Say What Needs to be Said.

[plzkthnks]

Rain hit the window gently, catching the firelight and breaking the night with small, glittering trails of water. He stared out through the glass and water—past his reflection—with dark eyes, his expression blank. Absently, his hand traced the raindrop's pattern, fingers ghosting over the cool glass in dizzying designs. He sat with one leg tucked underneath his body, his back pressed against the adjoining wall—he was comfortable and relaxed, clearly in his element. It was just too bad that his element didn't really exist. At one point, Harry Potter had considered Hogwarts his first and only home, but as the beginning of their sixth year started, the anxiety of leaving had set in. Hogwarts wasn't a home. It was a school, a place he had been sent to live and learn and would eventually leave. For most students, graduation was a bittersweet event. It meant leaving those you loved behind—but only for a short while. Usually, graduation meant the coming of bigger and better things, but Harry's life had never been usual. For Harry, graduation would mean being thrust into a role he never asked to play; the brave hero that would save the world from its own plunder; the knight in shining armor that would save not only his damsel in distress, but everyone that trusted him; the man that would have to watch those he loved fall around him as he fought for something bigger.

That is, if Harry even made it to graduation.

There were no promises regarding Harry's future, no guarantees that he would even make it to graduation. Hell, he might not even make it to the end of the year—Voldemort, the man he was meant to defeat, could strike at any time and really, probably would. His loved ones were already starting to fall—had been for some time, really. His mum and dad, and most recently his Godfather. He was bitter and angry, and although he never asked for the role he would be forced into, he had long ago accepted it. He, like so many, had every reason to hate Voldemort, to want him dead. Maybe more, even, then the average witch or wizard.

He had his days, though. Some days were harder then others and unfortunately, today was one of those days.

Unfolding himself, Harry moved from the window's ledge and across the room. The common room was buzzing with activity, but Harry passed the other students without a word. Even though he no longer lived with his fellow Gryffindors, it wasn't uncommon to see him hanging around the common room, or even up in the boy's dormitories. He had been made Head Boy this year, a privilege many looked upon with envy—but now that he was in the Head Boy's shoes, he couldn't wait to get out of them. Why? Because Dumbledore had passed a new rule. There were to be two Head Boys and two Head Girls. A Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Slytherin. The two Head Girls filled the former two's shoes—Cho Chang was Ravenclaw and Miriam Burnabee was Hufflepuff—so that left a Gryffindor and Slytherin. It was to help promote inter house relations—or, in Harry's eyes, to make his life a living hell because the other Head Boy was none other than Draco Malfoy, the boy who had seemingly spent his entire Hogwart's career getting Harry to hate him. So even though term had just begun three weeks ago, the other Gryffindors had already grown accustomed to his presence. It was like he had never left, really.

Grabbing his rucksack from a nearby table, he swung it over his shoulder and walked toward the portrait hole. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, but he ignored the gaze—shouldn't Hermione be happy he was going to go study? So what if he was only studying because he wanted to avoid Malfoy at all costs and Ron was too busy with Lavender? So what if he was only studying because he was depressed and knew it was what he had to do?

Leaving the common room, the portrait hole swung shut behind him, the Fat Lady pressed against one corner of the painting, shivering as thunder roared above the castle.

“Blasted storms,” she muttered, pointedly ignoring Harry's questioning eyes. Harry shrugged and started down the corridor toward the library.

The smell of old books and parchment, something Harry had once despised, had come to be mildly reassuring and welcoming as he walked through the library's oak doors. He made a bee-line for the first empty table he saw, haphazardly dumping the contents of his rucksack onto it and earning a reproachful look from Madame Pince. He flashed her a brilliant, if not sarcastic, smile of his own and headed into the stacks.

Unfortunately, he was there to work on a Potion's essay, something he'd usually put off to the last minute. It was his last bit of homework and he figured he might as well get it done before the weekend so he could properly enjoy himself. Really, he couldn't see why Hermione shot him so many disproving looks. Shouldn't she be happy he had decided to turn a great deal of his focus on his studies?

Merlin, what was it with women?

Okay, so although Harry had began focusing on his studies, he still didn't have the whole research thing down—and therefore randomly picked two books that were filed under the appropriate section and headed back to his table. Plopping down in his chair and, again earning a reproachful look from the librarian, Harry flipped the first book open and thumbed through its table of contents.

It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for and soon, he lost his worries in the boring, dry reading of Hazel McGommery's Theory of Mixture. Absently, Harry's fingers searched for a quill and he chewed on the tip as he read. It was a good hour and two quills later that Harry turned to the next book, pulling it on top of the one he had just read. He shifted slightly in his seat, taking a moment to stretch leisurely before opening the next book. He flipped through the first few pages, searching for the table of contents only to come up empty handed—setting the book in the palm of one hand, Harry flipped through the entire thing, a crease forming between his brow as he realized it was blank. A bit confused, Harry turned to the spine. It, too, was blank and barely worn. Someone must have filed away their notebook by mistake. Their loss, his gain.

Leaving the empty notebook on his table, Harry returned to the stacks in search for another book.

[loekie]

Draco yawned as he stretched his aching body. He sat in the head-boy’s common-room. He sighed as he closed the book he was reading. He remembered the end of fifth year when they took his father to Azkaban. He had never been happier. Yes, our spoilt little brat, wasn’t as spoilt as he had everyone believe. The blonde boy closed his eyes for a second. It had not taken more then a few weeks for his father to bribe and cheat his way out of there though, and the short stay in Azkaban had made the blonde Malfoy Patriarch even worse then before. The blondes body was still recuperating. Especially when Voldemort himself started to take an interest. He sighed as he remembered…

He had stood before the ugly, but powerful sorcerer. He had just given him a mission, and being the fucking weakling he was, he had seen no other choice but too except. To say however that his father wasn’t pleased however was an understatement. Not that his father was ever pleased…

“Next year will be different” the man hissed in a tone the teen knew spelled doom and disaster “you will make sure that you will be on top of you class this year” the man hissed and the boy nodded ever so slightly “yes father…” he whispered his head still bowed. “Well.. how about we make sure of that?” the man said icily as he punched the boy in the face, following that up with a punch in the blonds stomach his cane now hitting his son’s back knocking him to his knees. The boy clenched his jaw. He absolutely hated this. Being degraded and humiliated like this, but his face, as always, was a perfect blank mask. His father grabbed him by the arm yanking him up to his feet spinning him around, pushing him to the floor once again. A wand appeared from the guy’s cane and soon a whip appeared in the man’s other hand, which he continually used on the teen’s back. When he was finally done with the torture device several crusio’s sounded through the room. When too this had satisfied the man enough he simply kicked the boy now crumpled on the floor in the chest “You better not disappoint me again” he spat “you heard the dark lord… make it happen” he hissed warningly as he stepped over the lithe form of his son.

The blonde teen shook his head… he better get this freaking work done. Then he was going to have to think of a way to ‘fulfil’ his mission. He wasn’t sure if he could even do it… No matter what anybody thought, he was not his father. No matter how much he tried. He could never be tough enough. His father would always find another flaw, something not quit right. He slammed the book on the desk. No on top of this all, he was head-boy. As if the added ‘responsibilities’ weren’t enough, Dumbledore had come up with this ridiculous rule, and now he had to share this damned place with Potter. That infuriating boy that seemed to have it all. Oh yeah, everybody just loved Potter. He was the fucking hero after all wasn’t he? The blonde let out a long, bitter sigh. He shook his head, he was glad though that the boy seemed to be hating it just as much as he was, and that the Gryffindor was usually out anyway, leaving the blonde alone with his thoughts.

He rose to his feet walking over to the window as he sat in the windowsill watching the water hit the window. He remembered all the times he had sat just like this in his room at the Manor. Staring outside whishing he could be out there… that he could run and hide in the woods surrounding the massive building. Then there would be “DRACO” from downstairs and he knew it was back to reality. Time to slip on his mask once more and face the ‘music’. Now he was back in the castle and school had started a few weeks ago. He ran a hand through his now longer blonde hair brushing it out of his eyes before he ran a hand over his forearm where there was the dreaded tattoo. He had known of-course. He had known that it was going to happen. Ever since he could remember really, he had realized that he was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps. He turned from the window his arms now limp at his side. What was he to do? Could he really do it? Could he kill someone? He realized it was a matter of ‘kill or be killed’ and that whether he could, or couldn’t do it wasn’t an issue. He simply had to do it… didn’t he? He really did not see any other way. He turned from the glass and heading into his room. He knew he should be studying, but hell, he was just tired. He put the book away coming across a book…

He smirked.. how horribly that had gone wrong. He wasn’t even sure what he had been trying to do. He fingered the book and flipped through the empty pages. His mind still occupied. Maybe he should go and talk to Snape? He might know what to do. The blonde shook his head. No, he couldn’t do that. The newfound DADA teacher had his own problems to deal with hadn’t he? He rook a potion from his robe pocket and proceeded down his bathroom. He’d just take a long hot bath and then get ready for bed. It was getting rather late anyway and he had pulled an allnighter last night. He waved his hand and instantly the bath was filled with steaming water. The blonde took of his robes and clothes and slipped into the hot water. The blonde boy put his arms behind his head and sighed happily… this was one of the few times he just felt at peace. It was just so quiet.

He ran a hand over his forearm feeling the slight engravings by his trusty dagger. The blonde however ignored it and simply closed his eyes feeling himself drift into a restless slumber. Memories made it’s way into his subconscious. An hour later he startled awake his fists clenched as he took a few deep breaths. This was just pathetic. He rose from the bath and got dressed forcing himself to calm down. He sighed as he headed back into his room, realizing he forgot his potions-book in the other room. Great… He headed back into the common-room. He settled himself back in the couch realizing he had to finish this essay. He laid his head against the seat and opened the book scanning the pages… Another hour or so later, he had written everything down, but he also had fallen asleep, the book now resting on his chest, his blonde hair fallen into his face…

[plzkthnks]

Unfortunately, although Harry frequented the Gryffindor tower during the day, he was unable to do so at night. McGonnagal had made it clear that, although she appreciated his situation, he was not welcome in the Gryffindor tower past curfew. So it was only after Madame Pince had given him the boot that night, that he returned to the Heat Boys' quarters.

Stepping into the small common room—it would be quite cozy, really, if it weren't for the other inhabitant—he was a bit surprised to find his counterpart asleep on the sofa. He hesitated, the portrait closing silently behind him, and stared at the other through the firelight. Something about him looked wrong—maybe it was the lack of sneer crossing his face, or the way the firelight played with his hair—or maybe it was the frightening way his body looked still. Harry squinted, unable to see the steady movement of his chest.

Of course, although Malfoy didn't look as if he were breathing, he was.

Harry couldn't be that lucky.

Best to let sleeping Slytherins sleep.

As quietly as he could—if only to avoid the inevitable attitude he would receive if he was to accidentally wake the other—Harry headed toward his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Once in his room, he dropped his rucksack beside his bed and practically collapsed into it, flipping over to toe off his shoes. They fell to the floor with a hollow thud and he stilled, remembering with a jolt the sleeping Slytherin. Surely that couldn't have awoken him—right? Right. Sitting up only to shrug off his shirt and set his glasses aside, Harry stared up at the dark ceiling with flat eyes. For what ever reason—maybe it was do to the new surroundings, or the amount of stress—Harry had come down with a case of insomnia. He had always had some problems sleeping, but this year, it had gotten much worse. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep, but of course, he just couldn't do it. His mind raced, switching from subject to subject, event to event, person to person. It didn't take long for him to get irritated with it, so he sat up and turned the lanterns on with his wand. Haphazardly, he grabbed his glasses and shoved them onto his face.

Grabbing his rucksack, he withdrew a self inking quill and a notebook—conveniently enough, the one that had been retrieved from the library earlier that night. He held it in one hand again, flipping through it for a moment before finally settling on the first page. Somehow, this felt a bit wrong—probably because this originally belonged to someone else's, but it wasn't as if they had written anything in it. If that had been the case, he would have returned it to Madame Pince. Who ever's notebook this was, wasn't bound to miss it, right? After all, it was blank. Empty.

Hardly convinced, but too tired to care, Harry put his quill to the page and began writing, trying to pull random facts out for his essay.

In 1846, the great war between two kinds caused

He roughly scribbled it out and started a new line.

He really wasn't in the mood to write his potion's essay—so instead, he just wrote, feeling a bit like a silly little girl kept up in her room.

Silent. Left to my own thoughts, I find myself imagining things differently. What if things hadn't happened like this? What if they had been stronger, somehow able to succeed? I wonder what they would be like.. the stories don't quite do them justice, but I guess it's that way with any person, friend, family or stranger...

He stopped, staring down at what he had written.

Was he really treating this notebook like a diary?

He dropped the quill, a bit of ink bleeding onto the end of the sentence.

It didn't feel quite right to write these things down.. but maybe it would be good for him. He sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

[loekie]

The blond Malfoy heir’s sleep was not as pleasant as it may at first glance be percieved by an outsider. His sleep was usually haunted by unpleasant memories and the boy avoided sleep as much as he could. And really it had not been a good idea to let himself have fallen asleep in the shared common-room. The blond boy had learned to, even in sleep, keep his expression a calm emotionless mask. Inside his mind, different images flashed through the boy’s mind.

A three he had stood in the middle of the room between his parents whom where facing eachother wrapped in a fight. “He is you’re son Lucius, you wanted an heir, he is you’re responsibiliy, and yours alone, keep the brat away from me!” the woman hissed. His father had raised an eyebrow “Fine Narcissa, but in the future you at least act like the doting mother in public, is that clear?” he commented. The blonde woman narrowed her eyes “Don’t threaten me Lucius” she replied but finally conceeded “Fine, but it stops there” she informed stalking from the room. His father went the other way neither of them deeming their son worthy of a glance. He had stood there confused and alone. What had he done wrong? Why did his mother hate him?

It quickly shifted into another image...

He suddenly was 5 years again running up the large staircase that lead to his room quickly ran into his room looking around axiously before quickly deciding on the massive closet and slipping inside tryingg to hide in between his robes as he listened to heavy, determined footsteps that inched ever closer... The blond tightly shut his eyes praying to the gods to please for once to let him stay hidden. The gods, just like everyone esle aslo seemed to hate him though and it wasn’t long before the closet door swung open and he found himself yanked to his feet, a shot of pain surging through his arm. His father shoved him against a wall his cold eyes firmly fixed on him and forever burned into his son’s brain. The boy had tried to splutter excuses and explenations, his father had not let him “You better never ever pull a stunt like that ever again” he hissed near his sons ear who nodded “Yes father... I apoligize” he replied quickly. His father’s cane was put under his chin and used to lift his head “It better not happen again Draco” he warned “And if you ever run and hide from me again, you will pay dearly, understood? Malfoys do not run, you hear me?” again, the boy nodded obediantly...

Then it shifted to red eyes boring into his own, surwaying him, watching him. That voice... he would never get that out of his head.... “You are you father’s son, aren’t you Draco” it had said with what could only be interpretated as a evil smile “He has served me well, and I could not be more pleased that you have decided to join me”. Draco had almost smirked or chuckled. Decided? Forced more likely. No-one had ever even so much as bothered to ask him what he wanted, and maybe that was a good thing. He could not have told them the truth anyway had anyone bothered.

*thud*

He bolted upright on the couch grimacing as pain shot through his broken body and his breathing came in heavy gasps. He shook his head clear mentally berating himself for being so foolish and childish. He closed his eyes for a second to get himself firmly under control before he picked up the book that had fallen to the floor. It was obvious that annoying bloody ‘wonder boy’ had returned from his daily trip to his ‘beloved’ house. He smirked. Damn goody-two-shoes Gryffindors. He the rose to his feet and headed to his own room putting his stuff away. He would not be able to concentrate on any more studies tonight. He yawned now that he was in the seclusion of his own room some of his stone mask started to crack. How much longer could he keep this up? He leaned against a wall and picked up the book that should have a flawless plan.. until, of course, as always he screwed it up. He smirked as he ran a hand through his hair and then the book slipped from his grap. He grumbled annoyed as it tumbled to the floor, falling up. I pick it up and turn it around to put it back when something catches my attention.

“In 1846, the great war between two kinds caused...”

What the hell? He frowned. He had checked the damn things extensively back home and it hadn’t shown more then some giberish, and now actual words appeared....? Curious... He narrowed his eyes as something esle appeared.

Silent. Left to my own thoughts, I find myself imagining things differently. What if things hadn't happened like this? What if they had been stronger, somehow able to succeed? I wonder what they would be like.. the stories don't quite do them justice, but I guess it's that way with any person, friend, family or stranger...

Apparently he’d been careless and someone had found the other book. Someone who seemed to have major issues. He sighed wondering what he should do...? If he’d write back, he would run the risk of getting caught. He was curious though as to whom had got a hold on the other book. He sat down on his bed getting out a quil.

“Seems someone is in desperate need of therapy” he wrote in elegant, strong handwriting. He wondered if it would work again... Well.. only time would tell wouldn’t it?

[plzkthnks]

Scrunching up his face and then smoothing his expression as Harry rubbed his eyes, his hand dropped to his side and he glanced down at the notebook in his lap, vision blurred. The words seemed to melt into the page, the ink running until it vanished completely—his eyes widened and he shoved his glasses back on his face, almost certain he was imagining things. The lack of sleep had to be getting the better at him but—he blinked, staring down at the page. The page wasn't blank, but his handwriting had been replaced with something else—the script was strong and elegant, and he could hear his heart pounding in his head.

Seems someone is in desperate need of therapy.

Harry resisted the very strong urge to dump the book from his lap and instantly light it on fire.

This was not happening. The events of second year replayed in his head—the illusions Voldemort had played in his head, the sight of Ginny Weasley in the chamber of secrets. No. This was not happening. He stared down at the page, incredulous and suddenly angry—and admittedly curious. He knew he couldn't. Or rather, shouldn't. It was like playing with fire—what if these tricks were the same? But, at the same time, Harry almost felt as if he were smarter because of the first experience. That he would be able to see the warning signs before he got too far into it—he also knew that wasn't true.

Still, he found his hand itching toward his quill, the minutes passing by.

Finally, its tip touched the page, ink bleeding into the white and he drew it back, half expecting it to instantly disappear. But it didn't. He licked his lips, hesitant but determined.

Who is this?

He wrote finally. His writing was usually pretty decent, but resembled mere chicken-scratch below the mystery ink.

A million things raced through his head, and he could see his heartbeat again, his vision trembling. Just in case, Harry grabbed his wand, waiting for the ink to disappear.

[loekie]

Draco sighed as he watched the ink slowly dissapear wondering if the one with the book would ever write back. It must be freaking the other out pretty badly. He smiled slightly. This might be interesting after all, and it took his mind of of things. He supressed a yawn but simply waited as he took the book and sat at the window-sill staring out over the dark Hogwart’s grounds. He could do this for hours given half the chance. Even as a small child he’d be fascinated by the window in his room and the grounds it looked out on. Of course he had never been allowed to actually go outside often, and well... sitting in his window-sill had been the next best thing. He stared up at the night-sky and figured maybe he’d go outside for a while later. He was not going sleep anymore anyway and so he would have to find something else to do right?

He brushed some blond hair from his face and closed his eyes his mind racing. There were so many things he had to do this year. First on his list was his little ‘assignment’ second of course was making sure to be number one of his year, and finally beat that annoying know-it-all Granger, and then there was beating that insufferable Pothead on the quidditch feilds. Not that he was holding my breath. He knew he was a decent flyer, for sure, but he also knew that his father had needed to bribe my way into the team. That in itself said it all didn’t it? It wasn’t that he ever really cared. He loved flying... he really did, it made him feel free and for a brief moment he’d be able to let go. Soaring through the sky at high speed, doing a few tricks... for some reason he was unable to get the same feeling on the quidditch feild though, and he realized that his father’s pressure had even extended as far as to almost suck the fun out of flying.

Who is this?

Draco frowned narrowing his eyes.... did anyone ever really who he or she is? This was however not the time to get philosophical and he called for his own quil and frowned. He could hardly write back ‘Draco Malfoy’ now could he? He sighed as he caughed a glimpse of his reflection in the window... Two lifeless eyes gazed back at him and he quickly looked away disgusted. It had brought him to a name though... lifeless, empty, void... He’d been forced to study latin ever since he was a little boy and he figured Cassus would do quit nicely.

He put his quil to paper and wrote ‘Cassus’ then he frowned and contnued ‘Who are you?’ he added. Not that he was expecting an honest answer.... he knew the answer would probably be a lie. It didn’t really matter. As long as the other didn’t know his name... it really didn’t matter... He waited, wondering if he would even get a response.

[plzkthnks]

A minute or two passed in a tense silence, Harry's eyes never leaving the page. He was almost afraid to blink, afraid that if he did, he would miss the transition—and as the seconds passed, he wondered if he was imagining things. What if his writing hadn't disappeared? What if he had fallen asleep without realizing someone had already written in this book? The excuses he found himself thinking up were becoming more and more incredulous as time passed until finally, the ink blurred in front of his eyes, bleeding and melting until it was gone. His heartbeat loudened again.

Simultaneously, other handwriting appeared.

Cassus.

He swallowed, whispering it to himself.

“Cahs-suss. Cuh-suhs.”

Common sense told him that that probably wasn't this person's real name... although Voldemort had given his original name. Just not what he was known by. He wondered what sort of alias it was—if it had a special meaning to the person or if it was a cover, a code-name given.

More script appeared.

Who are you?

Harry thought for a moment. He should have been expecting that question. His first instinct was to write his middle name—James, but he thought that was too obvious. Well, not obvious, maybe, but easily figured out. Especially if he was meant to get this journal—Evans, his mother's maiden name, was out of the question then too. He tried thinking fast and, following his impulse, wrote down the first non-incriminating name that came to his head.

Eron.

If he remembered right, he had read it in a book a few days ago for Advanced Charms. It had only stuck with him because of its spelling. He thought it meant enlightenment or something. Peace, maybe? It was fitting if that was the case. He was the one meant to bring peace—finish Voldemort off for once and for all...

Licking his lips again, Harry debated whether or not to write anything else. He decided on one of the obvious questions, although he was uncertain whether or not he would get an honest answer.

Where are you from?

[loekie]

The blond heir remained at the window-sill patiently waiting if the other would respond. He figured the other’s curiosity might have been spiked enough to continue this... charade. The teen stretched his aching body and his mind drifted to the headmaster. He knew he was supposed to hate the old, muggle-loving fool. But really he had no problem with Dumbledore, and now he had to kill the old man. He closed his eyes... he had never thought he would have this much trouble with it. He had always known he was nothing more then a pawn to his parents. Something to be shown of, used and discarded as it suited Lucius and Narcissa. He had soon made peace with that... he really had, but sometimes... no matter how hard he tried to deny it, it hurt. He yawned... He figured it was just a matter of getting this task over with. He was his father’s son after all, and over the years he had proven himself to be capable of putting down the younger, more vulnarable students and completely try and break them down.

Yes the boy was aware of his behaviour and he also knew how incredibly sad and childish it was... but somehow, making other feel like crap, made himself feel better. It made him forget about his own problems and pain. He sighed deeply... Would he ever ‘grow up’ and ‘get over himself’? He didn’t even know how he had let things get this far. He really was not looking ofrward to spending the rest of his pathetic life as a worthless servant as his father had been so keen to do. He shook his head. His father was such a fucking hypocrite.... Malfoys were supposed to be above other weren’t they? And yet the blond patriarch had be so quick to pledge his allegiance to some whackjob half-blood. He ran a hand over his left arm where the dreaded tattoo stained his flesh. He leaned his head against the wall staring out the window...

Things had really changed and he knew that if he was not to comply with his orders, he would be killed, either by Voldemort, or his father, of course not without having him beg for his death for a few months if possible. He sighed... not really a comfortable thought was it? And so he had no choice but to do as he was told. Malfoys were cowards, if nothing else and the young teen had soon realized he was no different no matter how much he tried to tell hismelf he was. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the book. His writing started to dissapear.

“Eron” appeared on papper and the blond raised an eyebrow. Hebrew huh? An interesting choice to say the least. Not that he really thought it was the other’s real name of course. He really was not a Slytherin for nothing. He frowned when there was another question.

Where are you from?

He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. What to answer? He supposed he might as well tell the turth.

“I’m from Wiltshire” he wrote and then figured he might as well straight return the question and wrote “What about you?” not that it really mattered and he was curious as to what the answer might be.