Harry lay in bed in the same room at number four Privet Drive that he'd been forced to call home each summer since the first letters had arrived from Hogwarts. It was still an improvement on the cupboard, but not by much. He stared out the open window at the rising moon, counting the days until he could leave this house for the very last time.

Harry was seventeen. He'd been seventeen for nearly twenty-three hours. He was an adult by wizarding law, and only remained in this house past this morning because it was the only place he was safe.

Harry was sick of worrying about his own safety, sick of the responsibility he held toward the rest of the wizarding world that made his safety necessary. He was determined that the final showdown with Voldemort would occur this year. It was inevitable; events had been accelerating too rapidly for the battle to be far off. And once it was over, he'd be free.

Before next June, either Harry or Voldemort would be dead. And then it wouldn't be necessary for Harry to stay in the home of his mother's last living relative. And then Harry could find his own home, other than Hogwarts, for the first time in his life.

Today had been a typical birthday for Harry. Hagrid had sent an inedible paving-stone of a cake; Ron had sent the new edition of Flying with the Cannons, some wizarding sweets, and a collection of the twins' latest inventions; Hermione had sent a bag of chocolate frogs and a pair of silk Golden Snitch boxer shorts. Harry had rolled his eyes at this last - ever since Ron and Hermione had started dating, the two had been encouraging Harry to find a relationship of his own. Once he'd told them he was gay, Hermione had taken over at trying to tart him up for the next lucky wizard who would catch his eye.

Harry shifted in bed. The slippery material of the new undershorts did feel nice, but it was just weird to remember where he'd gotten them. He shifted again and tried to forget, so he could enjoy the unique sensation of slithery silk next to his bare skin.

A shadow, a rhythmic beating sound, a breeze in the window. Hedwig swooped onto her roost by her cage and blinked at Harry. He stood and walked over to her with an offering of treats, which she munched happily.

The fresh air from outdoors played over his bare chest and legs, causing him to shiver slightly. The boy pulled the window closed and turned back to the room, but not before he'd caught his reflection in the glass. He stopped for a moment to consider the picture, liking the way his shoulders and chest had filled out as his teenage years progressed, but only for a moment. Harry was too tired of others' expectations to want to spend much time admiring himself.

As the owl sipped from her water bowl, Harry untied the correspondance he'd discovered on her ankle.

To Harry Potter, read the outside of the envelope. Harry lifted his eyes to the bedside clock, which read ten fifty-nine and forty-five seconds. Someone had sent him one last birthday-card. But who?

Harry looked enquiringly at his feathered friend, who only blinked again, betraying nothing.

He opened the letter. A single Knut slid out of the envelope, which he caught instinctively before it could hit the floor. Accompanying the coin was a single sheet of very smooth, fine-quality writing paper.

On it were written two words: Hang on.

Harry glanced at his clock once more, just in time to watch it reach eleven o'clock exactly. The second-hand hadn't even completed another tick before Harry felt a familiar, and very foreboding, tug behind his navel.

***

Less than a second later, Harry fetched up against the very solid trunk of a very tall tree. He was glad he was still wearing his glasses; he wished he'd been wearing more than his glasses and his new undershorts. It was cold wherever he was, even in July. Especially when you were practically starkers. It was also very disconcerting to be so thoroughly underdressed in an unknown location.

Harry stepped back from the tree and tried to identify his surroundings. It didn't take long. The tree was all too familiar, Harry having spent a full day in its upper branches one time when Aunt Marge's dogs had taken a particular disliking to him.

The portkey had taken him to the far side of the garden.

Harry let out a relieved sigh. He had no fondness for portkeys at all, especially those which arrived unexpectedly and anonymously and took him to undisclosed locations. Thank goodness that whoever had decided to toy with him had decided to do it gently.

Harry reached out a hand to lean his weight against the tree, and stopped.

Tacked to the tree was an envelope identical to the one Hedwig had brought. Very suspicious but even more curious, he pulled it down. It was obvious that this envelope contained a small, flattish, hard object.

This had better not be what I think it is, thought Harry.

It wasn't, although of course it was. What slid out of the envelope and into Harry's ambivalent hand was a shiny green-and-silver badge bearing the image of a snake and the words "Prefect" and "Slytherin."

You have got to be kidding me.

The small sheet of paper that accompanied the badge scarcely bore more writing than its predecessor. Four words bloomed from the center of the parchment:

Do you trust me?

"Not bloody likely," muttered Harry aloud, but he found himself incapable of letting go of the badge. He knew it had to be a portkey, so why hadn't it activated yet?

A few more strokes of writing in a bottom corner of the page caught Harry's eye. These read: 23:05.

Harry checked his watch. He had three minutes to get to his wand and some clothes.

He never questioned why he never considered dropping the badge and going back to bed. He simply ran.

***

Ouch. Dammit. I've got to get better at these landings.

Harry almost managed to keep his feet as the portkey deposited him in a dusty street full of shops, but his ankle turned painfully. He stood up gingerly, hoping he wasn't seriously injured. The leg still supported his weight, which was good enough for now.

This place took only a moment longer to identify than the last. Harry was glad he'd opted for wizards' robes when he'd gotten dressed, since the few people still wandering about at this hour were dressed similarly. His sudden appearance earned him only a few second glances, and these may have been due to the familiarity of his face among the people who frequented Diagon Alley.

Alright. He knew his way around here pretty well. Didn't know how to get back to Privet Drive, since he hadn't had a chance in the past twenty-three hours to take his Apparition test, but he should be able to Floo to the Burrow or to Grimmauld Place if it came to that.

It wouldn't. Before Harry had even recognised the shop in front of him as being Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions, he had spotted a small package waiting on the doorstep.

Waiting, Harry knew, for him.

He picked up the tiny parcel and unwrapped it. It contained a small, clear glass orb. As Harry held it in his hand, the colour changed to an opaque, smoky red. A Remembrall. But what was he forgetting?

Right! A note. Well, it had to be here somewhere. Harry searched the ground near the doorstep for a minute, aware that he was most likely operating under a time constraint and didn't know what it was.

It finally occurred to him to look again at the wrapping paper. There were words written on the inside: I remember the first time I saw you. I remember that you flew for the first time because of me.

"Because you were being such a sodding prat," whispered Harry, but his mouth quirked upward at the corners.

Remembering the last note, Harry smoothed the paper enough to read the bottom corner. 23:10.

He had barely registered the numbers when he felt that sickening pull again. His last thought before he was whisked away was, Good thing I didn't get much supper tonight.

***

Yes! Harry hit the ground running, or stumbling rather, but finally managed to keep his feet.

He found himself standing on a rocky path that lead uphill, away from the center of a village. A single, dilapidated cottage stood just in view at the top.

"Strolling down Memory Lane, are we?" he mused aloud, as he began the trek up to the Shrieking Shack.

Panting slightly, for having hurried all the way, Harry reached the top of the path. He looked around frantically, worried that well over five minutes had passed. It would be just as easy to escape from Hogsmeade village as it would have been from Diagon Alley, but Harry's curiosity was overwhelming him. What in the world did Malfoy mean by sending him on this late-night treasure hunt?

"There!" he exhaled triumphantly, afraid to make too much noise when he had no idea who might be watching.

Another envelope sat on the ground, right at the spot where Malfoy had been when Harry had pelted him with mud that day Third Year. Harry tore it open greedily.

We've both been right prats. What if we started over?

Let me buy you a drink.

The envelope had been propped against an empty Butterbeer bottle that sat there, upright in the mud. Harry picked it up and glanced again at the paper.

23:30, he read, just as the clock in the village began to strike the half-hour.

Oh, please, let this be the last one! Harry inhaled deeply against the nausea that accompanied yet another sharp jerk behind his navel.

***

Back here again?

Well, almost. The latest portkey had brought Harry back to Diagon Alley, but he now found himself facing the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. He glanced around for envelopes but, finding none, decided to proceed inside.

"Ah, so you've made it!" Tom, the landlord, called out to Harry the moment he stepped in the door. Every face in the crowded pub turned toward the new arrival, who wished very much to shrink invisibly into the shadows.

Tom hurried toward him, gesturing at an empty table in the corner. He carried a mug of Butterbeer. "Sit here, Harry, and drink this. No, no -" he shook his head as Harry tried to protest that he hadn't brought any money - "it's already paid-for."

Harry felt slightly baffled until he remembered the final sentence in the note he'd just received: Let me buy you a drink. He'd thought it had only referred to Malfoy�s choice of object for the last portkey.

The wizened old landlord grinned a rather horrible, toothless grin at Harry. "He'll be so pleased that you followed the trail." Giggling softly - to the extent that someone of his age and girth could be said to giggle - he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Harry reached out to catch Tom's sleeve. "Wh - what do I do now?"

"Drink that," replied Tom with a smile, "and be patient." He observed Harry's dubious expression. "It's just Butterbeer, for Merlin's sake. Didja think I'd serve you something that had been tainted somehow?"

Harry smiled gratefully at the older wizard, who turned on his heel and walked briskly away, seeming only a tad bit offended at Harry's moment of doubt.

The room was warm, the company in good humour. No one bothered Harry or even glanced his way. He felt as blessedly free as if he'd been wearing his father's Cloak.

With each sip of the warming brew, Harry relaxed a bit more. It tasted only of Butterbeer, felt only like Butterbeer to drink. Harry smiled and leaned against the wall. This was a much nicer way to spend the final minutes of his birthday than he'd ever had, excepting of course the year that Hagrid had delivered his Hogwarts acceptance letter to that tiny, rocky island far out to sea.

Harry was just lifting his sluggish arm to check precisely how many minutes were left of his birthday - ten, apparently - when he saw Tom making his way back toward the solitary corner. In his hand was an envelope.

Harry's heart sank. He'd had the impression that Malfoy was going to meet him here! He really didn't want to portkey anywhere again tonight.

Right. If this turned out to be another portkey, Harry was having none of it. He would walk out the Muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron and hail a taxi back to Little Whinging. He had no idea how he would pay for it, but he would wake Uncle Vernon and face his neckless wrath if necessary. He simply would not be traveling by portkey again tonight. End of story.

Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind whispered the awareness that he had actually admitted to hoping that Malfoy would meet him here. Harry shoved those thoughts away again. This was no time for rational consideration. Malfoy had gone to a lot of trouble to whisk Harry from Surrey to London to Scotland and back, and the birthday boy was dying to know why.

You know why, whispered that spot in his mind. Harry slugged down the last of his Butterbeer to shut it up.

Tom arrived at the table, traded the envelope for Harry's empty glass, then left with a wink.

Harry scowled at the wink, but that didn't slow him down at all from spilling the contents of the envelope. There were three: a Muggle photograph of the house on Privet Drive, a key to a room upstairs in the Inn, and a note.

The choice is yours, it read. 23:52.

"Well, that was decent of him." But Harry didn't need a second option. He wanted to find Malfoy and ask him what he meant by this crazy goose chase.

Harry seized the key in his hand and stood to walk toward the stairs. Before he could take a step, the portkey in his hand activated, almost bringing up Harry's Butterbeer.

***

He landed neatly on his feet in a softly-lit room with a woven rug, a dresser and mirror, one small double bed, and a table and two chairs. One of those chairs was occupied.

Draco Malfoy's expression was that of a small Muggle child who had come downstairs on Christmas Eve and surprised Father Christmas in the midst of filling the family's stockings.

"You - you're here. You are really here, aren't you?" The pale, blond wizard stood and rushed toward his schoolmate, stopping just a few paces away.

"You brought me here, didn't you?" answered Harry a bit petulantly, feeling tongue-tied and foolish.

Why hadn't he ever noticed just how perfect the Slytherin's complexion appeared by firelight? Or how deeply the silvery dusk of his eyes could draw a person in?

"Looks that way." Malfoy still looked bewitched. His eyes didn't leave Harry, as though he were afraid the other boy would disappear if he so much as blinked.

Harry frowned. "What made you think I would follow your treasure-hunt?"

The pale-pink lips curled into a devilish grin. "Gryffindor courage. Which means Gryffindor impulsiveness."

A chuckle escaped Harry's chest at the blunt - and very astute - answer.

"But why not just ask me to meet you?"

"Because I wanted to get you alone. Like this. You never would have come if I'd just asked you."

The grin had found its way to the Gryffindor's lips. "'Those of great ambition,' huh?"

Malfoy smiled shyly.

"So, do you?"

"Huh?"

"Trust me. Do you trust me?"

Harry remembered the text of the second note. "Should I?" he surprised himself by asking.

Malfoy looked annoyed.

"I'm not about to turn you over to the Death Eaters, if that's what you mean," responded the Slytherin a little huffily. His lips in the dimly lit room appeared the colour of roses at twilight. They pouted outward slightly, creating a soft contrast to the Pureblood's sharp, pointed features.

Harry was riveted. He forgot to say anything until he realised that music was playing softly in the room. A Muggle song he'd heard from time to time:

"I came here to talk,
I hope you understand,
Green Eyes, yeah the spotlight shines upon you"

Harry blinked himself back to consciousness. "How do you know this song?"

"It made me think of you," Draco replied evasively.

The dark-haired wizard considered this in silence.

"So is that why I'm here? To talk?"

Draco smiled then. It was a warm and slightly predatory smile.

It didn't make Harry nervous at all.

"Among other things," was the answer, as the blond stepped forward and laced his fingers through the inky blackness of the other's hair.

Draco paused in his forward progress, his lips only a fraction of an inch from Harry's. Harry's green eyes were falling shut, his hands reaching to take gentle hold of Draco's hips. He was suddenly very grateful to Hermione for her thoughtful birthday gift.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Mmm?"

"I hope you like your present."

Far away in Muggle London, a clock was striking midnight.