Amnesty

A Terret For You, My Precious

Part Two



Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK.



Word Count: ~5,174.



Author's Note: Holy cow, this turned out longer than I expected. *blinks* Also, just want to remind everyone that this series is from Draco's POV--a very lost, confused, and mentally unstable Draco, so the events that occur to him may not take place in 'real time' (i.e. time may move faster or slower than he thinks it does) and they may not be completely accurate, based on his perceptions.



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He doesn't like The Outside at all.



He knew this even before they had finished their Side-Along-Apparition, before they had landed in this empty, seedy street with its cracked pavement and boarded windows and shredded, flopping posters that peel away from graffiti-covered walls.



Harry needs to grab his arm to keep him from falling over, wobbly like the candelabra at breakfast because he hasn't travelled this way in a long time. He thinks that if the candelabra travelled this way, they would be wobbly too, though. He hasn't needed to Apparate in so long—as a passenger or otherwise. He hasn't needed to, and he'd rather not have needed to now, but Harry told him earlier that he's lost any chance of earning privileges today, so he doesn't voice his discontent. He ruined breakfast for Harry—who thinks that breakfast is the most important meal of the day—and he understands.



"Okay, precious?" Harry asks, a smirk curling around his mouth like his tanned and calloused hand is curling around his wobbly arm.



He smiles shyly and nods. "Yes, Harry. Thank you, Harry," he says quietly.



He moves to crowd closer to Harry, for reassurance in The Outside, but Harry is just as quickly moving away. Setting off down the empty, seedy street without a backward glance, with a swift and confident stride that makes his heart flutter as much as it makes him squeak and stumble after Harry because his leash is being pulled tight around his throat. Jinglejangle is the chain, and he is diligently trotting after Harry before Harry can get angry with him for being too slow.



He looks at the shabby, scrunched and tilted buildings that line this empty, seedy street. They are leering at him, this he knows, and his gut twists, twists tight like the warm cloth Harry had used this morning to wipe his face with after he'd cried. Their mouths of doors gape, baring their teeth of boards at him, telling him they would as soon swallow him in and never let him back out.



He gulps nervously and glances away, up to the bright morning sky. He has missed the paint splash, vivid splash, of colours across the sky and he is sad. There was a time, beforebeforebefore, when he enjoyed sunrises because it meant he was still alive, meant the night had passed and he could try to forget the events that had taken place. He loved watching the sunrises creep and slink and spread their delicate, trailing fingers across the sky. Now, as he looks up at the clear, warm sky, he knows something is different, wrong, and he moves closer to Harry.



The Outside is too open, pressing in and around and down on him with hungry expectation. When he is in Harry's Manor, the only expectations he must meet and satisfy are Harry's, and that is enough. But he knows that here, in The Outside, there are others. Others that will want from him, will expect and demand and ask things of him that he thinks—that he knows, beneath the crashing waves, the expansive lake, his island surrounded by the sea, he cannot give. He only gives things to Harry. Harry, Harry. His necessity, his truth, his Mother and Father in the dark of his Darkness.



The snap of a nearby poster flapping in the wind startles him, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to grab a fistful of Harry's robe, to centre and remind himself that Harry will protect him. His necessity, his truth, his Mother and Father in the dark of his Darkness.



Harry ignores him and his clutching hand, but he doesn't really mind. Harry must have a lot on his mind with such a pinched and determined look on his face.



He doesn't like The Outside at all, but he had been excited to go to The Outside.



He's waited years and years to leave Harry's Manor. He had wandered throughout The Manor's long, desolate halls, investigating every room that wasn't locked or that Harry had forbid him enter. They were all familiarly unfamiliar, all tinged with vague feelings of sadness and loneliness and fear. Maybe he lived there in a previous life, or perhaps on a different plane where things were differently the same. But, when Harry left for this or that or work, he had two favourite spots: the rose garden and Their Room.



The wild, overgrown rose garden is sequestered in a small corner of the grounds, with a fountain of a clawing dragon that sputters and dribbles. He goes there when he needs to be alone, needs to feel as if his body and thoughts and emotions are his own, and not fabricated for Harry's pleasure. (Even if he would do anything for him, his necessity.) He crouches as close as possible to the thorny brambles, ignoring the prickers that stab into him, that catch at his hair and drape it around like a blond-glittery curtain. Most of the time, huddling under the briars is enough, knees pressed to his chest, heaving breath and fingers gripping white.



But sometimes … sometimes he is more desperate for that solitary control over oneself. Then, it isn't enough to huddle under the briars and he turns, carefully snaps off a thorn and cuts into his skin. His pale skin that blossoms red, sticky-red. It is his own doing, that red-sticky blossoming on his arms, his abdomen, his thighs. It is not fabricated for Harry's pleasure. (Because Harry likes to cut into him, his body, with a vivid splash, paint splash of silver). It is his own pleasure, his own doing, here in the wild, overgrown rose garden with a fountain of a clawing dragon that sputters and dribbles.



Their Room is reserved for the opposite: when he is feeling lonely and needs to remember that he isn't a jumble of flotsam aimlessly floating about the sea—island surrounded by the sea—but is cared for and wanted and Harry's. Sometimes he simply drifts around the room, touching various items, toys, lifting particular ones to his face because he knows they will smell like blood and tears, sex and desire, him and Harry. Other times, when he is more desperate for that connection, he heads straight for the centre of the room, to a leather-cushioned table. When he first arrived at Harry's Manor, it was here he spent most of his time, strapped and spread for Harry to do with as he pleased.



For a moment, he simply drinks in the sight of it, lets the memories wash over him like the bitter waves in his mind except they don't sting as much and he enjoys the feeling of being overtaken and swallowed. (Like the sticky-red over pale skin, pale skin.) Then he sighs, flittering and fluttering out of him, and climbs up onto the leather-cushioned table, pressing his face against the brown leather because he wants—needs—the smell, the touch, the sight of a red mark on his face afterwards. He remembers a time when red marks on his face were distasteful and inappropriate. When he was a Malfoy, but Harry says he's just Draco now, and he believes him. Once, he had accidentally fallen asleep on the leather-cushioned table and Harry had punished him for initiating a sexual encounter. He isn't allowed to initiate sexual encounters because Harry says he isn't good enough and doesn't know what he's doing. Harry is his necessity and his truth and he understands. He doesn't deserve Harry—is so grateful and blessed to have him.



Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice that Harry has stopped in front of him, and he knocks into him, like his hand into his orange juice this morning. (He thinks gleefully because he loves making connections, onetwothree.)



He expects a reprimand, at least, for not paying attention, but Harry says nothing—simply shoves him into a broken-down, red box. He stumbles a bit and ends up roughly pushed against the glass panes of the box as Harry clambers in behind him and closes the door. Jagged lines blur in his vision and he blinks, blinks again, and cranes his head back to bring them into focus. A broken pane, a broken pane of crystallised fear dances and sings and calls to him, glittering in the sunlight. He stares at it. Wonders if maybe, maybeperhaps, he can get his island surrounded by the sea back in his hand.



Instead, he shudders and averts his eyes.



No. No. No. Harry said he's not to touch any more glass today because he's lost any chance of earning privileges. But, he ruined breakfast for Harry—who thinks that breakfast is the most important meal of the day—and he understands.



He awkwardly contorts himself around his leash and the small space to face Harry.



Harry, Harry, his necessity and truth and Harry, Harry.



He shudders again and turns his attention to the appearance of the broken-down, red box.



He thinks he should recognise it from somewhere, anywhere and everywhere. There is a faint niggling in his still-twisted gut as if he should, but when he dredges through his memories, through the blanket-white fog, it remains frustratingly out of reach. (A phantom shadow that slip, slips away.) The box is rather grimy and—and something he can't recall, but knows he dislikes. He grimaces and inches closer to Harry, away from the sides of the box because he doesn't want to touch it and get—get something germs.



Harry gives a quick glance to The—empty, seedy—Outside and picks up part of a black thing that hangs on the wall, pushing a few buttons as he does so.



He blinks and blinks and then his eyes widen. "Tel—tel-lyphone!" he says happily, hands flitting about like butterflies in his excitement. (The trembling of their wings echoed in his muscles.)



Harry's head jerks up and he looks surprised, lips parted and face slack. But then his eyes narrow, flicker-flash splash red, and his face flushes dark, mouth opening to say—



"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic! Please state your name and the purpose of your visit."



He jumps and grabs Harry's left arm—forgetting, forgetting that he knew and knew Harry was about to get angry. (Angry like he hates because he only wants to please Harry, Harry.) He frantically searches the broken-down, red box for the source of the cheery female voice, his fear tripling and trilling higher when he sees that it is still just him and Harry.



Harry, Harry, who sneers at him and cruelly shoves him away. Back and away until he's touching, touching, the grimy something sides of the box, and he cries out because now he's contaminated. C-Contaminated-ated-ated. Will never be clean, clean, be clean of the something. "It's just Harry, Doris," he hears from a distance, a distance, an impenetrable distance away.



He's scratching, heaving, needing to purgepurgepurge, outoutout the c-contamination-ation, but tanned and calloused hands are covering his own. Gripping, grasping, seizing, drawing his pale, pale hands away from his body, and a harsh voice is saying, "Draco, stop."



And swimming green eyes of the darkest colour are searing into him, baring his soul to be picked apart and scavenged. He whimpers, hands gripping, grasping, seizing at nothing and everything and Harry who is petting him and cradling him and soothing him.



The floor suddenly drops beneath his feet and he staggers into Harry. The cheery female voice is giggling from high, high above where his fear triples and trills to. She's drifting away, saying, "Oh, hello, welcome to the Ministry, sir! You certainly took a round-about way …", and then she is gone and gone and it is quiet.



"I … I'm c-contaminated-ated," he says, pressing closer to his Harry; hoping, wishing, he could crawl inside Harry and huddle like he does under the roses. Protected, heaving chest and fingers gripping white. He is not stupid; he is not naïve. The Others wait for him wherever this moving red box is going. They will want from him, expect and demand and ask things of him that he knows, knows he cannot give because he only gives to Harry. He trusts Harry, though. He does, he does. So, if Harry wants to take him to the Others, he will follow. Follow as he always does. "C-Contaminated-ated by the something."



And his hair sighs, flittering and fluttering out of him; drifting, waving around him. "No, you aren't contaminated, Draco."



He clutches harder, tighter, and shakes his head. "The box. This box is … c-c-contaminated-ated by the something. I don't—I … remember it, but I … I don't know what it is. I just didn't—don't—I've n-never liked it, Harry, Harry."



Harry, who tenses, twitching and twitching, heartbeat of wind slow and raging in his ear. (Bumpabumpbumpbump.)



He's said something wrong, something Harry doesn't like and he cringes, his grip more desperate. Hopes, wishes, he could crawl inside Harry and huddle like he does under the roses, because Harry is angry and he only ever wants to please Harry as he knows he can. "I'm sorry, Harry, p-please. Harry, I'm sorry," he whispers, eyes burning, scouring, like the salty waves crashing in his mind. "I didn't m-m-mean it, I didn't, I swear. P-Please, please, I'm sorry, Harry. I lo—"



"Shh," Harry croons, arms wrapping strong around his back, like the straps on his leather-cushioned table wrap strong around his wrists and ankles. "No, it's okay, precious. I know you didn't mean it."



He sniffles and rubs his face into Harry's chest because he loves the warmth, the strength and security of his necessity, his truth. "Are you … angry with m-me?" he hesitantly asks, fingers gripping white, legs rickety-weak as the world shudders.



Ding!



"First floor; Atrium."



He jumps at the voice, then nearly falls when Harry suddenly slips out of his arms and walks through the opening doors.



"Draco, come."



He cries out as he's yanked forward by his neck, the leash almost whirling him around before he catches his balance. He runs after Harry as best he can, whilst Others scurry to and fro. He stares up at the blond-glittery ceiling, the flashing green fireplaces, the awe-inspiring fountain of a wizard and a witch and a centaur and a house-elf. As he stumbles in front of the fountain, he tries to reach out and touch the pooling, glistening water, but his leash jingjangle jerks and he is past it. He glances back and feels sorry for the poor house-elf at the bottom of the fountain. (Fountain that doesn't sputter and dribble and claw.) The house-elves he knows at Harry's Manor are nice, and they don't deserve to be at the bottomest-bottom of a fountain.







"Harry!" A female voice calls to them on a third floor corridor. (Not cheery, no, not cheery, but exasperated.) "There you are! I've been waiting ages for you to—Oh."



Harry stops in front of him and he ducks, ducks behind his Harry—scared and lost and surrounded by Others. (Island, island, surrounded by the sea.) He peeks around Harry and sees a female Other with brown, wavy hair and an armful of papers. She seems unfamiliarly familiar, as if he knew her in a previous life or from another plane that is differently the same.



"Yeah, hello to you too, Hermione." Harry grins, rolling his eyes and ignoring the Others sudden silence. "It's amazing what friendship will do to common courtesy, eh?"



Her-my-oh-nee. Hermy-uhnee. Hermione.



He frowns and frowns on the inside where Harry can't—maybeperhaps—see, because Harry says it makes him look petulant and spoilt when he frowns on the outside, outside. He remembers …



He squints and tilts his head and ignores the funny looks the Other—Hermione—gives him. (But he doesn't give her anything unless she's Harry.) He thinks, he knows he should remember her from somewhere, anywhere and everywhere. "Do I know … you?" he whispers.



"Well, what do you know? The ferret's gone mental!" A deep voice booms from behind him, and something slaps around his shoulders, knocking him forward slightly. (Like his hand into his orange juice this morning, morning.)



He turns to look at the male Other and nearly goes blind with the profusion of red assaulting his eyes. Frightened, he immediately scrambles out from under the hold of the Other and places Harry between them, fingers gripping white on Harry's arm.



"Ron, stop," Hermione says, a disapproving frown lining her brow.



Ron. Ron. Ron.



Another name that is unfamiliarly familiar, a vague awareness that wiggles and nibbles its way through his mind. He peers around Harry again, in time to see the blindingly red Other—Ron—roll his eyes and move to Hermione's side.



"Stop? Are you kidding? I'm just getting started! This is the perfect opportunity to get back at the bastard for all he did to us at Hogwarts—what he did to Dumbledore. And he doesn't even remember us!"



Ron leers at him and Harry chuckles and he shrinks back, edging closer to Harry with a jinglyjangle of his chain and ripples undulating across the expansive lake of his mind.



They are all laughing at him—even Harry, Harry—and he doesn't understand why. Doesn't know what Ron means when he says all he did to us and Hogwarts and Dumbledore, although hearing the last sends a bolt of panic shooting down his spine.



Why is Harry laughing at him?



He hasn't done anything else wrong, has he? He's been good for Harry today, except for this morning when he ruined breakfast and Harry got angry, angry. But, Harry thinks breakfast is the most important meal of the day and he understands, he does, he does.



He thinks, he knows he hasn't done anything else to deserve being laughed at. (Like the house-elves at Harry's Manor don't deserve to be at the bottomest-bottom of a fountain that doesn't sputter or claw or dribble.) Harry is laughing at him though, and the blanket-white fog is clearing slightly, thinning and revealing thoughts, emotions, that certainly can't be his. He likes Harry, loves and adores Harry because Harry is perfect and his and he just knows that Harry feels the same way about him. These thoughts, these emotions, don't belong to him. He doesn't hate Harry, doesn't want to call him Potty in a biting, sarcastic tone and give him a good hex or two.



Harry is just Harry, and he is just Draco.



Harry is perfect, and he is blessed.



He really is—knows and knows he is because he likes Harry, loves and adores Harry for being perfect and his and returning his love as he knows Harry does.



But, Harry is laughing at him, cruelly and mockingly, along with the two Others—Ron and Hermione—and his burning and swirling anger, anger is back. It is a banked fire of ripples undulating across the expansive lake of his mind, rumbling and grumbling and smoking in his gut beneath the crashing waves and blanket-white fog and thoughts, emotions, that can'tcan'tcan't be his. His teeth are on edge, silver flash edge, and his hands are clenching and curling into themselves, like his body does when Harry has had a bad night and yells and shouts and beats him for things he can't ever remember doing. He must have though. He must, he must, because Harry would never punish him without reason. Never, never, never, Harry, Harry.



But, he is not stupid; he is not naïve.



He knows, knows these two Others are like the moving red box, c-contaminated-ated by the something that he unknowingly knows he doesn't like. They are already expecting of him—expecting of him to be a Malfoy when he is just Draco now. Demanding and asking things of him that he won'twon'twon't give because they are not Harry and he only gives things to Harry and he doesn't like things c-contaminated-ated-ated by the something, either.



"Stop being so childish, Ron. He's clearly not the same Draco we went to school with," Hermione is saying, saying and adjusting the papers in her arms before pinning Harry, Harry in a fierce gaze. "And you should be ashamed of yourself, Harry James Potter. You told me you were taking care of Draco, not leading him around and treating him like a pet!"



The rumbling and grumbling in his gut sparks, up through and through the slowly fading blanket-white fog, and he is stepping in front of his Harry. "You d-d-don't know what you're talking about, M-Mudblood," he sneers, before his eyes widen and his leash viciously jingjangle snaps and he wonders where that unfamiliarly familiar word came from.



Crimson splash—vivid splash—emerald eyes are blazing in his face, burning and swirling higher than his own anger, anger, and he shudders and averts his gaze. Too intense, too shrewd and knowing. But, a cold and cruel hand takes his chin in a bruising grip and forces, forces him to meet those crimson-splash, sticky-red eyes whilst bitter, stinging waves crash against the shores of thought and emotion. (Thought and emotion that can'tcan'tcan't be his because he loves Harry, he knows, he thinks.)



"Never say that again," his Harry says calmly, in a voice that cuts into his body with a silver-flash of menace.



His eyes burn and blur and swim—up, over, through the blanket-white fog that dwells in his mind—and he nods. Head bobbing, up and down and to and fro, like the skull and snake he had on his arm, his arm before it was removed in a silver-scrape, burning crimson-splash. "Y-yes, Harry. I p-promise. I'll n-never s-s-say it again, I-I promise."



Red-sticky eyes grow and swell and then he is being shoved away until he cannot be shoved away any more. "Good." And jingjangle is his leash on his body, collar twisting tight as the flannel Harry used to wash his face with after he'd cried.



He only ever wants to please his Harry—he does, he does, doesn't he?—and he knows he has been dismissed. It hurt, hurt, hurts. Deep inside where the crashing waves and the thinning, blanket-white fog are, where the rumbling and grumbling in his gut has turned into a crackling, burning fire that wavers in the wind of thoughts, emotions, that certainly can't be his, but he understands now. Understands now, now, now, why he might want to hate Harry, might want to call him Potty in a biting, sarcastic tone and give him a good hex or two.



But, he doesn't. He loves Harry, his Harry, he knows and knows and knows he does because Harry is perfect and his and loves him in return. He's certain of it, he is.



He clambers to his feet, head down, hunched and huddled shoulders to avoid looking at the stranger strange Others stepping over and past him without a thought to help. Embarrassed, he shuffles as far away from Harry as he can manage, to a wall—a wall he imagines is his roses, imagines, hopes and wishes, is his Harry. If it was Harry, he could crawl inside him as he wanted to do in the c-contaminated-ated moving red box. Maybeperhaps then he wouldn't be so embarrassed, be so confused and tangled and lost in thoughts, emotions, that can't belong to him. Can't be his as his as his, although he is beginning to understand, beginning to accept, why he might want them to be.



He stands in front of the wall—his roses, his Harry, Harry—for a long time. Years and years, as he clutches and hugs himself for reassurance against his confusion, against the thoughts, emotions, that are like the prickers of his roses—pestering, stabbing, lifting the blond-glittery fog from his mind in small increments that tease and taunt. (Like Harry teased and taunted him as he laughed, laughed, laughed.) Waves crash in his mind, louder and louder in their freedom, in his anger, anger that crackles and pops, and the mumble-whisper talk of Umbridge this and werewolf that. But, beneath all the sounds competing for his attention, howling and screaming and shrieking in his mind, he can hear the shuffling of papers and the delicate sounds of someone shifting in their chair.



Blink-blinking, he looks around for the source, the source of the incongruous sound because he's used to picking them out, oh yes, yes. Waiting, panting, sweat dripping and eyes blind and pain gripping white, he is used to picking them out for reassurance that he is not alone, for awareness of what is to come. He tilts his head and squints his eyes and looks around the corner of a doorway, closer, closer to his Harry than he should be. He knows, knows he has been dismissed-issed, should be as far away from Harry as he can be, but he is curious. And he likes picking out incongruous sounds, oh yes, yes, always and always.



A woman sits on a swivelly-swivelling chair at a small desk, dressed in a robe as fine as his finest as he wears right now.



In a hollow, whistling rush of air that immediately silences the clamouring noise in his mind, his world tunnels and collapses and centres on this woman and her finest as fine robe, her darkest of black hair, and her slightly pug nose. Forgotten memories leap and lurch forward, dancing and singing and calling to him under and in the shadows of his blanket-white fog. (Like the crystallised shards of his fear in a silver-scrape-scrape from beforebeforebefore.) "P-Pansy?" he whispers, eyes widening and a hand clenching around the door frame.



The woman—Pansy, Pansy, Pansy—looks up, surprise flashing across her face. Then her eyes narrow and her body stiffens. "Draco," she says, coldly and cruelly. (Takes his chin in a bruising grip.) She stands up and begins gathering the papers scattered about her desk with quick, efficient movements of her delicate, pale—pale as his—hands.



"P-Pansy … what are—you r-r-remember me, don't you?" He takes a small step forward, into the room with a leash that swells and grows tense, like the waves roaring and foaming in his silent, silent as silent mind.



Pansy snorts. "Of course I do, Draco." And the papers are gathered and armed in her arms as she walks around her cleared desk. (Will never be clean, be clear, be clean of the something.)



He frowns and frowns on the outside, on the outside where he isn't supposed to because Harry is talking to Ron and Hermione and the thoughts, emotions, that maybeperhaps belong to him are telling him it's okay to do so, and he believes them. He does, he does. "W-what are you doing here? I … I thought—"



"No," Pansy interrupts, in a low, lower than low voice that is almost a mumble-whisper. She glances around the room nervously. "I was under Imperius. They proved it." She pauses then, her eyes returning to him, settling their heavy weight on his silent as silent mind. "But … I haven't forgotten, Draco. I know what you said, what you did whilst he tortured you. Whilst they all tortured you."



He gasps, eyes widening, air clawing at his throat like his fountain that sputters and dribbles, like Harry wraps and wraps around his throat when he is angry.



Pansy, Pansy tosses her darkest of dark hair over her shoulder and her lip curls in disgust. (Unfamiliarly familiar, from a previous life, another plane that is differently the same.) "Oh, yes, I heard it all, you sick fuck," she hisses. "The way you craved his touch like a common whore, even though you knew the truth. You knew the truth and yet it didn't matter." She appears revolted, but it quickly fades away beneath a sneer as she looks him over with her gaze, her over-bright and searing eyes. "And now look at you. With a collar and a leash, eager to please your new Master."



His fire, that blazing and burning and crackling—anger, anger—is swirling still higher, pushing and lifting and sending his blond-glittery, blanket-white fog evaporating to new heights until only the faintest of wispy-wisps remains, and he is moving to confront Pansy with a confidence that he remembers. And he remembers it all now. Every detail is emblazoned on his mind in perfect clarity.



He knows of insanity and lies and manipulation.



He knows of torture and humiliation and rape.



All he did to us and Hogwarts and Dumbledore.



His leash is stretching taut, too tight and tight, but he could give a flying, flying, flying fuckfuckfuck, because his need for vengeance and retribution is blinding. Blinding as the sun on a hot, hot day, as Harry's emerald—lyinglying—eyes when they are in bed together. But, Harry will get his comeuppance, as well. Oh yes, indeed. Harry will get what belongs-longs to him, what he deserves for all he has done. (Laughing and laughing; the bottomest-bottom of a fountain that doesn't claw or dribble or sputter.) The manipulation and the drugging and the advantages he has taken. Harry will get what is his, that fucking b-bastard.



His collar pulls back on his throat, wheezing, chest heaving and clenching, curling fists, twisting tight as the flannel Harry had used with false empathy this morning, morning. (When he had cried and cried and thought he was insane—he is, he is—and embarrassed himself so horrifically in front of that b-b-bastard Harry.) He ignores the tension however, presses against and snaps it, firmly and firmly staggering closer to Pansy.



Pansy—that traitor, that liar, th-that b-bitch. Bitchbitchbitch.



And he knows his anger, anger is for himself and he is happy as he is furious. Happy, happy, because the fog has lifted, lifted, and his mind is his own, crashing against the shores of his existence. Anywhere and everywhere with his island surrounded by the sea and his soothing lullaby.



His leash is jingjangling loose now, fluid and mobile and slithering behind him as he strides forward. Closer and closer, smirking and smirking, twitching and twitching whilst Pansy backs away. Further and further—anger, anger—black eyes widening and glistening, swirling higher and higher as his fire until—



"Draco! What the hell do you think you're doing?"



And he stops. Freezes. Twitching and clenching and smirking.



He slowly turns around and around to face Harry, his Harry who is no longer his Harry because he knows, knows the Truth. The Truth of his necessity who is no longer a necessity because his mind is his own and own and crashing against the shores of his existence.



He stares at Harry, Harry, who appears surprised and uncertain, before he throws his head back and laughs and laughs and lets his fire bubble and burn, up and through and out of his gut to fly and evaporate through the air like the blanket-white fog he is finally rid of.