Author's Notes: This fic is a sequel to my first fic, called Haven. I suggest you read it first, so that what follows makes the most sense. That and I think it's probably better than what will follow.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, settings, or spells. I am only borrowing them to entertain myself and a few others. Don't make me stop this car, do you hear me?


Chapter One - A theft and a shower

By Ivy Blossom


Albus Dumbledore awoke, suddenly, in the middle of the night. There had been no noise, no intrusion. He had been dreaming a happy dream where his students had learned how to summon their favourite historical figures, and William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer were having a lovely conversation about metaphor in the Great Hall. But something sinister had woken him. He sat up, sliding his feet into the slippers on the floor. He walked into his office, pulling a red velvet robe over his shoulders and holding his wand, glowing at the tip.

He walked over to a dusty corner of his office, hidden behind the phoenix perch and a series of stacked boxes with mismatched lids. He carefully dragged the door open. An umbrella, whose handle was shaped like a beagle's head, fell and smacked against the cold stone floor, shattering the careful silence. Inside was a small cupboard. He opened it, and picked up the umbrella, and hung the duck handle from the door.

"Thanks," it woofed.

"You're most welcome." Dumbledore whispered.

"All is not well, is it headmaster," the umbrella whined, with a touch of a howl.

"Something is amiss, unless I am very much mistaken." Dumbledore sighed. He looked into the cupboard.

Inside was a series of drawers with curved, opal pulls. Dumbledore hooked his finger around one roughly in the middle and pulled the drawer open, and took out the only object within it; a small wooden box. He tapped it with his fingers, whispered a few words, and its thick lid drew back. Dumbledore carefully removed a small piece of purple cloth from inside, and looked pensively into the box. He moved his wand closer, hoping his eyes were deceiving him in the dim light. Inside was a small, highly polished piece of amethyst, with a carefully-cut hole in the middle, shining in the glow of his wand. Dumbledore stuck his finger through the hole, feeling it resignedly hit the cloth at the bottom of the box.


"Come on, Harry," Draco complained, the tip of his epee pressed into Harry's canvas-padded chest. Draco had landed a hit twice in a row. "You can do better than that." He pulled the weapon up and held it gracefully in front of him, inviting Harry's attack.

Harry grunted, feigned and lunged, but Draco countered easily, and counter-attacked before Harry had a chance to parry.

"You're fighting like my grandmother." He had landed the point of his epee on Harry's sternum.

Harry sighed heavily, dropping his weapon on the mat beside him and pulling off his mask. "Hey, I hear your grandmother was a serious punter." Draco chuckled. The lunge had left Harry on his knee, and now he sat back on his heels, Draco's epee still pushed firmly against his chest. With his mask off, Draco saw the exhaustion written on Harry's face.

"Potter?" Draco asked, pulling off his own mask with his free hand. He dragged the epee up Harry's chest and pressed it coolly under his unprotected chin. "I know I'm good, but even I have to admit that I'm not quite this good. What's wrong?"

"I'm feeling a bit…distracted." Harry admitted, pushing the epee away from his chin. He stood and unzipped his jacket.

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays." Draco picked up Harry's epee, and slid it and his own into their sheaths against the wall. Harry was behaving as if he were having trouble remembering he was here with him at all, Draco thought as he pulled off his own jacket, and he found himself both annoyed and worried.

Harry sighed. "Let me take a shower." He pulled off his gloves and slapped them on the bench, avoiding Draco's eyes. "I'll explain over breakfast." He sounded positively morose. Draco harrumphed, but nodded. They had been fencing together a couple of times a week for the last four months, ever since Harry had come to find him at Three Broomsticks. The ritual went thus: Draco would arrive at the flat Harry shared with Ron at 7am, and together they would make for the Ministry gym, fence for about an hour, and then have breakfast together before they headed off to their respective departments.

Harry let the hot water pour over him for long moments, trying to forget, trying not to think about what was running through his head, trying to ease the pain searing him from his forehead, and twining its way through his arms and legs, wrapping tentacles around his lungs. The gymnasium was empty at this time of the morning; the early birds had already been and gone, and those coming to train for the Ministry wouldn't arrive for at least another twenty minutes. He soaped up his hair, watching the indistinct white suds swirl and disappear into the drain at his feet, trying to concentrate on them. Without his glasses he felt half in a dreamworld, and he was resisting slipping away into it. Images flashed before his eyes; he saw crowds of roaring men in black robes, demons with clawed feet, dismembered limbs, faces filled with fear, pools of blood. He tried to focus on the sensation of hot water on his skin, trickling down his thighs. He pressed his palms against the cold white tile in front of him, streams of water teasing soap out of his hair, clenching his eyes shut tight, blocking out thoughts he didn't have the energy to consider or face. It took far more energy than he had.

He felt warm hands on his back. Draco. Those hands stroked him, sliding wetly up to his shoulders, kneading them carefully, pulling some of the anxiety out of his body. They slid smoothly down his back, tracing his sore muscles, finding tension and massaging it out, slowly slipping down, resting on the back of his thighs. He felt a gentle kiss on small of his back. Those hands slid over his knees, and traced their way up his thighs, snaking around his hips. He felt Draco's thumbs firmly on either side of his spine, pushing evil thoughts out of him and sliding up to his shoulders, against the tide of the water. He felt familiar lips on his earlobe, a warm, wet chest pressed into his back. Harry sighed, leaning back into those arms, that calmingly solid body behind him, smelling of fresh soap and the musky scent that was so reassuringly familiar to Harry now. The images in his head receded as he melted into Draco, as though he were all that existed in the world. Those blurred arms encircled him comfortingly, well-groomed fingers glided over his chest and stomach, traced over his hips, small kisses landing on the nape of his neck. He felt himself relax, cradled in those arms. His fingers caressed one of Draco's biceps as his hands slid across his abdomen, shutting his eyes and leaning his wet head back against that firm shoulder. Ah, Draco. Harry turned, wet feet on the slippery tile, pressing his lips against Draco's smooth neck, moving to wrap his arms around him. He moved his head to kiss his lips, smiling apologetically (Why didn't I just tell him on the way over this morning?), when his face dropped at what he saw. Standing in front of him was Voldemort.

Harry screamed, backed away, watching Voldemort sneer at him, reaching out his blackened fingers to rip his skin. He knocked his back into the faucets against the cold wall, slipping on the wet tile, still trying to back into the wall. He heard his skull make contact with the floor, and everything went black.

Terrified, Draco watched Harry collapse in front of him. Something was terribly wrong. He pulled Harry's face out of the water, dragging him carefully out of the shower stall. There was blood dripping from his temple, and from two very ugly-looking welts in his back where he had slammed himself into the faucets. Draco felt guilty. He had finished his shower, and had seen Harry looking desperately sad, his fists clenched against the tile. He had never seen Harry so wracked with…with…what? Fear? Sadness? Dread? Partly Draco was afraid that it was him, that Harry wanted to be done with him. Perhaps that was what he wanted to tell him. Malfoy, it's too much, I can't spend time with someone I don't trust. Or perhaps it would be: Draco, it's been fun, but I'm seeing someone now. Someone who hasn't been a Death Eater. I know you'll understand. Partly he had entered Harry's shower to comfort him; partly he had entered to remind Harry what he was like when he was tender, to plead with him, to find out if Harry would rebuff him. And he hadn't, Draco was certain he hadn't. Why was Harry suddenly so frightened of him? What had he done?

"Harry?" he said, looking into his face. "Come on, Harry wake up…" He felt Harry's pulse, felt his breath against his face. He heard a door shut at far end of the change room, and shouted, "Hey! Hey, help! Get a doctor, quickly! He's…he's hurt!"

"Draco," Harry groaned. "I'm okay." He felt as if he'd just crushed his head in a vice. He was lying down, his back wet on the cold tile, burning and sore. For a moment his mind was still, but he body was aching. Draco was hovering above him, looking nervous.

"What just happened?" Draco was panting from the rush of adrenaline to his head, still kneeling on the floor beside Harry.

Harry sighed heavily, and coughed. He squinted and rubbed his nose. "I thought you were…someone else, I saw someone else, when I looked at you." He sat up, feeling blood rushing to his head, grabbing Draco's shoulder for support. He put his hand to his forehead, rubbing his scar, and then saw the blood.

Draco was afraid to touch him, but wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting the suddenly faint-looking Harry. "Who did you see?"

Harry hesitated. "I saw…I saw Voldemort."

Draco cringed. "Harry, this thing you're not telling me…" Harry turned to look at him, blood dripping down his face.

"I should have told you this morning. Last night, Draco…last night my scar started…" He gasped. Images were shooting through his mind; Voldemort's twisted face, blood, singed skin, his mother's bloodied thigh, Cedric, face down in the mud, and more, and then more, rushing before eyes until he felt as though he were spinning. "I haven't slept, I…" He stopped, not even sure what to say next. There were still horrid images flashing through his mind. I'm scared Draco. I know that he's back. I don't know how, or why, but I know that he's back, and he's angry.

Draco's face was grim. "Let's get you home. We have to speak to Dumbledore."

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