Chapter Five: The Bone Orchard  

With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl 

I balance on this wishing well that all men call the world. 

-- Leonard Cohen 

*** 

"What do you mean, there's no train?" 

"What I said. There's no train until six in the morning." Harry shrugged, and rubbed his black-mittened hands together. His cheeks were scarlet with the cold, and he looked mildly embarrassed as he avoided Draco's gaze. "I guess we'll have to wait." 

"I bloody think not," said Draco, hopping down off the bench where he'd been sitting. He glanced around in restless annoyance. "I should have known that when you said you had a plan, what you meant was that you had a half-arsed plan." 

Harry said nothing. His eyes were roaming up and down the outside of the deserted train station. As it had turned out there was no train station whatsoever in Shepton Mallet proper; they'd had to walk to a nearby town which reportedly had one. And it did have a station -- but it was closed, and locked as tight as the forbidden third floor corridor at Hogwarts. Harry had gone to look around while Draco, miserable with boredom and cold, had flopped down on an empty bench and tried to read a Muggle newspaper that he'd found blowing about. Privately, he rather thought that due to Harry's years at Hogwarts, the other boy had probably forgotten more about Muggles than he remembered. "Look, Potter. If we wait until six in the morning, there's no way that we'll be back in time for classes, and I thought that was the whole point of all this." 

Harry shrugged and glanced around. He looked small and cold and defenseless, which made it difficult to stay angry with him. "Well, what do you suggest then, Malfoy?" 

"We could just use the Portkey to go back," Draco said. "Where does it take us? Lupin's office? Good enough for me. I might even be able to get almost an hour of sleep in." 

"No!" Harry exclaimed, and then more quietly, "No. There must be another way." 

"There is," said Draco, and Harry looked at him in confusion. Draco raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, and as he did so he saw Harry's expression of confusion clear, to be replaced by what looked like panic. 

"No, Malfoy! Not the --" He was cut off by a loud squealing and roaring noise as the huge, hideous, triple-decker purple bus with its splashy gold lettering roared to a stop in front of them. The driver honked the horn, which sounded like a parakeet being strangled. Harry sighed in defeat. "Not the Knight Bus," he said wearily. "What if they tell someone they saw us?" 

"Oh, bloody hell, Potter, quit thinking you're the biggest news story since ... well, since you, but I'm not sure 'Harry Potter Takes The Bus' is going to move a lot of copies of the Daily Prophet." 

Harry looked from Draco to the hideous purple bus, and sighed. "I hope you're right." 

"I'm right. I'm always right! Now get on the bus, you're giving me a headache." 

Draco was so exhausted that he barely took note of the pimply-faced young man who took his money, and was too cold to complain about the fact that he then charged him a ridiculous two galleons for a bottle of water and a chocolate bar. Draco paid, then went directly to the back of the bus, which was deserted, and flung himself down onto an empty four-poster bed. Then he sat up, and looked around him with concern. 

"What is it, Malfoy?" Harry asked, taking the bed next to Draco's and lying down in it. "You look worried." 

"Malfoys," said Draco tightly, "do not sleep on municipal beds. How many other people do you think have lain on these sheets? It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it." 

"I've seen you sleep on concrete floors," Harry pointed out. "Surely this can't be less comfortable?" 

"It's not an issue of comfort," said Draco irritably, took his coat off, flung it on the bed, and lay back down on top of it. 

"You're such a prima donna, Malfoy," said Harry, who had curled into his favored sleeping position -- on his side, with his head pillowed on his left arm. His green eyes watched Draco with friendly amusement. "I can't believe you didn't bring your own 350 thread count cotton percale sheets on this little camping trip." 

"I could Summon them," said Draco agreeably, but Harry leaned quickly across the space between them, and caught at his wrist. 

"No," he said. "No more magic -- please. Especially not wandless magic. I really don't want to be noticed." 

"I was just joking," said Draco, and Harry let go of his wrist slowly, and lay back down. "They're satin sheets anyway," Draco added, very quietly, a few minutes later, but Harry couldn't have heard him regardless; he had fallen fast asleep. 

*** 

"So Harry is the Heir of Gryffindor?" 

"Right," said Ginny. 

Seamus sat still a moment, re-digesting this information. "And you... you're the Heir of Hufflepuff?" 

Ginny nodded. "Right," she said again, cocking her head worriedly. Seamus, sitting on the end of her bed, had picked up one of her woven throw pillows and was busy pulling threads out of it at a rapid pace. She doubted he realized what he was doing, but was beginning to worry that the story she was telling was a bit too much for him. He looked as if his mind were running in circles. 

"And Malfoy..." Seamus paused, his blue eyes clouded. "Malfoy died?" 

"Only briefly," Ginny replied, as helpfully as she could. "He got better right away." 

Seamus shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. "And ... Harry and Malfoy can talk to each other telepathically? They like each other?" 

"That last part's up for some debate," Ginny said with a sigh, "but basically yes." 

Seamus stood up hurriedly, dropping the pillow as he did, and began to pace barefoot up and down at the foot of the bed. Ginny sat up against the pillows and watched him, with some anxiety. She hadn't meant to tell him quite so much, but once she'd started talking it had all come out in a headlong rush. And she couldn't deny that there had been an intense pleasure in finally telling someone else everything she'd been holding inside for so long. 

"Seamus," she said finally. "Talk to me. Are you all right?" 

He glanced at her, almost as if he were surprised she was still there. "I don't know what to say. About any of it. Malfoy ... saved Harry's life?" 

Ginny laughed. "Which time are you asking about? They're always saving each other's lives. Look..." She sat forward on the bed, fixing Seamus with a hopeful look. "They're not like other people..." she began. 

"What about Quidditch?" Seamus said suddenly. 

Ginny blinked at him, caught off guard. "What?" 

"Do they talk... in their heads... during matches? Because I'm pretty sure that's cheating." 

Ginny was outraged. "Of course not! Harry would never do that! Neither would Draco!" 

Seamus gave a dry laugh. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not exactly used to the image of Malfoy as a paragon of virtue." 

"He's not," Ginny said patiently. "He's just changed, that's all. He's still arrogant, and stubborn, and mean sometimes, but... he wouldn't lie, or cheat, or do anything underhanded like that. He has a rigid moral code, in his own weird way. Look, if you knew him..." 

Seamus gave another dry laugh. "I can't believe this," he said. "You're defending Malfoy. To me." 

"But Seamus..." Ginny sat back on her heels. "You said you wanted to know what happened between us." 

"But that's because I thought..." Seamus raked a hand through his tangled dark blond hair in exasperation. "I thought he'd done something awful to you! Followed you around, tried to force himself on you, seduced you, betrayed you..." 

"I see," said Ginny coldly. 

Seamus looked as if he knew he'd just said something stupid. "I wasn't--" 

Ginny's voice was like ice. "I'm sorry that the reality isn't colorful enough for you, Seamus. I'm sorry I wasn't abused, or abandoned, or --"                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

"It's not that..." Seamus interrupted urgently. "I thought I could help you -"                                                                                                

"Well, I don't need your help!" Ginny almost shouted. "I don't need you to race in on your big white horse and rescue me, Seamus Finnigan. In fact, I don't need you here at all. I let you in here because I thought you would make me feel better. But all you're doing is making me feel worse!"                                                                                                                                                                         

A hurt look flashed across Seamus' open, gentle face. He came and sat down on the bed next to her, and tried to take her hand. She allowed him to lift it, but let it lie there in his grasp like a dead fish. If she'd had a real dead fish on hand, she would have whapped him across the head with it. She wasn't sure why she felt so annoyed with Seamus, but she did. The Weasley temper... 

"Ginny," Seamus said after a long silence. "I… I really like you. I do. But I get this feeling that you don't really want me around. So..." He laid her hand down on the bed. "So I'm just going to go. Unless..." He stood up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His wide blue eyes pleaded with her to say something -- to ask him to stay. "Unless you want me not to." 

Ginny took a deep breath. "Just go, Seamus," she said wearily, picking up her damaged throw pillow and cradling it to her chest. "Ashley and Elizabeth will be back any minute and it would probably be better if you weren't here." 

He nodded, and bit his lip. "Will you be --" 

"I'll be fine." 

She watched him walk to the door with an odd ache in the back of her throat. If someone as kind and sweet and generous as Seamus couldn't be understanding about this, then maybe she'd been right - there was nobody who could. He opened the door and paused there, looking at her, handsome in a boyish way with his tousled hair and tired, sleepy blue eyes. "I won't repeat anything you told me," he said, his voice very serious. "I promise." 

She nodded, holding her pillow, not trusting herself to speak as he went out and shut the door behind him. 

*** 

"Potter! Potter, wake up!" 

Harry struggled groggily into a sitting position. "Are we there?" he demanded, reaching into his pocket and pulling his glasses out. He put them on, and blinked as the blur in front of him resolved into Draco, sitting on the end of his bed looking agitated, and waving something in his hand... a rolled-up newspaper. "You going to hit me with that?" Harry asked, hauling himself into a sitting position. "If so, what did I do exactly?" 

"I want you to look at something," Draco said, pulling up his legs to sit cross-legged on the bed, and spreading the newspaper open on his lap. He jabbed at an article with his finger. "Stupid Muggle papers... the photos don't move... but I recognized it anyway." 

"Recognized what?" Harry cocked his head to the side, examining the indicated article, capped by a prominent headline: 

The Art of Art Theft 

Art theft is no longer just an elitist crime funded by unscrupulous collectors, but has become a billion dollar industry linked to crime cartels and illicit arms dealing. The theft of a collection of priceless medieval antiques, including a mirror, reportedly valued at as much as £500,000 (pictured, at left) and believed to have belonged to Louis X of France, from Sotheby's earlier this week is believed to be the latest incident in this trade, now worth more than £3 billion annually. 

There have been a spate of raids on European art collections in the past year, with the total value of art and antiques stolen estimated at 300 to 500 million. The raids have often been violent; early last year robbers tied up the night watchman at Frankfurt's Schirn Gallery before taking paintings with a combined value of ... ("Okay," Draco interjected, "I'm skipping this bit because it's boring...") ... By contrast, the robbery at Sotheby's apparently took less than ten minutes to execute and was entirely bloodless. Within a ten-minute period between routine sweeps by security guards, the priceless artifacts simply disappeared. The prevailing theory remains that either the robbers must have been very organized, or they must have had help from inside. "We will be questioning our staff very closely," asserts Sotheby's head of security Keith Fraser, visibly distraught by the recent events. "It is impossible that these robbers could have evaded our security systems without considerable assistance from someone possessing inside knowledge." When asked if there was another way the security could have failed, Fraser was indignant, "Well, I suppose they could have used magic!" 

Draco crinkled up his nose in confusion. "Wait, I thought they didn't know about magic..." 

"He's being sarcastic, you tit," said Harry, craning his head over Draco's shoulder to get a better look at the paper. "And I still don't get why you wanted me to look at this." 

"See the mirror there, Potter?' Draco demanded, jabbing his finger at a color photograph of what looked like a silver hand mirror, very old-looking. The handle and back of the mirror were elaborately carved all over with birds, flowers, and graceful whorls of silver. It reminded Harry a bit of the work on his Gryffindor scabbard, if slightly less colorful. 

"Yeah?" Harry looked sideways at Draco. "So what?" 

"So, that is the mirror from my dream, that's what," Draco said, staring at the photo. "It's unique - I'd recognize it anywhere." 

"From your dream...oh. That dream." 

"Yes, that dream. As far as I'm concerned, this clinches the question of whether the dreams are real. In the dream, Wormtail told Voldemort that he'd only gotten the mirror that day... and this robbery was a few days ago. The question then becomes, why does the Dark Lord want this mirror so much? If he's sending his henchwizards out into the Muggle world to get it, he must need it for something." 

"You don't think he just wants to admire himself in it?" Harry asked. 

Draco snorted. "No, he has minions for that. 'Oh, Voldemort, your skin is such a luminous shade of green today, and your eyes are so radiantly red.' Potter, he wanted that mirror for something, and knowing him, it probably wasn't a gift for his dear mum." 

"Well," said Harry, and yawned, "if you want to know what it was about, you know what to do." 

"What?" 

"Go to sleep and have another dream about it." 

Draco looked offended. "I can't just dream on command, you know." 

"No? Not a very useful talent, then, is it?" 

"You just want to nap. Despicably lazy, you are," said Draco, and turned to look out the window. "Fine, we can talk about this when you're awake, then." 

Harry followed Draco's gaze through habit, and saw the outside world flashing past at dizzying speed, trees and buildings bending to get out of the way of the Knight Bus. Only the night sky seemed to be remaining still, high and cold and as clear and transparent as a sheet of black glass. Harry almost imagined he could look into it and see no end. He spoke then, without thinking. 

"Do you believe in God, Malfoy?" 

Draco started, and turned to look at him in disbelief. "Do I what?" 

"You heard me," said Harry, uncomfortably. "Do you believe in God - at all?" 

Draco looked dubious. "I guess I believe in God," he said. "Sometimes I think he has some pretty strong reservations about me, though." 

"What about heaven? And hell?" Harry asked. 

The other boy shook his head. "What is this about? Anyway, of course I believe in hell... we saw Slytherin get dragged off somewhere by those demons. Where did you think they were taking him? All-expenses-paid balloon tour of the Urals?" 

"What about heaven?" 

Draco shrugged again. Harry had a feeling he was making the other boy very uncomfortable. "Stands to reason there's a heaven, if there's a hell." 

"Well," said Harry, sitting forward, "what do you think it's like?" 

Draco leaned back against the wooden post of the bed, his mouth a crooked line of bemusement. "You're asking me what heaven's like, Potter? Come on, you've had your name down for entry there since before you had your name down for Hogwarts. Whereas I..." 

"Whereas you are going to hell in a handbasket, I know," Harry interrupted. "In the meantime, use that ferocious imagination of yours for a second, will you? I really want to know what you think." 

"Do you?" Draco's eyes were the color of quartz crystals, and about as readable. "I think heaven would be different for everyone who goes there. For you, it's probably bunnies and Christmas and optimism and everyone shoving flowers in their ears." 

"And for you?" 

Draco was silent a moment, looking out the window at the dark world flashing by. "A place to rest, I think," he said finally. 

"You tired, Malfoy?" 

Draco turned his gray gaze back to Harry. "Always," he said. "Aren't you?" 

Harry shrugged. "I don't think I get to be tired." 

"Yeah," said Draco, looking back out the window. "Maybe you don't." 

*** 

The bedroom was full of pale dawn light. Ron sat in the window seat, and looked out. Just above the eastern line of trees sunrise was unraveling like a red seam along a pale gray cloth. It touched the Forbidden Forest with its light and the trees seemed to burn as if they had caught fire. The unmarked snow beneath the Quidditch pitch shone like a crystal dipped in scarlet ink. It was a beautiful new day, and Ron regarded it with almost no interest whatsoever. The deepening sky above the treetops made him think of a slit throat gushing blood, and his head ached and pounded as if it had been trapped in a vise. 

He was tired, physically exhausted from lack of sleep compounded with stress and tension. But he had gotten used to that. What gnawed at him was the anxiety. When he was with her, he was happy; when he was not with her, he wondered if he would see her again and that made him miserable. She had been the one who had come to him first, but somewhere along the way, the balance of power had shifted, and what had seemed like a game had become something else instead. Initially, it had seemed like a convoluted way of getting his own back -- a revenge for slights real or perceived, it hardly mattered. But it was not that now -- not for him, anyway. For her, he could hardly guess. She was risking a great deal, he knew. Maybe more than he imagined. He had thought that made him safe. But she had come to him knowing the answer to the question in his eyes and willing to give it, and in taking from her he somehow found he had given her everything. The keys to his locked-away secrets, the hopes buried at the back of his mind. The deepest and most desperate desires of his heart. She knew them all now. He could not have answered honestly that he knew the same about her. Sometimes she seemed to be hiding purposely, keeping him at a distance, and in public, when she looked at him, her eyes said nothing at all; this other life of theirs might as well not exist. It made him want to yell and throw things; to hit her, just to get a reaction. Assuming even that would get one. 

Harry had once told him that the worst feeling imaginable was to find yourself hating the person you loved best in the world; he wondered now if this was only because Harry had never known what it was like to love someone and realize you could not trust them. Surely that was worse. 

It had to be. 

*** 

When the Knight Bus finally came to a careening stop, it was nearly dawn. The sky had lightened enough to reveal heavy clouds, and the air tasted of impending snow. Draco was only too happy to disembark from the bus, and stood next to Harry, who was putting on his gloves and scarf, as the Knight Bus roared away into the distance. 

They were on a country road, a slender lane of ice-dusted paving stretching away between black lines of bare trees. Along the left side of the road ran a high stonewall topped with spikes. The graveyard, Draco assumed. 

Harry finished pulling on his gloves, and started off down the road. Draco followed, enjoying the cold air. He had always liked low temperatures. The wall soon ended in a metal gate, chained and padlocked shut. 

Draco watched Harry as he thoughtfully took his right glove off, and touched his hand to the lock. "Alohomora," he whispered, and the padlock sprung eagerly apart under his hand. The two boys stepped back as the gate swung open, with a faint creaking sound. When they were through, Harry chained the gate behind them. 

They were farther south than Hogwarts, and here it had snowed much less. It dusted the tops of the headstones with a layer of fine powder, and sugared the bare black paths between the graves. Draco had not been in a graveyard before; the Malfoys were all buried on the grounds of the Manor, with cenotaphs erected over their bones. Something in the back of his mind, his old self, revolted at the thought of being buried like this, among strangers not of your own blood. 

He glanced sideways at Harry. "You know where you're going?" 

Harry nodded. It was still too dark for Draco to see his face properly, although the eastern sky was beginning to brighten with a few gray streaks of light. Dawn was coming. Harry raised a jacketed arm and pointed: "Over there." 

They went, their boots crunching on frozen dirt, and then, as Harry left the path and cut across towards the cemetery's far side, on frozen blades of grass. The only sign that this was a wizarding cemetery was the flowers that bloomed, unfaded and unfrozen, on each of the graves as they passed. Draco barely registered the names on the headstones as they walked by; he was looking at Harry, who seemed stretched taut with a sort of nervous anticipation. His gloved hands were balled into fists in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders tense and set. 

He stopped walking. "All right," he said, in a quiet voice. "We're here." 

And Draco, his heart jumping with adrenaline for some reason he couldn't define, stopped with him, and looked. 

There were tall mausoleums in the graveyard, carved all over with angels; there were cenotaphs covered in Latin writing and crowned with statues of Merlin and other famous wizards: But they stood in front of a plain gray doubled headstone adorned only with names. Lily Potter, said the name on the right; the one on the left: James Potter. Under the names was a carved a Latin motto, Amor Vincit Omnia, and under that the date of death. October 30, 1981. 

He chanced a look at Harry, who had gone very quiet. In the blue-white dawn light, his face was finely etched with shadows, his mouth an uncompromising straight line. He was very pale, as if a light shone somewhere in him, beneath the skin. His eyes had changed again. There was a far-off look in them, as if he gazed into some other landscape, another world dimly seen beyond this one, a look like blindness. 

"Harry," Draco said slowly. He wanted to say something profound and interesting, something comforting, something about the nature of life and death and the importance of closure. However, no words came to his mind. He hesitantly took his hands out of his pockets, vaguely thinking that he should touch Harry on the shoulder, make sure he was all right. 

"Malfoy?" Harry said into the silence. His voice was very quiet, his eyes now fixed on the headstones. 

Draco stood up a little straighter. "Yeah?" 

"If you don't mind," Harry said, his face still averted, "I'd like it if you left me alone here for a little bit." 

"Oh," Draco said. "Oh. Right." He put his hands back in his pockets, feeling suddenly very awkward. "Sure. I'll just... come back later." 

The other boy didn't reply. Draco turned then, and left Harry standing there by his parents' graves, in the pale light of the chilly dawn. 

*** 

Harry waited until the sound of Draco's footsteps crunching ice had faded into silence before he got down on his knees by the side of the grave. He looked at the headstones for a moment from his position there on the ground. His father's name and his mother's beside it looked as if they had been scarred into the stone. He read the Latin words under their names. Love conquers all. He wondered who had picked it out. Someone who must have thought it was true, which, of course, it wasn't. 

He could feel his own heart beating, hard, against his ribs, and a dryness in his mouth. But other than that he felt nothing. Nothing at all. He had wondered if he might cry, but he did not feel like crying. All his thoughts were focused on the task at hand. He suspected that he had not that much time before Draco came back. He pulled his gloves off, laid them carefully on the ground, and began to scrape away the layer of snow that covered the graves. 

He had not realized that the ground beneath the snow would be frozen so hard. But it was. He scrabbled at it with his fingers, but was like trying to dig into iron. He wished he had brought something with him he could scrape at the earth with, or knew a spell that might work, but then again he suspected that it would not be wise to use magic here. Eventually he unfastened the belt from about his waist, removed the scarlet charm that hung there, and used the diamond-hard edge to scrape at the grave soil. When he had enough dirt to fill his cupped palm, he dropped the runic band, took a small vial out of the inner pocket of his jacket, and filled it with the half-frozen soil. Then he capped it tightly, and put it back in his pocket. 

He stood up, suddenly dizzy. He wasn't sure if it was because he'd been holding his breath, or just a reaction to where he was. The carved names on the gravestones seemed to be leaping out at him, printed blackly against his inner eye. He heard Draco's voice in his head, speaking to him in the corridors under Slytherin's castle. There's nothing you can do and there's no way to avenge them and they'll be there forever and you'll never see them again, not even if you die. 

He realized he didn't want to be looking at the graves, didn't even want to be near them, and he began to back away, moving quickly, until he rounded the corner of another mausoleum and was out of sight of them. 

He found that he was standing in a grassy square between four towering stone cenotaphs. He leaned against the side of one, letting his heartbeat slow. The sun had continued its swift and steady eastward rise and the snowy grass all around, the pale stone of the mausoleums, were tinged with a deceptively beautiful rosy light. Headstones stretched away in the distance, an unmoving and unbroken line, until he realized that in fact there was movement there - someone was coming towards him along the path between the graves. Someone not Draco. A girl. 

Rhysenn. 

Harry straightened up and stared. He remembered having seen Rhysenn descending the stairs at the Manor with Charlie on her arm, and thinking at the time that she was very beautiful, if much older, one of those women so elegantly dressed that she seemed more like a doll than a person. Now, however, she looked... very different. She wore a short, pleated gray skirt and knee socks, black patent leather sandals, and a soft blue sweater set. She must, he thought, be freezing cold, although she gave no sign of it. Her glossy black hair was wound into long plaits that fell nearly to her narrow waist, tied at the ends with incongruous bright blue bows. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, her eyes very bright. She looked fifteen - at least, her face looked like a fifteen-year-old girl's even if it did seem to be attached to the body of a twenty-five year old woman. "I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I said I was just in the neighborhood?" she said, still walking towards him. "Would you?" 

"No," he said, and took another step back. This brought him up against the side of the mausoleum, and he was forced to stop retreating. "If you want Draco, he isn't here. He took a walk." 

"How fortunate that I wasn't looking for him, then," she said. "How fortunate that I was looking for you." 

"Me?" said Harry. She was very close to him now, and was coming still closer. "Why me?" 

She was only about a foot away from him now, so close that her face seemed to fill the field of his vision: her bright red lips and depthless tunnel-like gray eyes drew his gaze. He wanted to look away, and didn't want to look away. "I just wanted to talk to you," she said, her scarlet mouth curving up. "That's all." 

Her eyes told him something else. 

"What...about?" Harry was aware that his voice sounded a full octave higher than usual. 

She laughed. "How would you react if I told you that it's because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since your birthday party, and that I just had to see you again?" 

"I don't know," said Harry, very nervously. "Why, is it the sort of thing you're likely to say?" 

Rhysenn chuckled, reached up, and stroked his cheek. She let his fingers linger there, and he felt himself shiver uncontrollably as if he were cold, although he wasn't. "You're awfully cute," she said, the low timbre of her voice sending a pulsing vibration into his ears. "Did you know that?" 

"I've been told I don't," said Harry, and glanced around even more nervously. "Isn't it rather bad taste to be hitting on someone in a graveyard?" 

"Well," said Rhysenn, and shrugged, "Look at it this way. You were depressed a minute ago, weren't you? And now you're not." 

"No," Harry agreed, "Now I'm afraid." 

"I get this feeling," she said plaintively, "that you don't trust me." 

"I don't." He tried to take a deep breath, but her heavy perfume seared into his lungs and throat, and he coughed. "Why should I? And, more to the point, what do you care what I think? I thought it was Draco you were supposed to be bothering." 

"Bothering?" she snapped, and pouted. "You call this bothering? I'm trying to be helpful." 

"You could be very helpful by going away." 

She lifted her huge gray eyes to his. "You don't really mean that," she said, and Harry was unpleasantly surprised to find that he didn't. No part of his mind trusted or liked her, but something in the buried, reptilian part of his brain was urging him to let her stay and keep touching him with those hands that seemed to lace a shivering cold pleasure across his skin. He thought of Hermione, and what she would think, and felt terrifically guilty and ill all at once. "And why do you believe what Draco tells you?" she whispered. 

"Because I trust him," Harry said shortly. He realized he was quite wedged into the doorway of the mausoleum at this point and could not possibly escape without pushing her away. And somehow the idea of putting his hands on her body, even to shove her away, seemed like a bad one. 

"Are you sure that's wise?" Her breath ruffled his hair, and his shivered, his thoughts flying every which way like startled birds. This had never happened to him before - usually when faced by danger or uncertainty his mind sharpened to alertness. Now his thoughts felt fuzzy and muffled. 

"What..." he began groggily. "What are you trying to say?" 

"I told you all your friends would betray you," she whispered. "Don't you remember?" 

"Draco," he said a bit groggily. "He wouldn't.... and he can't lie to me." 

"Are you sure?" Her hand was softly stroking his cheek now. 

He nodded, which was not a good move because it brought his face into further contact with her hand. "I'm sure." 

"And what makes you so sure? That he's trustworthy? Do you know something special? Something that other people don't?" 

Harry tried to reply, but his voice had dried up in his throat. 

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?" she asked. Her eyes, again, spoke to him, saying very different words, words that he could almost hear inside his head. I know what you'd really like... we could go somewhere, somewhere quiet, and if you liked, we could have sex. 

Harry jumped away from her so violently that he banged his head on an ornamental carved angel. "Ouch," he exclaimed. "What did you say?" 

"Oh, your poor head," she said, her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth. "Let me see," and she closed in on him and touched her fingers to his temple, and stroked the skin there. Harry winced, and tried not to breathe, but even with his mouth clamped shut he seemed to be inhaling the perfumed scent that rose off her hair - it was like jasmine and sandalwood mixed with something stronger. She wasn't beautiful, not really, but it didn't matter; he found that his heart was pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, and his throat was dry. He was very conscious of her shoulder brushing his, the swell of her breasts under the tight material of her top, the soft dent in the center of her bottom lip... 

"I..." he began hopelessly. "I don't think I..." 

"Shhh, Harry," she whispered, moving even closer, and he felt her exhale against him, her breath stirring his hair. If she got any closer, he thought half-hysterically, they wouldn't have to go anywhere to have sex. There was a tightness inside his chest that seemed to be growing and growing in intensity, and a radiating darkness behind his eyes. He felt ill and weak and at the same time conscious of a painful excitement. "I won't hurt you, Harry. You'll like it..." 

"Get away from him," said a sharp voice, cold and irritable, cutting through the gray fog in Harry's brain. "Right now." 

Harry opened his eyes (he hadn't even realized they were closed, but they were) in time to see Rhysenn take a step back and turn around, her dark braids swinging. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, sounding like a little girl deprived of a birthday treat. "Draco." 

Harry dragged his gaze up and away from Rhysenn. He was not surprised at all to see Draco standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets, looking very annoyed indeed. His light gray eyes were fixed on Rhysenn. "Honestly," he said. "Have you no shame?" 

She smiled. "Are you jealous?" 

"No," he said shortly. "Just short on patience." 

"I was only having a little fun," Rhysenn said cheerfully, flouncing towards Draco with her skirt swinging. This was a great relief to Harry, who found her continued proximity unnerving at best. "I was looking for you. I wanted to thank you. You saved my life." 

Draco gave her an irritated look. "It was a reflex," he said. "Anyway, I thought you were immortal." 

"I am, but I can bleed. I can feel pain. I can feel a lot of things." 

I bet she can, Harry thought irritably. 

Yeah, and you were really fighting her off, Potter, Draco muttered back. You shut up and let me deal with this. 

Rhysenn's dark eyes narrowed. "Are you two... talking in your heads? I heard you could do that, but I never thought --" 

"Who told you that?" Draco snapped, looking suddenly fierce. 

"It's not true," Harry interjected - his voice came out on a gasp, but at least the dizziness in his head was fading. 

Draco shot him a look, and then returned his gaze to Rhysenn. "Why did you follow us here, Rhysenn?" he demanded. "Did you get bored standing around in your little cage? Voldemort not pushing enough food pellets through the bars?" 

The bright color in Rhysenn's cheeks vanished. "What did you say?" 

"You heard me." Draco began to walk down the steps, and Rhysenn almost took a step back before she seemed to recollect herself. "Call me crazy, but I think if you had a little wheel installed so you could run around in there, you wouldn't be so driven to chase teenage boys around the British Isles. You could work off some of that excess energy." 

The color had come back to her face in a flood. "That cage does not hold me," she hissed, his voice a flat whisper. 

"I notice you don't deny you work for Voldemort," said Draco coldly. His eyes were chips of gray ice. He looked, Harry thought, rather like his father. "Want to tell us a little about that?" 

"Who has told you these things?" she demanded. "Where did you learn them?" 

Draco shook his head. "I'd tell you that, see, but I really don't want to." 

Rhysenn's fingers curved into claws. "You stupid boy," she snapped. "The Dark Lord will destroy you, and whatever minion betrayed him to you!" 

"In that case, I'll just tell him it was you, shall I?" Draco suggested equably. He cocked an eyebrow, and glanced up at the lightening sky. "The sun's coming up," he added, his voice deceptively soft. "Shouldn't you..." 

With a scream of rage and whirl of black hair, Rhysenn disappeared, vanishing without even the soft *pop* that usually accompanied a Disapparation. 

Draco stood where he was, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. There were no marks in the snow where her footprints should have been; it was easier to see that now, in the gathering light. The advent of the rising sun striped the far horizon with bars of rose and gold, sparkling over the icicles, over Draco's icy-colored hair. 

"Hey," said Harry uneasily. Draco's set expression was unsettling, to say the least. "Malfoy... thanks." 

"Thanks?" Draco jerked his head up and looked at Harry as if he were the most pitiful thing he had seen in a lifetime of pitiful things. "What was that? I never picked you for the easily-swayed-by-feminine-wiles type." 

"I'm not," Harry replied. He wished he could be a bit more eloquent, but he was having trouble catching his breath. There was also a strange, whirling feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he'd just been dropped from a great height. 

Draco rolled his eyes. "If I hadn't come back..." 

Harry's stomach lurched. "I had it under control," he gasped. 

"Oh, yes, that's what it looked like. Hey, with some luck, you could have drowned her in drool." 

Harry's stomach lurched again, this time as if it were trying to turn itself inside out. He took a few staggering steps, nearly crashed into a tombstone, fell to his knees, and was violently and thoroughly sick on the grass. His body shook. He'd only been this sick once before, after drinking too much. Waves of nausea coursed over him, almost painful in their intensity. Finally they subsided, and he sat back on his heels, gasping in air. 

"Hey." It was Draco's voice, much gentler now. Hands closed around Harry's upper arms, helping him up to his feet. "Harry... what happened?" 

Harry shook his head. "I think... I need... some water." 

Quickly, Draco produced his bottle of overpriced water from a coat pocket, and handed it to Harry. Harry drank most of it, then splashed the rest on his face and hands. It helped: his mind was starting to clear, and the world was coming back into focus. 

"Can you stand up on your own?" Draco asked. 

Harry nodded, rubbed a sleeve across his damp face. "I'm all right," he said. "Must have been all that jouncing around on the Knight Bus." 

Draco released his hold on Harry's arm, looking thoughtful. "I don't think so. I think it was something to do with Rhysenn." 

Harry laughed shakily. "I don't think she'd be too happy to hear that." 

"Well, she seems to have a hell of an effect on you. I thought you were going to keel over and pass out before." 

"I was trying to push her away," Harry said. 

"Yeah," said Draco. "Maybe you were." 

"I tried," Harry said again. "I tried, and I just couldn't. I wanted to, but..." 

"Hey, you know, it happens to every guy," said Draco with mock sympathy. 

Harry choked. "Oh, shut up, Malfoy." 

Draco chuckled. "We should get out of here," he said. "The sky's getting light." 

"All right," Harry said, and took a step towards him. Then he paused. "My gloves - and the bracelet. I left them back at the - back where we were." 

Draco took hold of the back of Harry's jacket, steering while they walked back to the Potters' graves. Harry didn't mind the mild guidance; he was still a little shaky on his feet. "Bracelet?" Draco echoed. 

"My runic band - I wear it on my belt. For good luck." 

"Oh, right. That red band. Why'd you take it off?" 

"No reason," Harry said shortly, stopping to pick the bracelet and his gloves up. Draco didn't press him, as Harry knew he wouldn't. He stood quietly as Harry gave the headstones one last look. Then he took the box containing the Portkey out of his pocket, and opened it. The Portkey glimmered silver in the morning light, for it was now full morning. He turned to Draco. 

"Hold on to me," he said, and tipped the Portkey into his hand. The world upended itself, and then he was whirling away, shooting through a gray fog, Draco's hand knotted tightly into the back of his jacket. 

*** 

Draco landed on a hard stone floor with enough force that he lurched forward into Harry, whose jacket he was still clutching. He let go and staggered back into an upright position, glancing around nervously. 

They were in Lupin's office. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light that spilled in through the half-open windows, illuminating the desk piled with books, the chair pulled to the fireplace, which was empty and cold. He glanced at Harry, who looked slightly dazed. "Put the Portkey back and let's go," Draco whispered urgently. 

Harry dropped the box onto the table, but as he did so, there was a faint noise - Draco turned and saw that the handle on the office door was turning slowly, slowly - 

Harry had gone white, and was staring at the door. My cloak - it's back in your room! 

Draco grabbed the back of Harry's jacket again, and yanked him towards the fireplace. He pointed his left hand at the empty grate and muttered Incendio! Blue-white flames instantly wreathed the logs there; Harry, realizing what Draco was trying to do, grabbed the box of Floo Powder that rested on the mantel, and threw a liberal handful in. He leaped after the powder just as the door opened, and Draco followed him, grabbing onto Harry's jacket again so they wouldn't be separated. He heard Harry yell a destination as the powder spun them away, or at least he assumed that's what Harry was shouting - he couldn't tell. Other fireplace grates flashed by, some lit and some dark, and then the whirling forward propulsion of the Floo magic spat them both out like objects hurled from a catapult. They rolled across a painfully hard stone floor, finally fetching up against something hard. Draco heard Harry yell in pain; who lay sprawled on the ground in a pitifully coughing heap. Draco raised his head slowly, blinking away dizziness, and saw Harry looking back at him; Harry was covered with soot, his shirt and jeans blackened in long streaks, his hair matted with dust. 

"You all right?" Draco asked, propping himself painfully on his elbows. 

"I'm fine," Harry said, still coughing, "get your bloody leg off mine - ow!" 

"Stop shoving," Draco replied irritably. "And stop waving your arms around - you're getting soot in my eyes." 

"Well, good morning," came a bemused voice. "Nice of you two to stop by." 

Both Draco and Harry whirled around and stared. Draco saw blue-jeaned legs first, then, as he trailed his eyes upwards, dark blue work robes, also dusted with soot, a pair of leather-gauntleted forearms, crossed over a broad chest, and a very disapproving face capped by a mop of bright red, instantly recognizable hair... 

"Charlie," said Harry weakly, and then succumbed to another coughing fit. 

Draco rolled away from Harry and scrambled up to his knees, his eyes flicking around their surroundings. They were in Charlie's office - he recognized the bright Romanian embroidery on the walls, the bucket of dragon food, and, in its iron cage on the desk, the dragon itself, looking very annoyed indeed that its morning feed had been cruelly interrupted. "I can explain..." Draco began. 

Charlie shook his head. Draco could see reflected in the mirror behind him exactly what Charlie was seeing - both boys covered in soot, Draco's hair black with it, their faces streaked, their boots muddy, both in Muggle clothes, both looking very guilty indeed. "You know what?" Charlie remarked in the general direction of the ceiling. "I don't want to know. I don't even want to know." 

*** 

"Ron, eat something," Hermione said irritably, "you're giving me a headache, picking like that." 

Ginny glanced over at her brother, who was indeed picking halfheartedly at his cold beans on toast. He also looked tired and slightly woebegone, his eyes darkly shadowed, his mouth downturned. "Pre-game nerves?" she asked curiously; Ron was rarely, if ever, significantly nervous before a game. 

"Stomach ache," he said briefly, and looked up. "Where is Harry?" 

"He wasn't there this morning," said Seamus helpfully, and immediately all eyes turned to Hermione, who blushed the color of Ron's hair. 

"I haven't seen him either," she said quickly, "he must have had an errand to run before breakfast or something." 

"Well, if he doesn't show up for the game, I'll skin him alive," said Ron, looking mildly thunderous. "It's not like anyone could be a reserve Seeker..." 

"I bet Ginny could do it, she's fast enough," said Seamus equably, "and then we'd just need someone as Chaser - Parvati, didn't you Chase fifth year?" 

Parvati looked down the table at Seamus and sniffed. "Jean-Yves would never let me do that now," she said, referring to the son of the French Minister of Magic, whom Parvati had been dating for nearly two years. In September, he had given her a sapphire ring the size of a pigeon egg, sparking much speculation among the Gryffindor girls. "He thinks Quidditch is unfeminine." 

"And we think his accent is unbelievably girly, but do we say so?" asked Ron, rolled his eyes, and went back to picking at his bacon. "Honestly, what the hell is up with..." 

"Harry!" said Hermione, dropping her fork with a clang. Ginny twisted in around in her seat to see that Harry had indeed arrived, late, at the breakfast table. He flopped down in the seat next to Hermione, who was staring at him in amazement. Ginny found herself staring too: Harry was filthy. His normally jet-black hair was powdered even blacker with soot, and streaks of soot decorated his nose, cheeks, and chin. His clothes were a disaster, and when he reached for the pumpkin juice, Ginny saw that his fingernails were gray with dirt. "Harry," said Hermione in disbelief. "What happened to you?" 

Ron's eyebrows had shot up to his forehead. "Let me guess," he said, looking Harry up and down. "You may be a tiny chimney sweep, but you've got an enormous..." 

"Appetite," said Harry cheerfully, grabbing for a plate of eggs and shoveling them onto his plate. "I'm starving." 

They all stared at him in amazement. It had been months since Harry had done much more than pick at food during mealtimes. "Harry dear," said Hermione, making an evident effort to sound patient, "is there any particular reason why you're so..." 

"So what?" Harry asked, glancing up and grinning. His teeth looked very white against all the black dirt smeared across his face. 

"Dirty," said Hermione, with finality. 

Harry looked at her for a second. Then he leaned across the table and kissed her soundly on the cheek. When he drew back, there was an enormous sooty mark on the side of her face, and her eyes were bright with surprise. 

"Hermione," said Harry firmly, "just don't worry about it, okay?" He flopped back down in his seat, and attacked a slice of bread and butter with vigor. Hermione looked at him, shook her head, and hid a smile. 

"It's good to see you eating, Harry," said Ginny, eyeing the Boy Who Lived as curiously as everyone else now was, "especially with the game coming up." 

"Although I hope you wash up beforehand," said Ron, looking dubiously at Harry's filthy appearance. "The way you look at the moment, the Slytherins will be laughing too hard to play, and we'll forfeit." 

"Hmm," said Seamus, leaning over to get at the butter dish, "you mean this soot business isn't meant to be a clever attempt at camouflage, Harry? I thought maybe it was a new strategy we were working on." 

"Ah, you're all so amusing," said Harry, who had moved on to the bacon. "That famous Gryffindor humor I'm always hearing about...oh, wait, no I'm not." 

"Home of the brave, Harry," said Seamus, waving his fork. "Not the witty. We're just the cannon fodder. 'Slowing down evil by getting in the way.'" 

"Now there's a winning attitude," remarked Ron. "Note to self: Do not put Seamus in charge of pre-game pep talk." 

Ginny giggled, and Seamus looked over at her and then looked away without smiling, and she felt an unexpected pang. She glanced down sadly at her toast. Seamus... he was so nice and so sweet and she had treated him so horrifically badly. And he didn't even know it, not really. 

When she looked up again, she saw to her surprise that Harry had paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and was looking over at the Slytherin table. Draco was standing there, next to Blaise, and while he was not nearly as dirty as Harry, Ginny could see that his robes, too, were streaked with soot. He was looking over Blaise's head at Harry, very intently, as if he were trying to communicate something - which he probably was. 

Harry put his fork down carefully on his plate, and glanced at Hermione, who had propped against the juice jug and was turning the pages between bites of her toast. "Hermione," he said, very softly, "could I talk to you for a minute?" 

She didn't glance up. "Yes, of course." 

"No, I mean..." His voice dropped even lower. "Alone. Outside?" 

Now Hermione did look up, a look of slight surprise in her eyes. "Sure," she said, tucking a dark curl behind her ear, "we could take a walk, I suppose." 

Ginny knew what that meant; they would go down to the lake, as they always did. She could not count the amount of times she had looked out a classroom window during her third year, and even her fourth, and seen Harry and Hermione walking together along the narrow path that circumnavigated the lake. They would walk very close together, shoulders not quite touching, in perfect alignment, always in step. 

Harry pushed his chair back and stood up. "Let's go." 

Hermione, gathering her books into her bag, glanced over at Ron. "We have that meeting today, don't we?" 

Ron nodded. "Yeah, right after lunch. You plan on attending this time?" 

Hermione made a face at him, and reached to take Harry's outstretched hand. Then she paused, shook her head, took her wand out of her pocket, and pointed it at her boyfriend. "Detergere," she said, and the soot vanished from Harry's clothes and hands, leaving just a grimy streak across his left cheekbone. Harry grumbled. 

"Honestly," Hermione said, putting her wand away, "you'd think you wanted to be filthy." 

"I thought it looked dashing," said Harry, and took her hand. "Come on - let's go." And as they walked away, Ginny realized that she was staring after them, and returned her eyes hurriedly to her plate - only to realize that everyone else at the table was staring after them as well. 

*** 

"I think there's something actually going on between Ginny and Seamus," Hermione said conversationally, as Harry tugged her along the path. "Elizabeth said she saw Seamus coming out of Ginny's room at four in the morning. That's good, isn't it? I mean, Seamus is a nice guy, right?" 

Harry didn't reply. They were at the perimeter of the lake now, on the narrow path that wound in between the stands of leafless trees. Bare and black, the branches rose into the sky, piled with icing sugar snow. Hermione wondered briefly where the giant squid went in the winter, when the snowdrifts blew across the thick glassy ice and everything seemed so cold and so dead. 

"Did you hear me, Harry?" 

Harry dropped her hand and turned to face her, standing at the lake's edge. The iced-over water behind him was spangled with glittering snow, the sky very silver. Against it, Harry's black hair, the red in his pale cheeks, the dark burgundy and gold scarf, stood out like splashes of paint on a white canvas. His breath came out in puffs of white frost when he spoke. "Yes, I heard you. And Seamus is a great guy. Spectacular. I'd date him myself. Whatever. Just - there was something I wanted to talk about with you, and it wasn't Ginny or Seamus." 

Hermione blinked in surprise at his stern tone, then shrugged. "All right. I wanted to talk to you anyway." 

"Did you?" His green eyes were serious. "All right, but let me talk first, will you?" 

She nodded, a feeling of foreboding tightening her stomach. "All right, Harry." She sat down carefully at the base of the nearest oak tree, wrapping her cloak around her knees. "What is it?" 

Harry hunched his shoulders inside his cloak, and was silent for a long time. Hermione sat where she was, letting him think. It always paid to be quiet and let Harry talk when he wanted to. "I've been thinking," he said finally, in a very quiet voice. "And wanting to talk to you, but I wasn't sure when would be a good time." 

Hermione looked more closely at him, a bit startled. His face was set, unexpressive. She had seen that same look on his face before. She remembered Slytherin's castle, Harry chained to the wall, refusing to tell her what Draco had said to him that was terrible enough to shatter an adamantine door. I'll just tell you that it was something really, really terrible. Something I won't forget. Ever. Something ... unforgivable. 

"I know I've been...distant lately," he said finally, in a low voice, shoving his balled fists into his pockets. She wondered suddenly if he had brought her out there to break up with her, and the thought made her stomach lurch crazily in protest. I knew it, she thought, I knew it. "Harry..." she whispered. 

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I wish I wasn't, but... I don't know how else to be right now. When I was..." He hesitated a moment, seeming to gather himself together, then went on with the air of someone falling into a bottomless black pit. "When I lived with the Dursleys, when I was a kid, I used to imagine what my parents might have been like, if they'd lived." 

Hermione's lips parted in surprise. Harry never talked about his childhood before he had come to school. Never. "Well, of course, anyone would --" 

"No," he said, cutting her off, although not unkindly. "I really imagined it. I didn't know what my parents had looked like. The Dursleys told me they'd been ugly, low-class, but I never believed that. I assumed my mother had been beautiful, that my father had been handsome, and that, of course, they'd loved me more than anything in the world." 

Hermione felt the back of her eyes sting. "I'm sure they did," she said softly. 

"I didn't know what color hair my mother had. I thought maybe she'd had black hair, and I'd inherited it... I thought maybe my father was blond, I pictured him being tall and strong. I thought about that car accident they were supposed to have died in. I wondered where they'd been driving from, where they'd been going. I told myself that they'd been spies, working for the government, that they hadn't really died, they'd just been forced to go underground and leave me behind because the work they'd been doing was so dangerous. I told myself they'd be back to get me one day. I knew where we'd live together, what the house would look like - blue, with every room painted a different color, because everything at the Dursleys was the same shade of gray..." His voice cracked a little, as it had when it had been changing. "I furnished every room inside my head. I knew where all my toys would be. The names of the pets I'd have. I wrote everything down so I wouldn't forget. I didn't live in that dark closet under the stairs. I lived in that house, with my parents." 

Hermione realized she was crying. She ducked her head so Harry wouldn't see. She wanted him to go on. 

"I used to write everything down in an old notebook of Dudley's," said Harry quietly, looking out over the lake. "And one day of course, I was careless, and my uncle found it and read it. He dragged me out of the broom closet and shoved me up against the wall and I still remember what he said to me. 'Your parents are dead, boy. They're not spies, they're not working for the government. They're dead. They'll never come to take you anywhere. They died stupid, pointless deaths, and they lived stupid, pointless lives, and I'd be glad they were dead if it hadn't landed us with you. And all your dreaming won't bring them back.' And that was that." He paused. "That was when I was eight years old." 

"Your notebook..." Hermione whispered. 

"I burned it," said Harry flatly. "I knew my uncle was right. I couldn't bring them back." 

"You believed him? That they were dead?" 

"I knew it. I could see it in his eyes. He looked triumphant. He wouldn't have looked like that if he'd been lying." Harry's voice was thick with loathing. "He really was glad they were dead. I despised him. But I never thought about that house again. It was ruined. And it was hard. Like losing my parents again." His words came out clipped and staccato. "And then I came here, and I had another home - a real one. And I saw what my parents really looked like. And I knew that they had loved me. Would have been proud of me. Were proud of me. A world where ghosts walk and talk... I just assumed they were somewhere, watching me. That my father could see me fly. That my mother knew I'd faced a dragon. That they knew that everything I did, every day, was in some way an effort to redeem the sacrifice they'd made to keep me alive." 

"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispered. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." The snow crackled under her feet as she stood, almost slipping in her haste to get near him. He stood and watched her, very alone somehow as if he had created a space around himself, specific and inviolable. She paused just outside it, hesitant to touch him, although another part of her ached to put her arms around him and hold him tightly. "You don't have to do this," she said. "I know you're trying to tell me why you've been distant lately - I know you've been thinking about your parents - and how could you not? I've been so selfish, thinking about graduation and moving on and how all that affected me, and I never even thought about what it must be like for you, knowing they won't see you graduate, get recruited for a team, go to Sirius' wedding... oh Harry, this is the most important part of your life in a way, and if you're missing them more now..." She let her voice trail off. "Is that what you were trying to say?" 

He looked at her, his green eyes were haunted by a darkness she could not name. "Something like that," he said, and she had a feeling, from the tone of his voice, that she had gotten entirely the wrong end of the stick, and didn't understand what he was trying to say at all. She felt bitterly inadequate, incompetent even - and somewhere in the back of her mind a voice told her that she could not be expected to heal that darkness in him: she was too young, and the pull of the darkness too great. Surely if she loved him properly, loved him enough, she would be able to help and to understand, she told herself. But already she loved him more than she could imagine loving anything, and it was not enough. 

"Hermione," he said, and his voice was oddly distant. "What are you thinking?" 

She took a deep breath. "Just that... all those years with the Dursleys... it wouldn't be at all surprising if you'd turned out mean-spirited, or selfish, or self-centered. Or terribly angry, or vengeful - and you aren't. You have every right to be angry and you so rarely are; and every right to have self-pity, but you don't pity yourself. That childhood - it could have turned you into an awful person. Instead it turned you into the best person I've ever known. No -- you turned yourself into that person. I meant what I said first year. You are a great wizard, and - and more important, you're a good human being as well. I admire you, Harry. I always have." 

He ducked his head, and she did not see the expression that passed across his face. "No," he said, in a slightly husky voice. "I'm not as good as you." 

She laughed. "You remember." She took a step forward, and he raised his head and looked at her. She reached out and touched his face, as she had been wanting to do - lightly touched his cheek, and he leaned his head against her open hand, as if he were tired. "I was so worried about you then - I didn't want you to see I was crying, but I was." 

"I know," he said, very quietly. "You're the first person in my life who ever cried because they loved me." 

She shook her head. "No, not the first, I'm sure." 

"The first I remember." He closed his hand around her wrist and held it tightly. "I don't know what I would do without you," he said. "What would I do?" 

The tone of his voice made her afraid. She tried to look up into his eyes, but he bowed his head down onto her shoulder as if he were tired, and would not let her see his face. She kissed his temple, the only part of his face she could reach, and the black hair that covered his face and spilled down onto her hands. Soft hair, like black silk. "Harry," she whispered. "You never would have to be without me... never." 

She felt him tremble under her hands, and then he lifted his face off her shoulder, and was smiling at her. She did not quite believe the smile, although she could not have said why. "I know," he said. "But... I have to get down to practice. We're not as prepared for the match today as I'd like us to be and... I should go." 

"All right," she said, and let go of him reluctantly. "There isn't - anything else?" 

He shook his head. "No. And you, didn't you say you had something to tell me?" 

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "It was nothing. Just..." 

"Yes?" 

"If I don't see you before the game," she said, hating herself, "Then - good luck." 

He looked at her, knowing she was holding back - and she returned his gaze, knowing the same thing was true for him. The chasm was still between them: unbridged, uncrossable. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "I'll see you later, then," he said. 

"See you later," she whispered, and closed her eyes so as not to watch him walk away. 

*** 

"And I think that's just about it," Ron said, flipping over the parchment he had been looking at and clearing his throat. "Unless anyone has any questions?" 

Pansy Parkinson's hand shot up. "What about our Books?" she demanded, as the spinning orb turned green. 

Ron blinked at her, then back at the parchments on the table. "Books...?" 

"Leavers' Books, Ron," said Hermione, resisting the urge to pat him on the arm. He looked awfully distracted, poor dear, she thought. He had seemed to be having a hard time concentrating lately, and had nearly forgotten all about the Secret Wizards game that they were supposed to be playing for Christmas, in which every seventh-year student had to buy a gift for another student whose name they picked in a random drawing. Fortunately Pansy had already brought a box filled with slips of parchment to the meeting, thus saving the situation. "We have to decide on the design for our Leavers' Books. They're important, after all." 

"Oh. Right." Ron rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. Obviously, he was wishing he was elsewhere. Hermione's eyes slid past him, over Justin Finch-Fletchley, who looked bored, and Padma Patil, who was industriously sucking a sugar quill. Next to her was Draco, lounging back in his chair as usual. Feeling her gaze on him, he raised his eyes, and their gazes locked; after a moment, he winked at her. Hermione smiled, her thoughts only half on the business of the meeting. "We need a motto to be engraved on the cover of the books," Ron was saying, "and traditionally every class chooses its own motto. Now, we have plenty of time to think of one, but if anyone has any suggestions..." Ron, seeming to intercept the look between Hermione and Draco, cocked an eyebrow. "Malfoy? You had a thought?" 

"A what?" Draco started slightly, then subsided with a faint smile. "Well, we've got loads of mottoes in my family, but I don't think they'd be anything you'd be interested in." 

"Try me," said Ron, not pleasantly. 

"Well," said Draco, leaning forward and putting his chin on his hand, "there's 'Always pillage before you burn', that's an old one, and then one of my dad's favorites, which was 'money can't buy you friends -" 

"Money can't buy you friends?" Ron echoed with a disbelieving laugh. 

"...'But it does buy you a better class of enemies.'" Draco's eyes trawled insolently from Ron's shoes to the tip of his nose, gone slightly pink with annoyance. "Obviously that last one isn't true in all cases..." 

Ron slapped his wand down on the table. "You think you're funny, don't you Malfoy?" 

Draco shrugged modestly. "Well, I try not to fly in the face of public opinion." 

Hermione then did the worst thing she could have done, and laughed. Ron shot her a very angry look, and she slunk down low in her seat. It didn't help, she thought irritably, that across from her Justin Finch-Fletchley and Padma Patil looked as if they were trying hard not to laugh as well. In fact, oddly enough, the only people who looked unamused were the Slytherins - both Pansy and Malcolm Baddock were stony-faced and glaring. 

"Malfoy," said Ron, in a voice like shards of ice, "I want to talk to you in the corridor. NOW!" he added, and everyone jumped. Hermione looked at him in surprise: his blue eyes were burning, and he looked well and truly furious. 

"Ron..." she began uncertainly, but he didn't even look at her, he was glaring at Draco, who was getting to his feet with a slow insolence that Hermione couldn't help thinking was a bad idea at that moment. He sauntered towards the door and Ron followed after, slamming the door behind them both. 

*** 

Ron banged the door shut behind him and spun to face Draco, who was leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor, looking cool and unruffled, as if any moment he might start examining his nails or checking his cuffs for minute specks of dust. If he'd had a mustache, he probably would have twirled it. 

"Malfoy," Ron barked, and Draco looked up. His face was open and inquiring, his eyes wide and clear. He smiled at Ron politely, which only served to annoy Ron further. "What the hell are you playing at?" 

"I was actually hoping to get a chance to talk to you alone," said Draco calmly. 

"And trying to embarrass me during a prefects meeting is your idea of how to do that, is it?" 

"No, that part was just for fun." 

"Maybe Harry thinks that sort of thing is funny. But I don't. I think you're a creep, Malfoy. A smirking, two-faced, insufferable creep." 

"Two-faced?" Draco laughed, not kindly. "You should talk. I wasn't born yesterday, Weasley..." 

"More's the pity," snapped Ron, "we could have started your personality over from scratch." 

Draco looked at him, a small smile playing around his mouth. "I see the way you look at her," he said, apropos of nothing. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think we all are?" 

For a moment, Ron just stared at him. The blood had begun to pound in his ears, and his mind hummed with disbelief. Surely Draco hadn't just said what he thought he'd said. "What did you say, Malfoy?" 

Draco slowly unhitched himself from the wall and stood looking at Ron with consideration. His eyes were an almost lucent gray in the faint light, the color of a knife-edge, and as cutting. "I was watching you this morning," Draco said. "I've been watching you for a few days now. Honestly, Weasley. What do you think you're playing at?" 

Ron felt as if his blood had thickened and it was taking huge, convulsive efforts of heart and breath to continue pushing it through his veins. Everything seemed dizzy and distant and painful. He heard his own voice say, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"I think you do," said Draco, even more quietly. His voice was sugar syrup poured over shards of ice. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." 

"I don't see," said Ron, fighting down the urge to back away, "where you get this idea you have some insight into my private life -" 

"You think you can make me look stupid? You think I'd let you?" Draco interrupted, his very slow and soft. "Your private life is hardly going to stay private the way you've been behaving. Luckily for you I'm more observant than most, but even the most clueless Hufflepuff would figure you out eventually. You wear your heart all over your face, Weasley. Which, in your case, is a bad move." 

"Just because you're a liar, Malfoy, doesn't mean everyone is," Ron snarled. Rage was beginning to take the place of the shock that had paralyzed him. He spoke without thinking or stopping to consider the fact that Malfoy was right. 

"I'm not talking about everyone - I'm talking about you," Draco said. "You saved my life - and I owe you." 

"You've a funny way of showing it," Ron muttered, perplexed by this new turn the conversation had taken. 

"I'm trying to help you, Weasley," Draco said. "That's why I'm telling you that I know." 

"There's nothing to know!" Ron half-shouted. 

"Not yet," said Draco, and Ron felt a whoosh of relief in his stomach that was almost painful. So he doesn't know, not really. "You do know what I'm talking about," Draco added. "Let me offer a little guidance. Forget about it." 

Condescending bastard, Ron thought, staring at the blond boy, whose attitude had settled into a smug sort of curious calm. Why doesn't he just forget about my sister, then, if it's meant to be so easy?  

"Go on and glare at me like you hate me," Draco added with a shrug. "Doesn't matter to me, as long as you take my advice." 

"Why do you care?" Ron heard his own voice crack, rage making his skin prickle all over. "You don't give a fuck about me, Malfoy, and you never have. Am I supposed to believe this show of solicitude is for my benefit? First off, you're a liar, and second off, you're wrong, and third off - third off, you have no idea what you're talking about. So just...sod off, will you? Go mope around after my sister or whatever the hell it is you do for fun." 

A look of astonishment flashed across Draco's face - he had not expected Ron to react this way, and Ron felt a vicious jolt of pleasure at having surprised him. The astonishment was gone in a moment, and Draco's mouth settled into an even thinner line. "Fine, Weasley," he drawled. "I suppose it's as I long suspected, and your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others." 

Ron glared at him. "Twenty points from Slytherin," he said. 

Draco's mouth opened in surprise. "For what?" 

"For interrupting the meeting," Ron said savagely, "and for just generally being a grade-A, all-around arsehole. I'm going to go back in there now, and you are going to come with me, and I swear to Merlin that if you say one more word, I'll take a hundred points from Slytherin. Let's see how the rest of your house likes you then." 

Draco lowered his eyelids, hiding his expression. "I guess absolute power really does corrupt absolutely," he said, and there was an undercurrent of mirth in his tone that made Ron itch to smack his face. Instead, he spoke quietly but firmly. 

"One hundred points," he repeated. 

Draco said nothing after that, and followed Ron to the door without making another sound. Ron wanted to feel triumphant as they reentered the prefects' meeting room, but all he felt was an odd sense of... disappointment. For an insane moment there he'd thought that Draco really did know everything, but he hadn't, not really, and the burden of secrecy felt even heavier than it had before. He almost would have preferred it if Draco had in fact hauled off and punched him in the face, which would not have been unexpected. With a sigh, Ron picked his wand up, and began to speak. 

*** 

"Who did you get?" Hermione asked of Draco as they filed out of the prefects' room. The other students were pouring off down the hall, glad to be done with the meeting, chattering amongst themselves as they opened up the parchments that would tell them what student they would be buying a gift for. Wanting to wait for Ron, who was gathering his Quidditch things together, she paused outside the door. Draco leaned against the wall beside her, and looked over her shoulder as she unfolded her own piece of parchment and glanced at it. "Oh, I got Ron. That'll be easy." 

"Yes, a large pair of pliers to remove the stick from his --" 

She interrupted him hastily. "Who did you get?" she repeated. 

Draco unfolded his parchment, looked at it expressionlessly, folded it back up, and shoved it in his pocket. 

Hermione looked at him curiously. "Oh, come on, aren't you going to tell me?" 

Draco shook his head slowly. "Life is a meaningless lottery of chance," he said. "I just keep telling myself that." 

Hermione snorted. "I'm getting this feeling you got Seamus Finnigan." 

"Bingo," said Draco briefly. 

Hermione burst out laughing. 

Draco looked cross. "It isn't funny." 

"Uh-huh," replied Hermione agreeably. "What's important is that you believe that." 

Draco was spared answering by the meeting room door banging open - it was Ron, looking businesslike with a sheaf of parchments under his arm, and Pansy, carrying the empty box that had held the students' names. She looked as sour as she always did. Ron nodded at her briefly, and she headed off down the hallway. Ron looked at Hermione and rolled his eyes. 

"Having fun with Pansy?" Hermione said, her mouth curving into a sympathetic smile. 

"She's a regular breath of vile air as usual," said Ron with a shrug. "At least she agrees to head up practically every committee known to man. Makes my job easier." 

"Yes, thank God she's agreed to lighten your load of crushing responsibility," said Draco sarcastically. "And once again, I wonder why they ever let you have this position in the first place. Was it one of those "Collect twelve crisp packets and become Head Boy' mail-in deals?" 

Ron ignored him, and spoke to Hermione. "I'm off, actually -- I've got to head into Hogsmeade. You need anything?" 

Hermione shook her head. "No." She smiled. "If I don't see you by the match, good luck and all that." 

"Thanks." And Ron jogged off down the corridor, vanishing from sight amongst a knot of approaching Ravenclaws. Hermione looked after him thoughtfully, then turned back to Draco. 

"I've been doing that research we talked about, and I found out some things I think you might want to know," she said, pitching her voice low. "Do you want to hear something really weird?" 

"I always want to hear something really weird." 

Hermione smiled. "Can you come to the library with me?" 

He nodded, and they walked to the library in silence, keeping a good distance between them so that it was not obvious to the casual observer that they were together. Only when inside the library did Hermione relax. She was always comfortable there, in her safe, known place. It was decorated for Christmas now, as was the rest of the castle, the long dark wood tables adorned with tiny Christmas trees bearing singing sugar angels. Tiny red, gold and green circular lights levitated in the air like will-o-the-wisps, darting back and forth above their heads. She looked over at Draco, who was watching the flitting lights with Seeker-like concentration, the gold, scarlet, and emerald colors reflected in his eyes. He glanced sideways, as if he felt her gaze on him. "So, what did you find out?" 

"Look at this." Hermione reached into her bag, withdrew a small gilded volume, and spread it open on the table in front of her. She flipped to a bookmarked page, and tapped it excitedly with her finger. "Does she look familiar?" 

Draco leaned close and whistled. The page showed a woodcut engraving, very detailed and lifelike, of a young woman in dark wizarding robes. Her hair was also black and cascaded nearly to her feet: her pale oval face was familiar, as were the upturned eyes and the smiling mouth. Hermione remembered her as the girl who had walked downstairs with Charlie Weasley at Harry's birthday party; Draco obviously remembered her rather better. The girl held a wand in her left hand, and what looked like a jewel on the end of a chain in the other. Along the bottom of the illustration wound six words in block calligraphic letters: Rhysenn Malfoy. In the Year 1357. 

"Six hundred years," said Draco, and laid a hand on the page. "Well, she said she was older." The engraved Rhysenn stretched and winked at him, swinging her jewel on its chain. "In fact, she said she was immortal." 

"That's a bit odd," said Hermione, "because here it says she died when she was twenty." 

"Did she?" 

"Yes, of goblin fever. Before that, though, she was engaged to be married..." 

"Ha!" 

"...To Nicholas Flamel." 

Draco blinked, looking as if were grasping at strands of memory. "And he was...?" 

"A friend of Dumbledore's. He created the Sorcerer's Stone." Hermione shook her head. "I never would have thought he would have been the sort of person who would have married a Malfoy." 

Draco looked injured. "Why not a Malfoy? We're extremely personable, you know. And then there's the sex-appeal..." 

"Oddly, her biography here doesn't say anything about sex-appeal." 

"They probably called it something different back then," said Draco unflappably. 

Hermione snorted. "Like what? Ye Olde Sex Appeal?" 

Draco ignored this. "Well, I suppose it helps to know who she was...even though I don't think that the woman I've been talking to really is Rhysenn Malfoy. At least, not this same girl. Could they have brought her back from the dead, I wonder..." 

"Shhh," hissed Hermione, although the library was deserted. "Ugh. Necromancy? That's the worst magic there is. Anyway, it never works properly. There'd be... bits falling off her and things. Are there?" 

"What? Bits falling off her? No. She's...complete." Draco looked thoughtful. "She's pretty spry for a corpse, in fact. Prettier than most live girls." 

"Hmmph," said Hermione, and shut the book. "I'll keep looking for information on her. Now that we know when she lived, I can cross-check her in the Flamel biographies." 

"Thanks," said Draco, glanced up, and with a quick Seeker's precision, caught a glowing red light that was whizzing by in his cupped hand. He held it for a moment, the illuminated globe throwing a rosy shadow over his face, then let it go. He reached into a pocket then, drew out a folded square of newsprint, and handed it to her. "Take a look at this," he said. 

"A Muggle newspaper? Draco, where did you get this?" 

"Never mind that. Look at the picture." Draco came to stand beside her, glancing down at the newspaper as well. "That mirror, the one that was stolen. That was the mirror in my dream." 

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him. He was still looking down at the photograph, his profile intent and serious. His eyes were lowered, the long lashes casting longer shadows over the pronounced cheekbones, like fine pen strokes. "Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure," he said, and explained, swiftly but thoroughly, the means by which he had assured himself it was the same mirror, and his conviction that Voldemort had sent Wormtail to steal it. "Now the question is, what does he want it for? Obviously it can be used to see me with, but there must be a bit more to it than that. Any mirror could be tuned to see me, if he really wanted to make the effort. Why that one?" 

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know. The workmanship looks rather like the workmanship on Harry's scabbard, doesn't it? I know I can check back to see who made that, see if the maker ever created any other enchanted objects. This mirror must be special somehow." 

"And if Voldemort really wants it," Draco said, straightening up, "then we should know why." 

"Right." Hermione took the piece of newspaper, and slid it into her bookbag. "I can get some books out now and bring them to the match." She glanced around. "At least, I can if Madam Pince ever comes back." 

Draco followed her gaze around the deserted library, and a thoughtful look came into his eyes. "There's one more thing I wanted to show you," he said. "It's a bit strange..." 

"All right," she said, and glanced around again. "There's no one here..." 

"No." He clamped his hand around her wrist. His fingers felt warm against her skin. "Someone might come in...here, come with me." He drew her after him, past the stacks of books, and into a shadowy alcove lined with small volumes. The hovering lights were the main illumination here, casting distended shadows of emerald, ruby and gilded light against the stonewalls. Draco let her wrist go, and she drew it back, instinctively clasping her hands together. She wasn't sure why she felt uneasy: perhaps it was Draco's set, tense expression, or the fact that it was so cold in the library, or something else altogether. 

"Draco, what is it? Are you all right?" 

His gray gaze slid over her face, almost as if he were calculating, evaluating something. Testing her. Whatever it was, he seemed satisfied. He took a step away from her, reached down, took hold of the hem of his black sweater, and pulled it off over his head in one quick motion. He was wearing nothing under it. 

Hermione heard herself gasp, and she stepped backwards so quickly that she hit her head on the stonewall. Wincing, she exclaimed, "Draco! What are you doing?" 

He looked at her in surprise, and then his lips curled into an amused smile. "I said I wanted to show you something." 

She regarded him with deep mistrust, trying not to look at the way his narrow waist flared up into a broader chest, at the flat planes of his torso, the faint tracery of muscles under the skin. Harry had much the same build, of course, light and lean, a Seeker's body. "You didn't say you were going to get undressed," she hissed under her breath. 

"I need your Medical Magic expertise," he said straightforwardly. "I want you to look at my shoulder." 

"At your shoulder?" 

"Here," he said, and indicated his left shoulder with a touch of his hand. "Do you see it?" 

She shook her head. "I don't see anything." 

"From that distance, you couldn't see anything without Omnioculars." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Is something wrong?" 

"No," she said, flushing pink. "Nothing," and she took a reluctant step closer to him, and examined the indicated shoulder. Within a moment she had forgotten her discomfort in curiosity. "Is this where the arrow went in? The other day?" He nodded, looking down at his shoulder. There was a starlike scar just below and to the right of his clavicle, quite healed - when Hermione touched it lightly, he did not wince. "It doesn't hurt?" she asked. 

"No," he said. "But...you see?" 

She nodded. "It's glowing. Sort of silver. Turn around." He turned around, and she saw the scar on his back where the head of the arrow had exited his body, slightly smaller than the scar in front, but glowing with the same faint and phosphorescent radiance. She put her hand against his shoulder blade. The skin there was very white and smooth to the touch, a shade lighter than the skin on his hands and face. She could feel the slight roughness of the scar under her hand. It felt cold. "It's the same here." She stepped back, and dropped her hand. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?" she asked anxiously. 

He turned around to face her, and to her relief, picked up his sweater and drew it back on over his head. The resultant static electricity turned his silver hair into a crackling halo. ""It doesn't hurt," he said, pulling the sweater down. "But it's awfully weird. I'm not happy about it." 

"I haven't heard anything about injuries that glow, in Medical Magic," said Hermione anxiously. "Are you sure Madam Pomfrey --" 

"No Madam Pomfrey," said Draco with such unutterable finality that she knew it was hopeless. 

She sighed. "All right," she said. "I'll see what I can find out, Draco. But If I don't find anything out..." 

"Then I will continue to read in bed using only my shoulder for illumination," he said lightly. He glanced towards the clock on the wall. "I have to head down to the pitch," he added. "The game..." 

"I know," she said. "I'd wish you luck, but..." 

"But I don't need it?" 

"But I really want our team to win," she replied, and made a face at him. 

His eyes lit up and he laughed: a real laugh, not a snide one. "Thanks," he said. "For helping out," and before she could say that he was welcome, he had walked off. She watched him make his way out of the library, and a moment later followed after, emerging from the stacks into the lighted main room to see that Draco had been right: someone had come into the library after they did. 

Pansy Parkinson was sitting at one of the long tables, a book open in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on Hermione. There was a look of such loathing in them that Hermione, struck speechless, could only stare. Pansy stood up, almost knocking her book over, and stalked stiffly out of the room, her back rigid with disdain. Hermione watched her go, feeling weak in the knees. She had always known that Pansy didn't like her, but what had she ever done to make the Slytherin girl hate her so much? 

*** 

Draco didn't know it, but his opinion that Dumbledore's office was possibly the most interesting room in the school was one that was shared by Harry. Draco stood in the center of the room and waited; the Headmaster had not arrived yet and so he was at leisure to examine the fascinating objects that were everywhere. The antique claw-footed desk was littered with items of interest: there was a pile of Chocolate Frog cards (Draco noted that Dumbledore had apparently amused himself by drawing green mustaches on most of the famous witches and wizards, including himself), a Pocket Sneakoscope, an empty Pensieve, a collection of singing mechanical canaries, a Broomstick Trajectory Calibrator, a blank FiloParch, and a sleeping dormouse. Draco moved around the desk, not touching anything, and then his gaze fell on a stand behind the desk, on which rested an immediately familiar worn, patched, pointy-topped hat. The Sorting Hat. 

He stood and stared at it for a moment. Then, without knowing that years ago Harry had once done much the same thing, he reached for it and with trepidation, lifted the hat and put it on his head. Darkness enveloped his vision as the hat fell forward to cover his eyes. The hat had a musty, familiar smell, and he immediately remembered the moment he had sat on that tall stool in front of the assembled students, his whole mind a tight ball of determination focused on just one goal: Slytherin, Slytherin, let it be Slytherin. 

The hat stirred on his head now, and a voice spoke in his ear. What have we here... It seemed to hesitate. You're older, it went on, then my usual subjects, but I can't say I recognize the shape of your mind. Have we met before? 

Yes, Draco thought, perplexed. You Sorted me...into Slytherin. 

Into Slytherin? The Hat sounded amused. How very curious. Do you mind...if I look a little deeper into your thoughts? 

Draco hesitated. No. I don't mind, he said, then felt a shiver run down his spine as a most curious feeling took hold of him, as if something inside his head were fluttering. 

The voice spoke again. Why, you're a Malfoy! It sounded amused now. You're Draco Malfoy...I recollect you well. And yet, how you've changed. You're almost a different person now, aren't you? As if there were another person inside your head. 

Something like that, Draco muttered, thinking of Harry. 

Yes, another personality, as strong as your own. So what have we here? A good mind, sharp as a quill and twice as cunningly crafted...Quite a lot of arrogance and a nice dose of insecurity to match...bravery, oh yes I see that...you've known loss, then...and disappointment. And loyalty... as strong as iron. You would never desert anyone you loved, yet those you don't care for might as well not exist to you. And you're not above using them to get what you want. Ha! Draco jumped as laughter sounded in his ear. You're a bundle of contradictions, young Malfoy...and the most interesting mind I've seen in years. 

"Thanks," said Draco, without much feeling. "So would you still, I mean...would you..." 

Would I what? 

"Sort me into Slytherin?" 

I might. You're cunning enough for it...at the same time, clever enough for Ravenclaw, loyal enough for Hufflepuff, and brave enough for Gryffindor. So the question is, my boy...would you still want to be Sorted into Slytherin? 

"I don't know," Draco whispered, and added with a sharp flash of annoyance, "It's your job, isn't it, not mine!" 

What is? 

"To know where I belong!" 

When you're a child, you need someone to tell you where you belong, perhaps, said the Hat. At your age you should know it for yourself. 

"Well, I don't," Draco snarled, and yanked the Hat from his head in a fit of vexed disappointment. "I suppose I should have known better than to look for help from some stupid piece of talking haberdashery," he added, and dropkicked the Hat across the room. 

It landed at the feet of Albus Dumbledore, who had come in very quietly while Draco was distracted. "Oh dear," said Dumbledore mildly. "Not much point taking things out on the Hat, really. It doesn't feel pain." 

Draco looked guiltily at the serene-looking headmaster. "You wanted to see me, Professor?" 

"Yes. Why don't you come sit at my desk?" Dumbledore said, and Draco did as he was requested to do. He sat down as Dumbledore settled himself into the dark-blue high-backed chair behind the desk, and templed his hands beneath his chin. Draco did his best to return the Headmaster's gaze steadily, but found he couldn't - Dumbledore's eyes were too piercing; it made him feel as if his own head were made of glass. "Young Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "I know better than to assume you will tell me why you went to the top of the North Tower, or who you were meeting there. No -" he held up a hand as Draco began to speak. "I am well aware you weren't meeting Harry. I understand all that, and that is not why I called you here." 

"Oh..." Draco said slowly. If there was one person in the world who robbed him of his ability to make smart comebacks, it was Dumbledore. "If you're not going to ask me about that...what are you going to ask me about, Professor?" 

"I was going to return something to you," Dumbledore said. "Something you lost." 

Draco's eyes widened. "Yes? 

Dumbledore stretched out his hand, and Draco's eyes widened further. In the center of his wrinkled palm something glittered blackly: a signet ring, carved out of onyx, in the shape of a griffin. "My seal ring," he said blankly, and reached for it. "I thought I'd left it somewhere..." 

"You did," said Dumbledore. "At the top of the North Tower." 

Draco's hand closed spasmodically around the ring he had just retrieved. I shouldn't have admitted it was mine... 

"I knew it was yours, Draco," said Dumbledore, as if reading his mind. "The moment Charlie brought it to me...How many times did I see that ring flash on your father's hand when he was at school, and on your grandfather Julius' hand as well. Your father especially was always so particular about wearing it...I am surprised he would have taken it off." 

"He said it was time for me to wear it," said Draco, sliding the ring back onto his finger. "He said I had become a true Malfoy at last." 

Dumbledore sat forward slightly. His eyes were very kind. "Is there anything you want to tell me, Draco...anything at all?" 

Draco hesitated. Then he shook his head. "No, Headmaster." 

"Then I suppose it falls upon me to ask you questions," said Dumbledore. His light blue eyes had gone very grave, wise and kindly, but penetrating. "I assume that you have noticed a certain...change in Harry?" 

Draco looked down at his hands. In the faint light coming through the window, the bones seemed highlighted through the skin. He thought of the way Harry had looked earlier in the graveyard, as if a light were shining through him. "I've noticed it," he said, and felt an internal wrench, as if he were somehow betraying Harry but admitting it out loud. "But you might want to talk to someone else about that, like Hermione or Weasley, someone a bit closer to him." 

"There is no one closer to him," said Dumbledore. "Not in the way you are. Although I am sure they would protect him if they could. Would you?" 

"Protect him? Against what?" 

"Does it matter?" 

Draco raised his eyes from his hands. "I suppose not," he said. "Yes, of course. I'd do whatever I had to do." He shifted slightly in his chair. "But I've tried talking to him, and what he says...well, I don't know what I can do. If there was something I could do, I would do it." He looked directly at Dumbledore, who alone with Sirius knew what he had seen when he had died, and Sirius did not know the details. "I caused this, didn't I?" 

"You did not cause the situation, only revealed it. And perhaps you think because of that you should be able to mend it, but you cannot, and he would not welcome it if you tried. You cannot come between him and his suffering. It is too complicated and too unique to Harry. One happiness is much like another happiness, but each great sorrow is profoundly different. You might know the loss of a parent, in fact, like Harry, in some way you know what it's like to never have really had parents at all. But you cannot know what it's like to have adored those lost parents, to have turned them into the idealization of everything good in this world. And then to discover that they, to who you owe so much, are in torment and it rests upon your shoulders to save them from that state, and yet you have no idea how such a thing might be accomplished." 

"Don't," said Draco, anguished, and stood up, knocking his chair over. "Don't - it's my fault." 

"I wondered if you thought that," said Dumbledore gently. He waved a hand at the chair, and it righted itself. "I suspected you might, and because of that I have held back perhaps longer than I should have in telling you something I have long wanted to tell you." 

Draco blinked. "Something about me? Or Harry?" 

"Something about neither of you, and at the same time something intimately connected with both of you." 

Okay, Draco thought, could you be a little more vague about that? But...he didn't say it out loud. "Is it important?" 

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "It is important." 

Draco's heart had begun to beat hard in his chest. He had a feeling that "important" meant "bad," and the look on Dumbledore's face only confirmed this. "Is it going to hurt Harry?" he asked rapidly, "because if it is, I'd rather not know, if you don't mind." 

Dumbledore looked surprised. "Wouldn't you? Why not?"  

"Because I don't want to have to decide whether to tell him or not." He stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets, looking straight at Dumbledore, before he burst out, "Hasn't enough happened to him already? Does there have to be more?" 

Dumbledore sat looking at Draco quietly. Finally, he said, "Harry is strong, and can endure much. And for what he cannot endure alone, he has you." 

"And Ron and Hermione," said Draco, "And Sirius..." 

"But this particular secret is not their legacy. It is yours." Dumbledore waved a hand towards the chair, and Draco paused. "Sit down please, Mister Malfoy, and listen to me," he said, and Draco sat. "Now," Dumbledore went on. "Before you go haring after Harry on this quest of his for personal vengeance, there is something you should know..." 

*** 

The Gryffindor team had been waiting just outside the changing rooms for almost ten minutes after the game was supposed to start when Harry slipped off to talk to Madam Hooch. He was back in a moment, looking slightly ruffled. He glanced around at his jumpy-looking team - they were all standing around in the ankle-deep snow off the clean-scraped path. They couldn't see the pitch from here; it was blocked by the fence that surrounded it. Seamus was leaning up against the wall of the hut in which the changing rooms were located, looking bored. Ron was snapping his wrist guards on. "Game's on hold," Harry said briefly. "One of the Slytherin players isn't here yet." 

Colin snorted. "Don't they have to forfeit, then?" 

Harry shrugged. "Madam Hooch says we wait. So...we wait." 

Ginny squirmed irritably. She already felt tense enough, standing here with the other players, only a few feet away from Seamus, who wasn't looking at her. Elizabeth, Dennis, and Colin were standing together, discussing Transfiguration. Ron was busy snapping on his wrist guards. "I wouldn't want to forfeit anyway," he said. 'I want to beat them." 

"That's the spirit," said Harry, looking weary. 

"Ron's right," said Ginny. "Especially after last time." She scanned the team and noted how bored everyone looked. "I think we need a pep talk," she said, and winked at Harry. 

He looked put upon. "You guys don't need a pep talk," he said. "We're the unbeatable team already. All we need to do is go out there and play, and we'll win. We don't know the meaning of the word defeat." Ron made a muffled choking noise, and Harry grinned at him. "Well, we know the meaning of it - we're not stupid - just, you know, not in this context." Harry's eyes scanned the room. "So, was that peppy enough?" 

Elizabeth looked up from her conversation with Colin. "Sorry, Harry, did you say something?" 

This time Ron's laugh wasn't muffled. Harry turned to grin at him, and paused. "Hey, Ron..." he said, his green eyes lighting with a sudden curiosity, "what's that on your neck?" 

Ginny turned around and so did Seamus and Elizabeth, in time to see Ron look startled, and put a hand to his neck. "What...?"
"You've got a bite mark," said Harry, hugely amused, "right there," and he poked Ron in the side of the neck with his finger. 

Ron flushed as scarlet as a sunset, and clapped his hand over his neck, but it was too late. 

"Ron's got a hickey," Seamus announced delightedly. "Unbelievable!" 

Ginny stared at her brother in astonishment. How on earth...? Well, not that she expected any of her brothers to tell her everything, or even most things, about their love lives, but Ron... well, Ron had always seemed to her to be a bit of a romantic, a dreamer. Un-serious snogs were not in his nature. And he'd never have a girlfriend and not tell Harry, and it was very evident from Harry's expression that he was as surprised as everyone else. 

"So, Ron," said Seamus, leaning on his broomstick, "who's the girl? I don't quite recognize the teeth marks." 

Ron was still scarlet. "There's no girl," he said, looking at the floor. 

"A boy, then?" Seamus was grinning. "I'd no idea!" 

"No! It's just - I walked into a door," said Ron, rather desperately. 

"With your neck?" Harry demanded, his eyebrows rising. 

"Yes," said Ron firmly. 

Ginny snorted. "Ron Weasley," she teased in a superior tone. "After living in a house with Bill, Charlie and the twins, if you think I don't know what a hickey looks like..." 

"Ginny..." Ron began in a warning tone, rounding on his sister. As he did, she got a good look at his neck. Heavens above, it was a bite mark. 

"Bill, Charlie and the twins?" Seamus echoed. "What, Percy never got any action? So much for power being an aphrodisiac." 

Ron looked as if he were going to have a coronary. "I do not have a hickey!" 

Harry grabbed Ron by the arm. "Okay, then, if you want to be like that," he said. "Sod waiting for the match to start - we're having a little talk," and with that, he frog-marched Ron several yards away, to the shade of a leaf-bare oak tree. Ginny followed them with her eyes, fascinated, as Ron pulled his arm out of Harry's grasp and stood, looking stony, while Harry spoke animatedly with - or rather at - him. 

"Well," she murmured, half to herself, "at least they're talking..." 

"So they are," said a voice behind her. Seamus. She didn't turn around. "Maybe we should too?" 

At that, she did turn, and looked at Seamus properly for the first time since she'd arrived at the changing rooms. He was looking at her very steadily, his expression serious and his blue eyes doubly so. Cloudy blue, the color of winter sky. She nodded at him. "I guess we should." 

He took her arm and drew her towards the side of the changing hut, out of sight of Harry and Ron. He let her go immediately, and faced her, looking determined. "Ginny," he said. "I wanted to apologize." 

She had expected him to say several things; this was not one of them. "For what?" she demanded, astonished. 

"For not being understanding before," he said. "Last night - this morning, I guess it was. What you had to tell me was, well, overwhelming, and I wasn't sure how to respond. And you were right. I was thinking I was going to have to rescue you from Malfoy somehow, and when it turned out I didn't I guess I was ... disappointed." 

"Disappointed?" Ginny echoed, but without any anger. She was, if anything, impressed by Seamus' honesty. It couldn't be easy to say the things he was saying. "But why, Seamus?" 

"Because..." He exhaled and leaned back against the wall of the hut. His cheeks were very red, with cold and with, she suspected, embarrassment. He had pulled his hands inside the overlong sleeves of his red and gold sweater, and it gave him a boyish, almost childlike aspect. "Because at least in that scenario I could imagine that there was something you needed from me." He shook his head. "I like you, Ginny, but you're a mystery. And I know every beautiful girl probably has guys lining up to tell her she's a mystery, but you really are. I think that you must be -" But Seamus never got to tell Ginny what she must have been, because at that point she took several steps towards him, leaned up on her toes, and kissed him. 

The first thing Draco would have done, she knew, was kissed her back fiercely; the first thing Seamus did was catch at her elbows, steadying her against him. Only then, when he was sure she was securely placed, did he bend his will to kissing her back. His hands slid from her elbows to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, and his lips on hers were cool, almost cold, gently exploratory. He tasted vaguely of hot cocoa. She found that she was shivering hard in his embrace, and no sooner had she noticed that then he broke off the kiss, leaning back just far enough so that he could see her face. "Ginny," he whispered, "are you all right?"
She looked back at him, seeing the dazed, dazzled expression in his eyes; the expression she'd seen on her brothers' faces when they got some Christmas present they especially wanted, the expression her mother sometimes wore when she welcomed a child safely home. The way Harry looked at Hermione and the way that Draco had never looked at her. It made her want to cry. 

"I'm all right," she said, and she put her arms around him. He was warm and solid, the heavy jumper making him bulky although underneath it, he was lithe and almost thin. "Seamus - can we stay still for a second? Just like this." As if he understood, he put his arms around her and held her and she rested her head against his chest, hearing the thickly muffled beat of his heart through the wool sweater, as regular as the ticking of a clock. 

*** 

Draco walked out of Dumbledore's office and began to make his way down the hall. If he could have seen himself, he would have been surprised at how slowly he was moving, and how very white his face was. As it was, he was entirely unconcerned with how he might look, which was unusual for him. He was not in shock precisely, but stunned, his mind whirling. Everything around him seemed to have taken on a precise and sharp-edged clarity. He could still hear Dumbledore's voice in his ears. Some of this I know for fact, and some is hearsay but we know enough, at this point, to be fairly sure of the basic facts. Of course this was years ago, many years it would seem to you. Almost twenty years... 

He was on the stairs now, walking down them. He had his broomstick in his hand. He was glad he had not forgotten it. I must talk to Harry. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that hiding things from Harry that might potentially upset him was, in the end, a terrible idea. Besides, it was hard to predict how Harry would react to this information. He also could not help but wonder why Dumbledore had told him alone and not told Harry; then again, he suspected that he could guess. 

He was on the front steps now, and they were cold and slick with ice. He sped down them and took the short cut down to the Quidditch pitch, the one that cut alongside the lake and down past the west side of the pitch, where the Gryffindor changing rooms were. As he neared the pitch, he saw that the stands above were filled with people; the grounds around the pitch seemed deserted though, but as he quickened his pace his gaze fell on a splash of gold and red by the side of the Gryffindor hut. A person. No, not one person, but two people. Two people clinging very close together as if against a cold wind, two sets of arms in their red and gold sleeves wrapped around each other, two faces pressing blindly towards one another. A tousled, sandy head. And a waterfall of familiar scarlet hair. Seamus Finnigan and Ginny Weasley. 

Well, what did you expect? said a knife-sharp voice in his own mind as he stopped, and stared, and then forced himself to move again. He averted his gaze as firmly as he could, rounded the edge of the pitch, and stalked towards the Slytherin side of the pitch, where his teammates waited. He could not quite rid himself of the feeling that Ginny had known he had passed by, had even looked up and seen him, but of course she hadn't; she'd been very, very occupied. Be happy, he told himself, it was what you wanted, and then as he neared the Slytherin team they saw him and let out relieved cries of welcome. He hoisted his Firebolt in the air and walked forward to join his team. 

*** 

"Ahem," said a voice; Ginny let go of Seamus and turned around to see Harry standing by the door of the changing rooms, his broomstick in his hand. He dropped her a wink before Seamus turned around as well. "Hate to interrupt, but the game's starting." 

Ginny dropped her head to hide a smile, and felt Seamus squeeze her hand. "Sorry, Harry," she said, not exactly sure what she was apologizing for. 

"Perfectly all right," said Harry cheerfully, and stepped back to let Seamus, who was blushing very faintly but looked pleased, walk past him towards the changing rooms. Ginny moved to follow him, but paused to fall into step with Harry, consumed with curiosity. 

"Did Ron tell you anything?" she demanded, resisting the urge to poke Harry with a finger. "Has he been snogging someone on the side?" 

Harry gave her a lopsided smile. "He really wouldn't say," he said, shrugging. "He kept saying it was some girl he met at the Pub Crawl, and they had a bit of a snog, and first he said she was a Hufflepuff, then he said she was a Ravenclaw. Then he said she was in a higher year, and I pointed out there aren't any higher years, and he got a bit quiet. Then he said he couldn't say and I'd just have to trust him on it." 

Ginny gave a little excited hop as they entered the changing room. She grabbed for her wrist guards and began buckling them on. Ron and the others had already filed out onto the pitch, it seemed, since the room was empty. "God, do you think it was someone really dreadful and now he's embarrassed?" she said, fascinated. "Maybe it was Milicent Bulstrode or something!" 

Harry made a dreadful face. "She'd have taken a much bigger bite out of his neck, I'd wager." 

"Tess Hammond? Pansy Parkinson?" 

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not even if he'd drunk sixty butterbeers." 

"Someone with a boyfriend, then? Maybe he's afraid he'd get in trouble." 

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "That could be. I'm afraid I feel unprepared to even venture a guess. I'll ask Hermione after the game. She's spent more time with him than I have lately." 

Ginny chuckled softly. "Ron's got a mystery girl!" she said cheerfully. "I love it." 

Harry grinned at her. "Maybe Seamus is right and it's a mystery boy," he said. "Ever think of that?" 

"Well, I don't see why he'd bother hiding it," said Ginny, tucking her broomstick under her arm and heading with Harry towards the doorway that led to the pitch. "I mean, Mum and Dad thought Percy was gay for ages, and they were fine with it. Kept blanketing him with leaflets and trying to get him to open up about his feelings." 

Harry laughed. "Percy? Really?" 

"Cor, yes. They were quite disappointed when Penelope showed up," she added, and ducked under the ropes that cordoned off the pitch. The rest of the team was there, waiting, including Ron, who had pulled the collar of his sweater up as high as it would go and now resembled a turtle of some sort. She chanced a wink at him and he colored. 

"Your parents really are amazing," said Harry, and Ginny turned to add a smiling affirmative, but was arrested by the look on Harry's face. Always, before every game, he scanned the stands for Hermione, and she could tell by his expression that he had just found her. She followed his gaze and saw Hermione sitting between Jana and George, a pile of books in her lap, looking down at the pitch and waving. As Ginny watched, Hermione made a sign at Harry with her hand - it wasn't anything Ginny recognized, but it was obviously some sort of signal between them, because Harry smiled, a brilliant smile like breaking sunrise. 

A creeping sadness invaded Ginny's bones. Secret signals, shared jokes. It always seemed that she was on the outside - on the outside of the tightly knit group of Harry, Hermione and Ron; outside Draco's relationship with Harry and Hermione as well, on the outside as the only girl in a family of boys. She turned away from Harry and caught Seamus' eye, and he smiled at her, the sweetest smile. She smiled back, and moved to stand next to him as the team mounted their broomsticks. Harry stepped past her then, heading towards the pitch to shake hands with Draco, who had already walked out there. Perhaps, she thought, not looking towards the pitch but instead at Seamus, perhaps things were finally changing for her after all. 

*** 

The match was starting quite late; the rumor was that one of the Slytherin players was running behind schedule. Hermione, sandwiched between George and Jana in the stands, Fred sitting behind them (Angelina had not come, opting instead to take Oliver Wood on a walking tour of the factory. On this topic, Fred had no comment) was quite sure that Draco's meeting with Dumbledore had run overtime, and found herself wondering what exactly they were talking about. She would have given a great deal to be a fly on the wall in the Headmaster's chambers, or even a beetle Animagus like Rita Skeeter. 

Vaguely, she was aware of Jana saying soothing things to George, who was growing more and more impatient as time ticked by. Hermione herself was not bored; she had brought an absolutely massive book on L'Histoire des Quatres Objects de Pouvoir with her, and was busily reading the relevant chapter, her Translator Quill held at the ready for any words she did not understand. A tight knot of foreboding was growing in her stomach as she read on about les quatres - the Mirror, the Dagger, the Cup and the Scabbard, otherwise known as the Four Worthy Objects. She had heard of them before; in fact, they had been on the homework assignment Lupin had given them. Even before that she had known that they existed in myth, but had never known why they were Worthy or what use they were meant to be put to. The more she read, the less she liked what she was reading. She ached to race off and find Harry and tell him what she had so far discovered, but of course she couldn't - 

"And about time!" muttered George, as the changing room door opened and the teams spilled out onto the field, the Gryffindor team rushing and the Slytherin team, although they were the late ones, sauntering insolently. The teams paused as Harry and Draco walked towards each other and shook hands, holding the grip, it seemed, only as long as necessary. Hermione, who knew better, saw through her Omnioculars how they leaned instinctively towards each other, and saw the wry smile Harry offered Draco as their hands met. A shaft of light broke through the clouds then, and she took the Omnioculars away from her eyes, blinded; when she looked again, they were walking away from each other, back towards their respective teams. 

Madam Hooch blew the whistle, and the teams launched themselves into the sky. George and Fred both yelled, and Jana, looking bored, went for her knitting - she was in the process of making a rather hideous orange muffler which Hermione secretly suspected was a Christmas present for Ron, who would look wretched in such a color. Hiding a smile, Hermione put her Omnioculars down and divided her attention between reading her book and watching the game as it unfolded in the sky above.  

She had once detested Gryffindor-Slytherin matches, but now she liked them, although she wouldn't have admitted it. Quidditch bored her and always had, but she liked watching her boys fly - Harry with his arrowlike grace, Ron with his straightforward determination, and Draco's showy stylization that masked a real skill. She watched them crisscross each other in the sky, and cheered when Gryffindor scored a goal, mostly because everyone else around her was cheering. But she enjoyed the sheer beauty of flight, something no Muggle sport really offered. Watching Draco and Harry speed away from and towards each other was like watching two streaks of green and red light. 

The others weren't bad either, of course. She'd been surprised by how well Ginny played when she'd first joined the team this year. She was fast and her aim was excellent. Hermione watched now as Ginny shot past Malcolm Baddock to capture the Quaffle, performed a hairpin turn, and raced towards the Slytherin goal. The Slytherin Beaters wheeled to follow her, but before they could, Blaise Zabini shot between them like an arrow, seized Tess Hammond's bat out of her hand, and whacked the nearest Bludger as hard as she could towards Ginny. It slammed into Ginny's shoulder and her broom spun in a circle, as the crowd below yelped and George broke into a stream of colorful profanity. Ginny righted her broom, but dropped the Quaffle, which Blaise dived for and captured; the Slytherin girl spun to hurl herself back towards the Gryffindor goal but Seamus Finnigan was blocking her, looking incensed. As her broom's path crossed his, Seamus reached out, grasped hold of the trailing end of Blaise's sleeve, and shook her, hard. With an infuriated screech, Blaise swung around, her free hand clawing at his face, and as Seamus ducked out of her grasp she dropped the Quaffle - 

Madam Hooch's whistle blew furiously. "Gryffindor fouls! Quaffle goes to Slytherin!" she called firmly. 

There was a faint groan from the Gryffindor stands. "What the devil was Seamus thinking?" Fred demanded, craning his Omnioculars upward. Hermione, following his gaze, saw Blaise catch the Quaffle as it was tossed to her by Madam Hooch. She paused for a moment to spit at Seamus, then took off like a rocket towards the Gryffindor goal. 

"I know what he was thinking," said George, amused, his gaze on his sister, who was chasing the Quaffle with a determined look. "Hee. Hee." 

Fred shot a disgusted look at his sibling. "Did you just say 'hee hee'?" 

"So what if I did?" said George cheerily, "at least my girlfriend isn't off faffing about with Oliver Wood." 

Jana looked annoyed. "Oh, that's right, make it sound like Oliver Wood wouldn't have me." 

"Now, dear, that's not what I meant," said George hastily. "I'm sure he would have you." 

"And I suppose you'd let him!" Jana sniffed, hands on her hips. "George! How could you!" 

"Of course not," George protested. "Darling...I would never..." 

"Hee hee," said Fred. 

"Oh, be quiet the both of you," said Jana, then broke off as there was a roar from the crowd - Slytherin had scored, Blaise having hit the Quaffle towards the Gryffindor goal hard enough to nearly knock out one of Ron's teeth. George made a snarling noise. Hermione had a feeling the odds of Blaise being invited to any upcoming Weasley family gatherings was likely nil. George and Fred were grumbling again, and when the Quaffle was returned to play, Ginny dove at it with a singleminded fierceness, cutting in front of Blaise as she did so, and driving it towards the Slytherin goal with such determination that Hermione found her eyes riveted on Ginny, and she barely noticed the twin blurs of green and scarlet streaking by just at the edge of her vision..... 

A dull roar went up from the crowd. Ginny paused on her broom and wheeled around; Hermione could see the astonished look on her face. Hermione looked up, brushing a stray curl away from her eyes, and saw that the air was no longer full of movement: the players were still, staring towards the west side of the pitch, where Harry sat atop his broom. Something glimmered in his hand. It was the Snitch. The game was over. 

Madam Hooch's voice broke the silence. "A victory for Gryffindor!" 

The stands around Hermione erupted into fierce cheering. Students were on their feet, their scarves flying like red-gold banners in the wind. Hermione did not get to her feet; she was still looking at the field, at Harry, who stared at the Snitch in his hand, then twisted around on his broom to look towards Draco. Draco was at least twenty feet away, sitting very still on his broom, and the look on his face - it wasn't an expression Hermione had ever seen on him before, half rage and half bewilderment. He pointed his broom violently downward, and landed hard on the frozen ground. Harry followed, landing much more slowly, and now the rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams were landing as well, blocking her view of the boys. She cranked the focus on the Omnioculars and looked again at Harry; the rest of the team was landing around him, crowding to get near him, but they seemed strangely somber. The usual hugging, jumping dogpile was missing. She could tell why, too; it was Harry. He looked neither pleased nor victorious, merely surprised and almost irritated as he glanced from the Snitch in his hand over towards the Slytherin team, who were departing swiftly through the doors to their changing rooms. Draco was already out of sight. Hermione could tell that the Gryffindor team was having a hard time rejoicing normally, given the somber mood of their captain. Moving uncertainly together, they gathered up their brooms and headed off the pitch, led by Harry. 

The Gryffindor spectators seemed to have caught the somber mood of the team; in silence, everyone in the stands began to gather up their things, and as Hermione moved to close the book she had been reading, and put it in her bag, her glance fell on an illustrated page. She stood very still for a moment, staring, then raised the book and looked more closely. A few moments later, she was running down the stairs at a mad clip, George and Fred staring after her, pelting as quickly as she could towards the Gryffindor changing rooms and Harry. 

*** 

Harry walked back towards the changing rooms, vaguely conscious of the excited chatter of the rest of the Gryffindors rising and falling around him. Over and over in his mind he was replaying the last few seconds of the match - chasing the Snitch, the wind in his face, waiting for, and rather expecting, Draco to cut in front of him on his broom, as he always did. Harry knew what flying Seeker against Draco Malfoy was like; he had done it for six years. They both had their tricks, though they tried to vary them. They both had their individual styles. Draco's was elegant and almost lazy, until he actually saw the Snitch, and then he would drive after it like the point of a knife blade driving home. Harry had learned to expect his responses and anticipate them; somewhere in his heart he felt confident that he was a better player than Draco, although not so much better that he could ever afford to be lazy. They'd lost their share of matches against Slytherin in the past, some quite unexpectedly. But one thing he had never come to expect was that Draco would ever let him catch the Snitch - and he was quite sure that that was what Draco had done this time. Draco hadn't even seemed to be making an effort at all; when Harry'd gone for the Snitch, he'd noted that Draco wasn't pacing him, and when he'd caught it and turned the other boy had been many feet away. That had never happened before. It wasn't like Draco not to make even the slightest effort, Harry thought, banging the changing room door shut behind him (and almost whacking Colin on the nose, although he didn't notice that.) Obviously Draco had let him win, but why would he do that? Was he feeling sorry for Harry now because of their visit to the graveyard earlier? Well, thought Harry, dropping his broomstick and stripping off the leather shin guards, screw that, he didn't want anybody's pity, least of all Draco's. 

Harry had at this point managed to work himself up into a state of affronted pique that, had he bothered to think about it, was out of proportion to the cause, but he didn't bother to think about it. Instead he tossed his wrist guards into a corner and stalked out of the changing room, ignoring Ron's attempt to stop him. 

He took hold of the Epicyclical Charm around his throat, concentrated a moment, and then marched up the path to the castle, his booted feet cracking the ice beneath them in a satisfyingly loud manner. He threw the double doors open, strode through the entryway, and turned down the left-hand hallway, the one that led to the Slytherin dormitories. He rounded the first corner and there was Draco just ahead, walking away from him, halfway to the tapestried door leading down to the dungeons. He was walking quickly, tearing at the leather wrist protector on his right wrist with his other hand; as Harry watched, Draco got it free, and in a gesture very unlike him, paused, and threw it hard against the opposite wall. It hit the stone with a soft thwack, and fell to the floor at Draco's feet. 

"Malfoy," Harry said. 

Draco didn't move, just stood where he was, staring at the wall. There was an odd dejection to the set of his shoulders, as if he had realized something painful... 

"Malfoy," Harry said again, more tightly, and when Draco still didn't turn he did something he'd sworn he wouldn't do, and sent an arrow of thought winging at the other boy's mind - he threw it as he would throw a dart, sharp and hard and direct. Malfoy! Turn around and talk to me! 

Draco tensed, as if he had been struck, and spun around. Harry quailed slightly - Draco's eyes had gone nearly black, which only happened when he was very angry indeed. "What the hell do you want, Potter?" he asked flatly. He was tearing at the other wrist protector now; he got it off, and dropped it on the floor at his feet. "Why are you following me?" 

Harry took a step forward. "What happened out there?' he demanded. 

Draco's eyes went narrow. The torchlight threw its flaring light across his face, washing out the color, making the lines hard and angular. "You won," he said flatly. "Go and bloody celebrate, why don't you?" 

"I meant what happened to you. You gave up on that game, Malfoy - it's the only explanation -" 

"I did not give up!" The words came out on a shout. "You won!" 

"We didn't," said Harry. 

Draco looked even angrier. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be above bloody gloating about this sort of thing -" 

"I am not gloating," said Harry through his teeth. "Do you think I give a damn about winning a game you let me win?" 

"I did not let you win!" Draco yelled. "That was the best I could do!" 

"Well, it was pathetic!" Harry snapped right back, and immediately regretted what he had said. 

"Why, thank you," Draco snarled, his voice gone flat and cold. "Thank you for that assessment, Potter, you self-righteous, stuck-up, unbearable bastard!" Harry took a step back - Draco looked almost feral in his rage, his shoulders set, even his silver hair seeming to crackle with angry energy. His hands were fisted at his sides. "You think you can come along and judge me -" 

"If you let me win because you think I -" Harry began, but broke off as a voice exploded inside his head, with the force of a bomb going off - he felt as if his skull might shatter apart as he staggered back against the wall. 

I DID NOT LET YOU WIN! 

Harry gasped out loud, and put his hands to his head, which was aching now as if someone had struck him a hard blow across the back of his skull. "Ouch," he said weakly, and looked up at Draco - who was staring at him in utter astonishment, his hands slowly loosening at his sides. "All right, all right - I believe you, Malfoy, you didn't have to yell like that." He took his hands gingerly away from his temples and stared at them, almost expecting to see blood. "You trying to give me brain damage, or what?" 

"I..." Draco began, uneasily, still looking surprised. "I didn't know it would ... I've never..." 

"Well, now you have," Harry snapped, repeating something Draco had said to him not long before. Then he hesitated. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, his eyes on Draco's face now. "'For what I said...you weren't pathetic." 

"Oh, no," Draco said, gritty-voiced, and very pale, "I was. I was pathetic." 

Harry suddenly felt terrible, as if he'd kicked a kitten. He stared at Draco. Over the months he'd come to be able to read the other boy's expressions, although they were subtle. And he could still feel a little of what Draco felt sometimes, if he was feeling it strongly. He felt it now, and saw it in Draco's face, bewilderment...and fear. Fear?  

"Malfoy," he began -- 

"Harry!" it was a breathless voice, one Harry recognized instantly; he spun around and saw Hermione, standing ashen-faced in the doorway. Ron was behind her, and so, he saw, was Ginny. And behind her was Seamus Finnigan. Hermione held a book in her hands, clutching it so tightly that her fingers were paper-white. "Harry..." she said again, and trailed off, and then her eyes went to Draco. Relief brightened them, lighting her expression. "Oh, thank God, you're both here. I need to talk to you." She looked down at the book in her hand, and then back at Draco and Harry. "It's important. Can we go to the library and talk?" 

Harry looked at her, trying to focus his eyes, but it was Draco who spoke. "Not if he comes," he said, and pointed past Hermione at Seamus, who was standing beside Ginny now. 

"Anything I can hear, Seamus can hear," said Ginny loudly. "I already told him everything." 

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "Everything?' he said. 

"Everything," Ginny replied, raising her chin. 

Seamus looked very much as if he wanted to be elsewhere, but he stood firm. 

"Then you're a silly bint," said Draco coldly. "And untrustworthy." 

Ron looked murderous, as did Seamus. Hermione frowned. "Draco, don't be difficult," she said. "This is important." 

Draco folded his arms. "Either Leprechaun Boy over there walks away, or I do." 

Harry cleared his throat. "Look, Seamus..." he began. 

"Right then," said Seamus. "I don't want to cause any problems. I'm going." He leaned over and very deliberately kissed Ginny on the cheek. "I'll see you later," he said, and walked away. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If the immaturity contest is over..." 

"The immaturity contest is never over," said Draco, with a sideways smile at her. She shook her head. "All right," she said. "Come on - let's go to the library." 

*** 

"There are four Worthy Objects," Hermione said. "And they're very old. There's a dagger. A scabbard. A mirror, that one in the photograph that was stolen. And a cup." She sighed and looked up from the parchment she was reading. "Draco saw every one of them in Voldemort's possession, in his dreams, except one. The cup." 

They were all in the library, sprawled around a round table: Ginny and Ron, Hermione and Draco, and Harry beside Hermione. Hermione had books and parchments spread out on the table in front of her, and her silver-rimmed reading glasses propped on her nose. She'd been talking for a while, and her voice was beginning to sound scratchy. 

"Each of these objects is very powerful, magically," Hermione went on. "It's elemental magic, which is hardly ever practiced these days, but was pretty popular around Nicholas Flamel's time. Each object corresponds to an element - but," Hermione added hurriedly, seeing everyone's eyes glazing over, "that's not important. What's important is that these four objects are like four parts of a puzzle. They have to be brought together for the magic to work. And when they're together, then a ritual can be performed." 

Harry cleared his throat. "I don't like the sound of that. What kind of ritual?" 

Hermione bit her lip. "It's what the Objects were created for, to facilitate this ritual. It's called just that, the Ritual, and... and it takes five people to perform, four to manipulate the objects and a fifth..." Hermione wrinkled her nose, "to give his or her blood. It's totally unclear how the ritual works, apparently the instructions are contained in a set of four books, of which there is only one copy of each in existence. However, what is clear is the result of the ritual. When it's done properly, an image will appear in the surface of the mirror. That image is the Tetragrammaton." 

Draco's eyes widened. Everyone else looked quite blank. "That's a myth, I thought," Draco said. 

"Oooh, Draco knows about it," said Ron. "I'm betting it's a nasty thing in that case." 

Draco yawned. "You forgot to call me Malfoy," he said. "You're slipping, Weasley." 

"The Tetragrammatron," said Hermione firmly, "is a word. One word. But speaking that word aloud gives the speaker power over all living things, power over men and animals, and power over life and death. That's why Voldemort wanted the mirror, and that's why I'm sure he wants the cup. It was the only object that Draco didn't see that he already had, and anyway I already looked into it. The cup is in the Museum at Stonehenge, in the Antiquities section. If he he wants to perform the ritual, he'll have to try to get it. But he mustn't...he can't be allowed. We can't let that happen."  

Ron looked shocked; so did Ginny. Harry wondered if he looked shocked as well. He didn't feel shocked. He felt a weary sort of oh, this again? The end of the world? Yippee! instead. 

Draco didn't look shocked either. He looked resigned. "And what do we propose to do about it?" 

"I don't know," said Ron dubiously. "This all seems like fantasy to me. I mean, some dreams, some photos, a myth...it might well be nothing." 

"It might," Hermione agreed, "but I'm not sure it's worth that risk. Right now the cup is safe in a warded display case in the Museum, but for how long?" 

Ginny stirred restlessly in her chair. "Do you think going to Dumbledore might be the answer?" she asked. 

"Only if the question is 'What's the most asinine thing we could possibly do?'" said Draco shortly. 

Ginny shot him a glare. "I don't see why." 

"Well, first off, there's no explaining how we came by all this information," said Draco shortly. "Second off, he's not likely to act on the evidence that I had a dream about something, is he?" 

"Well, where did you come by all this information?" Ginny snapped. "Where'd you get a Muggle newspaper anyway, Draco?" 

Draco looked at Hermione, but she looked quite blank. Harry tensed as Draco turned his gray eyes towards him, and narrowed them. You didn't tell Hermione where we went yet, did you? 

No. I know I said I would, but...I couldn't. Harry winced and slunk down in his seat. Don't...not right now. 

Draco's eyes trawled back to Ginny, and he smiled. "Found it," he said. "In the infirmary." 

Ginny looked unconvinced. "Sure you did." 

Hermione cleared her throat. "I agree with Draco," she said, somewhat unexpectedly. "Dumbledore understands that some things we have to take care of ourselves. Sometimes he can't act, but knows that we have the tools we need to act instead. You know what I mean?" she added, and looked at Harry, her eyes wide and dark. 

He thought of the Time-Turner, of their third year, of the thin gold chain looped around both their necks. Remembered how determined she had been their second year, solemnly handing pastries to him and Ron and telling them to go off and drug their fellow students into unconsciousness. Do you want this plan to work, or not? "I know," he said, and smiled at her. 

She smiled back at him, briefly, before her smile wavered and she looked back down at the table. "I think it's pretty obvious what we have to do," she said, and sighed. "I don't like the idea, but..." 

Ron waved a hand. "I'm not following," he said. "What do we have to do exactly?" 

Chapter 6