When Draco woke up, his body hurt. His head was reeling and he shook with every twitch or movement. "Harry?" he called, his voice cracked and his throat uncomfortably dry. "Daddy? Mummy?"

Laughing green eyes appeared above his face, followed by Draco's brain kicking into gear and he grinned. "Harry..." he breathed. "You're okay!"

"I'm okay, Draco. Do you need anything? Are your nerves okay?" Harry asked, lowering himself down to wrap his arms around Draco's stiff, twitching body and back off again. "Your dad's currently shouting a nurse, wondering why you haven't woken up yet and if she's damaged the Malfoy line or even his damn son she'll end up old and alone."

Draco chuckled. "Please could I have some water? No, they're shot to bits. That sounds like him. Is my mum here?" Draco took the condensed glass delicately and try as he might, he couldn't sit up without his legs cramping or his fingers twitching around the glass. "Um - Harry?" Pleading mercury eyes blinked and Harry smiled weakly, guiltily. He took the glass and set it aside, leaning over Draco and lifting him up, tugging him backwards until he was sat up and nestled in soft pillows.

"Your mum's currently screaming at the Medi-wizard for not having Professor Snape bring you a Cruciatus potion he made and the Medi-wizard doesn't know what's happening because he's not assigned to you." Draco cackled in laughter, his face lit up in amusement. "I'll go get them. Oh, and feel free to read the Daily Prophet, you little pleading Malfoy boy, trying to save his best friend's - the Boy-Who-Lived's - life in front of his own death, his mercury eyes set in determination, you."

Harry put it on his lap for good measure, the image of Draco slamming Harry out of the Cruciatus curse the front page. On repeat. Draco gulped but gave Harry an accepting smile. "Who took the picture?" Draco sneered. Honestly - surrounded by Death Eaters and they take a picture instead of saving their own skin.

DEATH EATER ATTACK IN DIAGON ALLEY, FORTY TWO DEAD

MALFOY BOY: GOOD OR BAD? SAVES BOY-WHO-LIVED

By Rita Skeeter

Draco cursed loudly, already knowing this article wouldn't be great for his father. But, somehow, over the holiday and receiving Harry's heartfelt gift and the letters and the sweets... Draco had made a friend. A close friend. Maybe even a best friend - and his father couldn't begrudge him that. He felt privately smug, though - he had made the front page of the Prophet!

Ladies and gentlemen, the events that transpired on the second of January cannot be forgotten. The horror that we felt as our beloved pub, the Leaky Cauldron, exploded into flames... As the Death Eaters, swathed in black and their masks as white as bone, stormed the path and sent people scurrying in fear. As one man, Professor Quirrell at Hogwarts, bravely took on several men before being blasted into a building.

As Draco Malfoy, Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy, pushed his friend, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, out of the way of the Torture curse and was held under it for a full minute. As moments prior he said, "Not Harry, sir. Please. Don't," and, the pleading Malfoy boy, trying to save his best friend's - the Boy-Who-Lived's- life in front of his own death, his mercury eyes set in determination; and the leader of the Death Eaters (we are suspecting a mimic, for our own Harry Potter destroyed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ten fateful years ago) sneered in his face. As his best friend, the Boy-Who-Lived, knocked one of the Dark wizards with a well-placed Stupefy.

As we all know, dear readers, the Malfoy family has been under investigation for several gruelling months; why, Lucius Malfoy was suspected to be a Death Eater at one point. But, as we can see, he raised a good boy. We are thankful for the courage of Draco Malfoy, for saving our own Boy-Who-Lived.

One does wonder, however, why young Harry Potter was permitted to use magic outside of school. The trace had been removed from his wand through the Ministry - but do not worry! I have spoken to the Minister and Lord James Potter himself.

"As a young wizard who destroyed such a dangerous man, the boy must allowed to be prepared!" the Minister had said.

"Harry is a gifted young boy, and he is permitted by law to defend himself and others; that meant the trace was removed and he could practice magic outside of school without being in trouble with the law." James Potter had to say, wearing new burgundy robes from the Wizards Weekly edition. Very dashing, I must say.

More on the attack on page four.

To see more about the heroics of the Forgotten Alley, turn to page three. We also managed to get a picture of Harry Potter valiantly protecting the fallen Draco Malfoy as the battle commenced.

"Disgusting." Draco scowled, wanting to push the paper away but his leg moved instead of his arm. "Forty two dead, and all they comment on is James Potter's bloody robes and my bloody 'heroics'."

"Completely agree, mate," James Potter chortled, standing in the doorway awkwardly. Draco belatedly realised he was in St. Mungo's, and that meant he had no privacy. Best keep my opinions to myself. "But, mate... Thank you." The man shuffled like a child. "For - y'know, saving Harry."

"I won't be doing it again," Draco sniffed, smiling slightly. "They didn't even tell the events right. His Stunner was rebounded so he set her on fire."

James coughed to cover a burst of laughter. "Harry's always been a fan of dramatics. But - yeah. Sorry about the whole 'you were meant to stay at my house not Saint Mungos' thing, too. Not part of the plan."

Draco snorted, and he gave James a massive grin. "I'd love to stay again, some time. It was fun."

"You're welcome to stay whenever you want. Well! I best be off. Now that you're awake, I'll be able to get Harry home."

Draco smiled again as the man left and his father shot in, dishevelled and in need of a shave. "I'm so sorry, Draco." Lucius murmured, sitting on the side of his bed and dragging his son close to his chest. "I didn't know you'd be going to Diagon Alley - I wasn't there, I didn't think - "

"It's okay, father," Draco said stiffly. "Good thing Harry was there, right?" Draco leaned up slightly to whisper in his father's ear. "I don't want to spy on them any more. I want him to be my friend."

Lucius laughed. "Your mother said that this would happen. Fine. Just - don't get too attached. Not after yesterday."

Harry stepped out of the fireplace and grinned at Charlie. "Hello again."

Charlie sneered. "Don't you ever - ever do that again. No going off with the Defence teacher because you couldn't find us, no antagonising Death Eaters that aren't afraid to cast the Unforgivables, and don't you ever leave me again."

"I didn't exactly plan a Death Eater attack, you know. And, besides - what's wrong with meeting Professor Quirrell? I was certainly with the right person for an attack; and besides, you didn't notice I was gone! I got pushed into Knockturn Alley and you just kept going! Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Charles." Harry hissed, a hot flash of anger swelling in his gut. He brushed past the shocked boy, his cloak thrown over his arm and his snake wrapped around his chest.

He flew up to his room, biting his lip in an attempt to dissipate the anger. How irrational was he being? He couldn't decide. He went over to events of the day - he had deliberately deceived his family and friends into believing that they had left him behind and that he had met Professor Quirrell in Knockturn Alley - the man had saved him and taken him to Diagon Alley. Quirrell had, surprisingly, come up with a similar story - very similar, except he also said they found the snake in Knockturn Alley and it had gone to attack Quirrell, so Harry stopped it. James was so proud that he was using his 'dark' gift for the 'Greater good'. And it was all a big lie. Maybe he was being a little irrational, considering the events never happened... But, at the same time, nobody had searched for him properly. Did they? He didn't know that, either.

He sighed, looking longingly at his books. He wanted to finish the Memory book, or even the Parselmagic book - but sorting out his poltergeist problem came first.

He opened his trunk and searched through the clothing, finding the pulsating book. He felt drawn to the mask when he had the book in his hands, but he shook his head and flicked to the correct page.

Depending on the poltergeist stalking you, there are several different specifications you have to follow. Is your poltergeist corporeal? Do they have a human form? If yes, skip the following section. If they don't have a corporeal form, and they're something like a floating ball, carry on reading.

A poltergeist of this calibre is not a spirit nor a ghost - it is a collection of energy. In this case, it would be likely that somebody is actually having these sprites follow you. To stop them, you must cut the connection between the sprites and magic of origin; you don't have to know the magic of origin, you just have to overpower it. Focus on the sprite. Focus your magic - but not your normal magic - your Necromancer magic and rip at it. Tear. Cut the threads keeping it together. It will stop.

Harry cursed. Necromancer magic? How did he focus that, when he didn't know how to do it? He flipped to the index of the book, but there was nothing on how to focus magic. "God damn it." His eyes flickered to the black leather journal and he smiled warmly, finding a quill and letting a bead of ink fall onto the open, black pages.

Tom replied instantly with a concerned, Are you okay, Harry? You didn't speak to me much, yesterday. Who was that man you were with? He felt familiar. Professor Quirrell, right?

I'm fine, Tom. A little battered, a little bruised, shaking from being held under the Cruciatus curse (which nobody has asked about, despite it being obvious that I've been held under it, just like Draco) and a little confused about Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Yeah, it was Professor Quirrell. Guess what I bought yesterday, Tom? A candle! It's shaped like a spine, and it causes gradual muscle loss and eventually, death. Wicked, right? I also bought a mask filled to the brim with Necromancy magic, but I daren't put it on.

The book took its time to reply. Why has nobody noticed, Harry? Lord Voldemort? Death Eaters? You're going to have to explain this. The candle does sound 'wicked' - are you planning to use it any time soon, or is it just an ornament? Necromancy? Why did you buy a mask with Necromancy magic surrounding it? You're not dabbling in that filthy magic, are you? Please don't say you are, Harry. That magic is dangerous. Oh - yesterday, you released a massive amount of magic two times. This now means I can bring you to me. Maybe you could explain everything to me?

That would great, Tom. Can I bring things with me to you, or would you rather I sketch an image of the mask, first? There's so much to explain.

Please sketch, Harry.

Harry got to work, his quill scratching on the page. The ink didn't sink in until the picture was finished, and when it did sink the book began to glow. Harry bit his lip in confusion - what was happening? The pages flicked over by an unknown wind until they were at the very middle of the book - and the glow brightened and brightened until Harry could barely see. And then it just stopped - and then he was hurtling through the pages and his eyes were burning because memories were flickering through so quickly, so ferociously - and then he landed.

Harry blinked, looking around. He had landed on a bed, that he was certain. A Slytherin bed. His bed! "Cool!" He beamed, turning around in wonder.

"What's cool?" Harry turned to face the person who had spoken, and he was taken aback. His Tom looked nothing like this Tom; this Tom was tall and handsome, with dark eyes and dark hair but skin as pale as snow. His Tom - or, his imagined Tom - looked like a younger Professor Quirrell, with light eyes and light hair and no damned turban.

"Tom?" Harry asked, smiling brilliantly. "How'd you'd that? You're very tall. This is my bed! At Hogwarts, now, or - in the future. I landed on my own bed!"

Tom stood, his white lips stretching into a mockery of smile that seemed like it hurt. "Very interesting, Harry. This," He sat down on the bed and leaned back, his eyes closing lazily. "Is my bed. What a coincidence. Does that mean they changed the order of Year, then? First years on the bottom?"

Harry nodded, grinning. "It's nice to actually meet you, Tom. I guess you want to know about yesterday, huh?"

Tom shook his head, one pale hand rising and pulling the Boy-Who-Lived down beside him. "Lord Voldemort. Death Eaters. Who - what are they?"

"That's an... open question. Lord Voldemort is a Dark Lord that was supposedly killed ten or so years ago. He had a particular hatred of a Wizarding family and, on Hallowe'en, he went to their house to - well, murder their children." Tom sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes fluttered open. "He Stunned the father, I think, and carried on up to the nursery - "

"Nursery?" Tom exclaimed. "They were babies? He wanted to murder babies?"

Harry nod, slightly annoyed. "But what Voldemort didn't know is that the mother of the children was, while a Muggleborn witch, very powerful. Have you heard of the Sacrificet Salvum Familia ritual?" Tom nodded. "Well, the mother did that to save the life of her twin boys."

Understanding began to dawn in Tom's eyes. "You're a twin, and your mother was a Muggleborn. Why did he target you?"

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "Nobody knows. But, he tried to kill me, the closest baby, and the Killing Curse rebounded and hit him, instead. Now - the Death Eaters. They're his men. Some are dastardly dark and wicked with their wands, but others are just... Pathetic."

Tom nodded again and his eyes slid shut. "That mask... I was hoping it was something I'd know or recognise, but I don't know what it is. Keep it away from your face at any time; masks are brilliant, but you should never, ever trust them. Now, Harry - Necromancy." His lips curved into a wicked smirk, but his eyes remained closed. "How is it that you, a boy of eleven, recognised a Necromancy mask, and can use such dirty magic?"

"Well... The Dark Lord had to get through my mother to me, and when you're a baby and have magic, the concept of not having something is lost on you, isn't it?" Tom nodded, opening his eyes. One hand raised and the older boy began to play with Harry's hair, although he wasn't entirely sure why he was so comfortable with the younger boy. "And - well, I wanted my mum, so I got her." Harry shrugged. "I guess the activation of the magic was the trauma, but I never really did anything with it. Just seeing spectres of people once dead was enough for me."

"Enough for you?" Tom's voice was sardonic, bitter, and those bright eyes were locked on Harry's own. The younger boy gulped. "You have this brilliant gift, and seeing dead people was enough? What about summoning demons? Raising the recently deceased? Having hoards of undead at your control?"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered meekly, sitting up. "I was... taken, by other subjects."

Tom sneered and sat up too, poking the boy on the nose. "Like what? Herbology?" Tom's voice was, once again, amused, and another flash of hot anger surged through Harry's body.

"No!" Harry spat, unaware of his voice changing into a hiss. "Like Potions and Charms! Defence Against the Dark Arts - Hell, even the Dark Arts! Duelling! Sorry, Tom, for having a melodramatic maniac trying to kill me!" Harry carried on, Tom's eyes wide in thought and confusion. "Sorry I couldn't exactly focus on summoning demons when I'm trying to survive in a school while my twin brother gets death threats and one of my friends taking a Torture curse for me!"

The room began to spin again, and Harry was struck by a nauseous feeling of discontent. He hadn't wanted his first ever meeting with the boy to go so badly. But was that my feeling? Harry wondered, questioning (not the first time) if he was insane.

The book was still glowing; peering at it, he cussed at the sight of Tom's elegant writing that made something change in his stomach. I'm sorry, Harry.

"Go fuck yourself, Tom." Harry muttered tiredly, slamming the book closed and throwing it... somewhere. Dirty magic, he called it. Why would Harry want to learn and effectively use dirty magic? It was in the damned name! And what would the dirty magic do to him, hm? He didn't know, but if he couldn't even call on the magic...

He was so frustrated.

"Should I talk to Harry?" James fretted, worrying his hands into a kitchen towel. "Charlie was so shocked when Harry said that to him - I mean, Harry shouldn't be feeling bitter or anything, right?"

Remus frowned. "You haven't noticed, have you?"

James blinked uncomprehendingly at the werewolf. Remus shook his head in annoyance, and pointed to the picture on the Prophet. "Draco is pushing Harry... Out of what spell?" James finally understood. "How long had Harry been under that spell? What did Harry not get treated for?"

James let out an angry curse. "Shit, Remus. Are you saying I ignored him or something?"

Remus rose one condescending eyebrow. "No, I'm not, James. I'm pointing out that Harry was held under the Cruciatus curse and he hasn't been treated for it. For as strong as you believe him to be, and for as much pressure you put on him to defend both Charlie and himself while you sit there wondering how bitter Harry could possibly be, he is a child!" The werewolf's voice had steadily been rising in volume until he knew that both Charlie and Harry could here it. Incensed, the wolf carried on, one of his pups injured and the wolf not being able to do a thing about it. "He is a young boy; so stop treating him like he's some kind of guard for Charlie! It's your fault you didn't train Charlie and it's your fault that the death threat issue hasn't been handled! Get out there and sort it, instead of sitting on your pompous arse and do something about it!"

Breathing heavily, Remus took a sip of his tea, before placing the cup down delicately and storming away to the Fireplace.

James put his head in his hands.

Death threats. It reverberated around his brain, his eyesight blurring, his throat unable to swallow a large lump. Death threats. Me. Death threats. Somebody wants to kill me. Dad asked Harry to guard me. Death threats. Harry could have died. Death threats. And, despite the fact that Charlie was already aged beyond his years, he felt like he was thirty - or even ninety years older than his current eleven.

The tears began to fall.

He was aware of a horrible, heart-wrenching scream that seemed to echo around the Potter Manor, but so absorbed in his sobs, he didn't know where it came from. Harry could have died. Harry is always trying to save me. I can never save Harry. Was he so weak? Another scream now, and the red-haired child realised it was from his own throat.

There was a woman and a man, Harry guessed, placing their shadows against each other. He wasn't close enough to see who they were; the room was distorted, like he was peering through frosted glass at a warm house during heavy snowfall.

Crunch. Crunch. Step. Harry turned and saw Him. The Dark Lord. Harry was sure it was him, with the same suffocating magic that stunk of death and decay: it wasn't the man he saw at Diagon Alley, though; this man had a slim, pointed noise and sharp cheekbones, with thin white lips. His eyes were a dazzling crimson and he had raven black hair, tousled like Harry's own. He looked like Tom.

The Dark Lord stepped up to the house, and Harry stepped closer to the man.

The door flung open and the man stepped in; Harry followed, followed, followed to that room, but there was nothing in there that was distinguishable. There was only those two people, a woman and a man, and the Dark Lord.

"Hello." The Dark Lord's voice was soft, smooth and it rushed over over in waves of pleasure. "Mr. and Mrs. - wasn't it?"

Mister and misses who? Harry wondered, entranced by the beautiful Dark Lord with his cold, soft voice. He was a riddle, and he was one that Harry fully intended to riddle out.

The man stood and barked out a reply, but Harry couldn't hear them. "Ah, thank you. Your compliance is necessary for an experiment." The Dark Lord's voice had changed now, a sibilant drawl.

The man replied again, and the Dark Lord smirked cruelly. "Wonderful. Just - wonderful. You or your wife first, sir?"

The man paled.

The Dark Lord removed a knife from - Harry really didn't know where he removed the knife from, and he didn't want to look.

But, like someone watching a car crash or a mugging, he continued to watch.

The man's eyeballs went first, the woman seemingly immobilised and doing nothing. The Dark Lord carved around them, before conjuring a ten centimetre long needle and shoving it in the bleeding mess.

It popped.

Harry wanted to retch, to cry, to scream, but he found it uncomfortably amusing, and a smile crossed his lips. The man's nose soon followed, scraped to the bone, and then it was his teeth, his fingernails, his toes - and Harry continued to smile as the Dark Lord's face morphed into Professor Quirrell's and Tom's and the Voldemort he saw at Diagon Alley.

And then there was screaming.

The man died, and the Dark Lord started on the woman. He had more fun, his face bright and child-like as he crudely hacked away at bare breasts, as he trailed the needle up to her thighs before roughly slamming it into her - Harry retched again, but he still had that wicked smile on his face as the woman screamed and cried.

"HARRY!" Was that Charlie's voice? Harry wondered if it was real, or if it was his mind rebelling.

"I'll be waiting for you, precious." Harry looked up to find crimson eyes, bright - burning brilliantly - staring at him, and it was Tom with a soft smile on his white lips. "When you're ready, you'll come to me."

Harry cocked his head in confusion. "But you're the Dark Lord, and I'm the Boy-Who-Lived." It was a fact. He wasn't refuting the man, especially after what he'd just witnessed.

The man leaned forward and was about to say something, or maybe bite his earlobe, Harry wasn't too sure, but the young boy turned his head to look into the man's eyes. "What you want... You can never have."

"Why?" The man's voice was petulant but wicked, manipulative. "I always get want I want, Mr. Potter. You would do well to remember that. If I say jump, you shouldn't even ask 'how high?'. And - and," The man broke off into loud chuckles. "I have eyes and ears everywhere. Displease me, and this will be your family." He gestured to the people on the floor, and their faces and bodies changed and the smell, and Harry retched again and let out a cry that pounded through his head and heart and down a link he shared with his brother and down another he didn't know existed.

"What do you want?" Harry asked, his eyes blank.

The man answered like it was an obvious answer and that Harry should have known. "Your love - your loyalty. Trust. You."

"Do I get no say?" He felt like a child again, when his dad had forced him into duelling lessons that he didn't want, and they were transported across his memory - or was it dream, or was it a vision? He didn't know. He was small, small - and Tom; "Why did you take the face of Tom?" and Tom was there, kneeling, one hand on his head while Harry sobbed and rubbed his eyes.

The man cackled, and Tom's face changed. "No say! Definitely no say - heh - always no say, Potter."

And those white lips were on his own, and Harry began to scream again.

Harry groaned, sitting up. His bones ached and on his right hand, his little finger had an uncontrollable twitch. But, and that was a damn large but, that was probably one of the best sleeps he's ever had. So far. He couldn't remember dreaming, or even what he dreamed about! It was refreshing.

And then the dream came flooding back.