Just For Now by MarieLewis

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series

Draco's eyes opened slowly, closing again almost immediately after. He did not want to wake up. He did not want to eat or drink. And most especially, he did not want to face every day knowing that his mother's death was his fault.

He curled into a ball beneath the cotton bed sheet, wishing that every single second of the last day had all been a terrible nightmare. And that the bed clothes around him were the expensive silk of his own bedroom, and not the normal yellow cotton that they really were. He wished that every time he breathed in he would smell the scent of his own home, and of the breakfast the house elves made at exactly nine o'clock every morning. And most especially, that his mother's hand would brush over his hair when she passed him to sit at her side of the table.

Draco pulled the sheet over his head to block out the sun light, he could hear movement downstairs, but despite the normally curious person he was, he stayed underneath the blanket, willing time to stop and life to end.

Footsteps descended the stairs, a quiet voice acknowledged someone in the kitchen, and Draco gave up his efforts to bury himself. The yellow sheet wouldn't block out the sun properly anyway. He raked his fingers through his hair, smoothing it backwards, and for the first time, he caught sight of a black smudge peeking out from underneath his pajama sleeve.

His heart nearly jumped straight out of his throat when he remembered what it was. The pale, trembling fingers of his right hand pinched the edge of his sleeve, ready to tug it all the way up to his elbow, and reveal the tattoo. But Draco's fingers wouldn't- couldn't complete the task. Or more, he, Draco, could not.

His breath came in gasps as he swung his legs down from the bed and bolted from the room and down the creaky staircase, straight into the kitchen. Severus sat at one end of the table, the Daily Prophet help up in front of his face, a steaming mug beside his right elbow and an empty bowl pushed slightly forward on his left. Draco barely registered Potter's awkward presence on the other end of the table, his shoulders hunched and his head bent over his own still half-full bowl. He stumbled towards Severus, eyes wide and gasping for breath, his left arm held away from body.

Severus dropped his newspaper, an odd look momentarily crossing his face as he looked from a wild-eyed Draco, to the arm held out in front of him.

"Take it off," he chocked out, shaking his left arm to articulate -not that he needed to-. "Take it off," he demanded once more, yanking the sleeve away from his forearm, keeping his eyes averted. He heard Potter inhale sharply behind him and the clatter of silver hitting glass. Draco kept his eyes locked on Severus' face, pleading and desperate.

A strained silence settled over the small kitchen, in which Severus sat up straighter, and Potter shifted uncomfortably. Severus cleared his throat, "I cannot. The mark is permanent, Draco," he answered evenly. The silence pressed on Draco eardrums, "Permanent?" his voice cracked. He shook his head, backing away from the table, yanking the sleeve back down over the mark, his right hand closing over the marred forearm, "There must be some way! There has to! I can't-"

Severus stood from his seat, "It is, Draco. There is no way to remove it."

Draco's back hit against the counter, his head still shaking though now it wasn't in denial. He ground his teeth, the mark would remain forever. A daily reminder of how far he had fallen. He had lost both his mother and his father, and was left with nothing but an ugly tattoo -a sign of slavery- to show for it.

"The mark will fade," said Severus quietly, stepping closer to him. He sent a sharp look at Potter, and Draco saw the other boy's eyes widen behind his glasses, Severus turned back to him, "In time."

Draco gripped his arm tighter, barely realising that it still ached a bit, "No it won't," he denied despondently, "I saw Father's, it looks..."

"Brand new."

Both Severus and Draco turned to see Potter standing, half empty bowl in hand, "It faded when Voldemort-"

Draco flinched violently.

"Potter!" snapped Severus, "How many-"

"Sorry, You-Know-Who, disappeared. I don't know if it'll go away," continued Potter, walking around the table to set his bowl in the sink. "But it won't stay like that," he gestured to Draco's arm, "Forever."

Draco was tempted to say something scathing, but Potter had already retreated from the room. He turned back to Severus, his lips tightening when a hand dropped on his shoulder.

"Potter is telling the truth, much as I hate to admit it. The mark faded before."

He didn't add, 'it will fade again', and that was fine, because Draco wouldn't have believed him anyway. Harry Potter would never be able to defeat the Dark Lord, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the world realised it. The only difference now was that Draco wasn't sure how he'd survive the new regime.

0000

Harry trudged back up the stairs to the room in which he stayed... a room that was in Snape's house. Snape's house!

He shuddered slightly, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Hedwig hooted in greeting, batting her wings against the bars of her cage. Snape had said not to let her out -she was too obvious- and that he was to send her to Hogwarts when Dumbledore came later that day. Snape had also informed him that he had an appointment with a healer from St. Mungo's on Friday, tomorrow, in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore was going to tell him more about it when he flood over.

Snape hadn't said much else, and Harry had said next to nothing at all. There hadn't been a single deprecating comment that whole morning, the only sign of distaste from Snape was the sneer had on his face when he had handed Harry a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of pumpkin juice upon his entry in the kitchen, then he had hidden behind the Prophet, for the remainder of Harry's meal.

Or he would have, thought Harry, had Draco not come barging into the kitchen brandishing his left arm like it was some sort of infected species he wouldn't allow to touch the rest of his body. Harry slumped on what he supposed he should call 'his' bed, though he couldn't shake the image of this being Snape's bed, and that he had slept in Snape's room. But then again, it could be Malfoy sleeping in Snape's bed and room, so Harry couldn't be sure.

And that was another thing... Malfoy. If he kept wandering about like a lost puppy Harry wasn't sure what he would do. So torn between pity and irritation was he. That was uncharitable, Harry supposed, but it was hard to feel anything other than irritation towards the other boy. Imagine whinging over his bloody arm when his mother was dead, thought Harry scornfully.

Now he knew that was uncharitable. Having Voldemort's sodding sign burned into the skin wasn't some walk in the park, he was sure, and to find out it was going to be there for the rest of his life...

Harry sighed, directing his thoughts away from the muddled mess of a situation that was Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately his thoughts strayed to the Dursleys, of whom he knew no more about then Malfoy. Hell, he probably knew more about Malfoy then he did about his own relatives at the moment.

Harry groaned softly, he could feel an ache blossoming in his lower back, and he dropped his head on the pillow, leaving his knees hanging off the side of the bed, kicking his feet out aimlessly, allowing his trainer clad heels to smack against the bed frame.

He considered, albeit briefly, writing to his aunt... and cousin. But what was the point? He hadn't a single smidgen of an inkling about what to write.

Dear Aunt Petunia,

How are you? I know, it's all my fault you were almost killed right in the street in front of your house. Oh! And that you had to uproot your lives and shift off to live in God knows where because I attract a pack of mindless murderers and their master.

Love, Harry

Harry snorted, yeah, because that would go over well. Uncle Vernon had probably already burst the pulsing, purple vein in his temple. Perhaps things were better this way... mused Harry, kicking his feet out again, they'd be far safer away from them, and even if he were miserable with Snape, school wasn't to far off... and then he'd be with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and all his other house mates again.

It was hard to believe he'd turned sixteen just yesterday... Hard to believe anything about yesterday. Hopefully tomorrow would be better, despite the appointment.

Another problem, he couldn't ask Aunt Petunia questions anymore. Harry kicked his feet with a little more force then he had meant to, he cringed when the bed frame creaked loudly, almost positive he could hear Snape's footsteps on the stairway. His body stiffened as he listened... nothing, not even a peep.

Harry allowed himself to relax.

What the hell was he doing in Snape's house anyway?

Irritation at always being on the blind side spiked inside his belly, Dumbledore always kept him in the bloody dark. Insufferable old man that he was. But according to his oh-so-powerful headmaster, it was because he cared too much. Harry didn't know if that was supposed to make him feel better or what, he was rather busy holding in his anger after Sirius' death and refraining from trashing Dumbledore's office -any more than he already had- to listen properly.

Harry allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a few moments, as a late birthday present, he told himself, slipping his fingertips to rub his eyes briefly. His situation was untenable, as it always was.

Harry pushed himself from the bed and paced restlessly about the room. What was he supposed to do here? He couldn't go downstairs, Snape was down there, he couldn't explore the house, it was Snape's house, and aside from that, Malfoy could be lurking about, and Harry didn't want to run into him either.

He circuited the small space between the window and the bed once more, passing his trunk. Misjudging his step, his pinkie toe crunched against the corner of his trunk, sending waves of pain through his foot and up his leg.

"Argh!" Harry stumbled, nearly falling flat on his face, he limped to the bed, sitting down and lifting his foot up to rest atop his knee. He pealed off his sock and cautiously pinched the abused toe, it twinged, but it didn't seem broken.

He eyed his trunk contemptuously, stupid sodding thing, he was always stubbing his toes on it. The longer he glared at the offending trunk, the more he thought. Maybe writing Aunt Petunia wasn't such a mad idea... Besides, what else have I got to do?

Nothing, absolutely nothing. He didn't want to lay about like some sodding wanker, might as well do something.

Harry leaped from the bed, striding over to his trunk and flinging open the lid, the contents were more then a bit jumbled, but it wasn't to hard to find a quill, inkwell, a spare bit of parchment, and a book to write on top of.

He settled himself back on top bed, mindful of the blue sheets beneath him lest he stain them with droplets and splatters of ink. Dear Aunt Petunia...

Harry finished his letter twenty minutes later, cracking his knuckles and blowing on the ink to make it dry faster.

"Magic is permitted in a home where an adult wizard resides."

Harry jerked around, nearly flinging himself off of the bed. Snape stood stiffly in the doorway, arms crossing his chest, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, and an ugly scowl upon his face.

Harry's mouth opened and closed repeatedly.

"Shut your mouth, Potter, or are you trying to appear as gormless as you are stupid?"

Harry's mouth snapped shut, so much for Snape not saying anything. He would have glared, but he wasn't sure how long he'd be staying with Snape, so he thought twice about his angry retort as well.

"Sir?"

Snape's lip curled unpleasantly, "The Headmaster awaits you in the sitting room." And with that, turned on his heal, seconds later Harry heard a door close further down the hall.

Harry cleared his throat to announce his presence, he leaned his head inside the door way, "Professor?"

Dumbledore turned on the worn looking brown leather settee upon which he sat, "Ah, Harry, do come in. I imagine you had a bit of trouble finding the sitting room?"

Harry didn't answer, but he had, he'd gone back to the kitchen and sort of peeked into the rooms he passed. There weren't many, but Harry had found one door that was bolted shut that made his fingers itch to unlock and explore. But this was Snape's house, and he, Harry, had not gone completely bonkers. Suicide wasn't one of his top interests. And that was just about what mucking about in Snape's house lead to.

Harry sat stiffly in the armchair across from Dumbledore, acutely aware that Snape himself could have sat here at one point in time or another. It was enough to make anyone nauseous, Ron would laugh his arse off if he could see him now. Actually, Harry was quite looking forward to sharing this particularly harrowing tale with his best mate. Then they'd both be able to abuse Snape and laugh about it to their hearts content.

"Your relatives are safe and settled, though I can only tell you that they are no longer in the country." Dumbledore was saying.

"N-no longer in the country?" stammered Harry, so much for writing his aunt.

"Yes, I thought it best to relocate them all together," said Dumbledore, taking a sip from a cup of tea that seamed to have appeared out of no where. "Your Uncle, it seems, concocted the whole idea himself," he continued, giving Harry a significant look, "He came up with the idea shortly before your school term ended, thus leaving you alone, and them all the better for it."

Harry couldn't help chuckling and then he thought, "But what about Aunt Petunia, and Dudley?" Might as well rip the bloody letter to shreds.

"Alas, it was your lovely Aunt's idea. She asked it of me on the grounds that Vernon had a weak heart." Dumbledore tutted sympathetically, and Harry's jaw dropped.

"She also asked me to pass this onto you," Dumbledore pronounced, withdrawing a small folded paper from within his bright turquoise, moon decorated robes.

He reached across to pass it into Harry's numb fingers.

"And now, to more important matters, but first, you must excuse an old man's forgetfulness Harry, would you like some tea?" Dumbledore lifted a small porcelain tea pot from the tray on the table beside the settee. Harry nodded dumbly.

"I do hope you enjoy it," added Dumbledore, pouring Harry a cup, "It's one of my favourites, chamomile, very relaxing. Sugar?"

"I- yeah," said Harry, slowly regaining his ability to speak, he shoved Aunt Petunia's note into the pocket of his jeans, "Two please."

Dumbledore dropped two sugar squares into Harry's tea, stirring them in with a small silver spoon before he handed the cup over.

"Now," Dumbledore set his own cup down, twinkling blue eyes shrewd as he looked at Harry.

"I must have your account on yesterday's most unfortunate events."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly feeling very hot and prickly, "I know I shouldn't have left the house..." He muttered into his tea cup, blowing on the liquid to give himself something to do.

"And yet you did," replied Dumbledore, and not unkindly, "Might I inquire?"

Harry gave up blowing on his tea and returned his Headmaster's gaze, "Aunt Petunia asked me to go along to pick up Uncle Vernon... And I didn't think to say no. It wasn't until after we had left and I realised my scar was prickling that I began to feel uneasy."

"Ah," murmured Dumbledore, "And after picking up your Uncle?"

"I just thought if we got home fast enough we'd be fine. But, well, Voldemort got there first."

Dumbledore leaned forward, "Tom was waiting for you to return?"

"At first? No, he came later, with the Malfoys... Just the Death Eaters were there. I didn't recognize most of them, but I saw Antonin Dolohov, Lucius Malfoy, and-" Harry hesitated, anger rising inside him, he grit his teeth, "And Lestrange."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding, "It is-"

"Hang on," interrupted Harry, remembering something suddenly, "Was there a massive Azkaban break out that I didn't hear about? I thought Dolohov and Malfoy were caught at the Ministry."

"Yes, they were. The new Minister decided that the Wizarding world needn't trouble themselves with such matters."

"Another useless Minister then," said Harry dully, though he supposed he should be grateful they weren't spouting that he was a raving lunatic any longer.

Harry was just about to voice these thoughts when he remembered something else, "Professor, yesterday, there was a Death Eater standing right behind Voldemort, and he shot this weird light at the bushes almost right before the Order showed up. It wasn't..."

"Severus? Yes, yes it was. I am afraid I owe you an apology, my boy," said Dumbledore gravely, holding up a hand when Harry's mouth opened, "You see, your guard, Mundungus Fletcher, failed to inform us of your departure, and in so doing..."

"Oh."

"Severus sent a Patronus that informed me of the events on Privet Drive, and put himself in great risk by doing so. We are all indebted to him." He gave Harry a look that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle unpleasantly.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, "Are you anxious about your appointment tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"I'm not sure," answered Harry truthfully, "I don't know what to expect..."

"I dare say all your questions will be addressed tomorrow then," said Dumbledore rising from his seat, "But alas, I must go, being the headmaster of a most prodigious school does involve quite a bit of paperwork, I am afraid to say."

Harry stood as well, the half-empty cup of tea in his hand vanishing with a pop, "Sir, how exactly am I to get to Hogwarts tomorrow?"

"You and young Mr. Malfoy will floo over tomorrow with Severus." Dumbledore pat Harry on the shoulder, "Do try to put your differences with Professor Snape aside Harry," he said, voice suddenly urgent, "Your Occlumency lessons are of the utmost importance, and I have already spoken with Severus about them."

Harry nodded, not sure what else to do, he couldn't exactly say no now could he?

"I'll try..." he muttered, even though the very thought of lessons with Snape made him sick. He'd never forgive the man for what happened with Sirius, no matter how bloody irrational it was.

"I shall take my leave then."

Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder before crossing the small space of floor to the fireplace. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushing against Aunt Petunia's note.

"Professor, wait!"

Dumbledore paused in the act of stepping into the fireplace.

"I have something, for Aunt Petunia, if you can send it to her..."

"Best get it then, my boy, I shall see that she gets it," said Dumbledore merrily, his blue eyes twinkling brightly.

"Right."

Harry left the room, returning moments later with his letter rolled in a tight scroll and tied with a string he'd ripped off one of his ratty second-hand shirts.

He held it out mutely.

"I shall arrange for an easier way for you to correspond with your relatives. Good day, Harry."

And with that, Dumbledore whirled away, in a flurry of bright green flames and scattered ash.

0000

Harry,

I am sorry you can no longer stay with us this summer, a fact that surprises both Dudley and myself very much. I feel as though I have wasted the time I had to spend with you, and that I am cowardly for feeling relief at being able to write this in a letter rather than speak about it with you in person.

Your Headmaster says I am not to tell you were we are, and that you cannot tell me where you are. But I thought I should say... That man, Snape, you probably already know this, but he was a friend of your Mother's, and our neighbor when we were children. He's the one who told your Lily that she was a witch. I never liked him because he was a wizard, and I suppose he and I never got along because I was always frightfully jealous of the pair of them.

There, I admit it. I was jealous of Lily... and of the shabby, wizard boy she preferred to play with over me. But I am to blame for that as well. I drove my sister away.

And her son as well.

I am sorry Harry.

If we do not see each other until next summer. I hope that you can forgive me. And perhaps, if it is not to much to ask, we might make up for lost time. I wish your birthday had gone better for you, I meant to order a cake at the restaurant. We have made all your birthdays awful, I wish I could make up for it.

-Petunia

Harry stared at the lined paper in shock. Snape had known his mother. Snape had been... friends, with his mother.

There had to be some mistake. But Harry knew there wasn't, he had read and re-read Aunt Petunia's letter multiple times. His parents, Sirius, Remus, and Snape had all been in the same year at Hogwarts, he knew that, but Snape and his mum had been... friends?

Impossible.

He had heard Snape call her a mudblood, to her face! And she had called him Snivellus. How in hell could they have been friends?

Perhaps they'd had a falling out? Maybe Snape had stopped associating with his mum when she'd been sorted into Gryffindor... Or maybe it had been the other way around. Harry hoped not. Oddly, it felt better to think that -if his mum and Snape had been friends at all- it had been Snape's fault they did indeed have a falling out.

Harry crumpled the letter in his fist, only to open it up again and smooth it out against the blue bedsheets. His very first letter from Aunt Petunia... his very first proper letter, he amended, he didn't count the one in first year that had said to see if he couldn't stay at Hogwarts for the summer as well as Christmas.

What did he care if Snape had been friends with his mum? They weren't friends anymore, and it wasn't like Snape would tell him anything about it, he thought resentfully. If Snape weren't so foul, perhaps he could have told Harry loads of things about his mum from the moment Harry started Hogwarts. Instead of leaving him to lie in wait until Sirius escaped from Azkaban and Remus started as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

It didn't matter, Harry told himself, bounding from the bed to slip the somewhat crumpled sheet of paper inside his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages for safe keeping. He'd compose a reply to Aunt Petunia later, at the moment, he felt rather tired. Which was odd because he had literally just gotten up a couple of hours ago. Harry curled on his side under the thin blue blanket, attempting to drive all thoughts of Snape and his mum ever knowing each other from his mind. And as his eyes drifted shut he pushed away the bitter feeling that rose in his chest when his mind wandered to the idea that Snape could have told his lost, eleven year old self, about his mum.

Damn Snape anyway.

Harry awoke sometime later, slightly fevered, horribly groggy -which was exactly the reason he preferred to avoid afternoon naps- and a touch nauseated. He sat up, realising belatedly, that he had forgotten to take off his glasses, which had been digging into the side of his face and nose.

He let them dangle by the earpiece from his fingers as he rubbed at his gritty eyes before slipping them back on his face, and laying flat on his back, distorting himself to stretch and yawn in absurdly odd positions.

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, stumbling a bit as he tried to right himself and shake off the last sticky cobwebs of afternoon sleep. He felt... incredibly sore. His neck had an awful crick, and his throat was scratch, not to mention the dull, thumping pain in his lower back. Harry scratched an itchy spot on his arm, teetering out of his bedroom and into the hall. He needed the loo something awful, and his arm itched abominably.

He took two more steps before he was seized by a coughing fit, and, wheezing as it stopped, he realised that he had absolutely no idea where the toilet was.

He scratched at his arm again, red welts appearing on his skin where his nails scraped, he couldn't understand why he was so itchy, and what was more, he thought savagely, beginning to get irritated with his unfortunate situation, he was feeling disgustingly hot and sweaty.

Oh where was Snape anyway? Thought Harry, thumping down the stairs, causing loud creaking sounds with every stomp, he was too annoyed to care though. Harry stumped into the sitting room, a scowl on his face, he scratched at his arm again, and looking down at it he saw that he had just about turned the entire inside of his arm bright red.

Bloody, stupid, buggering-

"Potter!"

"WHAT!" Harry wheeled around, incensed beyond all possible comprehension, for reasons that certainly did not suit his reaction.

Malfoy stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and mouth open, "What the hell is wrong with you, Potter?"

Harry fairly growled, desiring nothing more than to insult and degrade Malfoy until he was blue in the face, but he needed the bathroom, and Malfoy just might know where it was, "I'm looking for the loo," he ground out, his teeth, gritting against each other as he said it.

Malfoy's lips curled unpleasantly, "Is that why you're stomping around in a strop? You couldn't find the loo?" he asked mockingly.

"Look, Malfoy, do you know where it is or not?" If he hadn't needed to go so bad he might have repaid Malfoy in kind. Unfortunately, verbal sparring wasn't on the top of his to-do list at the moment.

"It's upstairs, you depraved fool, the third door on the right, after your room I believe. Oh, and Severus says to stop prancing about like a wounded Hippogriff, he's working in the potions lab, and if he makes a mistake because of you..." Malfoy stepped aside as Harry brushed -none too gently- passed him.

Bloody Malfoy, thought Harry, rinsing the soap from his hands, looking in the dingy little mirror above the white porcelain sink. His arm had stopped itching, but now there were ugly red marks from his fervent scratching.

He wasn't quite sure what had made his arm so itchy, and he'd already thoroughly examined the abused flesh for a bite of some sort. At least it wasn't itchy anymore.

Harry existed the bathroom, looking left to right anxiously, the last people he wanted to see were Malfoy and Snape. Malfoy because he probably knew something was wrong with him. And Snape because of Aunt Petunia's letter.

He had absolved to avoid making eye contact with Snape at all costs. An almost impossible feat considering. He wished tomorrow night wasn't a full moon, then maybe he could've gone with Remus to Hogwarts.

Harry went back into his room, and bent over his trunk, unlatching and flipping it open with a disheartened sigh as he pulled out his homework. He couldn't think of anything else to do, and it was probably only one in the afternoon! This had to be the most tedious day of his life. At least at the Dursley's he didn't have to ask to go outside. But here, the last thing Harry wanted to do was warrant an onslaught of Snape's abusive verbiage by asking him if he, Harry, could go outside.

Harry trudged down the stairs, his steps, a great deal quieter than they were earlier. He was still too hot anyways, though he was beginning to suspect it was because of a fever and not because of the sun that streamed through the windows. Harry plopped in a chair at the table in the kitchen, there wasn't a desk in his room, and he wasn't about to abuse his aching back by trying to do homework laying down on the bed.

Snape or no Snape.

Harry piled his textbooks on his right, and his sheets of parchment on his left, quill and inkwell set out right next to the textbooks as he contemplated what to do first. An essay for Herbology, two essays for Potions, and one for Transfiguration, all of which had to be two to three feet long.

Harry rubbed his eyes beneath the rims of his glasses before picking up his Transfiguration text and settling down to read and write about human transfiguration and the possible risks in being a participant.

Four hours and six feet of parchment later, found Harry sitting back in his chair cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck from side to side. His eyes burned, and he felt... oddly full. Like he had just eaten a five course meal for lunch. Only, he hadn't eaten lunch at all.

Snape hadn't come down, or even passed by the kitchen, neither had Malfoy.

Maybe they had eaten lunch while he had been sleeping, and hadn't bothered to wake him up. Not that he cared much. He'd gone without eating loads of times at the Dursley's. Harry gathered his things, stacking the freshly written Transfiguration and Herbology essays on top of his books.

He turned and left the kitchen, completely missing the plate of food under a pot cover, sitting on the stove.

Up in his room, Harry put away his school things, pulled off his socks, slipped into bed, and fell asleep for the second time that day.

0000

Draco shifted on his lab stool beside Severus, who stood stooped over a bubbling cauldron.

"What's wrong with Potter?" he asked abruptly, searching for something to talk about that wouldn't lead to his mother or the Dark Lord.

Severus stood up straight and pulled his own stool closer to the counter before he too sat down. He cast Draco a calculating look, "I do not know the details. Potter will be leaving as soon as the Headmaster finds somewhere safe to put him," he replied stiffly, and turned away from Draco, tapping the side of the bronze cauldron with his wand twice.

"He looks ill." Draco commented idly, pretending to pick uninterestedly at his nails. The truth was, he was burning with curiosity. Ever since he'd seen Potter downstairs, flushed with fever and scratching his arm like a deranged animal... he'd wondered. Not to mention the croaky voice with which he spoke.

Dumbledore had come earlier as well, Draco had listened a bit, at the door, only a bit though. Not nearly long enough to learn anything, and he knew they were going to Hogwarts tomorrow because Potter had to do something.

"He is ill." Came the measured reply.

Draco contemplated his next sentence, "He was scratching his arm like mad when I saw him downstairs... He isn't... contagious. Is he?"

Severus breathed in deeply, "No."

Draco opened his mouth to ask another question, but Severus cut him off.

"I neither know nor care what Potter is or isn't doing. And if you would like to know, I suggest you ask him yourself," Severus' lips twisted wryly, as he tapped the cauldron once more and the spoon inside stopped stirring, he added what looked like flobberworm mucus, and Draco scowled at his back.

Severus knew more than he was letting on, Draco knew it, and Severus knew that Draco knew. It irritated Draco, who needed something, anything, even Potter, to distract him from his own misery.

"Did you tell Potter his lunch awaited him?" asked Severus, crushing sprigs of lavender inside the mortar.

"I-"

"Forgot?" Severus turned to look at him, his right eyebrow arched mockingly.

"I- yes, but it isn't my fault. He shouted something about needing the lavatory, and took off right after I told him how to find it," he retorted indignantly. "I meant to tell him," he muttered sullenly, when Severus scoffed and turned back to his cauldron.

"What are you brewing anyway?" he asked, leaning forward to peer over Severus' shoulder.

"Sleeping Draught," said Severus, adding previously crushed lavender with a small measuring scoop.

"For the school?"

Severus nodded.

Draco sat back, lifting a hand to cover a wide yawn.

"See if Potter found the plate himself. I don't want him complaining to the Headmaster."

Draco slid from his chair, grumbling and scowling, but it was better than doing nothing... and it was certainly better than thinking. Severus knew that, or Draco had thought so when Severus had come to his room asking if he'd like to follow him to the potions lab.

Draco stopped at Potter's room, the door was ajar, and he could see Potter's open trunk sitting right beneath the window. He considered knocking, but soft snoring sounds were coming from inside the room.

Draco stepped in, catching sight of Potter, curled into a ball in the middle of his bed, blanket pulled up to his ears, and mouth hanging open as though he couldn't breathe through his nose.

Unbelievable.

Potter had just woken up not five hours ago, how the devil could he be asleep again? Feeling as though he was tempting fate, Draco stepped closer, peering at Potter's face interestedly.

The fool had left his glasses on, and he was indeed breathing through his mouth, Draco could tell by the way the air whistled past his teeth... and he was- Draco recoiled. Potter was drooling! All over Severus' bedsheets!

If he hadn't remembered to be quiet he'd have crowed triumphantly. Potter's trunk flitted through his peripheral vision, and Draco bit the inside of his cheek, involuntarily stepping closer to the opened trunk.

"Draco!"

Draco started guiltily, whirling around to see Severus standing in the doorway, eyebrows half-way up his forehead, wordlessly asking Draco just what he thought he was doing.

"I wasn't going to look..."

The eyebrows rose further, and Severus regarded him with a supercilious expression.

"Potter's asleep," snapped Draco, annoyed at having been caught. He made to leave the room, but Severus still stood in the doorway, looking at Potter, a frown creating lines between his eyes.

"What is that on his arm?" asked Severus, though he didn't move any closer or remove his gaze.

Draco glanced at Potter, whose right arm was the only visible part of his body besides his hair and face, lay beside his head, palm up. Across the forearm there were long dark red scratches from the elbow to the wrist. Obviously, that was where Potter had been scratching earlier.

"I told you he was scratching his arm," said Draco, his tone suggesting an eye roll, though he didn't dare to actually do it.

Severus closed the distance between himself and Potter, looking the latter over closely. Draco stood, shifting from foot to foot.

Severus straightened suddenly, extending a hand to beckon him nearer, Draco proceeded with caution, nearly jumping out of his skin when Potter inhaled with a gasping snort. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, his face forming a disgusted expression.

"Are you sure he isn't contagious?" he asked, still keeping his distance.

"Quite."

Severus prodded Potter on the shoulder with his fingers, but the boy on the bed did not wake.

"Potter. Potter!"

Potter blinked blearily, rolling onto his back with a groan, drool trailing across his cheek.

Draco grimaced.

"Boil some water Draco," murmured Severus, shaking Potter's shoulder roughly, "For tea. And fetch a De-congestion Draught, it's the blue vial, in the third overhead cabinet in the kitchen. There should be a Pepper-Up there as well."

Draco retreated hastily.

A silver teakettle sat atop the stove, but Draco didn't know how to light a stove, and he didn't think Severus would mind if he used a little magic. So he tapped the kettle twice with his wand, filling it with water and making it heat up simultaneously.

Not five minutes later the teakettle was whistling loudly.

Draco tapped the kettle again to stop the shrill noise, and stared at it contemplatively, realising, that for the first time in his life, he had to make a cup of tea.

How did one even go about making a cup of tea? And Severus hadn't said what sort of tea either.

Draco glared at the teakettle for two seconds more, before he gave it up as a bad job, and rummaged through the appointed cupboard for the potions Severus had asked for.

"Got it," he murmured, his hand closed around a squat glass vial filled with blue liquid, a skinny vial of Pepper-Up clutched in his other hand, and he walked back up the stairs to Severus and Potter.

He wasn't two feet away from the door when he heard Potter coughing, but not just any cough. Deep-throat coughs that were almost painful to hear, Severus' stuck his head out of the door, no doubt to tell him to hurry it up.

He nodded upon seeing Draco, moving aside as he entered the room, handing the potions to Severus.

Potter was sitting up now, glasses off, and his arm held across his mouth to smother his slowly subsiding coughs, not that it did much help... but less germs would spread that way Draco supposed.

0000

"Take these, Potter."

Two bottles clinked together beneath his nose, one that he recognized as Pepper-Up, (the grey, sluggish liquid sloshing, unappetizing, inside its vial was unmistakable, glasses or no) and the other some sort of thin, light blue coloured potion he had never seen before.

He took the vials, eyeing them warily, "What is it?" he asked hoarsely, his throat burned unbearably, not to mention that he was now horribly thirsty.

"Pepper-Up and De-congestion," answered a voice impatiently, "Drink them."

It was a testament to how sick he was that he uncorked both bottles and downed them with no more argument or questions asked.

"Bleeargh..."

"There is tea for you in the kitchen, and your uneaten lunch," the same voice said tightly, the words coming out sharp and brusque, as though it tore at the person's very soul to utter civil words to Harry at all.

Harry resisted the urge to grab the blanket pooled around his waist and swipe it across his tongue. His ears felt steamy, but at least he could breath through his nose now though he was still thirsty.

"Er..." He pat around his bed for his glasses, squinting short-sightedly at the black blob standing in front of him, his hand brushed over wire frames, and he picked them up, giving the lenses a quick clean on the hem of his shirt.

Harry slipped his glasses back onto his face, blinking away sleepiness as his surroundings became clear. He nearly fell of the bed when he saw both Snape and Malfoy standing right beside him.

Harry scooted back a bit, not sure if he cared if they noticed, and if they had, neither said anything.

"Do you have an allergy, Potter?" asked Snape, looking pointedly at his right arm. Harry glanced down, momentarily surprised to see red marks and partly scabbed scratches all along his forearm.

He lifted his arm closer to his face for a proper inspection, "No... I'm not sure why it was itchy."

He glanced up to see Malfoy frowning confusedly, Snape did not comment other than to say,

"Hmm."

"You missed lunch, Potter, it is downstairs. See that you eat it." And with that, Snape left the room, leaving Malfoy and Harry to stare uncomfortably at each other.

Well, Harry was uncomfortable, but Malfoy seemed to have reaffirmed his former sense of hauteur, and crossed to the other side of Harry's room to lean against the wall.

Harry slid his legs from the bed, swaying unsteadily as he stood.

"Is there something you wanted, Malfoy," he asked trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, as he pulled the blue blanket from the bed and began to shake it out.

He chanced a glance at Malfoy, who's arms were folded across his chest casually.

"Actually," commented Malfoy, shifting against the wall, "There is."

Harry folded the blanket with routine precision, pausing his initial response to tell Malfoy to bugger off. "What?" His tone clearly stating just what he had wanted to say anyway.

"Severus said you were sick."

Harry stopped in the act of straightening the bedding, Snape knew? But instead of blurting that out, he stood up straight, regarding Malfoy with a contemptuous look, "And...?" What does that have to do with you? He arched an eyebrow, noting with some small pleasure that Malfoy appeared to be frustrated, if the clenching of his jaw meant anything.

"Nothing." Malfoy's lips tightened, "Look, Potter, what's wrong with you any-"

Harry snapped.

"There is nothing wrong with me, Malfoy. And if there was, it's none of your sodding business so why don't you just shove off!" he hissed abandoning his post by the bed to stalk across the room until he was a foot from Malfoy's face.

"It's just a question, Potter! You don't have to get all up in arms-"

"Up in- Just where do you get off asking me anything? It's none of your damn business-"

"What is your problem, Potter? You sound like a bleating girl who's got the painters in!"

They were nose to nose, and Harry had no idea why Malfoy was causing him to be so irate. It was like a button had been pressed the moment the prat had opened his mouth.

Harry opened his mouth to voice just exactly what he thought of Malfoy, but he changed his mind at the last minute, shaking his head to clear it, he stepped away from Malfoy and ran his fingers through his hair, breathing in deeply.

"Listen, Malfoy, it's not something I want to talk about." To you or to anyone else.

Malfoy nodded, backing up to lean against the wall again, trying to appear unfazed, "I wouldn't even bother asking," he said disdainfully, crossing his arms over his chest, "There just isn't anything else to do here."

Malfoy's sullen comment reminded Harry of something, "What are you doing here anyway, Malfoy?" he asked crossing the room back to his bed to finish straightening the sheets and pillow.

"What are you doing here?"

Harry sat down on the edge of his bed, "Dunno. Dumbledore said I had to stay somewhere safe, apparently that meant here." Harry couldn't resist scoffing.

Malfoy's eyebrow raised and his lips quirked, "Maybe not for you," he conceded dryly, before continuing, "I was already supposed to stay with Severus, but at Hogwarts later in August before the school year started..."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise, why would Malfoy stay with Snape? And when the hell did he start calling him Severus?

"You stay with Snape during the summer?"

"No."

"Then why...?"

Malfoy's eyes lowered to stare at his feet, "I was supposed to join-"

"The Death Eaters?" asked Harry his tone accusing, "Bit young aren't you?"

Malfoy's eyes snapped up to glare at Harry, "D'you think I wanted this? I never had a choice!"

And they were fighting again.

"Everyone has a choice, Malfoy! Don't make it seem as though you didn't love using your little pure-blood status to demand things and treat everyone like crap!"

"That's not even what I'm talking about! I'm talking about becoming what amounts to nothing more than a servant, and living in fear of being murdered and tortured every time he 'calls'!"

Harry shook his head, "You don't get it do you, Malfoy? It's all the same! That's what Voldemort wants! The only reason you don't want to do it his way because you're scared for yourself!"

Malfoy jerked away from the wall, striding across the room to tower over Harry, "Not all of us can be like you," he hissed, practically vibrating with anger, "Not all of us can stand there in front of him and not be scared for our lives!"

"You think I'm not scared for mine?" asked Harry incredulously, standing up and pushing Malfoy back, "I'm not some bloody fearless hero, you prat!"

"Sure looked like it yesterday," muttered Malfoy, resentment apparent in his tone.

Something occurred to Harry, "Malfoy... Listen, your mum's death wasn't your fault. It doesn't matter if you could have done something-"

"You don't know what you're talking about Potter," said Malfoy quietly, he was no longer glaring at Harry, "It was my fault."

Malfoy left, leaving Harry to realise that the conversation between them had probably been the longest one they'd ever had. Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but it seemed like from now on there would be some sort of unspoken truce.

And Harry wasn't sure what he thought about that either.