Please get in."

They both climbed into the back seat of the car and were immediately on their way. As soon as Harry gld oud out the window, he recognised the outskirts of Hogsmeade. They were making very good time, weren't they? he thought.

"How are you feeling?" Snape asked quietly, snapping Harry out of his lack of thought.

"Like I want to die," he replied casually. Though he was feeling a hundred thousand times better than he had when he first woke up, he was still in a lot of pain. He could feel that most of his gashes had closed up since he'd awoken but they were still sore. Whatever boned bed been broken were healing, but they too remained sore. The only feeling that he couldn't shake was one that he wasn't familiar with until the previous night and it was by far the worst of the lot.

"You nearly did."

"Excuse me?"

Snape said nothing more and Harry didn't have the energy to press the matter. Within seconds, the car had stopped directly outside the front door of Hogwarts castle. The two silently climbed out, leaving Harry's trunk and owl in the car.

"Do you feel up to walking?" Snape asked.

"No. But I'll make it," he said, refusing to give in to one of Snape's offers of assistance, even if it wasn't phrased as such. His limbs were feeling better and he could move without too much trouble. "Why am I here? What did you mean I nearly died?"

"We shall discuss it with the headmaster," he replied curtly.

The gargoyle that served as the guardian of the headmaster's office quickly jumped aside when Snape muttered, "Mike and Ike." Harry raised an eyebrow. "I think they're disgusting, but Dumbledore has grown quite fond of them recently," Snape explained.

Without stopping to knock, Snape opened the door to Dumbledore's inner office. The headmaster sat behind the desk and looked more than slightly relieved to see his visitors. "Please have a seat," he told them. They each took a seat on the other side of the desk.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked immediately.

"Show me your arm," Dumbledore kindly demanded.

Harry had all but forgotten about the newly acquired tattoo. The in in the rest of his body had been more than enough to distract him from the dull burning in his arm. He lifted his sleeve and held his left arm out.

"I was afraid of that," Dumbledore sighed.

"What is going on?" Harry demanded, not so kindly as the headmaster had. "Why do I have the Dark Mark?"

"Because young Malfoy has it," the headmaster replied grave
H
Harry paled. The images of the previous night's events came rushing back to him. "Draco? Is he okay? What happened to him?"

"He is just as all right as you are. That doesn't come as much of a surprise to you, does it?" he asked.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," Harry admitted.

"Harry, I need you to tell me everything you felt and saw last night. It is very important that you leave out nothing," said Dumbledore.

"I was setting the table and my arm started burning and so did my scar," he began. "Then the next thing I knew, I had the Dark Mark."

"What time was this at?"

Snape answered for him. "Seven o'clock sharp."

"How did you...?" Harry trailed off. He already knew the answer, though, and proceeded with his tale. "Right. So after dinner, I went up to my room to send you an owl, but I couldn't move. It was like my whole body was paralysed, but I could still feel everything. My scar was still hurting, but it was different."

"Different how?"

"Usually, it's just like a throbbing ache. Last night it burned. Not even when I faced him last year... it was worse than that. It was a hundred thousand times worse. And I couldn't see anything even though my eyes were open. Then it felt like my head was going to explode, there was so much pressure." He stopped, trying to fight off frustrated tears.

"It's okay, Harry," Snape whispered.

"The next thing I knew I was laying on the floor and everything hurt. I felt like my whole body was broken and I was bleeding all over. Then I thought of Draco. I don't know why, his name just popped into my head. Then.... I saw him. He looked exactly like I felt, but he was like... misty." He stopped again, recalling what followed. "I remember wanting to tell him to run. I think I did. I tried, anyway. And he stood up and started walking and I remember telling him to keep going and to fight them and I guess he got away, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did," Dumbledore answered.

"Where is he?"

"Not far. But don't worry about that now."

"What does all this mean, Professor?" Harry asked, growing very, very serious.

Both men grew silent and very thoughtful. Dumbledore finally broke the silence by saying, "There is no easy way for me to go about telling you this."

"Telling me what?" Harry demanded. He could feel anger swelling in his chest.

"Well, Harry..." he trailed off. Abandoning his chair, Dumbledore began pacing behind his desk. "Judging by what happened to you and Draco both, I would be most inclined to say that there is a kind of life-bond-"

"They were going to kill me. They were going to use someone else to kill me?" he practically screamed, cutting the headmaster off. "Those fucking cowards!" he really did scream. "And Draco! He actually joined with them?! That fucking worthless piece of shit! He handed me over to them, just like that? I knew he was pretty sodding wretched, but this tops 'em all!"

"Calm down, Harry, calm down," Dumbledore said quickly. "He didn't hand you over. He probably doesn't even know he's bonded to you. I suspect he joined with him of his own free will, yes, but-"

"With Lucius for his father, he would have died much sooner if he hadn't," Snape added.

"Oh, so he'd rather please Daddy than do the right thing? Sounds just like him," Harry said bitterly.

"Right and wrong are matters of opinion. When one's mind is as twisted as Voldemort's, one tends to have rather warped definitions," Dumbledore said. "But I understand your anger, Harry, I really, really do."

Though he very seriously doubted it, Harry took a deep breath to calm himself. He could deal with Draco's motives later. "Okay. Tell me about life-bonds," he finally said.

"Very little is really known about them since they are strictly forbidden. Such things can happen naturally, of course, but being as this one was manufactured, there is little help I can be. Which is where Severus comes in," the headmaster explained, gesturing to the other man. "He has more knowledge than I do in this arena."

"I've never seen such a thing in my life, Potter. Understand that. When I was 'working' with Voldemort, I gained most of my knowledge of potions."

"You're saying that a potion created this?" Harry asked incredulously.

"I'm saying that this is the most plausible scenario. The potion is very difficult to brew correctly, as it requires an almost inhuman amount of energy to complete. It requires non-stop attention for at least seventy-two hours; all the ingredients are difficult to find and must be added at certain increments of time while constantly being stirred. If the potion they used is what I think it is, I think I understand how it may have happened," Snape explained.

"This all theory, then?" asked Harry.

"Mostly," continued the Potions Master. "But the potion I'm talking about is very real and it requires bits from those involved. Meaning, the potion binds the subjects in life and death-"

Suddenly, it clicked. Everything that he couldn't understand began falling into place. "So that's why Crabbe and Goyle cut me up," Harry stated. "They needed my flesh and blood to make it work."

"Exactly. But what I can't figure out is how they would have gotten you to drink it," he finished with a bewildered look on his face.

Then Harry remembered the previous morning. "Blaise Zabini. Blaise Zabini threw himself at me at breakfast yesterday. But nothing I ate tasted funny."

"And it wouldn't," Snape replied, his face altering to an expression of disgust. "The potion has no colour and no flavour. It is one of the easiest potions to trick someone with. A person wouldn't even have to know they were taking it."

"Fine. How do we undo it?" Harry ground out, his anger having swelled once more. At that, both Snape and Dumbledore exchanged furtive glances. "What? There is a way to undo it. Isn't there?"

"No," Snape whispered, his head bent. "Its results are concrete; they can never be altered."

Mind reeling, Harry felt as though he were in a very vivid dream. He started laughing. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said. The laughter turned hysterical. "No. No. There's got to be another answer. There just has to be."

"There isn't, Harry," Dumbledore firmly stated.

Standing up, he wandered over to the door of the office, still laughing uncontrollably. He pulled the door open and disappeared, his laughter echoing through the halls of the deserted school. So he was bound flesh and blood to o Mao Malfoy. And he had a hideous black mark on his arm that would label him a monster when he had nothing at all to do with it.

Madame Pomfrey pulled Harry into the infirmary, still laughing like a maniac. This was the second time in a month that she'd seen the boy like that and was becoming increasingly nervous about his emotional well-being. But he cooperated and let her lead him to one of the beds.

He really had the worst luck in the world, he decided as he fell asleep.

*****

Back in the headmaster's office, he and Snape sat very still for a very long time.

"Well," Dumbledore finally said in a very cheerful fashion, breaking the silence. "He took that rather well, didn't he?"

*****