Draco knows he isn't supposed to go through his father's old school things. Knows, because they're locked in a trunk in the attic, where all the old family ghosts are, their fingers like dead leaves as they whisper to him, shhhh. But it's too hot to practise Quidditch, and downstairs his parents are having a dinner party, the sound of knife on plate - chink - drifting up through the old chimneys, disturbing decades-old dust.

He also knows not to trust magic books. So he wavers over his father's leather-bound diary, the cover cool beneath his fingers. He doesn't want to open it, for fear of screaming faces or unspeakable curses or worse, worse, the disappointed look on his father's face when he finds out. But Draco is also old enough to know the value of information; and clever enough to know that if something is hidden, there's usually a reason.

The picture takes him by surprise as it flutters out, falling to the floor with a soft swish of air.

His father's old room at Hogwarts, done in faint sepia tones, making the green Slytherin crest above the bed a muted beige, the colour of old pine. Books stacked untidily on the bedside table, a robe hung over the high- backed chair. Draco realises that it looks like his own room, really, or not quite - it looks like any room in Slytherin, at once familiar and strange. And he imagines that he can smell burning, the faint tang of smoke in the air.

But when he goes downstairs, they're not even at dessert, and his father frowns at him when he tries to explain the cigarette smoke he can taste in the air.

Draco knows he should put the picture straight back, but he doesn't. Slips it under his shirt, smooth and cool against his bare skin, right over his heart. And he could swear that the smell of smoke follows him around for the rest of the day, like a spectre leaning over his shoulder, always on the verge of being real.

He slides under the covers, luxuriating in the feel of clean linen on skin, the vanilla scent of laundry filling his lungs. He remembers his mother once telling him about the Princess and the Pea, and how it had made him laugh - nothing but softness and layer upon layer of goose feathers for this little prince. The picture lies under his pillow, safely hidden.

And the clock goes - tick - in the half-light of Draco's room, the shadows playing on the ceiling.

And in his dreams, a boy with dark hair and green eyes steps out from the shadows by the four-poster, the moonlight glinting off his prefect's badge.

And he says: 'Got a light?'

*****

Draco returns the next night with his father's lighter, stolen from the top of his dressing-table. It fits perfectly into the palm of his hand, gleaming silver - heavier than it looks, weighing down the pocket of Draco's trousers all day, a guilty thrill whenever it bumps against his leg. A house elf will be whipped, no doubt. Whipped until the screams cease to be screams and become something else entirely.

And the boy laughs, and says: "Lucius will be so ANGRY."

They sit cross-legged on the bed, passing a cigarette between them, its tip glowing orange in the dimly lit room. Draco knows he's dreaming, because there's no door to the room, no way out - and the moonlight which streams through the open window is too harsh, silver-edged like knives. But still, the smoke tastes like smoke, the same as the cigarettes which Pansy and he sometimes share in the common room after lights out. That, at least, is familiar. And the cigarette which Draco places between his lips tastes of that unfamiliar boy's mouth.

And Draco asks: "Who are you? Why are you here?"

And the boy looks at him coolly and says: "I'm here because Lucius won't let me leave."

There's a certain shadowy look in the boy's eyes, a blur of darkness like charcoal paintings left in the rain. When he smiles, it's a secret smile, as if he knows something the rest of the world doesn't. And his Hogwarts uniform looks strangely old-fashioned, the trousers an unusual cut, the cuffs of his shirt too wide and formal. Like something out of a history book.

And Draco asks: "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

And the boy smiles and says: "How would you know if you were awake?"

They talk for hours, but it never gets any lighter in the room, and Draco can't remember what they talked about. When he tries, the sound of the boy's voice whispers in his head, a susurration lik a tape recording played quietly, or not quite at the right speed. But Draco knows that what they talked about is important. If he could only remember it.

He takes the cigarette from the boy's thin, long-fingered hands, feeling how impossibly cold they are. In the brush of skin on skin, the boy looks at him, and Draco can feel himself flush under those sea-green eyes, a prickle of desire rising up his spine.

And the boy says: "I'll see you tomorrow night."

Draco wakes in the stillness of his room, his heart pounding, like a diver coming up for air. As he sits up in the tangled sheets, he slides a hand under his pillow, searching for the picture - still there, still safe.

But his father's lighter is no longer on the bedside table, and already in his mind, he can hear the screams.

*****

On the third night, Draco wakes from hot, sweaty sheets - the clammy night air hanging oppressive over his bed - and realises he's back in the moonlit room again. The boy is sitting above him, the tip of his cigarette flickering amber in the half-light, exhaling softly in clouds of white smoke, a strangely comforting presence.

Draco says: "This isn't real. You're not real."

But the boy just laughs, and offers a drag of his cigarette. Draco accepts, feeling the surge of heat rushing up his arm as they brush against each other, the boy's touch cold and dark against his too-warm skin. The boy sinks down into the pillows beside him, and they talk for a while.

The soft - click - of the lighter in the darkened room.

And Draco knows that he must be asleep, that he's dreaming. The boy is never quite there, like a reflection or ripple across a pool of dark water, only ever seen or half-seen from out of the corner of his eye. The moonlight is still too silver, and the room still doesn't have a door, and the wrong symmetry of it makes Draco blink. Cold, stone walls in the moonlight, stretching from end to end. Like a prison. And when he asks the boy who he is, and who put him here, his eyes darken like storm-clouds rushing across the Channel.

Drao knows he should tell his father about the picture. But somehow he thinks that he already knows.

And on the third night, the boy kisses him. Leans over him, using those cold hands to brush the sweat-damp hair off his face. Then traces the curve of his jaw, slowly, watching him with those charcoal eyes. Draco trembles, slightly, and the boy leans in, his eyes earnest, taking it slow as slow can be. He tastes of smoke and ashes, and some faint whisper of sweetness.

The boy runs his fingers through Draco's hair and whispers, "Like gold," and the hunger in his voice makes Draco's heart skip a beat.

And Draco yields, letting the boy push him back onto the bed, his tongue gently exploring Draco's mouth. He can feel the first stirrings of desire, and this is so new, so strange, the movement of mouth over slightly parted lips, the soft sighs being coaxed out of him. It feels good. It feels unreal, and the moonlight caresses their skin as they melt into each other, warmth into dark.

The boy's skin is warmer to the touch, now. His lips soft and pliant as they move together, the boy's hands in his hair, Draco's arms encircling the boy's slim hips. Draco can feel his breath starting to catch as the boy's hand slips under the shirt of his pyjamas - silk, of course, last summer in the Champs d'Elysees - and strokes the small of his back, hands not yet warm enough to stop him from shivering.

So quiet, in the moonlight. Draco knows there should be the sound of night- owls, of trees rustling, of wind in the chimney. But... nothing. And he doesn't care.

*****

It’s too hot to practice Quidditch. And his parents are having another dinner party; the House Elves have been hard at work all day in that great furnace of a kitchen, deep in the bowels of the manor. Draco wanders in, steals the glace cherry off the very top of the pavlova, and drifts out again, completely unseen. He decides to go to the library, but it’s too quiet, the incessant – tick – of the grandfather clock driving him mad after only a few minutes. The drawing room is the same – he picks out a half-hearted tune on the piano, the opening bars of Fur Elise, then stops because the music sounds so alien in the slumbering room. Maybe the piano is out of tune? Maybe.

He goes to bed early, not long after the guests have departed, the sound of their goodbyes echoing through the fireplaces as the Floo whisks them off again. He lies awake in the luxury of his bed, listening as the house settles down; his mother starting her piano practice, just a few minutes off midnight; his father climbing the stairs, the boards creaking heavily under his footfalls.

And Draco remembers the boy’s kisses, feeling his jaded senses beginning to stir at the thought of those cool hands wandering over his body. He wants to dream again. The thought makes him shiver deliciously, sliding a hand under the sheets to caress the smooth, pliant surface of the picture. Then, lower, to touch himself, enough to make him gasp and close his eyes, begging for sleep to overtake him.

But when he falls asleep…

His father is there.

Lying on the bed in the silver-splintered moonlight, dressed all in black – the windows reflected in the gleam of his riding boots. He looks as though he’s just returned from the hunt; an excited shimmer illuminates those languid grey eyes, and he’s holding a riding-crop, the supple leather coiled in his lap like a thin dark snake. Draco has never seen his father look like this before. So alive.

And Draco remembers the boy’s cold voice, thrumming slightly in his head like an echo: “Because Lucius won’t let me leave.”

The boy is there, too. Sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, all calm and composure, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor in front of him. Like a marble statue in the moonlight; the only colour on him is the raw red of the welts on each slender wrist, turning the flesh into the rich, bruised shade of rotten meat.

He doesn’t look at Draco.

“Draco.” And his father beckons to him; he goes willingly, really, because he knows no other way. He can remember his father cupping his face, gently, and leaning in close. His breath smells of smoke – and tastes of smoke, too, later.

But Draco can’t remember, and the boy won’t tell him, what happened after that.

*****

Draco wakes in the sepia room, clawing his way up through layers of consciousness as if he were buried alive, the air thick as earth around him. He isn't so sure, any more, whether he's awake or asleep. But he does know that his lip is split open, all puffy and alien to his searching tongue, and that it tastes sharp, like blood. And he can see sympathy in the boy's inky eyes; he's been sitting there cross-legged all this time, and Draco feels oddly comforted to know that he's being watched over, asleep/awake.

And Draco asks: "What happened?"

But the boy doesn't answer, only presses their bruised lips together, his hand darting up to palm Draco's eyes closed. His fingers are cool and dry, like parchment, and Draco's world becomes shadows, all angular lines and iridescent moonlight.

The boy breaks the kiss, his breathing quick and shallow. He whispers, "at least he lets you go, sometimes," running his hand through Draco's hair, his voice sibilant in Draco's ear. And Draco doesn't want to know what he means, and presses his eyes tightly closed, until starbursts of brilliant white start to float across his vision.

And the boy presses him back against the plush white cushions, tasting of bitter smoke, his mouth demanding.

"I'm Tom," he murmurs.

And Draco knows who this is, but he doesn't care. Doesn't care, as Tom's lips move down his throat, whispering against the delicate skin, ghost-soft in the moonlight. Oh, hush. Silent and lovely, he eases off Draco's shirt, letting it pool on the floor next to the untouched Hogwarts textbooks. Then runs his tongue over the jutting collarbones, breathing smoke-scented murmurs onto the bare skin, making Draco gasp slightly and tangle his fingers in Tom's hair. His mouth is warm, and he lips gently at Draco's nipples, putting a hand across Draco's face to silence him.

And in the hush, he says: "You taste like your father."

And slips the thin pyjama bottoms over Draco's slender hips.

And he says: "What do you want me to do?"

And when the answer is anything, anything, he smiles slightly and runs a hand up Draco's inner thigh, leaving shivers and chills in his wake.

*****

Draco slips in and out of wakefulness all night, fighting to stay with Tom whenever the cosy glow of his room in the manor fades in and threatens to steal him away. Fighting to stay in this new world - his world - where the moonlight spills like shattered glass, and there are whispers of want and need and hunger in the darkness. Tom holds him down and kisses him until he shivers, until he becomes a small scared trembling thing, undone with desire. Draco whispers, "Yes," and runs his fingers through the boy's hair, carding his fingers in the smooth darkness of it. And then, as Draco wallows in sleep, too tired to wake properly, Tom runs spider-fingers up his legs, laps gently at his cock before sucking the burning length of it deep into his mouth, swallowing hard. Draco thinks vaguely that Tom must taste of memories, but he can't say how, and then lapses into incoherence when Tom slides into him, burying himself up to the hilt in Draco's warm, living flesh.

In the moonlight.

And when he wakes into soft eiderdown and the pink glow of dawn through red damask drapes, he presses his eyes shut, panting with unfulfilled desire. and the colours are hurting his eyes - so wrong, after a week spent living and breathing in monochrome. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Tom's breath in his ear, hot and delicious.

He slips into sleep, drugged on amber light, and wakes into shadows.

"Did you miss me?" Tom asks, breathing smoke into Draco's open mouth, his hands smoothing over the downy gold hair on Draco's stomach. He laughs softly as Draco nods, and nips lightly at his neck, murmuring, "Good."

Draco starts to explain how the colours hurt, how he wants this, instead, and he thinks he sees Tom smile to himself, before covering his mouth with kisses. He drags Draco down onto the floor and they make love in the pool of moonlight, slow and surreal like a waking dream.

Afterwards, they share a cigarette, hands slightly clumsy as they lie twined around each other, wrapped in a blanket that smells of dust. Draco watches the shadows play on Tom's face, beautiful and young and harsh.

"I want to stay," Draco whispers, and,

"No, you don't," Tom says calmly, brushing the hair out of Draco's eyes. "But you will stay, all the same."

And Draco has an endless night to turn that over in his head, as the shadows never fade and the morning never comes.

*****

Tom sits on the balcony, smoking a gold-tipped cigarette, watching the shimmer of the smoke against the cloudless blue sky. The colour is enough to make him shade his eyes and squint a little; he's not used to this intensity, yet, and his pupils will only understand black white silver - anything else just HURTS. And he examines his strong, capable hands in the sunlight, tinges of colour returning here and there. He knows his eyes are still dark-smudged green; they used to be vivid as emeralds, but sometime over the last twenty years, years spent in the moonlit room, the shadows have crept in. He stirs his tea, carefully. A silver spoon, white bone china, the soft sound of a sugarcube being dropped into steaming Assam. Tom sips at it carefully, not letting it scald his lips.

He closes his eyes, letting the sunlight wash over him, hearing the faint clinks and clatters as the House Elves clear the breakfast table. They call him 'Master Riddle' and he smiles, because in all the time Lucius has had him, he's never once dared to use the name. One is daring enough to try a hushed 'Master Malfoy' - they're not stupid, they've seen Draco's empty bed. Tom makes a mental note of which one it is, and resolves to have it flogged, then appointed to his chambers. He stirs his tea again, idly, wondering when Lucius will be back.

Later, he takes a stroll in the gardens, once his eyes have starting adapting to the new spectrum of colours; blood-red roses and orange Tiger Lilies, the lush green of the grass, heat hazing into that flawless Midsummer sky. Carefully, he picks a rose, choosing one with lilac-tinged petals. Because Draco will be missing the colours, already, and he'd hate to see that pretty, ineffective boy want for anything. Later still, he picks a book out of the library - Redoute's Roses, full of miniscule thumb- sketches and vibrant washes of colour, rose upon rose upon rose, dissected carefully on paper, pulled apart with pen and ink to find the secret chambers, heavy with pollen and scent.

And there's Lucius, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. It's almost time for dinner - tempus fugit, how time flies - and the scents drifting up towards him are tantalising, even for someone who doesn't need to eat. Lucius smiles, and offers Tom his arm in mock-courtesy; Tom grabs him, kissing him with all the violence of a hungry ghost, cold hands shivering over warm skin. Lucius pulls him close, nipping at his throat, tasting of sunlight and colour.

The Dark Mark burns on Lucius's arm, shining out from under his skin. Tom kisses it impulsively, for what he became and still has to become, for all the Riddles marching back through time, reflected again and again like an infinity of mirrors in moonlight.

He knows he still has a lot to learn, about life beyond the sepia room. This world, now - his world.

But Lucius will teach him; that was the bargain.

*****

The flare of a lighter, in a darkened room.

Smoke drifts across the bed, the rumpled sheets and bloodstains. The boy looks afraid. The shadows have been talking to him.

Tom steps out of the pool of light, his eyes flashing brilliant green. He looks strong. He looks real.

And he whispers Draco's name.

End.