Chapter Six - Fortunate Sons  

"Hello, Father," Draco said. 

Lucius Malfoy slowly lowered the book he was holding, although he did not stand up to greet his son. He looked much the same, Draco thought. Even in prison, Lucius retained most of his sharp dignity - he looked neat and trim in starched-looking, plain gray robes. 

"Draco," said his father, inclining his head. 

"I didn't think they'd let me in," said Draco, in a rather constricted voice. 

"I left instructions that they were to allow you in when you came," said his father. "The Malfoy name still counts for something, despite all you and your mother have done to destroy it." 

"So you bribed them," said Draco. "Typical." 

"I ask myself sometimes," Lucius said, "did I raise a child who is ungrateful, or merely stupid?" He tilted his head to the side, his eyes still fixed on his son. Draco saw that his thin, long-fingered hands were locked tightly together across his lap. "What do you think, Draco?" 

"What were the choices again?" 

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "I had forgotten," he said, "how amusing you find yourself. Is that why you came here? To impress me with your wit?" 

"No," said Draco, in the same flat tone, "I was just hoping we could continue our great familial tradition of gut-wrenching misery and verbal abuse. Tell me: would it kill you, just this once, to say 'Hello, son, what did you want to talk to me about?" 

Lucius leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He kicked out sharply with his left foot, catching the chair opposite him with one booted toe and sending it spinning across the room towards Draco, who had to jump back to avoid being hit by it. It fell to the floor at his feet. 

"Sit," said Lucius. 

Slowly, Draco reached down and yanked the chair upright. He sat down, keeping a wary eye on his father. 

Anyone looking at the two of them would have been startled, first by the resemblance between them - the same sharp, refined features and pale coloring, although Lucius' eyes were black - and secondly, by the hostility that crackled between them like an electrical charge. 

"So, son," said Lucius Malfoy. "What did you want to talk to me about? Did you want to ask me how I'm enjoying myself here? The congenial company, the excellent food, the kindly treatment?" 

"No," said Draco. "I wanted to ask you something about our family." 

Lucius raised an eyebrow. 

"You told Harry there was madness in our family," said Draco. "I wanted to know - what kind of madness? How far back does it go?" 

Lucius' eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise that quickly smoothed itself out into indifference. "You think you're going mad?" 

"I'm not sure." 

Lucius looked at his son, and for a moment saw the pale, familiar face stripped of its defenses, saw the pain and the panic behind the eyes. He thought of his wife, who had given their son her slanting silver eyes and her propensity to feel things strongly. And yet. Since his son was four years old, he hadn't cried. Not that Lucius could recall. Unnatural, his wife had said, a child that doesn't cry. 

Draco stood up suddenly, and leaned his hands on the back of the chair. He looked very young. He said, "I've been having ... dreams. Not my own dreams. Somebody else's. There are battles, a lot of blood and killing. A woman. Sometimes she's Hermione, sometimes she isn't. A banner with a dragon on it-" 

"Facing left," said Lucius. "A silver dragon on a black background." 

Draco blinked at him. "You know whose dreams they are," he said. "Don't you?" 

Lucius examined his fingernails. "They're your destiny, boy," he said in a bored tone. 

"My destiny?" snapped Draco. "I haven't got a destiny. That's Harry, he's the one with the destiny." 

"On the contrary. You certainly have a destiny, Draco. In fact, I might go so far as to say that it has you." 

"What are you talking about?" 

Lucius smiled. "Let me tell you a little something, boy. When a man joins the Death Eaters, he gives himself to the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord in turn takes one thing from him. To be accepted into his circle, you must offer up one thing that is purely yours. It might be a specific memory, or a gift with languages, a skill at sports. It is his choice. When I joined him, he asked me for you." 

Draco's face was blank with astonishment. "But I wasn't even born! You were sixteen!" 

"No, you weren't born. But he knew you would be. We are among the last families with remnants of Slytherin's blood, and you... the timing was perfect. The Dark Lord showed me how to perform certain dangerous and difficult spells and enchantments to ensure that you would be born in the image he had designed. With certain qualities. Magid powers. Viciousness and charm. Lack of empathy. Competitiveness. Cruelty...you were to follow in his footsteps, and I--" 

Draco interrupted him. "What happened? Did the spells not work?" 

"Oh, they worked," said Lucius. "But then the Dark Lord was defeated. You were not yet one year old. And there was no one to direct your growth, to continue the spells and the potions and the training. There was only me. And I did my best, but somehow you got away from me. You were meant for a purpose, but I don't know what that purpose is. I'm afraid I never have known it. When the Dark Lord returned to power, he refused to tell me. He said I would learn in good time." Lucius shrugged. "I suppose this is as good a time as any." 

Draco had gone very white, staring at him. 

"Think of it as an alarm clock," said his father, leaning back in his chair. "Whatever you carry inside you has lain dormant, until now. Until your Magid powers began to work, until you were nearly grown, until you found the sword." 

"The sword?" Draco echoed. 

"The sword is the key," said Lucius, blandly. "The Dark Lord gave it to me when you were born. Of course, I couldn't touch it," he added, sounding slightly bitter, "so I was never...tempted." He looked at his son. "Does it give you visions?" 

"Nightmares," said Draco, in a clenched sort of voice. 

"Visions," said his father, again. "You see what you want, what you need, what was and what will be." 

"It doesn't show me what I want!" exclaimed Draco, revolted. "It shows me...horrible things.." 

Lucius smiled. "The first time you saw it," he said, "you wanted it, didn't you? You took it from Harry, you kept it by you, and you resisted all efforts to deprive you of it. You take it wherever you go - you have it with you now. You cannot bear to be parted from it." He looked at his son. "It's your future, boy. And you can't walk away from it." 

"I can," said Draco. His hands were shaking. 

"You can't," roared Lucius, suddenly starting up in his chair. "You were made, don't you understand that? You were built to fulfill a purpose. Even your name -" He broke off and subsided back into his chair. "Even your name was chosen for you by the Dark Lord. The dragon..." 

Draco sat very still. Without looking at his father, he said, "And that was all right with you?" 

Lucius said nothing. 

Draco raised his head. "Whatever else I am, I'm your son. Of your blood. I look like you. I have our family name. And you traded me to the Dark Lord for a little bit of power?" 

"It would have been a great deal of power," corrected Lucius. Then he looked away. "I never wanted a child," he said. "It was all part of the Plan." 

Draco looked down at his hands where they gripped each other in his lap. "In my dreams," he said, hoarsely. "He tells me I have to kill Harry." 

"Then kill Harry," said Lucius. "It's what you were meant for." 

*** 

"A love potion?" 

Hermione heard Ron's voice as if from a long way away. She looked up tiredly. They were all staring at her - except Harry - Sirius, leaning against the bookshelves with a look of disbelief on his face, Lupin, with faint embarrassment, Ron, who looked shocked, and Ginny. Ginny looked worried. Sometime during what felt to Hermione like her interminable explanation about the love potion and its consequences, Ginny had put her arm over the side of Hermione's chair, taken her hand, and squeezed it. Hermione continued to hold on tightly to Ginny's hand while she talked, and was grateful for the contact. 

Harry was sitting down at the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, staring fixedly over everyone's heads at one of the stained-glass windows. So far, he had been entirely silent. 

"I always thought love potions were a bit of a joke," Ron went on, flushed with surprise. "Not real." 

"They're real," said Lupin, who was looking rather shaken. "They're illegal, of course." 

Sirius was shaking his head. "It makes no sense," he said. "I was thinking that before, and now..." 

Now Harry glanced over at him. 

"For Slytherin to want Hermione as his Source. Only a Magid can be another Magid's Source. The drain on her would have killed her." 

"Rowena was a Magid," said Hermione. "Maybe he assumed that since she was, I would be." 

"An assumption that would have been the end of you," said Sirius, looking tense. 

"I'd rather have died," said Hermione, in a fierce little voice. "Than be in love with that - that evil -" 

"Oh, but being in love with Malfoy's all right?" interrupted Ron, shaking his head. 

Now Harry spoke, and at the sound of his quiet voice, they all jumped, as if a bomb had gone off. "Let her alone, Ron," he said. 

They all gaped at him, Hermione more than anyone else. She tried to catch his eye to give him a grateful smile, but he wouldn't look at her. He was looking at Sirius, and his hands were clenched tightly in his lap. "Is there a way of taking it off?" he said. "Is there a reversal spell?" 

It was Lupin who answered. "I'm sure there must be one, Harry," he said, although he sounded far from sure. 

"Every spell has a reversal," said Hermione, slightly shrilly. 

"No," said Lupin, quietly. "Not every spell." 

They all stared at him. 

"But most do," he added quickly. "Hermione," he reached into the desk drawer, and pulling out a quill and parchment, held it out to her, "I'm going to need you to write down everything you remember about the potion: how it looked, what it tasted like, what it feels like, anything that will help us identify it. That way we can more efficiently discover whether or not it is, in fact, reversible." 

Hermione slowly drew the parchment towards her, took hold of the quill, and echoed faintly, "How it...feels?" 

"Er, yes," said Lupin, and made a nebulous gesture towards the quill she was holding. "Write it down, you don't have to tell us." 

Rather inadvertently, everyone looked over at Harry, who flushed and looked away again. Hermione bent her head and began to scratch away with the quill. 

Lupin glanced sideways at Sirius, who glanced back. It was evident that this new information regarding Slytherin's intentions towards Hermione had given them much to think about. It was equally evident that they were far from willing to discuss it in front of Harry and Hermione. Especially Harry, who was beginning to look as if he were hanging on by the merest thread. Ginny and Ron had now transferred their worried glances to him. 

The library door opened, and Narcissa came in, looking flushed and slightly worried. "Sirius --" she began, and broke off, as Harry jumped out of his chair as if he'd been shot, stared at her blankly, and announced, "I've got to go." He hurried out of the room, brushing past Narcissa, and slamming the door behind him. 

Hermione began to get to her feet, looking blindly after Harry. "I should -" 

There was the sound of a muffled explosion from the corridor outside. Ron grabbed at Hermione's arm and yanked her back. 

"Bollocks," said Sirius, with finality. "Magid powers. I'd nearly forgotten." 

Narcissa stared at all of them with wide eyes. "What on earth is going on?" 

Ron continued to hang on to Hermione's arm while Sirius, with admirable concision, explained. His speech was punctuated by occasional explosive sounds from outside the library, each one of which caused Hermione to wince. 

"A love potion?" Narcissa echoed in disbelief, when he was done. 

Everybody nodded. 

"Right," said Narcissa, and raised her chin. In that moment, Hermione thought, she looked very much like her son - determined, defiant, even a little arrogant. "Here's what we're going to do. Ron," she said, turning to him. (Ron blushed. It was the first time Narcissa had ever spoken to him directly.) "Go after Harry. Make sure he's all right. If things start flying around, tackle him." 

Ron blinked and nodded. 

"Sirius," she said, turning back towards the desk. "I want you to write to Severus Snape." 

Sirius' jaw dropped. "Snape?" 

"No one in the world knows more about potions than he does," said Narcissa. "The Dark Lord himself used to call on him for assistance, back when he was a Death Eater. If the potion is reversible, Severus will know about it." 

Now Narcissa turned to Hermione, who was suffering Ron's grip on her arm with very bad grace. She was, in fact, glaring at him. Which was fine, since if anyone in the world could match Hermione glare for glare, it was Ron; they'd been practicing for five years. "Hermione," she said, more gently, "I want you to come with me." 

Hermione's head went up, and she said quickly, "I have to talk to Harry-" 

"No," said Narcissa. "You can't." 

"But -" 

"The last thing he needs," said Narcissa, evenly, "is to get more angry. While he would never hurt you, if his temper gets out of control, he could become a danger to himself as well as to the breakable objects around him." 

Hermione paled, but nodded. 

Narcissa glanced over at Lupin. "Make Sirius write that letter. And while he's doing that, you can work on translating that book. Agreed?" 

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Yes, indeed." 

Narcissa held out a hand to Hermione, who glanced down at Ron. Ron grudgingly released her, and, with Narcissa holding her arm, they left. 

As soon as the door shut behind them, Ginny let out an exasperated breath. "What about me?' she said, turning to Lupin and Sirius. "Don't I get given orders too? Or am I not useful?" 

Sirius put his head in his hands. "Ginny..." he said, wearily. "Not right now..." 

"Oh all right," she said crankily, got to her feet and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 

*** 

As soon as Ginny had left the room, Sirius wheeled on Lupin. "Now tell me the truth," he said, looking at him hard. "Do you think that love potion is reversible?" 

"I don't know," replied Lupin, who was taking down a number of books from the shelves and tossing them onto the desk. 

"I saw your expression change. You know something." 

Lupin picked up a book whose spine was stamped in gold lettering: Moste Potente Potions. "I don't know anything for sure," he said, irritably. "But what I do know is that love potions are not exactly benign magic. There's a reason they're illegal." 

"Because they're really, really annoying?" asked Sirius, drawing the parchment Hermione had been writing on towards him and scanning the sparse lines she had scribbled. 

"Any magic that contradicts one's essential nature is by definition dark magic," said Lupin. "Love potions are simply another variation of what goes into the Imperius Curse. An enchantment that subsumes the will of the subject..." 

Sirius shook his head. "Hermione's a strong-willed girl." 

"That's what I'm worried about," said Lupin, flipping morosely through Moste Potente Potions. "You've seen what can happen to people who fight the Imperius Curse. Madness...if they're lucky..." 

"Don't," interrupted Sirius, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He reached out for a piece of parchment, lifted his quill, and stared moodily. 

"What?" said Lupin, looking down at the top of his head. 

"Snape," said Sirius, gloomily. 

"Yes, what about him?" 

"Oh, come on Moony! If I write and ask him for a favor, d'you really think he'll hop right to it? He HATES me!" 

"Probably on account of that one time you tormented him mercilessly for seven years straight when we were in school," said Lupin, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

"Yes, he's tetchy that way," agreed Sirius. Then his eyes lit up suddenly and he smiled. 

Lupin gave him a very suspicious glance. "Something just occurred to you, didn't it?" 

"Well," said Sirius, a small smile still hovering around his mouth, "Snape wouldn't be jumping to do me a favor...or you a favor, admit it, he hates you too - and he'd rather have his leg eaten by a Blast-Ended Skrewt than do Harry a favor, but there is someone he does like..." 

"Draco," said Lupin, and paused. "But he's not here. Hermione said he went off to be by himself." 

"Can't blame him," said Sirius. "Just as I'm sure he wouldn't blame me for this," and he picked up the quill and began writing furiously. 

"Are you forging a letter from Draco?" asked Lupin, with detached interest. 

"Yep," said Sirius. "Hand me that Malfoy family seal, will you, it's in the third drawer..." 

"That's rather dishonest," said Lupin, handing him the seal. 

Sirius slammed the quill down on the table and glared at his friend. "Do you have a better idea?" 

Lupin thought for a moment. "Not really." 

"You saw the look on Harry's face didn't you? And Hermione - it's not fair, they're just children, they shouldn't have to-" 

"Sirius," interrupted Lupin, tugging the quill out of his friend's hand. "Your-" 

"Moony!" protested Sirius, in exasperation. "I am sending this letter, and nothing you can say -" 

"Your hand is shaking, is what I was going to say. Give me the parchment, I know Draco's handwriting from when I had him in class. Let me do it." 

*** 

"I can't," said Draco. 

Lucius' mouth tightened. "You're weak," he said. "That's partly my fault." 

Draco didn't respond. Without seeming to be aware of it, he had backed up, away from his father, until he was standing against the wall. "What happens if I don't do anything?" he said, in a dry voice, finally. "Do I go mad?" 

"What do you think?" said Lucius. He began to walk towards his son, slowly, looking thoughtful. "As you know of him, so Slytherin knows of your existence now. Either you join with him, or he will kill you." 

He was standing very close to Draco now. The boy looked down, but it was too late - Lucius' hand shot out and seized his chin, forcing his head up. 

"There is an intricate mechanism inside you, boy," he said. "The Dark Lord wound you up like clockwork and set you on this path. It could be a path to greatness. This could be your second chance. Our second chance. This is what you were designed for. How many men can say they were born to a purpose? But you-" 

"What if I fight it?" Draco demanded, his voice taking on a slightly wild tone. "What then?" 

"What happens to a watch when you wind it backwards?" replied Lucius. "It breaks." 

Draco sucked in a gasp as if he'd been punched in the stomach. 

Lucius took no notice. 

"Why would you want to fight it, anyway?" he demanded, still staring at his son. "Are you trying to be good?" 

Lucius had his own special way of saying the word good - not as if it were an adjective, describing a good boy, or a good dog, but very definitely a noun: Good, and not a pleasant noun at that. Draco, of course, would know exactly what he meant. 

"No," Draco said, quickly, and then, "I don't know." He glared at his father. "I just want to have a choice." 

"You think you have a choice now? You don't have a choice now. You're a slave to what you think you want, like everyone else. You think I didn't see your face, back at the Mansion, when you looked at them, and at her, and her face when she looked at you both? Do you want to barter your destiny for the friendship of a boy who will never like you, and the favors of a girl who doesn't return your love? To ally yourself with people who will never regard you with anything more than suspicion and mistrust? They are not our kind of people, and they never will be. You will never belong with them." 

As he spoke, Lucius watched the changing colors in his son's face - first white, then very red, then white again. He could tell Draco was struggling to hide whatever it was he was feeling, and from that alone, knew that he was hurting him. Which was as it should be. He was his son, his to help or to hurt as he saw fit. 

"You can't change what you are, Draco," he said, his voice soft and unyielding. "And they know that. Dumbledore, Sirius Black, even your new friend Harry Potter - they know that there is something they have that you don't, some essential fragment missing from your soul that makes you different. Call it morality, or whatever you like. But you can't change it. You'll never be like them. You can wear the guise of morality, but underneath it you are what I made you to be." 

For a moment, Draco returned his father's gaze without moving. Then his eyes darkened, and he yanked his head away, breaking Lucius' grip on his chin. 

"Let me go," he said. 

I've lost him, thought Lucius, astonished, as his son, not meeting his eyes, slid away from him along the wall. I almost had him - There was something I could have said, something that would have worked, would have broken him down. But I've lost him. 

Disappointment and rage made his voice harsh when he spoke, "I should have killed you when I had the chance." 

Draco stopped moving away from his father and paused. He was still leaning against the wall, and something about the way he was leaning made Lucius wonder if the wall was the only thing keeping him upright. 

He lifted his head, and looked at his father. Fear and pain and rage had made his eyes nearly black, and for that moment, they looked very much alike. "You want me dead?" said Draco. "Fine." He reached up, took hold of the Epicyclical Charm that hung around his neck, and, without a moment's hesitation, drew it over his head and threw it at his father. Reflexively, Lucius Malfoy reached up and caught the bright circular object out of the air. And stared at it. 

"For you, Father," said Draco. " Go ahead. Break it. Crush it. I'll be dead before the guard can get into the room." Lucius didn't move. Just stared at his son, who stared back out of blazing eyes, and hissed, "What are you afraid of? You're already in here for life. They'll never let you out. Go on - do it!" 

"No," said Lucius, closing his hand gently around the charm. 

Draco stared. 

"I don't want you dead, boy," said Lucius, with a slight smile. "I've changed my mind. I want the satisfaction of knowing that you are alive and that you suffer. That you grow and suffer, knowing what you have done to destroy our family and how you have condemned me to rot in this Hell. I hope it eats you alive." He glared at his son. "Now get out of here. I'm sick of the sight of you." 

Draco backed away. Then he turned and rapped hard on the cell door. He stood for a moment, waiting, his back to his father. Then, as he heard the wards on the other side of the door being unlocked, he turned back around, very slowly, and looked at Lucius. 

"This isn't Hell, Father," he said. "When you get to Hell, I think you'll find there will be a lot more of 'our kind of people' there." 

The door opened, and Draco went through it. 

*** 

If Ron had been worrying about finding Harry, his worries were quickly dissipated as soon as he left the library. It turned out to be a simple matter of following the sounds of breakage and explosions. Ron paced nervously down the winding corridors, stopped in front of a large metal-bound oak door, through which he could now hear what sounded like glass shattering, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. 

A bizarre sight met his eyes. For one bewildered moment, he thought that it was somehow, impossibly, snowing in the room. The air was full of drifting white shapes; he could see Harry standing in the centre of the room, a slender dark shadow in the middle of a feathery-white tornado. And feathery was right, he realized, stepping further into the room, they were feathers - feathers from at least a dozen pillows, which Harry had somehow managed to shred into pieces. Remnants of pillow casing lay around the room and many tiny white feathers were caught in Harry's black hair. 

"Harry," said Ron, caught between sympathy and amazement. "What've you done?" 

"What does it look like?" said Harry, crossing his arms over his chest like a mutinous five-year-old. 

Ron looked around with slowly dawning suspicion. They were obviously in a bedroom - there was a black four-poster bed and a huge wardrobe shoved against a far wall. "What room are we in?" he asked. 

"Malfoy's bedroom," announced Harry, with grim satisfaction. 

"I thought as much," said Ron. 

"I'm redecorating," announced Harry, and Ron watched in amazement as a pair of glass candlesticks sailed across the room and smashed merrily into a far wall. 

"Sirius is going to kill you," he said, awed. 

"Good," said Harry. "A quick, painless death sounds like just what the doctor ordered right about now." 

"Harry," said Ron, taking advantage of the momentary break in the storm to sidle a little closer to Harry, just in case he needed to tackle him. Although that option was looking extremely unappealing, due in no large part to the enormous amount of broken glass on the floor. "It's just a spell! She doesn't have any actual feelings for Malfoy!" 

Harry just looked at him. 

"Okay," said Ron grudgingly. "Maybe she has some, very slight, in fact extremely teensy, kind of feelings for him. But nothing significant." 

"You saw Lupin's face," said Harry, brushing feathers out of his hair. "He doesn't think there's any counterspell. I could tell." 

Ron was shocked. "Of course there's a counterspell." 

"No, there isn't," said Harry, sounding resigned. "She's going to spend the rest of her life in love with Malfoy...and I can either try to keep her with me and watch her wish she was with him, or just let her go off with him and they'll get married and have curly-haired blond children and I'll be "Uncle Harry" and maybe they'll even name one of their horrible offspring after me and -" 

"HARRY!" Ron interrupted desperately. "You're wittering." 

Bang! One of the fluffy pillows on the bed shot up into the air and exploded, showering everything with feathers. 

"It's just a spell," said Ron, again, sadly brushing feathers off his shoulder. "It doesn't mean anything." 

"Then why didn't she tell me?" said Harry, glaring at Ron, at the feathers, and at everything else in the room. "She could have just told me but she chose not to. Either she didn't tell me because she didn't want me to know so she could enjoy the whole being in love with Malfoy experience, or she doesn't trust me enough to think that I could handle it, which is ridiculous." 

"Right," said Ron, unable to help himself, "because you're handling it SO WELL right now." 

Harry's eyes narrowed. 

At that moment, the door swung open. 

It was Ginny . She was looking irritable, and her eyes lit immediately on Ron, and she frowned. "I am not useless--" she began. 

"Ginny!" interrupted Ron, in horror. "I'm a little busy right now!" 

"But-" Ginny looked from Ron, to Harry, to the multitude of drifting feathers and her eyes widened in shock. "I thought -" she began, uncertainly. 

"Ginny, get out of here," added Ron, nervously. 

But Harry was now looking at her with narrow eyes. "No," he said. "Stay, why don't you. You like me, don't you, Ginny?" 

"Um," said Ginny, looking alarmed. "Sure I like you, Harry..." 

"Do you want to go out with me?" 

Ginny's mouth formed a small "O" of surprise. "What?" 

"Do you want to go out with me?" yelled Harry, who was now so covered in feathers that it looked as if he'd been attacked by molting pigeons. 

"All right, that's enough of that," announced Ron and, in a classic move used by older brothers throughout history, stepped forward and firmly closed the bedroom door in his sister's face. Then he turned on Harry, and looked at him sternly. 

"You're drunk," he said. 

Harry glared at him. "I am not drunk." 

"Yes, you are," said Ron somberly. "Drunk on power." He pointed at the bed. "Sit down, Harry." 

Rather to Ron's amazement, Harry sat. "That wasn't very nice of me, was it," he said, glumly, staring at the floor. 

"No," Ron agreed, walked over to the bed, and sat down next to Harry. "You owe Ginny an apology. But that's for later. Right now, I think you'd feel better if you didn't think about Malfoy--" 

"I'm not all that angry with Malfoy," said Harry. 

Ron, realizing his mouth was open, shut it hastily. "Well, if you're not angry at Malfoy, who are you so pissed off at?" 

"Hermione," said Harry, through his teeth. 

Ron ducked as a glass pitcher with a handle carved in the shape of a snake whipped past his head and shattered against the far wall. 

"Bloody hell, Harry," he said, with reluctant admiration. "That was cool!" 

"Yeah, if only I could do this sort of stuff when I wasn't totally hacked off!" yelled Harry, as the wardrobe door burst open and the clothes inside it exploded outward like a burst of fireworks. 

They whipped through the air like manic birds and Ron looked down as something struck him on the shoulder. It was a pile of Draco's socks and underwear. "Well," he said. "I guess this answers the eternal 'boxers or briefs?' question, doesn't it?" He grinned at Harry. "Lavender and Parvati will be so pleased to know that Malfoy wears-" he peered at the label on the band - "Calvin Klein Wizardwear boxer shorts. Who knew?" 

He glanced over at Harry, who looked both angry and as if he were trying not to laugh. "Come on, Harry, crack a smile; it won't kill you." He tossed the boxer shorts aside, and glanced at his friend. "I know you said you aren't pissed off at Malfoy, but you did choose his bedroom to have your tantrum in, didn't you?" 

Now Harry did smile -- a bit reluctantly, as if it hurt. "Yeah, well, I didn't say I exactly had fluffy bunny feelings for the guy, did I?" 

Ron didn't reply. 

Harry glanced over at him quizzically, and started. Ron was staring, with a look of fixed alarm, at a vague point across the room. 

"What..?" Harry started to say, but Ron, with surprisingly fast reflexes, clapped a hand over his mouth. 

"Shh," he whispered, unnecessarily. "Look at the wardrobe." 

Harry looked. And started. The wardrobe, a large and heavy piece of furniture the size of three Hagrids, was rocking back and forth on its four carved feet. Harry glanced over quickly at Ron. 

"There's something in there," Ron muttered. 

Harry nodded. "Or someone," he tried to say, around Ron's fingers. 

Ron took his hand off Harry's mouth. "What do you think...?" 

The wardrobe gave a another, stronger wobble, almost as if it might tip over. 

"Wands out," hissed Ron, getting to his feet and fumbling in his robes. Harry followed him, taking his own wand out and holding it in front of him. 

Moving as silently as they could, they edged across the room, Ron just slightly ahead of Harry, and paused in front of the wardrobe. Ron, standing in front of it, reached out a hand for one of the doors. He glanced sideways at Harry, who nodded. 

Ron threw the doors open. 

For a moment, nothing happened. 

Then something exploded out of the wardrobe with the force of a cannonball, and careened into Ron, knocking him to the ground. His wand went skittering out of his hand and he yelled out loud in pain, throwing his arms up to protect his face from the intruder - which, Harry saw, had grayish, leathery skin and whirling red eyes, and long, spatulated fingers that it wrapped around Ron's throat. 

It was a demon. 

*** 

Scowling, Ginny stalked down the corridor, found the stairs, and stomped down them, making as much noise as she possible could scuffing her shoes on the stone. Not that there was anyone around to hear her. Useless, she thought. They all think I'm useless. Even Ron, shutting the door in my face; Sirius and Lupin, telling me to get lost... 

Then there was the fact that Harry had asked her out. Well, all right, she had to admit, it hadn't been a sincere offer. More like a tragic cry for help. Not that she minded - she was surprised to find that in fact, she didn't care at all, one way or the other. 

She crossed the large, empty drawing room, walking (without knowing it) over the trapdoor that led to the dungeons. She had no particular goal in mind, she knew; at least, not a material goal. She was simply hoping to see Draco, hoping that if she turned another corner, he might be standing there, looking tall and pale and irritable but perhaps, open to be apologized to? Because she very much wanted to apologize to him now for having kicked him in the ribs. What if had been me, a year ago, she thought, and it had been Harry who'd taken the love potion and showed up at my door suddenly. Would I have been able to send him away out of friendship for Hermione? 

She very much doubted it. 

As she left the drawing room, the sound of voices arrested her attention. She was in the corridor outside the dining room, and turning her head, she could see Hermione and Narcissa sitting at the enormous table, underneath the tapestry of the Malfoy family crest. Hermione was anxiously playing with a cup of tea, and Narcissa was looking at her with detached sympathy. 

'I'm just really, really, sorry," Hermione was saying, in a muffled voice. "I should have told Harry the truth right off. I just thought I could handle it myself. I feel terrible about what he must be thinking now. And Draco..." She looked up at Narcissa worriedly. "It can't have been pleasant for him, either." 

Oh, well spotted, thought Ginny, irritably. 

"He must care about you a great deal," said Narcissa, "to have given you that." 

And she pointed at the Epicyclical Charm around Hermione's throat. 

Hermione looked wretched. And Ginny, feeling equally wretched now, turned away and walked off down the corridor. 

*** 

Draco flew like he had never flown before, racing his broom through gathering clouds, against a sky slowly darkening to the color of ink. If Harry could have seen him, he would have been amazed, impressed even - it wasn't just that he flew fast, but recklessly and with precision, grazing the tops of trees, skimming the surface of ponds, whipping his broom sideways, turning upside down because he could. Until he slowed finally, and plunged towards the ground, skidding to a halt. 

He was on the grounds of Malfoy Mansion again, at the edge of the Bottomless Pit. The sky was iron-colored, streaked with faint charcoal markings like the markings inside a seashell, and the Pit stretched out in front of him, deep and black and endless. He walked to the edge, knelt down, and was violently and rather unexpectedly sick over the side. When his stomach had stopped convulsing, he sat back, and reached without thinking for the sword behind his shoulder. 

He'd put a spell on it, to keep it invisible - it seemed unlikely to him that even a Malfoy would be allowed to walk uninvited into a mental institution carrying a whacking great sword - and now, without thinking, he ran his left hand over it, taking the glamour off. The sword sprang into life under his hand, bright silver under the gray twilight, the gems in the hilt glittering like eyes. 

You wanted it the moment you saw it, touched it, you know what it is: it's your future, and you can't walk away from it. 

Draco sat up and looked at it for a moment without moving. He slid his grip up over the hilt, on to the blade, and squeezed hard, feeling the whisper-sharp edges of the sword slicing into his skin, and the blood starting to flow. It hurt only a very little bit, but enough to get him to his feet. 

He walked to the edge of the pit, looked down, saw only blackness. He lifted the sword in his left hand and held it out in front of him - 

Visions of what has been, what is now, what will be if you want it - 

--And threw it. 

There was of course, no noise as it disappeared into the darkness, flipping end over end, gleaming and turning and vanishing, eaten up by the Pit. 

Feeling extremely weary, he turned his back on the Pit and walked to his broomstick. As he bent to pick it up, he saw something glitter in the grass. 

No. 

It was the sword, gleaming and bright and perfect. Draco had been holding out his hand for his Firebolt - now the sword hummed and trembled and leapt into his grip, resting there. As if it belonged. 

You can't walk away from it. 

It's what you are. 

*** 

"Ron!" yelled Harry, and tried to race over to his friend, but he slipped on broken glass and feathers and fell forward onto his hands. A sharp pain shot through his hands as they made contact with the glass-strewn floor. His wand skidded out of his grip, clattering across the flagstones. I don't need it anyway, he thought, getting swiftly to his feet. 

Ron was putting up a good fight - he had rolled over on his back with the demon on top of him, and was kicking at it with his feet. His hands were at his throat, trying to loosen its grip on his windpipe. He had dropped his wand, Harry saw - 

Without thinking, Harry lifted his right hand and pointed it at the demon. "Impedimenta!" he shouted. 

White light shot from his fingers and struck the demon in the chest, knocking it backwards. Ron immediately threw himself to the side, breaking its grip on his throat, and leaped to his feet, backing towards Harry. One of his hands was at his throat, which was necklaced with livid red marks. 

Harry looks sideways at him. "You all right?" 

Ron nodded, sucking in gasps of air. 

Harry turned and stared at the demon, which was kneeling on the floor, glaring at them out of whirling red eyes. He knew immediately that it wasn't the same demon that had broken into his and Draco's bedroom at school - how Harry knew that, he couldn't have said. But it was certainly one of the same breed. It had the familiar long, spatulated fingers, each tipped with a wickedly sharp pointed nail, and the same red eyes. 

"Harry Potter," it said, and its voice was like the other demon's voice, a crackling bonfire sound. 

Harry eyes narrowed. "You know who I am?" 

The demon made a hissing sound. "Soon you will die," it announced. 

Harry's eyes widened. 

Ron looked indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded in a croaky voice, massaging his throat. 

The demon's eyes rested on Harry. "You know," it hissed. 

"Why is it," said Harry, in an unpleasantly calm voice, "that demons never have anything good to say? It's all 'Soon you will die' and 'Hell is coming' and 'Beware your doom.' Never just, 'Seasons Greetings from the Underworld!'" 

The demon stared at them. 

"No sense of humor," said Ron, shaking his head. 

All at once, the demon lunged at Ron, its hands outstretched. Ron ducked aside, and the demon landed on all fours, turned and faced them. "Harry Potter -" 

"Shut up!" yelled Harry, stepping between the creature and Ron. He felt a surge of rage - every ounce of rage that he'd been feeling for the past few hours crystallizing into a sharp icy blade that twisted itself violently inside his chest. He felt something break free - something inside him coming unmoored, something important. He threw his wand aside, his hand pointing itself at the creature that was threatening him - and then whatever it was inside him that had been rising tore free -- he felt it rip through his blood and his veins and his hand and shoot from his fingers like a bolt of white lightning. 

The bolt of light struck the demon in the chest. It gave a startled whining cry as it flew backward and slammed hard into the wall with an unpleasant squelching noise. Limply, it crumpled to the ground and lay there like a heap of rags. 

But Harry wasn't done. He could still feel the white light burning in his veins and he wanted to do something - something destructive, something violent, something - 

His eyes lit on the wardrobe. The wardrobe, in fact, in which he had once found Hermione kissing Draco. Huge, heavy, made of oak, at least eight feet tall. 

He turned and directed his hand at it, and it lifted a few inches off the ground. He felt the dragging pull of the weight of it somewhere inside himself, as if he were yanking on a pulley. 

Go, he thought at it. Go. 

With a groaning creak that he could feel inside, it flew into the air, and now it was out of his control, as if he had launched it from a catapult - it shot across the room, crashed into the far wall, flipped over, and landed on top of the demon's immobile body with a rending crash. 

"Harry!" he heard Ron yelling, as if from a long way away. "Enough!" 

He felt Ron's hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and lowered his hands. He suddenly couldn't seem to get enough air, and staggered backward, nearly crashing into the bed. 

"Harry-" Ron stared at his friend, who looked white and drained, his hair and clothes drenched in sweat, as if he'd just run a marathon. He was breathing in great gasps of air, bending forward, his hands on his knees. Vaguely aware that someone was pounding on the bedroom door, leaned down to look at Harry's face. "Harry, are you okay?" 

Harry nodded without looking up. 

"Breathe," Ron instructed him, and then wondered if this was good advice. Harry didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, in fact he seemed to be breathing too much - hyperventilating. "Come on, just calm down, Harry," he said. The pounding on the door was getting louder. "Are you going to pass out?" 

At that moment, the door, which had been shaking on its hinges, burst open with a sound like crackling gunfire. 

Sirius, Narcissa and Lupin burst in, Hermione behind them. She paused in the doorway, a hand over her mouth, as the adults raced over to Harry and Ron. 

"What the hell happened?" demanded Sirius, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. 

"There was something in that wardrobe - some kind of thing -" said Ron. "It attacked me." 

"I hit it," said Harry shortly, still trying to catch his breath. 

"With what?" said Sirius, staring round-eyed at the wreckage. 

"With the wall," said Harry. 

"And then with the wardrobe," said Ron, helpfully. "It was really cool!" he added, then, catching Sirius' quelling glance, added hastily, "in a bad, destructive, and probably illegal sort of way." 

"It was a demon," said Harry, still sounding choked and breathless. 

They all glanced over towards the demon's body. Only a leathery gray arm was visible, protruding beneath the wreckage of the half-destroyed wardrobe. 

"Well, I think you killed it dead," said Ron. "Good on you, Harry!" 

"No, he didn't," said Sirius. "Its fingers are moving." 

Several things happened at once. 

Narcissa spun around. Lupin, looking suddenly anxious, reached for his wand. Ron turned to gaze at the wardrobe in astonishment. And Harry suddenly straightened up, stared at the wreckage of the wardrobe and the demon's twitching arm, felt a wave of dizziness spreading over him, and announced: 

"I'm going to faint, I think." 

Sirius, jumping backward, was just in time to catch him as he fell. 

*** 

Draco landed in the garden, just inside the gate emblazoned with its design of serpents and M's. He dismounted his broomstick, propped it against the wall, and glanced around. 

It hard started to rain: not hard, but a fine, thin drizzle. The grounds of Malfoy Mansion were silvery-black in the cloudy moonlight. Even in the darkness Draco could see the black score marks along the earth where poisonous, magical plants had been ripped up, and where heavy objects had been dragged away. It was odd to be on the grounds and not have to remember how to circumvent the dozens of jinxes, hexes and nasty surprise death spells that had once enclosed the place like an invisible magical fence. Without them, the place seemed alien. Strange. 

I don't belong here, either. 

Leaving his broomstick leaning against the wall, he walked towards the house, ducking under the wet branches of the trees (at least they haven't torn those down). He passed the clearing where there had once been a family of giant spiders, crossed the dragon-shaped bridge that had once been rigged with Explosive Hexes, turned the corner of the house, and nearly yelled out loud as a hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed at his sleeve. 

Years of fencing practice and Quidditch had given him fast reflexes. He whipped around, seized hold of the arm, and used it to flip the intruder - who admittedly put up very little resistance - onto the ground. 

The intruder landed in the mud with an indignant, muffled cry. The hood fell back, revealing a pale face surrounded by a tinselly cloud of silver hair, tilted, dark-blue eyes, and a familiar, scowling mouth. 

"Fleur?" Draco said, in disbelief. As the adrenaline drained out of his body, his legs started to shake, and he leaned back against the wet stone wall. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," he added, sternly. "You should stamp your feet, or yodel, or something." 

Fleur continued to scowl. "You knocked me down," she said. "That wasn't very nice." 

"I didn't know it was you," he pointed out. "You start hanging about in other people's gardens, wearing a hooded robe and looking mysterious, your motives will get misinterpreted. It's just one of those things." 

Now she smiled at him. Raindrops trammeled her fine silvery hair and beaded the edges of her lashes. It was a rather fetching effect. She held out one hand for him to take. Even though she was sitting on the ground in a mud puddle, she managed to look imperious. "Help me up," she commanded. 

He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. She looked down at her muddy silver robes, scowled, and ran her right hand down them. "Abstergo!" he heard her mutter, and in a moment, her robes were sparkling clean. 

"Nicely done," he said, with genuine admiration. "But why are you here?" 

She looked up at him and smiled. "I think you know," she said. 

He shook his head. "No, I really don't." 

"I think you do. Remember?" she added suggestively. "You and me...in my room...there were butterflies in pretty colors..." 

He frowned. "Is this one of those word association games? You say 'puppy', I say 'kitten', you say 'girl', I say 'boy', you say 'party', I say, 'let's all get piss-drunk and take our clothes off'?" 

Fleur stamped her foot. "Now you are being deliberately stupid," she said. 

"Not really, but I'm flattered that you think so." 

She pouted. "It is very boring at school without you." 

"I'm sure that's true, but -" 

"And you owe me a favor," she said. 

That checked him. "I what?" Then he remembered. Multicolored butterflies, Fleur hitting him hard on the shoulder and saying, You owe me, Draco Malfoy. 

Oh, no. 

"How do you think I found you?" she added. "It is old magic. You owe me a favor, it makes a connection between us. I can find you anywhere." 

Draco rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Now really isn't a good time, Fleur. I've had a very, very bad day." 

She shook her head. "No, no," she said. "You don't get to choose when you repay favors, Draco. That is not the nature of favors. You gave me your word." 

He looked at her sidelong. It was easy to forget that a rather lively intelligence lived behind the wide eyes and decorative pout, but he knew it was true. 

"You never would have found that girl of yours if it hadn't been for me," Fleur pointed out. 

"She's not my girl," he said, automatically. Then he did a double take, and stared. "How did you know about that?" 

"Remember the veela in the garden at the tower?" 

"Yes, vividly." 

"Those were my cousins." 

"Those veela? They were your cousins? How do you know?" 

Fleur shrugged her elegant shoulders. "They told me they met you." She smiled. "They liked you very much." 

"I'm thrilled to hear it. How did they know who I was?" 

"I had told them about you, of course!" said Fleur, opening her dark blue eyes very wide. "I had asked my cousin Flora to check into the Malfoy family bloodline. I wanted to make sure you and I were not too...closely related." 

"To closely related for what? Marriage?" he said, with sarcasm. Then, seeing her expression, he checked himself. "Marriage? Are you mad? I'm sixteen!" 

"You won't be forever." 

"Actually, I probably won't live to see seventeen at this rate, so in a way I will be sixteen forever, but that's rather depressing, so let's move on. You mean those veela let me go because they knew you wanted to marry me?" 

"Yes," said Fleur, with exquisite simplicity. 

Draco goggled at her. "That's ridiculous!" 

"There's nothing ridiculous about marriage," said Fleur, looking severe. 

"Do you still want to marry me?" 

She shook her head. "As it turns out, we're very distant cousins. So it wouldn't work." 

"That is too bad," he said, with immense relief. 

"However," she said, stopping dead and turning to put a hand on his shoulder, "we can still have sex. As long as no one knows about it." 

He nearly tripped over a tree root. "What?" 

"There is the little matter of the favor you owe me." 

Draco blinked at her. "You want me to have sex with you? As a favor?" 

Fleur smiled at him, shrugged, and nodded. "Yes." 

"Are - you sure?" he said, in disbelief. "I mean, you could ask me for anything. Anything. Cash? I've got lots of cash." 

In answer, Fleur crossed her arms and looked at him with a wry expression. He wasn't quite sure, but it looked as if she were tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. "I don't want cash," she said. "I want you." 

Draco stared at her in utter disbelief. "Right now? Right here?" 

"Yes. Why not?" 

"Oh." He blinked at her. She was very beautiful in the half-light, and it was rather flattering, and well, he was sixteen years old. 

He shrugged. "Yeah, all right, then." 

*** 

Out of unconsciousness, Harry woke suddenly, with a feeling as if he were being suffocated. He gasped for air, and immediately, there were hands on his shoulders and a female voice was telling him to lie back, and breathe. A cool hand touched his forehead, brushing back his hair. He blinked hard, unable to see without his glasses. "Hermione?" he said faintly, although he knew immediately it wasn't her, knew the feel of the touch of her hand by heart, this was someone else. 

"It's Narcissa," said the voice, gently. "Lie back down." 

"No," said Harry, mutinously. He struggled upright and leaned back against the headboard, blinking. 

Narcissa watched him with concern. He seemed all right, although very pale. She could feel that she was holding herself back from what she wanted to do, which was to put her arms around this boy -- who reminded of her son despite the fact that he looked and sounded nothing like him - to put her arms around him and to comfort him and stroke his hair. But to do that would be to make a child out of him, and she could see just by looking at him that he was very nearly no longer that. He would resent it, she was sure. So she held herself back from touching Harry, only reached for his glasses and put them very gently into his hand, and said, "Can you sit up?" 

"Yeah," he said, pushing his glasses onto his nose and blinking. "I'm fine." To demonstrate, he sat up, paling only very slightly as he did so. "I feel fine," he said, again. "Where's Hermione?" 

"In the library with Ron, researching," she said, matter-of-factly. "And Sirius and Remus went to lock up that thing that attacked you. They're putting magical wards on one of the cells right now." 

"It's not dead?" 

Narcissa shook her head. "Not dead, but unconscious. Sirius is hoping that when Dumbledore gets here, he can help them figure out what it is." 

"I can help them figure out what it is," said Harry, making a move to get up. "I've seen one before." 

Now Narcissa did touch him - she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back down on the pillows. "Just rest a minute, Harry. You need to get your strength back. After what you did--" 

She broke off as his eyes widened, and she saw him glancing around the room, seeing the incredible wreckage of the room: the crushed wardrobe, the smashed candlesticks and bottles, the burst pillows. "I-" he began, looking stunned. "I'll pay for all this, I've got money, I can-" 

"No, you won't," said Narcissa, firmly. "This your house, Harry. Not that I'm saying that you can go around wrecking all the furniture, and Sirius will probably have you de-gnoming the garden from now until Doomsday, but there will be no paying anyone. Do you understand?" 

Harry nodded, looking slightly befuddled. 

"Anyway," she added, "I think you've punished yourself sufficiently. You do realize why you fainted, don't you?" 

Harry shook his head. 

"To do what you did - to expend that much magic in one burst - well, that energy has to come from somewhere. That's part of what a wand is for; most wizards don't have enough magic in themselves to perform spells without some kind of aid. Wands also help you focus your energy. What you did was just pour magic out of yourself, and without even a wand to channel it, it just flooded out of you - drained your energy. If you'd gone on, you could have knocked yourself out, or killed yourself. You have to be careful, Harry." 

Harry looked down, scuffling his hands together nervously. 

"And you have to teach my son to be careful, too," she added, in a slightly less even tone. 

Harry glanced up quickly, looking astonished. "Malfoy?" he said, and checked himself. "I mean - he's already very careful. He's one of the most ... careful people I've ever met." 

"You don't like him," she said. 

"Sure I do," said Harry, weakly. "I think he's..." 

"A smug git," said Narcissa evenly. "That's all right. Sometimes he is." 

She smiled at Harry, who stared at her, openmouthed. 

"There's someone besides me who's been waiting for you to wake up," she went on, dropping her voice. 

Harry looked as if he immediately knew exactly who she meant: Hermione, of course. He closed his mouth, and pressed it into a thin line. "I don't want to see her." 

Narcissa looked at Harry, who raised his chin defiantly. And in that moment, she thought, he actually did, in some way, resemble Draco. In his stubbornness, if nothing else. "Not even for a minute?" 

"No." 

"You're going to have to see her eventually-" 

"Not alone." 

"She loves you." 

Harry now looked terribly uncomfortable. "I don't think-" 

"Of course not, how could you?" 

Harry blinked, feeling wretchedly confused and somewhat beleaguered. "How could I what?" 

"Think. How could you think of anything, except how horrible this situation is, how utterly awful for both of you?" 

"Er," said Harry. "Is this advice? Because I don't really think that..." 

"You don't think I know what I'm talking about," said Narcissa, firmly. "Because I don't know you. And in a way, you're right. I don't know you very well, Harry. And the grown-up in me wants to tell you that you're sixteen and you'll get over Hermione and to move on and not to worry. But as a person who has seen you two together, all I can tell you is that in my life, I have never seen anyone look at anyone else the way she looks at you. Unless it's the way you look at her. I wouldn't throw that away if I were you." 

Harry, who had gone alternatingly red and white during this speech, stared at Narcissa with wide eyes as she stood up, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and squeezed it lightly. "Keep it in mind," she said, and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. 

*** 

"Why me?" Draco asked, as Fleur started to take off his jacket. 

She paused and looked at him. "Why not you?" 

"Well, you're very beautiful you know, and you could pretty much have anyone. And I'm younger than you. I mean, admittedly I'm fabulously attractive and also very rich, as well as being charming and posh and clever and all-around magnificent and hang on, all that is starting to sound very convincing. No wonder you like me." 

"It's because you're a Magid," said Fleur, hooked her foot behind his ankle, and yanked. He fell over backward and landed on the ground, looking up at her. "And I do like you." She frowned at him. "But you are beginning to irritate me." She knelt down next to him, gracefully settling her robes around herself as she did so. "Do you know what happens to those who break a sacred vow they have made to a veela?" 

He propped himself up on his elbows, which sank into the wet earth, and shook his head. "If you think that by threatening me you can get me to do whatever you want," he said, and paused, "--well, that's where you're right. But - and I am not saying this because I don't like you - there are plenty of other Magids back at school; I'm hardly the only one." 

Fleur put her hands on her hips. "Like who?" 

"Well," he said, "What about Harry?" 

Fleur looked surprised. "Harry?" 

"Why not Harry?" said Draco, who couldn't believe he was saying this. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with him really. I'm not about to rush out and buy the Harry Potter Swimsuit Calendar, but you know, he's tall, and he's got dark hair, and green eyes and girls like that, and - are you unlacing my boots?" 

"Well, you can't keep them on, can you?" she said reasonably, yanking off one shoe. "Oh, look you have ducks on your socks! That is so cute. And yes, Harry is also very attractive. But he is far too in love with his girlfriend." 

"So am I," Draco pointed out. 

She shook her head. "It's not the same." 

"Why not?" snapped Draco irritably, as she yanked off his shoes. 

"Because she doesn't love you back," said Fleur, and yanked off the other shoe. 

"Thank you for that observation," he said, wryly. "Would you like to take a knife and stick it in my chest and twist it around a bit? Because I don't think you've quite reached your sadism quota for the evening." 

In answer, Fleur put her hand on his chest and pushed him down, hard. Drawing back the hood of her cloak, she crawled on top of him, letting her long silvery hair fall down around them like a cage of shimmering strands. "You should not be depressed," she said, poking him in the ribs with her finger. "You are a Malfoy. You are rich and you are famous and when you grow up a bit you will be very good-looking. You have powers most people only dream of, and you are part-veela, which is a very good thing to be. You have nothing to be depressed about." 

"What do you mean when I grow up a bit? I'm good-looking now!" he protested, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Fleur giggled. Because of the way she was sitting, with her hands on his chest, he actually felt the giggle vibrate through his ribcage. 

"And you've no idea what I'm depressed about," he added. "No idea."  

"So tell me." 

And, rather to his utter amazement, he did, starting with the flight to find Hermione, continuing on through the love potion and winding up with his visit to his father that afternoon. When he was done he felt ever so slightly, although not entirely, better. "And there you have it," he finished. "My father's a maniac and I'm some kind of spawn of the Dark Lord and now I should probably kill you before you can go to the Ministry, but frankly, I'm too tired." 

"You wouldn't hurt me," said Fleur, curving her lips into a mysterious smile. "Unless I wanted you to." 

"That's optimistic of you. Did you miss the part of the story where I'm evil?" 

"Oh, evil," said Fleur, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "There is no such thing." She leaned forward and started to run her finger meditatively up and down his sternum. "Things are not so black and white as you make them out to be." 

"Oh great, a lecture on moral relativism, just what I don't need. My father says I'm evil and he is the expert in that department, so I think I'm perfectly justified in being worried and okay people usually ask before they do that, what are you doing? Stop!" He grabbed her hand. "Didn't you hear any part of anything that I just told you?" 

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at him, biting her lip in what looked like either thoughtfulness or vexation, he wasn't sure. She was extremely pretty; probably, in fact, the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Beautiful in an entirely different way than Hermione, who was beautiful in the bright flashes of her personality and intelligence that showed through everything she did. 

"Are you telling me no?" she said. 

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm telling you-" he began, and then broke off. He had a strange urge to laugh, but repressed it. "Sod it. It's not like I've got a lot of virtue to protect. If you want to kiss me, kiss me." 

"All right," she said, and leaned forward. 

At first, the kiss landed rather awkwardly on the side of his mouth, so he reached up to take hold of her shoulders to pull her into a better position. He sat forward a little, leaning into the kiss, sliding his hands up into her spun-silk hair - her mouth was cool, and tasted of lemons - and was just beginning to enjoy it when a thunderous, explosive noise split the clearing. 

He jerked away from Fleur, who, unbalanced, fell to the side, landing on her knees. "Ooof," she said, irritably. "What's wrong with you?" 

But Draco was staring past her, towards the dragon-shaped bridge that arched over the now-dry pond. A large chunk of the iron railing had, for no apparent reason, torn itself free and collapsed sideways, landing in a clump of twisted metal on the muddy dirt. That was the noise that he had heard. "What...?" he began. 

"Oh,' said Fleur, following his gaze. "Yes, that's because we're both Magids, you know? When emotions are generated between us like that -" She made a very expressive, very French gesture with her hands - "Boom!" 

"Boom?" said Draco, staring at her in disbelief. "My kissing you sets off some sort of - death ray - and all you can say is Boom?" 

She giggled. "It's also because we're both part-veela. It's a very unusual combination, you know. I just think we should make the most of it." She winked at him. "It could be really, really fun." 

"Fleur," he said, feeling suddenly annoyed, "when I think about myself doing something really, really fun, it doesn't usually end up with me getting myself really, really killed. Which I think is what's going to happen here, so I'm sorry, but I'm just going to have to keep on owing you a favor." 

She smiled sidelong. "Not necessarily," she said. 

He looked at her. "What do you mean?" 

"There is," she said, "Something else you could give me..." 

*** 

When Lupin walked into the library, he found Ron and Hermione sitting at the desk, up to their ears in books. Hermione had delegated to Ron the task of researching Salazar Slytherin's history. His red head poked up above a stack of books with titles like Slytherins through the Ages, Evil Dark Wizards and the Bad Stuff they Did, the Handbook for Evil Overlords, and Really Cunning Plans: An Overview, by Salazar Slytherin himself. 

Hermione herself was surrounded by books with titles like Counterspells: A Commentary; Love Potions: Legend or Reality, and Swift Spell Reversals: When You've Really Buggered Up and Need A Quick Fix. 

Hermione was glancing wearily over at Ron. "Found anything?" 

"A fat lot of nothing," said Ron from behind the books, "unless you're really interested in Blood Rituals of the Eleventh Century, which I, for one, am not. You?" 

"Nothing useful." She turned her gaze to Lupin as the door shut behind him, and said, "Where's Sirius?" 

"Hello to you, too," said Lupin, coming over to glance at the stack of books on the desk. "He's getting Harry." 

"Sorry, Professor," said Hermione, with a faint smile. "And sorry about messing up the library-" she made a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating the mess she and Ron had made, and nearly knocked a book off the desk as she did so. 

Lupin caught it in one hand. "Careful," he said. "That's the book I've been trying to translate." 

Hermione glanced down at it, and an odd look crossed her face. "Let me see it," she said. 

Wordlessly, Lupin handed it to her. She opened it, glanced at one page, and handed it back to him. "When Harry gets here," she said, "show it to him." 

Lupin looked blank. "Show it to Harry?" 

Ron snorted. "Just do it," he said. "Hermione's got that look she gets when she knows something. Best go along with it." 

"I do not get a look," said Hermione, sulkily. 

"Do too," said Ron, and this illuminating exchange might have continued indefinitely if the door to the Library had not opened at that moment, admitting Sirius and with him, Harry. 

Hermione glanced surreptitiously at Harry over the top over her book. I can't believe I've been reduced to this, she thought gloomily, sneaking glances at my own boyfriend and hoping he doesn't notice. He looked, as Ron had said he was, perfectly healthy, if tired: he was a little pale, and looked rumpled, as if from sleep. He gave a general nod in the direction of Hermione, Ron, and Lupin, and went back to staring at the window. 

"Sirius," said Ron, putting down the book he'd been reading. "What happened with the demon?" 

"It's in the dungeon, in stasis in one of the cells," said Sirius. "It's surrounded by wards." He glanced at Lupin. "That should hold it until Dumbledore gets here." 

"What do you think it wanted?" said Ron. 

It was Harry who answered. "That bloody sword of Malfoy's," he said. "I'm fairly sure that's what it wanted." 

Sirius glanced at him. "How do you know?" 

Harry sighed, and launched into the story of the demon's initial visitation. When he had finished, Lupin and Sirius exchanged dark looks. "I told Draco it was evil," said Lupin, unhappily, "I told him it was a possessed object. Why did he feel that he had to have it?" 

Ron snorted. "Telling Malfoy that something is evil is like telling Dudley something's made out of toffee. It brings out this whole primal 'must have that' side of him." He caught Hermione's glare, and glared back. "You didn't see him when Harry was telling him he shouldn't bring it," he said. "It was scary." 

Lupin glanced over at Harry. "You told him not to bring it and he got...scary?" he said. 

Harry looked as if he wanted to squirm. "There was a certain scare factor," he admitted. "But he mostly just seemed to think it was very powerful, and necessary." He turned to Lupin. "Do you think it wanted the sword?" 

"Hard to say," said Lupin. "Demons are strange creatures, devoted to sowing discord. But they rarely attack or kill humans. They are far more given to driving rigged bargains. They are greedy, rather than dangerous." 

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Driving bargains, eh?" 

Hermione looked over at him. "What?" 

Ron was tapping his fingers on the desk. "Well, if anyone seems likely to be the type to go around driving bargains with the forces of darkness..." 

"Driving bargains in exchange for what?" snapped Hermione, in exasperation. 

Ron looked at her. So did Sirius, Lupin, and even Harry, although he looked just as quickly away. 

"Well," said Ron, voicing what they were perhaps all thinking, "You. He's got you in love with him now. Isn't that what he always wanted?" 

*** 

After leaving Harry, Narcissa considered going to look for Sirius -- she wanted to see him - but it seemed to her that he had enough to contend with at the moment. The house is full of children, she thought, turning to go downstairs. It was a pleasant irony in a way, since she had always wanted more children after Draco, but Lucius had made that, like so many other things, impossible. The house is full of children, she thought again, Except my own. 

She was worried about Draco. Not panicked, since she knew well enough that he could take care of himself. He always had. But worried. Of course, it was a habit of his to go off by himself when something bothered him. It was what was bothering him that was worrying her. 

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she turned right and walked through the drawing room into a smaller room beyond it. This was a room that had always been one of her favorites - it was much smaller than most of the rooms in the Mansion, and had an enormous fireplace. The walls were lined with bookshelves - ordinary books, not the enchanted ones that made up the bulk of Lucius' library. There were several overstuffed armchairs scattered around the room, looking worn, but very comfortable. Narcissa crossed the room to a bookshelf, took down a faded blue album, and sat down in a chair opposite the fireplace. She opened the album, but it was too dim to see, so she reached for her wand and pointed it at the empty grate. 

"Incendio!" she murmured. 

Immediately cheerful red-orange flames burst into life, warming the room and illuminating it. It was now light enough for Narcissa to see that she was not, in fact, alone in the room. Ginny Weasley was curled up along the sofa, her head on her arms. Narcissa reached for her wand again to dim the fire, but it was too late, Ginny was already sitting up, blinking sleepily. When she caught sight of Narcissa, she blushed. 

"Sorry," she said, sitting up and smoothing back her hair. "I didn't mean to collapse in your living room - I was just so knackered." 

"It's fine," said Narcissa, with a smile. "You all must be exhausted." 

Ginny dipped her head so that her hair fell forward across her face. "I was wondering," she said, and paused. "Is, er, Draco back yet?" 

"No, not yet," said Narcissa, turning her attention back to the album, which was full of wizarding photographs. She glanced up at Ginny. "I was just looking at some old photos...would you like to see?" 

Ginny tossed her hair back from her face and smiled. "Are there pictures of Draco when he was a baby?" 

"Multitudes," said Narcissa. 

"Oh, yeah," said Ginny fervently, and hopped over to sit next to Narcissa on the couch. 

Narcissa flipped through the earlier photos, which showed her graduation from Hogwarts - "Is that Sirius?" asked Ginny, peering at the figures in the background. 

"Yes, indeed," said Narcissa. "When he was sixteen." 

"Not bad," said Ginny, in the tone of an expert on the subject. 

There were no photos of Lucius or of their wedding, but, as Narcissa had promised, there were plenty of pictures of Draco. He had been, as Ginny rather suspected he might, a very cute baby. She had seen pictures of Harry when he was a baby. He had been exceedingly fat and angry-looking. Which was also adorable in its way, but Draco had been really a picture-perfect baby boy, with huge gray-blue eyes and silvery hair that stood up in wild cowlicks all around his head. 

"Awww," said Ginny, melting into a puddle. 

"Should I even ask," said a voice from the doorway, "what you two are doing?" 

It was Draco, the adult version, looking at them with raised eyebrows. He was soaking wet, and there was mud on his boots and on the back of his jacket, as if he'd lain down in the mud. Wet, his silver hair was nearly white, a colorless sort of no-color. His eyes narrowed as he glanced from his mother, to Ginny, and back again. 

"Hello, dear," said Narcissa, looking slightly guilty. "We were just looking at your baby pictures." 

"Baby pictures," said Draco, flatly, and shook his head. "Well. If this isn't the cherry of cruelty on top of the sundae of despair that has been my day so far, I don't know what it is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find some dry clothes." 

"Oh, dear," said Narcissa under her breath, as he turned around and walked away. Then she glanced sideways at Ginny. "Oh, go ahead," she said, gently. "Go after him." She smiled. "Better you than me." 

Ginny didn't need to be told twice. She got quickly to her feet and raced out of the room, catching up with Draco near the stairs. 

"Malfoy," she called. "Wait a minute." 

He paused on the bottom stair, turned around, and looked at her. "What?" he said, rather unpleasantly. "You want me to lie down, so you can kick me in the ribs again?" 

Ginny shook her head. "You're a little behind the times," she said, gently, and stepped onto the stair with him. It was surprising that he was so very wet, Ginny thought - it wasn't raining that hard outside. He must have been standing out there for a good long time. She opened her mouth to say something about not having enough sense to come in out of the rain, then shut it again hastily at the look on Draco's face. "Hang on a minute," she said, untying the cardigan she was wearing around her waist. She reached up, and in a rough, sisterly fashion, began drying his face and hair with it. He looked at her askance briefly, but suffered her ministrations with fairly good grace. "Where have you been, anyway?" she asked. 

"Around," he said. 

"You don't look very happy," she said. 

"I'm not," he said. "I'm wet, I'm cold, I've got mud down the back of my shirt, and I'm fairly positive that someone very nasty wants me dead." 

Ginny's eyes widened. "What are you going to do?" she said. 

"Die, probably," he said, looking thoughtful. "After that, I hadn't thought about it. Probably try a spot of moldering away in the earth. That seems to be the done thing." 

"That's not funny!" 

"I rather thought it was." 

"Wel1, it wasn't. Contrary to what you might think, I don't want you dead." 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

"Hermione told us," she said. "About the love potion." 

"Why?" 

She was startled by his vehemence. "Harry overheard us talking," she said. "I suppose she didn't really have a choice." 

"Harry," he said, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead as if he had a headache. "And everyone else? Sirius?" he added, sounding a little wistful. 

"Well, all of us. But we know it isn't your fault-" 

"What does your brother say?" 

Ginny's face fell. 

"Thought so," said Draco. "And Harry?" 

Ginny bit her lip. "He's not-" 

"Not in the mood for quality time with yours truly?" Draco tried to smile, but it didn't quite come off. "Unless said quality time involves him smashing my kneecaps in with a toffee hammer, that is." 

"He's actually not -" she began, and broke off, shaking her head. "Talk to him yourself," she said. "I think they're in the library." 

"All right," said Draco, not moving. "I will." 

"I'm sorry I kicked you," she said, quickly. "I didn't know about the potion, and I thought-" 

He blinked in surprise. She could feel, with her hands on his shoulders, that he was shivering very slightly with cold. "You're sorry?" he said. "Or you're sorry for me?" 

When Ginny didn't respond, he ducked his head to look at her. She began to pull back, feeling awkward, but he caught her left hand - the one that wasn't holding the cardigan - and lifted it, brushing his mouth across the back of her fingers so quickly and lightly that if she had blinked, she would have missed it.  

"Thanks," he said, dropping her hand and turning to go. 

"For what?" She stared after him, bewildered, as he darted up the stairs. "For what?" 

But he was already out of earshot. 

*** 

"Draco wouldn't do that," said Hermione, with finality. 

Ron wheeled on her. "Are you kidding?" he demanded sharply. "This is Malfoy we're talking about here. It's been the dream of his whole life to do something like that. He's probably sitting somewhere, laughing at all of us, the skulking slimeball." 

Sirius interrupted. "I agree with Hermione," he said. "He wouldn't do that. He's far too proud. Induced love just isn't something that would appeal to him." 

"Not normally, perhaps," said Lupin, looking grave. "But as I told him, that sword is a living thing, it has its own malign intelligence. Prolonged contact with it could warp the bearer's mind and personality, make them do things they wouldn't ordinarily do. Make them a danger...to themselves and other people around them." 

Hermione shook her head. "This isn't some low-level meanness we're talking about," she said, quietly. " He wouldn't put our lives in danger, I really believe that." 

"Sorry, Herm," said Ron, not ungently. "But since you're in love with the guy, you're not the most objective character witness. It's not your fault, but there it is." 

Hermione wavered and fell silent, looking furious. 

"In fact," added Ron, eyes dark, "what if he made some kind of - of trade with Slytherin? He joined up with him, offered him something, and in return he got Hermione. She wouldn't even know. It makes sense he'd offer Malfoy something like that - Malfoy wouldn't be interested in money, or magical power, but this is something he couldn't get on his own. Slytherin's probably got his own little army of demons, so he sent one out to pay a house call on Malfoy but it ran into me and Harry instead..." 

Hermione looked desperately over from Lupin and Sirius' grave faces to Harry, who was looking shell-shocked. "Harry," she said, and at the sound of her voice saying his name, he jumped slightly, and turned to her. "You don't believe this, do you?" 

"I don't know," said Harry slowly. "I don't know what to believe -" 

"Maybe you should ask me," said a low, cool voice from the doorway. "Or don't you want to know what the skulking slimeball has to say for himself?" 

It was Draco. 

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb in a relaxed manner - but Hermione could tell, from the coiled tension in his shoulders, that he was far from relaxed. 

Harry lowered his hands and looked over at Draco. He said, "How long have you been standing there, Malfoy?" 

"Long enough," said Draco casually. "I may be a cold-blooded piece of toast, but I've got impeccable timing." 

"Draco -" Hermione began, starting forward. 

Ron caught her arm. "Let's hear what he has to say for himself, Hermione," he said. 

All the eyes in the room were turned on Draco. He didn't move, didn't change expression, but his silver eyes spat angry sparks. "I've got nothing to say," he snarled. "Except that if you think I'd sell my soul for this, you have even less imagination than I gave you credit for." 

"It takes imagination to give you credit for having a soul in the first place, Malfoy," said Ron. 

For a brief moment, Draco almost looked as if he were going to laugh. "You'd be surprised," he said. 

"Draco," said Sirius, leaning forward on the desk, his low voice tense. "You have to tell us what's been happening. Harry's told us some things that are very disturbing, and we need to know that-" 

"You're not my father," said Draco icily, glaring at Sirius. "I don't have to tell you anything. What is it you think you need to know? That I'm not dangerous? Well, I can't promise you that. Especially if -" 

"Nobody thinks you sold your soul," interrupted Lupin, coming around the desk and approaching Draco warily, as if he were a bomb that might go off. "You're being melodramatic. We're afraid for you, not -" 

"Shut up, werewolf," said Draco, evenly. "And don't come near me." 

Hermione saw with a sinking heart how very angry he was. She wasn't exactly sure why, but it was hardly the first time she had run up against his pride in a situation where he felt called on to defend himself. She tried to catch his eye across the room, but he wasn't looking at her; he was looking over at Harry. And Harry was looking back at him, with an odd sort of blank look, which she couldn't quite read. 

"Malfoy," he said, finally. "If there's really nothing wrong with you - then give us the sword." He held out a hand. "Give it to me." 

Draco took a step back. "Fuck you, Potter," he said, and turned around as if he were going to bolt out of the room. But Lupin - who could move very, very quickly when necessary - blocked his way. 

"You're not going anywhere," he said, and reached out to take hold of Draco's arm. 

Draco, trying to yank his arm out of Lupin's grip, twisted sideways, nearly colliding with Lupin as he did so. 

Lupin gave a sudden yell, as if of extreme pain - he fell backwards, stumbling, and landed on the floor. 

Draco backed away from him, white-faced, holding his arm and staring wide-eyed, with an expression that could have been astonishment, or horror, or guilt. 

"Malfoy--!" said Harry . 

And Draco turned and bolted out of the room, not even bothering to slam the door behind him. 

Sirius, who had dropped to his knees on the floor next to Lupin, looked wildly up at Ron, Harry, and Hermione. "Go after him!" he yelled. 

They didn't need to be told twice. Feverishly, the three of them bolted out of the library and into the corridor. 

Which was empty. 

Harry looked up and down the hall briefly, and said, "Split up. Go, both of you," and bolted off to the right. Hermione and Ron dashed to the left, but parted ways at the end of the corridor, Ron racing down the stairs while Hermione turned to the right-- before she suddenly paused and thought: What am I doing? I'm so stupid! 

And reached for the Epicyclical Charm around her neck. 

*** 

"Get off, Sirius. I'm fine," said Lupin irritably, pushing his friend's hands away as he struggled to sit up. He leaned back against the bookshelf, cradling his right arm against his chest. "I'm fine!" he repeated, with emphasis. 

"What happened?" Sirius demanded. "What did he do to you?" 

Lupin's eyes widened. "Draco? He didn't do anything to me." 

"Well, it looked like he did. You grabbed him, and then you yelled and collapsed. Did he hit you? It didn't look like he even moved." 

"No, he didn't hit me, he didn't even touch me," said Lupin. "It was that." 

And he pointed at an object lying on the ground a few feet away that gave off a dull silvery glint. 

"He must have had it in his pocket," said Lupin thoughtfully. 

Sirius looked askance. "What is it? Is it dangerous?" 

"Not to you," said Lupin. "Go on. Pick it up." 

Looking dubious, Sirius retrieved the glinting object held it up to the light. It was the silver pendant that Slytherin had tossed to Draco, that had acted as a Portkey, although there was no way Sirius could have known that. He glanced at the odd shape of it-the sideways X, almost, but not quite, a cross. 

He walked back over to Lupin, who was still sitting on the floor, cradling his arm. Sirius knelt down next to him, holding out the silver X, but Lupin shook his head. "I can't touch it," he said. 

"Why not?" 

"It's a Lycanthe," said Lupin. "Old magic. Protection against werewolves." 

"I thought it was a crucifix," said Sirius, looking askance. "Crucifixes don't bother you, do they?" 

Lupin looked aggrieved. "I'm a werewolf, not a vampire," he snapped. "It's a Lycanthe, like I said. Not a crucifix. Totally different. Very, very old magic." 

"Strange shape," said Sirius, turning it over in his hands. 

"Not really," said Lupin, and smiled a funny half-smile. "Say you're walking through the forest at night," he said. "Alone. No help in sight, and you don't have a wand. Then a wolf jumps out of the darkness, straight at your throat. What do you do?" 

Without thinking, Sirius threw up his arms - one across his throat, the other crossed over it, protecting his face. Making a sideways X. 

"Right," said Lupin. "Lycanthe. Old magic. Like I said." 

Sirius blinked and lowered his arms. 

"The question is," mused Lupin, "why would Draco have something like that? They were common hundreds of years ago - when werewolves were a problem --- but now-" 

He broke off as the library door flew open. Sirius leaped to his feet and spun around, obviously hoping that Harry, Hermione and Ron had managed to retrieve Draco - but it was Narcissa. 

She was very pale. "Sirius -" she said, uncertainly. She was holding two letters in her hand - one, tied with a green-and-silver ribbon, Sirius knew immediately, was Snape's reply. The other she had opened already, and was holding unfolded in her shaking right hand. Sirius could see, even across the room, that it was an official-looking piece of paper, and that it was bordered with black. "Sirius," she said again. "It's Dumbledore - he and Fudge were on their way here and they were attacked - oh Sirius, I'm so sorry..." 

*** 

Draco, who had dashed down a little-used staircase he was fairly sure the others didn't know about, emerged out in the garden, and began racing towards the gate where he had stashed his broomstick. He was halfway there - not running, but walking quickly - when he heard footsteps on the path behind him. 

Harry, he thought. He couldn't have said why, but for some reason, was sure it was Harry. It made sense, didn't it, for Harry to come after him - after all, Harry knew -- 

He slowed to a walk. "It's like you said, Potter," he said, without turning around. "I'm storming off. It doesn't work if you come with me." 

There was a short silence, and the footsteps behind him slowed. Then he heard a voice say, "Draco. It's me." 

He whirled around, and saw Hermione, and felt something that he never would have expected he could feel upon seeing her. But there it was. 

Disappointment. 

He had thought Harry had come after him. 

And Harry hadn't. 

A cold miserable anguish lanced through him like a sharp steel point, and made his voice harsh when he spoke. "You shouldn't have come after me," he said. 

"Where are you going?" she demanded. "Where do you think you can run to?" 

"I was pretty much concentrating on 'away from you', and figuring I'd fill in the rest of it later." 

"This from the guy who thinks Gryffindors can't plan?" Hermione put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You can't go," she said. "This is your house, where you belong. Where else are you going to find people who can help you?" 

"Maybe I don't want help," he said, knowing he sounded as if he were about seven, but unable to help it. 

"Maybe that just proves you need it," she said. 

"And you're completely objective about whether I stay or go, I suppose?" 

"God, you sound just like Ron," she said, sounding surprised rather than critical. "Of course I'm not objective. But I'd be telling you this even if - even if I wasn't in love with you." 

"You're not in love with me," he snapped. "This is just a spell. A spell that makes you think you care about me. But you don't." 

Hermione looked as if he had hit her. "Don't say that. I'm still your friend." 

"Is that why you came bolting after me? Friendship?" 

"I'm not the only one who came running after you!" she snapped. "Everyone's worried -" 

"So where are they?" 

"Looking for you!" she shouted. "But they don't know where you went, idiot. I'm the only one who can find you, because of this-" And she drew out the Epicyclical Charm, on its thin gold chain, holding it up between them. "I always know where you are," she said. "I don't get a choice about that, and neither do you." 

"Why should you get a choice?" he almost shouted. "I don't! I don't get a choice about my family or my life or my destiny, if I've even really got one. And I don't get a choice about loving you, even though I personally think you were put here on this earth to give me pain. I mean, I know I'm not a nice person, but what the fuck did I do in my past life to deserve this? I must have run down a cartload of nuns while driving a stolen carriage on my way to sell drugs to school children." 

Hermione took a shuddering breath. "When I find out how to take this spell off - if there's some sort of way to reverse love, or change it - do you want me to use it on you, too? So you won't -" 

"So I won't love you any more?" He was looking at her in sheer disbelief. "God, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. This -- this isn't even you," he said. "This isn't what you're like. That potion is turning you into someone else." He laughed, not pleasantly. "It's ironic, isn't it? The you that I love loves Harry. This you - this is someone I don't even know." He looked at her, and something in the expression on her face made his voice soften slightly. "Never mind," he said. "It's not your fault." 

"I just thought-" 

"Forget it," he said, walked up to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. She bit her lip. She knew perfectly well that if he were to kiss her, she would kiss him back. She had always prided herself on her self-control, and now, not to have any, was more terrifying to her than to be suddenly blind, or suddenly deaf. She hated it, and somewhere under the potion-induced love, she could tell she was beginning to hate him, too, for what he could do to her. 

He pulled her towards him, and put his arms around her - but made no move to kiss her. Just held her there, his face in her hair, his hands clenched into fists against her back. It was a very awkward hug - the first really awkward thing she had ever seen him do - as if he'd never hugged anyone before. Maybe he hadn't. 

The moment she raised her own hands - to embrace him or push him away, she wasn't sure - his arms went rigid and he shoved her away from him. She felt a sudden sharp pain at the back of her neck, glimpsed a flash of gold as he stepped back from her, and saw the Epicyclical Charm glittering in his hand. He had yanked it off her throat. 

"Now you can't find me," he said. 

"You idiot," she exclaimed, and launched herself at him, grabbing hold of his sleeve and hanging on tightly. She raised her voice, and shouted, "Harry! Ron! We're over here! Harry! Anybody!" 

"Hermione, shut up," he exclaimed, trying to wrench his arm out of her grip, but she hung on with determination. "Let me go." 

"No," she said. 

He looked at her. "I'm sorry, then," he said, and raised his hand, the Charm on its chain looped around his fingers, and pointed it at her -- "I'm sorry, Hermione," he repeated. "Stupefy!" 

She didn't even have a chance to look surprised, just fell backwards, unconscious, onto the grass. He wanted to drop down next to her, make sure she was all right, but there was the sudden sound of running feet on gravel, and he looked up and saw Ginny, standing on the path, staring from one of them to the other. "You knocked her out?" she said, looking utterly amazed. "Draco, what on earth--?" 

"Had to," he said briefly, and started to back up toward the wall, feeling behind him for his broomstick. The sound of more running feet was audible now - Harry and Ron, he thought dismally, as his hand closed around his Firebolt. He mounted it, and looked back at Ginny, standing next to Hermione on the wet ground. 

"When she wakes up, tell her -" Draco began, and felt his throat close up suddenly. Ginny was looking at him, her expression unreadable in the half-light. "Oh, forget it," he finished wearily. "For once in my life, I've got nothing at all to say." 

And with that, he kicked off, leaning forward to grip his Firebolt tightly, soaring upward, vanishing into the night sky. 

*** 

There was just enough illumination in the cell for Lucius Malfoy to see the circle he had drawn on the floor in his blood. They would not, of course, let him have a wand; he had had to bite one of the veins in his wrist open with his own teeth to get what he needed. But it was far from the worst thing he had ever been forced to do. 

Moving carefully, he sat down in the centre of the circle, arranging his robes carefully around him. Then he held his hands out before him, in the left hand his son's Epicyclical Charm held loosely, its dull gold glittering in the faint light. "Vocatio," he whispered, and paused. Did he still remember how to do this? Yes. Yes, of course he did. "Vocatio," he began again, the words of the Summoning spell coming more easily to him now: Master, I have something for you... 

*** 

1) "Probably on account of that one time you beat him up for seven years straight when we were in school." I don't know. I've googled this with no success. Anyone? Bueller? 

2) "If you think that by threatening me you can get me to do whatever you want," he said, and paused, "--well, that's where you're right." - Buffy. 

3)"I may be a cold-blooded piece of toast, but I've got impeccable timing." Buffy. 

4) Lycanthe: The concept comes from Tanith Lee's Lycanthia, in which Lycanthes are symbols scratched in snow to keep werewolves away. I have retained the crossed-X shape. 

Chapter 7