HPSlashFics - 3 Darkness and Flood

The worst part of being in the hospital wing, Ginny soon determined, was the flood of people who came along to "cheer you up." It wasn't bad seeing Hermione, Harry and Ron, and she didn't mind Elizabeth's visits, but when the whole Gryffindor team descended upon her at once it gave her a headache, and Charlie's fretting over her made her nervous. She felt perfectly fine and wished Madam Pomfrey would let her out of the infirmary, but she insisted on keeping Ginny there "for observation" - doubtless, Ginny assumed, because she was worried that the fainting fit that had struck her while she was flying would resurface unexpectedly.

Lavender and Parvati came to visit her on the second day she was in the hospital wing. Ginny pretending to be partly asleep while they giggled about gossip (Eloise Midgen had broken up with Justin Finch-Fletchley, declaring him to be "not enthusiastic enough about their relationship"), fashion (Pansy Parkinson had showed up to History of Magic class wearing "very dodgy-looking barrettes") and the Pub Crawl (Parvati was going with Dean Thomas, Lavender with Mark Nott.)

"But Mark's a Slytherin," Ginny protested, momentarily surprised out of her reverie.

Lavender looked unmoved. "So what? Being anti-Slytherin is so last year, Ginny."

Parvati was only too happy to explain. "When you fell off your broom Seamus practically killed Draco Malfoy to keep him from getting anywhere near you. It was so cute."

Dumbfounded, Ginny stared. "Did Malfoy look like he was - I mean was he trying to --why would he...?"

Lavender shook her head. "I don't know. We couldn't hear any of it, you know. We just saw everyone sort of go bolting towards you, and then Seamus stepped in front of Malfoy and blocked him long enough for Harry to come up and toss him off the pitch."

"I think so," said Parvati, looking thoughtful, "He just sort of grabbed him by the wrist, and then Draco stared at him for a minute and bolted off like a wild animal. It was a bit hard to tell what was really happening, maybe Draco just ran off because Dumbledore was coming. And your older brother was with Dumbledore -- he looked angry enough to spit nails, too."

"I wish Professor Weasley would go to the Pub Crawl with me," announced Lavender, looking wistful.

"Lavender, that's ridiculous, he's a teacher and he's horribly old," said Parvati sternly, while Ginny tried not to laugh. "Anyway, we're getting off the point."

"He does," said Lavender, who had dated Seamus briefly herself during fifth year, although this did not inspire in Ginny any confidence that Lavender knew what she was talking about. "Why would we make this up?"

"Because you're brainless gits who like to make trouble" was on the tip of Ginny's tongue, but she bit it back. Whatever else Lavender and Parvati might be, they were not malicious, and being cranky and nervous was no excuse to be nasty to them. "Look, I'm awfully tired," she began, but it was too late - Lavender and Parvati had launched into their favorite game, a repellent exercise entitled "What Would You Rather?" which involved nominating various pairs of Hogwarts boys and determining which one you would rather sleep with.

Ginny watched this with a jaundiced eye, and was alarmed when Lavender rounded on her, announcing that it was her turn. "Justin Finch-Fletchley or Ernie MacMillan?"

Ginny looked at Lavender in horrified repulsion. "Lavender, that is just...sick."

"What?" said Lavender blankly. Then comprehension dawned. "Oh, right. You had that whole....Harry thing. Sorry."

"Argh," said Ginny, as she put a pillow over her face, refusing to remove it until Lavender and Parvati finally went away.

The Gryffindor common room was a constant, Sirius thought, never changing. It had not changed since he was a student there. Glancing around from his perch in the fireplace, he cast a fond gaze over the heavy overstuffed sofas and chairs, their thick velvet coverings dulled to a shine by years of use, the throw pillows with their gold tassels, the scratched low tables, the gilded portraits on the walls. Harry was there as he had said he would be, sitting on the floor near the fire, cross-legged. He was wearing black trousers and a dark blue jumper, trainers and no socks. He looked about twelve, and very thin and tired - so thin and tired that Sirius had to bite back an exclamation of surprise.

It had been about a month since they had last spoken like this. Sirius recalled thinking that Harry looked a bit peaked last time he had seen him, but he had dismissed it as nerves over an upcoming Quidditch game.

Sirius tried to keep his voice neutral. "Harry. You look ... so thin. And exhausted."

"It's late," said Harry flatly. He leaned back against the side of the stuffed armchair. He had lost enough weight, Sirius noted, that the collar of his shirt was loose, falling free of the sharp "v" of his clavicles. The shadows beneath his eyes were blue against his winter-pale skin. Sirius recalled Harry stepping on to the train on the first day of school, tanned and healthy from two weeks at the Burrow. What had happened? "We had a game today. I am exhausted."

Sirius didn't feel any less disquieted. "I know. Lupin told me what happened. I'm glad Ginny's all right... Harry, are you eating properly?"

Harry looked as if he were trying to remember the last thing he'd eaten. Then he shrugged. "I'm eating fine, Sirius. How are the wedding plans coming?"

"Fine. And the adoption has almost gone through," Sirius added conversationally. "There's just a little more paperwork to be cleared up when you get here at Christmas. And Narcissa's looking forward to having you all here. Are Ginny and Ron coming down with you on the train?"

"No, next day," said Harry absently. Sirius could see he was thinking about something else.

"Did you know I've changed my mind about marrying Narcissa? I think I'll be marrying Remus instead."

"Nothing," said Harry hastily. Then he seemed to shake himself, as if brushing off cobwebs. "Actually... there is something I was wondering."

Sirius looked at his godson, but his expression was hidden by his falling dark hair. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I need to know why you want that information. What are you planning?"

Harry snorted. "Just some necromancy. A little raising of the dead, some human sacrifice. General wackiness."

"Well, he did, all right?" Harry's face was flushed with annoyance. "What, you don't believe me now?"

The annoying thing about teenagers, Sirius thought without being able to help himself, was that they took everything so personally. "I believe you, Harry. I'm just worried about you."

"They're my parents." Harry seemed to be working himself into a state. "I have a right to know where they're buried."

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly. " Doon's Hill," he said, and in his mind's eye saw gray-green grass stretching all around him, a hillside blown by wind and studded with tombstones faded by years of rain. He saw a group of robed figured huddled around two joined headstones, a wizard standing by and murmuring the words of a prayer. "Venite, benedicti patris mei, percipite regnum, quod paratum est vobis ab origine mundi..." *He saw it so clearly, although he knew that this was a fantasy - he had, himself, obviously not been able to attend James and Lily's funeral. But he had been to other funerals, he had been to many, many others. "In a wizarding cemetery."

Sirius wondered what to say. It was very pretty? It was pleasant? I never want to go there again? "It's a graveyard, Harry."

"Near Godric's Hollow... if you want to go, I'll take you. After your N.E.W.T.s."

"Harry... I understand why you want to go, and I also understand why you're upset, but closure isn't a simple, easy thing. And there's a reason why no one has brought you there yet..."

"What?" Harry's eyes were bright in the dark room, his black hair fading into the shadows around him. His face was pale, marked like a ghostly fingerprint against the darkness.

"Because it isn't safe. As far as I'm concerned, it's safe for you to be at school, and here at home with me, and that's it. I don't even know about the Burrow anymore. I love you very much, Harry, but I'm not a blood relation of yours, and unless a blood relation is with you, Dumbledore's magic can't protect you. If we go, we're going to have to bring the Dursleys -"

"No! No!" Harry exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "That's like - I won't go with them. How can you even -"

"You don't understand," said Harry, and the wretchedness in his voice made Sirius pause. He sounded not just angry, but as if he had made a bleak realization. "You don't understand and you don't want to. You don't care - I thought things would be better if I lived with you, but you're no different than the Dursleys, you lie to me about everything."

"What are you saying, Harry? You want to go back and live with the Dursleys? Is that it?"

Harry made a little gasping sound, as if Sirius had hit him. Immediately, Sirius regretted what he had said - he hadn't meant it to sound as it had, but before he could apologize or even speak, Harry turned around and raced out of the room. Sirius heard the sound of his boots clattering on the stairs, the door to the boys' dormitory being flung open, and then silence. He waited there for several minutes afterward, sure that Harry would come back.

Her heart broke as she thought of Tristan, who she had last seen being borne away unconscious, draped over the saddle of the beautiful but wicked Lady Stacia, cousin to the Dark Wizard Morgan, who was rumored to have an entire closet full of enchanted leather corsets with which she bent unfortunate wizards to her evil will. When she had drained them of their vital energies, Lady Stacia disposed of her victims in an bottomless pit which her sniveling minions had toiled years to dig for her.

Rhiannon burst into loud tears of grief. Her muffled sobs drew the attention of the captain of the pirates, a burly dark-haired man who was striding the heaving foredeck of the HMS Manly Intent shirtless, despite the fact that it was freezing out and ice was forming on his chest hair. She had heard the other pirates refer to him as "Sven," so Rhiannon was fairly sure that this was his name. (She was very beautiful, Rhiannon, but not so bright.)

Sven strode towards her as the surly waves lashed the heavy deck and Rhiannon struggled uselessly against her bonds, disarranging a great deal of her clothing in the process. His dark green eyes seared into hers. "Look upon your homeland for the last time, my beautiful prisoner," he growled, his eyes hungrily stroking her nearly-naked body with their mesmerizing gaze...

"Hey? Ginny? You awake?" a voice called from behind the curtain drawn around her bed.

"Yes," she squeaked, putting "Passionate Trousers" down hastily and pulling her covers up. It had been a boy's voice, and muffled - Ron possibly? It was too young-sounding to be Charlie. "You can come in."

The curtain was drawn aside, and Ginny saw to her surprise that her visitor was not Ron after all, but Seamus Finnegan. She blinked, but it was very definitely Seamus, from his tow-blond head to his scuffed trainers. What was he doing here?

He took a few halting steps into the room. He had his bookbag slung over his shoulder and was carrying a quill; he must have come directly from class. He paused at the foot of her bed, looking uncomfortable. Ginny regarded him with even more surprise. Seamus hardly ever looked uncomfortable. Usually he was too busy telling dirty jokes.

"Hey there, Seamus," she said kindly, hoping to put him at his ease. It didn't work. Seamus just looked more uncomfortable. A thought struck her. "Are you here because you're ill?"

Seamus twisted the quill he'd been holding between his fingers. "No. Not exactly."

"Not at all." Seamus put down the quill, and said, "I was wondering if you'd like to go to the Yule Ball with me."

Astonishment rendered Ginny momentarily speechless. She stared fixedly at poor Seamus until he began, finally to blush. Then she said quickly, "But - you're a Seventh Year! You're meant to be able to go to the Pub Crawl! And I can't go to that."

"But why would you want to spend the evening with a bunch of sixth-years when you could go to the Pub Crawl?"

"I don't want to spend the evening with a bunch of sixth-years," said Seamus, even more patiently. "I want to spend the evening with you."

Seamus just looked at her. His blush had gone away and his expression was quizzical, even amused, but she could see he was still a little nervous. It was endearing. Draco was never nervous. She tried to imagine Draco asking her to the Yule Ball, and failed utterly. Even had they been dating, Draco would never have asked her to the Yule Ball. He would simply assume they were going together, and show up at the foot of the Gryffindor Tower stairs, looking fabulous and not even a little worried that she might not be overjoyed to see him. Insecure was not in his repertoire and it could be a little annoying. But then of course he might do something amazing and romantic for her, like conjuring a pair of fragile glass slippers out of a couple of socks. And when Draco did something romantic it never seemed awkward or staged or preplanned, it just grew naturally out of whatever he was feeling and was done with candor and grace.

Ginny blinked. There was no reason to be thinking about Draco right now. He wasn't the one asking her to the Yule Ball, and anyway he had a girlfriend. And Seamus was handsome and nice and very funny. She had been staring at the bedclothes; now she raised her head and looked at him. "Parvati told me what you did on the Quidditch pitch," she said. "It was awfully nice of you."

Seamus smiled. He had freckles, not many but a few, on the bridge of his nose. He said, "Think nothing of it. Any excuse to rile up Malfoy."

"I've done braver things since," he said lightly, and Ginny felt herself blush. It had been rather nervy of him to come in here and ask her like this, especially since they didn't know each other that well. And he was being awfully sweet about it.

She raised her chin and said, "Of course I'd love to go to the ball with you, Seamus."

A smile like sunrise broke over Seamus' face. "That's great," he said. "And you can tell Ron I'll have you back by midnight. You know, it's a bit terrifying asking out the Head Boy's little sister."

"Ron'll be at the Pub Crawl," said Ginny. "He'll drink a gallon of butterbeer and be absolutely legless by midnight. He wouldn't notice if you returned a giant pumpkin to Gryffindor Tower instead of me."

"He'll figure it out by the next morning, though. And that Head Boy badge is sharp. I want to keep my skin intact," Seamus grinned, came around to the side of the bed, and to Ginny's surprise, kissed her on the cheek. "I'm off to practice - hope they let you out of this bloody place soon."

"I hope so too," said Ginny absently. A thought had occurred to her. That kiss on her cheek the night before - "Seamus?" she said, suddenly.

"Did you - were you here last night?" she asked, her heart pounding. "Did you visit me?"

He shook his head, looking honestly confused by the question. "No, I didn't, why?"

"Oh," said Ginny, sinking back against the pillows as a flood of guilty relief washed through her, "No reason."

"Seamus asked you to the Yule Ball? That's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed, beaming at Ginny, who was dispiritedly forking scrambled eggs and toast off her plate. It was her first day out of the infirmary, and while she felt perfectly fine, a strange sort of gloom had settled on her; it was hard to shake it off.

"Shhh," Ginny hissed, although fortunately Seamus was seated far away at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table and couldn't possibly overhear.

"Did you say yes?" asked Ron, who was pushing a piece of bread around his plate with his spoon. Apparently he wasn't very hungry either.

"Of course she said yes," said Hermione quickly. "Seamus is lovely, and he's good-looking and nice and talented and so funny."

"Thanks," said Ginny, unable to shake off the feeling that Hermione was just a bit too happy for her.

"Hey all." Ginny looked up and saw Harry, taking the empty place between Ron and Hermione that they had saved for him. He looked a little tired, but on the whole better than he'd looking lately.

"Seamus asked Ginny to the Yule Ball," Hermione told him cheerfully as he sat down and picked up his fork.

"Great." Harry poked uninterestedly at a sausage, then glanced up at Hermione. "That's a good thing, right? You're not telling me this because I'm supposed to be indignant or something?"

"Of course it means Seamus won't be at the Pub Crawl, which is too bad," said Ron, reaching for the cream jug and pouring a liberal amount onto his porridge. When he glanced up, his expression was thoughtful. "Hey, Harry - you've got a study period now, don't you?"

"You want to come to Hogsmeade with me?" said Ron. "I've got to go down to the factory, to see George and Fred. Last-minute paperwork before the Crawl." He tapped his pocket, from which a sheaf of parchment extruded. "I've got a pass."

"Can you make it back in time for Care of Magical Creatures?" Hermione asked, worried.

Hermione looked as if she were about to say something. Ginny could tell that if she did, Harry would blow up like a Filibuster Firework. There was so much tension between those two these days you could have bounced a Galleon off it. "Everyone still in love with Charlie?" she interrupted hastily.

Hermione dragged her eyes away from Harry. "He's a really good teacher," she said. "He knows everything. Last week he talked about diricawls for two straight hours."

"I didn't say it was sexy," said Hermione indignantly, and then she and Ron were off and running, bickering as was their habit. Harry sat quietly between them, looking across the room. A sense of something familiar tugged at the back of Ginny's mind as she looked at him. He reminded her of someone: the way he sat, the haunted expression, the contained and containing eyes that were light-years older than the rest of his young face. It was when he reached up and pushed his hair back that she knew where she had seen that look before, and such similar eyes.

"Hurry up, Harry. Spring is approaching. Let's go, shall we? I did tell George we'd be there before noon."

"Oh, all right." Harry glanced up from his apparent fixed perusal of an icicle clinging to a tree branch. His fair skin was scarlet with cold along his cheekbones and so were his hands; he had not bothered to wear gloves. He sighed, and resumed walking. "Spring is approaching? You sound like Malfoy."

"Heaven forbid." Ron waited patiently for Harry to catch up to him. Fortunately it was a gorgeous December day, the sky a hollowed blue bowl traced with faint white clouds. The path through the trees that led to Hogsmeade was worn to a glassy shimmer, and the bare tree branches stood out overhead like black lacework against the sky. Given the brightness and beauty of the weather, Harry's gloomy mood seemed like even more of a blot on the landscape. "Really, Potter," Ron drawled in his best Draco imitation, "If I'd known you were going to drag along like a snail with heavy shopping I wouldn't have invited you in the first place."

"Ha ha. Very amusing." Harry had now caught up to Ron, who started off again, Harry beside him. "He doesn't always sound like that." Ron looked at him witheringly. "Oh, all right, so he does. It sounds weird coming from you though." Harry paused, thoughtfully. "Nastier."

"Probably," said Harry, and glanced sideways at Ron. "Speaking of which, have you asked anyone to the Pub Crawl yet?"

Ron bit back the response that he was shocked Harry had snapped out of his dirge-like mental state enough to notice whether Ron had a date or not. "It's going to be like work for me, you know, being Head Boy and all. Keeping an eye on everyone. It wouldn't be fun for a girl."

Harry looked taken aback. "Well, no. I just assumed... why do you ask?" Alarm was creeping into his voice. "She didn't say she wanted to go with anyone else, did she?"

"No, idiot. It's just...well, you're not going to win any points not asking. Nobody likes to be taken for granted, Hermione especially."

Harry's mouth twitched. Ron wondered if he was remembering their fourth year. Next time, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort! It was the first time Ron had really seen Hermione angry, not counting the time she'd slapped Malfoy across the face. The memory made him smile now - both memories actually. "Right then," said Harry. "I'll ask her." He scuffed moodily at the snow with the toe of his lace-up boot. It was black dragonhide, waterproofed. One thing Ron had noticed: even as Harry's moods seemed to have deteriorated, his wardrobe had improved. Gone were most of his sweaters with holes in the shoulders, the too-small shirts that rode up over his wrists, the well-used trainers. Ron had no idea if this was Draco's influence or if it was just that Harry now had a girlfriend who took an interest in what he wore. "Ron...?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then paused, looking ahead of them. Ron followed his gaze and saw Pansy Parkinson coming over the small rise that led up from Hogsmeade. She was carrying a sheaf of parchments in her hands.

She smirked when she saw them. "Hello, Ron, Harry," she said. "Shouldn't you be in Care of Magical Creatures?"

Ron regarded her irritably. It was no wonder Pansy didn't have a date for the pub crawl, she was even more bossy that Hermione but without Hermione's endearing kindness and generosity. Also, while he didn't know much about women's fashions, he was fairly sure it was not in the best of taste to wear orange, bright blue, green and yellow all at once. The combination made her look even more sallow than she usually did. There were probably boys who would have been attracted to Pansy's brand of hard-faced prettiness; Ron was not one of them. "What're you up to, Pansy?"

"Got permission to come down to Hogsmeade and distribute the leaflets about the Pub Crawl," she said in a superior tone. "Did you?"

"No, we're skiving," said Harry crossly. "Do run back and tell everyone all about it."

"We're on business," elaborated Ron. "Going to the Wheezes factory. Dumbledore gave us passes, so no point squealing."

"Of course you would, if you thought it would do you the blindest bit of good," said Harry, in a tone that surprised Ron with its harshness. "Goodbye, Pansy."

And he turned and stalked off, so that Ron was forced to spin round and follow him. "Cor, Harry," he said, catching up. "What was all that?"

"I don't like her," said Harry, and his mouth was set in a hard straight line. "She makes my skin crawl."

Harry continued to stalk, kicking up lace-like sprays of snow with his boots. "Yeah, right. Whatever. I don't expect you to understand."

"Harry--" Ron began, exasperated, but he could tell from the tense set of Harry's back that there was no point pursuing the matter. Instead he paused, and looked back over his shoulder. Pansy was still standing there in the middle of the snowy trail, looking back at them, and for a moment he saw a flash of what looked like utter malice cross her face. Then she turned and started back down the path and was soon lost among the trees.

Having nearly fallen asleep in History of Magic, Draco was almost late to Care of Magical Creatures. The other students were already there, although Charlie had not yet arrived. As he approached the snow field where they were meeting, he saw that a little ways away from the rest of the Gryffindors, gazing off towards the Forbidden Forest with a distracted expression, was Hermione, looking very much alone. Without either Harry or Ron bookending her, she looked smaller than she usually did and more fragile. It was odd that they weren't there yet - officially class had already started. Walking past Hermione towards the grouped members of his House, Draco paused, swore, knelt down in front of her and proceeded to pretend to be tying his shoe. Out of the corner of his mouth, he hissed, "Where's Harry? And Weasley, for that matter?"

Hermione jumped slightly, then busied herself tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. "They went to Hogsmeade with some Pub Crawl paperwork. Dumbledore gave Ron a pass."

"Maybe." Draco abandoned the pretense of tying his shoe, stood up, and went to stand with the rest of the Slytherins. Blaise caught at his hand and gave it a quick squeeze of welcome as he joined the group.

"I stopped off in Madam Hooch's office to reschedule yesterday's match," Draco replied.

"We won that," said Malcolm Baddock mutinously, pushing his dark fringe away from his pale, sharp-featured face. "Fair and square."

"We never win anything fair and square, Malcolm," said Draco. "We're Slytherins, let me remind you. Not Hufflepuffs. We win by employing guile."

"Look," said Blaise, her green eyes going very wide and saucery. Draco turned to see what she was looking at, and saw Charlie coming down the path towards them, swathed in a dark winter cloak. He was pulling behind him something that looked like a large trolley on wheels, which was draped with a heavy tarpaulin fabric covering. From beneath the fabric covering, what looked like thick white steam was rising.

"I think I know," said Draco, with certainty. Only one thing made Charlie light up that way. "It's got to be -"

"Dragons," said Charlie loudly, stopping in between the groups of students and letting go of his trolley, which sat and steamed beside him, "are the most fascinating magical creatures in existence."

The whole class nodded. Everyone loved Charlie. Even the frosty Slytherins had melted a little under his relentlessly outgoing charm, and some of the Slytherin girls grew almost giggly when he was around. He was young enough to be the sort of teacher that students had crushes on, and true to form, quite a few of the seventh-year girls in all the houses fancied Charlie. If he'd said that trolls were fascinating conversationalists and Cornish pixies made good study partners, they would have nodded along with him.

"I've been working with dragons for six years," Charlie went on equably, "and there is no animal more misunderstood in the wizarding world. The one I've got here under this covering is only one week old. Now..." he glanced around the class, and Draco saw his eyebrows draw together as he registered Harry's absence. "Right," he went on, "who here wants to see a real live baby dragon?"

The class chorused their eagerness, even the normally reserved Slytherins managing an affirmative-sounding mutter. With a cheerful grin, Charlie picked up two objects from the top of the trolley - thick fireproof gloves - and stripped off the heavy cloak he was wearing to reveal underneath it his battered jacket and trousers of black dragonhide leather. A happy little gasp of appreciation escaped several female members of the class, which Charlie apparently didn't notice - or if he did, he was doing an excellent job of pretending to be oblivious.

"Oooh," said Blaise, under her breath, "this is going to be the best class ever."

Blaise gave him a sloe-eyed look. "You don't mind if I stare at Charlie, do you darling?"

Blaise's eyes narrowed, but Draco hardly noticed. His glance went to Hermione, who he instinctively knew would understand why he thought this was funny. She looked as if she were trying not to laugh as well, which was a nice change from the rest of the girls who looked as if they were deciding whether or not to rush Charlie in a wedge-like formation.

"This class is really a bit of an accident," Charlie went on cheerfully, pulling on his leather gloves and reaching to undo the big buckles that held the tarp down over the open-top trolley. "I've had custody of a dragon egg this year; it wasn't meant to hatch till the holidays, but these things are notoriously unpredictable. Anyway, it hatched last Tuesday, quite unexpectedly, and the hatchling is only now really ready to face the outside world." The last buckle undone, Charlie drew the tarp away, and the class gasped again. Inside the open-topped trolley was a large steel cage, and inside the cage, curled into a ball and fast asleep, was a baby dragon. It was a dark green color, with deep gold horn nubs protruding from its small head. Charlie looked down at it with an unmistakably fond expression, then back up at the class. "Can anyone tell me what type of dragon this is?"

Hermione's hand went up. "Romanian Longhorn," she said, in her usual clear and certain voice, but Draco could tell - without being able to explain how he could tell - that something was bothering her. She looked very nearly woeful as she let her hand fall back to her side.

Hermione's hand went up again, but this time Charlie called on Neville, who ventured a guess that Longhorns ate goats and cattle, and added that its horns were valued as potion ingredients. Charlie awarded five points to Gryffindor, more because he liked Neville than anything else, Draco suspected. Why, Draco didn't know - as far as he was concerned, Neville was completely useless, although the one time he'd shared that thought with Harry, Harry had nearly taken his head off in response.

"Oh, bother," Charlie said, his voice snapping Draco out of his reverie. Charlie was kneeling down next to the trolley now, in the snow, an annoyed expression on his face. "I've forgotten the dragon food. Can I have two student volunteers to race back to my office and get it? It's in a blue bucket above my desk... right, then. Granger, and... Malfoy."

Draco tensed in surprise - he hadn't even had his hand up. Next to him, Blaise was radiating fury. She was wildly jealous of Hermione and had been ever since last year. Without looking at Blaise, he detached himself from the rest of the Slytherins, sauntered over towards Charlie and accepted a large gold key from him. "Second door down from Snape's, and hurry," Charlie said as Hermione came trailing up, looking very unhappy indeed. Draco felt vaguely insulted - he knew she had to pretend to be displeased at the thought of spending time with him, but she didn't have to look quite that wretched about it. "I'd rather the dragon not wake up hungry - he tends to yell."

Draco nodded at Charlie, tucked the key into his pocket and set off towards the castle. He could sense Hermione beside him, her small, booted feet crunching on the hard-packed snow. No sooner were they out of earshot of the class than she announced, without preamble: "Draco, I want to talk to you about something."

"Ha," said Hermione. "Very funny. Although, not unrelated to what I wanted to talk to you about."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Ginny's going to the Yule Ball with Seamus," she said.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he was very conscious of the cold air around him, the coldness of the ground seeping through the soles of his shoes, the painfully bright winter sky.

"I mean it. It's nice for her." Draco started walking again, and Hermione fell into step with him. They were nearly at the side doors to the castle now. "Ginny and I," he said. "We're not a thing. We never were. I have a girlfriend. And even if I didn't..."

Hermione was silent. Draco knew she was waiting to see if he would elaborate on his reasons; he didn't. They reached the castle doors and went inside, where the warm air felt like a welcoming touch.

As the doors shut behind them Hermione shook her head. "All right, then. Accept it as fate if you want to."

Draco laughed, without real humor. "My father used to say that fate is what you call it when you don't know the name of the person screwing you over."

Hermione colored. He was aware that the abruptness of the question was slightly cruel, but he had no interest in continuing the conversation about Ginny and Seamus. He had shoved it to the back of his mind, to process later. "Not great," she said. "I'm still worried."

Draco suddenly realized he didn't want to be having this conversation either. "Worried?"

Hermione shrugged. They were walking along a long corridor now, passing other students, some of whom gave them curious looks. Hermione pitched her voice low. "He still seems miserable, he barely pays attention to anything anymore, last night he was up late talking to Sirius and he wouldn't tell me what they talked about. And now he's skipping class, which isn't the end of the world, but isn't like him, either." They were at the door to Charlie's office now, and Hermione looked at Draco unhappily as he slid the key into the lock. "You think he seems depressed too, don't you?"

"Well, he has been wearing a lot of black lately." Draco pushed the door open and went in; Hermione followed. "Either it's the whole 'warrior slated for the coming apocalypse' thing --kind of a downer, that -- or his eyesight's gotten worse and he's just really worried about matching."

"Don't," said Hermione sharply. "You know I have no sense of humor about Harry. Or apocalypses."

"I think it just goes to show what sort of life we lead that we can even consider using 'apocalypse' in the plural."

Hermione did smile, then. "Life's been bad lately, hasn't it? I'm sorry, Draco. I know it is for you, too."

Draco didn't reply; he was looking around with curiosity. Since Charlie was a junior member of the faculty, his office was small, but it was decorated in such a homey fashion that that didn't matter. Pictures of the Weasley clan, waving and smiling, were stuck to every available space. The small, battered desks were covered with bolts of colorful Romanian cloth and a beautiful rainbow-hued dragon scale decorated the wall near the door. On the far wall was a wood-framed mirror that Draco recognized - it had hung in Charlie's tent back at the dragon camp. On the small table by the desk were stacked a number of books with gilt-encrusted spines. Fantastic Beasts, of course (everyone had that), The Dragon Hunter's Handbook Dragon Tales: A Compendium, a smaller book on how to treat serious burns, and a colorful clothbound novel entitled A Dream of Dragons.

Draco turned around. While he had been scanning the room, Hermione had located the bucket, high on a shelf above Charlie's desk. Draco watched her as she cast about for something to climb up on. "Hermione," he said, his voice thoughtful, "what do you know about onieromantics?"

"Well, I know it takes a lot of study and preparation," said Hermione, seizing hold of a tall stool and dragging it across the room. "I know there's a branch of the Auror's Guild that deals with it. And I know if you don't do it properly, you can splinch yourself - not your physical self, but your psychic self."

"You're never the same afterward," she said grimly, climbing up on the stool and wobbling precariously.

"Here - take my hand," Draco said, coming to stand beside her, and she took it gratefully, reaching for the bucket with her other hand. Draco tried not to notice that he was now at eye level with her slender, black-stockinged calves. Even when he had detested Hermione, he'd thought it was a sign of an unfair universe that the repellent Ron Weasley should get to date someone with such nice legs.

"Got it," she said cheerfully, and handed the bucket down to him. He set it carefully on the desk. "Ugh," she added, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she glanced down at the bucket's contents. "There's something all squashy in there."

"Dragon kibble?" suggested Hermione, who was still using his hand to balance herself. "I'm sure Charlie said something about kibble..."

"No dragon worth his salt wants to live on kibble. That's why they're always devouring pretty young virgins in fairy tales, not bowls of salad. In fact, if I were you, I'd just stand well away from the dragon, no matter what Charlie says..." and Draco trailed off, realizing that Hermione was giving him a most peculiar look. "Not," he added hastily, "that you're a virgin." Her eyebrows went up even higher. "And not that you aren't one either," he said, even more hastily, realizing that he had never given this aspect of her relationship with Harry a thought, assuming on some level that well, they just wouldn't...would they? "And not that I would know. I mean, how would I know? Because Harry hasn't said anything about you to me. I mean, not that he doesn't talk about you - he talks about you all the time -" Draco realized that he was raving, and, with an effort, stopped the flow of speech. Hermione was staring at him in what he could only interpret as total fury. "I don't suppose," he said finally, "that if I agreed to eat whatever was in that bucket, you would forget everything I just said?"

For a moment, Hermione was silent. Then, to his surprise, she burst out into peals of laughter. She put one hand over her mouth and laughed until she overbalanced, nearly tumbling off the stool; she stumbled and slid forward and he reached up and caught her by the waist as she fell and set her down on her feet, still laughing. "Oh!" she said, her face turned up to his. "Oh, the look on your face - would you really have eaten what was in the bucket?"

"I don't know," Draco said. He was having some trouble keeping his mind on matters at hand. He wasn't sure Hermione realized how close to him she was standing. He had a feeling that if Harry came in at that moment, he'd be facing a fencing match that wasn't just for practice. "Probably, if you wanted me to."

Now, what had possessed him to say that? Damn, he thought fiercely, damn, damn, damn. Her eyes went suddenly wide and luminous and her mouth curved up into a smile and she opened her mouth to speak - and stopped. Sudden color flooded her face, as if she had been dropped in boiling water. Hastily, she stepped away from him.

"It's getting late," she said quickly. She reached for the bucket on the desk with a trembling hand, seized it, and nearly threw herself towards the door. "We'd better go - Charlie will be wondering where we are," she said breathlessly, and hurried out into the corridor.

Draco stood and looked after her, perplexed, until something else caught his attention. Tucked into the frame of the mirror near the door was a photo of Ginny in a white sundress, her hair tied back, smiling and blowing kisses. He looked at it, and then hastily away, back at the doorway through which Hermione had just disappeared.

How had life managed to get so complicated in such a short time? He wondered. And whatever was going on, he couldn't help but feel that it showed every sign of not working out well for him.

“Hey, Ron. You look good. Harry, you look like a wet weekend. What's wrong? Upset about the game yesterday? Speaking of which..." Fred pitched his voice lower. "How's Ginny?"

"She's fine. Up and around and sassy and obnoxious," said Ron, sinking into once of the huge stuffed lime-green sherbet sweet-shaped chairs, that decorated George and Fred's front office. "Showing no respect for her elders as usual."

Beyond the huge glass window set into the wall, they could see down to the floor of the Wheezes factory. Huge industrial-size steel cauldrons bubbled and smoked with exotic brews, alembics as tall as a full-grown wizard contained dried and flattened potion ingredients, and a scooped-out pool in the floor held a whirlpool of melted chocolate - for Penguin Peppermints, Harry guessed. The ceiling, like the ceiling of the Great Hall, was enchanted to look like sky, but unlike the ceiling in the Great Hall this one reflected a sky unlike the one outside. Right now it looked like desert sky, vast and blue, touched with dark gold clouds. Harry suspected it was probably the sky over Egypt, where Bill was. (It certainly wasn't the sky over Newcastle, where Percy was.)

"New shipment from Slug and Jiggers," George announced cheerfully, staggering into the office under the weight of a large carton. He dropped it at Fred's feet, and rubbed his sweaty face with his t-shirt. "Hey, kids," he said, nodding at Ron and Harry, both of whom glowered at being called kids. The twins were, after all, only nineteen. "What brings you here?"

"Paperwork," said Ron, tossing his roll of parchments to George, who caught it and perched on the edge of the desk to read the contracts.

"Looks fine," he said. "I can sign this... why didn't you just have these owled over?"

"I wanted to look at the factory space," said Ron, getting to his feet and coming to stand by Harry at the window. "We thought we would wind up the Crawl here, and I just wanted to make sure the place was big enough... and sturdy enough."

Fred and George, having been through their own Pub Crawl, grinned. "Look around all you want," said Fred, "In fact, I was just about to take this shipment of Benson and Hexes Exploding Cigarettes down to the floor - do you two want to come?"

It was Ron who answered for Harry. "He's just upset because of our History of Magic assignment. We each have to interview one person who was involved in the downfall of Voldemort, and Harry got Snape."

Harry looked at Ron in surprise; while this was true, Ron knew well enough that this wasn't what he was upset about. Or, maybe he didn't. Harry supposed that Ron was simply trying to save him questioning; it was hard to tell since Ron would not look at him.

Fred snorted. "Sorry to hear that, Harry," he said. "Well, if you find out if the refusal to wash his hair has something to do with fighting evil or is just laziness, let me know."

Fred and Ron left, carrying the carton between them. This left Harry alone with George, who was sitting on the desk with his blue-jeaned legs dangling down. "I thought you didn't mind Snape so much anymore," said George curiously. "After all, he was at your birthday party. And his rendition of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald was masterful."

"If mum saw you like this, she'd throw a wobbly," said George. "I've half a mind to tell her, too."

"Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban, he might not be quite as quick to pick up on you looking thin and haggard as an ordinary bloke might -"

"Sirius takes very good care of me," Harry ground out, deliberately not recalling the fact that the night before, he'd accused Sirius of being a neglectful, selfish git.

"All right, all right," said George, taken aback. "Never mind. You look fabulous. Blooming. I hear under-eye circles are in for spring."

"Thanks." Harry was again having trouble paying attention to George. He had been pondering all day how he might get to his parents' graves, if Sirius wouldn't take him. Something kept niggling at the back of his mind.

"Oh, come on, Harry, what is it? Girl trouble?" George burst out in exasperation, having managed to remain circumspectly silent for less than one minute. "Hermione? She's fallen in love with someone else? You've fallen in love with someone else and you're not sure how to break it to her? You're in love with her sister?"

"Well, that's good, those situations are always awkward. Oh - hallo, Jana." George hopped nervously off the desk as his petite, brown-haired girlfriend put her head round the door, a clipboard in her hand.

"How lucky I am I only have brothers," Jana said dryly. "Large, strapping brothers. George dear - there's an owl for you, and he won't go away unless I pay him. Have you got any Sickles?"

George nodded at Harry. "Be right back," he said, scurrying past Jana's clipboard and out into the hall, Jana behind him.

Harry looked after them, then leaned against the wall, happy to be left alone again. He did not want to be questioned about Hermione, or "girl trouble." He knew that he hadn't been very nice to Fred, or George either, or Ron for that matter - not lately. And somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that the way he was behaving towards Hermione was, if not despicable, certainly not admirable. He wanted to be able to help it, but somehow he could not. More and more he found himself focused on exactly one thing, and more and more the trappings and distractions of ordinary life were falling away, like layers of skin being shed.

If he were to do what he needed to do, he could not be distracted or turned aside by selfish concerns. He could not worry about other people, he could not fear their reactions to what he wanted, what he had become. There could be only hatred and the need for vengeance, only waiting and loathing and pain and despair and all the other awful emotions that existed here in this interim between dark and dark.

He turned to look out the factory window and stood there silently, his gaze on the false blue sky of another country. In his head were words spoken months ago, in the depths of a cold stone dungeon, when he had kissed Hermione for the first time.

He did not want to be jealous. It was not in his nature to be jealous. But sometimes in the back of his mind, the memory rose up and chilled him - not that she had said that she could love Draco specifically, but that she could love anyone else. He was quite sure that he could not. For him there could not and would not be anyone else. This was why he had not wanted to love her. He was too damaged, his love too fierce - such love, once given, could not be broken and remade.

He heard Hermione's voice in his head, once more. For six years I have wondered if you were the one for me, she had said. And now I know you aren't.

She had not meant it, he told himself. She had been angry and she had not meant it. But what if someday she came to a place where she did mean it. If she knew what he really was, what was being enacted inside him even now, then she would mean it. And what would happen then? When he was a child, those he had most loved had died and left him. If he was left again, he was afraid it might kill him.

Seamus Finnegan sat at one of the long oak tables at the back of the library, reading a copy of Quidditch Illustrated and generally thinking that all was right with the world. Ginny had agreed to go out with him, and yesterday's match had been declared a draw and rescheduled, which meant the Gryffindors were not set back in the race for the House Cup. In general, life was looking up. He was just in the middle of turning a page when a shadow fell across the table and he glanced up and saw Draco Malfoy standing over him.

He bit back a surprised exclamation and eyed the other boy warily. The last time he'd seen Malfoy had been on the Quidditch pitch, and Draco, white-faced and furious, had looked like nothing on earth; now he was composed and even smiling, his arms crossed over his (expensive-looking) v-neck cashmere sweater. "Finnegan," he said. "I wanted a word with you."

Seamus tipped his chair back, trying for an air of casual disinterest. It wasn't easy. There was something frightening about Malfoy's cold composure, and the set line of his mouth. Not that he could do anything here, but what would Seamus do if Malfoy challenged him to a duel later on? He couldn't beat him, not at magic, although he suspected that if it came to fisticuffs he could quite successfully damage the other boy's perfect features, if temporarily. "Yeah?" he said. "What is it?"

Seamus was momentarily speechless. "So what if I am?" he said finally. "How is that your business?"

"Because," said Malfoy, and leaned forward until his face was inches from Seamus'. "If you hurt her, I will beat you to death with a shovel. Got that?"

"And if you tell anyone what I just said, I will still beat you to death with a shovel. I want to be very clear about this, Finnegan. Do you understand me?"

"That's right. A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend. Keep it in mind," said Malfoy shortly, stepped back, and walked away from Seamus without looking back.

Hermione decided to skip supper in favor of studying that evening, and ensconced herself in a corner of the common room, surrounded by pillows and books. Harry gave her an absentminded wave on his way down to the Great Hall, which caused her to fantasize about throwing her copy of Dreams: Fantasy or Memory? An Onieromancer's Guide at him. It was Ron who paused and came over to see what she was doing. "Studying? Now? Aren't you hungry?"

Ron handed her the copy of A Runic Alphabet that she had special-ordered from Flourish and Blotts. "Don't you think it's about time you talked to Harry?"

Hermione sighed. "I know. I promise I will - I'm sorry, all this must be rotten for you. How was your trip to Hogsmeade?"

Hermione let a note of bitterness creep into her voice. "We haven't talked today. I think he thinks I'm angry with him about missing Care of Magical Creatures."

"No!" Hermione threw her hands up, and A Runic Alphabet slid off her lap. "I mean, I missed him, I missed you both, Charlie had a baby dragon and I kept thinking about Norbert and wishing you were there. But that doesn't mean I'm angry."

Ron shook his head. "You have got to resolve all this. I can't take much more of Misery Boy. Better to just -"

"I don't think he's miserable about me," Hermione said softly. "It's something else. That's why I'm worried. That's why I haven't said anything."

"Well, what, then?" Ron bent down and picked up the Runic Studies book, and handed it back to her, but not after peering at the parchment she had folded into the pages. It was covered with strange symbols and odd scribblings. "Now what are you up to?" he laughed.

"Just trying to translate some runes," said Hermione, feeling despairing. "I can't find any key for these, though. They're not Etruscan, they're not Egyptian -"

"Yes," said Ron somberly. "In fact, I'm pretty sure this translates as "Are you happy to see me, or is that a longboat in your pocket?""

Hermione punched him in the arm, making him yelp. "I hate you - give me my homework back -"

"Forget it -" Ron held the parchment over his head, and mayhem might well have ensued had Ginny not appeared in the common room, looked at them, and started to laugh.

"Would the Head Girl and Head Boy like to stop hitting each other long enough to get dinner?" she said finally, once she had stopped giggling.

Hermione took her parchment back, and stuck her tongue out at Ron. "Go on," she said, and he hopped up obediently and went to join his sister. She watched them a little wistfully as they headed down the stairs together, but the thought of another long meal wherein Harry said nothing to her was more than she could deal with. She sank back sadly amongst the cushions and picked up her books. She had just flipped open her Runic Alphabet when a sound made her pause. A muffled noise - the sound of someone crying?

She got to her feet, drawing her plaid blanket around herself, and went to investigate. The sound was coming from the boys' dormitory, to her surprise, and she paused before going in - but she was, after all, Head Girl, and the students' welfare was her concern. She wasn't just being nosy - well, all right, she was being a little nosy, but nobody needed to know that.

The door swung wide, and she went in, She blinked a moment in the dim light before her eyes adjusted and she saw Neville, sitting on the floor by his bed, an open Chocolate Frog box in his lap. "Neville?" she said, her voice worried. "Are you all right?"

Neville brought his hands down from his face and looked up at her. "Oh. Hermione." His voice was quiet. "Why aren't you at dinner?"

He said nothing. She came across the room and sat down beside him. He was looking down at the box in his lap again, and when she followed his gaze, her heart turned over. "Oh... Neville."

Trevor the toad lay curled in a scattering of sawdust at the bottom of the box. He was not trying to escape. He was not even moving. His eyes were open. Hermione knew immediately that he was dead.

"Bury him?" Neville laughed shortly. "This box just turned up at the foot of my bed when I came back from Care of Magical Creatures. I don't know what happened to him." He looked up at Hermione. "Do you think someone could have killed him?"

"Oh, but why would anyone do that? That would just be evil. Maybe somebody found him and was too shy to say anything to you. How long has he been missing?"

"Nearly two weeks," said Neville. His voice was quiet. "Trevor used to be my dad's when he was at school. My grandfather raised him from a tadpole. He was supposed to live a hundred years."

Hermione reached out and patted Neville's hand. It was thinner than she remembered, but then Neville wasn't the round-faced kid he had been at eleven. He had grown into a tall and lanky boy. But the sadness in his eyes reminded her of the child he once had been. "Come on, Neville," she said. "Let's go bury him in the snow out by Hagrid's hut. And if Charlie comes back, maybe he'll let you have some Firewhiskey - I think you need it."

"You must think I'm stupid, crying over a dead toad," said Neville in a low voice. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

It took Draco a long time to fall asleep that night. His brief conversation with Hermione played over and over in his head like a news report on the Wizarding Wireless, and then again he saw Blaise's hurt expression during Charlie's class, and Ginny sitting with Seamus in the Great Hall. He would have liked to have talked to Harry, but Harry seemed distracted, and there was nobody else he really had any interest in talking to. Life was grim. Even recalling the look of fleeting terror that had crossed Finnegan's face in the library didn't help matters much.

He had no sooner drifted into an uneasy slumber than a muffled pounding on the door to his bedroom woke him once again. He struggled to sit up, brushing his hair away from his eyes; reaching out, he tapped the candle on his bed stand to light it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced at the coldness of the stone floor.

The pounding came again, louder this time. "All right, all right, keep your knickers on," he muttered to himself, and went to open the door.

There was no one there. Draco blinked into the emptiness for a moment, startled, before he twigged. "Harry?"

There was a slight rustling and Harry's head appeared, crowned with even messier hair than usual, seeming to float in midair above the floor. Draco remembered the first time he had ever seen Harry pull that stunt with his Invisibility Cloak, back at the Shrieking Shack; it had nearly scared the living daylights out of him. Now, he could take it in stride. "Sorry," said Harry contritely. "I didn't want anyone to see me here."

"Yes, not even me, apparently," said Draco, leaning against the doorjamb. "How did you get past the common room door? How'd you know the password?"

"It's 'Slytherin Pride', isn't it?" said Harry. "Just the sort of password you would think up."

"Look, are you going to let me in or are you just going to swank around in your silk pajamas like a big fat pretentious git? Because in that case I'm leaving."

Draco dropped his arm and Harry stalked past him, tossing his Invisibility Cloak onto the chest of drawers at the foot of Draco's bed. Underneath it he was wearing blue cotton pajamas with a hole in the right sleeve, piped with yellow around the collar and cuffs. The sort of pajamas Draco himself might have worn when he was about seven. Harry glanced around the room cursorily. "It's not so small," he said. "Weird ceiling, though."

Draco glanced up. The ceiling of his bedroom was oddly angled, slanting so sharply down towards the far side that he had to crouch down to climb into the window seat. Small windows were cut into the wall above his bed, but they had been bricked up on the far side and lent a claustrophobic air to the proceedings. He did, however, have a working fireplace, which had always pleased him.

Draco closed the door behind him, and bolted it against intrusions. "Yeah," he said. "I call the architectural style 'early maniac.' It was a working dungeon once, you know." Draco gestured towards the fireplace, and a small fire shimmered to life in the grate. "Anyway, Potter - what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then sheepish. "I guess it is kind of late," he said, looking down at his bare feet, which were coated in hallway dust."I talked to Sirius last night, and I had an idea..."

Draco began to realize there was more here than met the eye. He dragged a chair over to the bed, turned it around backwards, and sat down, resting his arms on the back. "You talked to Sirius? Did you ask about your parents?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. He told me they're buried at a place called Doon's Hill. Ring any bells?"

Harry reached into the breast pocket of his pajamas and drew out a folded parchment. Draco recognized it as their homework assignment. Opening it with a flourish, Harry read out, "Pick one specific site from this list: the Forbidden Forest, Ravyn Cael, Knockturn Alley, Doon's Hill, Chipping Sodbury, Shepton Mallet.' You see?"

Draco glanced down and then back up. Harry was looking at him expectantly, his green eyes sharp and intent, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Draco felt a faint foreboding stir within him. Whatever all this meant to Harry, it was not just something significant but something significant that he was expecting Draco to pick up on immediately. Draco was very tempted to say something snide, but the thought that this was the most animated, interested and alive he had seen Harry look in more than a month stayed his tongue. "All right," he said cautiously. "So it's on our homework..."

"I want to go," said Harry. "We can get permission to be Portkeyed to Doon's Hill if we pick that project for the class, and when we're there we can go to the cemetery."

"Because..." Harry flung his hands in the air. "For one thing, Sirius has the wedding and then the honeymoon so if he took me he couldn't take me for months. He said not till after I graduate, and I want to go as soon as possible. Anyway, he'd spend the whole time watching me to see if I start freaking out and I don't need that... why are you looking at me like that?"

There was a short silence. Harry sat where he was, looking down at his hands. His dark hair spilled down, hiding his features. His shoulders were set, angular under the thin cotton of his pajama top. When he raised his face, his eyes were dark, unreadably green. Draco remembered the boy who had thrust a hand through the bars of the prison that contained him, and had mixed their blood together, changing them both irrevocably in the process. He had never known anyone else like Harry; he never would.

Harry exhaled his held breath. "Okay, then." He got to his feet, shoving the parchment back into his pocket. "Sorry I woke you up."

"It's fine. Sleep is overrated." Draco got to his feet, and stood there awkwardly for a second. He wondered if this was what Harry and Ron were like when those two were alone. He doubted it. He had some vague mental image of them sitting around, discussing Quidditch and girls and hitting each other on the back in a matey fashion. He and Harry never discussed Quidditch and girls, unless they had been drinking abusively. Mostly their conversations revolved around fencing and imminent, life-threatening danger. Draco hesitated a moment, wondering if he should ask Harry something more casually friendly, like what he planned to do after the N.E.W.T.'s, or what he was going to get Sirius and Narcissa as a wedding present, or...

"You all right, Malfoy? Your eyes are crossing." Harry was at the door now, his head tilted to the side as he looked back at Draco in concern. "Falling asleep on your feet?"

"Something like that." Draco bent down, picked up Harry's cloak and held it out to him, a silvery unfolded tangle. "Don't forget your cloak," he said. "People see you sneaking out of my bedroom at 2am, they might get the wrong idea."

"On the other hand, it could only enhance my reputation as a major stud," added Draco cheerfully.

"See you in class tomorrow," said Harry, turning to go. He paused then, and bent down to pick up something from the ground. When he straightened up, Draco saw that he had a rolled parchment in his hand, stamped with a familiar silver seal. "Looks like someone left a note shoved under your door, Malfoy."

"Right. Thanks." Draco took the note. "Bye, now," he added firmly, and shut the door on Harry, who was still looking at him curiously.

He glanced down at the note in his hand, unrolled it reluctantly, and saw that it was as he had expected, a map. In Rhysenn's familiar flowing writing the words meet me here appeared towards the top, after a complicated series of illustrated pathways showing the route he was meant to take outside the castle.

He let his shoulders sag, a rare feeling of total exhaustion and dejection nearly overcoming him. It just never ended -- it never, never ended. How many secrets could one person keep and not go completely mad? And now he had another one to keep: Harry's secret about his parents. On the other hand, it did mean that Harry trusted him, trusted him in a way he didn't trust anyone else. He remembered the demons who had told him that for every profit in one thing, there must be an equal payment. Perhaps it then followed that for every payment, there must be compensation. If there was one thing the past eight months had brought him other than pain and confusion, it was friends. He had never had friends before, not friends like Harry and Hermione, Ginny and Sirius. That was worth a lot - it was worth everything.

She lay beside him in the pools of scarlet and gold flung onto the floor by the high stained-glass windows. They lay face-to-face, on their sides, his right hand trailing slowly down her cheek to her pajama top, tracing the line of pearl buttons there before beginning to undo them one by one.

He was done with the buttons; his hands slid over her bare skin, gentle and careful - she remembered how clumsy he had been, the first time, but that was all different now. "So do you," he said, and leaned to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, gently, then slid to the corners of her mouth, her throat, her cheek. She let her head fall back, and then the door of the room opened and she heard someone gasp out loud in surprise.

She sprang away from Ron, her hands flying up to cover herself. Malcolm Baddock, the Slytherin Chaser, stood in the doorway, one hand on the latch, the other dangling at his side, gazing at them in utter and total astonished surprise.

Reaching to tug the open top of her pajamas shut, she tried to hide herself behind Ron, who at least was wearing his boxers, but it was no use - Malcolm had seen them both clearly. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring in shock, mouth open, his dark eyes almost impossibly wide. There was a long silence, and then he said, with astonished but profound admiration: "Damn, Weasley. When you go for it, you really go for it."

That broke the tableau. Ron scrambled for his clothes, and Malcolm, as if suddenly sensing the seriousness of the situation, began to back towards the door.

"I won't tell anyone," Malcolm interrupted quickly, his eyes on the wand next to Ron's hand. "Really, I'll keep it to myself -"

He turned and bolted then, and Ron, leaping to his feet and fumbling with the zipper on his jeans, swore out loud. "Wait here," he said to her, and raced to the door, buttoning up his shirt as he ran, without putting his shoes on or stopping to pick up his wand.

She hesitated for a moment, frozen, before her own shock drove her to her feet. She paused to seize up Ron's wand and his shoes before she raced after him, flinging the door closed behind her. She dashed out into the hallway - saw a flicker of movement off to her left, and bolted after it - fled around a corner and then another corner, running on instinct - stairs rose up before her; she raced up them, spun to her left, and nearly crashed into Ron, who was standing stock-still in the middle of a hallway, his hands at his sides.

She looked where he indicated, and then the wand and shoes slid out of her grasp and hit the floor. "What - what happened? What happened to him?"

"I don't know," said Ron in the same strained voice, looking down at where Malcolm lay, sprawled across the hallway floor, his arms flung out stiffly. He was on his back, his eyes staring up blankly, his body rigid. "I just came around the corner and - he was here, like this."

"No!" said Ron sharply, turning to face her. "I didn't even have my wand - what could I have done?"

"And get caught together?" he demanded, then paused. "But we can't just leave him... you go. Go on back quickly, take care no one sees you."

"I'll say I came across him while I was... I don't know... I'll say something, okay? I'll say I was on my way to check up on the prefects' bathroom and I found him like this. It doesn't matter. I'll think of something." She looked at him in distracted panic, unable to move, and he touched her face gently, with so much loving concern it almost made her start to cry once more.

The map led Draco to an outside balcony, up a flight of stairs, and along a wide stone pathway he had never noticed before, running along the castle's edge, high above the ground. As he walked along the battlements, the clear night air broke over his exposed skin like splashes of cold water. All around beneath him the icy world stretched away towards the Forest, an unbroken and unmoving sea of milky glass. The fragile winter moon showed its lace-like edges against a sky of black velvet, illuminating the hexagonal paving stones beneath his feet. Exhilarated by the night and by the coldness of the air, Draco began to forget that he had not wanted to come out tonight.

The long walk along the battlement dead-ended at the circular top of a tower, fringed with a collar of crenellated stone. Rhysenn was there, as he had expected her to be, all black hair and black eyes and black cloak blowing in the wind, against a background of moonlit sky.

"You're late," she said as he approached. Under the cloak she wore another velvet dress; this one gold and indigo and scarlet. Matching gems sparkled on her fingers: champagne and ink and blood. "I almost didn't wait for you."

"Don't you ever worry about freezing to death?" he demanded, by way of an answer. "Why can't you just meet me inside?"

"It's a long story. And part of it concerns things I would rather have left alone." Her eyes shut down; he knew he would get no more from her on that subject. And yet it nagged at him. Everything about her nagged at him. What did she get out of acting as his father's personal courier, if that was even what she was really doing? Did she do it for money? For fun? She didn't look more than twenty, but she behaved as if she were much older. "I have a letter for you, Draco."

"Now there's a shocker. And I thought you invited me out here to give me my Christmas present."

"Christmas isn't for twelve more days," said Rhysenn severely. She was nothing if not literal-minded. Then, to his surprise, she reached into a fold of her cloak and drew out a rolled white scrap of parchment, and handed it to him. He took it with surprise. Never before had Rhysenn handed him a message without insisting he "search" for it first. "Read this tonight."

"You know," she said, "you would probably have a much more pleasant personality if you had been born ugly."

"But how much worse life would be for everyone else around me." Draco reached out and took the parchment from her hands, which gave up their grip reluctantly. "Nothing nice to look at during those long boring History of Magic classes."

Rhysenn smirked again. "You would do well to pay attention during your history classes, Draco."

"Thanks, Mum." The parchment was cold against Draco's bare hands. He wanted to unroll it and read it, but not in front of Rhysenn. Her cool curiosity unnerved him.

"Those who do not understand history," she said, turning so that she looked out over the frozen grounds, "are condemned to repeat it."

Draco took a deep breath. The icy air seared into his lungs. "What do you know, Rhysenn?"

Now she turned, and ran a catlike finger through a loose curl of her hair. "I know a lot of things."

"I bet you do. But only some of them are relevant to me. Who sends you to me? My father, or him? Do they tell you what to say, what to do? All this pouting and flirting, it's just to catch me off guard - I'm not stupid, I know that. But why?"

"Who are you," she said, and the tone of her voice had changed, "that you think I should answer to you?"

"Who do you answer to, then?" he demanded, but she turned away with a dismissive gesture, and then to his own surprise he found he had reached out and caught her by the wrist, and spun her towards him, angrily. "Are you the best they can do?" he snarled. "It seems to me like the forces of darkness aren't even trying."

"Let me go or I will make you sorry," she said in a sharp hard voice, and her eyes were black splinters in the still white face turned up to his. The fine hairs rose up all along the back of his neck, as if someone had walked over his grave. "And so will my Master, who rules the world."

He let her go. She moved away from him, her black cloak falling open; it was lined with colorful cloth woven in eye-dizzying patterns. "My father -" he began.

"Your father," she said, her voice flawed with crystalline disgust. "He is Voldemort's lapdog. Your father does not rule me. The strongest enchantments he could formulate could not hold me against my will -"

She broke off and looked at him. He felt himself smile. "Go on," he said. "Tell me more."

She moved a little further away from him, her expression troubled. It was the first time he had seen disquiet in those dark eyes. "I will not say anything else."

"It hurts, doesn't it," he said. "The Mark. It burns. But you don't have to obey him. There are ways. I can help you. There's a potion -"

"A potion?" Her voice was freezing. "You cannot even begin to comprehend what I am, or who I serve. You cannot help me, any more than an ant or a snail could help me. And you are no more to me than that. You, with your little magics and your life as short as a heartbeat."

"And yours isn't..... Oh," said Draco, feeling slightly foolish. "You aren't... what are you? A vampire?"

"Nothing so crude," said Rhysenn, looking superior. "So you can take your hand off your neck. I'm not interested in biting you. Well... not biting you there, anyway."

Draco dropped his hand, with some reluctance. "So you're immortal, or just very long-lived?"

"Living forever is the best revenge," said Rhysenn, examining her long red nails.

"I've been offered eternal life before," Draco said flatly. "I pretty much turned it down."

"Anything else?" Draco asked curiously. "Do I also have bad taste in clothes and stupid hair?"

She looked away, her black hair blowing across her face. He wondered again how old she was. "I could show you..." she began slowly, and took a step back, and as she moved away her cloak flew to the side and he saw the carvings etched into the battlements behind her. They were a repeating pattern of symbols. A mirror, a cup, a dagger, a sword. They were familiar, as if he had seen them before. And then he realized that he had. The vision he had had the day before, during the prefects' meeting. He had seen himself, standing against battlements, and behind him a wall of stone etched with carvings, burned silver by moonlight...

He spun around, the sensation that he was being watched right now, at this very moment, suddenly overpowering. He cast his gaze over the battlements where they stood and then up and beyond and saw something dark and hunched, huddled against the side of the tower that rose above them. The terror he had felt in the vision rose up again, even stronger, and then something bright and silvery flashed out against the darkness of the huddled figure, and Draco turned and shoved Rhysenn, hard, to the side and out of the way.

She shrieked out loud and fell, and then he heard a sharp whistling noise by his ear and knew what it was, a sound familiar to him from hunting although he couldn't imagine what it was doing here, at Hogwarts. It was too late for him to move away; something struck his shoulder once, hard, and then again. A lancing pain like white fire engulfed him; he saw the moon tilt away, the world falling open like an unfurling flower. Somewhere very far away he could still hear Rhysenn screaming. And then the darkness closed in, and there was no pain at all.

Having not slept well, Ginny was late to breakfast. As a result, she found everyone already in the throes of heated discussion about the fact that the night before, fifth-year Malcolm Baddock had been discovered frozen in a state of magical stasis by none other than Ron himself, on his way to the prefects' bathroom. The rumor was that it had been a prank or a duel gone wrong; the Slytherins looked dour and annoyed, all except Draco, who wasn't at breakfast yet. A few first-years looked nervous, and an even fewer number of students who remembered the basilisk attacks of years ago looked discomforted. "I was in magical stasis," Colin Creevey was announcing cheerfully to anyone who would listen. "It wasn't so bad!"

Neville looked apprehensive. "Do you think it was another basilisk?" he demanded.

"No," said Ron, who was looking drained and irritable. There were shadows under his eyes and the good-humored air that had hung around him lately was gone. "There was no water around him, or anything reflective. If it had been a basilisk he would be dead. Like Moaning Myrtle."

"I'm pretty sure Myrtle spies on me in the bath," said John Walton, a sixth-year prefect.

Ginny was glad for the change of subject from basilisks and magical stasis. Her first year at Hogwarts was not something she liked to dwell on. She tried to focus her attention instead on what Harry and Hermione, sitting across from her, were talking about, but that turned out not to be a such a good idea either.

"Harry," Hermione was saying, her voice low but intent, "I have to talk to you."

"Not right now," said Harry, reaching for the pumpkin juice and pouring some into his glass. "Can we talk later?"

Hermione flushed. "When, then?" she said. "It's important. There's something I need to talk to you about - to tell you."

"Tomorrow," said Harry, filling his glass. He put the jug down with an exasperated thump. "When I don't have a meeting with Snape coming up."

For a moment, Hermione sat very still. Ginny wondered if perhaps she might be going to cry - in her memory, Harry had never spoken to Hermione like that. He had never looked at her like that before, either. When they had been friends, he had looked at her with fond exasperation; when she became his girlfriend, he had looked at her as if she were a minor but unbelievable miracle. Now, he wouldn't look at her at all.

Hermione slowly raised her head. Even more slowly, she got to her feet, her glass of pumpkin juice in her hand. And then, without the slightest warning, she flung the glass hard at the table. It shattered with a sound like a bomb dropping, spraying pumpkin juice and glass in all directions. Harry jerked back, stunned, as the whole table fell silent and stared.

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione shouted at the top of her lungs. "You are going to talk to me RIGHT NOW!"

Shocked out of his torpor, Harry stared in astonishment. Beside him, Ron sat stunned, dripping pumpkin juice and wisely remaining silent. Hermione herself stood where she was, her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed scarlet and her eyes suspiciously bright.

"Hermione -" Harry turned in his seat, his hand held out to her, his expression surprised and wondering, but without any of the closed-off coldness they had all grown used to. "Hermione, can we just -"

Everyone turned to look as a student raced into the Hall - a girl, she looked no more than fourteen and wore the banded gold and black scarf of Hufflepuff - or was that Gryffindor red? Her robes were soaking wet now, as was her hair, and she was in tears. A low susurration of curious surprise ran around the room; Ginny whipped around to stare, a sharp feeling of foreboding gripping her stomach, as the girl raced distractedly past the students towards the High Table. Charlie was already on his feet, running down the steps, and as he neared the girl and caught hold of her, steadying her, Ginny saw that the red she had noted on the girl's scarf was blood.

The other teachers were getting to their feet now, and Charlie had hold of the girl's shoulders. She was talking through her tears, gesturing wildly with her hands and pointing. As the whole school fell silent and leaned forward, trying to hear her, the girl's voice rose up sharp and clear, tinged with hysteria. "..In the snow," she was gasping, tripping breathlessly over her words. "By the North Tower - there was blood everywhere. I think -- maybe he might be dead. You have to come--Madame Pomfrey too--"

Even at this distance, Ginny could see the look of shock on Charlie's face. When he spoke, his voice was strained.

The girl nodded, her expression quite terrified. "Yes," she said. "There was a lot of blood, but - it was him." She burst into a fresh spate of tears. "I've never seen anyone dead before," she wept, but Ginny had stopped hearing her. The world had gone a sickening sort of gray color, and she grabbed for the table to steady herself. She heard a loud slamming sound off to her left and looked up; it was Harry, who had shoved his chair back with such force that it had tipped over and hit the flagstone floor.

Hermione looked at him in horror. He was very white, his hand at the Epicyclical Charm around his throat. "He's isn't dead," Harry said. "He isn't - I'd know."

"Harry," Hermione whispered, but Harry had turned, bolted for the Great Hall doors, still wide open, and raced through. Hermione, having gone an ashy gray color, looked wildly around the table at the silent, stunned Gryffindors, hesitated - and fled after Harry.

A hum of astonished shock ran around the table. On instinct, Ginny turned towards her brother; Ron was already there, having come around the table to kneel down next to her. He took her hand and held it hard, and she looked down at him. All around her she was aware of movement -- Charlie racing by towards the doors, followed by Madam Pomfrey, a magical stretcher already by her side. The Heads of Houses were moving rapidly towards their respective tables of students. Somewhere a girl had burst into hysterical tears: Blaise Zabini, probably. Ginny sat where she was, Ron's hands tight around her wrists. "You can't," he said, so quietly that nobody else could hear. "You can't," and she nodded, and knew it was true, even as the tears struggled to fight their way to the surface.

Chapter 4