Malfoy’s smile flickered for a moment at Harry’s blatant uncertainty. What Harry wanted to say, his brain being temporarily out of order, was, ‘yes, of course, I’d love to’. However, something in the back of his brain – the Gryffindor bit – urged him to refuse and leave. This was not an intelligent decision, sitting alone in the Room of Requirement with Malfoy, revealing emotions he had not even known he possessed.

‘Erm – I mean …’

What would Snape say? Harry found his stomach sinking, suddenly full of lead. Snape would kill him, wouldn’t he? But, how could he blow his cover now? What if he said no and Malfoy decided he was of no use to anyone, and decided to dispose of him? Wasn’t he already going to be involved with Death Eaters, anyway? Snape had more than hinted Harry would be expected to meet Voldemort. Surely Dumbledore was aware of everything that went on? Had he already known of Malfoy’s plan? And if he did not, Harry could always tell him.

After all, how much damage could a silly little poison do?

‘OK. OK, I’ll do it.’

Malfoy’s smirk was as broad as the Nile. ‘I knew you would,’ he said, standing. Harry did not move from where he was sitting in the armchair, almost afraid he would break some sort of protocol he was not aware of. ‘I’ll speak to you soon about getting everything in order. Until then –’ Malfoy’s cold eyes swept the room, settling at last on Harry’s own tired, grey ones. ‘Tell no one of our little chat, here, lest I should have to remind you just what sort of power my father really has.’

With those friendly parting words, the boy strode out, leaving Harry to sit behind in his armchair and contemplate his life. What was he doing to himself, he wondered, by agreeing to all of these plots?

Surely nothing horrible could come of it. Surely.

The following Saturday dawned cold and grey. Girls complained in the common rooms about the moisture in the air, furtively stroking their hair in attempts to flatten any nonexistent strays. Harry, loath as he was to admit it, could feel winter coming on as though a block of ice had settled in his stomach. Winter would bring Christmas, and there was no doubt in his mind that Christmas was going to lack as much holiday cheer as Snape could possibly manage. He fell into a gloomy routine of class work, revisions, long hours in the library, few hours of sleep, Remedial Potions lessons, and Occlumency with Snape.

Despite dire threats from the man, Harry had found himself purposely skiving these lessons. They were nearing Harry’s first year of Hogwarts memories in Occlumency lessons; he was not horribly willing to share with Snape the confusion of not knowing why the Potions professor had loathed him upon arrival.

They had (somehow) managed to skip through the Dursleys fairly quickly, and moved on to matters like primary school and nosy neighbours. Snape, as far as Harry was concerned, already knew more about the Dursleys hating him than anyone else had a right to know. And yet, there was never a single change in his demeanour. Not once did he hint at pitying Harry, or sympathising, or any of the reactions the boy had planned. There was no dramatic apology, no theatrical tears or pleas for forgiveness. There was, in short, absolutely nothing but the same deep, angry glare and a sharp tongue that was bound to sever the boy’s ego one day soon.

And so it was that Harry found himself, two weeks until the Christmas holidays, hiding out in his bed with the hangings pulled shut and a silencing charm stretching from his four-poster to the door of the dormitory. Needless to say, Harry’s dorm mates were not overly pleased, but they tolerated him for the mere fact that they were in constant fear of Professor Snape.

‘I know you’re hiding in there, Domingart.’

Not him again.

‘Hell – the whole school knows you’re hiding here,’ Malfoy drawled. He must have released the Silencing Charms on his way in Harry thought, burrowing deep under his thick blanket.

‘Sod off, Malfoy,’ he said hoarsely from underneath the pillow. ‘I’m not in the mood to listen to more love stories about your bloody father.’

Malfoy’s laughter was high, almost forced. He had long since ceased to surprise Harry with his mood swings, which could be as unpredictable as Voldemort himself.

‘Don’t be a twat, Domingart. I need to talk to you, about Quidditch.’

Quidditch? What the hell did Quidditch have to do with anything? Harry puzzled over this for a minute, reacting just too late as Malfoy wrenched open the hangings, his pale face practically glowing in the dim light of his wand.

‘You’re a bit intellectually challenged, I’d say, but I’ve still got uses for you. We need to speak in the Room, now,’ he hissed. It was odd, Harry mused, how this boy - who was not much older than he was himself - managed to sound so authoritative and charismatic all at once. He snorted. Lucius Malfoy probably had his son training in the art of Manipulation from infancy.

‘All right,’ agreed Harry, albeit reluctantly. He had been hoping to avoid Malfoy for at least another day or so. ‘Just as long as I haven’t got to listen to “One-Hundred Reasons Why Your Father is More Powerful than Mine.”’

Chuckling darkly, Malfoy pulled him from the four-poster with a gentle tug of his fist. ‘We’ve much more important matters to discuss at the moment, Domingart, but I appreciate you reminding me. I had been planning that particular lecture for Wednesday, but it looks as though I will be indisposed, so …’

He trailed off, leaving Harry to ponder just where the boy would be on Wednesday. Perhaps he could nick his father’s cloak back from Snape, just for a bit?

‘And nothing about how loyal he is to the Dark Lord, or how rich and influential he is, or how well his robes match the grey hairs on his ars – ’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Draco. And he did.

The corridors were oddly silent as Draco and Harry crept down to the Room of Requirement. Although, supposed Harry, it could well be because of the new eight o’clock curfew for all students, and the fact that both him and Draco were currently breaking it. He found himself shuddering involuntarily, trying to ignore Draco’s amused sniggers as they stumbled their way to the door. What would Snape do to him if he were to be caught out tonight?

The Potions Master was already furious after Harry had skipped four Occlummency lessons with him, not to mention three Remedial Potions lessons and a meeting about the Christmas holidays. He was no longer quite certain why he was skiving these things, except that they had something to do with Draco’s poison, and his promising to brew one. Oh yeah – and the fact that Snape happened to be the best Legilimens he knew of.

‘Will you be with Severus over the holiday?’ Malfoy questioned sharply, almost as soon as they had settled themselves. Harry nodded, a sinking feeling in his stomach informing him that this was, yet again, a horrible mistake on his part. ‘Have you got an owl? A proper one?’

Harry immediately thought of Hedwig, but the pang in his heart was too great. She had been his only friend over countless nights at the Dursleys, had tolerated and forgiven his short temper, had always been faithful. Where was she now? He wondered.

‘Sometime over the Christmas holiday, Severus will bring you to my manor. He always comes on Boxing Day, and sometimes Christmas itself. We’ve got a massive party that lasts for days. Of course,’ he smirked, pleased about something, ‘as a lowly apprentice, you will remain in the kitchens with the House Elves and the other servants.’

Harry could feel his face burning red, and he had the distinct desire to pummel Malfoy into a pulp, which he only just managed to curb as the boy continued snottily.

‘I’ll meet you in the kitchen to collect my potion on Christmas Eve. If you haven’t got it ready then, you needn’t even bother. I’ll have your master (he took particular delight in this word, Harry could tell) know that you have been misbehaving on my property. Malfoys do not tolerate barbarianism within the perimeter of our manor, Domingart.’

Despite having listened to every word, Harry had grasped about as much of the concept of this as he had of the Goblin Rebellions of 1824. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head before Malfoy started asking questions.

‘Good to see you comprehend,’ said the boy unpleasantly, offering his most sickly sweet smile. ‘You may leave me now.’

Pointedly ignoring the dismissal, Harry stood. Tomorrow he would have to face Snape again; he could not continue avoiding lessons, especially not with the coming holiday.

O O O

‘Your parrots should now be – ah, Mr Domingart; how kind of you to join us.’

Bowing his head, Harry sat quickly at the only empty table in sight – a small one with one chair and a scruffy-looking bird that squawked at him as he opened his bag.

McGonigall stood near his table, wand grasped firmly in aged hands, as she admonished, ‘I do not tolerate tardiness in my classroom, Mr Domingart. You have been here long enough, I should think, to be well aware of the rules.’ Harry bowed his head, hoping she would leave it at that. She did not. ‘As such, I think it would be appropriate that I took five points from Slytherin. You may rest assured that your Head of House will be aware.’

Behind him, Ron sniggered and muttered something to Seamus. Harry, in turn, ignored them completely. He was past taking Ron personally anymore. It was difficult, of course, them not being friends. It was difficult to finally realise how Ron would have been had Harry been sorted into Slytherin that first year. He had never before seen his friends in such a light. They were the good side; they only retaliated when the Slytherins were nasty to them first.

He ignored them now and settled for reading his set book, but the words blurred on the page. Ron was really a bastard. He could handle that. Harry scrubbed at his eyes furiously, willing the colours not to bleed together, the fuzzy black squiggles to sharpen again and form words.

Somewhere very far away, Ron’s voice hissed, ‘Death Eater’; Harry read on.

O O O

If there was one thing Harry prided himself upon, it was his ability (or so he thought) to accept criticism amazingly well.

Severus Snape did not give criticism.

From the moment he stepped into the cold dungeon office, Harry knew it was going to be a very long night indeed. Snape was sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, somehow managing to look both pensive and incredibly angry all at the same time.

‘Sit,’ he said softly, and Harry had the horribly sinking feeling in his stomach. He would rather have taken a plunge from the Astronomy Tower than sit down in the office, with angry Snape giving him a nasty glare. ‘Six feet,’ Snape cleared his throat, standing. He towered over the desk, an imposing black figure not unlike the villains in Dudley’s old comic books.

‘Come again?’

Thoroughly confused, Harry raised his eyebrows. Six feet? Was he expected to grow six feet? Was that the length of the cane Snape was planning on beating him with?

‘Six feet, boy. I expect you to have it by tomorrow’s lesson, which you will most certainly not be skipping. I want six feet on just why it was you found it so important to miss both my classes and our private lessons.’ The man fixed him with a stern glare, giving Harry the feeling that he was under a microscope. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Fine.’

‘And all of the work you have missed in my class, I will be expecting you to have made it up by this Thursday.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Snape gave the boy an odd look, as though surprised by the sudden change of tone. If truth be told, Harry had not the energy for anger and defiance. He was worn out with worry about Malfoy and Ron and Hermione, not to mention the ever-present threat of Voldemort.

‘Let’s see if you have at least given time to practise….’

Of course, he had never once thought of practising. Snape would know. Then again, Harry reasoned, how could it get worse?

‘Legilimens!’

It was nought but a whisper, yet Harry had grown conditioned to fear the word. IT had never brought anything pleasant. And now … now it intensified tenfold. If Snape saw his meeting with Malfoy….

Ron and Seamus were laughing; Harry tried to ignore them.

The words blurred together on the page, the colours bled.

And Voldemort was laughing as he tortured Harry, the Death Eaters cheering on as if it was nothing more than a football match.

Malfoy had that awful, knowing smirk – almost like he knew exactly what you were thinking, and it amused him….

No, insisted a small voice in the back of his head. No. You can fight this, Potter.

‘Can’t,’ Harry replied, as though the voice was thick in the head.

You can. You’re just lazy.

‘I can’t.’

You can, and you will. Snape will not see what happened with Malfoy. Snape cannot see.

And then, something odd happened. It came quickly – this new, empty feeling. His head felt pleasantly airy, as though he had just inhaled large quantities of helium. Harry felt like he was floating. It was clear to him that he had to stay this way forever. No thoughts, no anger, no pain, no joy. Just empty. Empty like air and clouds and gently flowing water.

‘Well.’

If anything, Snape looked almost murderous, but Harry found that he could hardly contain the goofy grin threatening to take over his face. He’d actually done it! He’d done Occlumency, and even Snape couldn’t possibly say he had been shirking his work this time!

‘What was your last Potions grade, boy?’

The sharp question was hardly the reply Harry had expected. ‘Er, a D, sir,’ he said uncertainly, staring at his shoes. Snape nodded, seemed satisfied, and strode quickly toward his desk.

‘Good, good. We’re finished for the night. You were – you were not completely pathetic tonight.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

Snape stared at the wall for a moment, his lips moving a slow and steady rhythm that looked almost like poetry, yet no sound came out.

‘That was not a compliment, Padriac.’

‘Goodnight, professor.’

As Harry left Snape’s office the corridors had never seemed so bright before. The torches gleamed gold, their brackets silver. All he could think about was the fact that he had performed Occlumency tonight for the very first time, and even Snape had nothing horrible to say about it.

He stumbled in a daze to the Slytherin common room, ignoring Malfoy’s slanted attempts to catch his eye, avoiding two second years that wanted to get his opinion on their Potions essays, nodding politely to Zachary, who look thrilled, before finally settling in his bed – fully clothed and beginning to feel the slow effects of drowsiness on his mind and body.

‘HARRY!’

Someone was calling, but the room was empty and black. There was not a soul in sight.

‘HARRY!’

A prickle at the back of his neck told him to turn around. He followed it; Snape strode out from behind a pillar, wearing a robe that looked as though it had been bought in ancient Greece.

‘You’ve done well, my apprentice. Very, very well.’

And now it was Voldemort, those red eyed gleaming. He tried to back away, but found that his body would not comply. It seemed to want to be there. And, to Harry’s horror, he himself wanted to be there, Voldemort’s steady gaze fixed on his pale face.

‘You’ve always had it in you,’ he was saying. ‘You’ve always had that sneaky, bitter corner in your brain, just waiting to come out. It’s taking over, and you cannot stop this. This is you, Harry. This is you – my apprentice.’

His hands were changing shape, from slender and pale to skeletal. Before him, Voldemort had begun to grow red hair, and the gleaming eyes were shining green. Lily Evans looked positively nightmare- inspiring when she was in a mood.

‘You’ve always had it in you, you know. It’s been stuck back there in your mind, after all those years – and this was all it took. Malfoy will bring you power. Malfoy will bring you prestige, but he is not your friend. You say you want revenge!’

It was as though she was merely a talking portrait. She was two-dimensional, but her voice carried such fury that Harry thought he might actually be thrown against the black wall from the sheer force of it.

‘I’m your friend, not some fool of a wannabe Death Eater! Bit sad, isn’t it? When the only person who wants to be your friend is a girl who hates your guts?’

She softened for a moment. Her green eyes were dim and teary.

‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry – for what they’ve done to you. I’m sorry if you think I’m just letting it happen, but you’ve got to understand that I can’t do anything! I’m sorry, Severus. I hope you see things clearly one day. Go on and find your revenge with Malfoy, if that’s what pleases you.

I won’t sit around and wait.

It was then, as Harry lie, gasping beneath the heavy blankets, that he realised he needed to see Dumbledore.

Now.