The day you decide to do it is your lucky day.
~ Japanese Proverb

When he first woke up, Draco was utterly convinced that someone had Transfigured him into a snail. His cheek was glued to a cold rough surface and something sticky prevented him from opening his eye. Silly thoughts were quickly replaced by a headache and Draco hissed and raised his head, supporting himself with his left elbow. Stinging pain shot through his temple and he closed his eyes to shield them from the bright light that assaulted his vision. However, when he opened his eyes and his vision cleared, he realised it wasn't bright at all. It was dark and cold and though Draco had no idea where the hell he was, he knew he wasn't lying tucked away safely in his warm bed. Instead, he was sprawled on his stomach on top of twigs and rotting leaves.

He looked around and then wished he hadn't. Apparently, he was stuck in one of those nightmares where he was lost in the middle of nowhere and his limbs refused to carry him, even though he knew danger was coming.

A gust of wind sent a few snowflakes into his face and Draco grimaced and wiped his cheek in the process brushing off a twig that was stuck to his skin. His fingertips touched his temple and Draco winced in pain. His breath misted in front of him as he gasped at the sight of blood on his fingers. Unnerved, he rolled onto his back. His right arm had been stuck beneath him and now it throbbed in protest. Thick tree branches loomed high above his head; they looked bare and threatening, revealing small patches of winter's grey sky and allowing the snow to fall through the gaps. His hands were frozen and numb, but he could feel the fingers of his right hand gripping something thick and solid. With supreme effort, he rose up into a sitting position. His head fell forward as pain in the back of his skull made his eyes water. Brushing away damp hair that had fallen into his eyes, Draco blinked a few times and then focused his gaze on a broken stick he held in a tight grip. Except it wasn't a stick. It was his wand.

Draco's mind cleared in an instant. He wasn't having a nightmare; this was no dream. He could mistake a dream for reality, but mistaking reality for a dream was impossible; perhaps, if he was drunk, he could hope this was a dream, but he had never felt more sober. The coldness of his surroundings and the soreness of his body were too harsh and too real. He was in the middle of the forest, half-frozen, injured and unarmed. Which was a cold hard fact, even though it made absolutely no sense, since the last thing he remembered was lying in his bed thinking about tomorrow's field trip to the Forbidden Forest. And now he was suddenly there. How was that possible?

Draco looked down at his fur-lined winter cloak, his thick green scarf and his warm boots. His not-yet-fully-formed theory of a possible abduction dissipated. He had definitely lost some time; he couldn't remember getting dressed. It occurred to him he had no gloves, which was odd, because no one sane would go outside without gloves in this weather; however, Draco swiftly found them in his pocket. Shaking his head in disbelief, he tucked his broken wand away and pulled on the gloves.

A single blue feather fell slowly to the ground. Apparently, it had been stuck to his glove. His breathing accelerating, Draco reached into his pocket and found even more bright blue feathers.

He stared at them, sure he had lost his mind. Was it tomorrow? Had they already left for their field trip? But then where were the others? And why couldn't he remember anything?

Draco looked up at the grey sky. It was dark, but it was always dark in the Forbidden Forest and winter days were short. He couldn't tell what time it was but it definitely wasn't noon and it definitely wasn't night; it seemed like the sun was still in the sky, hidden behind the heavy grey clouds. Not particularly hopeful, Draco checked his pockets again to see whether he had brought his watch with him, but he knew he hadn't. He didn't plan to bring it; he remembered thinking about it yesterday. His pocket watch was made of pure gold and was too valuable to risk carrying into the bloody forest. He had counted on his wand to show him the time. Though, now that it was broken, it obviously couldn't.

Draco struggled to get up, but his legs felt heavy and he growled in frustration. The sound was too loud in the quiet forest and Draco quickly scanned his surroundings, fearful he had heedlessly summoned some dangerous creature. Nothing moved around him, except for a few bare branches and a handful of fluttering snowflakes and Draco sighed in relief. His gaze caught something dark a little farther away, but it looked like a harmless log, half-buried in the snow. The trees weren't as thick there and the snow covered the grounds and the dark, frozen shape. Draco almost looked away when a flash of colour caught his attention. He stared at the dark form and the strap of multicoloured fabric peeking through the snow. The pattern looked eerily familiar.

The realisation hit him together with a gust of wind. Breathless, Draco shot to his feet, their previous numbness forgotten in an instant. That was not a log; he knew exactly what the multicoloured fabric was; he had laughed at it a million times before. It was one of those stupid knitted scarves Granger was producing with maniacal speed.

Fighting dizziness, Draco sprang forward and stepped onto something that broke beneath his boot, but he paid no attention to it. He crossed the distance with four long strides, his lungs hurting from all the cold air he had inhaled in his haste; his chest felt too small to contain his frantically beating heart. His knees gave out the moment he spotted black strands of hair sticking out at odd angles, partially hidden by the snow. With trembling fingers, he brushed the snow away to reveal Harry Potter's frozen body, stretched prone on the ground. He gripped Potter's forearms and turned him around, not gentle in his urgency. Potter made no sound. He was deathly pale and as Draco brushed the snow off his cheek, he noticed a thin line of blood congealed at the corner of Potter's chapped, bluish lips. Potter's glasses were nowhere to be seen. There were three faint bruises on his jaw, as though someone had punched him, and his green eyes were closed; he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Draco hoped that Potter was merely sleeping. He didn't like the sight of blood on his lip, especially since his lips looked unharmed.

Draco took off a glove and pressed his palm to Potter's cheek.

It was ice cold.

The air was sparse suddenly. Draco couldn't draw a proper breath.

"Potter?" he whispered. His throat constricted painfully. "Potter!" he tried to say more loudly, but his voice refused to rise.

In the next moment, he was shaking Potter violently, cursing Potter's name and screaming, "Wake up!"

Even after he realised he was behaving like a mindless lunatic, he couldn't stop yelling and shaking Potter's shoulders.

"You're not dead!" he shouted. "For fuck's sake, Potter, you're not dead! Wake up!"

Potter didn't move or make a tiniest sound.

Draco gritted his teeth and forced himself to calm down; panic wouldn't help him. Potter couldn't be dead. That was ridiculous. Draco needed to find a pulse and prove that it was still beating. He quickly loosened Potter's scarf and pressed his fingertips against various places on Potter's neck, then he pulled up Potter's sleeves and touched his wrists with his thumb. But Draco's fingers were numb, and Potter's skin was so frightfully icy Draco couldn't feel anything. He leaned over Potter's body and pressed his cheek, and then his ear, right beneath Potter's nose. He thought he could feel the warm touch of breath but he wasn't sure. Potter's breath wasn't misting in front of him like Draco's.

Taking off his other glove, Draco grabbed Potter's thick cloak and unfastened a couple of buttons, parting the fabric so he could lean in and press his ear to Potter's chest. Wincing at the coldness, Draco listened. but he couldn't hear anything. Blood rushed to his ears and the sound of his own frantically beating heart drowned out everything else. Draco closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down and concentrate. After a few excruciatingly long moments, he finally heard it. It was slow and quiet and at odds with the rhythm of Draco's heartbeats, but he heard it. Potter's heart was still beating. He was alive.

Draco kept his ear pressed to Potter's chest for a moment longer, listening to the comforting sound. When he finally raised his head and looked down at Potter, his vision was blurry. He had to blink a couple of times to clear it. His gaze narrowed at the blood and the bruise on Potter's skin.

What the fuck had happened here? Did someone attack them? And what should he do? Should he scream for help? Run away to find it?

An idea struck Draco suddenly and he quickly checked Potter's pockets and even moved him a little so he could search the ground beneath. Dissatisfied, he looked around, chucking the snow away and inspecting their surroundings, but his target was nowhere in sight. If they had been attacked, and if Potter had been Disarmed, his wand could have been tossed away somewhere; it was unlikely Draco would find it. Draco shot up and carefully searched the grounds, moving branches and twigs aside, kicking the snow and dirt, and occasionally picking up worthless sticks.

"Accio Harry Potter's wand! Accio Harry Potter's wand!" he yelled. A distant growl was his only response. Shivers passed through the length of Draco's spine. He closed his mouth, listening carefully. An owl hooted and flew over their heads, but then the forest fell silent again.

Draco breathed into his hands. It occurred to him he should at no point even consider screaming for help. The forest was dangerous and no amount of Slughorn's creepy smiles could change that fact.

A bit shaky on his feet, Draco headed back toward Potter, but he stepped on something again, the same thing he had crushed earlier with his boot, but this time he looked down to see what it was. He winced as he spotted Potter's broken glasses on the ground. He picked them up and dropped them into his pocket almost absentmindedly.

He had to think. Potter was still lying peacefully a few feet ahead and Draco couldn't count on his help. They were unarmed and quite obviously lost. He couldn't scream for help. He couldn't carry Potter - he could barely carry himself. His best option was to try to reach the castle on his own and get help. But he didn't even know which way was north, not without his wand, and he couldn't just leave Potter lying there.

Could he?

An image appeared in Draco's mind, an image he had conjured in his bed last night, though it seemed like minutes ago. Hadn't he thought about this scenario? Hadn't he imagined Potter lying buried in the snow, crying out for help? Hadn't he gleefully planned to leave Potter in the woods so the git could freeze to death? And now something eerily similar had actually happened. Of course, last night, he had entertained himself with these thoughts, but he hadn't been serious. He had been upset and the silly thoughts had amused him. They weren't funny anymore.

Draco toyed with the broken glasses in his pocket. Why were Potter's glasses lying near Draco and not near Potter? How did that happen? More importantly, how did any of it happen? And why couldn't he remember? Surely, they were attacked. Obviously not by werewolves or any sort of predator. Potter wasn't bitten; in fact, Draco hadn't noticed any injuries. He had either been cursed or he was merely unconscious and frozen. Besides, a mindless creature wouldn't take Potter's wand.

It couldn't have been the centaurs, either. They wouldn't mind attacking Draco, but they wouldn't attack Potter. That made no sense; they actually liked Potter. It could have been a student; a lot of students from Draco's house detested Potter. But which Slytherin would be dumb enough to think he could get away with murdering the Conqueror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Not even Nott would be that stupid. It could have been a random ex-Death Eater, but then why the fuck was Potter even alive?

Draco's hand gripped the glasses in his pocket so tightly the glass cut his palm; he could feel the warm blood spread against his skin. Draco paid no attention to it; the blood that attracted his gaze was splattered on a stone near his feet. He stared at the bloody stone his head had been lying on as a terrible thought occurred to him.

It could have been him.

What if Potter and he had had a fight, which was a likely scenario, and Draco Disarmed Potter and threw away his wand? He could see himself doing it; it was something he would do. In his mind, he could see Potter's angry face as he lunged at Draco like the reckless Gryffindor he was. They fought. Draco knocked off Potter's glasses and Potter slammed Draco's head against the stone. Half-conscious, Draco managed to throw him off and stand before he shot a curse at Potter - a curse so powerful it made Potter fly backwards a few feet. And then as Draco's injuries caught up with him, he fell down on his right hand, breaking his wand in the process. Or maybe he had just tripped and hit his head on the stone as he fell; the blow could have cost him his memory. Either way, how Draco earned his injuries was irrelevant. What mattered was that Draco still had his wand in his hand and Potter didn't; no one had Disarmed Draco. What mattered was that Draco had thought about doing this; however jokingly, he had thought about it, and he had even threatened Potter's life yesterday in front of witnesses. If someone did find them, or if Draco miraculously reached Hogwarts, everyone would think he had attacked Potter, and Draco couldn't even defend himself, because as far as he knew they could be right. If Potter died in the woods, Draco was doomed; if he lived, then maybe he could tell everyone what happened. Draco had no idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

With his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Draco raised his right hand and reluctantly inspected his knuckles. They felt sore and looked tender. As though . . . Draco closed his eyes. As though he punched someone.

Fuck. Draco ran his fingers through his hair. He grabbed a fistful of strands and pulled, causing himself pain. What was he thinking, attacking Potter like that?

Miserable, Draco staggered toward Potter and dropped to his knees again. Potter was in the same position he had left him in. It was painful to look at him.

"I'm sorry," Draco said quietly and then swung his hand and slapped Potter across his cheek. Potter's head turned to the side from the force of the impact. He made a small sound, but his lips didn't part and he didn't wake.

"Fuck!" Draco growled. He had never felt so helpless in his life. It didn't matter whether he had done this or not - he had no choice. He had to try and get help, regardless of the consequences. Draco stood up and eyed Potter's clothes; they were soaking wet from the snow. He had to at least move Potter closer to the trees where the snow was sparse and the ground was drier.

Draco sighed and stooped low, grabbing Potter's shoulders.

Moving him was easier said than done. He grabbed Potter's arms, then his legs, struggling to drag his heavy weight toward the large tree nearby. Its branches were thick enough to protect Potter from the snow. Potter's wet clothes and his unconscious, frozen state made him even heavier and Draco's numb limbs were weak. By the time he managed to settle Potter near the tree, he was utterly exhausted, but at least he felt a little warmer. Though, it was still terribly cold.

Draco looked at Potter's blue lips. Even if Potter wasn't grievously injured, which Draco doubted, he would freeze by the time the rescue party arrived. If Draco could only cast a Warming Spell on him. Half-heartedly, Draco took out his broken wand and attempted to cast the charm. All he managed to produce was a few sparks and some smoke. Returning his wand into his pocket, Draco kicked the tree, then winced as his toe started throbbing. Why did he have to fall so awkwardly he had broken his wand? It was just his luck.

Draco blinked and held his breath.

Luck.

Of course. He should have thought of it sooner. That was what he needed - a little bit of luck. The kind that came in a bottle.

Ecstatic at his idea, Draco quickly undid the clasp of his cloak and reached beneath his shirt collar. He closed his eyes in relief as he pulled out the little silver pendant. It was a tiny dragon, the tackiest piece of jewellery Draco had ever worn. Pansy teased him mercilessly for it, but she wouldn't have if she knew what it was. Draco pulled on the chain and the clasp gave, letting the dragon fall onto Draco's palm. Draco stared at it fondly for a moment and then gently stroked the dragon's wings. After a couple of strokes, the dragon stretched and yawned, then spread his silver wings wide and roared. In a flash of bright green light, it transformed into a minuscule bottle, filled with a glimmering golden potion.

The potion was Draco's future.

During the summer, Mother had pressed the dragon into his hand as Father had explained how to cheat on his N.E.W.T. exams using Felix Felicis.

"Take three drops before every exam," his father had said. "Not less, not more. If you take less, it will not work. If you take more, it could be detected."

Three drops wasn't much, but it was enough to ensure Draco wouldn't be asked a question he couldn't answer. It was a tiny push that meant Draco would achieve a perfect score; something that would impress the Ministry officials enough to make them forget whose son he was. Draco snorted as he uncapped the bottle. His future. It hardly mattered now. All he could hope for now was rotting in Azkaban forever after he became the murderer he was always meant to be.

Draco took a deep breath and tipped the bottle, letting its contents drip into his mouth. He closed his eyes, waiting for that feeling of confidence to strike him, just like the description of the potion had promised.

Nothing happened.

Minutes tickled by and, feeling increasingly cold and hopeless, Draco opened his eyes and glared at the tiny bottle. He swung his arm and smashed the bottle against a nearby tree. It shattered together with Draco's last hope. Who knew where his parents acquired the potion and how much they had paid? He would have to inform them that they had been viciously robbed.

Defeated, Draco knelt down next to Potter and stared at his pale face. How could Draco possibly leave him here to die? But there was absolutely nothing, nothing he could do.

You could grab Potter's nose.

Draco blinked. That had been his thought, though he had no idea why he would think suck a silly thing. Except, for some reason, it didn't sound as silly as it did originally; it actually seemed like a good idea. A brilliant idea, really.

Grinning, Draco reached down and pinched Potter's nose between his forefinger and his thumb. Moments passed, and Draco's confidence wavered. What if he was suffocating Potter to death?

But then, a miracle happened - Potter gasped, took a deep breath, and then coughed. He coughed out blood, but Draco was far too relieved to see Potter's eyelashes flutter to worry about that.

"Potter!" he said, releasing his nose. "Potter, wake up!"

Potter moaned, his eyes opening and closing slowly. Draco sprang to his feet and with a strength he didn't know he had, he lifted Potter's torso, dragging him closer to the tree so Potter could lean his head on the trunk and sit up. Potter protested, wincing and moaning in pain, and though Draco was aware he shouldn't be moving Potter too much, he just couldn't let him fall asleep again. Sleep and coldness were a path toward a quick death.

Draco crouched down and grabbed Potter's face between his palms, peering into his face.

"Potter, you have to wake up and stand. We have to go."

Draco gritted his teeth, furious at his stupid statement. What was he talking about? Go where? He didn't even know in which direction they should start walking.

Northern wind will bring heavy snow.

Draco frowned. He heard that line before; read it actually. Yesterday in the Daily Prophet. It was a part of the weather forecast for Saturday.

Draco turned his head sharply to his left. Snowflakes flew directly into his face.

Left. North was left. His gaze fell on two large trees that made an archway with their branches. That was their path.

"Malfoy?" Potter whispered.

Draco turned toward Potter again. Potter's face was still captured between Draco's palms.

"Yes!" Draco said, smiling a little. "You recognise me. That's good. That's wonderful. It means you don't have a concussion." Draco frowned. "Which would be far less dangerous than internal bleeding, but never mind that now."

Potter's green eyes looked dull. "Mmm . . . injured," he mumbled, barely able to move his lips.

"Yes, you're injured. That's why you have to get up so we can find some help."

"No," Potter closed his eyes and Draco almost slapped him again, but Potter opened them quickly enough. "No, you. Your head . . is bleeding."

Draco stared at him. "Right. We both need help/ That's why you have to get up. Gritting his teeth in effort, Draco tried to haul him upward. "Get up, Potter!" he snapped when Potter refused to move.

"I can't . . ." Potter moaned, shutting his eyes tightly. "It hurts. You go."

"You idiot!" Furious, Draco slapped Potter again. Green eyes flew open in surprise. "Do you want to die?" Draco asked. "Because you will die if you don't fucking get up."

"Malfoy, just go." Potter coughed again. A small red bubble formed at the corner of his mouth and then popped.

"You are an idiot," Draco growled.

No, he's a Saviour.

Draco stared at Potter's troubled green eyes. Of course. This was Potter. He was meant to save others, not himself. If Draco wanted Potter to move, he would have to give him a better reason.

Draco bit his lip, thinking furiously.

"Potter," he said firmly after awhile, "I need you to listen to me." Draco pulled his left sleeve up and revealed the ugly Dark Mark on his forearm. He raised his arm and Potter's gaze flickered toward it. He looked back at Draco uncomprehendingly. "I was a Death Eater, Potter, and as a Death Eater, I know some things. And what I know for a fact is that there are werewolves in this forest."

Potter frowned.

"No, Potter, it's true. There's a pack of them hiding here. Their leader is a friend of the family," Draco lied. "I didn't say anything before because I thought they wouldn't dare to go near Hogwarts, but while you were unconscious, I heard them."

"'s not full moon." Potter, despite his wretched state, still managed to raise his chin stubbornly.

"Potter, they're wild! It doesn't matter! Remember Greyback?" Draco cried and a glimmer of concern appeared in Potter's eyes. "There are students in this forest. Granger and Weasley are not far. Potter, we have to warn them. We have to . . . save them." Draco almost laughed. This was ridiculous. It would never work.

However, Potter's eyes widened. "Ron and Hermione?" His unfocused eyes clearing, Potter looked around frantically, as though he hoped he'd catch sight of that ghastly bushy head and his faithful orange potato. Draco almost felt bad for worrying Potter, but for the first time since he opened his eyes, Potter actually looked lucid.

"They can't . . ." Potter gasped. "Aurors are hunting them."

"And I'm telling you they haven't been caught, yet. Father had a few of them over for dinner the other day." Draco winced. That, perhaps, was going too far. Fortunately, Potter had another coughing fit and he might not have heard him.

"Come on, Potter. We have to do something. We can't let your friends die." Draco grabbed Potter, trying to lift him up again, and this time Potter helped.

Draco froze for a moment when Potter wrapped his arms around his neck, but he gathered his wits quickly and helped Potter stand. They stood like that for awhile, locked in an embrace as Potter panted and coughed against Draco's ear. Draco felt like he was hugging an ice cube, but nonetheless he pressed his nose to Potter's snow-dampened hair and sent a thankful prayer to whatever deity let Potter live.

More than anything, Draco wanted to ask Potter whether he remembered what had actually happened, but he didn't dare. If Draco had done this to him, he wanted to postpone knowing that for certain for as long as he could.

"Oh God," Potter moaned and pulled away slightly, grabbing his stomach.

"No time for that, Potter. We have people to save," Draco said and firmly wrapped his left arm around Potter's waist. "Here, grab my arm."

Reluctantly, Potter let go of his stomach and grabbed Draco's left wrist, leaning heavily on it. Potter's right arm was still wrapped around Draco's neck.

Draco sighed inwardly. It seemed he would have to carry Potter after all.

Potter set his jaw and took a bold step forward, forcing Draco to follow. "Let's go," Potter said firmly.

It was hard not to stumble under Potter's weight. Their awkward position and the throbbing in Draco's head weren't helping.

Draco gritted his teeth. If Potter could walk despite his injuries and the cold, then so could he.

Slowly but surely, they made their way through the forest. Draco could only hope they would reach Hogwarts in time.

Potter clutched his stomach. "I need to rest."

"Just a bit more," Draco assured him. They had been walking for a long while, though they hadn't covered much ground. For the most part Draco had to drag Potter along, move the branches out of their way and keep an eye on the uneven ground. Potter stumbled over every twig, rock and lump of snow.

It was getting steadily darker but Draco caught a glimpse of light not far ahead. He decided that the light was their desired destination. It was as good a goal as any.

"You always say that," Potter whined.

"And I always lie. But now I'm telling the truth."

If possible, Potter felt even heavier. "Come on, Potter. I'll slap you again. You know I will."

"Tard," Potter mumbled.

Draco suspected Potter had tried to call him a bastard, but he let the insult slide. If Potter felt like insulting him, Draco could only encourage him. As long as Potter remained awake, he could say whatever the fuck he wanted. With the Felix Felicis help, they would reach Hogwarts in time. Perhaps the potion would even help Draco escape the attempted murder charge - if he really was the one who had cursed Potter. However, Draco doubted the potion had that much strength. One tiny swallow was all he had consumed.

"Hurray," Draco grumbled as they reached a small clearing. It was where the light was coming from. The absence of thick trees made the air look brighter. Nothing to get excited about. It wasn't a way out of the forest.

A sense of utter despair washed over him. Maybe the potion had stopped working already.

"Now?" Potter asked.

Draco sighed and led Potter toward a tree. "Go on, sit."

But Potter couldn't sit on his own and Draco had to lower him down carefully.

"Aaand let go," Draco said testily as Potter sat - his arms were still wrapped firmly around Draco's neck, forcing Draco to crouch.

Potter lowered his hands and leaned his head against the tree. He was panting heavily, his face paler than ever. His eyes fluttered closed.

Draco knelt on the ground in front of him, vaguely miffed that he was being forced to kneel in front of Potter a lot today, and he reached over to slap Potter's cheek lightly. "Hey, Potter, what did we say? Eyes open and focused on the most gorgeous thing around, please."

Potter's eyes opened and he even cracked a small smile. "I'll need a mirror, then."

"Cute." Draco shook his head. "Come on, remember the werewolves? We can't waste time here."

"You lied. There are no werewolves."

Draco bit his lip and tried to think of a way to convince Potter he was telling the truth, but he was running out of arguments. The idea was completely daft to begin with. The fact that Potter believed it in the first place was the testament of his wretched state.

Potter closed his eyes again.

"You don't know that, Potter. Maybe . . ." Draco sank his teeth deeper into his bottom lip, then released it before he spoke. "Maybe the werewolves attacked us? You think it's possible?"

Potter's eyes fluttered open and a tiny line appeared between his eyes. "No, not . . ." Potter coughed. "Not werewolves."

Draco waited for Potter to say something else, but Potter just stared at him. It was hard to tell whether Potter's stare was accusing or merely unfocused.

"'m cold," Potter whispered.

"I know." Draco sighed. "Please, just hold on for a bit -"

A bird screeched loudly. Draco quickly turned around in time to see a small blue bird fall weightlessly to the ground. It didn't move again. Draco blinked and stared at the blue mass of feathers in disbelief. Then he laughed, a bit crazily.

"Oh, Potter, I don't believe it," he said through his laughter. "I think we just won Slughorn's contest."

Potter didn't reply. Draco abruptly stopped laughing, his gaze snapping back to Potter.

"Oh no, you don't!" he gasped, shaking Potter, who had fallen asleep while Draco wasn't looking. Draco shook him, yelled at him, slapped him and even pinched his nose again, but Potter made no reaction and Draco quickly released his nose afraid he would murder Potter if he hadn't already. Potter's lips were parted ever-so-slightly and he might have been breathing through them. At least it seemed that way to Draco. He contemplated listening to Potter's heart again, but he was too afraid to find out for sure whether Potter was still alive or not. He simply had to be. The other possibility wasn't acceptable.

Grabbing Potter's head with his hands, Draco pressed his forehead to Potter's icy one. "Please, Potter, don't be dead." He stared at Potter's long dark eyelashes. They refused to move. As Draco moved back, Potter's head sagged forward.

Draco felt like crying, but his eyes remained obstinately dry. Why the fuck wasn't the potion helping? Why did it lead them here? It was just another lonely, quiet place.

Jobberknolls scream before they die.

Draco tore his gaze away from Potter and focused on the small bird. It was still there; nobody had claimed the prey.

Jobberknolls had a great memory and in the moment of their death they repeated every sound they had ever heard. It seemed that this particular Jobberknoll was either deaf or death had sneaked up on it too suddenly. Draco scanned his surroundings, but he couldn't see or hear anything. In fact, when he thought about it, the clearing was strangely quiet. He couldn't even hear or feel the wind, anymore. Draco stood up, purposefully not looking back at Potter - he couldn't bear the sight of his immobile form. He hurried toward the dead bird, not quite sure what he expected to find.

The bird lay on a patch of rotted leaves, looking unmarked, but definitely dead. Draco stared at it.

"Why the fuck did you die?" he asked the dead bird before he looked around again. The air felt unbearably heavy. There was something wrong with the clearing, but whatever it was the silent trees weren't inclined to share the secret.

Bending down, Draco picked up some rocks and twigs and then sent them flying in every direction over the clearing. They hit the other side completely unharmed. His jaw set, Draco took a few steps forward.

Nothing happened.

Boldly, he walked toward the centre of the clearing, but nothing stopped him and nothing attacked him.

"Well, this was productive." He sighed. His gaze fell on Potter's dark form, but he quickly looked away.

It's snowing.

Draco frowned. No, it wasn't. Though, it had been a second ago. A couple of snowflakes swirled around Potter, even though he was beneath a tree, but there were none in front of Draco, even though there was nothing to protect him from above. Leaning his head back, Draco looked at the grey sky. Far above his head, thick snowflakes danced on the wind like a thousand pinpricks of light scattered over the dull grey sky. Not one of them ever reached him. Maybe they melted before they reached the ground, but the ones near Potter hadn't.

One small rock was still in Draco's hand and he swung his arm and tossed it high in the air. It flew up effortlessly and then shot downward and vanished. Draco blinked, not sure if he had lost sight of it or if it really did vanish. He thought he could see speckles of dust fluttering toward the ground, right where the stone should have fallen.

Nonplussed, Draco looked around the clearing again.

The oddity struck him at once. He should have seen it right away, but while they were walking through the woods, he was had become accustomed to seeing patches of snow and patches of dry ground; it depended on the thickness of the trees. That was why he hadn't noticed it at first - there was no snow in the clearing. For several feet in each direction, to the very edge, where the trees were dense, the ground was perfectly dry. Which meant that something was protecting this small patch of ground. There had to be some sort of0magical barrier above him. One that killed birds and vanished stones and snow. Draco stood right beneath it but he was perfectly unharmed, as were the stones and twigs he had thrown every which way; the clearing was only protected from above. But why would someone protect a clearing in a middle of nowhere? More importantly, how was that possible?

Draco looked up again; the sight of the swirling snow above made him feel like he was standing in the Great Hall. If this were a house, he'd be looking at a ceiling and he knew a little something about Charms one would cast on a ceiling. The Dissimilis Charm was the most effective one. The enchantment was concentrated on the ceiling and it spread downward over the walls to conceal the space between in a magical enclosure. He had long suspected that the Dissimilis Charm was a part of the enchantments cast on the Room of Requirement. The Charm was actually used in interior decorating; it helped create two different rooms which occupied the same space, their accessibility depending on the different points of entrance. Though, its more nefarious use was more interesting. The Charm was often cast to hide a room within a room.

His father had a room like that. If one walked through the door, he would end up in his father's study; if, however, one focused on the portrait of Emeric the Evil that hung near the door, and made threatening gestures, Emeric would leap forward and wave his wand menacingly, in the process revealing a doorknob hidden behind his back. If one then entered the room through the portrait, he would end up in his father's other study, which contained a lot of incriminating potions and cursed objects. The Charm was highly useful and effective, but Draco had never heard of outdoor uses for such a spell. One needed a ceiling to cast it, but perhaps a ceiling was only needed to protect wizards and witches from the obviously lethal effects.

It was a powerful Charm. Draco couldn't imagine why someone would cast it in a middle of a forest. Who knew what was hidden inside? It could have been something dangerous; something it would be wiser not to discover. On the other hand, Draco didn't have much to lose at the moment and, apparently, it was his lucky day. The potion had brought him here, hadn't it? It must have done so for a reason. Draco counted on that luck to help him find the entrance.

There could only be one entrance into the hidden area, and since whoever cast the Charm was crazy enough to cast it in the middle of the forest, they at least had to make sure that no magical being or creature could stumble upon the entrance by accident. Draco had no idea how that could possibly work. Even if one needed to enter under a special angle, one day someone would breach the wards and find the concealed space - it simply couldn't be controlled. It was a poor way to hide something, but the Dissimilis Charm was very difficult to cast, so the caster had to have been someone clever.

The entrance couldn't have worked as it did for the Room of Requirement. If all one had to do was know exactly what they were looking for to enter the place, it would have been too easy. Draco doubted that the place existed merely to provide weary travellers with a shelter. That meant the concealment had to depend on an unexpected form of entry, just like his father's study. Except, portraits were half-sentient and their embedded magic made them perfect guardians of hidden passageways. There was nothing in this clearing one could use for such an entrance.

Maybe the caster wasn't as clever as Draco thought, and he or she hoped that no one would find the entrance randomly. Unconvinced, Draco looked around, casting his gaze around the clearing, hoping he'd notice something odd. He walked toward the edge of the clearing, where the ground was covered by snow, and tried to enter the clearing from all sorts of directions. Nothing extraordinary happened.

After awhile, he decided he was merely wasting time. He almost gave up, but then his gaze passed a large oak tree. Its trunk was very wide and two thorny bushes encircled it. Whoever stepped into the clearing couldn't possibly reach it from that direction. Feeling like a complete idiot, Draco walked toward the large tree and turned, pressing his back firmly to the rough tree bark. He edged slowly toward the very centre of the tree and closed his eyes. He was sure of one thing - no one would ever think of entering the clearing in such a manner, except maybe a crazy Hogwarts student high on Felix Felicis. Concentrating, Draco took two steps forward and, after taking a deep breath, opened his eyes.

He was yet again standing in the clearing.

Cursing loudly, Draco kicked the ground with his boot. He was sure that the unreasonably large tree marked the entrance, because nothing else possibly could. Of course it wasn't that easy. One probably needed a wand to enter it, anyway.

Draco stared at the silent trees. It was time to give up. He couldn't think of anything clever. One had to enter the clearing either by flying into it from above, which was deadly, or emerging from the forest through the trees.

Draco's mind came to a screeching halt.

Through the trees.

His gaze snapped back to the large oak tree. What if the entrance worked just like the passageway that led to Platform nine and three-quarters? An inconspicuous solid barrier for which one just had to believe it would let him pass through instead of smashing his head if he tried. What if the large tree didn't mark the entrance, but was the entrance?

It was worth a shot.

Draco walked around the tree and stared at it a bit apprehensively. He remembered what his mother told him before he first passed through the barrier to reach the Platform.

"Concentrate and be very sure of yourself. Do not hesitate."

He had been positive he would end up with a head injury, but he trusted his mother.

Taking a deep breath, Draco concentrated on reaching the other side and then took two hurried steps forward. His eyes closed the moment his face approached the trunk of the tree, but he took another bold step.

There was no pain. He didn't hit his head.

Draco's eyes flew open and he almost laughed out of sheer joy. Despite all logic, it had actually worked. It was like he had entered another world. Bright light surrounded him and even the air felt warmer; the winter didn't freeze the magically hidden place. Biting his lip, Draco strode forward through a short passageway and passed beneath a glowing arc that led toward the circular space surrounded by a magical barrier. The forest was still visible; the wards shimmered gold on the inside, but he could see outside through a thin veil of magic. On the other side of the clearing, Potter's dark form looked bathed in gold. Disturbingly, it looked like Potter had no feet. They must have breached the barrier and Draco couldn't see them since Potter wasn't a part of the enchantment.

In the very middle of the clearing there was an unimpressive-looking cabin. It was made of wood and it looked small and deserted, but Draco nonetheless grinned as he rushed toward the door. He didn't bother to knock and it only occurred to him that the door could have been locked after he had already opened it. With such powerful magic protecting it, a Locking Charm was the last thing the cabin needed.

It was darker inside, but light seeped through the open door and Draco quickly scanned the interior, noticing various shelves, cabinets, closets, and the fortunate lack of inhabitants. Draco's gaze fell gleefully on a large fireplace; there was no fire, but a basket full of logs was placed next to it.

For the first time since he drank the potion, Draco felt hopeful, as though until that moment his despair had been too strong to allow the potion to work properly.

"You'd better not be dead, Potter," Draco mumbled as he turned and rushed outside.

Foolishly, Draco thought that dragging Potter to the cabin would be his biggest problem, but he felt much stronger now that he had found a place for them to hide from the cold. In his elated state, it wasn't that hard to drag Potter across the clearing and toward the tree. Of course, it probably wasn't wise to move Potter around so much, but Draco had no other choice. Potter was freezing and if the curse didn't kill him, hypothermia would. If Potter was somewhere warm, then maybe Draco could leave him and continue on his own. The thought was unappealing for more than one reason, but he had no other clever ideas.

Draco tried to be as careful with Potter as he could, but manoeuvring his body through the tree and the narrow passageway was not easy. However, Draco's true problems began once Potter was safely placed upon the cabin's floor.

Firstly, the cabin had no windows and Draco had to leave the door open so he could see his surroundings. It was warmer beneath the magical barrier, but it was still cold. Potter would never be warm enough if Draco had to allow the cold air to seep inside. He thought he'd resolve all his troubles quickly if he started a fire - it would provide him with both warmth and light. However, that led to his second obstacle. He had a fireplace, he had logs, but he had nothing to start the fire with. He searched the cabin, not really sure what he was looking for, but he hoped he would get lucky and find something that would help him start a fire. He found nothing of the sort but he did find all kinds of things: cauldrons, knives, plants, various parts of magical creatures and plenty of other similar items. The cabin was filled with potion supplies, though Draco had yet to find an actual potion. Shrugging, he concluded the place was a storage room of some sort.

The strangest thing he had noticed was a large metal contraption fixed to the south wall. Draco had never seen anything like it, but upon further inspection, he noticed that there was a blanket and what looked like a mattress stuck between the metal and the wooden wall. Separating the metal from the wall seemed impossible, but Draco needed that blanket. He pulled and shook, and cursed a lot, and finally the metal gave and fell. Draco jumped backwards, already resigned to a serious case of broken toes, but the metal object never touched his feet. The contraption stopped itself before falling completely, hovering above the ground. Draco stared at it for a minute before he burst out laughing. It was a bed. Of course it was. Why else would it hide a mattress and a blanket? But Draco had never seen a metal bed fixed to a wall. After he thought about it, he realised it was probably arranged like that to save space. It reeked of a Muggle invention, but Draco was too pleased that he had found a warm-looking blanket to waste time on shaking his head at silly Muggles.

He hurried to Potter's side. He planned to drag Potter to the bed and then close the door. It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was the only one Draco could think of.

Potter looked terrible. His lips were blue and his face was paper white. Draco touched Potter's forehead, but quickly pulled his hand away. Potter's skin was so cold, Draco's stomach rolled. He hadn't checked for signs of life since Potter collapsed upon reaching the clearing. For all Draco knew, Potter had been dead for a while now. He certainly looked dead: lying quietly on the floor, his eyes closed and body rigid.

Draco pushed his depressing thoughts away. He couldn't afford to think like that. Potter couldn't die now, not when Draco had actually found a shelter. Stubbornly concluding that Potter was alive, Draco didn't check his pulse, but grabbed his shoulders so he could drag him toward the bed. The moment Draco touched Potter's cloak, he realised his plan wouldn't work. Potter's clothes were frozen and wet; unlike Draco, Potter had spent a lot of time lying in the snow. Draco would have to take off his clothes, but then all that would keep Potter warm was a measly blanket and possibly Draco's fur-lined cloak that was much drier than Potter's. It wouldn't be enough. Draco had to start that stupid fire. If only he could make his wand work, he could warm up Potter. But a broken wand couldn't Conjure fire.

Broken wands can backfire.

The odd sense of déjà vu struck him. He'd had similar thoughts earlier that day. He had even tried to cast a Warming Charm, but failed spectacularly. All he could produce was smoke. And sparks. Fucking sparks.

Draco reached into his pocket and took out his broken wand. He remembered his second year and the fortunate way he had escaped the slug-eating hex Ron Weasley had directed at him. Hadn't Weasley broken his wand and fixed it with Spellotape? It didn't work properly, but that didn't matter - all Draco needed was a few sparks.

Draco rushed toward a small desk in the corner and pulled open the large drawer beneath the desktop. No self-respecting storage room could exist without Spellotape. Sure enough, Draco found it along with some expensive-looking parchments. He grabbed the parchments and tossed a few them into the fireplace. Then he tried - wretchedly - to Spellotape his broken wand.

Once he concluded he fixed the wand as well as he could, he grabbed a piece of parchment in one hand and his wand into the other.

Trying to start a fire in a wooden cabin with a faulty wand wasn't the brightest idea, but Draco set his jaw, waved his wand and cried, "Incendio!"

Smoke and sparks flew everywhere. The parchment caught fire and Draco quickly threw it into the fireplace. Grinning in victory, he almost failed to notice that his wand and his sleeve had caught fire, as well. Draco quickly released his wand, stomping on it as he waved his right arm around. Fortunately, his cloak was too damp to catch fire properly. His wand, however, was completely ruined - the Spellotape and the wood turned black; only the unicorn hair looked intact.

Draco stared at the fireplace with trepidation. If the fire didn't catch, that was it - he definitely couldn't use his wand anymore; it was damaged beyond repair. The parchment burned up and Draco tossed the rest of the paper stash he had found in the drawer into the fireplace. The fire roared but subsided quickly; for a minute, it looked like it would die completely, but then faint crackling filled Draco's ears, and one of the logs slowly caught fire.

Draco closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. His lungs ached; he had forgotten to breathe.

The fire flared and, happily, Draco rushed to close the door. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but he thought it was warmer already. Draco's gaze fell on Potter's blue lips and then, for the umpteenth time that day, he knelt next to Potter.

He stroked the buttons of Potter's cloak, concluding - or imagining - that Potter's chest was rising and falling almost imperceptibly.

"Well, Potter, it looks like I'm stuck in Professor Dirtythought's wet dream," Draco grumbled as he began taking off Potter's clothes.

It wasn't an easy task. Draco had actually broken a sweat by the time he took off Potter's cloak, boots, socks and trousers. Potter's shirt and pants were either wet, or simply very cold, and Draco struggled with himself for a long moment before deciding to take those off, too. The sight of Potter's naked chest brought him immense joy - without Potter's cloak and shirt protecting it, he could see quite clearly that Potter was still breathing.

Before he took off Potter's shirt completely, Draco dragged him onto the mattress he had previously pulled off the bed and placed directly in front of the fireplace.

Potter's skin was icy and Draco avoided touching it as much as he could; every tiny contact made him shiver. As he pulled Potter's pants down, he tried hard not to look at Potter's crotch, but his gaze strayed and caught sight of the dark patch of coarse hair, Potter's flaccid cock, and his rounded sacks. Draco's fingers grazed the soft skin of Potter's thighs as he grumpily acknowledged that Potter had nothing to be embarrassed about, not even in his frozen state. In the next moment, Draco contemplated slapping himself for thinking about the size of Potter's bits at such a time.

He felt a lot better once the temptation of Potter's nude body was hidden safely beneath the blanket.

A proper bed needs a pillow.

Draco frowned and quickly took off his cloak. He folded it so the fur was outside and the wet patches were wrapped underneath. He gently lifted Potter's head and then lowered it against the fur.

Taking a step back, he admired his handiwork. The fire cast yellowish light over Potter's skin, making him look a little less pale. It seemed like he could actually be warm enough amidst the fur and beneath the blanket. Draco beamed at him. It was a lot easier to look at Potter's sleeping form, now.

However, Draco's happiness vanished too quickly. He was deluding himself. Potter was barely alive. He had coughed out blood and clutched his stomach and that meant his stomach and his lungs were injured. He was bleeding internally and he had nearly frozen to death, and on top of that he had walked around in that state, and Draco had moved him and shook him and hauled his wounded body all over the place. It was a miracle that Potter was still alive.

Draco had thought about leaving Potter here and rushing for help, but even if he found help, he wouldn't find it in time. Potter would just die sooner because there would be no one here to keep the fire going.

A proper bed needs a pillow.

The thought troubled Draco. Potter didn't need a pillow; Draco's cloak was soft enough. Besides, Draco couldn't find one. But, then again, why was that? He had found a bed and a blanket, but there was no pillow in sight. It could have meant that whoever slept here was an oddball who had something against pillows. If it were only that, it wouldn't bother Draco at all, but that wasn't the only peculiarity. Now that he thought about it, several things about this cabin troubled Draco greatly. It was filled with potions supplies, but he hadn't found a single potion - and Potter could use some. He'd found a bed, but it had no pillows. The cabin was protected by powerful enchantments designed to save space, but the owner decided to save cabin's space by folding an odd Muggle bed against the wall. It was a strange set of contradictions. Moreover, why go through so much trouble to hide some potion ingredients? Sure, some of them were valuable, but it was still insane. A stash of actual potions, however . . . Now, that was worth hiding. Which meant it was highly likely Draco was missing something. If there were potions here, they were hidden. But where?

Draco looked at the metal bed. It was the only thing out of place. If the bed wasn't meant to be slept in, then it had to hide something.

Draco walked closer and inspected the bed and the wall carefully. He pushed left and right, looked over the bed and under it, but he couldn't find anything. Crossing his hands on his chest, he scowled at the metal. He remembered it was hard to stretch the bed when he first tried, which could possibly mean the bed was normally pressed against the wall and rarely used. Frowning, Draco pushed it up against the wall and then took a step back to stare at it. If the bed didn't serve as a bed, and it wasn't used to hide some sort of door in the wall, then maybe the bed had another purpose.

Draco cocked his head. Lifted up like that, with its metal bars and without the mattress, it almost looked like a window. Maybe that was it. Maybe the bed itself was a passageway. Yet another magical barrier, Draco had to breach using nothing but the power of his will. It worked once today.

Slowly, Draco took a step forward and pressed his foot against the bed, willing it to go through the metal and wall. And it did.

Grinning, even though he had no idea what he would find on the other side, Draco pushed his whole body forward through the metal. His grin broadened as he passed thought the barrier effortlessly and found himself in another room. It was roughly the same size as the one he had left Potter in, but this room was lit - by the glimmering light of hundreds and hundreds of potions.

Draco was no healer; he had no interest in the profession. Potions were far easier. When you made a potion, you could either make a good one or a bad one. It was easy to test it and tell whether it satisfied. And if it didn't, you simply tried again until you got it right. The process could be labelled as frustrating, but Draco preferred to call it challenging. However, healing was a whole different matter. If you screwed up once, you didn't get a second chance.

But at this point in time, it didn't really matter. He didn't have time to experiment, anyway. Potter was all but dead and whatever Draco did, he couldn't make his condition worse. Nonetheless, he had to select the potions carefully.

Draco picked up a blood red potion from the shelf which he knew re-grew damaged tissue and replenished blood. All such potions that had to re-grow part of a human body were highly invasive, just like the curses that caused the damage. The first rule of healing, and the only one Draco remembered, was: never heal the effects of the curse; nullify the curse itself. It was something Draco couldn't do, because he had no idea which curse had struck Potter. If Draco had cast it himself, he had a few vague ideas, but he couldn't be sure he had used any of them.

He worried about the matter for a long while. He looked over the various potions and found many he recognised and a lot he had never even heard of. In the end, he decided he would have to experiment, at least a little. After all, the fact that he had found this cabin and all these potions meant that Felix Felicis was still working. Perhaps he should simply follow its guidance. Just in case, he spent a couple of minutes looking for a bottle of liquid luck, but he found none, so he gave up, realising he was only wasting precious time.

Soon enough, Draco rushed back to the other room with four vials in his hands. The first one was a simple Wakefulness Solution that was meant to force Potter to wake up temporarily. Giving an injured person that particular potion wasn't recommended, Potter's body would suffer a shock, but Draco didn't know how else to make Potter swallow everything he ought to. The second was the blood red tissue-repairing potion that could cause more harm than good. The moment it began to repair the damage, most curses would react violently and double their effect, but that was why Draco brought with him a small vial with glowing silver liquid. It was filled with melted Occamy eggs. In theory, the solution should hide the effects of the tissue-repairing potion from the curse. The fourth vial, with bright green oil, was needed to make sure Potter didn't die from the poisoning Occamy eggs could cause. It was a convoluted plan, and only a temporary solution, but with a little bit of luck it could work. The curse wouldn't be defeated, merely dormant, but Potter ought to recover enough to live until he reached the able hands of Madam Pomfrey.

Feeding Potter the potions went as planned. Potter moaned and opened his eyes when Draco let two drops of the Wakefulness Solution fall against his lips. Potter didn't recognise him, or say a word, but at least he swallowed everything Draco gave him before he fell asleep again. Draco remained kneeling behind him awhile longer. Potter's head rested on Draco's shoulder and his back was pressed against his chest. Draco had held him upright so Potter could drink without choking. Potter was still frightfully cold and his skin chilled Draco to the bone even through his shirt, but Draco was reluctant to let him go, afraid that when he did, Potter would have a bad reaction to the potions and die. It was an irrational thought, but Draco couldn't shake it. He leaned forward and his lips touched Potter's hair and lingered there for a few long, peaceful moments.

Unnerved by his behaviour, Draco pulled back and lowered Potter's head against the fur, before he stood up and took a hasty step back. He had to lean down again, however, to pull the blanket to Potter's chin.

He stared at him for a bit, but Potter's condition remained unchanged. Draco didn't know how long it would take for the potions to work.

Setting the vials aside, Draco added more logs to the fire and sat down on the floor near Potter's feet. Miserable, he crossed his legs, fixed his gaze on Potter's face, and waited.