A/N: whoah hey guys! It's been so long since I posted and I'm so sorry for that. I've been super busy with school, my job, and other stuff, so I've barely had time to write.

Good news though; this book has been entirely planned out instead of just having a rough outline, and it looks like it'll be 20+ chapters. Enjoy this one!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

******

All was dark upon the grounds of Hogwarts. Enchanted clocks ticked onwards, counting the seconds, minutes, hours as time drifted onwards. Silence filled the air in Harry Potter's dorm. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. The figure of a boy sat in an armchair by a window, eyes closed, unmoving. He didn't breathe; chest completely still, skin ghostly pale like stone. His hair was wild and clothes unkempt, and anyone who walked in could have mistaken him for dead, almost expecting spiderwebs to form on his slender silhouette.

It was at the stroke of midnight that the boy opened his eyes, blinking weakly and grabbing his glasses from the coffee table in front of him. His crimson eyes glowed slightly in the darkness as the world around him focused, the messy coffee table, armchairs, empty fireplace and the staircases came into view.

He was still sitting in the armchair that he'd sat down in last night; and his back was protesting incredibly against that decision. The vampire yawned loudly, lighting some of the candles in the room with his wand. He paused for a few moments, blinking sleepily and waiting for himself to wake up, wondering why he'd awoken at such an odd hour.

It was only when he saw the Marauders Map sitting on the table that he realised Draco still wasn't back. He frowned. Harry couldn't hear his heartbeat anywhere close, and his scent was stale. He picked up the worn parchment and whispered the words required to access the huge map under his breath.

It took him a few minutes to search the huge layout of the castle, scanning everywhere for the name he was looking for. Room by room he saw people he knew. Dumbledore was pacing in his office, Snape was prowling the third floor corridors. Finally he found who he was looking for, and the discovery made him frown deeply.

The hospital wing? Why was Draco in the hospital wing? Harry hadn't heard anything from Draco since this morning, or seen him either. Was something wrong?

He kept the map in his hands as he walked down the corridors, keeping an eye out for any teachers. The hallways were dimly lit by the torches on the walls, his body casting no shadow and his footsteps making no noise.

The hospital wing was, unsurprisingly, left open. Mostly it was so that people could come if they had an emergency and they didn't have to fuss around with the huge doors, which were unbearably heavy and loud. Harry thought it was rather idiotic though, after all, anyone could simply waltz in.

Ron was asleep in his bed, Harry could hear his heartbeat thudding slowly. He was obscured by a large screen, and had probably been hiding from Lavender behind it all day. Ron had most definitely been trying to ignore her, in the only was he could right now.

Draco was asleep a few beds down. The screen was partially drawn, but not to block his view of the doorway or the windows. Harry knew Draco always slept facing the doorway or a window out of paranoia.

From what Harry could see and tell, there was nothing physically wrong with him. As he drew closer, he saw that that wasn't quite the case.

His skin was as white as the sheets he was lying on, sunken in. He was shivering slightly, but seemingly not from the cold. His white hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, a look of distress across his features. He was having a nightmare of some sort.

Harry sighed quietly, sitting down in the chair beside the bed. He stroked the boy's hair gently, Draco seeming to calm at this, but he didn't awaken.

Truly, he couldn't bring himself to feel remorse for what had been said yesterday. He knew that secrets were being kept from him. He did love Draco, a lot, but secrets were something he simply couldn't tolerate, especially when they were in this sort of situation. A war was going to start, people were dying left, right and centre, and secrets weren't going to help them to not be the next on Voldemort's, or the staker's, hit lists.

Draco was still having a nightmare, whining quietly despite Harry's presence which usually helped. Harry frowned at this.

Legends of vampires usually included mind reading as one of their abilities. Although most of this was muggle made up preposterousness, vampires were usually quite skilled in legilimency. Victor had tried to teach him this, but it hadn't really worked. He'd been pretty bad at it, as he wasn't very good at focusing on a singular thing for a long amount of time.

Although, if he could manage to get it to work this time, perhaps he could somehow see what Draco was dreaming about. Perhaps it would yield some answers, and Harry wouldn't have to force out the truth through ordering him around.

Would Draco be able to block him out or tell he was there, though? Draco's mind was powerful, he could resist veratisium and throw of the imperius curse. Well, he used to be able to. Maybe he'd be able to without Draco noticing.

He closed his eyes, and forced his mind to draw a complete blank, before trying to focus on Draco's mind.

Trying to get into someone's head can either be very difficult or very easy. Most of the time, it's like there's a barrier, a wall that prevents you from entering someone else's mind. Some people have no barrier at all, and some have barriers that are completely impenetrable.

Surprisingly, and worryingly, it didn't take much effort to get past Draco's mental wards. Now he had every single one of Draco's memories, thoughts and feelings at his fingertips. He sensed sadness, anger and frustration, yet the most prominent emotion he could sense was pain. Unbearable, agonising pain.

He could just go through Draco's memories, but it would take forever to find what he was looking for, even if he knew what he was looking for. Sorting through seventeen years of memories to find something specific would be nearly impossible.

Instead, he focused on what he knew would hold some answers. The nightmare.

He found himself in a dark place, like someone had spilled a bucket of ink over a large room, staining it. The floor and walls were created out of black tiles, drowning the room in a haunting darkness. He was standing behind some sort of tall pillar, darkness in front of him. There was vague, bleak light coming from the other side of the pillar.

He could hear a voice, an oddly familiar yet not familiar one. He felt like he knew it from somewhere, but couldn't pinpoint where. It was echoey, unearthly, deep and rumbly. Almost like how his voice changed when he was extremely angry, turning almost demonic.

He looked out from behind the pillar, trying to stay in the shadows. It was then, when he saw the entire space of where they were, that he recognised the Ministry of magic. The golden fountain was present, trickling water lazily from the spouts. The many floo station fireplaces littered the sidelines, the front desk empty. Everything was so intricately detailed and exact, it was almost chilling.

Dreams and nightmares were supposed to be bizarre, pulling bits and pieces of real life into imagination and often morphing into some horrifying things. Harry had experienced some horrid ones before, her but everything in those was bleak, blurry, oddly inaccurate and strange. Yet everything here seemed to be normal.

Two figures were by the fountain. One was the Draco he knew all too well, sitting down, knees pulled to his chest and head hidden. He was trembling from head to toe, shivering, shaking like a leaf. He was scared.

The figure next to him was... terrifying.

It was Draco... but not Draco. His skin was pale as a sheet, sunken in against his high cheekbones. His eyes were glassed over and dark, his skeletal look making his eyes shadowed. His frost white hair was sticking up in odd directions, and was stained with blood at the back. A crooked grin was splayed horrifically across his features, turning what once was Draco's handsome face into a grotesque mess. He was horrid to behold, an abomination, deformed.

This made him flinch, hiding back behind the pillar and sinking to the floor. Draco was having a nightmare about himself, dead?

That wasn't what made him feel so terrified, though. He remembered the reason why seeing Draco, lying on the floor with blood pooling around his head last year had damaged him so much, making him massacre everyone. Seeing Draco dead was harrowing enough, but seeing one of his own nightmares come to life had been terrifying.

In fourth year, before the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, he'd had a nightmare. One, where everyone he knew died. Including Draco, who had been lying, unmoving, blood staining his hair. Where everyone had died, on the battlefield of Hogwarts. He'd cast that nightmare aside as having to do with Credence, who'd been taken by Voldemort, so why was it coming into play now?

Confused and scared, the vampire barely noticed the other presence lurking in the darkness of the pillars. He saw them, out of the corner of his eye, a tall, dark figure. They moved quickly though, and he lost sight of them before he had time to chase.

Someone else was here, too? Did that mean that perhaps, Draco didn't dream this up? It was difficult, but not impossible for someone to conjure up a dream and force it upon someone else. And it made sense, with this nightmare being so intricate and detailed, that someone else had created it.

So Draco wasn't behind this? He certainly looked tormented, shuddering, almost as if he was sobbing. His face was hidden from view, but Harry had no doubt that he'd look beyond terrified, and upset.

Angry, Harry focused his energy into transforming the environment. His magic was blocked, blocked by another force that could only be another person. He refused to be beaten, however, and channelled all the power he could.

The Ministry began to morph and shake slightly, almost as if it was glitching. Where there once were cold tiles under his feet, there was now grass. Instead of the golden fountain, there was a large oak tree. It went back and forth for a few seconds.

He felt the other person give up under the strain of Harry's magic, and slowly the world melted into that of a green forest. He saw Draco look up, looking confused, yet not disappointed

Harry found himself sitting back in the chair, at the bedside of the werewolf, who was now sleeping soundly.

******

Draco opened his eyes, blinking and rolling over, trying to block out the attacking and affronting sunlight shining through the window opposite his bed. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. The whiteness of the room blinded him, the smell of antiseptic and spotless, almost painful cleanliness making him wrinkle his nostrils. The infirmary.

For the first time in a long time, he felt more rested than usual. That's right, his dream last night had been rather odd. One moment he'd been where he'd been for the past few months, and then he'd been in a forest, his evil counterpart nowhere to be seen or heard.

He picked up the scent of his mate, and sat up, looking around to see if he was anywhere. He wasn't, Draco managing to realise that Harry had visited his bedside, probably while he was asleep. But he hadn't stayed.

That thought made him bury his face back in his pillow, hiding his grief, shame and tears. He'd visited, but hadn't cared enough to stay until he awoke. He hadn't left a note or anything either.

Draco looked up as an owl flew into the infirmary, sitting down on his bedside table. A letter was tied to its leg. Draco didn't recognise the tawny owl who was watching him with a pair of large, round yellow eyes, but he took the note anyways.

Dear Draco,
We heard you were in the hospital wing, but weren't given a reason as to why. If you're sick, or just not feeling too great and you'd like to have some time away from Hogwarts, you can come home for a week or two. We've talked it over with Dumbledore already. Reply back as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Padfoot & Mooney

Draco stared at the letter for a few moments. Remus and Sirius had referred to a Grimmauld Place as his home? That made him choke up a bit, throat tightening and eyes stinging with tears. A home. After all these years, locked up as a small child in a huge manor that definitely wasn't what he wanted to call his home, he finally had a place where he could.

Even so, would going back be a good idea? He didn't want to leave Harry alone for a week, even though they weren't talking at the moment. It was dangerous; with the vampire hunters and the Death Eaters amassing their numbers day by day. They'd only just come back to school anyways, and he wouldn't be able to work on the vanishing cabinet if he went back. He didn't know what sort of results that would yield, would he finally be ruined?

Then he remembered. He couldn't work on the cabinet anyways, he was as good as a muggle right now. There was no magic left in him until he recovered, which would take a few days at least. And there was a full moon in a few days, perhaps it would be best to spend it somewhere where he was more comforted.

He saw that his bag, which Hermione had brought to him yesterday, was still there. He grabbed a quill and a piece of parchment out, and scribbled a reply, tying the parchment to the owl's leg. He watched the owl disappear out of the window, flying into the distance and soon becoming only a tiny speck before leaving his sight completely.

******

Harry had a busy day ahead of him. Not only did he have another apparation lesson, but the Quidditch game between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor was this evening, along with another meeting with Dumbledore.

Unsurprisingly, he felt completely unmotivated to do any of these things, and simply wished to lie in his coffin all day. Sadly, he knew that his Quidditch team would probably try to murder him if he did, and Dumbledore would be angry if he didn't show up.

Recess rolled around after a class of double Defence Against The Dark Arts with Snape, which was utterly nightmarish. All the man did was scowl and glare, taking unneeded points away from Gryffindor. He'd upset Hermione by telling her off for actually trying to answer a question, which made Harry indescribably mad. He didn't particularly care about Hermione's feelings, simply the fact that Snape was so unfair and unruly made him infuriated. He didn't know what he'd ever done to the man to deserve such hatred, but at this point it was completely mutual.

Hermione ran after him in the corridor after they'd left. Harry didn't say anything to her, simply raising an eyebrow at the death glare she wore, eyes narrowed at him. If looks could kill, Harry would be a pile of dust on the floor, blowing away with the breeze.

"Have you visited Draco?"

"Yes, actually," Harry snapped, not liking her tone. She narrowed her eyes further, clearly not believing him.

"Did you talk things over?"

"He was asleep."

Hermione huffed angrily at him. "You should treat him better. He was really torn up about that fight you two had yesterday."

"It was his fault-"

"Don't pin this on him!" She said shrilly. "You know, I take pity on him. Being chained to you for his entire life is going to be horrid."

"Glad you think so," Harry snarled in reply. Was she right, though? Was Draco only with him because he had to be? All the love confessions, kisses, hugs, were they all because he was urged to by something he couldn't control?

Hermione just shook her head, face still red with anger. "Dean and Ginny had a fight-"

"Oh, not this again, Hermione please just-"

"No, I don't mean that," she rolled her eyes. "It's just Ginny's upset, and with the absolutely foul way you're acting, don't do anything to upset her further."

Harry sighed inwardly. He couldn't care less if Ginny and Dean had a fight, or if Ginny was upset. It wasn't his problem, Harry would say whatever he felt like, he didn't care if he offended her or not.

Harry managed to shake her off after a while, deciding he'd better get his apparation lesson over and done with. He ignored everyone else in the room, not in the mood to deal with them. Dean glared viciously at him the whole time, but Harry pretended not to notice.

By the end of the hour, Harry was the only one who'd managed to successfully Apparate without splinching. Susan Bones had left a leg behind and had shrieked incessantly about it, and Seamus had left behind one of his ears.

******

It took only minutes for Draco to pack up some of his clothes and other necessities into a bag, heaving the last of his schoolbooks into the already bulging bag. He planned to keep up with his schoolwork while he was away, as he didn't want to fall even further behind than he was now.

He pulled his bag onto his shoulder, wincing at how heavy it was, and closed his bedroom door. He wanted to go and say goodbye to Harry, but his instincts told him it probably wasn't a good idea. He was probably still mad.

The hallways were empty, as everyone was back in classes at the moment. It didn't take long for Draco to reach McGonagall's office, where Remus would be taking him back to Grimmauld Place using floo powder. Draco wasn't too excited about that; floo powder was never his favourite thing. Stepping into an inferno of flames wasn't that appealing, for some odd reason.

He hummed quietly to himself as he neared the office, an unknown tune that he'd found in the back of his mind. It filled the silence that haunted the corridor, something that he was thankful for. Spending too long in silence did bad things to Draco's mind. It made him think, useless, pointless thoughts that were both dangerous and self deprecating. No, he didn't need to think right now, that was the last thing he needed.

He reached the office quickly enough, knocking three times on the old, wooden door. "Come in," Professor McGonagall's voice sounded from the other side. Draco pushed the door open with a creak, giving the female professor a weak smile as he stepped in and closed the door behind him. McGonagall smiled warmly in reply, something that shocked Draco slightly. She didn't usually treat Slytherin's with such friendliness. "Mr Lupin will be any moment. Biscuit?" She offered him a small tin, filled with an assortment of biscuits. He nodded, realising he hadn't eaten anything yet and took one gratefully.

The taste of a crumbly, sugary biscuit filled his mouth, and he resisted the urge to sigh in relief. He never quite realised how hungry he got until he actually ate something. It was odd, that.

He stood for a few moments, awkward silence consuming the room as McGonagall went back to marking the second year's transfiguration essays. Draco became so absorbed in scanning the various titles of books that were stacked meticulously and neatly on an old, oak wooden bookshelf, trying to see if there were any he didn't own, that when the fire finally roared he jumped backwards a pace.

Emerald green flames crackled and leapt towards the top of the large mantelpiece, the fire intensifying as a figure slowly formed in the depths of the fire, a figure stepping out, rather ungracefully, managing to kick some soot on the carpet.

Remus Lupin stepped out, looking as tired and weary as always. His golden brown hair was messy, greying slightly. His amber-brown eyes held a certain weight to them; a worn out, frustrated and stressed look that his expression alone couldn't articulate. When he caught sight of Draco, though, his expression quickly shifted to a happier one. Remus had always had a nice smile, eyes sparkling.

He immediately pulled the younger werewolf into a tight hug, Draco hugging him back and burying his face in Remus' shoulder. It was strange, this feeling of... having a family. It was one that felt so incredibly alien, yet so very close.

McGonagall had been about to snap at Remus for kicking ash over her most likely newly cleaned carpets, but after seeing the two so happy, she didn't mention it and waved her wand to clean up the mess. Draco could have sworn that he saw the tiniest of smiles on her features, but it was quickly masked.

"Here, let me take that," Remus said, pulling Draco's heavy bag off his shoulder. Draco stared, Remus not even seeming to notice any weight at all. Was he just incredibly strong, or was Draco just pathetically weak? "Padfoot's waiting for you back home if you want to go. I need to have a word with Professor McGonagall."

Draco nodded, walking over to the fireplace and grabbing a handful of the fluorescent, phosphorescent dust. It glowed slightly, and trickled out of the spaces in his hands rather annoyingly. Biting back his anxiety and fear of fire, he stepped into the fireplace and spoke as clearly as he could. "Number 12, Grimmauld Place." He threw the dust towards the floor, and his vision of the office was obscured by roaring emerald flames.

The instinctual fear kicked in and he waited for the agonising burning sensation he was expecting, but it never came. Instead, he felt something oddly akin to apparation or travelling by a portkey. Strange whirling. Yet he kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see the nauseating, undoubtedly spinning mess around him.

Eventually he stumbled out of a different fireplace, opening his eyes and coughing weakly. The living room of Grimmauld Place was exactly how he remembered it, with its grand bookshelves, expensive rugs and lavish furniture and decorations. Pounding on one of the couches was a ragged, dark haired, handsome figure with a childish, yet at the same time, haunted look in his eyes.

"Hey kiddo," Sirius said, smiling warmly at him. He sounded and looked tired as well; bags hanging under his eyes, alabaster white skin sunken in. "You may as well go and get settled in, I'm sure Remus will want to talk to you when he gets back."

Draco nodded, leaving the room and following the familiar path to his bedroom. Despite the house's unfriendly and dark atmosphere, it was now a place of comfort. The weird shrunken heads in glasses, the creaking walls, the ominously swinging chandeliers, heck, even that screaming portrait was what made this place home.

******

The grass crunched under Harry's feet as he walked. The sunlight beat down upon him, a permanent frown set upon his features because of the offending light. He'd been running around all day; avoiding people he hated, (everyone) going to classes he didn't like, (all of them) and was now having to play a pointless game of Quidditch.

He snorted, shaking his head. He remembered the days when Quidditch used to excite him; flying through the air, the wind whistling in his ears and blowing his hair back. Being on a broom opened up a whole new world to explore, a world where he could go anywhere. And the entire game aspect simply made it all the more interesting, being competitive. Usually he would have been excited, as Hufflepuff games weren't interesting and he could spend half the time doing fancy tricks instead of really trying.

But now it was different. Now, everything was different. His whole world was flipped upside down, back to front. He didn't need a broom anymore, he didn't need the stupid stick he was holding at his side to fly. He didn't need anything that he used to, anymore.

Walking into the Quidditch tent was like walking into a memory in a pensieve. It was a foreign place, one that he didn't belong in anymore. The other members of his team milled around, warming up. Ginny was sitting on the sidelines, playing with a few strands of her fiery red hair distractedly, up until Harry walked in.

The room seemed to go cold. Everyone turned and stared, but Harry gave them no reaction, simply sitting down in the furthest corner away from everyone else. They turned away after a few moments, going back to whatever they were doing beforehand, although with a bit more wariness.

Ginny didn't seem to hold the same apprehension that the rest of the team did towards Harry, and sat down rather ungracefully onto the bench beside him. She flicked her hair over one shoulder, Harry flinching away to avoid it. "You excited?" She asked, sounding excited herself.

"Not really," Harry said in the most emotionless voice he could possibly muster up. He saw Cormac on the other side of the tent, who was playing for Ron, trying to tell the beaters how to play their positions again. Ginny tried to open her mouth to speak, but Harry had already stood up and was walking over to Cormac. "Look," he snapped. "You're only here temporarily, and telling them what to do is my job, not yours. So either sit down and shut up, or get out."

For a moment Cormac simply stared at him, the beaters scurrying off, clearly terrified of their easily angered captain. The boy looked like he'd been punched in the face, which Harry would have gladly done, if he didn't need a functional keeper for the next hour.

Cormac didn't even bother to reply, just glared darkly at him, which Harry returned easily. Eventually, under the intensity of Harry's non-blinking gaze, he turned away, Harry still scowling after him.

It wasn't long before the announcer began to announce the teams, Harry had the rest of his teammates taking their places behind the large doors that would be flung open as soon as the game started. He swung one leg over his broom, intending on making this quick and easy to get it over with. He still had that meeting with Dumbledore this evening, which he couldn't say he was particularly looking forward to.

The doors swung open, and sunlight streamed in, hitting Harry's ghostly pale skin and almost making him glow. Without any further words to one another, the team flew out.

Harry became a red streak in the sky, shooting upwards towards the clouds hanging overhead. The wind blew his hair back from his face, finally pulling to a stop when he was far above the pitch.

He scanned the field for the snitch, not being able to see that familiar and elusive glint of gold anywhere. The Hufflepuff seeker wasn't really even trying, and was stationary a few feet below him.

He looked over to the crowds instead. He could spot Hermione, with her bushy hair blowing lazily in the breeze. She was watching him, her gaze turned upwards. Next to her was Hagrid, the large figure unmistakeable amongst the sea of red Gryffindors. Yet nowhere could he see Draco. This made him frown, trying not to feel hurt. He knew it wasn't a big game... but he at least would have thought that Draco would come to watch him play.

He shook his head. He couldn't focus on that right now, he had to win this game.

Still no snitch. Lazily he began to circle the pitch, the Hufflepuff seeker following at a slower pace. An idea popped into Harry's head; one that was quite vulgar and horrid, but he had nothing better to do at the moment and he was bored.

He'd already figured out what type of broom the other seeker was on. One of the older Cleansweeps. Sure, they were pretty fast (not nearly as fast as a Nimbus or Firebolt though), but they had absolutely terrible steering.

Taking this in mind, Harry stopped dead for a few seconds before diving towards the pitch below. As expected, the Hufflepuff seeker thought he'd seen the snitch; when in reality Harry hadn't seen anything at all.

They were gathering speed, hurtling towards the ground below. Harry was surprised at how well the Cleansweep was managing to keep up with his Firebolt, but seeing as they were simply falling towards the ground it wasn't all that incredible. The wind whistled in Harry's ears, deafening him to all other sound. They must have been mere blurs at this point.

Soon they were level with the stands, filled with the crowds of people. Harry was headed straight for one of the towers, which contained the stands where the teachers often sat. They were taller than the goalposts, but weren't very stable.

They were covered in some sort of cloth; cloth that was easy to rip through. On the inside were wooden beams, holding the structure up, Criss-crossed in a maze of splinters. They had no platforms in them except for the staircases, which spiralled around the outer area, against the cloth. Seeing how tall they were, if someone were to fall... it wouldn't be pretty when they hit ground level.

It's common sense that the faster you're going when you collide with something, the more it's going to hurt, the more damage it will cause.

Right before he collided with the tower, Harry pulled his broom upwards towards the sky again and nearly gave himself whiplash as he rocketed back towards the clouds.

The Hufflepuff seeker, however, wasn't so lucky. With his inability to steer, he crashed right through the material. Harry was just in earshot to hear a loud, sickening crunch as he smashed into what would have been one of the beams. Eventually he hit the pitch, body lying broken on the grass. He wasn't dead; that Harry was sure of. He could still hear his heartbeat, even though it was weak.

Harry managed to catch a glimpse of gold as Madam Hooch ran onto the pitch to heal the other seeker's injuries, and with that he was off after the snitch.

With no one there to compete against, catching the little golden ball wasn't too difficult. While walking off the pitch triumphant, for the first time ever, the Hufflepuff team shot them some extremely dark and angry looks.

Cormac, having seen the whole event, made sure to keep a good distance away from the vampire, who appreciated that greatly.

******

Harry pushed open the door to his common room, clicking his fingers. The candles were all lit instantaneously, illuminating the room in a dim and flickering amber glow. He gazed around the room for a few seconds, noticing the lack of the familiar white haired boy that usually shared this space.

He left his broom by the door and trotted up the staircase to Draco's room. He didn't bother knocking, knowing that he probably wasn't there. True enough; he wasn't, his room dark, cold and empty. He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

He was about to turn and leave, when his eyes caught sight of a piece of parchment lying on Draco's bed, covered in the werewolf's near and graceful cursive. He picked it up, eyes flickering across the words written in ink.

Dear Harry,
As you probably know, I was in the hospital wing yesterday, because I exhausted myself of magic in my apparation lesson. I'm as good as a muggle right now, so being at Hogwarts right now is a bit pointless. I've gone home to Grimmauld Place for awhile to recover, but I'll be back in time for my apparation test.
Love you,
Draco.
P.S. look after yourself while I'm away. If anything happens, owl me immediately.

Harry stared at the paper for a few more seconds, blinking stupidly at it. Draco wasn't even here right now because he was back with Remus and Sirius.

Then his mind found its way to the more important question. How on earth had someone like Draco managed to exhaust all of his magic? It was unheard of, simply not possible. Draco was one of the most accomplished people in magic he'd ever known; he'd been able to perform extremely advanced spells at a very young age.

With his condition recently though... was it really such a surprise? His constant coughing, vomiting, nightmares, tiredness... the list went on.

Harry sighed, walking down the stairs and back up to his own room. He needed to get a shower and a change of clothes, before going to meet with Dumbledore.

******

Harry felt like these meetings were never going to end.

He felt like he'd walked these halls a thousand times, seen this gargoyle a thousand times, walked up these stairs a thousand times and watched this creaky door swing open a thousand times.

With every meeting, every glimpse of the past Harry laid eyes on, every speck of memory answered a question. But more often than not, these memories yielded more questions than answered, and in turn, answers often just turned into questions.

He pushed open the door tiredly, closing it behind him. Dumbledore was standing by the pensieve, the large room otherwise empty. Harry frowned, looking around. Where were Credence and Newt?

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore acknowledged his presence, even though Harry knew he had probably heard him coming up the stairs.

"Where's the others?"

"They're away at the moment, off on a trip for the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore said cheerfully, picking up a glass phial filled with what Harry recognised as memories. "Have you gotten the memory from Slughorn, yet?"

"No," Harry said shortly. "I've had a lot on my mind recently, in case you didn't notice."

"I can assure you that I did notice," Dumbledore said calmly. "But I would have thought you'd be able to spend a bit more time getting that memory."

Harry glared. "The first time I tried to ask I got shot down, and the second time my best friend was poisoned," Harry snapped. "Then Draco collapsed. With everything that's been going on here, it's difficult to think straight, let alone try to force a memory out of Slughorn."

"I understand that," Dumbledore replied, uncorking the bottle. "It is vital, however, that we get this memory. It may be the clue to solving all of this, and finding out how to kill Voldemort." He poured the phial into the pensieve, Harry watching as the contents swirled around. "Well, after you."

******

Harry found himself standing in a house. It was a nice house, a pleasant change from the Gaunt's house that they'd visited many times. The place was spotlessly clean, the furniture expensive. A fire crackled in the fireplace underneath an ornate mantle, the large windows showing that it was snowing outside.

Harry soon spotted why the house was so clean; a house elf was dusting a large vase on a coffee table. It was shorter than Dobby, and from what Harry could tell, was female.

"Hokey!" A voice cried, a short, fat old woman toddling into view. She was dressed in vibrantly coloured robes, and was holding a knobbly wand. "He'll be here in a moment!"

Hokey, the house elf, nodded and set down the dusted. "Yes Miss Hepzibah," she squeaked, a knock on the door making the creature waddle over. She opened the front door, and Harry recognised the figure standing in the doorway.

Tom Riddle had changed a lot since Harry had last seen him. He'd grown taller, the tips of his midnight black hair nearly touching the top of the doorway. He was paler, too, skin looking like he hadn't seen the sun in centuries. His face was somehow different as well; morphed in a way Harry couldn't put his finger on. His eyes were darker, the look in them oddly predatory as he smiled at the house elf and the old woman, Hepzibah.

"Tom!" She said, pulling him into a hug, the boy standing somewhat stiffly and looking a bit annoyed. His smile was plastered right back on as soon as she pulled away, however. "How nice to see you!"

"The same for you," Tom replied. Harry frowned, having to admire his acting. He fit into society perfectly, acted exactly how people would expect him to act, and that fact alone was chilling. Anyone who'd met him throughout these years probably had seen a charming young man, gracious and polite, not a psychopath, who'd go on to become a mass serial killer.

"It's been such a long time since I've last seen you," Hepzibah said, sitting down on a huge plush armchair, taking up all the space as she picked up a cup of tea from the coffee table.

"I thought I'd pop in for a visit," Tom said, not touching the cup of tea in front of him as he sat down on a couch.

"Any particular reason?"

"I'm going away for awhile," Tom replied easily, examining his fingernails. "Thought I'd come and say goodbye."

"Travelling again, are you?" Hepzibah asked. "Well, before you go, I was planning on sending you an owl anyways. I came across something a few weeks ago that I thought you might like." She looked towards the house elf, who had been silent. "Hokey, go fetch it, would you?"

The house elf nodded, and rushed off into another room. They didn't have to wait long before she came back, holding a plain wooden box in her hands. She handed it to a Hepzibah, who smiled at her.

The woman opened the box, and pulled out what Harry recognised as a locket.

The pendant hung from a long silver chain. It was small, Harry barely able to make out the Slytherin crest on it, green emeralds encrusted into it.

"Is that what I think it is?" Tom asked, the predatory look in his eyes multiplying by ten as he stared hungrily at the object.

"It is," Hepzibah said proudly, happy to be bragging. "Slytherin's locket. Came across it at a market, ran some tests. Totally authentic, the silly old man was happy to give it to me for a few galleons."

"It's worth thousands," Tom said.

Hepzibah nodded. "And if you like this, I managed to get something else a few months back."

Almost as if this was a routine thing, Hokey returned from the other room again holding a glass case. Inside was a goblet, rather plain looking until Harry noticed the Hufflepuff crest on it.

"Hufflepuff's cup," Hepzibah said proudly. "Of course, this one was more expensive. The woman that sold it to me was aware of its value, sadly. Completely authentic as well."

Tom was eyeing both of them with a look Harry would expect a wolf to wear as it stalked a rabbit.

Harry was surprised as the whole world melted away, and he found himself standing back in Dumbledore's office.

"What happened after that?" Harry asked, watching as Dumbledore extracted the memories from the pensieve and put them back in the phial.

"Hepzibah was murdered, poisoned by her house elf. Her house was robbed, Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup taken. Tom Riddle was never there, according to Hokey."

"Wait, the house elf killed her?" Harry frowned. "No, Tom did it, right?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Tom killed her, and stole the artefacts. He altered Hokey's memory and made her confess. She passed before they could announce her innocent."

"So Voldemort stole the cup and the locket? I don't get it, why?"

"Tom always had an urge to steal things that were of value," Dumbledore said. "Ever since he was little, stealing things from the orphanage and other children. Of course, the things he stole when he was young were rather trivial, but they were what was valuable to him at the time. As time went on, his sights grew higher, until he was taking precious things like the locket and the cup. This will come into play later. Until then, we have another memory to go through before we wrap this up. One of mine, actually."

******

Harry found himself standing in the same office, right where he'd been standing before. For a moment, he thought it hadn't worked, and he looked to Dumbledore. Dumbledore didn't seem fazed, and was instead watching a figure sitting at his desk.

It was Dumbledore, but younger. He didn't look too different, he still had his wispy white hair and spectacles.

The door opened, and Dumbledore seemed to have been expecting it, as he didn't look up before speaking. "Tom," he said shortly.

"Professor," Tom replied, sitting down at a chair in front of the desk. He'd grown even more inhuman, if possible, pupils pinpricks in his eyes, a crazed look in them. He seemed sort of... blurry, not entirely there, as if parts of him were missing. "I trust you got my owl."

"Of course," Dumbledore replied, eyes shifting to finally look at the man in front of him. Harry could tell that he didn't like what he saw, his eyes narrowing very slightly.

"I saw that a teaching position has been opened up since Professor Merrythought died," Tom said easily. "Very tragic, I'm sorry for the loss." Hearing those words almost sounded like an insult, the way he spoke them so emotionlessly seeming mocking. "I've come to offer my services in taking up the post."

Dumbledore didn't seem surprised, not even batting an eyelash. "Really? Why do you want that position?"

"You know I've wanted to teach ever since I was a student here," Tom replied. "Defence Against the Dark Arts was always my favourite class, after all."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, putting down the large quill he'd been holding. He interlocked his fingers in the desk, seeming troubled. "I'm afraid I cannot offer that position to you, Tom."

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Tom's entire demeanour changed. Where there once was a charming young fellow, there was now a volatile demon from hell. "Why not?" He asked, clearly trying to keep his composure, voice like ice.

"I am sorry, Tom, but you're just not what we're looking for in that teaching position."

Tom frowned incredulously. "That's not a reason, surely."

"I do apologise," Dumbledore's voice was anything but apologetic. "Maybe try again in a few years."

"I think we should leave it here," the real Dumbledore said, both of them landing back in the present day Dumbledore's office.

"He wanted to teach, then," Harry stated. "Rather ironic, though, isn't it?"

"Quite," Dumbledore replied. "I refused him immediately. There were many reasons why, the main being that I didn't want him amassing the followers I knew he was trying to achieve throughout my students. He still succeeded, though, as I'm sure you know now."

Harry nodded, remembering Ron's words from his first year. There wasn't a witch or wizard in Slytherin who hadn't gone bad. Well, except Draco, that is.

"Well, I hope that was somewhat informative. Why, would you look at the time," Dumbledore said, oddly cheerfully. "Time for bed. I expect you to have that memory soon, Harry."

The vampire nodded, although internally he felt like telling Dumbledore to go and do it himself. "Of course, Professor. Goodnight."