Chapter Nine - The Bargaining  

The corridor was stone, lit with the light of smokeless torches at uneven intervals, their sconces carved in the shapes of serpents. The blue-eyed woman paid them no attention as she hurried down the hall, her feet making no noise on the bare stone floor. 

She paused in front of a door, rapped on it once. It was opened by a redheaded woman with tired eyes which lit with a dark blue glow when she saw who had knocked. "Rowena," she said. "You came...he's been asking for you." 

"Is he dying, Helga?" 

"I don't know. One of those snakes he's endlessly playing with, using in his experiments...it bit him on the arm. I've tried antivenom spells, but nothing seems to be working." 

"I want to see him." 

Helga sighed. "Go on in." 

Inside the room, Rowena stood for a long time, looking at the young man in the bed. His eyes were closed, shadows like black half-moons under his eyes, his head propped up on pillows. Fever pushed him from one side of the bed to the other. She could see the dark mark of the bite on the inside of his forearm, black and venomous-looking. She didn't move, not sure if he was asleep or not. 

At last he opened his eyes and looked at her. "You can come near me," he said. "It's snake venom, I'm not contagious." 

"I didn't know if you'd want me to come near you," she said, and went to sit on the stool next to his bed. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His silver hair was plastered to his head with sweat, his gray eyes bright with fever. Sickness had made him look younger, somehow undefended. 

"Who would have sent for you, if not me?" he asked. 

"Nobody sent me for me. I heard you were ill--" 

"Very commendable of you to take pity on me. What does Godric have to say about this?" 

She expelled a breath. "Godric doesn't know. How's your wife?" 

He glared at her. "She's not my wife. I told you that." 

"No, just another of these creatures you've created. What did you call her...?" 

"A veela," said the man in the bed impatiently. "She's not my wife but she's obedient, she's loving, she's all the things you aren't. And she's giving me an heir." 

"Yes, and when you get her angry, she grows an enormous beak and tries to poke out your eyes." 

"No experiment is perfect," he said, almost sounding amused, and tried to straighten up on the pillows. "The wolf-men, though, I'm especially proud of what I've done with them." 

"You don't think it's cruel? Creating these races of creatures that aren't men, aren't animals, but are something else instead? What is going to happen to them, after you're gone?" 

"I'm not planning on ever being gone." 

"Oh, Lord, not this again. You have to stop this, all of it, these horrible experiments with the Dark Arts. You can't call up the powers of Hell and expect no repercussions. Be sensible." 

"If you just came here to lecture me, you might as well leave." 

"Fine," said Rowena, gathering her cloak up about her, but he suddenly whipped his hand forward and seized onto her wrist, making her wince. "It's not fair," he said. "Since we were children, who did we ever have to trust save each other?" 

"But I don't trust you any more," she said tearfully, and he loosened his grip on her wrist, sliding his hand down, interlocking her fingers with his. His skin was burning hot with fever. "What do you want from me, Salazar?" 

"I'm dying," he said. "But if you want me to live I will. Poison, disease, the wound of any battle - nothing will be able to hurt me. I'll make myself immortal for you." 

She looked away, blinking hard. "People are not meant to live forever. Why don't you try doing something good with all your power, your knowledge? You could be a healer like Helga, you could put people back together instead of taking them apart and doing experiments on the pieces..."  

He sat up then, staring at her, his gray eyes lit with a fever so intense they looked almost blue. "I could," he said. "I could, if you would help me. Stay with me, Rowena, and I swear, I promise, I'll abandon the Dark Arts, I'll burn my books, destroy my experiments -" he broke off, drawing her towards him by their interlocked hands. She let herself be pulled down on the bed beside him and leaned into him, her face against the hollow of his shoulder. Through the link that bound them she could feel that the weight of her against his skin was causing him excruciating pain. She also knew he did not want her to move away. The poison in him was black and burning. She found that she was afraid for him and so, for the moment, no longer afraid of him. "I'll tell you something," he said. "I let that snake bite me." 

"Salazar, why?" 

"I thought if I was dying you might come to see me. Don't laugh - I was right. Here you are." 

"I wasn't going to laugh." 

"And I'm not going to die. Not now that you're here. Don't leave me," he said, and she could feel his rapid heartbeat through the bedclothes. He reached his right hand up, touched her face, ran his thumb along her cheekbone, down to her mouth. "You're the only thing that matters to me, the only thing I could never give up." 

"Yes, you would," she said, against his fingers. "You would sacrifice me along with all the rest." 

"Not you. Never." 

"We'll see." 

*** 

"Sirius!" shouted Harry. "Sirius, where are you?" 

There was no answer, but at that moment, he became aware of the sound of running feet behind him, and turned to see Ron - still in his paisley pajamas, barefoot, but running as fast as his long legs could carry him. He was holding his wand. 

He threw himself down next to Harry at the edge of the quarry. "What's going on?" he demanded, breathless. 

"Malfoy fell in," said Harry tersely. "I can't do anything - Hermione sent me here as an Apparation. Ron, can you-" 

But Ron was already kneeling upright, pointing his wand down into the quarry. "Accio!" he said firmly, and the water seemed to break open and turn itself inside out. Harry saw the water flash black and then silver, and then Draco's body flew up out of it, rose into the air, and landed between them on the grass, crumpled in on itself like an abandoned toy. 

Ron looked at Harry. His face was very white in the moonlight, each freckle standing out like a separate ink dot. "Check his pulse." 

"I can't. I can't touch anything." 

Ron swore, and reached out to turn Draco over. Harry's heart sank. Draco's skin was blueish-white, not an encouraging color, and the lids of his shut eyes were purple. Against his livid skin, the scar on his left hand stood out, black as if it had been inked there. Malfoy, Harry thought experimentally, but he could not cast the thought outward; it echoed in emptiness, as if he had thrown a ball and found that there was no one there to catch it. 

Ron pressed his fingers to Draco's throat, looked up and shook his head. "No pulse." 

"No pulse?" Harry echoed in disbelief. "But he can't have been down there that long-" 

"No pulse, that's what I said." To Harry's surprise, Ron then lifted his wand and placed the tip of it against Draco's chest. "Suspiro," he snapped. 

Draco's chest jerked, and subsided. 

Ron looked worried. "Suspiro!" he said again, jamming the tip of the wand harder into Draco's ribcage. This time Draco's body didn't move at all. He continued to lie there, his hair streaming blood and water, his chest unmoving. Harry suddenly recalled the first dead body he could remember seeing - Cedric's. Remembered looking at Cedric, and being sure he was dead, not knowing how he knew, but knowing. And it was the same thing now. 

Insubstantial though he was, he felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. Felt a weird, panicky sort of feeling he had never felt before. No - he had felt it before, when, tied to the grave of Voldemort's dead father, he had seen Wormtail come at him with his knife, and Harry had felt a moment of primal panic, positive that he was about to lose a part of himself -an arm, a hand -- that could never be replaced, that a wound was about to be inflicted on him from which he would never recover. 

"Ron," he said, "do something--" 

Looking desperate, Ron tried again. "Suspiro vivicus," he said, with emphasis. "Suspiro vivicus totalus!" 

Nothing continued to happen. Draco lay there, looking cold and vulnerable and very, very dead. 

Ron looked up at Harry, and Harry saw the shock in his blue eyes. "Harry..." Ron said unevenly, shivering in the cold night air. "He's dead." 

Harry shook his head. "Try again." 

"There's no point. He's dead. If he wasn't, he'd respond to the spell. His heart's not beating --" 

"Drop your wand, Ron." 

"What?" 

"Put it down." 

Ron did. 

"Now, do exactly what I tell you." Ron was looking at Harry as if he were insane, and Harry was none too sure that he wasn't. He felt as if he were gripping very tightly onto something very slippery. Felt, in fact, as if he might lapse into hysterics at any moment, but knew he couldn't afford to. "All right," he said, enunciating each word with perfect precision. "Open his mouth." 

Ron did it, looking doubtfully sideways at Harry as he did so. "Yikes. He's freezing cold." 

"Tilt his head back. Right. Like that. Now put your mouth on his and breath into his lungs-" 

Ron jerked back. "What?" 

"JUST DO IT!"  

"Okay, okay." 

*** 

"There must be something I can do." 

"You can get out of the cell, Sirius," said Lupin, who was lying on his back with his hands covering his face. Every once in a while he would groan and curl in on himself, his arms wrapped around his midsection. Sirius couldn't tell exactly where the pain originated - everywhere, he had a feeling. 

"Look, Moony, I'll just transform if I have to." 

"I'm not sure that'll help. Damn," added Lupin softly, flinching as he took his hands away from his face and glared at his fingertips, from which razor-sharp nails had sprouted. "What's going on?" 

"Does it feel like the Change?" Sirius asked. 

Lupin shook his head. "As if someone took the Change and stretched it out...and out...and out. It never takes this long, you know that -" he broke off on a wince, looked up at Sirius. "Sirius...what if I get stuck this way? In between?" 

"That's all right," said Sirius, patting him a bit awkwardly on the shoulder. "I hear teeth and fingernails are being worn long this season." 

Lupin actually laughed, a short gasp cut off by another spasm of pain. He winced and turned away from Sirius to face the wall. 

"That does it," muttered Sirius, and fumbled in his pocket for his wand, casting his mind back to Hogwarts; he'd been with Lupin before when he Changed, but usually it was - though painful - immediate, and anti-pain spells had never been- 

Sirius paused. 

His pocket was empty. 

Sirius swore. He was even better at swearing than Draco, although he did it less. 

He heard a chortle, and swung his head around to see the demon's gloating face pressed against the bars of its cell. "Only an idiot would stay locked in a cell with a werewolf," it said. "But only their heir to the throne of a kingdom of idiots would stay locked in a cell with a werewolf being Called by Dark powers." 

Sirius glared at it, wanting nothing more a that moment than to leap across the space that separated them and bash its gloating face in. "If you don't shut up," he told it in measured tones, "I'll finish what Harry started on you." 

The demon bared its teeth at him and hissed. "You know nothing," it snarled at him. 

"I know you tried to kill my godson." 

The demon's eyes whirled, concentric circles of black and red. "I was not trying to kill him," it began indignantly, and then its red eyes widened and Sirius whirled around to see the wolf at his back. 

*** *** 

A/N: The following scene contains portions from Pamela Dean's book The Hidden Land, and is ©Pamela Dean. 

Draco opened his eyes, or thought he did. He could not see anything with them, not blackness, not anything. Harry, he tried to say, but he had nothing to say it with - no throat, no voice. It was like dreaming, and knowing he was dreaming, but not being able to wake himself up. 

"Harry!" he called out, and this time he heard his own voice, and jumped. And as if that jump had cracked some glass he was imprisoned in, light and color came rushing at him like a river in full flood. He stared ahead into green-gray mist, and blackness, and a thousand shadows suggestive of nothing familiar. 

"Where am I?" he said out loud, more to hear his own voice than because he expected an answer to the question. 

No answer came. 

He glanced down at himself, and the sourceless light showed him his own form, still wearing the clothes he had been wearing last, although his sword was gone and he was dry. He saw the darkness caked all over the front of his shirt and knew it was the blood from his face; he touched his cheek gingerly and felt the cut, but no pain. 

I'm dead, he thought. He didn't feel anything particular about it, other than a sort of bemused astonishment. I guess I should have killed Wormtail when I had the chance, he thought, while knowing, in his heart, that he couldn't have done it. 

He took a step forward into the mist, and another, and abruptly it thinned out slightly, showing him the contours of the place he was standing. An unadorned, rocky plain stretched behind and to the sides of him, gray and barren looking. Ahead of him were more shadows that as he neared them took on the form of a narrow but fast-flowing river. Its water was also gray, and on the opposite side of it were more huddled grayish shapes. Rocks? Trees? It was hard to tell. He took a step toward the river. 

A voice spoke out of nowhere. 

"Stop where you are." 

Draco glanced up and around and saw no source for the voice which spoke to him. He cleared his throat. "Why?" 

"Such water is not for you." 

"Where am I? Is this Hell?" 

Now the voice sounded amused. "This is not Hell. This is between." 

"Between what?" 

"Between life and death." 

"Why is this water not for me?" 

"The living cross it to become the dead. You are neither. There is a bargaining for you." 

Draco was dumbfounded. "A bargaining?" 

"Your life hangs in the balance," said the voice, sounding clipped, "Only the outcome concerns me." 

"What," asked Draco, "if I went ahead and crossed the river anyway?" 

"You cannot cross with the blood of life still in you. But," said the voice, sounding amused again, "do go ahead and try." 

Stubbornly, Draco stomped forward, his boots making no sound whatsoever on the brittle ground. The misty shapes across the river surged as he neared the banks - he squinted into it - and at that moment, the mist came into focus, and he knew what they were. 

Spirits crowded the opposite side of the river, seething and numberless, seeming somehow both extremely close and very far away. If he looked closely, he could see their individual faces and bodies, but when he stopped staring, they seemed to meld together into a formless gray mass. He shook his head, stared again, and saw movement this time - not aimless, but directed movement. Several of the spirits seemed to be shoving their through the packed masses, like rioters at a Quidditch match. He had the feeling, he could not have said why, that they were trying to get at him. 

Draco took a step forward, but the river and the spirits across it stayed the same distance away. 

"You cannot cross," said the cold voice, again. 

It seemed to be true. Draco stood and waited at the river's edge as the struggling spirits - there were three of them, two women and a man, he could tell that much now- broke free of the rest of the crowd and came to stand at the very edge of the river, just across from him. The taller of the two women gazed at him, her ghostly mouth open in an O of surprise. 

"Salazar?" she said. 

Draco froze. And stared. And as he stared at the three spirits, they seemed to leap into sharper focus, their outlines solidifying, color surging into their faces, their clothes. A tall man with clipped, dark hair -a small, round woman with a long tangle of flaming red hair and Ginny's dark eyes - and the woman who was gazing at Draco, her blue eyes filled with a terrible sort of indefinable longing and fear - 

He knew her voice, he realized. It was the voice that had screamed in his head when the dementors got near him, crying out, asking him what he had done. "Rowena," he said, knowing now who she was. "Rowena Ravenclaw?" 

The dark-haired man - Godric - stepped in front of Rowena and glared at him, his outline wavering but distinct. "So at last you are dead," he said. "We have waited a thousand years for someone to give you the punishment you deserve and to end your worthless, stolen existence-" 

Godric looked rather as if he meant to go on in this vein for quite some time, so Draco interrupted him. "I'm not who you think I am," he said. "I'm not Salazar Slytherin." 

The spirits looked doubtful. 

"Look at me," insisted Draco. 

Rowena, who had had her hand over her mouth, lowered it slowly. "Godric...He cannot be Salazar. He is only a child." 

They all stared at him. Draco was indignant. "I'm sixteen. I'll be seventeen in a few weeks." 

"I wouldn't put money on that," said Godric, quite unkindly. 

"Godric!" the redheaded woman - Helga Hufflepuff - interrupted him. "Do not tease him. He is but a child, and he has his death wound." 

Draco looked down at the blood on his shirt, and back up. "I do not have my death wound," he said crankily. "I drowned, and anyway, there's a bargaining for me." 

"Is there?" said Godric, looking bored. "That hardly ever works." 

Draco glared at him. It struck him that he did not like Godric. It also struck him that in order to free himself from the Tragic and Destructive Cycle of History Repeating Itself, it might be wise to try to like Godric. 

But he didn't want to like Godric. Godric, he thought, was a prat. 

"You're dead, boy," said Godric with immense satisfaction, cementing Draco's dislike of him on the spot. "Face it - you're dead." 

Draco smiled at Godric. "I may be dead, but I'm still pretty," he pointed out cheerfully. "That's more than I can say for you."
Godric seemed to swell with anger, and as he did so, Draco noted his outline hardening and firming as if he were becoming more real, the colors of his face and hair and eyes and clothes more vivid. Draco could now begin to see how Godric resembled Harry, a grown-up Harry. A grown-up Harry who had spent a lot of time working out with heavy weights. His arms were huge. Draco was glad Godric didn't seem to be able to cross the river either. He didn't know what it would feel like to be punched in the face in the afterlife, and didn't much care to find out. 

Rowena was still looking at Draco with a torrent of mixed emotions crossing her face. "You sound like Salazar," she said. "And you look just like him..." 

"I'm his Heir," said Draco, seeing no reason not to divulge this information. 

"Then you are cursed," said Godric. "And fortunate to have died." 

Draco looked at him irritably. "Don't you ever say anything pleasant?" 

"Godric," said Helga, in a warning sort of tone. Godric looked from Rowena to Helga, and did a sort of little shuffle with his feet.  

"Well, he is cursed," he muttered. "If he is truly Salazar's Heir..." He turned on Draco. "How do you know you're the Heir of Slytherin?' he demanded. 

"Because Slytherin said so," Draco snapped. 

"He said so?" breathed Rowena, her eyes widening. As with Godric, intense emotion seemed to make her form clearer, too. Draco could now see how much she looked like Hermione. It was very unnerving. He had often played fantasies through in his head where he happened to bump into Hermione unexpectedly in various places. The afterlife, however, had not been one of them. "You mean he is alive - he walks among you, as a man?" 

"He's alive. I've seen him. But he isn't very powerful. He doesn't have a Source." 

Rowena's spirit had begun pacing in a tight circle. "That won't last. Salazar is clever. He'll find himself a Source. Has he tried to use you?" She glanced up, shook her head. "No, he wouldn't. Not his Heir...he'll try to find someone else." She whirled, looked at Draco. "He must be prevented from returning to his full power," she said. "I shudder to think of the destruction, the despair he could wreak. That is why we imprisoned him in the first place-" 

"He told Hermione he shut himself away from the world-" 

"He lied," said Rowena definitively. "He didn't want you to think he was weak, did not want you to know how his eventual defeat was accomplished. Helga and I could not kill him, but we rendered him powerless." She raised her eyes, looked at Draco. "As you must. If I tell you how he can be defeated, will you do it?" 

"Look, I'd love to defeat Slytherin for you, but there is a slight problem with that plan," said Draco resignedly. "I'm dead." 

"You are not dead until you have crossed this river," said Rowena fiercely. "There is a bargaining for you. That means someone is trying to keep you alive." 

"Probably Harry," said Draco glumly. "And the state he's in, he couldn't keep a goldfish alive. No, I'm afraid I've well and truly snuffed it." 

Rowena looked as if she might slap him, and he was even more strongly reminded of Hermione. "Now, you listen here-" 

"Do you want to be dead, child?" asked the spirit of Helga Hufflepuff, in a gentle sort of voice. 

Draco looked down at his blood-caked shirt. "I don't know. I'm not sure." He looked around. "At least it's peaceful here." 

"Peaceful?" Godric echoed incredulously. "This is not the land of the restful dead. This is the land of the murdered, those who have died before their time, those whose blood cries out from the ground for vengeance-" 

"Godric, please," interrupted Rowena. "Don't make a three-act play out of it." 

Draco was curious. "You were all murdered?" 

"Not exactly," said Rowena. "Salazar did in fact murder Godric - I'm sorry, Godric dear, but you know it's true--" 

"Bastard," muttered Godric. "He snuck up behind me." 

Rowena shook her head. "I suppose Salazar thought it was self-defense, in some twisted way," she added, in Draco's direction. "We had all realized that we must take steps to protect ourselves against him. Together, we forged a magical weapon, each part crafted by one of us - Salazar must have discovered our plans. He struck first at Godric. Then he attacked us -Helga and me. We were ready for him. We put up quite a fight, but he was too powerful. He struck down Helga as she fought against him, then came for me. But at the last, he hesitated -" Rowena's voice shook slightly. "And I was able to work our spell upon him. He was rendered powerless, but the drain on my Magid powers was so great that it killed me. Thus we are all here." 

"And so you want him dead," reasoned Draco. 

Rowena shook her head. "If he can be killed, it is beyond my knowledge to say how. I can tell you only how to imprison him and strip him of his power. And for that, you need the other three Heirs, and their Keys. Tell me, do they yet live, the other Heirs of the Founders?" 

Draco hesitated, looking around at the teeming banks of massed gray spirits behind her. "Don't you know? Surely there must be other...spirits here who have died since you, who could tell you-" 

Rowena shook her head. "Without a living person to regard us, we are without form, almost without thought. Time has no meaning here, speech almost none." 

"You can't talk to each other?" Draco asked, revolted. "That voice told me this wasn't Hell...but that sounds like Hell to me." 

To his surprise, it was Godric who replied. "There is a difference," he said. "Hell is forever. We are here only until we are avenged." 

"Avenged?" Draco echoed, turning, but was interrupted by a voice that spoke out of the gray mass of spirits behind the three Founders. "Mortal boy," Draco heard a voice say. "Your face is familiar. Who are you?" 

Draco turned, and saw only formless shapes with glowing eyes, nothing recognizable or familiar. He pitched his voice a little louder, and called out, "I'm Draco Malfoy. And I'm talking to someone right now, if you don't mind." 

He glanced over towards Rowena, who seemed to be fading a bit without his gaze on her. Godric and Helga, behind her, were nearly transparent now. "Sorry," he began, when the other voice called out again. 

"You are Lucius Malfoy's son?" 

"Yes," Draco called back. 

"Then I charge you to speak to me." 

No sooner had these words reached Draco's ears, that Rowena's spirit suddenly faded into insubstantiality, the sound of her words blurring the way the Wizarding Wireless Network did during particularly destructive thunderstorms. "Hey!" Draco called, and saw Rowena's lips moving, leaned forward - 

They were gone. Other spirits were pushing through the crowd, taking their place. Draco turned towards them. And froze, the breath going out of him as if someone had hit him. 

Two more shadowy figures faced him across the narrow river. A tall man with dark untidy hair and glasses, and at his side a woman whose dark green eyes were eerily familiar. Even if Draco hadn't seen the pictures that Sirius kept on his desk, even if he hadn't seen their faces in old Hogwarts yearbooks, he would have known who they were. 

He was looking at Harry's parents. 

***  

"Cross your hands. Put then on his chest and push down, hard." 

"Okay." 

"Harder than that."  

"I'm going to break his ribs, doing this -" 

"You're trying to get his heart started, who cares if you break his ribs? Do it again." 

Another voice. "What's going on?" 

Harry looked up. "Oh, hell. Ginny -" 

"What's wrong with Draco?" Her voice wavered. "Is he dead?" 

Ron looked up. "Maybe she should take over?" 

"No, you're stronger," said Harry positively. "And don't stop, Ron, you're supposed to be breathing for him, come on --" 

"You've lost it, Harry. He's dead." 

"Do it!" said Harry and Ginny together, and Ron complied. 

*** 

Hermione bolted down the corridors that led to the dungeon, skidding on the uneven stone flooring, taking the corners with a reckless abandon that caught up to her when, rounding a corner, she slipped on an object that lay on the floor and fell headlong, slamming her knee into the ground. The pain was sharp and immediate and she rolled over, clutching her arm, scrambling up to her feet, and looked down to see what she had slipped on- 

A wand. It looked like Sirius' wand. She reached down to retrieve it, and nearly fell over again when a bloodcurdling howl split the underground air. It was like being hit in the face with an ice-cold wave of wind or water; like night and cold and loneliness made audible, and terrifying. 

Lupin. 

Forgetting the wand, she started to run again, limping a little now, towards the sound of the howling. She rounded another corner, stumbled, and came to the gate that blocked off the dungeons. She wrenched it open and ran inside, calling for Sirius. 

"I'm here," came a terse voice from a cell at the end of the corridor. 

Hermione ran towards it - and came up short. 

Sirius was in the cell, backed against the opposite wall - and between him and the cell door was a wolf. A wolf the size of a small pony, brindled gray and silver, lips pulled back from its teeth, snarling, ears laid flat back against its head. 

Not it, she reminded herself. He. It's Lupin. You've seen him change before. 

But surely, when he had changed before, he hadn't been quite so....large? Or so ferocious-looking? 

"Sirius," she hissed, "change into your animal form - you said he's only a danger to humans!" 

"Tried that," said Sirius shortly. "Didn't work. Hermione-" 

"Don't tell me to get out of here, I'm not going to go and leave you here to be eaten!" she snapped hotly. 

"He won't eat me-" Sirius began, then broke off as the wolf emitted another blood-curdling snarl. "Well," he amended, edging slightly farther away from the wolf, "if he did, he'd be very sorry afterward." 

"Oh, he'll eat you all right," the demon interrupted. "As soon as the Call becomes strong enough. I give you...five minutes." 

Hermione ignored this. "Sirius - there must be something-" 

"The Lycanthe," said Sirius quickly. "That silver thing of Draco's - that used to be a Portkey - I need that. Can you Summon it for me?" 

Hermione already hand her wand in her hand. "Accio Lyncanthe!" 

There was a short silence. She waited, heart pounding, the snarl of the wolf in her ears, Sirius' deadly silence nearly as bad. A sudden mental picture of Harry came to her, standing on the field during the First Task, hand outstretched for his Firebolt, and waiting, waiting... 

Clink . 

The Lycanthe flew towards her, ricocheting off the bars of the cell opposite, and Hermione reached up to catch it. Her fingers closed around it; she turned back to Sirius -- 

A blackness so intense it was blinding flashed behind her eyes. She staggered, felt her back hit the stone wall behind her, nearly fell. Darkness flooded her vision. 

And then came light. 

In quick succession, a series of images raced across the back of her eyelids. She saw a castle surrounded by thorns, a great glass Orb in which flame trembled, a table on which rested a cup, a dagger, and a scabbard, and the polished surface of a mirror which reflected only darkness. 

Her vision cleared and she was suddenly back in the dungeon, staring through the bars of the cage at Sirius and the werewolf, still locked in their frightful staring contest. Her knees felt weak and there was a buzzing in her ears, but she knew what she had to do. 

She heard Sirius yelling her name, but ignored it. Instead, she strode up to the unlocked cell door, flung it open, and walked inside. She did not feel at all afraid, not even when the wolf turned from snarling at Sirius to face her, not when it drew its lips back from its teeth, its eyes narrowing, muscles tensing - 

"Hermione, get out!" she heard Sirius shout despairingly, and then she raised her hand with the silver Lycanthe in it and held it out in front of the werewolf. 

The werewolf cringed back and let out an unearthly, whimpering howl. 

Hermione took a deep breath, and raised the Lycanthe higher. "Tutamen mali intus," she cried, directing the light of the Lycanthe at the werewolf as if it were a wand. "Cum monstrum colloquor, repulsus! Repulsus!" 

The werewolf stiffened - its eyelids drooped, its limbs trembled - and then it crashed to the ground in a heap and lay still. 

Hermione gasped, and the burning light in the back of her mind vanished, like a light switch flicked off. 

Shaking, she let her arm fall to her side and looked up at Sirius. 

He was white as his shirt, staring at her. "What did you do? And how--?" 

"I don't know," she whispered, staring back at him, and then, recalling why she was there, reached out to seize at his hand, which was icy cold, and started dragging him towards the door. "Sirius - you have to come - it's about Harry and Draco..." 

*** 

Heart pounding, Draco turned to face Harry's parents, feeling somehow that facing them directly was the least he could do. His eyes fastened on Harry's father - who hardly even looked like anyone's father, he seemed so young, a barely-aged version of Harry. Of course, he had been only five years older than Harry was now when he had died. 

Draco felt a chill go through him. 

James Potter raised his eyes to Draco's and they were not green as Harry's were, but black. He said, "I'm sorry I interrupted your conversation." 

"Oh," said Draco. "Oh. That's - that's all right." 

Color and life was coming into the Potters' faces as Draco looked at them, the woman straightening, her cheeks flushing, her eyes fixed on Draco. But it was the man who spoke first. 

"You are only the second living person we have ever seen in this place," said James. "And that you would be Lucius Malfoy's son - that seems a very strange chance. I suppose I should tell you that your father and I are old enemies." 

"That's all right," said Draco. "My father and I are old enemies as well." 

The spirit of Lily Potter tugged at her husband's sleeve. James looked down at her, then back at Draco, and Draco braced himself, knowing what James was about to say. 

"If you're Lucius' son, you must go to Hogwarts. And if you go to Hogwarts - do you know our son? His name is-"  

"Harry," Draco finished. "Harry Potter." 

Lily pushed forward. She was standing in front of James now. "So you do know him?" Her voice was light and wavering and very pretty. 

"Yes, I - he - Everyone knows Harry Potter," said Draco. What are you doing? said a little voice in the back of his head. Tell them more; tell them you know him well, that he's nearly your brother, that he's your friend - and more than that - that he's your enemy - because he's that as well. 

I can't, he said back. I just...can't. 

"Everyone knows him," Draco said again, defeated. "He's famous." 

"Yes," said James. "That's what the last living person we talked to said. But he knew very little else." He seemed to sigh. "There is no time in this place. An hour could be a minute, a moment a year. I could not believe it when he told us that Harry was eleven years old." He raised his black eyes to Draco. "If he is at school he must still be a child...how old is he now?" 

Draco couldn't look at him. "My age. Sixteen." 

"Please," Lily interrupted. "Could you tell us about him? Just a little bit?" 

Draco looked at her, and saw that just as Godric had, she seemed to be taking on a clearer shape under his gaze. Her face came into clearer focus, her hair, flaming red, almost the same lovely shade as Ginny's, all of a cross between sunset and the outer edge of a candle flame. The green eyes that were Harry's looked at him, entreating, begging him for something he didn't think he could give. 

He cleared his throat. "What do you want to know?" 

"Everything," she said rapidly. "Is he happy? What does he do on an ordinary day? What is he like?" 

Draco found himself looking down at the transparent, rushing river, wishing he could just disappear into it. 

"I - well, I don't really know him that well, and -" 

Lily gave an echoing, disappointed cry. "But you go to school with him - you must at least know what he's like?" 

He glanced up and looked at Lily, and then at James, which meant that James snapped into clearer focus too, looking terribly, eerily like Harry, and both the spirits were looking at him with hopeful expectation -- 

Oh, God, this is horrible, Draco thought. What can I say? Why couldn't I be Ron or Sirius, someone who actually knows him, someone he cares about, I'm the last person he would want talking to his parents. The LAST person. 

"Harry is..." He looked away. "He plays Quidditch for Gryffindor," he said. "He was their youngest Seeker in a hundred years. He'll be team captain next year, and..." 

Draco trailed off. He could tell by the way the spirits were looking at him that this was not the kind of information they wanted. 

He felt speechless, which rarely happened. If it were me, he thought, what would I want to hear? But that floored him, never having been a parent (fortunately, he thought) he couldn't even imagine. So instead he tried to call up Harry in his mind - not the way Harry looked, but the way Harry was, the memory of what it was like to think the way Harry did, to very nearly be Harry. 

He shut his eyes. "My father," he said, hearing his own voice echo beneath the susurration of rushing water, the impatient rustling of the spirits. "My father used to talk a lot about honor, the honor of our family, the honor of our bloodline and our name. But in my life, I never saw my father do an honorable thing. I thought honor was just a term, like lineage or patrimony, which meant you'd been around for a while. But it's a real thing, to have honor. And Harry has it. Harry is the first person you would want on your side in a fight, and the last person who would ever do an untruthful or an underhanded thing. Harry has more integrity than anyone else I have ever known." 

The spirit of Lily Potter turned away from him, and buried her insubstantial face in her husband's insubstantial chest. Feeling as if he had said atrociously the wrong thing, Draco looked fearfully at James, who looked back at him, wavering and half-transparent, and put an arm around his crying wife. "You're a friend of his," he said. "Aren't you?"  

"Sometimes," admitted Draco. "I'm sorry," he added, not exactly sure if he was apologizing, or simply expressing sorrow. 

"Don't be," said James. "I understand." 

And Draco rather thought that James did understand. 

"You're fading," James went on, looking at Draco closely. "Someone is calling you back." 

"I'm sorry," he said again. 

"No. It's a good thing. You can take a message with you." 

"I can tell Harry that you-" 

"No. Don't tell Harry you saw us. It will just cause him pain. There's a man called Sirius Black; he's Harry's godfather, you might have seen him picking up Harry at platform 9 3/4 at the end of term. Find him. Tell him to go into his vault at Gringott's and take from it what I gave him just before I died, and give it to Harry. I never told him it was for Harry, but it is. Harry is the Heir of Gryffindor, he'll be needing it soon. And tell Sirius that I-" and then the ground jerked under Draco's feet and a soft implosion sent the world flying at his face in sheets of shattered color like hurtling glass. He would have thrown his arms up to protect himself, but a tearing pain ripped through his chest, doubling him over, and he was coughing, coughing in great wrenching, shattering gasps, coughing and spitting water all over the wet dark grass of the Weasleys' back garden. 

He blinked his eyes open. He was lying on his back, on the grass, under a black sky. Harry was hunched down by his shoulder, Ron beside him, very pale under his freckles, with the back of his wrist pressed against his mouth as if he were trying to keep himself from yelling or being sick. And on his other side was Ginny, with enormous eyes, who looked a degree worse than her brother - not just pale but with tear streaks on top of that. 

Draco took a breath. He could hear his chest gurgling like a leaky radiator, and it hurt to breathe, but otherwise... 

"You're alive," said Ginny, looking and sounding amazed. She turned to her brother. "Ron! You did it!" 

"Mmppph," said Ron, still goggling at Draco as if he couldn't believe his eyes. 

What's going on? Draco tried to say, but discovered that taking in the air that would allow him to talk made his chest hurt even more. He concentrated on breathing shallowly, and flicked his eyes towards Harry. 

Hey, Potter... 

Harry leaned forward so quickly that one of his insubstantial hands went through Draco's chest. Draco glared at him. 

Harry looked contrite. Sorry. 

Never mind. What happened? 

You drowned. Ron revived you. 

He did what? How? 

Harry grinned. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Malfoy. 

What? Draco's eyes flicked over to Ron, widening. "Oh my God, how disgusting," he said, out loud, before he could help it. This sent him off into another spasm of coughing. When he recovered, he saw Ron glaring at him. 

"Well, it was no picnic for me, either, you ungrateful git," he said. "At least you were dead for most of the experience. Now I just wish I was." 

Draco coughed again. He had begun to feel as if he were coughing up his own lungs. He put a hand to his chest and sat up, which seemed to ease the pressure under his ribcage. 

"Can you breathe properly?" asked Ginny anxiously, scooting up next to him, and putting a hand to his forehead. "You're still freezing." She brought her hand back, wet with water and blood from his cut cheek. 

"I am freezing," Draco said, and reached to take his jacket off, but his fingers wouldn't obey him. He couldn't seem to make them work properly; they fumbled at the wet dragonhide leather, and let go. 

"Let me," said Ginny, and helped him off with the jacket. She turned to her brother. "Ron, give me your pajama top." 

Ron glared at her. 

"Fine," she snapped. "either that, or I'll give him my pajama top." 

"I'll take option number two," said Draco, through chattering teeth. 

Ron sighed, and took his top off. He tossed it to Ginny, who proceeded to use it to dry Draco's hair. "We need to get you out of these wet clothes," she said. 

At that, another coughing spasm doubled Draco over, and when he straightened up, it took him several moments to properly focus his eyes. For a moment, he couldn't tell Ron from Ginny, they both looked like wavery blobs, with Harry a darker sort of blob off to the right, which was disturbing to say the least. "Bugger," he said, and his voice sounded like a bubbling water cooler. "I can't see properly." 

He was vaguely aware of the Ron-blob looking with alarm at the Ginny-blob, and then there was a soft *pop* as someone Apparated into the garden. 

"Sirius," Draco heard Ron mutter under his breath, sounding relieved. "Thank God." 

There was a thump and Sirius dropped down on his knees next on the grass next to Draco, who had begun shivering again, and with every shiver his vision blackened further. I won't faint, he thought crossly. I won't. He felt Sirius' fingers on his neck, checking his pulse, then a hand against his forehead, reminding him of his mother checking for fever. 

"Hypothermic shock," he heard Sirius say calmly, "He'll be fine if we get him inside." Draco saw a blur as he turned. "Harry, I'm sending you back." 

Draco heard Harry's voice from a distance. "All right," and then there was a gasp from Ron. Draco presumed this meant that Harry had vanished. Either that, or the spell had gone horribly awry and turned Harry into a newt. Either way, Draco wasn't sure he could get too worked up about it. Everything seemed as if it were being filtered down from a long way away. He felt Sirius' hand on his wrist, and then Ron's voice saying something about lung damage, and Ginny asking if he'd be all right. 

"He'll be all right. I can fix him up if we get him inside." Sirius bent down to Draco. "I'm going to lift you up now. Brace yourself, all right?" 

Draco nodded, and felt Sirius' hand slide under his back, the other under his knees, picking him up. He did not remember ever having been carried like that before, not by his father anyway, and was surprised to find he didn't mind it too much. He threw an arm around Sirius' neck, looked sideways, saw Ginny's white and worried face, the moon behind her, and then all the shapes of the world ran together like watercolor and Draco did something he had always sworn he would never do, and fainted. 

*** 

Wham . 

Harry opened his eyes, feeling somewhat as if he had been struck head-on by the Hogwarts Express train and thrown about fifty feet into a patch of nettles. He blinked, focusing his eyes, and saw that he was back the armchair in the Malfoy family library, staring up at the ceiling, which was traced with a design of the constellations picked out in gold leaf. 

It took him several tries, but he managed to sit up and flex his fingers. His whole body stung with pins and needles. He became aware of being watched, and turned his head sideways to see Hermione kneeling by the arm of his chair, looking at him with huge eyes. 

"Hey," he said. 

"You're all right," she said, and it was both a question and a statement. 

He nodded. 

"I never should have sent you through," she said colorlessly. "I never should have. I can't believe I did anything so stupid." 

"Hermione -" 

"I keep telling myself it wasn't really me," she went on in the same colorless voice. "I haven't been me for the last week or so. I would never have done anything so idiotic. It's my job to keep you from doing stupid things, not aid you and abet you. What if something had happened to you, it would have been my fault and that would have killed me, Harry, it would have killed me." 

She was still staring at him with the same huge eyes and he was suddenly reminded of the way she had looked at him after he'd faced that Hungarian Horntail his fourth year, remembered how she had gripped her face so tightly in fear for him that she had left deep fingernail marks on her skin. It had startled him at the time that anyone could care that much what happened to him; it startled him still. "Hermione-don't," he protested, a bit incoherently, and reached out for her. 

She was up and off the floor and in his lap in less than a second, her arms wrapped around his neck. He buried his face against her, where her neck curved down into her shoulder. Her hair smelled like it always did, a smell that reminded him of Moroccan mint tea. He felt her chest hitch, and then she was crying against him, dryly and with a soundless sort of despair that alarmed him. What on earth...? 

"Oh, Harry, I just can't believe it, and I'm sure you did everything you possibly could have. It's not your fault." 

Harry pulled back and looked at her, confused. "What's not my fault?" 

"Draco. He's dead, isn't he?" 

Harry looked at her, profoundly startled. "How did you -" 

"The love spell's off me," she said, simply. "I felt it go." The tears had started sliding down her face, and Harry thought she looked somehow as if she was trying to be calm for his sake, which was very Hermione in a way. "What happened?" she burst out finally, her voice breaking. "How did he-no, never mind, don't tell me, I don't want to know." She scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. "Harry, I feel so guilty, this past few days all I've been wishing is for this stupid spell to be off me, and now it is, but I never wanted-" 

"Hermione," said Harry kindly. "Shut up for a minute, okay? I have to tell you something, and you're not going to believe it..." 

*** 

"Ron? Ron saved his life? You're kidding. I can't believe it. I bet Ron can't either. He must be going spare. Where's the Floo Powder? We have to get to the Burrow. Oh, I wish I could Apparate. Where's the bloody Floo Powder?" 

"Hermione, do stop rushing about. Five minutes ago you were crying hysterically and now you seem to be doing an impression of McGonagall on speed. I'm getting a headache. Anyway, I think the Floo Powder is downstairs in the kitchen." 

"Go get it, then." 

"Don't be daft. Accio Floo Powder!" 

"Harry, you're not supposed to do wandless magic - oooh, it worked. Nice Summoning Charm." 

"My specialty, thanks to you." 

"All your specialties are thanks to me, nitwit." 

"What a smug girlfriend I've got." 

"Don't try to be clever, just give me the Floo Powder." 

"No." 

"What do you mean, no?" 

"Come and get it." 

"Come and get it? What are we, twelve?" 

"You're afraid of my superior strength." 

"I am not afraid of your superior strength. You are afraid of my superior intellect. Do not make faces at me, Harry Potter. All right, that does it." 

"Does what? Ow! Ow! Where'd you learn how to tackle like that? You're like an American linebacker, only, of course, much prettier and somewhat less burly." 

"Flattery will not help you. I am going to sit on you until you give me the Floo Powder. What did you do with it, anyway?" 

"I hid it somewhere on my body. Want to look for it?" 

"Are you daring me?" 

"I might be..." 

*** 

"Enervate." 

Draco came back to consciousness instantly, his eyes flying open, fixing on Sirius' face. "Where am I?" 

"In Percy Weasley's bedroom. Sorry to wake you up; I want you to drink this. It's a Warming Potion. Do you need me to help you sit up?"  

Draco hesitated, then nodded. Sirius reached out and helped him into a sitting position, wincing a little at the coldness of Draco's skin. He'd dried the boy's clothes with a Dessicarus Charm and covered him with every spare blanket he could find, but it didn't seem to have raised his icy body temperature much. 

Draco took the mug from Sirius with the sleepy-eyed and unquestioning acceptance of the completely exhausted. He drank it down, holding the mug carefully in both hands, and handed it back to Sirius, who put the mug on the bedside table while Draco leaned back against the pillows, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. Sirius was reminded suddenly of being in the infirmary with Harry after the last task of the Triwizard Tournament; how drained Harry had looked, how pushed beyond the very borders of strength to a place Sirius couldn't follow after him, much as he thought he should, much as he would have wanted to. He had a sudden urge to reach over and pat Draco on the shoulder, or ruffle his hair, but didn't. 

"Where's everyone else?" Draco asked, his eyelids drooping with tiredness. 

"They're all downstairs. But you won't be seeing any of them until tomorrow. I'll go fetch your mother in a little while. I can't owl her while she's at the inquest but I think she won't mind if I show up in person. Not if it's about you." 

Draco pushed a little fretfully at the enormous heap of blankets covering him. "But I want to see-" 

"No," said Sirius firmly. 

Draco looked up at him with huge eyes. Wrapped in blankets, so pale still that each of his eyelashes stood out as if it had been individually inked, he looked about eleven. "I was dead, Sirius," he said. "I saw the Founders - all except Slytherin - I talked to them, and -" 

Sirius took him firmly by the shoulders. "Draco," he said. "You need to go to sleep. Your body needs the rest. Tell me all about whatever you...saw...tomorrow. All right?" 

Draco's eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me." 

Sirius sighed, and let him go. "Honestly? No, of course I don't. You were very nearly dead, Draco. Your body was breaking down. Who knows what your mind thought it saw? But if it'll make you happy, you can tell me all about it - tomorrow." 

Draco's eyes had fallen shut. "I thought everyone was curious about what happens after you die," he said, his words slurred with tiredness. "Aren't they?" 

"Yes, but unlike you, we do not all go on reconaissance missions to find out. And that's all I'm going to say about it. Go to sleep, Draco." 

Sirius got up. He was halfway across the room when Draco spoke again: 

"I saw Harry's parents, too, " he said. 

The mug flew out of Sirius' hand and fell to the ground, denting the floorboards. He spun around. "You mean Lily and James?" 

"Yeah." 

Sirius was aware that his heart was pounding unevenly in his chest. "What do you mean, you saw them?" 

"What I said," replied Draco, in a vague sort of half-sleepy voice. "I was in a place full of ghosts. There were thousands of them. And Harry's parents were there; James thought I was my father at first, and came over to me..."  

"You do look like Lucius," whispered Sirius, and then: "What did he say?" He heard the hopeful anguish in his own voice, winced at it. "Never mind," he said harshly. "You were half-dead, Draco, you were hallucinating." 

"Why would I hallucinate Harry's parents?" Draco asked reasonably. 

Sirius pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyes. "I don't know, Draco. Why does anyone have the dreams they do?" 

"It was them. Harry's father looked just like him, and his mother-" 

"Draco, I know you've seen pictures of them before, that doesn't mean anything. For God's sake, don't make yourself crazy with this." 

"Harry's father said there was something in your vault at Gringott's for Harry, something he gave you just before he died-" 

"James didn't give me anything just before he died," said Sirius flatly. "Go to sleep, Draco." 

He heard a defeated sigh from the boy in the bed, and then a muffled, "Good night, Sirius." 

"Good night. And Draco?" 

"What?" 

"Don't say anything to Harry about this, all right?" 

A short silence. "All right." 

Sirius went out of the room, shut the door behind him, and fell back against it, his hands over his eyes. Why exactly he had lied to Draco about having been given something by James, he wasn't sure. One thing he was sure of, though. He would be going to Gringott's tomorrow. 

*** 

Ron and Ginny sat with Harry and Hermione (recently arrived via Floo Powder) at the table in the Weasley's warm, yellow-lit kitchen, drinking tea and eating digestive biscuits straight out of the packet. 

"He's really all right?" Hermione asked for the eighth time, and for the eighth time, Ron nodded. 

"He's fine...unfortunately." 

Hermione threw a biscuit at him. "Karma, Ron." 

Ron caught the biscuit and handed it to Ginny, who grinned at him. "I'm not worried about my karma," said Ron smugly. "Considering." 

"True," Harry pointed out. "You did save Malfoy's life. Although you dithered a bit at first..." 

"Did not. Well, a little. He just looked so dead, it seemed pointless." 

"He was dead," said Hermione, eating a biscuit. "Clinically, anyway, he must have been dead. No pulse, no heartbeat...no brain waves, maybe..."  

"Does Malfoy ever have brain waves?" put in Ron, but Hermione ignored him.  

"It's interesting," she added, her eyes lighting up, "that Draco being clinically dead was enough to counteract the love potion. It's an intersection of magic and science I hadn't really considered before, and the possible implications-" 

"Have another biscuit, Hermione," said Harry, firmly, shoving one into her hand. 

She smiled at him. "Am I being boring?" 

He kissed her ear. "Yes, but in a very interesting way." 

"Ginny's interested," said Hermione, pointing at Ginny, who had her chin on her hand and was smiling. 

"Not, I'm not," said Ginny candidly. "I was just thinking that Ron has now officially gotten more action with Draco than I have." She turned a dazzling smile on her brother. "Congratulations, Ron!" 

Ron blanched. "I have to go brush my teeth," he said, making as if to stand up, but Ginny grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. 

"You've already brushed your teeth twelve times and it hasn't helped," she said. "Face it. You kissed Malfoy, and there's nothing you can do about it!" 

"Now, now," said Harry, grinning like a fiend. "It was a medical procedure. A medical procedure that just happens to look a lot like necking." 

"You were the one who got all hysterical!" said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at Harry. "I would just have let him die!" 

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, you wouldn't, Ron, because you're a good guy and good guys do not just let other people die, even total pills like Malfoy." 

"Argh," said Ron, and put his head down on the table. 

"Ron's having issues," Ginny sang, hopping up to retrieve some milk from the sideboard. 'Ron's having iss-ues..." 

"I hate you all," said Ron, in a muffled voice. 

"Oh, come on. We're just winding you up. Hey, how did you know all those anti-drowning spells, anyway?" Harry added, curiously. "Not that they worked, but still, it was impressive." 

"Well, they would have worked if he hadn't been so far gone already," said Ron. Then he looked over at Ginny, who looked back at him, and sighed. 

"We had a brother," she said, looking down at her hands. " In between Percy and Charlie. He drowned in the quarry when he was three years old. We never knew him, but Mum and Dad have insisted on all of us knowing anti-drowning spells, just in case anything ever happens." 

Hermione glanced over at Harry, who looked astonished. Apparently neither of them had known this fact about Ron's family. They could both, however, tell that questions on this topic would not be welcome, so restrained themselves. "Why didn't they just fill in the quarry?" wondered Hermione instead. 

Ron shrugged. "You can't. They tried. It's got some kind of magical protection on it - fill it in, it just reappears the next day. So they put up wards around it. They only took them down when Ginny was twelve, the figured we were all old enough not to fall in, and all of us can swim, so...Harry, how did you know that other stuff?"  

"CPR?" said Harry, and made a face. "I used to have to go with Dudley to swimming lessons, but I wasn't actually allowed to take lessons with him, because that cost money. So I used to sit in on the CPR classes. I must have sat through the same class about fifteen times." 

Hermione grinned at him. "I figured you nicked it off watching 'Baywatch.'" 

Harry looked indignant. "I've never watched 'Baywatch!'" 

"Bet you have." 

"I have not." 

"What are you two blithering on about?" Ron demanded, raising his head off his arms. 

"Girls in bikinis," said Hermione. 

"I'm not sure even that could lift me out of my despair," said Ron gloomily. 

"Despair?" Hermione jumped up, came around the table, grabbed Ron by the shoulders, and kissed him firmly on both cheeks. "You saved someone's life, Ron Weasley," she announced. "I think this makes you a hero. And the fact that you don't even like him, that makes you even more heroic. So there." 

Ron blushed scarlet. 

"That's right!" agreed Ginny, swooping down to give Ron a hug as well. Hermione threw her arms around Ron from the other side.  

"Hey," Ron protested feebly, although he looked like he was having a good time. "Girls! You're messing up my hair!" Harry looked over at them, grinned, got up, and threw himself into the group hug with such enthusiasm that Ron was knocked off his chair and all four of them collapsed to the ground in a giggling heap. 

"Well, well," said an amused voice from the doorway. "Am I late for the orgy or am I right on time?" 

Ginny looked up, flushed from laughing, and clapped a hand over her mouth in surprise. "Charlie!" 

The rest of them looked up as well. It was certainly Charlie Weasley, tousle-haired and tired-eyed. He was wearing his dragon-keeping clothes, and there was a dusty satchel slung across his back. "Hallo, all," he said. 

Ron hopped to his feet. "Charlie! How'd you get here? Dragon?" 

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I've told you before, Ron, people don't ride dragons. That's just a cutsey myth. I Apparated, what'd you think?" 

Ginny stood up and held out a hand to pull Hermione up after her. "Did you come because of Draco?" she asked Charlie, looking curious. 

Charlie looked blank. "Because of Draco..?" 

There was a step on the stairs and Sirius came into the kitchen, looking disheveled and immeasurably tired. His eyes lit up when he saw Charlie, however. "Charlie," he said eagerly, crossing the room to shake Charlie's hand, 'did you get my owl, then? Wonderful, I really need to get back to the Manor and -" 

Charlie was shaking his head. "I didn't get any owl from you. I came because my mum wrote and told me about Dad being elected Minister, and since they had to stay in London for a few days she asked me-" He glanced around again, as if seeing Harry and Hermione for the first time. "What are you lot doing here, anyway?" 

There was a short silence. Harry looked at Ron. Ron looked at Ginny. Ginny looked at Sirius. Sirius looked at Charlie, and sighed. 

"Come on into the living room for a second, Charlie," he said. "I'll fill you in on the details." 

"All right," said Charlie slowly, hefting his satchel onto his back. 

Sirius turned to the rest of them. "I want one of you to sit with Draco, just in case anything happens - nothing will, he's fine, but just as a precaution." 

"I will," said Ginny immediately. 

"Thanks." Sirius turned back to Charlie. "Let's go." 

As Charlie followed Sirius out of the room, Hermione heard him say, "I brought a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey with me." 

Sirius clapped him on the back. "Bless you, Charlie Weasley." 

*** 

"Here's that book I was telling you about," said Ron, coming into the living room where Hermione was sitting on the overstuffed sofa, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Harry was lying on his back on the couch, his head in Hermione's lap, an arm thrown over his face. 

Hermione put her mug down and took the proffered book, a musty-looking leather-bound tome with gold stamping on the spine: Lives of the Hogwarts Founders. "Thanks, Ron." 

Ron sat down in the armchair next to her. "He asleep?" he asked, jerking his chin towards Harry. 

"Mmmph," said Harry without moving. 

"That means no," said Hermione, opening the book and beginning to scan the pages. "I think." 

"What are you looking for in the book?" Ron asked curiously. 

"Not sure, exactly. Information about their lives...I want to know more about Slytherin and Rowena's relationship, really." 

"Wasn't there anything about that in Slytherin's diary?" 

"Yes, but he was pretty mad about the whole thing and just ranted on and on about destiny and fate and rather a lot about lizards. What was interesting about Slytherin...well, to me, anyway, were the parallells to He Who Must Not Be Named. I mean Voldemort got a lot of his ideas from Slytherin, I think - the Dark Mark, the whole process by which he tried to achieve immortality. I don't know what it means, but-" 

"It means that evil is evil, Hermione," Ron said, a bit bitterly. "Whatever time period you're in." 

Hermione cocked her head to the side, but couldn't read his expression. "You all right?" 

Before Ron could reply, the living room door opened and Sirius and Narcissa entered. Narcissa's face was nearly hidden by the hood of her cloak, but Hermione could see how anxious she looked. With no warning whatsoever, she swooped down on Ron, and kissed him. For the second time that evening, Ron turned scarlet. 

"Sirius told me what you did for Draco," she said to him. 

"Erm," said Ron, sinking down in his seat. "It was nothing." 

"It was not nothing! It was everything. You're a wonderful, brave, amazing person, Ronald Weasley, and I'm very grateful to you." 

Ron, still busy exploring all the different shades of red it was possible to turn, appeared to have nothing to say to this. 

Sirius looked as if he wasn't so tired, he might have smiled. "Come along, love," he said. "Draco's upstairs with Charlie and Ginny." 

Releasing Ron with a last look of gratitude, Narcissa followed Sirius upstairs. 

Hermione grinned at Ron. "You've been getting kissed a lot this evening, haven't you?" 

Ron blinked, his color having returned to normal. "All right," he said grudgingly. "I still don't like Malfoy. But his mum's all right." 

Hermione tried not to giggle, not wanting to disturb Harry. "'You're a wonderful, brave, amazing person, Ronald Weasley,'" she said throatily. Ron made a face at her. "Maybe she can convince the Ministry to give you a medal - ooh, or your very own Chocolate Frog card." 

"Bah," said Ron, but looked thoughtful. He got up out of his chair, leaned over, and kissed Hermione on the temple. "I'm going to bed. See you in the morning." 

"See you." 

"Mpph," said Harry again, feebly waving a few fingers in Ron's direction. 

"That means 'good night,'" Hermione translated for Ron's benefit. He waved from the doorway and was gone, shutting the door behind him. 

Absently stroking Harry's hair, Hermione returned to her book. "Hey, Harry, do you want me to read out loud to you?" 

"Mppphkay." 

"All right, then. Folk legend holds that the Lycanthe was invented by none other than Rowena Ravenclaw herself," she read, "to deal with the plague of werewolves that were at that time overrunning the British Isles - that would be thanks to Slytherin, I'm sure - and was usually made of silver, a metal abhorred by the lycanthropic. It can be easily enchanted to create a Portkey, it purifies water, and ... it makes girls' clothing invisible. What do you think of that, Harry?" 

Harry didn't respond. 

"You're asleep, aren't you?" Hermione sighed, looking down at the top of his head. 

This was a rhetorical question. Harry was indeed asleep, his eyes shut fast, his left hand gripping the hem of her cardigan. She sighed again and put her book down. 

"Harry..." She ran her fingers through his hair, marveling as always that despite its perpetual untidiness, it was so soft. 

Careful not to disturb him, she reached into her pocket and drew out her wand. "Quiesce," she murmured softly, gently stroking his cheek. "Dulce somnolus," and felt him relax against her even further. She had invented the spell herself, a charm for restful and untroubled sleep, specifically for Harry. She had seen him fall asleep enough times, over his books in the library, in the Gryffindor common room, to know that his sleep was rarely unbroken. And she had used it on him often before, although he had never known that. It was because he had nightmares: this she knew because Ron had told her. In fact, he had them so badly that Seamus Finnegan had once suggested to Ron that they ask if Harry could be moved into another room, or even have his own, so he would no longer be waking them up. Whereupon Ron had told him that if he, Seamus, ever suggested anything like that again, he, Ron, would throw him in the lake. 

Hermione sighed. She knew that she should wake Harry up, send him off to sleep in Ron's room while she went off to Ginny's, but it was something of a special privilege, she thought, to get to watch someone you love sleeping, and she hardly ever got to watch Harry sleeping peacefully. And it was doubly precious because for those moments while he was sleeping she could be sure that he was not in any peril, was not suddenly going to be thrown into danger, hurt or killed or horribly mangled. She laid the book down on the table next to the couch and leaned forward, putting her arms around him, and let her hair fall down like a curtain around them, hiding the rest of the world from view. 

*** 

Draco awoke, keeping his eyes shut fast, reeling from the shock of having slept-and not having dreamed. He turned over, opened his eyes and saw a blur of colors that resolved itself slowly into the bright yellow of Percy's bedroom wallpaper, a square of blue sky outside the window, the red armchair next to the bed, and in the armchair a blur of black, white and green that wavered once and turned into Harry. 

Harry was sitting in the chair with his chin on his hand, one of his feet up on the bed. He looked wide-awake and horribly cheerful, and across his lap, gleaming brightly in the sunlight streaming through the window, was Slytherin's sword. 

Draco sat up so fast his head spun. "Potter, what do you think you're doing?" 

Harry looked at him oddly. "I'm sitting in a chair. Is there something unusual about that?" 

"Are you really here? As in, actually here and not just a projection of yourself?" 

In response, Harry kicked the side of the bed. "Yep." 

"Is that wise? Given the events of yesterday? I'm surprised Sirius is letting you hang around with me." 

"I didn't tell anyone about yesterday." 

"You didn't tell anyone? What - why not?"  

"Two things," said Harry, leaning over and propping the sword against the wall where it gleamed incongruously against Percy's yellow wallpaper. "One: the state you're in, you couldn't attack me with a piece of spaghetti because it would be too heavy for you. Two: you didn't dream anything last night. Did you?" 

"No," said Draco, looking warily at Harry. "So?" 

"So maybe the love potion wasn't the only spell broken by your death." 

"Potter," said Draco dubiously. "That's a pretty shaky hypothesis." 

"Well, let me ask you something then." 

"What?"  

"Do you feel like killing me right now?" 

"Erm. Well. No, actually." 

Harry shrugged. "There you go." He propped the sword against the wall, reached over, picked a glass of water up off the bedside table, and shoved it at Draco. "Here. Drink this. And quit bellyaching."  

Draco sat up to take the water, and glanced down at himself. He appeared to be clad in a pair of maroon pajamas. Weasley hand-me-downs, he thought glumly. Maroon was a color that looked only slightly less noxious on him than pink. "How long have I been asleep, anyway? And who decided your hideous visage should be the first thing I saw when I woke up?" 

"You mean how long have you been passed out?" replied Harry. "About sixteen hours. And we've been taking turns watching you." 

Draco looked at him with deep suspicion. "Who put these pajamas on me?" 

"Ron did. Oh, and he gave you a sponge bath. He's become very attached to you. It's really kind of cute." 

Draco sprayed water all over the bed. "Whaaaat?" 

"Just kidding," said Harry brightly. "Fear not, Ron still hates you with a fiery passion. And your mum put those pajamas on you. She sat with you here all night and all morning, but she had to go back to the Ministry this afternoon. She sent you love and kisses, which I will refrain from personally delivering." 

"Good," said Draco, giving Harry a very dark look. "You're disgustingly cheerful this morning, Potter. What's got into you?" 

Harry leaned back in his chair and grinned at Draco. Draco thought he hadn't seen Harry look nearly this cheerful in weeks. It was slightly unbalancing. He had become used to Harry with either a permanent scowl or a permanent worried look. "Well, Malfoy, it's about that love potion." 

Draco felt himself flush slightly. He reached over and put the glass down on the bedside table with a thump. "Oh. Yes?" 

"Did you know it was irreversible except by death?" 

"No. And?"  

"Well, you died." 

"So I did." Draco blinked in amazement. "I did," he said again, trying to get his mind around how he felt about this new development. 

Harry was silent. He was a bit like Sirius in that respect, Draco thought. He knew when to talk and when to be quiet. 

"Can I talk to her, then?" said Draco, finally. 

"Hermione? Uh, yeah," said Harry, with only a trace of hesitation. "Why not? Oh," he reached behind him, and lifted a brown paper-wrapped parcel off the bedside table. "I almost forgot. You got an owl." 

"Really? From who?" 

"From Snape," said Harry, handing over the package as if it were a bomb about to go off. "Malfoy, why is Snape sending you care packages?" 

"I was staying with him. Long story." Draco tore at the twine that held the package closed, but his fingers still wouldn't quite do what he wanted. 

Here. 

Draco glanced up as Harry took something out of his pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it reflexively. It was Sirius' penknife, the one that had made the scar on Draco's hand. And the matching one on Harry's. 

Thanks . 

He flicked open the blade and sliced the package open. A flask full of asphalt-colored liquid and a folded note fell out onto his lap. He shoved the note in the breast pocket of his pajamas, twisted off the lid of the flask, and drank the fluid down, grimacing only slightly at the now-familiar taste of the Will-Strengthening potion. 

Harry was looking at him as if he expected him to suddenly sprout beetles out of his ears. "I can't believe you just drank that. Did you know what it was? It could have been poison. You stayed with Snape?" 

Draco dropped the penknife on the bedside table and shrugged. "The difference between us, Potter - well, one of the many differences between us - is that Snape likes me. He would not send me poison. And yes, he let me stay with him. Sort of. I kind of left without telling him where I was going." 

"Color me astonished. That's so unlike you, Malfoy." 

"Quit with the guilt already. I got enough of that from Sirius. Look, I still think I did the right thing." 

"The right thing? Malfoy, you died. I think the words 'I told you so' are a tad redundant at this juncture." 

"Oh, very funny." 

"I just thought that we were-" 

"What? Friends? We're not friends." 

"I was going to say 'in this together' but fine, have it your way." 

Draco blinked at Harry. Was it his imagination, or did Harry look very slightly as if his feelings had been hurt? So what? he thought to himself, and then, more contritely, well... 

"We can't be in anything together," he pointed out, slightly less disagreeably. "First time I saw you yesterday, I stabbed you. I think that about rules out some kind of Batman and Robin type relationship." 

"Look, Malfoy, my point was not that you should have hung around long enough to give into your homicidal urges regarding me. My point was that you should have let us in on your little plan. Do you think Sirius would have prevented you from asking Snape for help? He'd have written to him for you, pulled all his Ministry strings; Lupin could have given you Willpower charms..." 

"Or they could have wound up chaining me up in the dungeon with the torture instruments." Like my father would have done. 

"You just don't know who to trust, do you?" 

"I don't trust myself," said Draco shortly. "That's the point." 

" Well, I trust you," said Harry, scowled, and looked as if he were about to add "so there", but was restraining himself. 

"And that's a stupid thing to do," said Draco flatly. 

"I'm not the one who does stupid things. That's your department." 

Draco crossed his arms and glared at Harry. "I do not do stupid things." 

"Oh, I don't know. First you insist on keeping an object you know perfectly well is a Talisman of Purest Evil. Then you don't tell anyone that the sword is giving you nightmares or that it's telling you to kill your friends. Then you tell off Lupin when he's trying to help you, snap at Sirius, and go stomping off into the night with your demon sword and try to feed yourself to a large and angry group of dragons. What were you planning on doing for an encore? Standing on a hilltop during a lightning storm wearing a wet suit of armor and yelling 'All gods are bastards!' at the top of your lungs?" 

Draco burst out laughing and the angry tension between them, which had been spiraling upwards rapidly, broke. 

Harry smiled grudgingly. 

"That was actually pretty funny, Potter. And here I always thought you had the sense of humor of a wet bowl of tapioca." 

"So you admit you can be wrong." 

Draco looked at Harry. 

Harry looked back with steady unwavering green eyes. 

"Okay," said Draco. "Sometimes I'm wrong. Of course," he added, "about as often as the sky turns green and the Earth starts revolving backwards, but, you know..." 

"I'll take that as a full admission of guilt, apology included. Now, it's your turn to do something for me." 

"Oh yeah? What?' 

"Tell me something about Snape," said Harry, rather unexpectedly. "Something...bad. So that when he's glaring at me in Potions with his greasy little eyes, I can think to myself, "right, mate, go ahead and glare, but I know that you're actually a pool shark down at the Three Broomsticks where you make everyone call you 'Jimbo.' " 

Draco spluttered with laughter. "Potter! You sound like me!" 

"Not at all. Come on, Malfoy, spill. You were in his house. You must know something. Does he torture small animals? Does he keep pictures of Professor McGonagall under his pillow? Does he dress up like a woman when nobody's around?"  

Draco grinned. "Snape? A transvestite? With that nose?" 

"Come on, Malfoy, there's gotta be something." 

"Well," Draco allowed, "I did hear him singing "Hooked On A Feeling" in the shower." 

"You're kidding."  

"He actually sounded pretty good. He hit the high notes and everything." 

Harry frowned. "That's not really what I had in mind." 

"I'm not sure I can do better." 

"Make something up," Harry suggested. 

Draco looked at him darkly. 

"Oh, right. You don't lie. Have you always been like that or is this part of the whole New and Improved Draco Malfoy thing?" 

Draco yawned and reached out for an extra pillow. "Don't worry, Potter," he said, putting it behind his head. "I may not lie, but I'm still a big fan of all the other sins: wrath, sex, loud music...you can handle the lying from here on out." 

"Why do you get all the fun sins?" 

"Because I'm a fun kind of guy?" 

"If you think-" 

Harry broke off at a knock on the door, tilted his head to the side, and smiled. "Hermione," he announced. "Must be her turn to watch you." 

Draco looked at him curiously. "How do you know it's her?" 

Harry shrugged slightly. 

"You know her knock?" 

Harry's ears turned pink, and he glared at Draco defiantly. "Don't tell me you don't." 

Before Draco could respond, the door opened and Hermione came in. She looked at Harry, and then over at him, and smiled hesitantly. "So you're awake. How do you feel?"  

Draco smiled angelically. "I feel fine." 

She looks really cute, he thought blandly at Harry. And that skirt. Very short. I can't believe you let her dress like that. 

Harry made a choking sort of noise. Hermione looked at him in surprise. "Harry, what?" 

Harry made a gesture of dismissal. "Nothing. Inhaled some dust." 

Take that back, Malfoy. 

Hermione was still smiling at Draco. "When did you wake up?" 

"Oh, just a few minutes ago," he said, with an exaggerated yawn. Look how she's smiling at me. She really does fancy me. Oh, not with that sort of deathless-love thing that you guys have got going, but with that sort of raw animal attraction. Look, she's undressing me with her eyes. 

She is not undressing you with her eyes. 

Hermione was concerned. "Harry, are you all right? You look like you've got a headache." 

Draco looked mildly curious. Been using the old headache excuse again lately? 

Harry made another choking noise. Shut up, Malfoy. Or there will be an accident. 

What kind of accident? 

The kind where I accidentally eviscerate you with a carrot peeler. 

"Ahem," put in Hermione, sounding impatient. "Why are you two just sitting there staring at each other? Have I interrupted something?" 

"What?" Harry turned around, and blinked at her. "Oh. No. Everything's fine." 

Behind him, Draco made a snorting noise. Buzz off, Potter, and leave us alone for a bit, will you? 

No way. 

Draco's response had a whiney tone. But you promised... 

Harry wheeled on him, then paused and looked up guiltily at Hermione, who was staring at both of them with a vexed expression. "Have you quite finished being antisocial and weird?" she said in a clipped tone. "Because Ron was saying he needed to talk to you, Harry." 

Harry stood up reluctantly, crossed the room, paused by Hermione, then, with no warning, seized her and kissed her. Not just a casual kiss either, this was the sort of kiss that could have melted solid steel. When he released her, Hermione staggered back against the wall and looked at him with wide eyes. "Harry?" 

He returned her look innocently. "Yes?" 

Hermione took his arm and drew him towards her, speaking softly into his ear. "You don't, um, have a problem with me talking to Draco alone, do you?" 

Harry cut his eyes towards Draco, who had picked up the glass of water from the bedside table and was examining it with a show of great interest. "Oh," said Harry. "No. That's fine. You two have a nice...talk." 

Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek. "I love you." 

He kissed her back, in his distracted state missing her cheek and landing a kiss on her nose. "And I love you. See you later," he added, turning and waving at Draco. Touch her once, Malfoy, and they'll be picking little pieces of Malfoy out of the carpet for years. 

"Later, Potter." Draco returned the wave. And if you can't find us when you come back, we'll be locked in the bathroom, playing bad schoolgirl and naughty headmaster. 

Harry poked his head around the door as it closed behind him. Remind me why we saved your life again? 

Because you're the good guys. 

We'll see about that. 

*** 

Whoever called it 'memory lane' was a cretin, Sirius thought, looking around him. Lane conjured up the image of a pretty country road lined with flowers, blue sky, birds chirping. Maybe that was what it was like if you were lucky. As far as he was concerned, however, memory was a black road lined with cruel thorns, paved with jagged rocks, bordered with the gravestones of his friends. 

Sirius turned around slowly. It was cold in Gringott's vault #711 and his exhaled breath came out in a cloud of frost. It had been years since he'd been down here; usually his withdrawals and deposits were handled by owl post, and there was no need for a personal visit. And no wish on his part to see the detritus of his former life. 

There in one corner was his motorcycle, gleaming and perfect thanks to anti-rust charms. There were the chests that held his old clothes, his schoolbooks, albums of photos, his Auror's Certificate. There was plenty of gold, the penalty money the Ministry had been forced to pay him when the original ruling that had sent him to Azkaban had been overturned. One thousand Galleons for each year he had spent in prison. It was quite a lot of money. Sirius had touched very little of it. 

He walked over to a corner of the vault and knelt down among the various books and papers. It took him a few moments of shuffling through them to find what he was looking for. 

A book. Very fat, bound in leather, a silver-stamped spine. Dialectical Interpretations of the Art and Science of Arithmancy, by K. Fraser. 

Sirius closed his eyes, and heard James' voice, sharp and amused, telling him that it was the most boring-sounding title he could think up. 

He opened his eyes, sighed, and pressed down hard with his thumb on the F in 'Fraser.' 

-pop- 

The book's cover ratcheted back, exposing a hollowed-out space inside. It had once been the hiding place for the Marauder's Map, before its confiscation. Now, it held something else. 

Sirius' eyes widened. "James," he whispered, his breath escaping from his mouth in little white puffs. "What on earth d'you expect him to do with this?" 

*** 

The moment Harry left, shutting the door behind him, an awkward silence descended on Draco and Hermione. Hermione looked at the floor. Draco looked out the window. 

Finally, Draco sighed. "Hello," he said. 

Hermione cleared her throat. "And hello to you too," she replied, and hesitated. 

He half-sat up in the bed, the covers falling away from him, and even though he was wearing ridiculous too-big pajamas, and even though his hair was standing up every which way like a platinum version of Harry's (unbidden, Hermione experienced a sudden vision of Harry with his hair bleached blond, and nearly screamed), there was still an odd sort of dignity about him. "You can come near me, you know," he said. "I drowned, it's not contagious." 

She tried to smile at him. "I didn't know if you would want me to," she said, and walked over to sit down in the chair recently vacated by Harry. 

Draco shook his head. "I'm not angry with you, if that's what you mean." 

"I thought you might be," she began, and hesitated. Almost unconsciously, she reached up and touched the silver Lycanthe which she had strung on a chain around her neck; somehow she had found that doing this gave her strength. "Because I was utterly awful to you and I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say except that it wasn't really me. I never would have treated you like that if I'd been in my right mind. I never would have asked you to lie." 

"Well, I managed to get around it by just not saying very much," said Draco, with a crooked smile. 

"Knowing you, that must have been nearly as bad." Hermione smiled back at him. 

"It's all right. I understand why you did it," replied Draco shortly, and his smile vanished. "Anyway, it's over now." 

Hermione felt a flutter of uneasiness at his tone. "Well," she said, as lightly as she could, "at least now we can be friends." 

"No," Draco replied without looking at her. "We're not going to be friends, Hermione." 

She let go of the Lycanthe in surprise. "What? Why not?" 

"Because I say so."  

"That's not an answer." 

Draco sighed. "Because someone once told me that there's a natural balance to all things. And this -" he indicated the space between them -"you and me, whatever we are, it upsets that balance." 

"What? No! That doesn't make any sense, Draco. You know it doesn't." 

"It makes sense to me." 

She bit her lip. "I love you," she said, in a voice that wobbled. "I told you that before. Maybe not the same way I love Harry, but I do love you. Do you know what happened to me when I thought you died? Do you know how I felt?" 

"Stop it." Draco had thrown the covers back now and had slid to the edge of the bed, facing her. "Don't you see that's what I mean?" 

She shook her head. "I don't understand." 

He reached out at the same time she did; their hands met, and she gripped his tightly, trying not to wince at its coldness. 

"There's something tying us together," Draco said. "Like I'm tied to the sword, like my father was tied to that Dark Mark branded into his skin. Do you remember what Slytherin said when he saw you with me? He was pleased. He was glad. Because he sensed that this tie, this bond, whatever we have, was working." 

"What's wrong with having a bond? It doesn't necessarily have to be something evil." 

Draco hesitated. "Every night I have-" 

"Nightmares. I know-" 

"Yes, nightmares. About you. Well, about other things as well, but you're always in them. And I know they're not necessarily my dreams, I know maybe they're being...sent to me from somewhere else, but still. It's every night, Hermione, every night and I'm afraid...I don't want to hurt Harry. And I don't mean in some weenie emotional way. I mean I'm afraid of hurting him. And in the dreams..." 

There was a ringing in Hermione's ears. She stared at him, at his gray eyes, charcoal at the edges blending into silver at the pupils. "What am I doing?" 

"What?" 

"In the dreams. What am I doing?" 

Draco looked at her with obvious reluctance. "Sometimes we're married. Or, at least, we live together and it's all very ordinary and pleasant. Other times I'm...hurting you, we're fighting, and that's not so pleasant. Once we were hunting in the woods together. Two nights ago I dreamed that I was ill and that you came to see me..." 

"And I told you that nobody had sent me," said Hermione slowly, her voice falling into a dreamlike cadence. "And you said that you let a snake bite you on purpose." 

Draco had gone very white. "And I told you I loved you." 

"And I said that you would sacrifice me along with all the rest."  

Draco shook his head. "Not you. Never." 

There was a moment of total silence. Draco stared at her with the expression of someone watching the night sky for a glimpse of falling stars - bemused, distracted, hopeful. Finally, he said, "How..?" 

She reached out and took his other hand, covering both his hands with hers, hoping it might make him a little less cold. "That's what I dreamed last night," she said. "I thought it was just because I had been reading about the lives of the Hogwarts Founders, and Salazar Slytherin was bitten by a snake once, and nearly died. But it was so real..." she leaned forward, looking at him intently. The blood was beginning to flood back into his face; there were patches of hectic color on his cheekbones, making him look feverish. "Draco, you have to tell me everything. Everything that's been going on with you. I can help you solve this, I promise you I can. I swear. Do you believe me?" 

He hesitated. "Everything?" 

"Everything. The dreams, everything." 

"Even the one I had about the Brazilian women's Quidditch team?" 

"Okay. Not that one." 

*** 

"Hey, Ron. Have you seen Harry?" 

Ron , who had been looking restlessly out the window, glanced over at his sister, who had just come into the living room, carrying a pair of boots. He shrugged. "I think he's in the garden with Charlie, getting his feelings out via de-gnoming. Why?" 

Ginny flopped down on the floor and began lacing her boots up. "I wanted to ask him if I could borrow his pocketknife, but never mind. Why is he getting his feelings out?"  

Ron pointed towards the staircase, indicating the upstairs floor. "Draco. Hermione. Talking. Or whatever," he said succinctly. 

Ginny looked displeased. "And Harry let them? He shouldn't let them." 

"Yeah, and you're entirely objective. Honestly, the tangled love lives around this place. You can't not let people do things, Ginny. You just have to trust them." 

Ginny looked as if she thought this was an extremely suspect line of reasoning. "I don't see why." 

"Relationships are based on trust." 

"Can't they just be based on common interest and insane physical attraction?" 

"Try to wind me up all you like, I will ignore you. What's with the boots, anyway?" 

"I'm going down into the cellar to investigate." 

Ron looked baffled. "Investigate what?" 

Ginny shrugged. "What Dad's always going on about. Our Hufflepuff ancestry. I mean, if Hermione did say that Helga Hufflepuff in that tapestry she saw looked just like me. And if she's related to Ravenclaw...well, it just makes sense that if there was anything tying us to Hufflepuff, it's be in the cellar. I mean there's just miles of tunnels and things down there that no-one's even bothered to look into for hundreds of years. Remember when George found that spear thing and Dad said it dated back to one of the first goblin rebellions?"  

Ron shook his head. "Seems a bit far-fetched, but suit yourself." 

"Why don't you come with me? We're not needed up here at the moment." 

Ron shuddered. "Spiders," he said shortly. 

The door banged open, and Harry came in, looking disheveled. His hands were covered in dirt, and there was mud all over his white t-shirt. He glanced from Ginny to Ron. "What are you two up to?" 

"Ginny's decided to excavate our cellar," said Ron, shrugging. 

"And I want Ron to come with me, but he won't." 

"He can't," Harry corrected, taking Ron by the back of the shirt. "I need him for something else at the moment." 

Ginny made a face. "Have it your way," she said, yanked the cellar door open, and stomped loudly down the stairs. 

Harry looked after her, and then back at Ron, a quizzical expression on his face. "She seems...different lately. Don't you think?"
"Maybe," hedged Ron. "Harry, you're getting dirt clods on my shirt." 

"Oh. Sorry. Here, come on upstairs with me." 

*** 

"I can't believe you're taking notes on what I'm telling you." 

"Well, you never know what will turn out to be important, do you?" Hermione glanced up at Draco and smiled, tucking a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you talked to the Founders. In person. You're like ... history on legs now." 

Draco looked mournful. "I'd rather be sex appeal on legs." 

"History is a very sexy subject." 

"Which is why Professor Binns is just hell on wheels with the ladies down at the Three Broomsticks." 

"Professor Binns is dead, Draco." 

"So was I, yesterday."  

"Show-off." Hermione's smile took the sting out of her words. She bit the end of her quill and regarded Draco thoughtfully. Draco himself was sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, his hands looped around them. Hermione was leaning forward in her chair, notebook propped open against his legs. "Now you're sure that what Rowena said to you was that you need the Heirs, and their Keys." 

"Yes. Does that mean something to you?" 

"Not yet, it doesn't. Well, maybe. I don't know what the other Keys are, but I suspect the Lycanthe is one. I need to finish that book about the Founders, and I'll get Sirius to bring me Slytherin's diary. Somewhere, there's an explanation." 

In the face of Hermione's energy and enthusiasm, Draco suddenly felt unutterably tired. He yawned, sliding down under the covers. "Are you meant to stay with me while I'm sleeping, as well?"  

"I will if you like. Although I think it's about time for Ron's turn." 

"Ron? Doesn't having saved my life exempt him from sickbed duty?" 

Hermione smiled. "Technically, yes, but we thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to talk."  

Draco groaned and pulled the covers over his head. "This is a setup." 

"Maybe," said Hermione severely. "But if we're all going to work together, and I think we have to, then it's best if we all get along." 

"Maybe Weasley and I are perfectly happy hating each other." 

Hermione looked at him severely. "Ron is not a hateful person," she said. "He does not want to hate you, or anybody. He's basically the sweetest person you could ever hope to meet." 

At that moment, Ron's voice in the corridor became audible. "Why do I have to sit with the malingering bastard?" he was demanding loudly of an unseen companion, probably Harry. "You know I hate his miserable pureblooded guts." 

"He's not malingering," came another voice-Harry's-- sounding amused. 

"Well, if he's really ill a visit from me might push him right over the edge. I suppose that's something to hope for." 

"Come on, Ron, don't you want your apology?" 

"He's not going to apologize to me!" 

"Bet he will." 

"Bet he won't." 

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "We can hear everything you're saying!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. 

There was a short silence. Then the door opened, and an unseen hand (Harry's) shoved Ron into the room, and slammed the door behind him. Ron, his hair wildly messy, glared at Draco and Hermione with the jumpy expression of a cat set loose in a room full of rocking chairs. "What?" he demanded, somewhat belligerently. 

Hermione looked at him composedly. "Ron, nobody said anything." 

"Good," said Ron. 

Hermione turned to Draco. "Don't you have something to say to Ron?" 

There was a short silence. Draco took a deep breath, and said, "Come here, Weasley." 

Ron inched reluctantly across the room until he stood about a foot from the end of Draco's bed. 

"Weasley," said Draco, looking as if ever word was being dragged out of him with a fishhook, "I, uh, I know that I haven't always been the easiest guy to get along with. And I know that in an ideal world, you would never have chosen me for a friend, or me you, for that matter. But given what you've done for me, and everything we've been through lately, I just wanted to say that I've come to regard you as someone...as someone...someone that I've met." 

Ron looked at him. "That's your apology?" 

Draco had the grace to look embarrassed. "I can't help it. Malfoys don't apologize. In the olden days, my ancestors would just cut off a limb and mail it off to whoever they'd offended, or commit ritual suicide." 

"That sounds promising." 

"It's not my fault," said Draco, sounding aggrieved. "It's the just the personality I've got." 

"Oh, yeah? Well, if it was my personality, I'd ask for a transplant." 

"That is ENOUGH!" Hermione thundered. She stood up, glaring at the boys with deep displeasure. "You are both idiots," she said firmly, snatched up her notebook, and stalked out of the room. 

Ron glared at Draco. "So," he said. "It's The Boy Who Died." 

Draco looked bored. "I was wondering how long it was going to be before somebody made that lame joke." 

Ron shook his head. "You really are an unbelievable git." 

"What, just because you saved my life I have to laugh at your jokes? That's asking a bit of a lot, given their general overall quality." 

Ron threw up his hands. "You know what, Malfoy? I don't even care. I don't want anything from you - not an apology, not your gratitude, not anything. I didn't save your life because I thought your life was worth saving. You might as well know that." 

There was a short silence. Then Draco said, "That doesn't change things." 

"What things?" 

"You saved my life. There are rules in the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct about this sort of thing. I owe you my life. That means I have to stick around and wait for a chance to save your life, or--" 

"I told you, I don't want-" 

"That doesn't matter. The protocols have to be observed." Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, tested them, and stood up slowly. He was shorter than Percy, so had to be careful not to trip over his pajama bottoms. He reached out, picked up the pocket knife Harry had left on the bedside table, and flicked it open. Then he tossed it to Ron. "Weasley. Catch." 

Ron caught the knife and looked at him questioningly. "Malfoy, what...?" 

In lieu of a response, Draco started unbuttoning his pajama top. 

Ron backpedaled so fast that he actually tripped over the edge of the rug and sat down hard on the floor, from which position he regarded Draco with eyes like dinner plates. "What are you doing?" 

"Just a second." Draco calmly finished undoing the top three buttons of his pajamas, and pulled the collar away from his throat. "Get up," he said to Ron. 

And Ron, looking as if he had just walked in on Professor McGonagall taking a bath, did it. "Fine, but keep your clothes on, Malfoy." 

Draco grinned. "It's all part of the protocol. But all right. If you like." He stood up straight, his shoulders back, and looked directly at Ron. "You saved my life," he said. "The Malfoy Family Code of Conduct rule #613 clearly states that now, I owe you a debt in blood. That means you get one try at me with that knife." 

Ron now looked as if he had walked in on Professor McGonagall taking a bath with Snape. "Oh yeah? Well the Weasley Family Code of Conduct rule #1 just as clearly states 'No chance, you psycho loon.'" 

"Come on. One try at me. My ancestors used to do this sort of thing all the time. Just throw the knife at me. You know, see if it sticks. You don't have to aim at the vital areas or anything. Then all debts between us are discharged and I'll never bother you again." 

Ron looked faintly green. "What about one try at you with, say, my wand instead of a whacking great knife?" 

Draco shook his head. "It has to be blood." 

Ron stared at him. Then the faintest grin curled the left side of his mouth. "Do I have to throw it? Couldn't I just walk up and stick the knife in your throat if I wanted to?" 

Draco didn't bat an eye. "If you like. But you miss the intended courtesy of the gesture if you do." 

"You're mental," said Ron, flatly. "You do know that." 

"I'm a Malfoy." 

Ron glanced down at the knife, sighed, and fitted the handle into his hand. "Well," he said. "If it's tradition...." 

Draco felt a very slight twitch of anxiety. Ron seemed to be holding the knife with a certain degree of...intention. Surely he couldn't have misjudged Weasley quite that much. 

Looking resigned, Ron turned the knife around, took it by the point, and aimed it towards Draco. 

Draco's stomach did a slow, rolling flip. Surely not... 

Ron threw the knife. 

It whipped past Draco's head, missing him by several feet, and embedded itself in the wall behind him, point-first (dead center in Percy's display of old Prefect badges, as a matter of fact.) 

Draco looked at Ron. 

Ron looked back. 

"I seem to have missed," Ron said. 

"Well," said Draco, kindly, "it was a very good try." 

"Mmm," said Ron thoughtfully, and scratched his ear. "Could I maybe try one more-" 

"No." 

"Just for a-" 

"No." 

"I saved your life," pointed out Ron, for what Draco suspected would not be the last time. 

"And then you threw a knife at me! What's wrong with you, Weasley?" 

But Ron seemed hardly to hear him. "Malfoy?" 

"What?"  

"Is there really a Malfoy Family Code of Conduct Rule #613 that says I get one try at you with that knife, or was that just for my benefit?" 

Draco looked back at him. And grinned. "Come to think of it," he said, "Rule #613 actually states that members of the Malfoy family who have artificial limbs should not attempt sexual intercourse in the moat. Whoops." 

Ron shook his head. "I had a feeling." 

Draco, busying himself with rebuttoning his pajamas, was startled when he looked up and saw that Ron was looking at him curiously. Ron paused, took a breath, and said: "Hey. Malfoy." 

"What?" 

"Do you play chess?" 

"No." 

"Do you want to learn?" 

*** 

"I'm really not sure I can help you, Mr. Black." Dr Branford glanced into the darkened cell, then back at Sirius. "Or your dog," he added, nervously. 

"He's not a dog." 

"No, I suppose he's more of a wolf, isn't he? A very large, vicious-looking wolf." 

"He's unconscious." 

"Isn't that fortunate. Look, I'm not exactly sure I understand why you summoned me here." 

"My friend John Walton at St Mungo's told me you were the best for treating Dark Arts ailments." 

"Yes," agreed the doctor. "I'm the best for treating Dark Arts ailments. In people. Not in animals." 

Sirius gritted his teeth. "He is not an animal. He's a werewolf." 

"He can't be a werewolf," said Dr Branford, with admirable dignity considering that Sirius was glaring at him with a quelling ferocity. "It's daytime." 

"I know that. That's why I called you here. He should have changed back, but he hasn't." 

"I'm not a vet, Mr. Black. I'm a mediwizard. Wouldn't an Auror--" 

"As for Aurors, I'm an Auror, and I can tell you right now the Aurors College won't be able to help with this. All they'll want to do is bring him to their labs to be studied." 

"Just because he's a werewolf?"  

"Because it's the middle of the day and he's still a wolf. Because he's suffering from something I've never seen before." 

"I told you," said the sharp voice of the demon from the other cell, "he is being Called. When he awakens, then you will hear such howling as you have never heard. He will tear his way through the bars trying to get out, trying to get to his Master." 

Sirius regarded its gloating little face with loathing, noting with satisfaction that its head seemed somewhat flattened where Harry had dropped the wardrobe on it. "I told you to shut up, demon," he began, and broke off, seeing by the expression on little Dr. Branford's face that the good doctor had formed the opinion that Sirius was none too stable. The fact that he had a demon and a werewolf locked in his cellar doubtless contributed, along with the fact that Sirius, who had barely had time to shave or comb his hair in the past two days, was beginning to look a lot like his post-Azkaban Wanted poster. 

Sirius turned back to him with a sigh. "Look...he's not an animal. If he was, I would have called a veterinarian. Could you just...look at him?" 

The doctor sighed. Then, with an anxious grimace, he knelt down on the wet floor of the dungeon and poked his wand through the bars, touching the tip of it to the werewolf's fur. When he drew the wand back, it was emitting an uneven beam of spinning violet light. "Well, it seems to be true that he's human," said the doctor, standing up and turning the wand over in his hand, examining the light beam. "And he's been hit with quite a strong Stunning charm. Magid strength, I'd say. If you don't wake him, he'll be out like a light for at least a day." 

"Is he in any danger? Is he dying?" 

"Just unconscious. I can't say for sure how long this unconsciousness is going to last, but I'll give you some charms for pain in case he wakes up. More than that, I really can't do." 

"Thanks, doctor," said Sirius, listlessly accepting the Charm packets Dr. Branford drew out of his little black bag, and pocketing them. "How much do I owe you?" 

"Nothing," said the doctor, edging away from Sirius. "I'll just be getting on now, shall I?" 

"I'll owl you if there's any change-" 

"No, please don't," said Dr. Branford, and fled. 

Sirius sighed, leaning his head against the bars of the cage, hearing the doctor's footsteps fade away in the distance. Slowly, he took his wand out of the sleeve of his robe, and tapped the tip of it against one of the cell bars. "Alter orbis attinge," he said, using a spell that he had learned during Auror training, which would alert him when Lupin awoke with a buzzing of his wand. He looked down at Lupin. "Old friend," he said softly. "What have I gotten you into?"  

The wolf made no reply, and in fact there was no sound in the dungeon whatsoever, outside of the demon's harsh breathing and the guilty beating of Sirius' own heart. 

*** 

"I'm not sure staring at that thing like it's going out of style is going to give you any insight, Hermione," said Harry. 

Hermione looked up from her examination of the Lycanthe, and shot him a look. They were both sitting at the kitchen table, Hermione surrounded by books and notes, the Lycanthe lying on a dinner plate in front of her. The Wizarding Wireless Network buzzed faintly in the background. The inquest into Lucius Malfoy's death continues at Ministry Headquarters in London...meanwhile, in more rural news, an upsurge in werewolf sightings has been reported by wizards in the south... 

"On the other hand," Harry added hastily, "if you're enjoying yourself, more power to you." 

Charlie glanced over at them curiously from his place by the stove. He had an apron tied around his waist and was stirring a pot of vegetables with a long wooden spoon. Ron had been teasing him unmercifully about his apron, but Hermione privately thought he looked cute. Something about him, in fact, was making her wonder if Harry could cook anything. Probably not, there had never been much opportunity for Harry, busy with world-saving and evil-defeating as he was, to learn how to boil so much as an egg. "What are you talking about?" Charlie asked. 

"This," said Hermione slightly dispiritedly, holding up the Lycanthe. "I've been trying to figure out what it is, what it does, but so far..." 

"I've seen that shape," said Charlie, wiping his hands off on a tea-towel and walking over to stand by Hermione. "Carved into the side of trees in the forest. It's old." 

"It's a Lycanthe," said Hermione. "It protects travellers against werewolves. Only, I think it does other things as well. When I hold it-" 

"Can I see?" Charlie asked, and held out his hand. 

Feeling an actual stab of reluctance at the thought of letting go of it, Hermione handed it over. Charlie turned it over curiously in his fingers. "Monitum ex quod audiri nequit," he murmured, and it gave off a sudden sharp flash, like sparked tinder. "Ow!" Charlie exclaimed, and dropped it back into her hand, looking sheepish. "I guess that didn't work." 

Relieved to have it back, Hermione smiled at him. "That's okay." 

The cellar door banged open and Ginny emerged, looking dusty and irritable. Hermione glanced up at her. "Anything?" 

Ginny shook her head. "I found Fred and George's magazine collection under a paving stone. And when I say collection, I do mean collection. It was edifying." She shook her head. "That cellar is huge," she added. "And its got all sorts of twisty little corridors leading off every which way." 

There was a thunking sound, which turned out to be Ron jogging down the stairs. He came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, took out a carton of milk, and drank out of it. 

"Ron," said Charlie warningly, flapping his apron. 

"Sorry." Ron put the milk down, and turned to face Harry, Ginny and Hermione who were staring at him with identical expressions of rabid curiosity. "What?" 

"Did he apologize?" Harry demanded. 

"Not in so many words. He made a speech, I threw a knife at him, I started teaching him to play chess, then he fell asleep in the middle of our second game and knocked all the pawns over." 

They all blinked at him. "You're joking about the knife, of course," said Harry, finally. 

"Maybe," said Ron, with a half-smile. He reached into his pocket and took out the pocketknife, and tossed it to Harry, who caught it out of the air and looked at it with a bemused expression. 

"So, Draco isn't such an awful git as he used to be, is he?" asked Hermione triumphantly. 

Ron rolled his eyes. "No. He's still an awful git. Now, he's just an awful git who owes me thirty Galleons." 

"You played chess with him for money?"  

Ron wasn't listening. "If you fall asleep in the middle of a game, is that a forfeit?" 

Charlie looked up. "He's asleep? Isn't someone supposed to be sitting with him?" 

"I am not," said Ron firmly, "going to sit around and watch Malfoy sleep. Anyway, he woke up for a second and said 'get out of here, Weasley, you gimp'. I don't think he wants me watching him sleep either." 

Ginny glanced up. "I'll go up and check on him. Besides, he hasn't eaten anything since yesterday, I'll see if he wants any lunch." 

She vanished, brushing cellar dust hastily off her jeans as she went. 

Ron looked after her and shook his head. 

*** 

And he dreamed. 

He walked a narrow and sparkling bridge between darkness and greater darkness. At each side the path fell away steeply, so steeply he could not see the bottom of the vast abyss he crossed, nor its farthest end. 

At the center of the bridge a man was standing. When he reached him, Draco saw without surprise that the man had his own face, a few years older perhaps, but no more than a few. He could have been his twin: slender, with silver hair, his eyes like pale jewels containing neither passion nor compassion. 

Draco groaned and covered his face with his hands. "I thought I had gotten rid of you." 

The other smiled at him. "I almost lost you, it's true. I thought I might have to follow you down to the Gray Places, but you came back." 

Draco found the words he wanted to say without searching for them. "Why does it have to be me?" he said. "There are others with your blood, others like you." 

"Perhaps, but there are no others like you." 

"There is nothing special about me." 

"That's a defeatist attitude, boy," said the other, mouth stretching into a malevolent smile. "Not surprisingly, you echo the darkness in your own soul." 

Draco voice came out on a wail. " What do I have to do to be rid of you?" 

"Try to destroy me if you like. You will accomplish nothing more than your own destruction." 

"I don't believe it." Draco lifted the sword in his hand - in this other world, in was feather-light -- and swung it toward the man who faced him, swung it straight and true, meaning to slice him in half. 

The sword flew, connected - 

There was the sound of shattering glass. Draco jumped back as the shards of the mirror he had been facing fell around him like snow. 

He bolted upright in bed, hearing his own harsh gasps for air as if they came from somewhere else. There was a tearing pain in his chest and he pressed his fist against it, feeling it ebb slowly. His pajamas were drenched in sweat, sticking to him uncomfortably. He swung his legs over the bed, peeling off his pajama top, and his eyes caught a glimpse of a flash of light across the room - 

The sword, propped against the wall where Harry had left it. The light reflecting off the blade had a reddish tinge. 

Draco closed his eyes. That feeling was back, the feeling of having slept without resting, awakening more tired than he had been when he lay down. He wondered if he should write to Snape and ask for more Wakefulness potion to go along with the will-strengthening potion, but at the moment he didn't have the energy. He felt overwhelmed by despair, and more than that, by a rising anger. 

And he was still exhausted. 

He lay back down on the bed, pulled the covers up over his head, and fell back into nightmares. 

*** 

Ginny closed the door of Percy's bedroom quietly behind her and blinked to adjust her eyes. It was nearly twilight now, and the room was dim, lit only by a single fringe-shaded bedside lamp. She could make out the shapes of the furniture, the bed, and the huddled outline of Draco's sleeping form under the covers. 

Quietly, she walked up to the bed. "Draco," she said softly. "Hey. Wake up." 

Draco didn't respond. She tilted her head, looking at him, her vision adjusted to the half-light now. He lay asleep on his side, shirtless, sheets tangled around his waist. His head was pillowed on his fist, his other arm under the blankets. She could see where his very light summer tan ended at the base of his throat, the faint line of the scar under his eye where the shards of Harry's broken ink bottle had cut him. Most people looked different when they were asleep, she thought, younger, gentler, undefended, but Draco just looked the way he always did: contained, and guarded. 

She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, meaning to shake him awake. His reaction was immediate. His hand shot out so quickly she barely had time to react; he seized her arm, yanked her down on the bed, and rolled over on top of her, his arm across her throat, his other hand drawn back as if he meant to hit her. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, glaring down at her. 

"Ow!" Ginny yelled indignantly. "Ow! You bastard, get your elbow out of my throat!" 

Draco froze, and lowered his arm, blinking. It was the most surprised she had ever seen him look. "Oh, I...thought you were someone else." 

"Who? Voldemort? Get off me, you twit," Ginny snapped, startled to wriggle out from under him, realized something, and paused. "I, uh.." 

"What?" 

Ginny found herself stammering. "I, uh, just came to see if you wanted any food. It's nearly teatime, you know. Charlie made food. It's pretty good. And, uh, we thought you might want some food. Did I say that already? I, uh, I could bring you up some, or you could come down if you feel up to it." 

Draco paused for a moment, and a faint smile flitted across his face. "I feel up to it," he said blandly. 

"Right. Well, then, you'd better get off me so I can stand up." 

Draco hesitated for a split second, smiled, and rolled off her. Ginny stood up, rather unnecessarily straightening her shirt, and, without looking at him, said, "Shall I tell them you'll be down in a few minutes?" 

"Sure. Why don't you do that." 

"Okay. And about the nudity thing..." 

"I'll put some clothes on before I go downstairs." 

"That'd be a good idea." 

There was a short pause. He looked at her inquiringly. 

"Right, then," she said. "I'll just go...away." 

"See you," said Draco cheerfully, and Ginny ran for the door, bolted out into the hall, and slammed it behind her. He's laughing at me, she raged inwardly, starting off down the hallway. He's the one without any clothes on, and I get laughed at. It's not fair. She kicked out at the railing when she got to the stairs and was rewarded by feeling the wood splinter slightly under her foot. Take that, Draco Malfoy, she thought, you obnoxious, smirking, naked sort of person. 

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the front door bang open. 

*** 

Sunset came in shades of rose and sapphire and turned the sky over the Burrow into a mosaic of color. Sirius, however, was in no mood to admire the sky. He had arranged to meet Narcissa some distance from the Weasleys' so that they could talk privately for a few moments. When he Apparated into the middle of the darkening grove of trees, Narcissa was already there. She came towards him, her hair very silver in the half-light, twilight caught in the folds of her dark-red robes. She tilted her face up; he kissed her, and said, "Everything all right?" 

"No. The inquest is horrible. They just don't know what to make of Lucius' death at all, and all his old papers have to be dragged out and gone over -" she broke off. "Never mind that, how's Remus? Did you get the doctor to come see him?"
"Yes," said Sirius, as they started along the path towards the Burrow. "But he couldn't do anything. He looked at me like I was a complete nutter, too. Which was a bit discouraging." 

"Sirius, I think we'd better bring Draco back to the Mansion. You can't keep running back and forth between sickrooms, you'll drive yourself round the twist." 

"I know, you're right. You know, I had another thought. I didn't want to go to the College of Aurors, but what about old Mad-Eye Moody? He's a bit of an iconoclast, and he knows more about the History of Dark Arts than anyone. I'm sure he wouldn't feel like he had to tell the Ministry about Remus." 

"Mmm. Maybe. You know who else might be able to help?" 

"Who?"  

"Severus Snape." 

"No." 

"Sirius, don't be stubborn." 

"I'm not being stubborn. I just said no, that's all. Because I hate the little rat bastard and I'm not asking him for anything." 

They were coming into sight of the Burrow now. Narcissa gave an exasperated sigh. "He knows a lot about being Called-" 

"This is the second time you've suggested Snape; I'm starting to think you know him better than you let on."  

"Well, there was that one mad weekend we spent together in Bora-Bora." 

"I have now gone to a very bad mental place and it's entirely your fault." 

"Sirius, don't be stupid. I do know him, because he and Lucius were practically inseparable for years before he left the Death Eaters. He really knows a lot about -" 

She broke off. 

Sirius turned to look at her. He caught a single brief glimpse of her face, wide-eyed with horror, staring off past him, before she screamed. 

"Narcissa?" 

She tore past him, not even looking at him, hurtling down the path towards the Burrow. Sirius spun around in astonishment - and froze. 

No. It can't be. 

He stood where he was, too stunned to move, at least physically. His mind had already flown back, fifteen years back, to another night like this one, a night that was no longer dark but filled with the light of leaping orange flames - the house with its side caved in as if it had been kicked by a massive foot, the choking cloud of dust and plaster that burned his throat, stinging his eyes as he crawled through broken slabs of rubble towards the sound of a baby crying - and over it all that deadly greenish-black cloud, its shape unmistakable, as it was unmistakable now: 

A skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth, its dead black eye sockets filled with stars. 

The Dark Mark. 

*** 

References: 

1) "Author's Note: The following scene contains portions from Pamela Dean's book The Hidden Land, and is ©Pamela Dean. That would be the scene that begins here: Draco opened his eyes, or thought he did. He could not see anything with them, not blackness, not anything." And ends " He was looking at Harry's parents." Phrases from The Hidden Land, Ace Fantasy Edition, ppg 144-149, are woven through the scene. No phrases from The Hidden Land appear in other parts of the chapter. 

2) "You died. I think the words 'I told you so' are a tad redundant at this juncture." -- Buffy. 

3) " Standing on a hilltop during a lightning storm wearing a wet suit of armor and yelling 'All gods are bastards!' at the top of your lungs. -- Terry Prachett. 

4) " I've come to regard you as someone...as someone...someone that I've met." -- Red Dwarf. 

Chapter 9 Alternate scene

Chapter 10