Night is silent at Hogwarts. The moon lends a bluish tinge to stone and wood--a pale whisper of light through the open window, sparking his hair to silver. A gentle breeze from outside--it must be sweet. It must be... But when he opens his mouth he tastes nothing.

Nothing.

Draco turns back to the bed. Curtains are drawn around it, but he knows who sleeps there--recognizes the pattern of breaths as intimately as his own. The other beds are likewise thrumming with quiet breath and quieter dreams. Such peace here. Such peaceful dreams.

He slips through the curtains. The boy is silent on the bed--black hair almost blue in the darkness, surrounding the pale face like a shadow. Thin arms are curled under the pillow--legs slender under soft pyjamas. Eyes closed, dark lashes shielding what Draco knows is a blinding green--green that somehow shines forth even in darkness, when by rights it should be black. For a moment he is tempted to wake the boy up, just to see...

No.

He knows the rules. The rules of these nightly visits--the rules of his silence.

The boy's breath is warm. Draco is drawn to it, mesmerized. A halo of warmth, an assurance of life. So stubborn and fragile. He extends pale fingers to hover above the parted lips--shivers at the warm puff that heats him. So close... He finds himself leaning down. Bringing his face closer to the heat of the other's... so pale in the darkness, incandescent like a flame. Merlin, I've needed this for so long... He scrutinizes that familiar face from this angle, dark where his is light, curved where his is hard, lashes black where his are white. A mirror of opposites. The mouth with its familiar, crooked innocence.

His hand lifts to touch the boy's face lightly. So lightly--Draco knows the other will barely feel it... only two fingers against the soft warmth of skin. For a moment something strikes him as wrong--the boy's face is too young, too--...

But then his mouth is hovering above the other's, and he is dangerously close to forgetting. Close enough to feel the ripple of moist heat from the boy's mouth... He shudders and closes his eyes. Slowly, slowly, he lowers his lips to touch the other boy's. Barely brushing. Barely there. Feather-light and so so warm... he increases the pressure slightly.

The body beneath him stirs a little, but Draco is already lost. So soft the lips beneath his, soft as vair... For the first time in so long, he is able to feel. To taste. He feels the mouth beneath his shiver, as if with cold. He runs his tongue over it slowly, tenderly, mapping its contours with aching care, the soft ridges that mark its beginnings and its end, the almost imperceptible brush of soft hairs on the upper lip. Not yet coarse. Still smooth with youth--soft, warm velvet. Draco smiles against them, brushing them gently with his mouth.

'Mmhmm...'

Startled, Draco pulls away. The boy lifts a hand to wipe at his mouth distractedly--mumbles something again--and turns over.

There is a heartbeat of silence. Draco stares at the boy, for a moment disbelieving that he has failed to wake him up--

But then he remembers.

Shock stabs him. A shudder of a different kind wracks him now. It cuts his chest, from the inside, with a cold more relentless than that of the night outside. The night that he knows is cold, even though he cannot leave this castle, cannot venture out... cannot feel through is heart or his eyes or his fingers. Cannot wake this boy from his peaceful sleep. Peaceful as it shouldn't be, as it never was...

He looks down at the child's face, dark hair now fallen away from the forehead.

A forehead that bears no scar.

His hands clench--shock still reverberating through him, but quieter now, in ripples that fade away. He realizes that he is crying--silently, like everything he does these days. A vow of silence. He knows he is crying, although the tears are not cold on his face. Although his vision is not blurred. Although his face will not be wet should he raise his hand to touch it.

Draco slips past the curtains again. Surveys the other beds--those with open drapes show small bodies, thrown in the carelessness of sleep, wrapped in cocoons of blankets like larvae. Just children. It occurs to Draco that he should be comforted, that such a sight should bring him gladness.

But instead it fills him with a deep, echoing silence--until he feels like a well, carrying the sounds of these boys' breaths and their dreams as if they were his water. It weighs him down. He opens his mouth as if to speak--but it is only pretend, only pretend. He wraps his arms about himself--feels his own fragility. He is a bird of moonlight. If any of them wake up now, they will see how brittle he is--they will see how he flees even from his memories. How pale he is, like porcelain, and how breakable.

He leaves them. Descends the staircase to a room rich with reds... or at least it used to be, in his memory. Now it is a landscape of shadows, dark and looming. The Gryffindor common room, with its cold fireplace and its empty couches. No one waits here, with a book open on their laps. No one turns their head up to meet his kiss--no one smiles when he runs his fingers through dark, silk hair.

Morning arrives--sallow and light as a feather. He feels it first through the tremors in the walls, as if the entire building is a lumbering beast coming slowly to life--with students beginning to pulse in its hallways like blood in its veins--their footsteps beating a quick, loving rhythm within the stone of its body. Hogwarts. Draco had always thought it sounded like the name of a beast.

Breakfast will begin soon. Suddenly, he has a flash of memory.

Strolling into the Great Hall, lined with Gryffindor flags--his spitting insults to the table of that House, taunting them to try and win the Cup again this year. The comforting scent of poached eggs and fresh bread. The rough wool of his robe against his neck. The green eyes he meets from across the hall--green eyes the colour of envy, the envy he feels. Green eyes the colour of hatred. Green eyes the colour of Slytherin. The name that trips so easily from his tongue--so conveniently guttural, as though it was made to be spit out. He looks at those sharp elbows resting on the table--he knows those elbows--they have prodded him often enough as he races alongside for the Snitch. He knows those hands, too, roughened from Quidditch yet ridiculously small. He knows that face. The wisp of dark hair that always curls the wrong way from the boy's forehead. He knows that famous scar--he knows its shape against his fingers, against his skin. Engraved. He knows that stubborn chin. He knows that throat, soft under the loose collar. He knows the cool metal of those horrible Muggle spectacles. He knows that mouth. He knows that mouth so well. He knows that tongue.

It hits him, all at once, and he slumps against the walls. Dimly he realizes that his hands are trembling.

Morning has arrived, he reminds himself harshly. Morning. Breakfast.

Draco knows he should make an appearance, like the others are expected to do. It's a formality--it is almost, considering Hogwarts' obsession with traditions, a necessity. But he knows it is pointless. Only to give the students something to talk about--the first-years something to fear, the seventh-years something to scorn. He knows he is an embarrassment--with his never-ending silence, his refusal to answer questions. It strikes him as ridiculous and hateful, that the girls find him beautiful--so pale, so distant, so melancholy. It strikes him as hateful that anyone should wish to see him. His tall, silent figure parting the crowd--his blank, pale eyes. He knows they look dead. Why should anyone want to speak to him? Why should they want to ask him questions? He doesn't have any answers. They must know that by now. He never did.

No. He won't go today either. Let them make what they want of it. All he wants is to be left alone. He doesn't want to see that boy over breakfast--that boy with no scar, with green eyes devoid of fire, with a face more innocent than it should be. The child he had kissed last night, but had not awakened. He feels sickened thinking of it. Of his foolishness--that he had managed, for a moment, to forget. That the remembered taste of lips would have fooled him into believing he could still taste anything at all. That the memory of another had superimposed over the reality of this... child. This mere child.

Suddenly, he hears a loud clatter of footsteps down the hallway. This hallway.

Startled, he tries to pull back. But he is too late. Two figures run into him--through him--leaving that cold, painful static to prickle over his arms and legs. He rises quickly, hovering above them. His cloak billows in a nonexistent wind. They have come to a sudden halt--have turned around to stare at him. Two Ravenclaws, he sees. A boy and a girl. First-years.

He stares back at them, out of sheer surprise--pale eyes wide. He can feel their hearts thudding. He knows it, in some indefinable way. The throb of life. Its warmth.

Slowly, he lowers himself back to the ground. After studying them for another moment, he slowly inclines his head and fades into the wall.

The stone surrounds him like a cold blanket. As he goes through it, he can still hear their words.

'Who was that?' An awed voice--the smaller boy's.

'Oh, that.' The girl is obnoxious in her confidence now that Draco is gone--but Draco knows that she felt a shock of terror when they had run through him. 'Don't mind him. He's just Draco Malfoy.'

'Who?'

A frustrated sigh. 'You know. Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin ghost.'

Draco can almost feel the Ravenclaw boy blink owlishly. 'How come he wasn't at breakfast, then? Or at the Sorting?'

There is a shuffling sound of books being picked up. They must have been dropped in fright. 'He doesn't show himself very often. He just lurks around. He's kind of creepy, but he doesn't really do anything. I think the other ghosts are embarrassed of him.'

'I should think they'd be proud, if he behaves himself like that.'

'He's not behaving himself, silly. Ghosts are supposed to scare people. And, you know, take an interest. He doesn't. He doesn't help the teachers if any student's out after hours. He doesn't do anything. But you know what's really embarrassing?'

'What?' Their voices have dropped to a whisper, as if automatically sharing a secret.

'He doesn't haunt Slytherin at all! That's why the other ghosts laugh at him. You know, my sister--she's in third year--she says they often see him hanging about the Gryffindor common room, but then he disappears if anyone catches him.'

'Fat good he's doing being the Slytherin ghost then.'

'Exactly.' The girl sounds smug. 'Pity he's the only Slytherin ghost. There used to be another one, I think--some Baron something--but he was absolved many years ago. Malfoy's the only one left.'

'I sort of feel sorry for him.' The boy's voice is reflective.

The girl scoffs. 'For Malfoy? Don't be. My sister tells me he had a Fidelius charm--he was supposed to keep silent to protect the lives of five people. You know, in the War Against Dark. Harry Potter said he could be trusted.'

'Harry Potter? The Harry Potter? Sirius Potter's father?'

'Yes.' The girl is impatient. 'Those five people, I think they were Harry Potter's family. Some Black, I think he had the same name as Sirius, and there was a werewolf... a few others I can't remember. I've got to read up on that.'

For a moment she sounds remarkably like another swot Draco used to know...

'So you see,' she continues, 'he gave it away. He betrayed them. My sister says he got fooled into telling the wrong person the charm, but really, how stupid can you get? She tells me he was betrayed too, but still... Anyway, he doesn't speak anymore because of that. Not to anyone.'

'That's silly though. I mean, if he made a mistake...'

'A mistake that killed people, idiot. I don't think everyone's forgiven him about that. They didn't find out it was a mistake until after he'd died anyway. But it is silly, yeah, not speaking to anyone. It's too late to keep the Fidelius now. I mean, what can he do?'

Draco hears the soft slapping of shoes as the pair start walking again--at a more sedate pace this time, probably wary of running into more apparitions. He realizes that he is colder than ever in the stone--it spreads through him slowly, like a familiar ache. What can he do? Draco's mind echoes. What can he do?

The boy sighs. 'Still... I guess it's good he doesn't show himself very much. I mean, it'd be a bit hard on Sirius to see him, even though his Da's still alive. It's good he's in third-year now.' He pauses. 'Hey, d'you think that's why he haunts Gryffindor? The ghost? 'Cause Sirius is there?'

'I don't know.' The girl has become quieter. 'He doesn't bother anyone, really. He doesn't say anything. I don't know. But I don't think he wants revenge or anything.' Their voices start to fade slightly as they move farther away from Draco. He could follow, unseen, but he finds himself frozen. His mind keeps echoing their words hollowly--but perhaps that's because he's in a wall, and he's taken on the strangely echoing quality of stone. I don't think he wants revenge...

There's a sudden halt to the footsteps. 'But why... I mean, how come he doesn't have... you know... any blood on him? All the other ghosts have blood...' Typical curious Ravenclaw, that boy.

'Oh, that's because he didn't get killed like that. I mean, with swords or even normal magic. He didn't get wounded.' Draco notices, distantly, that the girl sounds much more pleasant now that the fright of seeing him as worn off. Less bullying.

'How'd he die then?' The footsteps start again.

'My sister tells me it was the Killing Curse. You know. The Ava... The Ava...'

'The Avada Kedavra,' the boy states confidently. 'I heard my Da talk about it. He's an Auror, you know.'

'Yeah, that curse.' The girl sounds displeased that she should have been upstaged. 'The Ava... The Avada Kedavra.'

'Did Voldemort kill him?'

So easy to say that name now, Draco thinks. So easy. So pointless. He is reminded, suddenly, of the peaceful silence of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. The silence that filled him with pain. No more nightmares to be had there, he thinks. No more Dark Lord. No one crying out in the night, waiting for Draco's arms. Draco's comfort.

'No.' There is smugness in the girl's voice now--she wants to prove again that she does know something the boy doesn't. Draco knows she wants to stick out her tongue, but is controlling herself.

The boy's exasperated sigh is almost too soft to hear. 'Who killed him then? Come on...'

Their heartbeats and voices are moving even farther away, and Draco has to strain to listen. Suddenly, he wants to hear the answer to that question. He knows it, he knows it, he remembers. But he wants to hear it. Somehow, to make it all real again... Stop him from drifting. Get him down again. To earth. He wants to be hurt again. He wants to hear that cold voice, uttering the curse--he wants to remember the green mist, glistening and beautiful, and burning like fire, that had wrapped around him gentle as an embrace. He wants to remember.

Who killed him?, he echoes from the wall. Who killed him?

The girl chuckles. 'Oh, don't you know? Can't you guess?' Her voice sends prickles along Draco's spine--a painful thrumming in his ears, of phantom blood. He feels panic rise in his chest.

Who killed him?, he echoes. Who killed him?

The boy doesn't deign to needle her this time. He can't guess the answer. But Draco knows the girl wants to tell him anyway--she's waiting, waiting for the boy to admit his ignorance. Speak, he urges silently. Please speak. The prickle grows from his spine, running along his jaw, stinging his eyes and hands. Draco can feel the boy's indrawn breath. Speak. He begs. Please speak.

'OK fine,' the boy huffs. 'I don't know. OK? Just tell me.'

Draco closes his eyes--behind them, he can almost feel the heat of tears. Almost. Who killed him?

The girl chuckles. 'Alright then. You should have known. It's Harry Potter of course. Harry Potter who killed him.'

Their voices fade further as they walk away. Draco can no longer hear them. Blood is roaring in his ears. It doesn't exist of course, his blood--but it roars anyway--deafens him. The stone is swallowing him up. It moves against his back and chest like smoke, like mist, insubstantial yet real. Almost like his tears--like the one's he'd cried last night--they were insubstantial as well. But now Draco doesn't cry. His heart has gone silent, buried in stone. The cold from the wall has taken root in him--sprouted in his veins--and there is no living heartbeat nearby to remind him that there is life.

There is only the green fire, the green fire of the mist, that had almost seemed to bloom from those green, green eyes... Green the colour of hatred. Green the colour of love. Green the colour of death. The voice echoes through his chest, his bones--that cold, unforgiving voice. Speaking those final words. Calling him by another name. Betrayer.

Speak again, his mind commands, and its voice, too, is unforgiving.

Speak again. Who killed him?