Harry could pinpoint the exact moment he knew something had gone wrong. It was when the presence at his back disappeared.

    He'd been flying the two- himself and Draco- upwards, into the wind, towards the sky, hoping he could be fast enough to escape the potion before- before- he didn't even know what would happen if they didn't get out, actually. He knew it was bad from the way Draco had reacted to the sky turning red, from the panic in his voice when he'd shouted for a broom, though. Before he'd joined Draco in the potion, he'd watched Draco prepare and enter it; Harry hadn't seen the exact warning on the parchment where Draco had written the instructions. He hadn't taken the time to read the new writing that appeared once Draco had disappeared, either; he'd gone in headfirst and unprepared, as per usual. If Hermione had been there, she would've given him that exasperated look she'd perfected for Harry and Ron over the years. When Harry succeeded nonetheless- he always had done- she'd always rolled her eyes and berated him for his lack of a plan. So Harry had to get out of here, or he probably wouldn't get to see Hermione do that ever again. 

    That was what drove him as he flew upwards, battling the wind; that, and the arms wrapped around his waist so tight it hurt. Harry couldn't stop flying, had to get out- because if he didn't, he wouldn't be the only one to suffer the consequences.

    Huh, Harry thought as he flew. This situation was almost uncannily similar to another he had shared with Draco last year. Then, he had been chased by fire, and the world around him had been the same colour as his was now; a deep, bloodthirsty red. A red that screamed "Danger!". 

    Both then and now, Draco Malfoy's arms had been clutched around his waist.

    And then Harry was yanked out of his train of thought by the realisation that, actually, they weren't.

    Draco's arms weren't around him.

    The presence at his back was gone.

    Faster than he thought was possible, Harry swung his broom around, leaning flat against the wood, and flew downwards in a nosedive- a Wronski Feint with no ending, he supposed. The wind was now pushing him downwards, making him go faster and faster and there! 

    He spotted just the slightest blur of black below him, blurred by his speed; as he approached rapidly, Draco became clearer. His eyes were shut tight, limbs loose; his robes were snapping around him wildly in the wind. 

    Harry slowed the broom slightly, keeping pace with Draco as he fell, slowly urging the broom closer and closer and closer- he stretched his arm out, the way he did when he was trying to catch the snitch, and grabbed for Draco; he caught only a handful of robe, which tore away in Harry's hand as Draco steadily picked up speed. Well, that won't work, the calmer side of Harry thought. The other half was hysterical.

    "Malfoy!" he yelled. "Malfoy, wake up!" No response.

    Panicking, Harry looked around him- the sky was far lighter than it was higher up; were they nearing the ground?- before trying one last time.

    "Draco! Wake up!"

    Draco's eyes snapped open, and he looked into Harry's eyes for a moment, looking confused and slightly frightened, before the situation hit him. He started flailing madly, his mouth wide in a scream torn away by the wind before Harry could hear it. His eyes were wide and frightened, his skin drained of what little colour it usually held. He looked almost like he had done in sixth year; deathly pale and scared. He turned to Harry for help.

    "Take my hand!" Harry yelled at him, but the wind took the words from his mouth before he'd even spoken them. He thrust one hand out- the other still gripping the broomstick- and Draco, evidently getting the message, grabbed for Harry's hand; his fingertips brushed against Harry's, but the wind pushed them apart. Determined, Harry moved the broomstick right next to Draco, so they were side-to-side as they fell even further. The sky was almost pink.

    Harry threw an arm around Draco's waist, and let go of the broom. He held himself firmly against it with his legs, pulling Draco towards him and helping him onto the broom. 

    After a minute or so of struggling, Draco was firmly seated; this time, he wrapped his arms around Harry's chest and up, so his hands clutched Harry's shoulders. His body pressed firmly against Harry's back, and Harry could tell he was secure.

    The two shot into the sky again; Harry urged the broom to go faster, faster, faster; he and Draco rose again, the wind battering at them; then Harry heard Draco say, "Oh! I am such an idiot!"; the arms around him tightened even further, and Draco pushed his body weight right so sharply that the two spun around in circles. 

    "What are you doing?!" Harry yelled over the wind; Draco's arms stayed tight around him, and Harry felt the pull of apparition.



    When Harry was let go, he immediately collapsed. Where was Draco?

    His broom was far away from him, out of arm's reach; and though it looked a little battered and bruised, Harry could tell instinctively that it could be fixed up pretty nicely with some charms and the broom-maintenance kit Hermione had given him.

    Harry turned his head to look for Draco, and realised that he was lying on a soft, fluffy surface. 

    He shot up, looking around him; this wasn't Hogwarts, or anywhere else he knew. Where was he? Where was Draco?

    He tried to turn around fully, but a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. "I'm here," Draco said; his voice was scratchy and hoarse, but his hold on Harry's waist was still strong. Harry was so relieved he didn't even try to argue that he hadn't been looking for Draco- after all, he had been. Draco had been the first thing he'd thought to look for after landing.

    Which reminded him. Where was he?

    His first impression was that he was safe. A strange thought, especially to have while in Malfoy- Draco- 's company; but he did feel safe. 

    The room was a comforting array of cool, dark tones- blues and greens scattered across the wall in such a formation that they looked like sunlight, dancing through water. Harry rubbed his eyes and realised that the colours were moving on the wall. Why was Harry surprised? He'd lived in the Wizarding world since he was 11. Still, to have the paint move across the wall- and not have a conscience- seemed strange. Well, it was pretty, Harry supposed.

    The ceiling rippled, too, but Harry also saw fish- so well-painted he wondered if they were real. They swum across the ceiling, circling around and gliding out of sight. Harry watched them until his neck hurt from looking up.

    So he looked down, and saw what he was sat on; a bed. Specifically, a blanket on a bed. A fluffy blue throw on a blanket on a bed, the same dark blue colour as the carpet. Why was he sat on a bed? Whose bed was he sat on?

    The arms around his waist fell again, and it hit Harry. He was in Draco's room. Sat on Draco's bed. With Draco. And his first impression had been that he was safe.

    Beside him, Draco had fallen asleep. Harry glanced at him; his robes were in tatters (he would be angry later, when he woke up) but they seemed to have sustained most of the damage. As far as Harry could see, he was unharmed physically.

    Then Harry stood and gave himself a quick check-over; in the midst of action, when he was full of adrenaline, Harry often gave little notice to injuries he sustained. They often went entirely unnoticed until somebody else pointed them out. He stretched, checking his muscles; then brushed his hands down his body to check for blood. He found none, but he was pretty sure he'd bruised his tailbone when he'd fallen down into the room of Mirrors of Erised; it ached, especially when he applied pressure. 

    He continued looking over the room, seated on the edge of Draco's bed. He saw a black cabinet and a matching bookshelf; a dark blue door he assumed was the exit of the room, and- upon closer inspection- another door, blended into the walls by the same paint and patterns which led to an en suite bathroom. It had a bath like the one in the prefects' room at Hogwarts, with many differently coloured taps. Harry closed the door quietly and thought with a frown that it seemed far too bright; he noticed a window was open, and the sun was rising in the distance. It couldn't be morning already! It was night when Harry and Draco had entered the potion. Harry frowned and sat on the bed again, facing the window, and- ow, what the bloody hell was that?

    He stood again, reaching into his pocket, and withdrew- oh.

    The Philosopher's Stone.

    He remembered looking into the Mirror in that room, and seeing himself- his eleven-year-old-self- pocketing the Stone. He'd been wearing the same clothes as he had been wearing when Harry had seen the same thing, seven years ago. Like he had then, he'd looked for the stone and found it settled in his pocket.

    It was the same blood-red the potion had been, slightly deeper than Harry remembered the first one being, but roughly the same size. It fit comfortably in his fist. 

    The sun, having risen further, now shone a beam of light through the window; Draco rolled over his eyes fluttering open slowly. He saw Harry and his eyelids flew open, "Morning," Harry said, holding up the Stone.