Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines

BLOOD DONOR

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

[ Chapter One ]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It felt as though he had ventured into hell.

Draco had never suffered this long without blood. It had been three days since he had made the Binding Pact with Potter, and he had last drunk Potter’s blood two days beforehand. In total, that amounted to five days without a drop of blood, because the Binding Pact ensured he could not drink from anyone but Potter, anymore. Five endless, agonizing days.

Draco could not muster the energy to even attempt the schoolwork resting on top the derelict desk in front of him. Every breath rasped painfully against his sensitive throat, an inescapable fire burning his lungs.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

The world had tinted a dull, bloody red. Pansy, Vince, Greg, everyone had ceased to exist for Draco. He no longer looked around Hogwarts and saw people; instead, his friends, his classmates, all reduced to crimson networks of hearts and veins, walking systems of pumping blood which endlessly tempted. Draco looked at his friends, and saw a glorious relief to his pain. He looked at his friends, and saw food.

“Mr. Malfoy!”

Merlin, he was so thirsty.

“Mr. Malfoy, would you please pay attention?”

Draco looked up from the surface of the wooden desk to see Professor McGonagall’s severe face staring down at him. His eyes immediately fixed on the vein in her neck, mesmerized by its slow pulse.

It took a great effort to free himself of the blood-induced trance. “I’m sorry, Professor, what was the question?” Each word scratched Draco’s dry throat painfully.

McGonagall sighed heavily. “I was merely asking you to demonstrate today’s lesson, Mr. Malfoy. However, I see that will be impossible.” She glanced meaningfully at the frog perched on Draco’s desk, which he was supposed to have transfigured into a pair of Potion’s gloves. The frog croaked pitifully, and half of the class, the Gryffindor portion, laughed unkindly. Draco did not notice. He was trying to ignore McGonagall’s proximity, struggling to disregard the enticingly steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

“I didn’t do the assignment, Professor,” Draco muttered finally, each syllable a struggle to pronounce through the red haze obscuring all his rational thoughts.

“I can see that, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall’s terse voice stated coolly. “Five points from Slytherin for your lack of preparation.” The Gryffindor’s cheered; obviously feeling slightly vindicated for the massive amounts of points Snape had deducted four days prior from Gryffindor. Draco barely noticed, though the Slytherins around him glowered darkly, whispering plans of revenge. McGonagall strode to the front of the class amidst the disturbance. “Failure to do the work in this class will result in significantly lowered grades. You should all…”

Draco did not hear the rest of McGonagall’s lecture, too attuned to the siren call of the blood all around him…

--

Harry stared across the Transfiguration class at Malfoy, who was gazing listlessly at his desk.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Ron whispered to Harry in evident admiration, leaning across the divide between their desks once he had assured that McGonagall’s attention was focused elsewhere. Ron had been incredibly upset following Snape’s removal of what totaled over 150 points from Gryffindor after Harry’s fistfight with Malfoy. It had not stopped Ron, however, from accounting his favorite memories of the fight, namely, when Harry broke Malfoy’s nose, in violent detail that same night.

“I don’t know, Ron,” Hermione responded thoughtfully, furrowing her brow as she craned her neck to look at the Slytherin in question. “Malfoy seems almost ill. Don’t you think so, Harry?”

Harry nodded slowly, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt clamoring that Malfoy’s poor condition was his fault, as result of the Binding Pact he had forced Malfoy into. “Hermione’s right. Malfoy looks really unhealthy.”

Ron sputtered with indignation, clearly having expected Harry to support his side. “But, Harry…It’s the least that git deserves for all the shite he’s put us through…” Hermione frantically tried to catch Ron’s attention, but the red-haired boy noticed nothing until Professor McGonagall loomed over him. Hermione sighed heavily.

“Err…hello, Professor,” Ron grinned weakly.

“I will not tolerate that type of language in my classroom, Mr. Weasley. Now, let’s see your transfiguration.” Ron stared at McGonagall in horror, as Dean and Seamus, sitting behind him, tried to stifle their laughter. Ron had spent the previous evening playing Gobstones for a five Galleon, eleven Sickle pool, as Hermione urged him to study. McGonagall gazed imperiously down her nose at Ron. “Well, go on, Mr. Weasley, we haven’t all day.”

Ron raised his wand slowly, gazing anxiously around the classroom for help, instead meeting only gleeful stares. “Err…” Ron pushed up his sleeves, and closed his eyes, mouth moving as though praying for divine assistance. Finally, he shrugged hopelessly, and poked the frog with his wand, hastily muttering a garbled spell. A flash of bright blue light, and the frog disappeared. In its place rested a three fingered glove, with two bulbous yellow eyes resting on the first finger. Ribbit – a red tongue darted out of the glove.

The class erupted into laughter. Harry swore he saw McGonagall’s lips twitch slightly, before she said, “Perhaps more study time is necessary, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron nodded unenthusiastically, the tips of his ears flushed red. The bell rang loudly. McGonagall turned to face the rest of the class. “I want two rolls of parchment on how exactly your spell went wrong, due in for next class.”

Sensing the dismissal, the class exploded into a flurry of motion. A mass exodus for the door began, composed of a crowd of cheerfully talking students rushing for their next class. As he packed his quill and ink away, out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed Malfoy had remained seated, despite the clamor. Harry paused in his movements, subtly examining Malfoy for the first time.

The Slytherin boy sat in the darkest corner of the classroom, his hands clenched into fists under the desk. Malfoy, always pale, now had an almost ghostly pallor, and his normally mercurial eyes were dull, unseeing. Once again, Harry felt inexplicably accountable, but shoved the thought aside. Whatever was wrong with Malfoy, had nothing to do with him.

And if it did, Harry should not care, anyway.

--

“Draco, class is over,” Pansy leaned over Draco concernedly, touching his shoulder gently. Draco jerked back with a hiss, startled at the unexpected heat of her skin, an almost unbearable temptation to his bloodlust.

Pansy glared at Draco, misinterpreting his reaction. “Fine,” she said stiffly, stalking off, her long dark hair swinging wildly with her haste. Draco watched her go in distress.

“Pansy, wait!” he demanded, standing up fluidly. Pansy turned around, her green and silver tie uncharacteristically askew. Her darkly rimmed eyes examined him shrewdly, their glare diminishing slightly as she evaluated his unhealthy appearance.

She strode back to Draco, pausing just in front of him. Draco tensed slightly; Pansy was known to have a nasty taste for revenge when she felt slighted. “You’re lucky I know you so well, Draco,” her voice still stony as she smoothed a wrinkle from his white dress shirt. Draco, though, could hear the slight warmth infusing her tone, and mentally thanked whatever fates the universe held. Outwardly, though, he merely nodded slightly.

Draco picked up his schoolbag, and Pansy possessively grabbed his arm. The two friends leaned heavily on each other for one brief instant, before their backs straightened and their faces turned expressionless as they strode out the classroom door, the epitome of Slytherin pride.

--

The next day, owls fluttered over the Great Hall, swooping down to deposit letters. A barn owl dropped a rolled up newspaper next to Hermione with a loud thunk. Hermione absently unrolled the paper, and then gasped as she saw the headline.

“Oh no…” Hermione breathed, staring down at the Daily Prophet in horror. Ron, Harry and Ginny crowded around her, their breakfasts forgotten. Around the Great Hall, the clamor of students quieted abruptly as everyone noticed the glaring headline of the newspaper.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, dropping the piece of toast he had been holding.

VAMPIRES ATTACK MUGGLE VILLAGE! DARK MARK LEFT OVER THE SCENE. The first headline read. Underneath it, in marginally smaller letters:No Survivors Left Alive.

VAMPIRES ATTACK MUGGLE VILLAGE! DARK MARK LEFT OVER THE SCENE.

No Survivors Left Alive

By Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.

Both the wizarding and muggle worlds were left in a state of panic today. Last night, vampires, fighting alongside unidentified figures in dark robes and masks, attacked Ramsbury, a muggle village in West Berkshire. The carnage was horrific. The muggles had been caught unaware, without adequate knowledge of how to defend against vampires. The bodies were ripped into pieces, although as of yet, Aurors have yet to find a single body drained of blood, a trademark of all vampire attacks.

Although this attack initially appeared to be caused by common bloodlust, it now appears that the attack was in fact a systematic, planned assault on the muggles of Ramsbury. Even more shocking than the desecrated bodies, though, was the glowing green Dark Mark which had been cast multiple times over the village.

One Auror who examined the scene, but wished to remain anonymous because of reigning political opinion, said, “I have to say, this looks an awful lot like You-Know-Who’s old attacks.” When asked, however, Rufus Scrimgeor, the newly instated Minister of Magic, said merely, “England’s Aurors are the best. I have complete confidence in their ability to handle whatever caused the attack.”

Readers must remember that when You-Know-Who last rose to power, he created an army composed of Dark creatures, including vampires and werewolves. Undoubtedly, vampires and wizards were responsible for the attack. The real question is, has You-Know-Who returned, and was he behind the attacks? Although not officially confirmed by the Ministry, just last year, Cornellius Fudge resigned as Minister of Magic amid wide-spread rumors of You-Know-Who’s break-in at the Ministry.

This Daily Prophet reporter shudders to think of the consequences if You-Know-Who has truly returned, and has indeed resumed his war on the wizarding world. You-Know-Who is the most infamous Dark Wizard in the long succession of Dark wizards and witches which have emerged from Slytherin House.

The attack follows exactly two weeks after the attack on Haverhill, the last in a series of grisly attacks on muggle villages which have occurred with alarming regularity every fortnight since July 1. Dark creatures, alongside hooded wizards, committed all the attacks, and You-Know-Who’s Dark Mark was seen above every village. Readers are warned to establish wards around their homes, and to alert the Aurors if they see anything alarming. All known humanoid Dark creatures are being brought in for questioning by the Ministry.

On how to defend against vampires, see page five. On how to defend against werewolves, see page five. On how to defend against…

Hermione crumpled the newspaper violently onto the table, her expression bleak. “That’s horrible,” she whispered. Ron hugged her gently, and Hermione clung tightly to the red-head.

Harry looked down slightly to see Ginny staring at the headline of the paper. “This, this,” she gestured wildly at the paper, where a picture of the Dark Mark glowed eerily over a pile of bodies, “This is awful,” she finished.

Harry clasped her to him with one arm. “Don’t worry, Ginny,” he said awkwardly, “It’ll all be fine.” Harry cursed his clumsy tongue, wishing he could comfort Ginny better. Sensing his helplessness, Dean Thomas came over, prying Ginny away from Harry gently.

“Ginny,” he said, his voice calm, “why don’t you come with me?” Harry glanced at Dean gratefully, but the other boy was too busy murmuring reassurances in Ginny’s ear to notice. With a slight pang of jealousy, Harry noticed the desperation Ginny gripped Dean with, as though Dean was the only point of stability in a wildly oscillitating world. Harry deliberately ignored the feeling, having silently given Dean and Ginny his blessing at the beginning of Sixth Year. He and Ginny had never been suited to a relationship with each other, anyway.

Harry turned back to Ron and Hermione, who were still grasping each other’s hands tightly. “Its definitely Voldemort,” Harry whispered, answering their unspoken question. “My scar kept prickling all last night. Whatever happened, Voldemort was really happy.”

“Those poor muggles,” Hermione said sadly, gazing at the newspaper. “I have to wonder, though, with the attacks occurring every fortnight, it almost seems like Voldemort –“Ron flinched slightly, Hermione ignored him to continue, “like Voldemort is planning something…” She trailed off, a pensive expression on her face.

In the quiet, Harry had time to listen to the voices in the Great Hall, who whispered the news with a hint of panic in their voices.

“…vampires again, last week it was werewolves…”

“…no survivors…”

“…sounds like Death Eaters…working with vampires…”

“…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s Death Eaters…Slytherins, most of them…”

“…should toss out the Slytherins…sodding Death Eater’s in-training, toss them out before they open Hogwarts to You-Know-Who…” The murmured diatribes were accompanied by ferocious glares toward the Slytherin table.

“Will you look at those fucking Slytherins,” Ron fumed unexpectedly, pulling out his wand as he glared at the Slytherin table.

“Ron, stop it,” Hermione said softly, as other people turned to look at Ron. The red-haired boy, though, was angered beyond reason.

“Just look at them, though, Hermione! They’re not even bothered by this,” he shook the newspaper loudly. The Slytherins did not noticeably react. Some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, however, nodded emphatically with Ron’s words. Harry stepped between Ron’s view of the Slytherin table, placing his hands on the other boy’s shoulders.

“Listen to me, Ron,” Harry stated firmly, “You have to relax. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Why don’t we go back to the Common Room?” Hermione suggested, pulling Ron slightly to the door. Ron sputtered loudly.

“Now is not the time,” Harry interrupted Ron, helping Hermione guide the other boy out the Great Hall with the least amount of commotion possible. As they reached the doors, Harry looked back at the Slytherin table, an unmoving sea of green and silver.

All the Slytherin students, even the youngest First Years, sat quietly, seemingly unaffected by the upheaval in the Great Hall. Studying them further, though, Harry abruptly realized the abnormality of their expressionless faces and too stiff posture, a caricature of apathy. It almost seemed as though the entire Slytherin table was tensed for a fight. Indeed, Harry saw that Crabbe and Goyle both gripped their wands tightly in meaty hands. Two seats away, the cords in Draco Malfoy’s neck stood out starkly, the blonde boy’s teeth clenched from the tension. Pansy Parkinson, sitting next to Malfoy, noticed Harry’s interest, and subtly gestured with her wand, only the tip emerging from her robes, thereby indicating that he should continue with his exit. Harry left the Great Hall.

--

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Pansy remarked, her wand, though hidden, still pointed at the other Houses in the Great Hall. Draco nodded, slowly releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Potter’s reaction was strange,” Pansy continued. Draco noticed her dark eyes shrewdly studying his face, searching for a reaction. He deliberately kept his expression blank, as he motioned subtly for the Slytherin table to begin departing the Great Hall. It was well-done; the exit would appear very normal to a casual observer. Only the Slytherins knew the departure was planned. The First and Second Years left first, followed progressively by bunches of the progressively older students, each group of younger Slytherins accompanied by at least one Sixth or Seventh Year Slytherin.

Finally, all the Slytherins arrived back in the dungeons, clustered in the Slytherin Common Room, the door locked and warded tightly with a convoluted password. Draco gestured for the other Sixth and Seventh Year students to follow him into the Green Room. The Green Room, a type of smaller Common Room, was only used for emergency meetings between Slytherin students.

Draco addressed the group, sitting at attention on the green patterned furniture.

“It’s not Saint Potter’s reaction I’m worried about,” Draco glanced meaningfully at Pansy. “If enough of the students in the other Houses have a reaction like Weasley’s, any more attacks will be vindicated against our Slytherins.”

The Slytherins paled. They all understood the severity of the situation. When the Dark Lord had last attacked, many such accidents had been perpetrated against the Slytherins by the other Houses. Some had been of a life-threatening seriousness. Draco acknowledged their worry, his face grim.

Pansy spoke determinedly, “We’ll change the password every day, twice a day, if need be. We need additional wards on the door, too.”

Draco glanced down the rows of students, until, finally, “Zabini!” Blaise Zabini stood gracefully, and walked over to Draco’s location in the middle of the Green Room. “Get Nott and Greengrass to make some additional safety measures to protect the younger students. I don’t want any of them venturing out alone.”

Blaise’s exotic features were thoughtful. “We should reinstitute roll call at night,” he suggested softly, “if the attacks continue.”

Everyone agreed, their expressions serious, and Blaise left to conference with Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. Bang! A loud knock sounded at the door, and a familiar voice called out acidly, “Open the door!”

The students sighed in relief, although they did not relax entirely until a green and silver snake, made entirely of glowing sparks, slithered under the door, disabling the wards. Severus Snape, dressed entirely in black, strode over the threshold, through the special entrance the Slytherins had forged for him into the wards. The wards, an obscure derivative of the Age Line, only responded to Snape’s personal magical signature, so not even Polyjuice could fool the powerful wards.

“Hello, sir,” Draco welcomed Severus calmly, despite the increasing temptation of the blood around him. One did not show any weakness in Slytherin House.

Severus did not respond, instead examining the array of wards Draco’s Slytherins had erected with evident pride.

“I’m glad you all have managed to retain your wits, at least, unlike those other idiots in the Great Hall.” Severus’s voice dripped acidic disdain.

“How are they responding to the news, sir?” Draco asked.

“Luckily, Weasley’s fool reaction was the worst,” some of the tension noticeable dissipated from the room, “But I am concerned should these attacks continue. I trust you have barricaded yourselves so cleverly into this room to discuss the matter?”

Quickly, Draco outlined their plans. Severus’s black eyes glittered strangely after he finished. “I will frequently be indisposed this year,” Severus hinted delicately. The Slytherins looked at him in alarm, knowing he meant the Dark Lord. “Whatever your alliances, do not do anything to endanger Slytherin House,” he commanded severely, a promise of pain for anyone who defied his edict. Severus glowered at them all a moment longer, before he swept out of the room with a terse nod.

Pansy and her Sixth Year girls had distinctly shiny eyes, but quickly, their faces resumed a cunning expression as they discussed the minutia involved in some of the plans.

They took lunch and dinner inside Slytherin House, refusing to allow the younger students outside. It was a Saturday; their absence would not be noticed.

Finally, around eleven at night, the older Slytherins departed for bed, momentarily satisfied with their plans. Draco escorted Pansy to her room, walking inside. Inside the room, Pansy’s smell was almost addictively sweet. Draco had forgotten his thirst in the panic of the morning, but now, facing Pansy alone, away from any onlookers, his thirst came rushing back with a painful intensity.

Draco forced himself to focus. “Keep an eye on Nott,” Draco said tiredly, hunger and bloodlust sapping his energy. “His father’s Inner Circle. If anything happens, I want to know where his loyalties will lie.”

“And what about your loyalties, Draco darling?” Pansy asked, stretching across her bed, hair and clothes mussed, shirt unbuttoned past any illusion of ladylike decorum.

Draco smiled at her deliberately obvious ploy, keeping his answer as vague as possible as he leaned over, whispering into her hair, “My loyalties are my own.”

Pansy pushed him off the bed in mock irritation, and Draco realized in alarm that his fangs had extended, their sharp edges cutting his lip like a razor. Suddenly, Draco did not want to leave the room. All of his attention focused on the slow pulse beating in Pansy’s neck.

The shadows in the room appeared to shift, collapse, until it appeared to Draco that a spotlight shone on Pansy’s neck. Every movement attracted, Draco watched her heart pulse, her breathing quicken. In the back of his mind, Draco knew he scared Pansy, half hidden in the shadows, his fangs extended, but he was riveted to the spot, hypnotized by the blood flowing just under Pansy’s fragile skin.

Bang! The door slammed shut in front of him, the noise breaking Draco’s trance. He had to leave the room, before Pansy noticed… Quickly, he tried to spell the door open with a hastily muttered, ”Alohomora!” to no avail.

“Damn it, Pansy, let me out!” Draco’s tone dropped dangerously.

“Turn around, and give me your wand,” Pansy commanded, her voice steady. Draco felt a brief flash of pride for his best friend, but that was quickly quenched by his rapidly mounting apprehension. Vampires were not beloved in the wizarding world, especially among the pureblood community, where they were looked upon as disgraces, family abominations, and killed to preserve the purity of the bloodline.

Draco placed his wand on the ground, and turned slowly to look at Pansy, knowing all too well what Pansy saw. Monster. Freak. The pale skin, supernatural grace, and, even more damning, the pointed fangs revealed when he spoke.

“Relax, Pansy,” Draco said, and Pansy, standing there only in her crumpled white dress shirt, gasped as his fangs were exposed. Draco braced himself for the first curse.

“This…this is why you’ve been acting so strangely. Avoiding the sunlight, not eating…” Pansy’s cold voice was Draco’s judge, jury, and executioner. This hatred was how the rest of the wizarding world would react to him. He would be doubly hunted, both for being a Malfoy, and for being a vampire. Worse, he could not claim credit for either of those scandals. Potter had done him a service by denying him blood. Soon, Draco would starve, die, be freed of this disgrace, this disgust.

“You’re a vampire.” Draco nodded, his hands still raised non-threateningly in the air. Pansy had yet to lower her wand.

“Pansy…” Draco could not bear to lose Pansy’s friendship.

“When did you last drink?” Pansy asked, her tone harsh.

“Six days ago,” Draco replied, voice heavy with regret. Just saying the words made him distinctly aware of the blood flowing through Pansy’s veins.

Pansy noticed his look, and backed away slowly, until her back pressed up against the wall. Draco’s hyper-aware senses could hear the rough stone wall grinding against Pansy’s shoulder blades. “Do you have a blood donor?” Pansy’s question surprised Draco. He had been expecting a well-aimed curse.

“Yes,” Draco answered. Fucking Potter and his fucking Binding Pact. Draco did not like being solely dependent on Potter’s meager generosity. If Draco had been drinking blood every two days, like he should have been, Pansy would have never been the wiser.

Pansy studied Draco a while longer, her cool gaze betraying nothing of her thoughts. Finally, she lowered her wand. “One chance, Draco,” Pansy declared. Draco’s eyes darted once again to her neck. Pansy saw his look, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t touch me until you’ve fed, either,” Pansy snapped.

Draco nodded. “Fair enough,” he whispered. Draco moved to leave, picking his wand back up off the floor. He still could not open the door, however. He turned back to Pansy, to find her scrutinizing his appearance.

“You look awful,” she said finally. “Your hair’s a mess.” Reflexively, Draco hands shot to his head, and he winced as his fingers tugged at large tangles. He could not actually remember the last time he had combed his hair. The last week had deteriorated into a crimson blur of pain and thirst.

Draco looked back at Pansy, still carding his fingers through his matted hair in an undoubtedly futile effort to restore order. He didn’t have the energy to attempt a spell at the moment.

Surprisingly, Pansy took pity on him, casting a small grooming charm. Instantly, Draco’s hair was sleek and smooth to the touch.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Draco demanded.

To his utter shock, Pansy laughed. “But you looked so appalling disheveled, darling. Sort of like a blonde Potter,” Pansy grinned mischievously. “Plus, I never get the chance to out-dress Draco Malfoy.”

Draco glared playfully at Pansy, who never stopped smirking.

--

Harry’s dreams always contained death. Screams, blood, torture, death; an endless litany of pain.

It was not the clean green light of the Killing Curse, either. Instead, Harry was forced to witness Voldemort’s victims suffer as their skin was slowly peeled off, their eyes gouged out, all manner of sadistic torments. Worse, Voldemort and his Death Eaters always laughed. Voldemort, in particular, found the torture sessions amusing, as he alone was aware of Harry’s presence, taunting Harry as he callously arranged yet another person’s violent death.

“Please, spare my children!” The woman kneeling in front of Voldemort begged, her children sobbing behind her. Blood was splattered in a perverse crimson pattern across the wall by the woman.

Harry, trapped inside Voldemort, laughed mercilessly at her plea, a cruel parody of humor. “Having fun yet, Harry?” Harry did not reply.

Voldemort gestured to one of the hooded men arrayed behind him. “I have a treat for you, Fenrir,” Voldemort hissed.

Fenrir Greyback strode forward, pulling off his hood. The nails on his hands were long, ragged, dried blood coloring them a filthy red. Harry broke his silence. “Don’t do this,” Harry demanded.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Greyback grinned, showing yellowed teeth, all filed to sharp points. “You know how much I love children,” the werewolf rasped, pulling the two children, one boy, one girl, roughly to their feet, stroking one jagged nail down their pale faces, leaving trails of blood.

“Don’t let him do this,” Harry mentally pleaded with Voldemort, ignoring how much doing so hurt his pride.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Voldemort replied, his voice amused, knowing Harry could do nothing to stop what was happening. “You’d do well to remember that at night, Harry, you’re in my world.” Greyback dragged the children away, their cries filling the air.

“No!” Harry yelled, desperate to stop the pain, the death, just once, only once.

Voldemort raised his wand on the children’s mother once more. “Crucio!” The woman screamed as she descended into madness, then death... And, through it all, Harry could do nothing.

--

Harry woke with a start, sweat pouring down his face. It felt like a burning poker had been pressed against his scar, searing it with an almost unbearable pain. Harry reached up, gingerly touching his forehead, his fingers coming away sticky with blood.

Even now, safe in Gryffindor Tower, Harry could hear the screams of the woman and her children repeating louder and louder, intolerable in the small enclosed bed.

Harry ripped the red and gold hangings surrounding his bed open, tumbling out of his bed, onto the ground. In the next bed, Ron’s snores sputtered, before continuing uninterrupted, louder than before. Harry looked at his own bed, but was loath to climb back inside. He knew Voldemort was awaiting him should he fall asleep again tonight.

Harry walked over the window, gazing at the moon shining outside. He was getting less and less sleep every night as Voldemort’s attacks became more and more frequent.

Experimentally, Harry fingered the smooth metal of the window latch, opening the window quietly, sending a shock of cold air into the room.

Quickly, Harry changed into his old Quidditch practice clothes, covering them with a warm coat. He grabbed his Firebolt as he headed back to the open window. Harry squeezed inside the cramped window space, his broom scraping against the stone. Harry hesitated, looking back at the closed bed hangings which concealed his slumbering roommates.

Making up his mind, Harry jumped, flinging himself recklessly into the cold night air, heedless of the deadly drop below him. The wind whistled in his ears as he fell, managing to mount his broom scarcely two meters above the ground. Harry hovered for a moment over the frost covered ground, chest heaving as adrenaline pumped through his body. Far above him, Harry could just see the window to his dormitory, a vague black spot barely distinguishable from the night’s darkness.

Suddenly, Harry was filled with the urge to move, and accelerated quickly, flying over the silent Hogwarts grounds, the cold nighttime air and the sheer joy of flying, free of any rules or boundaries, finally driving the nightmarish visions from his mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*