Love Under Will

Part Two: Prologue

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: R for language, frequent sexual situations, and angst

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, except the writing. No profit is intended except the sheer joy I get out of constructing this story.

Part Two of Love Under Will is dedicated to each of its readers, whose love for this story is an unending inspiration.

Prologue

Five nights had passed since New Year�s Eve, and Harry Potter still couldn�t sleep.

His bed was hot and clammy from nights spent shifting irritably under the covers, the sheets grubby and clinging to his skin, so he had moved to the windowsill, where he sat looking out over the frozen grounds of Hogwarts and thinking far too much.

Without the familiarity of four other bodies breathing in irregular rhythm in the beds around him, without the faint light from the other dorm rooms spilling under his doorway, the tower felt like a strange place. The silence was stiff and tense; the emptiness of the room without the others there was immense; Harry felt that just now, even his cupboard would have been more comfortable.

It wasn�t a lonely emptiness, though. It was instead the kind of tense unease that came from waiting, from lying alone at night, thinking too much and waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

So this is what it�s like, he thought, to miss sleeping next to someone.

Okay, so he�d only slept next to Draco once, but still it felt good to think of it again�as if quantifying it made it stronger. As if it were only the absence of Draco beside him that was keeping him awake.

Right. If only.

He missed Draco, definitely. But he wasn�t an idiot, nor was he in denial.

It wasn�t Draco, but the dream he had had five nights before, that haunted him.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he had flashes of it again, like an echo in his memory�the screaming pain of his scar, and a strange voice mumbling. It all sounded like gibberish to Harry, but it was gibberish that seemed to mean something different every time he thought about it. It could have been anything�a plea or command, a cry or a snarl. The more he tried to hold on to it, the less he understood it.

The thing he did understand, the thing that bothered him the most, was the light. Throughout the dream, Harry had seen a blinding white light that threatened to wash over him and everything around him; that threatened to wash everything away.

He thought maybe it was the light that made the dream so disturbing, more disturbing than any of the dreams where he could see people, places, faces�more frightening than any of the visions where he could make out Voldemort�s eyes gleaming venom, or see the eyes of his victims wide with horror. Dreams like those, he could meet head-on. Dreams like those, he understood.

Sometimes as he lay in the dark, he would catch himself thinking that maybe it would be better to have the old dreams, the normal ones when he heard his parents� screams, or saw the green curse that killed them. Dreams of low murmurs and sheer white light, light that crept inside him and made his forehead boil in pain�this he could not understand or control. Instinctively, he was afraid of that light: of what was inside it, what was beyond it. He was afraid of what he would see if the light should fade, and afraid of what he might miss�what he might lose�if it didn�t.

So, instead of sleeping, for the fifth night in a row he was awake.

Tonight was the last night of Christmas holidays, and the students would be returning the next morning. Finally, he would see Draco.

He ought to be happy about it, but instead he was nervous. He drummed his fingers dully against the frigid windowpane, trying not to think about it too much.

A queasy feeling had settled over him ever since the night of his dream, a knife of anxiety that cut into him more sharply with every passing night of insomnia. Things would be fine; he knew that in his head. He would see Draco, they would talk; things would be fine.

Draco would kiss him, and things would be fine.

Except things weren�t fine.

Something was coming.

Harry knew it�knew it as surely as he knew that whatever incomprehensible thing he had seen and heard in his dream that night, wrapped in a gauze of white light, was going to return to haunt him. Harry was going to have to face it, whatever it was. And he would face it.

But Draco�would Draco be able to face it? Would he even want to?

Would he even care?

When Harry closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he sensed Draco coming silently up behind him. If he squinted hard enough he could almost capture the memory of rough lips brushing against his neck, or against his temple. �I promise,� Draco had said, looking into Harry�s eyes. �I won�t deny this.�

I promise.

Harry opened his eyes again. His hands were balled into fists.

Let it come, whatever it was. Even if it came for both of them. Let it come. Harry loved Draco. As long as he loved Draco, that was worth whatever anyone else tried to do to them. He knew that. Surely Draco knew it too.

Harry ground his knuckles hard into the stone base of the windowsill. �Let it come,� he muttered, pressing his forehead against the pane.

The moon had passed behind a cloud; Harry watched its path across the night, and did not sleep.

8 January 1977

House points: 335 (Well done, Gryffindor! In first place leading Slytherin by a full 25 points!)

Password: Skywalker.

As you can see, yet another reason this place desperately needs a Muggle Studies course. The Star Wars craze has hit Hogwarts, and none of the wizards know what to make of it. All the students with Muggle families and friends went to see it over the holidays, and now no one can talk about anything else. I�ve never seen anything like it�half the boys in school have turned into heavy-breathing, Vader-obsessed fans. Meanwhile the ones who don�t get to go to the movies or interact with the Muggle world are completely in the dark, and it�s not exactly a harmonious environment. The Slytherins, who kept hearing mention of the Force, collared some poor Hufflepuff third-year into telling them about it and now are acting as if it�s a deep dark Pureblood wizarding secret they�ve known about all along. Not to mention they keep trying to use the Force on anyone who disagrees with them�and I mean that in the most literal way possible. Peter and Sirius have been trying to create magic light sabres out of their wands ever since school resumed. Rumour has it the Ravenclaws are thinking up ridiculous plans to try to capture Voldemort by building a Death Star.

All in all, this week has reminded me about the ways in which Wizards so often misrepresent Muggles. We place all this emphasis on the ways Muggles misunderstand Wizards, but in reality sometimes I think it�s the other way around. After all, what Muggle hasn�t wanted to be able to do magic�to possess the power of the Force, or whatever trumped-up name they�re giving it these days? Sometimes I think Wizards don�t understand the value of what they have. They have the Force at their fingertips every day, and they have so many real, integral advantages over Muggles that they take for granted.

I feel so strongly that the best way for Wizards and Muggles to get along is not for Muggles to become used to Wizards, but for Wizards to really begin to extend their hand to Muggles. Right now I know it seems like all that matters is stopping Voldemort (I refuse to write You-Know-Who, as it is much too wordy and I think it�s a pointless nickname. Perhaps I should start calling him Darth Vader from now on?) from taking over everything and killing off everyone in sight�but even past that, I can�t stop thinking about what comes next. I know Voldemort won�t win, I just know it�but beyond that, the question remains: what will Wizards do with all that freedom when they have it? Will they turn around and continue to feel superior over Muggles?

It�s so obvious to me that people like me, and Peter, and even Sirius Black, have more in common with working and middle-class Muggles than we do with people like the Puceys and the Malfoys. Why can�t more of us start to understand that? The only way we�ll ever be able to win the battle against Voldemort is to put a stop to this elitist idea that we�re somehow better than they are. I�d love to see a coalition of Muggles and Wizards working together to educate one another and share resources: technology and magic combined�just imagine the possibilities! I don�t know, maybe it could be a joint branch-off of the Ministry of Magic and Labour�a group of Muggle politicians working hand-in-hand with the Department of Muggle Affairs. I�d love to see something like that happen in my lifetime. I know it�ll take years but I have a feeling it�s just around the corner.

Maybe when I get out of Hogwarts, if and the war ends, I�ll start it myself.

What prompted this? Oh, nothing extraordinary�on top of the Star Wars thing, Peter and the others had another run-in with Snape yesterday, and this time Snape managed to insult not only my bloodline but my skills as a witch before Peter�s friends hexed him quiet. I can�t help feeling sorry for him. In some ways he reminds me quite a lot of Peter�at least of Peter before I got to know him well. Quiet in his way, and reserved, but always watching, watching everything anyone does. The biggest difference is that whenever Snape opens his wretched mouth he can only spew bile, and Peter�Peter says the sweetest things.

I had a long and serious�well, I suppose the only word for it is quarrel, I guess�with P. last night. It didn�t start out that way but before we knew it we were piling frustration on top of frustration and I had no idea there was so much built-up resentment and anger and�things can�t ever just be simple, can they? You want somebody, you want to understand them and find out what they�re feeling�you think all you have to do is ask them, and want the answer enough, because surely once they look at you and see how much you want it, how much you want the truth, they�ll just give it to you. Right? I guess not. I guess P. just can�t tell me things, or�at least that�s what he says. I want to believe it�s that. I want to believe it�s that he can�t tell me, and not that he won�t tell me. Because if he can�t tell me things, then it�s my priority to trust him, isn�t it? But if he simply won�t tell me, then it�s my duty to myself to know why he won�t trust me. But�but which is it? How are we even supposed to know these things?

I�m so sick of questions. Lately all I ever have around Peter are questions. Something�s changing him, and I don�t know what it is. He doesn�t even respond to my touch the way he used to. I can�t really ask him why, because if my gaze even lingers on him too long he gets hostile and accuses me of suspecting him of hiding things from me.

Which, well, okay. I do suspect him of hiding things from me�but how can I get him to tell me what�s wrong if he doesn�t trust me not to reproach him? It�s so confusing. I know he�s hiding something, I don�t just suspect it, I know it. I know it like you know your way around your own room, even in the dark. I used to know my bearings around Peter. Now I�m constantly reaching out for something familiar to cling to, and searching more and more all the time.

Whenever I get disheartened, I tell myself that the only thing that can make a difference is love�the strength of love, the strength of it even in the face of everything else in the entire world. And yet, it never seems to be enough. I�m not sure what will be.

I know that doesn�t make any sense. At least, it does in my head�on parchment it just looks silly and paranoid. But something has changed, is changing. Changing us�changing everything.

The only thing that worries me is this:

Are we being changed from the inside, or from the out?

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