Summary: A spell is cast on Harry which creates lots of angst. Draco comes along and creates lots of fluff. Hurrah. Not HBP/DH compliant. Slaaaaaash!

Voldemort is already dead in this fic. Use your imagination as to what happened. The first two chapters are up today and the next two will be up tomorrow.

Disclaimer: I own nothiiiiiing!

Rating: Ah… T?

A/N: Pleeeeeease review! You will receive love



Chapter 1

Harry Potter hadn't been able to sleep. He laid in his four-poster in Gryffindor Tower; he would have liked to have been tossing and turning, but he hadn't dared in fear of waking the others. Instead he had laid quite still, staring at a thin gap in his curtains where pale moonlight filtered through. He had been thinking hard.

The narrow street he trod with painstaking wariness was almost pitch black. Broken streetlamps lined either side of the road and the moon above was drifting in and out of dark, wispy cloud.

He had eventually, carefully, manoeuvred himself out of the bed and, hardly daring to breathe, slipped on his invisibility cloak. He had slowly, slowly opened the dormitory door and a pair of wary eyes had watched from the darkness as the door pulled carefully closed and Harry slipped off into the night.

He had apparated here. London. 2.05am on a dark, cold February day. He made his way soundlessly across the road, drawn to a small, shadowy house with a crumbling roof. His eyes darted left and right with every step, his wand drawn, his breathing held, the cloak pulled tight around him. Voldemort may have been vanquished but the world was still a dangerous place. Death Eaters were still running free from the grasp of the law, perhaps rallying, plotting. A sound low to the ground on his left made Harry freeze and the grip on his wand tightened as a cat came out of the bushes and darted across the dark road. He breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.

There had been a rumour, a barely heard whisper here and there in the school that people were hidden away in buildings all over London, either captive from past spells of Voldemort or in hiding, afraid to come out and unaware that the Dark Lord had been destroyed. He had heard people talking about it in whispers all over the school, and overheard Dumbledore and Lupin discussing the formation of rescue groups. In a few weeks or months, when the situation could be clearly assessed and the danger more precisely analysed.

But the thought of people hiding or trapped, frightened, perhaps alone or in danger, had embedded itself firmly in Harry's head. He didn't want to leave it for a couple of weeks. He had argued with Dumbledore, tried to persuade him, tried to reason with him - but the old professor was adamant and that was why Harry was here, alone in the dead of night. This street was a rumour hotspot - after careful sneaking and eavesdropping he had heard mention of this place from entirely separate sources. He had to see if there were people here, and if he could help them.

Creeping invisible through the shadows he drew up to the front of the house he had picked at random. Every house on this street was seemingly abandoned, in a state of disrepair. He pressed a hand quietly to the paint-chipped door, and it creaked open.

The smell of decay hit him in waves as he took his first cautious steps into the dark house. There was no moonlight here and he squinted into the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust, not daring to light his wand. He was in a small, narrow hallway, with stairs on the left and two doors on the opposite wall. Everything smelled like mould and damp. Harry wrinkled his nose and stepped across the tiled floor, through the closest door, his heart thudding in his chest. Ron and Hermione would kill him if they knew he was here, and he dreaded to think what Dumbledore might say. He knew he was being reckless but the urge to discover, to find these possible hidden survivors, was overwhelming. He strained his eyes into the darkness to see into the room that lay before him.

A torn, dirty sofa, the stuffing oozing from the seams. A smashed television. A muggle home then, Harry thought. His green eyes roamed around the room searching for places a person could hide; doors leading elsewhere, a trapdoor in the floor… but there was nothing, so he backtracked and tried the second door from the narrow hall.

A kitchen. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak tight around him as he entered, smashed glass crunching beneath his careful feet. There was a large window to the left and the light was a little better in here. It was a small room, there were gaps under the counter top where appliances had possibly been stolen, and he could hear the soft scratchy sound of mice behind the skirting board. Plates, bowls and cutlery lay strewn across the surfaces, and the smell of rot was intense.

A distant thud from behind made Harry whirl around, his heart in his mouth.

He stared back into the hall, unable to see it in its' entirety from where he stood but not quite daring to move. His mind raced through the possibilities. The cat again, maybe. Knocking something over. Or tiles falling from the damaged roof. The door maybe hadn't closed when he came through it, until now. Or… it was a person. People. He swallowed and took a tentative step towards the shadowy passageway.

"Someone there?" he asked softly.

Silence. Only the roaring beat of blood in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. The darkness seemed to sharpen, and his straining senses seemed painfully heightened. He took another slow step.


He came to the door and slowly peered around into the hallway. His blood seemed to freeze as he saw a figure standing in the frame of the open front door, a silhouette in the darkness and moonlight. Someone standing perfectly still, facing his way. He couldn't see the face but he knew they were staring straight at him. Harry felt as if he were made of wax - numb and feelingless on the outside, but with hot rivers of fear coursing through his insides. The person did not move.

"A- are you alright?" Harry croaked. "Are you trapped here?"

The figure remained motionless.

"Can you understand me?" Harry asked, his heart pounding so fast it hurt. "Are you in hiding?"

Whoever it was let out a sound, and it took Harry a moment to process what it was. A chuckle. A low, sneering laugh. With a silent, fluid moment they reached into what Harry noted somewhere in the far recesses of his blank mind as robes, and revealed the thin silhouette of a long, narrow wand.

"Yes," the person whispered. "In hiding, Harry Potter. We are all in hiding." Harry raised his own wand warily. "But not… for very much longer."

Before he could even move the shadowy figure slashed their wand and a blinding bolt of yellow came flashing out, slamming into Harry's chest and knocking him backwards. He screamed as sudden, unbearable pain whipped through him. Something was in his head, something crawling, burning, blinding. He didn't know where he was or what was happening, he only knew screaming pain whip lashing through him and he welcomed the darkness that overwhelmed him as he collapsed, dying, to the floor.