Pairings: Draco/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Neville/Hannah.

Content/Warning: This is a hurt/comfort fic. It's not terribly angsty, but there are still things that can potentially make some readers uncomfortable. So, here you go: PTSD, OCD, Memory loss, Mildly dubious consent, finding oneself, healing/recovering, Pensieve, romance, getting together, smut.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the propriety of J.K Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholatic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's notes: This is the story I wrote for the Harry Big Bang fest on Live Journal. It took me fourteen months to write, on and off, and it was very, very intense. There are many people I'd like to thank because this story would have been very different if not for their input and support during this long journey. So many, many thanks to CleopatraIsMyName, Iwao, Firethesound, QueenieMab, Lettered, and the mods for the Harry Big Bang fest, Writcraft and QueenieMab.

Art: Iwao drew wonderful art to go with the fic and you can find it along with the story on my Ao3 account.

Posting: There are 12 chapters + an epilogue. I will post one chapter every day.

You will find quotes from the books (Chamber of Secrets, Order of the Phoenix and Deathly Hallows) in chapters 7 (7.1 and 7.7) and 9 (9.2)
Title comes from the song 'Thinking Out Loud,' by Ed Sheeran.

Kiss Me (Under the Light of a Thousand Stars)

PART I - AUTUMN

"Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return.
With us time itself does not progress. It revolves.
It seems to circle round one centre of pain."
Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

CHAPTER ONE

- DRACO -

- I -

September to December 2002
I find huge comfort in the routine that has been my life for so long I could not remember precisely when I arrived here if my life depended on it. My laugh sounds mental even to my own ears. But there's nothing funny in it, and I know it.

I open my eyes on the same dirt-grey ceiling every morning and stay like that for hours, lying on my narrow bed, hands under my head, letting my eyes wander on every crack and indent of the irregularly flat surface, letting it tell me the stories of those who had been there before me. I know its patterns so well that I could draw them by heart.

I sometimes do. Whenever I come across a crumpled piece of paper that must have fallen from some guard's pocket, I take my time, spending hours just trying to flatten the rebellious piece of paper until it's almost as good as new. After that, I hide it in a small slit in the wall, right behind my bed, being extra careful not to spoil it. It is too precious for me to risk losing or damaging it. I put it there and excitedly wait for the next day to retrieve it. The anticipation of it all makes it hard for me to sleep, those nights. And when morning finally comes, I go very slowly. My hands almost shake with anticipation at the thought of having something exciting to do and I have to brace myself not to rush behind the bed and take it out before everything else has been taken care of.

First, I have to get up. Once again, I try not to rush things, unwilling to ruin the moment. My movements are slow and precise. I first let my left foot reach down to touch the ground, at the exact same spot every morning. I can feel every rough patch under the soles of my feet. There is a huge bump on which my left heel comes to rest and then, further away, at the base of my toes, a series of three smaller ones that fit the sole of my foot perfectly. Then I send my right foot next to the other one, and once again feel the familiar rough surface underneath. At the same time, I lift my upper body so that I'm in a sitting position.

I then wait a minute before standing up. I take three steps (left foot, right foot, left foot again) and reach the washbasin. I open the tap with my left hand and count to thirteen until the water starts flooding in, along with the rickety sound of the pipes. I count again to eight this time, for the water to change colour, from deep brown, to yellow before it is finally of an acceptable colour. It is not clear, though. But it is good enough. I splash my face with the water twice, and the coldness of it helps me get my thoughts straight. Or so I tell myself. I grab the brown towel on the right-hand side of the washbasin, and it is so rough that it could stand on its own – I tried that once, and spent days on end counting how long it could stand up before falling down. My personal record is two thousand and fifty eight seconds. I wipe my face with it and then feel my hands shaking in anticipation again, and it feels almost as good as the real thing.

But it's not time, not yet. I have to make my bed. First the grey-stained fitted sheets, then the proper sheet and then again, the brown blanket. I carefully tuck them together in the bed, concentrating to make sure every piece of cloth is right in place, from the foot of the bed up to the head. I can feel the cleft forming between my eyebrows as I finally manage to flatten the whole thing.

I hastily slide my fingers in a claw in the slit, retrieving the precious piece of paper, and stare at it for a long while. Two of its sides are regular while the other one isn't. It's been torn from somewhere. I stroke it with utter respect, revelling in the softness of it. It feels like silk under my fingers. Then I put it flat on top of the mattress.

I reach for another secret stash behind the toilet seat and take a broken pencil lead that's about half an inch long, and I hold it hard between my thumb and my index finger, being extra careful not to drop it. I then very delicately place it on the piece of paper and get on my knees on the floor. I close my eyes to contain my excitement and force myself to count up to twenty before opening them again.

The moment I have been waiting for is finally here. I grab the pencil lead between my thumb and index again, and bring it to the piece of paper.

I hear a click on my left but decide to ignore it. It can wait. I have things to do. Another click is followed by a couple of steps and I make an angry noise in the back of my throat. No, not now. I'm busy. But they don't seem to care about that. They roughly grab my left arm and I panic as I feel the lead of pencil escaping my fingers. No! I try to say, but the sound of my voice remains stuck deep in my throat. I haven't spoken words out loud for months. I manage to grab the piece of paper with my right hand before they take it away from me and hold it tight in my clenched fist. Oh, no! What do they want from me? Why won't they let me have my fun? I haven't bothered anyone? Why are they doing this to me?

I stumble as they try to get me out, shoving me past the bars and I put all my body weight into the struggle. No! Don't take me out! No! What do they want? I hear one of the guards talk about me like I'm not even here.

"Fucking bastards! We're trying to set them free and they always give us a hard time!"

Free? I don't want to be free! I want to stay here! I can't leave here! I want my narrow bed, with my brown blanket, my washbasin and its rough towel, my cracked ceiling and the rough cold floor! Nothing else! I don't want out, no! Please don't take me out!

My body starts shaking uncontrollably and they're really starting to lose their nerves now. I can feel it.

"I don't even know why we bother with this scum. Should let them rot here."

I agree, oh Merlin, I agree. Please leave me here! I feel something wet running against my cheeks and it takes me a second to realise these are tears. I haven't felt anything like that in years. I turn my head so fast I hear my neck crack, and I feel slightly dizzy, but I want to take a look at my home. I look at it as I cry, desperately trying to memorise every single thing in it, but soon they take me away and it's all over.

I stop fighting. I stop crying and obediently let them take me wherever they want. They drag me by my arms and my bare feet get badly scratched on the rough flooring but I don't care. I retreat into myself, making my mind blank and trying hard to bury my soul deep inside of my body.

When they finally stop, I find myself pushed inside a brightly-lit room, with white bare walls, a table and two wooden chairs on either side of it. They force me down onto one of them and I slouch on it, staring at the ceiling, trying very hard not to panic. It is dangerous here. I don't know here. I want to go back. Please take me back! But it's too late. I curl up on the seat, bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Maybe if I make myself small no one will see me? I hear a swishing sound and someone appears out of thin air in front of me. The surprise of it washes the panic away from my system and is soon replaced by curiosity. I look at him.

The first thing I notice are his eyes. Bright green. Hidden by huge round glasses. Then his hair. Messy and dark. His face is hard, his lips pinched tight, and his fists clenched at his sides.

He stands there still and for a moment I'm afraid he has been petrified. But then his chin trembles. His eyes search mine and I look into his as well. They are watery and red around all the green, as if he has just spent hours underwater. He sends me a last look and disappears with another whoosh.

I close my eyes, and start slowly moving back and forth in a rocking motion, wishing the outside world away.

I want to go back to my cell.

There's another swishing sound and I think for a second that he is back again but he isn't. It is a woman with long robes, and she holds a stick in her hand. She moves it about me and murmurs something like "Dormiscere" and a warm energy washes over me, wrapping itself around my body.

My eyes shut, and everything turns black.

- II -

I open my eyes and close them again. One lid, then the other, very slowly. I try again, but no matter how slow I force my eyes open, this is definitely not the dirt-grey ceiling of my cell. No. This one is so white and smooth that it almost hurts. I shut my eyes tight again, count up to three, take a deep breath, and open them again. Nope. Definitely not the ceiling of my cell.

And what about this soft thing my body is lying on? That is not my bed either! Where are the grey-stained fitted sheets? And the brown blanket? And what is this place? Not a single sound, no clicking sound, no heavy step, no weeping, no whispering… Where am I? What am I doing here? My heartbeat is racing so fast that I'm afraid my heart will explode. My breathing is short and ragged, and my throat constricts and soon I won't be able to breathe properly and I will die and I-

He is standing right above me. Green eyes and messy hair. My breath catches in my throat. There's a soft pressure on my chest. His hand. He's put his hand on my chest, and is rubbing small circles on it. What is he doing? My body relaxes and I force myself to breathe more slowly.

He looks at me, his gaze intense, and this time, his green eyes are no longer watery and red. They are determined. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Malfoy…"

I frown. The name sounds familiar. I don't have time to dwell on it though, because he goes on. "I'm sorry, I am so, so, sorry." His hand clenches on my chest as he says the words. I look at him. I don't understand.

Why am I here? And who is this guy? Why have they brought me here? I wasn't hurting anyone there; why have they thrown me out? And then the panic rises inside of me. Like a monster full of a mighty rage, it courses through my body and I shake badly. I'm scared. Shitless. I can't stay here, I have to go! I try to get up but he doesn't let me. I fight as much as I can but he is way stronger than me. I hear him make a sound and see the stick in his hand, and I panic some more. NO! But before I can move again, it all turns black.

- III -

When I open my eyes again, it doesn't take as long as before to realise I am not in my cell anymore. I remember the guy with the messy hair and try not to panic again. Nothing good would come out of it. So I do what I know best. I cling to little things. The white ceiling. The soft linen beneath my left fingers. It is not home, certainly not, but it is not as foreign as it was before. It is almost familiar.

I take a deep breath and turn my head slowly to the side, taking in my surroundings.

The place is huge. And green. Dark green. It is a nice colour. Very different from grey and brown, but nice. There is a wooden chair in one corner and a door, closed, facing the bed. At the end of the bed is some sort of rectangular box, an old trunk maybe.

I close my eyes, count up to two-hundred-and-seventy-three and decide it is safe to turn my head the other way.

This side is different. There is one big hole in the wall. A window. It has no bars and a bright light comes through it, and I have to squint my eyes a little. On the left of the window, is a door, and it's open.

I let my eyes wander over the white ceiling again.

This is it.

I won't go back there ever again. I don't know how I know it, but somehow I do. Silent tears run down my temples.

I close my eyes and make everything go dark again.

- IV -

He is back again at my side, holding a tray with lots of things on it. It is very colourful. That's what strikes me at first. All these colours!

The food back there had many colours too, but they were mainly variations of browns and greys. I realise now how colourless my life was in there.

He puts the tray on the nightstand and I follow it with my eyes.

"You hungry?" he asks in a very soft voice above me. I look at him. There's something in him that fascinates me. I don't know why; he is nothing special. Maybe it's his eyes. They are so intense all the time!

After a while I let my gaze slowly move away from his face and turn my head again to the tray full of colours.

The food there was always the same. Every single day. It was good. Comforting. You knew what you were going to get every time, you knew what to expect. No surprises. And I liked it like that. I want that back. I don't want all these colours, they're too much.

I turn my head back to the ceiling and close my eyes. I want my home. I don't want to be here. I start shaking again and tears fill my eyes and my lips are trembling hard now. My fists are clenched tight again and that's when I feel it.

I open my eyes with a start, forgetting the rest completely, as I slowly move my right thumb inside of my fist. Oh Merlin, it definitely is here! I feel tears again, but different ones. These are no tears of panic, these are tears of joy, of utter elation. The paper! I still have it! My little piece of home. I stroke it with my thumb frantically over and over again.

A warm hand pressed on mine suddenly brings me back to present. I jerk violently as I clench my fist harder and try to remove my hand from his. No! Don't take it from me! It's home! Don't take it! But he doesn't. He just rests his hand on top of my clenched fist and a strange warmth fills me again. I breathe more evenly.

"I brought you food. Would you like to eat something?" His voice is deep and warm.

I don't know how to answer that. I'm hungry, but this is a bit too much. Overwhelming. I take a look at the tray and point at something I haven't seen any in quite a while. It is brown on the outside and white on the inside and sits on a round plate. My mouth waters at the sight of it. I want that. Yes. I look at him and nod.

Something akin to relief crosses his features and washes over him. He smiles and the edges of his mouth almost reach his ears.

"All right, then," he says, looking happy. "I'm going to help you sit, if that's okay with you?"

I nod and he slides his hands around my back and props a pillow behind it. He then takes the tray in his hands and lets it rest on my lap. I reach for the slice of bread and press a tentative finger on it. It sinks in. I look at him. He seems confused. I take my finger back and point at it instead.

"Bread? Is that what you want? Bread?" I nod again. He puts the tray back to the rectangular box and gently hands me the piece of bread. Brown on the outside and white on the inside. Nice, comforting, non-aggressive colours. And soft. I grab it a little bit too eagerly and put it all in my mouth at once. I choke. It's too big.

I take it out and decide to eat it bit by bit instead. He smiles again at my impatience. God, this feels good. I savour the long-forgotten taste of bread, and I savour the name of it, like an old memory coming back to me. It is quickly over and soon my mouth is empty.

He hands me a glass of water. Or so I guess it is water, because it is very different from the brownish liquid I had back there. This one is clear. Very clear. It looks amazingly pure. I grab the glass and bring it to my lips. God. This is good. So fresh! No after-taste of anything, just pure bliss. I empty the glass in one gulp. He takes it from me and puts it back on the tray.

"Would you like more bread?" More. Bread. Yes, definitely. I want more. I nod again.

"Right, I'll be right back. Don't move. I'll bring you some more bread," and he goes away, taking the tray with him. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I start counting again. I stop at two-hundred-and-fifty-nine when he comes back. I open my eyes again.

Bread. Loads of it. In a clear wrapping.

"There you go!" he blurts, a proud smile on his face.

I could get used to staying here if he stays with me and brings me bread. And clear water.

Maybe.

- V -

It strikes me like lightning. An incredible discomfort in my lower belly. I need to pee. Badly.

I can't get up. Not now. Too soon. But I certainly can't pee in here either.

I put pressure on my crotch, trying to suppress the pain. I try to think of something else, close my eyes, and start counting. But it doesn't work. I'm distracted. Panic creeps up. What can I do? I glance at the door near the bed. It is slightly open. I lift my head a little, trying to take a peek through the opening. There! A toilet seat. I let out a deep breath of relief.

I still have to reach it, though. And it seems incredibly far away. The uncomfortable sensation gets more insistent. I start shifting my legs, one after the other, trying to sit on the edge, willing my body to behave. It doesn't. It won't listen to my silent pleas.

I put a little extra effort in it and manage to sit on the edge of the bed. My body is stiff and my muscles slightly sore. It doesn't matter.

I count to forty-seven and try to put one foot on the floor. I jerk my foot back up at the sensation beneath my it. It's too soft and I miss the familiar bumps and indents of my cold rough floor. But I have no choice. I try again and give myself time to adjust to the alien touch. I wriggle my toes a little to take in the changes. I finally decide it is not too bad. I count to forty-seven again before I put my other foot down and give it time to adjust to the sensations as well.

I am not there yet. I still have to stand up. I press my hands firmly into the mattress and try to prop myself into a standing position. My head instantly turns dizzy and I have to close my eyes again to stabilise myself on my feet. It works. I take a deep breath, count up to twenty-two and open my eyes again. I can do it. I have no choice, the sharp pain in my lower belly is a constant reminder I have to move fast.

I take a hesitant step. Nothing bad happens, so I take another one with my right foot. I try to focus on the movements and forget the pain. My left hand is back on my crotch, trying to make my body wait a little bit more. I fix my feet and make them move. Left foot - right foot - left foot again. I reach the door and pause.

I take another breath, close my eyes again and pull it very slowly towards me with my left hand. When it is wide open, I narrow my eyes into very thin slits to gradually discover what lies beyond the door. I take in the sight. On the left is a washbasin with a mirror on top, on the far wall is a bathtub (a bathtub!), and right next to me, facing the washbasin is the toilet seat. Thank God!

I am so happy that I nearly relieve myself right here on the floor. I prevent it from happening by summoning all my inner willpower as strongly as I can and by crossing my legs tightly. I count again until the sensation passes.

I then will my feet to move again carefully, but I am not as conscientious as I should be, the need for release is too strong now for that. I turn my back to the washbasin and away from the mirror and stand in front of the toilet. I rest my fisted hand on the wall, my paper still safely tucked inside of it, and take my dick out of my pants with my other hand. I gasp as I finally let go and the tension leaves my body at once.

- VI -

No. I shake my head again.

No. I send him a dark look.

No. You won't force me.

No. I won't go in there.

I've made progress over the past few days. I can now get out of my bed without trembling too much and walk around it. I don't go far though. In fact, I barely ever leave the side of my bed. The only times I venture away from it are when I need the bathroom. Other than that, I keep to the bed.

I have a little routine. I love routines. They make me feel good. They keep me sane. I walk around the bed and count in my head, from the left side, to the right side of it, my hand never leaving the bedcovers. Sometimes, I feel a little braver and do it from the other side. But it feels wrong and is not comfortable so I get back to the normal way. I can do that for hours. It's good for my legs to get a little bit of exercise. And I just love the way the soft sheets feel under my fingers as I walk around the bed.

I've found a place for my paper. When I'm lying down on my bed, I simply have to slide my fingers between the mattress and the bed frame and there it is. I touch it a lot, to check it is still there, and it comforts me to know it is. It soothes me and I fall asleep every night with the feeling of it under my fingers.

I've improved with the food too. I still eat a lot of bread, but now he puts things on it. The first time he did that, it caught me off guard and I spat it all out on the sheets. He patiently gave me another one, and this time I observed it very closely. There was a thin layer of butter on it. Very greasy under my fingertips. Not a very nice sensation. I flicked my tongue out and licked it. It made him smile. It was slightly salty, but good. I licked most of it and then put the rest in my mouth.

After that, he started adding more things on the bread until one day I was able to eat something that looked much too big at first for my mouth, but which felt amazing. There were different colours, but that was okay, because they were not too bright. There was the bread, the butter, and a small slice of ham. And then another slice of bread. I had to admit it was tastier than I thought and I ate all of it. He seemed happy, and I like it when he is happy. It brings warmth all over my body.

But right now, he is not happy. Neither am I. He wants me to get into the bathtub but I don't want to. I keep my fingers tightly clenched on the door frame of the bathroom, as he tries to pull me in. I put all my weight against him.

My limbs are shaking now and sweat is running down my back. I don't want to go there. No, no, no. Not now. Too soon. I shake my head like a mad man. He sighs heavily and finally lets go.

"Fine," he mutters, and soon another kind of panic washes over me.

He's upset. I don't want him to be upset. I like it when he smiles at me.

I rush on my bed, curling myself up on it and gently rocking back and forth, my arms encircling my knees against my chest.

"Hey, that's okay," he says coming closer.

I close my eyes and start counting. I relax a bit. After a while - seventy-three - I feel a gentle pressure on my arm. His hand, warm and comforting.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. I open my eyes and raise an eyebrow. "I shouldn't have forced you."

He feels bad. I sense it. I don't want him to feel bad. I want his smile back on. I tilt my head and let my cheek rest on the hand on my arm. It is good. He jumps a little at the touch but it works. I look up and the smile is back on his face. Good. I close my eyes again.

- VII -

I am still wearing the same clothes I had back there. They're some sort of pyjamas, a bit rough but comfortable. They're a fading brown, the colour I got to like so much back there. But what is more important to me, is the smell they carry with them. They smell like there. And I need this smell. I need whatever takes me back there.

He has tried to make me take them off, several times, but I don't want to. I desperately cling to them.

I need them to remember back there. To remember home. Because I realise as the days pass that I'm slowly starting to forget about it all. I forget what the irregular patterns of the ceiling looked like. Or the way the floor used to feel under my feet. And it feels wrong. I don't want to forget about it. This is all I have.

It drives me crazy. I sometimes spend hours trying to remember little things from back there. Every time I remember a tiny bit of information, I repeat it over and over again in my head until I can't forget about it anymore. But it is hard. My head seems almost overcrowded with pieces of information.

I surprisingly don't stink. It's probably due to whatever he does every morning. Some kind of a ritual, almost like a dance. He has this stick in his hand, and he makes it swirl in the air all the while muttering incomprehensible words at me. I know that's what helps me get the sensation I'm clean. Since I refuse to wash, I guess there is no other option available for now.

I am content. It doesn't quite feel like home in here, but it's not too bad in the end. I thrive on the routines I have set up; I count over and over again in my head.

And then, there's him.

And his smile. God, that smile! I can't get tired of it, it makes me warm inside every single time. So I try to put it on his face as much as I can. I force myself to eat the odd things he brings to me. Some of them are juicy, others pretty sweet. It's not always easy. My stomach hurts pretty often. It is still not used to such variety. It is used to yellowish mash and tasteless brownish soup. Sometimes my belly hurts so bad I am afraid I won't make it to the bathroom. I flung myself in there, folded in two, arms clenched tightly around my sides, feeling incredibly dizzy. In the end, I manage to crumble on the seat, relieved, until the next time.

I'm starting to get used to the bathroom. I no longer get in there only to relieve myself, but start using the washbasin as well.

Like I did back there.

At first, it was a bit unsettling, because I didn't need to count for the water to arrive. And there was no rickety noise in the pipes either. It upset me. A lot. But then I got used to it and now I really like the feeling of the water spraying on my face. I keep it cold. I know I could use hot water if I wanted to, but I can't. It would be too strange, too foreign, so I stick to cold water.

I have a small white towel as well. I wasn't using it at first, because it was hanging on the left-hand side of the washbasin. But then, one day that I was probably feeling braver, I decided to take it with my right hand and use it anyway. After that, I let it rest neatly folded on the right side of the washbasin all the time.

I never look in the mirror, though. I'm not sure I would like the reflection in it. I avoid it at all cost. Funny how I don't even remember what I look like.

Sometimes I try to concentrate on the image of what I have been. But it all comes out in a blur.

Oh, well.

- VIII -

He starts visiting me more often now. I like it. He seems to like it too. I usually first hear his footsteps on the stairs, and my body trembles in anticipation. I count to four and then I see the handle go down. I sit on my bed, my knees to my chest, my feet bare, and my arms around my legs.

He steps into the room and then sees only me. He always has half a second of worry on his face but it is soon replaced by a huge grin. He's happy to see me. His smile always makes funny things to my body, like something inside of me suddenly starts to melt and courses all through it. It's warm. And cosy. And comfortable. It almost feels like home. Almost.

He takes the wooden chair from the corner and sets it right next to my bed. He then sits down and starts talking. He talks about lots of things, but mostly about me. About us. We used to know each other before, he tells me. In another life. When I was somebody else. When I was Malfoy and he was Potter. That's his name. Potter. Harry Potter. And mine is Malfoy apparently. Although Malfoy is always for the stories; at any other times he calls me Draco. I like the sound the two syllables make in his mouth. Dra-co. Something soft, like a promise.

So he tells me all about it. He tells me the stories of how we used to treat each other. There is a fondness in his voice although what he tells me is not always light and happy. I listen to him intently, my left cheek resting on my knees and my fingers drawing invisible patterns on the bedcovers. He tells me about other names too. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Blaise, Theo. Friends. My friends. I have no memory of any of them, of course, but it's good to know that I once had friends.

He also tells me about darker things. How once upon a time, there was this awful guy who killed many innocent people. And he killed him. Harry killed the awful guy. It was hard, many people died, but he killed him. And I helped. I feel good knowing that I helped. Something inside of me glows at the knowledge that I helped.

Harry says that I made some bad choices before but that I had been misguided when I was young, and that's why I had ended up there. I hate it when he talks about that. It makes him all sad, and I don't want him to be sad. I want his smile. I need his smile. And I don't know why he tells me all that if it makes him all sad and angry.

- IX -

"Ready?"

I nod. Finally, after weeks of refusal, I have got over my mind and decided it is time for me to take a bath. I am feeling much better, stronger, with all the good food I am now eating every day.

I am still not leaving my room though, I am way too scared of what might lie beyond its boundaries, but I am now wandering through it confidently, as if I have always fitted there. I still need to stroke my paper under the mattress every night, to check it is still there, but apart from that, everything that has belonged to my previous life starts fading away in a blur, and this dark green bedroom, along with its adjacent bathroom, is now definitely my new world.

Today is another big step. I know it, and Harry knows it too. We are both focused on succeeding. There is a slight tension in the air, and I am holding my breath. Will I be able to do it? I try not to think too much about what is to come, and remain concentrated on the present.

I first have to undress. And it is harder than I expected. These are the clothes I have been wearing for months, years even, and it is hard for me to part from them. I am standing next to the bed, my arms firmly clasped against my frail body. I know I have to do it, I know that this is important, but my brain can't seem to be able to order my body to comply.

"That's okay, Draco, you can do it."

I close my eyes and count. When I have reached three-hundred-and-ten, I open them again.

"Ready?" he asks with a smile.

I nod.

"Right, you can take it off, now."

I grab the hem of my pyjama top and slowly pull it up, revealing the pale skin underneath. I raise my arms up in the air and soon my vision is blocked by the fabric and my hands get stuck in the fabric and-

"You're doing great, keep going," he says and I let out a breath at the sound of his voice. I finally manage to remove the top completely and here I stand, naked to the waist.

He lets out a soft gasp and takes a step back and I am afraid for a second that I have scared him out. That my body is so ugly he only wishes to run away from it and hide.

"You're… God, you're- you're beautiful," he murmurs as his eyes roam over my chest. "Skinny, Merlin, very skinny, but incredibly beautiful."

I then proceed to remove the rest. I tuck my fingers in the elastic waistband of my trousers, and slowly shove them down. I struggle with the heels so he crouches and helps me lift first my right foot, then my left one, so that I can get out of them easily.

I remove my underwear and soon I am completely naked.

He gently takes my hand to lead me to the bathroom. He checks the temperature of the water, and winces. He murmurs something, holding the stick in his hand, and the water moves about before stilling again.

I know a little bit more about those things he does with his stick. A wand, he calls it. He tells me about magic, and how he and I are both wizards. It is funny. I had no idea. He explains to me that years and years of seclusion may have caused my magic to go away, but that it might come back one day. He shows me some basic tricks. Like how to lift small objects in the air to move them around. Or how to open and close the curtains from a distance. I must admit it seems pretty handy, and the thought of being able to do things like that one day appeals to me.

But now I have to focus on the bath and the hot water in it. I can do it, I know it. I just have to push myself a little. I have managed to overcome so many obstacles in the past few weeks that I feel confident I will succeed today as well.

He grabs my arm to steady me and helps me raise my right leg. When my toes come in contact with the water, I hastily take my foot out, losing my balance and nearly making us both fall on the ground. He manages to steady me again though, and after telling me encouraging and comforting words, I take a deep breath, count to fifteen, and try again.

This time I am more prepared and don't stop when the water touches my toes. I wriggle them in it for a while before letting my whole foot in. I sink it deeper and finally reach the bottom. I rest my foot flat on it. I have to shift my weight to be able to put my other foot in and once again, Harry helps me stabilise. I soon find myself standing in the bathtub.

"Well done, Draco!" he says, a proud expression on his face that fills me with joy. "Now bend your knees slowly, and try to sit down. Be careful, the heat of the water might surprise you, but you can do it." Thanks to his words of encouragement, I manage to kneel completely in the bathtub.

What I am feeling at that moment is beyond words. Just brilliant. The soft caress of the water on my skin is amazing. So relaxing. It is as if a whole new world has just opened to me. I close my eyes and focus on the sensations. I am clenching the edges of the bathtub tight, but slowly feel my fingers relax. I count in my head.

"Here is the sponge," he says, showing me a brown mushy thing. "You can use it to wash yourself."

I take it and let out a long breath at the touch of the sponge and the delicate scent of soap. I run it slowly on every single inch of my body, revelling in its gentle touch on my skin.

It's good. It's very good. It's so good that my body reacts in an unexpected way. Harry notices it at the same time as I do and his face suddenly turns deep red, a huge flush creeping up from his neck. He clears his throat and diverts his eyes.

I take another look between my legs. I am definitely aroused. It's a very weird feeling, perhaps the weirdest of all. It is something I have absolutely not felt for years and years. Back there, it never happened. Never, ever. And before? Well, I can hardly remember the before, so...

I soak in there for a while, and then Harry tells me it is time to get out. I would have stayed a bit longer, but that's fine. I have loved it. My very first bath in years. I hope it won't be the last and that I will be able to take more in the very near future.

- X -

No!

No, no, no, no, no, NO!

It's hot. Too hot. It's burning. And it's coming closer. Quick. Go away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Escape. No! Not this way! NO!

Oh no, Goyle! Crabbe! It's coming closer! Quick! Come on!

Can't stop it! Too hot! I'm going to die.

I don't want to die. Crabbe! NO!

Please don't let me die.

Harry.

HARRY!

Come, Harry! Rescue me, Harry!

Please, come!

HARRY! RESCUE ME!

- XI -

I open my eyes, but they don't meet the now familiar white and smooth ceiling. Instead, my right eye has difficulties in focusing and I feel something soft and hard at the same time under my cheek.

I slowly try to lift my head, but it bangs into something above and it makes a muffle sound. It hurts.

I am trapped. I feel panic slowly rise inside of me. The surroundings look familiar, and yet, they are different. What happened?

A familiar sound. Steps. I count to four. The door opens. Harry. I let out a breath of relief. Harry! I close my eyes.

"Draco?" he sounds worried. "Oh my God, DRACO?" I open my eyes again and see him run to the bathroom. I can see his feet from the floor and it looks funny. A small laugh escapes me.

"Draco?" he asks again, moving around very slowly. "Draco, where are you?"

His feet disappear for a second and are replaced by his hands and face. Our eyes meet.

"Thank Merlin, you're here!" he smiles, looking relieved. "What are you doing here?" he murmurs, but doesn't move. He lies down and we face each other. It feels good to be like that. Safe.

He holds out his hand and I stare at it for a while. Then I hold out mine, and our fingers touch. I close my eyes and let the warmth of his hand flow through my limbs.

He came.

Harry came.

Harry came to rescue me.