Chapter Ten - Bindings & Summonings  

a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi 

"Enervate." 

Hermione swam up through blind darkness, blinked her eyes open, and saw more darkness. She cried out in a muffled voice, and the darkness vanished, replaced by pale yellow light and an anxious face bending over her. It was Sirius, holding a damp cloth in one hand. "Hermione," he said. "Are you all right? Do you know who I am?" 

She nodded, feeling sharp pain blossom behind her eyes as she did so. Slowly, her senses began to register her surroundings: she was lying on a couch in the Weasley living room, and there was a blanket over her. "Harry," she whispered. "Draco? The others...?" 

"Ron and Ginny are still unconscious," said Sirius, not quite meeting her eyes. "They were hit with Stunning spells, like you were." He hesitated. "Neither Draco nor Harry are here. Hermione, what happened?" 

Tears burst from her eyes. "They're not here? Where are they?" 

"I don't know." 

"Sirius, they could be-" 

Sirius held up a hand. "They're not dead," he said. "Harry, at least, is fine, and I can't imagine that whoever took them would have killed Draco and left Harry alive." 

"How do you know Harry's fine?" 

Sirius leaned forward and pulled up his right-hand sleeve. On his wrist was a flat silver bracelet Hermione vaguely remembered having seen before. In it was set a dark red stone that gleamed the way Crookshanks' eyes gleamed when the light hit them right. Leaning closer, Hermione could see that this effect came from a brilliant point of light inside the gem itself. "I Charmed this bracelet a while ago, just using some hair I took from Harry while he was sleeping. It's a simple Vivicus charm. As long as the gem glows steadily, Harry is alive and healthy." He smiled at Hermione - not a real smile, she knew, but he meant it to comfort her, and she appreciated that. "My Auror training was not entirely wasted, it seems." 

Hermione shut her eyes, trying to think through the pain in her head, which beat in steady pulses that said plaintively: Harry-Draco-Harry. "Where's Narcissa?" she whispered. "And why haven't you woken up Ron and Ginny?" 

"Narcissa Apparated to the Ministry to alert the Weasleys - they should be here any second. And I haven't woken up Ron and Ginny, Hermione, because - because Charlie is dead." 

That brought Hermione into a sitting position, despite the shooting pain in her head. "Dead? Charlie?"  

Sirius nodded, his face drawn and somber. "We found his body in the kitchen. Someone hit him with the Killing Curse." He paused. "Hermione - who was it? What happened?" 

Hermione shook her head, bewildered. Charlie wasn't dead, he couldn't be dead, it didn't make any sense; there was something wrong, something very, very wrong, a piece of the puzzle that didn't fit- Hermione's right hand went up automatically and closed around the Lycanthe. Immediately she felt calmer, more able to breathe normally. She looked up at Sirius, saw the grief in his face, the terrible worry. 

"Sirius," she said. "Let me tell you what happened." 

*** Four hours earlier.*** 

Staring after Ginny as she raced out of the kitchen to fetch Draco, Ron shook his head. "I don't get what she sees in him," he said grimly, glaring down at his milk. "I just don't get it." 

Hermione looked as if she was about to say something, then returned hastily to her book. 

"Ron, you don't know anything's going on between them. Maybe they're just friends," said Harry diplomatically. 

Ron looked over at Charlie where he stood at the stove. "What do you think?" 

Charlie shrugged. "It's Ginny's business, isn't it?"  

Ron tapped his finger impatiently on the table. "Come on, Hermione, you're both girls. She must have said something to you about Draco." 

Hermione didn't look up from her book. "She said he's a Viking in the sack." 

Ron choked on his milk. 

Hermione looked up and grinned. "Just kidding." She returned to Lives of the Hogwarts Founders. "Ginny's never said anything to me about Draco. Yeah, I think she likes him. Does he like her back? I don't know. He's been pretty busy lately, so I think his mind is on other things besides girls. On the other hand," she added, "this is Draco we're talking about, so maybe not." 

Harry's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. Ron, however, was glaring at her. "Go back to reading, Hermione," he snapped. "You are not being helpful." 

"Knowledge is power, Ron," she said primly. "Besides, this stuff is really fascinating." She tapped a book page with her finger. "Slytherin was called the Snake Lord, whether from his ability to transform into a serpent or his habit of keeping snakes as pets, is unclear. Another school of thought holds that the moniker dates from his having survived the bite of the deadly Green Diamond snake, whose venom is known to be fatal." 

"Still waiting to be fascinated," said Ron, coming to stand behind her chair and peering, without much interest, at her book. 

Hermione made a face at him. "Slytherin did survive being bitten by a snake," she said haughtily. "And it left a scar on his arm that later became the inspiration for the Dark Mark he used to identify his followers. He would sear the mark into their skin with the Bruciatura charm. Don't you find that interesting?" 

"On the contrary," grinned Harry. "I think I speak for us all when I yawn and falls asleep." 

Ron grinned. "Well, if they ever start a new class at school called 'Defeating Evil By Reading a Lot', Herm, you'll be top of our year." 

"Ron, I already am top of our year." 

"I knew that," said Ron. "Who's second, anyway?" 

Hermione smiled quietly down at her book. "Draco." 

"Malfoy?" echoed Ron, and even Harry looked surprised. 

"Uh-huh," said Hermione. 

Hermione flipped her book closed and grinned at the boys. "Both of you,' she said, "would be right at the top of our class as well if you studied. And making up fake prophecies for Divination does not count as you well know." 

"Study?" echoed Harry in mock horror. "And suck all the fun out of being young and stupid?" 

Hermione smiled at him. "You won't always be young, you know," she said. 

"No," agreed Ron. "But we'll always be stupid." He paused. "Okay, not everybody rush to disagree." 

Hermione yawned. "I'm done reading anyway." She pushed the book away and leaned against Harry's shoulder. "Actually, I could use a nap." 

"Me too," Harry agreed, and kissed the top of her head. 

"Dinner is ready," announced Charlie, and as he reached to take the lid off the cooking pot the porch door banged open and Salazar Slytherin walked into the house. 

*** 

Sirius looked at Hermione incredulously. "What, just like that? He just walked in?" 

Hermione nodded dully. "Yes. He just walked in." 

Sirius frowned. "Go on." 

*** 

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed inside Hermione's head, which seemed at the moment like a vast empty cave of shock. It was as if a knife had dropped, severing the material of her immediate experience into two perfect halves. One moment, she was sitting at the Weasleys' comfortable, battered kitchen table, her hand on Harry's, Ron standing behind her. And the next moment that world seemed to fall away entirely and all around her was a black void lit by crackling lightning. 

And there, facing them all across the darkness, was Slytherin. 

Hermione stared, barely aware of the reactions of the others in the room - Charlie backing away from the stove, Harry seizing her arm, Ron frozen, rigid with astonishment. She only saw Slytherin. 

She could barely recollect him as he had been before, it was too hard to piece the shards of dread, revulsion and terror into any cohesive memory. But she recalled his dark, sad, empty eyes, recalled feeling pity mixed with the horror and the hatred. He had seemed empty, a hollow shell. But now. Now he was vivid, charged with menace and dark power, and it was entirely possible to see exactly why a whole magical community had once held him in terror and feared to speak his name. Even his face was different; he looked as he had in her dream of him, vital with dark energy, bright-eyed with fever and malice. And young. Was it possible that he looked younger? He more strongly resembled Draco now, in the sharp lines of his face, the angry curves of his bones. 

What had happened? she thought in panic. What had changed him? 

He wore black robes embroidered with stars and moons and winding serpents, but his hands were bare. He carried no wand. His eyes met hers across the room. "Rowena," he said. 

Harry was on his feet so fast Hermione barely saw him move; he pushed her behind him, hard, and her back struck the wall. He gripped her arm with one hand behind his back, the other, his right hand, was outstretched in front of him. Hermione could see over his shoulder the clock on the Weasleys' wall, its face a blur as the hands that were Ron and Ginny spun around to indicate "mortal peril." 

Icy terror gripped her stomach and she could feel her heart slamming against her ribs like a captive animal. She lifted her right hand and clasped the Lycanthe with it, shutting her eyes. I won't let Slytherin take me, she thought. I'd rather let him kill me. 

As if he had heard her thoughts, Harry spoke. "I won't let you take her," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "You'll have to go through me." 

"And me," said Ron from behind her. 

Charlie, standing by the stove, was silent. His hands were balled into tight fists at his side and his green eyes followed Slytherin's progress across the room with a look Hermione couldn't decipher. 

It was as if they Ron and Harry not spoken. Slytherin continued walking towards Harry and Hermione. He moved like a Dementor, she thought frantically. Like a silent black shadow. His cloak was more than black, it was several shades darker than black. It seemed to draw in all the light in the room. Above it, his skin was corpse-white. She felt Harry's grip on her hands tighten unbearably, and then- 

A scream split the room. 

Hermione's head whipped around. 

Ginny was standing on the bottom stair, eyes wide, her hand over her mouth, staring at Slytherin. There was an expression of utter horror on her face. 

"Ginny-" Ron began to move forward, but at a sharp gesture from Charlie, froze in place. 

Slytherin turned and began to walk towards Ginny. "Helga," he said, his eyes as bleak and dark as wounds in his face. "You were kindest of them all. And yet, in the end, you betrayed me too." 

Ginny reached out and snatched up a chair, holding it between her and the Snake Lord. "Don't come near me," she hissed, fiercely. 

"Or what? You will strike me with that rather cheap-looking piece of furniture? Go right ahead. You cannot hurt me." 

As quietly as she could, Hermione began to fumble in her pockets for her wand. She couldn't just stand there and watch Slytherin advance on Ginny - 

"She said not to come near her," came a quiet voice from behind Ginny. "But then I guess listening isn't one of your strong points." 

Slytherin paused. 

The shadows parted, and Draco stepped forward onto the stairs, moving slowly and deliberately. He had changed out of his pajamas but his feet were bare, and in his hand was the sword. 

He's still weak, Hermione thought. He still hurts, and that's why he's moving so slowly, but he continued down the stairs as if nothing were wrong, as if his slowness of pace was nothing more than an expression of insolence. "I mean, sure you can turn into a big snake and all. But really quality listening, you know, that's important too." He was standing on the bottom stair now, next to Ginny. She was still holding the chair. Draco didn't look at her, although he was obviously very aware that she was there. But his eyes were fixed on Slytherin. "You came here for me," he said in a clear, quiet voice. "Why don't you let the rest of them go?" 

Slytherin smiled. It was much worse than Hermione had thought it would be. "What makes you think I came here for you?" 

Draco paled slightly. His eyes darted almost imperceptibly towards Harry and Hermione. And she nearly jumped out of her skin in astonishment. She could have sworn Draco had not moved his lips, yet she could also have sworn he had suddenly spoken, have sworn she heard him say urgently to Harry, Get her out of here. 

And Harry - Harry replied. Distract him. 

Hermione felt Harry's hand slip into her hand - the one not holding the Lycanthe -- his fingers tight on her own, although he didn't look at her. 

Draco's pale eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked at Slytherin. "Am I to take it, then," he asked coolly, "that the offer Wormtail made me still stands?" 

At that, Slytherin seemed to tense. Hermione couldn't help staring at his hands. They were so long and pale and thin they looked like white tarantula legs. "You don't like being told what to do," said the Snake Lord softly. "But think on this. Join with me, and no one will ever be able to tell you what to do again. Not your father. Not anyone." 

"My father's dead," said Draco flatly. He raised the sword like a barrier between himself and the Snake Lord. "As you well know." 

"Honor your father's memory then, and join with me. It is what he wanted for you. What you were born for. Or have you no blood loyalty?" 

Draco stood silently. He had gone very white, and for that moment Hermione thought that in fact he did look very much like Lucius, and even more like the man in her dream, who had sweated and screamed with the pain of the venom in his veins. But when he spoke, his voice was controlled and careful. "I have no loyalty to a line both weak and corrupt," he said. "I want more than that. Can you offer me more than that?" 

Slytherin's eyebrows drew together. Unlike Draco, he did not seem controlled, merely detached. But all his attention was focused on Draco, that much was evident. Harry's hand tightened on Hermione's, and she felt him begin to draw her aside towards the door. They moved as silently as possible, not looking at each other, only inching, slowly, towards the door that led to the garden. 

"Perhaps you do not understand what your dreams are telling you," said Slytherin to Draco. "Perhaps I need to tell you a story." 

"Ooh, I like stories," said Draco. "Especially if it's one of those stories about a girls' boarding school and involves treacle and a pillow fight." 

This time Slytherin merely looked as if he didn't understand. His long spidery fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. Hermione wanted to scream at Draco for provoking him, even though she knew he was doing it on purpose. He had told Harry to get her out of there, Harry and Hermione were nearly at the door now. Draco didn't seem to be looking at either of them, but once again she heard his voice, as she had heard it before, speaking to Harry. Hurry up and get her out of here. 

That's what I'm trying to do! 

Draco turned his attention back to Slytherin. "You know, we've been awfully rude hosts," he said. "Can we offer you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Hydrochloric acid?" 

"You cannot kill me," Slytherin said. 

"There are a lot of things I can't do," said Draco equably. "I can't ballroom dance. I can't see the point of pegged trousers. I can't understand why people own gerbils. I can't make a chocolate souffle that won't fall. I can't --" 

"Your attempts to be funny are merely annoying," said Slytherin coldly. "But your attempts to distract me are actually dangerous. Not for me -- for you." 

He raised his hand. 

And several things happened at once. Draco moved back quickly, pushing Ginny behind him. Harry and Hermione reached the door and Harry stretched out his hand out for the knob. And Charlie made a sudden movement - out of startlement, perhaps, Hermione wasn't sure - and knocked the pot from the stove to the floor with a resounding crash. 

Slytherin spun around and saw Harry and Hermione at the door. His hand whipped forward, and a jet of blackish light shot from his palm. It was like being hit head-on by a crashing wave, knocking them hard against the wall. Hermione heard more than felt the crack of her head against it, and doubled over, clutching her head in her arms, blinded by pain. Finally her vision cleared, and she blinked the tears out of her eyes, looking up - 

To see Slytherin standing over her. He was looking down at her, and at Harry beside her and there was a very odd expression on his face indeed. Not quite satisfaction, not quite hatred, not quite something else. 

"Get to your feet," he said. 

Both Harry and Hermione stood. Hermione saw Draco and Ginny standing frozen on the stairs, watching. Draco had his hand on Ginny's arm. And Charlie had crossed the room to stand by Ron. He had a tight grip on Ron's arm and seemed to be preventing him from moving. 

Slytherin took a step, not towards Hermione but towards Harry, who was standing very still, breathing hard, as if he had been running. Slytherin snaked out one white hand, and, to Hermione's astonishment, ran the tip of his finger down the side of Harry's cheek. "I killed you," said the Snake Lord softly. "I watched your blood run out of you and over my hands. And it burned. My cousin." He took another step towards Harry, who seemed too shocked to move. "And with your dying thoughts you cursed me. You well knew the power of the dying curse of one of our blood. And I had always thought you were stupid." 

Harry winced away from Slytherin's touch, his green eyes gone dark, nearly black. "I'm not Godric." 

Slytherin took a hissing breath, and dropped his hand. "I know who you are," he said. "Harry Potter. You killed my basilisk, the first of my children, my creation. If you think my hatred for you is any less than my hatred for your forefather, you are much mistaken. You will die like he did, and go down into Hell swallowing curses." 

Harry raised his chin. And then he spoke, but Hermione could not understand what he said - his voice came out on a hiss that sounded like a thousand slithering serpents. He was speaking Parseltongue. 

Whatever he said, it struck a nerve with Slytherin. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he didn't move. Then he raised his hand and hit Harry across the face. 

The sound was like a whip cracking in the nearly silent room. It galvanized Hermione; she leaped forward, pushing Harry aside, the Lycanthe in her hand, hurling herself at Slytherin-who smiled at her, and raised his hand again. A flash of blue light flew from his fingers, striking her in the chest and knocking her back against the wall. She heard Harry call out, and knew without knowing how she knew that he was talking to Draco as he had before - silently. 

Give me the sword! Harry called. 

And Draco's voice. Catch it. 

A flash of green and silver. Harry raised his hand, and suddenly he was holding the sword, a little awkwardly, but tightly, in his right hand. She saw Slytherin, his face darkening, saw Harry raise the hand with the sword in it - and pause. 

Because Charlie Weasley was suddenly standing in the middle of the room, directly between Slytherin and Harry. His arms were crossed; he faced Harry, almost as if - as if he were blocking the Snake Lord. "Put the sword down, Harry," he said. 

Harry looked flabbergasted. "But - Charlie -" 

Charlie was pale as death, his eyes glittering darkly. "Harry," he hissed. "You don't know what you're doing." 

He glanced back over his shoulder at Slytherin, who stood motionless, his eyes full of darting shadows. "Put the sword down." 

Harry hesitated. His eyes flicked to the side, his grip on the sword loosening. And once again Hermione could have sworn that Draco called across the room to him, although his mouth did not move, and no one else seemed to hear. Don't do it. 

And Harry replied. But it's Charlie - 

You can't trust him. 

Of course I can. 

Hermione's head suddenly jerked up, and she stared at the clock on the wall. There were the nine hands that indicated each member of the Weasley family - Percy's hand was on "work", Bill's said "travelling" and Ron and Ginny's hands were clustered together at "mortal peril." But Charlie's - 

Charlie's hand just said "home." 

"Drop the sword before you get us all killed," repeated Charlie, not taking his eyes off Harry's face. "Don't play the hero, Harry - is it worth Ron's life, and Hermione's, and Ginny's?" 

Harry went white. 

"Don't!" shrieked Hermione, scrambling up to her knees, "Don't listen to him, Harry!" 

Harry was breathing as if he had been running. His hands were livid on the hilt of the sword. "Charlie-I can't-" 

And Charlie lunged at him, knocking Harry back into the wall, his hand outstretched for the sword. Harry, looking utterly stunned, twisted sideways - 

And Charlie leaped back, clutching the sword in his right hand. Hermione heard Ron yell out "Charlie! No! Don't touch it!" as he flung himself toward his brother, knocking him to the ground, the sword rattling out of Charlie's grasp and skittering away across the kitchen floor. Charlie heaved up with his arms, shoving Ron off him, and scrambled to his knees, reaching out for the sword. There was a flash of movement, and suddenly Draco was there, grabbing at the sword. But Charlie, looking panicked, seized it first - he raised it in his hand, swung it towards Slytherin, calling "Master! It is here!" - then there was a flash of green light brighter than any light Hermione had ever seen, and she heard Ginny scream, and then there was silence. 

*** 

Hermione covered her face with her hands. "That's all I remember." 

Sirius rocked back on his heels, his face bleak. "Jesus," he said. "Charlie? Charlie Weasley? I don't believe it." He glanced towards the kitchen, and she could see through the open door the huddled, blanket-shrouded form that had to be Charlie's body. "It must have been the Imperius Curse." 

Hermione hesitated. "I don't know." 

Sirius' hands were shaking. He looked from Charlie, back over to Hermione. "He offered the sword to Slytherin? He called him 'Master'?" 

Hermione nodded. "I heard him. We all heard him. And Sirius - earlier, when Charlie took the Lycanthe from me, said a very odd-sounding spell over it." 

"Can you remember it?" 

Hermione nodded. "Monitum ex quod audiri nequit." 

Sirius put his head in his hands. When he looked up, his dark eyes were blank. "That's a Clairaudience Charm," he said. "It opens a line of communication between the speaker and someone far away." 

Hermione nodded. "I think he was communicating something to Slytherin," she said. 

He winced. "I can't bear the thought of waking them up," and she knew he meant Ron and Ginny. "I hope for Molly and Arthur's sake that it was the Imperius Curse." 

Hermione sat up slowly, feeling her head spin. "I don't think it was," she heard herself say. 

Sirius glanced over at her. "You don't think Charlie-" 

"No," interrupted Hermione. She got to her feet, refusing Sirius' offer of assistance, crossed the room and walked through the open door into the kitchen. She heard Sirius get to his feet and follow her, pausing in the doorway to watch as she tilted her head back, and looked up at the clock on the wall. 

Ron's and Ginny's hands had returned to the "home" position. Percy's said "work", Fred and George's "travelling", and Bill's... Bill's said 'home." And next to his, was Charlie's, also at "home." 

She bit her lip and turned slowly to the huddled, blanket-wrapped figure on the floor. Then she knelt down by it, and with a swift decisive gesture, yanked the blanket off. 

Sirius leaped in surprise. "Hermione! What are you doing?" 

But she was examining Charlie's body. It was still, already cold, his face slack as if in sleep. Suppressing a shudder, she reached out, took hold of his stiff right hand, and turned it over, palm-up. 

It was unmarked. 

Sirius was staring at her. "What on earth?" 

She dropped the hand, got to her feet. "Charlie touched the sword," she said. "He's not a Magid. It should have burned him." 

Sirius shook his head. "Hermione, I don't-" 

She knew what to do now. She hurried across the room to the fireplace. Ranged along the top of the mantel were seven identical jars, each one labeled with the name of a Weasley child: starting with Bill at the left and ending with Ginny on the right. Hermione picked up one of the silver bottles, flicked it open with her thumb, shook some powder into her hand, and tossed the sparkling handful into the wizarding fire that always burned in the Weasleys' fireplace. 

The flames turned orange, then blue, and a single sharp musical note resonated through the room. Hermione waited, holding her breath - the flames darkened suddenly, and solidified, and then a head and shoulders emerged from the fire, a familiar face turned towards her, blinking and astonished-looking, pushing the dark red hair back from his eyes as he stared at her in surprise. "Hermione," he said. "What's going on? Usually only my mum uses this way of getting in touch with me. Is something the matter?" 

Hermione released the breath she had been holding. 

"Hello, Charlie," she said. 

*** 

Light came first, singing the backs of his eyelids, and then pain - aching pain, in his shoulders, back and legs, as if he'd been thrown hard against a wall. Maybe he had. Harry opened his eyes slowly, and the world danced around him in a whirl of color - primarily blue, with lesser patches of green, black and red. 

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. He was in a room, quite a large one, the walls and floor of which seemed to be made up of smooth blue marble. Black velvet tapestries depended from the walls, picked out in patterns of silver. There was quite a lot of unnecessary, heavy rosewood-looking furniture scattered around the room - chairs, tables, long benches, and a huge, heavy-looking oak wardrobe with two enormous doors that stood propped against the far wall. The ceiling was so high it disappeared into a cavernous dark emptiness. 

There were no doors that he could see, and no windows. 

"Good morning," said a familiar voice in his ear. "Or maybe afternoon, or maybe night, it's bloody impossible to tell in this place. How's your head?" 

Harry looked around. That hurt too. Draco was sitting near him, leaning his back against one of the blue marble walls. He looked unharmed. He was still barefoot, and Harry saw that there was blood on his shirt, as well as long black burned streaks as if he had been dragged through ashes. Harry wondered again what had happened after they blacked out. The last thing he remembered was bright green light - 

He shivered. "My head? Rotten. Where are we?" 

"I'm not sure." 

"How did we get here?" 

Draco replied with a shrug. 

Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, and felt something sticky on his chest. He glanced down and saw that the sleeve of his white shirt was bloody - mostly dried, stiff blood, but some new. Either we haven't been here that long, he calculated, or I'm still bleeding. He pulled his sleeve up, saw the long cut along the side of his arm, oozing dark blood, and winced. 

As if triggered by the sight of his own blood, memory began to come back to him, and with it, fear. He looked up at Draco. "Hermione," he said. "Ron - and Ginny. Are they -" 

Draco looked away. "I don't know." Avoiding Harry's gaze, he stood up. His bare feet made no noise on the blue stone floor as he crossed the room, running his hand along the wall - looking for gaps or chinks, Harry imagined. He was reminded of a cat, curiously prowling the borders of new territory. 

Maybe you don't know, Harry thought at him. But what do you think? 

Draco didn't turn around, but kept moving towards the opposite side of the room. Hermione's all right, he said. I feel it. I think Ron and Ginny are all right as well. Draco turned around, looked at him. But I can't promise you anything. 

I know. Harry couldn't have said why, but he felt that Draco was correct. Hermione was all right. Perhaps his mind was just telling him that because otherwise he might not be able to function, but he didn't think so. Malfoy - what about Charlie? 

Draco paused in front of the wardrobe, his shoulders tensing. Wincing a little from the ache in his back, Harry walked over to stand next to him. "Was it my imagination," he said to the back of Draco's head, "or were Charlie and Slytherin working together? As a team?" 

Draco turned around and looked at him. "Yep," he agreed. There was finality in his calm gray eyes. "I practically expected them to go into a planning huddle." 

"But that's just not possible," Harry argued. "Charlie wouldn't do that." 

"I agree." Draco turned towards the wardrobe, jerked the doors open, looked inside. There seemed to be piles of dark cloth in there, as well as some glittering objects that might be jewelry. Draco began poking at them with an experimental finger. "I don't think that was Charlie." His voice, a little muffled, reached Harry's ears clearly. 

Harry blinked. "Not Charlie?" 

"Not Charlie," said Draco firmly, and then he gave a little shout of surprise or amazement, and exclaimed, "Potter. You've got to see this." He retracted his head from the wardrobe, grinning with sly amusement. "Look at this. Somebody left you a present," he said, and he held out something that flashed red and silver in the blueish light of the room. 

Harry stared in amazement. It was a sword -- Godric Gryffindor's sword to be precise, looking just as he remembered it - perhaps a little smaller, but that was because he himself had grown. He reached out and took it out of Draco's hand, running his own fingers over the smooth blade, the rubies in the hilt that formed the shape of a crouching lion. 

"Why would he leave me this?" he wondered out loud. 

"No idea. But I'll tell you one thing, this place is a lot nicer than I was expecting. Usually, your standard-issue dungeon is pretty grotty. Slime, worms, the howling screams of some poor bastard being tortured in the cell next to yours..." Draco shrugged. "The worst thing we seem to have to contend with here is the somewhat monochromatic color scheme. That, and the lack of food." 

Harry, who had been growing increasingly aware of the rumbling in his stomach, was dismayed. "There's no food?" 

Draco shook his head. "Not that I saw. And I've been over this room a few times." 

Harry sighed. "I guess I wouldn't have trusted any food he provided for us anyway." Holding the sword carefully, he walked to the side of the room and threw himself down on a bench there to study it. A moment later Draco joined him, carrying his own sword. "Hey, Potter. I found a Scrumdidilyumptious Chocolate Bar in my pocket. You want half?" 

"Sure," replied Harry morosely. "Why not." He took half, and looked sideways at Draco, who was engaged in eating his portion of the candy. "I would have thought your busy little mind would've been ticking over possible escape plans by now." 

Draco swallowed, and made a face. "Urgh. Lint. Look, Potter, there's no way out of this room." 

"How can you be so sure?" 

"Well, there are no doors and windows, no secret passageways, no breaks in the stone anywhere, and on top of that-" 

"I thought you were Cunning Plan Guy! What happened to Cunning Plan Guy?" 

"I didn't say I hadn't come up with a plan. I have come up with a plan. I just don't think you'll like it." 

"I might like it," said Harry, around a mouthful of chocolate. 

"No," said Draco, "you really won't like it." 

"Just because I'm a Gryffindor!" Harry said disgustedly. "It's not like I can't appreciate cunning plans, Malfoy. Haven't I gone along with at least six of your harebrained schemes already? Haven't I been there for you, taken your side --" 

Draco grinned hugely. "This is turning into quite an ode to our relationship, Potter," he said. "Keep it up. I'm feeling all tingly." 

Harry settled into a sulk. "That's probably just residual chafing from the leather trousers." 

"Those fucking trousers," said Draco irritably. "I have a feeling that nobody is ever going to let me forget them, even though I only wore them once, even though it was against my will --" 

Harry snorted. "Now I'm imagining Charlie holding you down and forcing the leather trousers onto you." 

"Hey, that's your pervy little fantasy, Potter, not mine." 

Harry glared at him. "Are you going to tell me your bloody plan, or not?" 

"Fine,' Draco said. "My plan was this. We wait here for Slytherin to come and kill us, and when he does, we die horrible, screaming deaths. I was also planning to gout blood and perhaps dribble a bit while I expire. What do you think?" 

Harry was furious. "That's your idea of a winning plan?" 

"I thought it was the most likely option." 

"I can't believe you're just giving up." 

"I'm not giving up; I'm being realistic." 

"You're giving up." 

"I am not." 

"Yes, you are." 

"This is a pointless discussion." 

"But it does pass the time." 

"I can think of better ways to pass the time." 

"I didn't know your bread was buttered that way, Malfoy." 

"What? Oh. Ugh, that is not what I meant. Even if my bread was buttered that way, you'd be last on my list, you're far too short and weedy." 

"I'm the same height as you. I don't know...someone who dresses the way you do...all that attention you pay to your hair..." 

"Paying attention to my hair does not make me gay. Paying attention to your hair, that would make me gay." 

"I bet you do too pay attention to my hair," Harry said serenely. 

"I do not. I couldn't even tell you what color it is." 

Harry put down the remainder of the chocolate bar he had been gnawing on, and placed his hands over Draco's eyes. Draco jumped, and Harry felt the other boy's eyelashes brush against his palms. "What are you doing, Potter?" 

"Tell me what color my hair is," Harry said. 

"I've no idea," said Draco, blinking furiously. 

"Tell me and I'll give you the rest of my chocolate bar half. You're hungry, I know you are." 

"Potter!" said Draco. "You're a sadist." 

"Mmm," said Harry. "Chocolate. Come on, Malfoy. Think of it as an experiment in perception and recall." 

"Oh, fine," said Draco irritably. "Your hair's black, and it wants cutting." 

"Does it?" asked Harry curiously. 

"Of course it does!" Draco's voice was animated. "I don't even know how you can stand going around with your hair looking like you got dragged nine ways through a Tangling Thornbush. And your hair isn't even actually straight, you know, or it wouldn't be if you cut it, it's just too long, and all that weight drags it down. If you cut it, it'd be quite nice and probably curl a bit and you know, I can feel you staring at me, Potter. Stop it." 

"I'm not staring. I'm just thinking that perhaps my hair isn't the only thing around here that isn't actually straight." 

"Bah!" Draco batted Harry's hand away with an annoyed grunt. "You are a Philistine. You know nothing." 

"At least I'm not in denial," said Harry, and handed Draco the last piece of chocolate. 

Draco accepted it with a disdainful look. "Me, gay? Draco Malfoy? Madly loved by all women over the age of twelve? Six times already on The Teenage Witches' 'Most Eligible" list? Author of the best-selling autobiography "Why I Like to Do It With Girls?' I think not." 

"Stop. You're making me laugh. And that makes my stomach hurt. My whole body hurts." 

"It should," said Draco, finishing the chocolate with a regretful air. "Slytherin threw you into a wall. And you've got a black eye going there. Very sporty." 

"Well, you look pretty unscathed," said Harry resentfully. 

In answer, Draco held out his right arm, and pulled up his sleeve. His right wrist was swollen and turning black and blue. "Sprained," he said flatly. 

Harry whistled. "That looks like it hurts." 

"No, it feels great." 

"Shut up, Malfoy. You want me to fix it?" 

Harry could have sworn that Draco hesitated momentarily. Then he sighed. "Sure. Go ahead and try." 

Harry reached out and put the flat of his hand against Draco's wrist. "Asclepio," he said. 

Nothing happened. 

Harry tried again. "Asclepio." 

Nothing continued to happen. Harry shut his eyes, and put every ounce of energy and strength he had into focusing on thoughts of magic, magic and healing, focusing on the shape of the magic, the feel of it, shaping, it, bending it to his will. "Asclepio," he ground out, and opened his eyes to see a startled expression on Draco's face. He glanced down at Draco's wrist, and saw that the blue-black color had faded slightly, the swelling receding - but the wrist still looked far from normal. 

Draco jerked his hand back and looked curiously at his wrist. "It almost worked," he said, sounding surprised. 

"Let me try again," said Harry. 

Draco shook his head, eyes amused. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea." 

Harry opened his mouth to protest - and paused. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as if he'd just run a mile and he felt suddenly shaky and exhausted. "Something very strange is going on here," he observed, and looked up at Draco, who was watching him with a look of sympathy, but no surprise, in his gray eyes. "What do you know, Malfoy? Why was that so difficult?" Anxiety made his voice sharp. "Is there something wrong with me? If there is, tell me. I'd rather know." 

"If there's something wrong with you then there's something wrong with me as well. I tried about sixty spells before you woke up. Nothing happened. It just made me tired. It was like trying to walk through a concrete wall." He glanced sideways at Harry; the light of the room made his light eyes look blue, and reminded Harry oddly of Ron. "It's not us. It's the room." 

"What? How do you know?" 

Draco sighed. "Because I know where we are. Oh, not in the sense of having the slightest idea, geographically, where we are, but I can tell you one thing - this room is a prison. A prison built to hold Magids." He glanced at Harry, who was still looking bewildered. "It's the walls," he said. "Look at the walls." 

Harry reached out and put a hand against one wall, which was cool and smooth and felt less like marble than he would have imagined. Because of course, it wasn't marble. He looked back at Draco, a slowly dawning awareness in his mind. 

Draco grinned, without any mirth. "I knew you'd get it eventually," he said. "What did Lupin tell us: the hardest substance in the world, repels magic, can't be crushed or broken-" 

Harry shut his eyes. "Adamantine," he said. "We're in an adamantine cell." 

*** 

Ginny had never seen the Burrow so full of tension. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were had come home, of course; in the kitchen a white-faced Mr. Weasley was in intense, whispered discussion with a large group of Aurors. Mrs. Weasley, having tearfully kissed and hugged a revived Ron and Ginny as well as Hermione, had retired to her room to lie down. Narcissa had returned to the Mansion, and Sirius had gone to the Ministry to help ascertain the identity of the fake Charlie Weasley. 

"I can't believe that wasn't really Charlie," said Ron, still looking numb with shock. He was sitting on the living room couch next to Hermione, who, pale but composed, betrayed her tension only in the tight grip she was keeping on his wrist. Ginny sat next to them. "I can't believe we didn't realize it wasn't really Charlie." 

"He made dinner," said Ginny in a nauseated tone. "And we nearly ate it. And he could have been anyone. A Death Eater. Wormtail. Anyone." She clenched her fist. "I feel so stupid." 

"When you look at someone, you just assume they are who they seem to be," said Hermione in a dead little voice. "I mean, I thought Harry was the person I knew best in the world, and it took me two days to figure it out when Draco was pretending to be him." 

Ron seemed about to say something to this when the door opened, and Charlie walked in. He looked tired - there were shadows under his normally cheerful green eyes, and his red hair was in tousled disarray. "Hallo, all," he said tentatively. 

Nobody moved. 

"Look, it really is me this time," he said, sounding slightly annoyed. 

They all stared at him. Ron frowned. No one spoke. 

Charlie made an exasperated noise. "Right then, ask me anything," he said. "Ask me what Mum's favorite color is, or what Percy's favorite candy is, or-" 

"What's my name?" Ron interrupted, looking slightly wild-eyed. "What year is it?" 

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Look, we're checking for Charlie here, not massive head trauma." 

"What's my middle name?" Ron demanded. 

"Aurelius," said Charlie promptly. 

This got a reaction even from Hermione. "Aurelius?" she demanded, staring at Ron. 

Ron looked defensive. 'What's wrong with Aurelius?" 

"Well, for one thing it means your initials spell "RAW." 

Ron looked as if this had not occurred to him. "I suppose that's true." 

Charlie was now grinning a tired sort of grin. "Your middle name is 'Aurelius,'" he said to Ron. "Your favorite color is red but you hate maroon, when you were ten you cried because Mum wouldn't let you join a motorcycle gang and change your name to 'Kill Crazy' and last year you told me you thought the prettiest girl in school was -" 

"All right," interrupted Ron, ears bright pink. "You're Charlie. Now belt up." 

Charlie threw himself down into the armchair opposite Ginny and stretched out his legs. "You sure you don't want me to go on?" he grinned, but his expression turned serious as Mr. Weasleys entered the room, looking grave. 

"I'm going to the Ministry," he said to Charlie. "There's twenty Aurors outside already the house and the AC is sending over twenty more. But I want you to stay here." His glance swept over Ron, Hermione and Ginny, and the implication was clear: Stay here and keep an eye on the kids. "You lot," he said to the three teenagers on the couch, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. "With forty Aurors outside, this should be the safest wizarding house in Britain. But I want you three to stay inside. You're not to go outside for any reason, not even into the garden. Not until I come home and tell you otherwise. Understood?" 

Ron looked at him, spoke for them all: "Understood." 

Mr. Weasley looked as if he were swallowing past a lump in his throat, and nodded briskly. "All right, then," he said, and Disapparated. 

Hermione stood up. "I'm tired," she said. "I think I'll go get in bed, do some reading." She looked at Ron. "Could I borrow a t-shirt or something to wear?" 

Ron got to his feet after her. "I'll get you some pajamas from upstairs." 

Ginny watched as her brother and Hermione walked up the stairs, and felt a sudden flash of an envy she had nearly forgotten. Ron, Harry and Hermione had always formed such a perfect little circle; no one else had ever been able to get in. Then Draco had come along and seemed to have effortlessly punched his way into the circle, and if he wasn't always welcome, there was certainly no question that he was going away any time soon. If nothing else, Hermione's sheer determination would keep him part of the group, and Ron and Harry would always, in the end, do whatever she wanted. But she, Ginny, often still felt as if she didn't quite belong, as if she were an outsider who had showed up at a party without being invited. 

"Ginny." It was Charlie speaking, looking at her with questioning eyes. "Did you really think that that person was me? That I would do something like that?" 

Ginny bit her lip, trying to focus her thoughts. "Well, at first you - he - seemed perfectly normal, and then at the end everything happened so fast we didn't really have a chance to think anything. Then we were unconscious." She raised her eyes to her brother's, saw the worry in his expression, the shadows in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Charlie," she said, her voice cracking. "It wasn't fair even to think that for a minute." 

But Charlie, studying his hands, took a moment to reply. "It's hard to say," he said finally, "just what people really are capable of. You never know, people sometimes think they're doing the right thing, and then it turns out to be a mistake, but it's too late to change things." 

Ginny was confused. "What are you talking about?" 

Charlie smiled faintly. "Just rambling pointlessly. Ignore me. Come on, let's go into the kitchen - I'll make you some tea." 

*** 

"According to his Apparating License, his name is Alexander Taylor," said Mad-Eye Moody to Sirius, who was standing next the body on the gurney with his hands in his pockets and an intent expression on his face. The moonlight streamed through the small barred window overhead, turning the edges of Sirius' dark hair red. "And according to his Ministry Registration, he's a werewolf." 

"A werewolf?" Sirius glanced down at the body of the man who had disguised himself as Charlie Weasley. The glamour he had been under was fading with death; the red hair turning black, the distinctive Weasley freckles disappearing. "Actually, that makes sense." 

"Does it?" said Mad-Eye neutrally. 

Sirius nodded without answering. Mad-Eye knew about Lupin - nearly everyone in the wizarding world did - but Mad-Eye also knew Lupin. He had been one of Sirius' instructors during his days of Auror training, and had met him not infrequently. He knew of their friendship. "What I don't get," added the scarred old Auror ruminatively, scratching his head, "is how the attacker" --(so far, no one had mentioned Slytherin by name, but had referred to him simply as 'the attacker' - trying not to sound too mad, Sirius suspected)-"managed to get into the house. Arthur Weasley is no fool; he's got his house well warded." 

Sirius shrugged. "The wards are set to recognize family members by sight, so it's no big mystery how the false Charlie got in. As for the rest, Hermione Granger told me that 'Charlie' spent the afternoon 'working in the garden'. I suspect what he was actually doing was taking the wards down. It wouldn't be too hard to do from on the property. And then, when he was done, he Summoned his Master." Sirius sighed, feeling weary. He raised his eyes and glanced around; he and Mad-Eye were alone in the dark corridor. "Has he got any family?" 

"Who? The werewolf?" 

Sirius nodded. 

"Not that we can find a record of. Probably the best thing, too, considering..."  

"Considering what?" asked Sirius sharply. 

Mad-Eye wasn't looking at him, but down at the body of the man on the gurney. "He has injuries," he said. "On his hands. Not defensive injuries. As if he clawed his way out of something. A cage, some kind of holding pen. The glamour hid them. I suspect he was being Called. I suspect all the werewolves in Britain are being Called and that's what's behind this plague of werewolf sightings that's been in the news." 

Sirius tensed. "That's an interesting theory." He had so far told no one about Lupin being Called, and didn't want to mention now that he might have any special knowledge of Calling, werewolves, Slytherin, or anything else. He knew this made no sense logically, and perhaps ethically as well, but he didn't care. He wasn't prepared to answer questions about Remus and that was final. 

"It's not a pleasant process, being Called," said Mad-Eye, avoiding Sirius' eyes. "It's agonizing, and it goes on and on until the one being Called either answers the summons, or dies." 

Sirius looked down, his hands tight on the metal edges of the gurney. The red gem in his bracelet winked as he turned his wrist. "Is there nothing that can be done for the condition?"  

"There was talk of creating a potion to cure it, back when the Dark Lord was in power, but I don't know if anything ever came of that." Mad-Eye was still refusing to look at Sirius, who was glad. Mad-Eye cleared his throat. "And the Weasleys. How are they managing?" 

"They're all right. They were frantic at first, still are probably, but the Burrow is knee-deep in Aurors right now. They'll have a constant twenty-four-hour guard of forty Aurors at least, ringed around the house and the grounds. There won't be a safer wizarding house in Britain." 

"And will you be one of those Aurors?" Mad-Eye asked. Sirius suspected that Moody would have liked to be one himself, but in consideration of his age (103, by all accounts) Mad-Eye had lately been restricted to inactive duty. 

Sirius shook his head, and looked down again at the body of the man on the gurney. Close up, it was easy to see the telltale signs that marked him as a werewolf: the glassy nails, the slightly elongated index fingers. Alexander Scroton was not the first dead werewolf Sirius had ever seen; nor, at this point, did he think he would be the last. 

"No," said Sirius. "I'm going home. There's something I have to do." 

*** 

Hours had passed. The adamantine room was quiet. Harry was sleeping on a long wooden bench, his arm over his eyes. Draco stood by the wardrobe, looking at himself in the mirror that hung on the interior door. 

Normally looking in mirrors was one of Draco's favorite activities, but at the moment he found himself vaguely troubled by the reflected image that met his gaze. He had taken some of the clothes from the wardrobe and changed into them, grateful to be rid of his bloodstained shirt. He now wore a shirt made of some tough, unfamiliar black material, black boots (a size too big, his feet slid around in them) and over that, a long black cloak that fastened across the chest with a silver chain whose links were tiny, interlaced serpents. Dark green piping banded the hem of the cloak. It wasn't that he didn't look good in them (of course he looked good in them! - dashing and mysterious). It was that these were the clothes he had reached for instinctively when he had opened the wardrobe; the cloak was also the same his dream-self had worn, standing in the center of a circle of demons and bartering away his soul. He heard the demon voices again in his head: There is a natural balance to all things. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing. He raised his head, saw the mirrored image raise its head in answer, the blue light in the room giving his ashen skin and silver hair a dark, gunmetal sheen. When will I have to pay? Or perhaps I should ask: What will I have to pay? 

He turned away from the mirror, and crossed the room to look at the tapestries on the wall. They were very beautiful in their own weird way - the largest was woven with silver and gold thread picked out against a background of black velvet; it showed stars and moons and constellations and galaxies and universes, whirling and glittering and drawing in the eye until you forgot what you were looking at and wandered through the spaces between the stars. Malfoy Manor had always been filled with things that were grand, but not many that were beautiful, and Draco found that looking at the tapestry touched him oddly. He put his hand out and felt the material, which was dusty and stiff and not nearly as nice to feel as to look at. 

The other tapestries showed scenes of wizard court life and battle and hunting. There were various magical beasts depicted - dragons and basilisks, hippogriffs and werewolves, groups of veela riding huge beasts with lion bodies, heads like men, and scorpion tails. Draco didn't know what those were, but would not have wanted to meet one in a dark alley. The last tapestry showed a coat of arms: a silver dragon, rampant, facing to the sinister. The banner that wove beneath its feet bore a motto in Latin: IN HOC SIGNO VINCES. Draco poked at it with his finger, and found the tapestry as cold as ice to the touch. 

He backed away, looking over at Harry, who was still sound asleep, and a vague sense of unease flitted over him. He suspected that Harry might have a mild concussion - after Slytherin had Stunned Hermione, Harry had thrown himself at the dark wizard. Slytherin had promptly picked him up as if he had weighed no more than a kitten and thrown him headfirst against the opposite wall. At which point Draco could no longer quite recall what had happened. He had a feeling he and Ron had attacked Slytherin simultaneously, but his short-term memory seemed to be shot and he couldn't be sure. 

Nor was he sure exactly what the symptoms of a concussion were. Harry had certainly seemed lucid enough before, and now that he was asleep he was sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling with regular, shallow breaths. Of course, maybe sleeping soundly was a sign of a concussion. Suddenly uneasy, Draco got to his feet, went over to Harry, and jabbed a finger into his sternum. 

"Ow!" Harry woke up with an indignant cry and fumbled for his glasses. "Malfoy, you creep. What was that for?" He sat up, looking injured, and rubbed at his solar plexus. 

"Nothing. Go back to sleep, Potter." 

"I can't," said Harry irritably. "I'm awake now." He put his glasses on and blinked at Draco. "What on earth are you wearing?" 

Draco shrugged. "I changed into some of the clothes from the wardrobe over there." 

"You're letting Salazar Slytherin dress you now?" 

"Say what you will about the man - he may be a creepy, soulless, undead zombie with a weird thing for snakes, but he's got impeccable taste in clothing." 

Any response Harry might have felt moved to give was cut off by a grinding noise coming from the vicinity of the opposite wall. Both of them spun around to see a dark opening appear in the wall, and a hand reach through it, holding something round and flat. There was a clang as it dropped what it was holding, and before the boys had time to do much more than stare in surprise, the hand was withdrawn and the dark opening vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. 

Draco darted over and knelt down by the dropped object, Harry following closely on his heels and looking curious. "What is it? A bomb?" 

Draco shook his head. "Dinner." He grinned down at what had turned out to be a very ordinary-looking platter on which rested some sandwiches and a flask of water. "Cheese sandwiches, to be precise." 

Harry looked mistrustfully at the food. "Malfoy, I don't think you should-" 

"Oh, shut up. If he wanted us dead, he could have killed us while we were unconscious. You have thirty seconds, then I'm going to eat your half of the sandwiches." 

Grumbling, Harry plonked himself down on the floor next to Draco. For the next few minutes, they ate in semi-companionable silence. A small squabble broke out over who got to eat the last sandwich, eventually resolved by a furious and silent tug-of-war which resulted in both parties getting far more cheese on their robes than they got in their mouths. Draco was busy trying to make his last sandwich half last when Harry suddenly looked at him with round eyes. "Malfoy, I've just had an idea." 

"Did it hurt?" asked Draco good-naturedly. 

Harry scrambled up onto his knees, brushing bits of cheese sandwich off his shirt. "Get me angry," he said. 

Draco choked on his sandwich. "Pardon?"  

"You heard me. Like last time, with the case in Lupin's office. Get me angry, maybe we can break down the walls. I bet you've got something up your sleeve that would really annoy me; you always do." 

Draco shook his head. "It wouldn't work. You're wise to it now. If I told you something, you'd just figure I was lying." 

Not if you told me like this. You can't lie telepathically. Harry was grinning now, his hair sticking up wildly. He reminded Draco of a cheerful bunny rabbit or some other fluffy little animal that didn't quite know how vulnerable it was. Come on, it's a brilliant idea. 

"No," Draco heard himself say. 

Don't be a prat, Malfoy. 

Draco shook his head. "I won't do it." 

"Come on," insisted Harry, catching at Draco's sleeve. "I bet it'll even be fun for you. You love winding me up." 

"Potter, these walls could be ten feet thick for all we know. Do you know how hacked off you'd have to get?" 

"Well, no one annoys me as much as you do," pointed out Harry, only half-joking. 

Draco yanked his arm out of Harry's grasp and whirled to glare at him furiously, his voice coming out on a hiss. "You don't know what you're asking." 

The ferocity in Draco's tone made Harry jump back. A look of hurt flitted across his face before he set his chin stubbornly. "Fine. Look, I was just joking. Don't get all wound up." 

Harry sat back against the wall next to Draco, who was now staring furiously down at the half-sandwich that lay in his lap. After a moment of silence, he picked it up and, in a burst of childish irritation, threw it at Harry. 

Harry looked down in surprise as the sandwich bounced off his arm. "That was mature, Malfoy." 

"So what?" Draco had his arms crossed over his chest and was glaring at the far wall. He knew he was being childish, but didn't feel able to do anything about it. 

"I've had another idea." 

"So have I, and it's that you should go away." 

Harry ignored this. "Don't you want to hear my idea?" 

"Is this another world-beater like your last one?" 

"I want you to teach me how to use that sword." 

Now Draco turned and looked at him. "What?" 

Harry gestured towards Godric's sword, which was propped against a low rosewood table. "We've got two swords, and nothing else to do. I might as well learn." 

Draco bit his lip. "The swords aren't bated..." 

"Bated?" 

"They should have beads on the tips...to keep them from being sharp. If you're going to learn on them." 

"Did you learn on bated swords?" 

"No," Draco admitted. 

"Well, then." Harry walked over, picked up Godric's sword, and turned to face Draco. He presented an odd picture in his jeans, bloodstained shirt, and worn sneakers, the glittering, jewel-encrusted sword held tight in his right hand. 

Draco sighed. "Fine, but we'll take it slowly. Hermione will not thank me if I ruin your looks by slicing off your nose." 

"Hermione would love me even if I had no nose," said Harry, with enviable conviction. 

"And how much fun it will be," said Draco, getting to his feet and reaching for his own sword, "finding out if that's true or not. Shall we?" 

*** 

Ginny looked up as Ron came into the kitchen, carrying a blue-bound book in his hands. 

"How's Hermione?" she asked. 

"She must be all right. She gave me homework." He waved the book in his hand at them (Tandy's Magical Reference Dictionary, Vol. S). "I'm supposed to be looking up spells having to do with sleep. And dreaming." 

"Anything so far?" asked Charlie, proffering a plate of biscuits. 

Ron flopped into a chair. "Nothing about sleep spells, or dreams either, for that matter. Although if you want to make pastries invisible or summon up a troupe of can-can dancers in luminous lederhosen, I'm your guy." 

"Charlie?" It was Mrs. Weasley, standing in the doorway, wearing one of her more patched old robes and looking tired. She smiled when Ginny glanced up at her. 

"Lo, Mum," said Charlie. "Tea?" 

"No. There was just something I wanted to show you. I was cleaning up Percy's room, you know, to take my mind off things, and I found this in a pocket of his pajamas." She held out a folded white piece of paper. "It's addressed to Draco Malfoy." 

Eyes widening, Charlie took the paper. "Thanks, Mum." 

Mrs. Weasley smiled and left. Charlie began unfolding the paper. Ron craned his neck over to see get a better view. "What's it say?" 

"Nose out, Ron," said Charlie, not unkindly, and started scanning the letter. As he read it, his face set into a strange expression. 

"Come on," wheedled Ron. "What's Snape say? Is he dead? What?" 

Ginny snorted. "Yes, Ron, because if Snape died, he'd be sure to write to Draco and tell him all about it." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Charlie said, and grinned. "He'd be way too busy with the funeral to write." 

"Charlie," groaned Ron, but Charlie, ignoring him, got to his feet, went over to the fireplace, and knelt down by the flames. 

"Auditori Malfoy Mansion," he said, and after a few moments, Narcissa's head and shoulders appeared among the low flames. "Yes?" she said. She looked exhausted, her eyes ringed by black shadows. When she recognized Charlie, her dark eyes widened. "Is there any-" 

"News? No," said Charlie, gently but firmly. "I'm sorry." 

She bit her lip. "Is everything all right, then?"  

"As well as can be expected. I've got something here I thought might be of interest to you and Sirius. Is he around?" 

"He came home, but he went straight to the dungeons. I think he's checking on - well, the situation." 

"Ah," said Charlie diplomatically, and held out the folded white square of paper. Narcissa reached a pale slender hand out of the fire and took it from him. "It's addressed to Draco," said Charlie. "From Snape." 

Narcissa's eyes flicked up to Charlie, then back down to the letter. 

"Apparently Snape brewed up some kind of Willpower potion for Draco," said Charlie. "To help him resist the pull of Slytherin. I thought Sirius might be interested--" 

But Narcissa, clutching the parchment, had already vanished. 

*** 

She dreamed she stood in a clearing at the heart of a forest, and in the center of the clearing was a tree. It was the greatest tree she could ever have imagined, and more than that. The giant roots rose above her head like the rafters of a monstrous hall. Beyond the she could see the huge twisted trunk of the tree going up and up and up, and far beyond that, so high that drifting clouds and distance made it hard to see, she could just make out the great dark shadowy spread of leaves and branches. A tiny black speck floated among them. As it drew closer she saw that it was a glittering flying thing - not a bird, but a small winged serpent with jeweled scales. 

It landed on the earth a few feet from her, twisted, rippled, and became a man, standing. She felt no surprise; she had already known it would be him. He was pale, very pale,, and he wore dark green robes. Something was bound around his waist - a sword, she saw. He looked both contained and terribly tense, the skin of his face tight against the bones, his eyes, once silver, black now, fixed on hers. 

"You called me here," he said, and his voice was unyielding. "What do you want?" 

"I wanted to give you this," she said and held out in her hand something that glittered like a sparkling stone. 

He made no move to take it. "So it is final, then?" 

She nodded. "It's final. I will be your Source no longer." 

"This is because of Godric," he said furiously. 

"Godric has nothing to do with it." 

"I could force you," he said ruminatively. "There are ways." 

"An unwilling Source is useless," she said. "You know that." 

"And it doesn't matter to you that I love you?" 

She raised her chin. Glared at him. "You don't love me." 

He crossed the clearing, seized her by the wrists, stared down at her. She looked at him, at his face, so changed now. She had thought he was gentle once, a feeling person, sensitive even. And there was sensitivity in his eyes, but only of the most narrow kind - sensitivity that felt only its own pain, comprehended only its own needs, suffered only when its desires were thwarted. "How can you say that to me?" he hissed. 

"Because it's true. You don't love me. You simply want me like you want more power, more knowledge, more monstrous creatures to do your bidding. And that I love Godric, that only makes you want me more. That's not love, only avarice-" 

He caught her by the hair and pulled her sharply against him. She tried to pull away, pushing at his hands as he grinned at her. "Fight me, why don't you," he hissed down at her. "Bite me, claw at me. But no, you can't bring yourself to hurt me. Not even in this." 

"I can hurt you," she hissed back. "I will." 

This had been the wrong this to say. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, you are planning something, aren't you? You and the others. Godric, and Helga. I know it. I hear things." 

"We're just protecting ourselves." 

"Then why are you making Keys for a weapon?" 

Her heart seemed to freeze inside her chest. She stared at him, her blood pounding out words: How does he know? How does he know? 

His smile widened. "I have informants," he said. "Don't think you can do anything without my knowing about it. And don't think that just because I've lost you as my Source, I am weak." He grinned like a skull. "I have another Source of power now." 

"Salazar, what-" 

Her words were cut short as his mouth came down on hers. At first she grit her teeth to keep him out, but he had also cut off her breath, and eventually her lips parted to gain air. He tasted like cold metal. Horror assailed her, but even as it did her blood pounded hard in her ears and she wondered despairingly how the one person you loved best in the world could somehow become the person you most hated. 

She turned her face away. "Let me go-" 

But he had already pulled away from her, releasing her, laughing as she turned to run, and his laughter was the last thing she heard as she -- 

The dream shifted. 

She was sitting in a room she recognized: the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Facing her across the table was a man she had never seen in dreams before, but knew immediately: dark hair, tall, dark eyebrows knitted together in a scowl. An honest, worried face. Dark green eyes. A number of items lay scattered across the table - books, parchment, quills, a mortal and pestle, the scabbard of a sword, the Lycanthe, an object that looked like an hourglass or an infinity sign. 

"We're going to have to kill him, you realize," he said. 

She shook her head vehemently. "No. I don't want to do that." 

"There's no other way, Rowena." 

"There is another way. Helga and I have been working on additions to the curse. Even should he be able to wake from it, to shake off the spell, he will not be able to leave the area we have bound him in. We will turn his own monsters against him and make them his guardians-" 

"All this," said Godric. "All this just to keep him alive?" 

"I can't kill him, Godric. I can't. There's still some good in him, something that can be redeemed, and while he is held I will discover how that can be accomplished-" 

"So much effort expended to preserve a life that is worth so little," said Godric in a bitter tone. "The Dormiens Curse will not hold him. It binds the soul of a man. And I am not sure that he has much soul left for us to bind." 

"There is one more thing," she heard her own voice say, haltingly. 

Godric looked up. "What?" 

She met his gaze squarely. "Have you ever heard of an Epicyclical Charm?" 

Hermione felt her own sleeping body jump in shock, and if as a result of that shock Godric's face wavered and vanished. She tried to clutch at the shreds of the dream, but heard only voices echoing in her head, clear if muffled, like voices heard in another room; Helga's, her own: "We will have to prepare faster, that's all. The Lycanthe is ready, the Turner, now we just need Godric's Key." The voices rose to a jumbled scream. "What Source is he using, if not me? Where would he find another Magid willing to be his Source?" "Maybe it's not a Magid at all. Demonic power. He could have called upon something....." " We need to hide the Keys." "Helga can hide them. She knows how to put up wards." "There is so little time-" 

"Hermione."  

Someone had her by the wrist, and was saying a name, but it wasn't her name, or was it? She blinked her eyes open and saw a formless dark mass of shadows, which resolved itself slowly into a black-and-white Ron, sitting on the edge of her bed and peering at her anxiously. "Hermione." 

Dizzily, she reached out and caught at him with her free hand, pulling him forward with such force that he nearly overbalanced. "How--" she caught herself on a ragged gasp, and closed her eyes, her heart pounding. "I was dreaming," she said, half to him, half to herself. 

Ron pulled back slightly, sitting up but not taking his hand off her wrist. "I figured. You were shouting - actually you were yelling for, um, Godric. Would that be Godric Gryffindor, and is there something I should be telling Harry, because I really don't think-" 

Hermione hit her head gently against his shoulder. 'Shut up." Ron sighed, but didn't move. She could hear the gentle thump-thump sound of his heart, steady as a metronome, reliable as Ron himself. "I heard all these voices," she whispered, looking up at him. "Rowena and Godric - they were talking about the Keys, and where they were hidden. I think Ginny's right, I think there's something on the grounds here, maybe in the cellar-" 

"Hermione," cut in Ron. "They're just dreams." 

"No." Hermione spoke firmly. "They're not just dreams." She reached out, took hold of the Lycanthe, and held it out to Ron. "This connects me to them. To Harry and especially to Draco. I could dream what he was dreaming, maybe I can see what he's seeing. Anyway, I'm learning from it. I'm beginning to understand how everything is linked together - how what happened in the past is affecting what's happening now." 

She paused. Ron was looking at her steadily, and she thought she saw concern in his clear blue eyes. "Hermione," he said slowly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but - you seem a little too - intense about this. I don't know what that thing is-" he jerked his chin towards the Lycanthe - "but you're looking at it the way Draco looked at that sword of his. I don't like it." 

"Not all power is bad, Ron." 

"Maybe not," he said, detaching himself from her and standing up. "But how can you tell the difference?" 

She shivered a little, although it wasn't cold in the room, and tugged at her sleeve. Ron had given her a pair of Fred's old pajamas, and over that she wore the sweater than Mrs. Weasley had knitted Harry for Christmas their fourth year. It was emerald green with an embroidered dragon that snaked across the front. Harry had worn it once last summer at the Burrow and they had all laughed at him - he had grown so much that the sleeves of the sweater rode up over his wrists and an inch gap of skin showed between the bottom of the sweater and the waistband of his jeans. Laughing, Harry had stashed the sweater in the back of Ron's closet, where it had remained until tonight. 

She liked wearing it - it was warm, it was familiar, it smelled like Harry. She had always thought people pretty much smelled like the soap they used, but had come to realize that wasn't true -- Ron always smelled like a combination of cut grass and buttered toast, Draco like cloves and pepper and lemon zest, and Harry smelled like soap and chocolate and some other scent that was just uniquely Harry and somehow alleviated the sick sense of missing him. Not entirely, of course. But a little. 

"I don't know," she said finally. "I'm not sure I can." She raised her head and looked at Ron, who was standing by the window now, looking out at the garden. "And I'm afraid." 

Ron looked over at her. Faint moonlight traced the shadows under his eyes, lined his lashes with silver, turned his hair black. "Come here," he said. 

Hermione stood up and went to join him at the window. 

"Look outside," he said. 

She followed his gaze. Outside the moonlight was so piercingly white that the garden almost looked as if it were buried in snow. The trees were edged in silver; the light of the moon so bright it snuffed out the stars. But that wasn't what Ron had been pointing at; he was indicating the solid line of black-cloaked figures that stood in a ring around the garden, their backs to the house. Aurors. They stood so still they resembled standing stones. 

"Doesn't that make you feel a little bit less afraid?" asked Ron, and Hermione looked at him, thinking that he still didn't understand that she wasn't afraid of what was outside so much as she was afraid of what was inside - inside her, inside Draco, inside Harry and Ginny, what engraved pattern of history, genetics and destiny they might carry inside them, inescapable, endlessly repeating. She looked past him, out of the window, towards the garden where the moonlight glinted off the water of the quarry in the distance. 

Suddenly she swung around, and looked wildly at Ron. She found that she was clutching the Lycanthe in her right hand, so tightly she could feel the points digging into her palm. "Ron. The quarry." 

"What about it?" 

"The wards." 

"What about the wards?" asked Ron, sounding vaguely exasperated. "Or is this one of those games where you say a word and I'm supposed to respond with the first thing that pops into my mind?" 

"No, it's not a game. Ron, you said that every time your parents tried to empty out the quarry it just filled itself up again, right? It's got some sort of magical wards on it, really powerful ones if your parents couldn't break them. Now what if those wards were put in place to protect something that's under the quarry? Something that was put there...a thousand years ago?" 

Ron stared at her for a moment. Then a grin flashed across his face, lighting his eyes. "And all this time I thought you were just faking being clever." 

Hermione grinned back. "Have you got a shovel?" 

*** 

Sirius stood in the dungeon, the demon at his back, through the bars of its cell he faced the werewolf that had been Lupin. It had ceased flinging itself against the bars some time ago and now crouched, narrow-eyed and whimpering at intervals, at the far side of the cell. 

Sirius stood, an object in each of his hands, and looked at the wolf, and heard Mad-Eye's voice in his head. It's not a pleasant process, being Called. It's agonizing, and it goes on and on until the one being Called either answers the summons, or dies. 

Slowly, he raised his left hand, in which something flashed and glittered through the murky underwater light of the dungeon. "I found this in my vault at Gringott's," he said softly, not looking at the wolf, but at what he held in his hand. It was a key, made out of brass, with a head carved of bone into which had been set a number of sparkling dark jewels. "James gave it to me to give to Harry. The problem being, of course, that Harry isn't around for me to give it to him and James isn't around to tell me what it's supposed to be for. And I don't know what to do with the blasted thing myself. It's obviously magical, but a key, even a magical key, isn't much bloody good without a lock, is it? Now, I know what you'd say, Moony. 'Sirius, you're being obvious.' 'Sometimes a key isn't just a key.' And sometimes a boy isn't just a boy, sometimes he's a wolf, too. That's something I learned from you. I always told you it wasn't that important. But maybe I was wrong." Sirius paused, aware that he was rambling, and leaned his head against the cold bars of the cell. "Oh, what's the point? You don't understand a word I'm saying." 

As he leaned forward, the wolf whimpered, and skittered back. 

"He fears you," said the demon at Sirius' back. "He knows why you have come."  

"And how do you know?" snarled Sirius, not turning around. 

"I see what you are holding in your right hand. Do you think you can slay a werewolf with such a blade? It is not silver." 

Sirius turned around slowly and looked at the demon with bleak black eyes. "You'd be surprised how many things a knife to the heart will kill." 

'The Killing Curse is cleaner," observed the demon. 

"He deserves better than that," said Sirius. He was still looking down at the knife, which he had taken from Lucius' armory because it was the finest weapon he could find, and because the opals in the hilt reminded him of moons, and it seemed fitting. In the back of his mind came something Lupin had said to him once, looking up at the half-moon as he did so, We think that we invent symbols, but in reality they invent us. We are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges. 

It truth, it wouldn't matter what kind of weapon he killed his friend with. He would still be dead. 

He'd do it for me, Sirius thought. But the thought lacked the resonance it had had before. 

The demon chuckled. "You cannot do it." 

Sirius ignored it. 

"Perhaps," said the demon, "there might be another way?" 

The demon shrugged. "Very well. I did not come here to bargain." 

"What did you come here for?" snarled Sirius. "You said you didn't come to kill Harry, but you tried to-" 

"I was not trying to kill him! I was trying to warn him!" 

"You attacked him!" 

"I tried to make him listen. I tried to tell him that his life was in danger from the Snake Lord. But he and the other, the seventh son, they did not want to hear me." 

Sirius stood motionless, his heart beating hard. Surely the creature was lying - and yet- "Why?" he demanded. "What do you care what happens to Harry?" 

The demon shrugged. "We do not care. You are asking the wrong questions." 

Sirius took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the demon's red ones. "Who are 'we'? What's your name, anyway? Do you even have one?" 

The demon looked shifty. "Very well. As a sign of good will I will tell you my name. It is Strygalldvir. Conjure with it and I will eat your heart and liver." 

Sirius doubted he'd be doing much conjuring with a name he couldn't even pronounce. "So what does Slytherin want with Harry?" demanded Sirius, and by reflex glanced down at the red jewel in his bracelet, which pulsed with a steady light. "And what is the interest of Hell in these proceedings?" 

"We are owed a life," said the demon. "The bargain made with the Snake Lord was that most binding of bargains: the gift of demonic power in exchange for-" 

"His life," said Sirius. "After a set term of years. I get it." 

The demon giggled. "Not his life," it sneered. "Who would make a bargain like that?" 

"Then...?" 

"The life of his heir. Specifically, a Magid descendant of his own blood. That was the bargain. That was why Slytherin, when alive, was desperate to produce an heir. Once he gives his own descendant's life freely to us, we have no choice but to consider the debt cancelled." 

"Draco," whispered Sirius, and then, after a moment, realizing, raised his head and stared. "Harry?" 

"Why not?" Strygalldvir was grinning, showing more than one set of teeth. It was not a pleasant grin. "Both boys are Magid descendants of Slytherin's blood. But the Potter boy also has Godric's blood in him. The Snake Lord needs to keep one boy alive and by his side, but the other will be a sacrifice. Slytherin's hatred of his cousin knew no bounds. He would consider it a nice irony to use Godric's heir for such a purpose. It will be as if Godric himself has set him free." 

"What do you care if he uses Harry to fill his bargain?" Sirius snarled. "What difference does it make to you?" 

"Because," said the demon, red eyes whirling, "this bargain was made a thousand years ago, when we were rich in items of True Magic and poor in Magids. The art of making Living Blades is long lost. That sword is one of two remaining in the world, and is far more valuable to us than the life of a Magid child. There are plenty," added Strygalldwir, "of Magids around these days. But we cannot take the sword back unless Slytherin forfeits his bargain. And he that will not happen until-- 

Sirius interrupted, shaking his head. "In other words, you'd simply rather have the sword than Harry. Very nice." 

"I'm a demon. We're not interested in nice. Anyway, it's too late for Godric's heir. The Snake Lord has him now." 

Sirius' had was swimming. Why does Slytherin need one boy alive and by his side? he thought, and then he remembered Remus' voice, saying the words of the prophecy, When the sword is once again wielded in battle by a descendant of Slytherin, Slytherin himself will return, and he and his descendant will join together to wreak havoc and terror on the wizarding world. 

Remus. He turned back to the other cell, where the werewolf lay. It bared its teeth at him as he approached, its dark eyes wide with ferocity or pain or some combination of the two. 

"Are you going to kill him, finally?" drawled the demon at Sirius' back. 

"No," replied Sirius, shoving the knife he had been holding through the loop of his belt. "I'm going to let him out. If he runs to Slytherin, so be it." 

"He'll tear you apart," said the demon, sounding impressed, either by Sirius' bravery or his stupidity, Sirius wasn't sure. 

"Maybe," said Sirius. "Maybe not." 

He reached for the cell door - 

"Sirius!" 

It was Narcissa. She stood at the entrance to the dungeon, very pale in her white robes. 

"Sirius," she said again, catching her breath, and he realized she had been running. "I think you should read this-" and she held out the folded piece of paper in her hand. 

*** 

"Ron, be quiet, you'll wake everyone up! Stop clomping your feet." 

"I'm not clomping. I'm just walking." 

"Well, walk more quietly." 

Ron rolled his eyes. Hermione, of course, couldn't see this, since the kitchen was pitch dark. "Come on, Hermione, everyone's asleep." 

"Except us, of course," said a voice out of the darkness. 

Ron and Hermione both jumped, and stared. The kitchen was suddenly bright with light, revealing Charlie and Ginny sitting together at the kitchen table, looking at them very much askance. Charlie was holding his wand, from which bright glowing light emanated. 

"What are you doing sitting here with the lights off?" Ron demanded indignantly. 

"We heard you two whispering while you were coming down the stairs," said Ginny, looking superior. "Thought we'd give you a bit of a scare. Ron, why are you carrying a shovel?" 

Charlie's raised eyebrow look had turned into a smug sort of grin. "What are you two doing? Sneaking down here for an illicit midnight snog?" 

Ron choked, and turned brick red. Hermione merely looked annoyed. "Of course we are," she snapped sarcastically. "That's why we brought the shovel. They come in so handy during snog sessions." 

Ginny grinned. "What were you planning on doing with that shovel?" 

"I was going to stick this end in the ground," said Ron, gesturing, "and then I was going to start digging. I'd tell you more, but after that it gets a little technical." 

"All right," said Charlie, standing up. "you have five minutes to explain to me what you're doing sneaking outside in the wee hours of the night with a shovel. Starting now." 

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. Ron shrugged. Hermione sighed, turned back to Charlie and Ginny, and explained. 

When she was done, Charlie scratched his head, looking somewhat woeful. "You realize you can't get to the quarry? The Aurors are under strict instructions to keep us all inside." 

The was a doleful silence, which was broken by Ginny. "There might be another way," she said slowly. 

Ron perked up his ears. "What do you mean?" 

"When I was down in the cellar yesterday, I noticed when I went down one corridor that the ceiling got damper and damper, and after awhile it started to drip water on me. I think I was going under the quarry." 

Hermione clapped her hands. "Gin, you're brilliant. Let's go." 

Ron looked green. "Down into the cellar?" he echoed faintly. 

"What's wrong with the cellar?" Hermione demanded. 

Ron gestured faintly. "Spiders..." 

"I'll protect you, Ron," said Charlie, heroically. "Besides," he added, dropping his voice, "I'm dying to see if Fred and George still keep their magazine collection down there." 

*** 

As it turned out, Draco was not a bad teacher. Harry was surprised. He would have thought that Draco would have been - well, like Snape, cranky and impatient and demanding. He was impatient, but he was also meticulous and careful and had insisted Harry start at the very beginning - how to stand, how to salute, how to hold his sword. He had insisted Harry take his shoes off so he could better show him how to stand, and had taken his own shoes off so that when they fought, they would be the same height. 

He also, Harry suspected, was cheating. Not in any way that he could exactly put a finger on, but it seemed to Harry that as he himself used the sword, moves that he had never learned flickered in the back of his mind - less their names than a series of electrical impulses that his brain wanted to follow, and a second later he would find that his arm had leaped forward almost of its own accord. 

He supposed it was possible that he was simply an amazingly fast learner with an innate knowledge of swordfighting techniques, but he rather suspected that that was not the case. Every time it happened, though, he would glance up and find Draco looking at him blankly and expectantly as if to say, "Yes? What? Why are you goggling at me, Potter?" 

Eventually he decided not to worry about it. If Draco wanted to teach him better swordfighting through telepathy, more power to him. It wasn't as if that made it easy. It was still hard work. Godric's sword was heavy, very heavy, and learning to move in this new way was cramping his muscles. He was soaked in sweat - so was Draco, though - and his shirt was sticking to him. 

"Okay," announced Draco suddenly, breathing hard and backing up a few steps. "One more time. Try to get past me." 

Harry sighed, turned around, and faced Draco, who saluted him. Feeling silly, Harry copied the gesture, not too awkwardly. 

The moment Draco moved, Harry moved too. He had a feeling Draco was helping him again, although he couldn't see anything in Draco's expression to support that. Draco looked calm, concentrated, a little bored, even as whatever Harry was doing with his own weapon caused him to retreat. Harry followed after him, hearing the clang of metal on metal with a certain sharp pleasure. Draco raised his blade - Harry pushed it aside with his own, stepped forward, suddenly realized his feet were placed wrong, and moved to correct them. Before he had finished this, the flat of Draco's sword banged into his shoulder. It hurt, too. 

"Ow," said Harry grouchily, stepping back. 

Draco pushed a strand of sweaty white-blond hair out of his eyes and frowned. "Come on Potter, a reasonably trainable hamster could have completed that move. I left you an opening bigger than Millicent Bulstrode's -" 

"My feet were wrong," snapped Harry, even more grouchily. 

A grin quirked the corner of Draco's mouth. "Yeah, I noticed that. Well, it does take a certain amount of grace to learn to fence." 

"I've got grace," said Harry, stung. 

"Remember, Potter - I've watched you dance. The whole school had to watch you dance, fourth year. Graceful is not your middle name." 

Indignantly, Harry opened his mouth to reply - and was cut off as another loud grinding noise emanated from the corner of the room. Both the boys whirled around, holding their swords. This time, the dark space grew larger than it had before, large enough for a person to walk through. Harry and Draco stood frozen, looking at each other. 

Draco spoke first. What should we do? 

Protect ourselves. Stand back to back. 

Draco put his hands on his hips. And that would accomplish precisely what? 

Harry shrugged. I don't know. It's what they do in movies. 

There was a flicker of movement in the dark space, and suddenly a figure emerged into the room. Harry and Draco didn't move. They just stared. The figure wore long robes of indigo blue, over which was swathed a hooded black cloak that hid the newcomer's face. It was possible to see that the intruder was small, but too slender to be Wormtail, and the hands that extended from the sleeves of its dark robe were both human. 

Harry heard Draco's voice in his head. This can't be good. 

He was inclined to agree. Suddenly, the dark space vanished, the wall reappearing, and the intruder turned to face the two boys; it put its two pale hands to the sides of its hood, and drew the hood back. 

Hair like a cloud of silver threads spilled out, framing a familiar porcelain face. Dark blue eyes raised themselves haughtily, black lashes sweeping low. "I would 'ave thought," and the light voice was icy, "that you two would 'ave been working out some clever escape plan by now, seeing 'as you are both Magids, and not too 'opelessly stupid. But no, 'ere you are, banging away at each other with silly great swords." The red mouth frowned in disgust. "Boys." 

There was a clang. Draco had dropped his sword in amazement. "Fleur?" he demanded, shock having stripped the drawl from his voice. "What are you doing here?" 

*** 

They had been down in the cellar for about thirty minutes before they reached the door. Ginny was leading the way, her wand out and glowing, Charlie behind her. Then came Hermione, who had discovered that she could use the Lycanthe a bit like a torch - it glowed when she lifted it in her hand. Then came Ron, muttering slightly, but looking around with great interest. It really wasn't so much a cellar as a warren of tunnels and passages. It was a good thing, thought Hermione, that Ginny seemed to know where she was going or they'd all be lost. 

Hermione also noticed that the ground seemed to be sloping increasingly downward as they went, and that, as Ginny had said, the walls were getting wetter and more covered in moss, the air colder and filled with a dampish white mist. 

Ron suddenly gave a startled yell, and Hermione whirled around. "Ron! You all right?" 

Ron, looking greenish in the light of the Lycanthe, was staring down at his foot with a look of horror. "Spider," he said in a choked sort of voice. "Crawled up under my trouser leg." 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron!" she snapped and dropped down to her knees at his feet. She yanked up his trouser leg and removed the offending arachnid from his ankle. It was a very small spider, pale gray and rather cute. "Look," she said, waving it at Ron, who hopped backward. "It's just a teeny little spider! It was probably just looking for somewhere warm." 

Ron glared back at her. "You don't understand. You never had to go into the Forbidden Forest and nearly get eaten by a spider the size of a Mini, just because Harry's an idiot." 

Hermione stood up and made a face at him. "Harry's not an idiot." 

Ron just looked at her. 

She sighed. "Oh, all right, he is. But not all the time." 

"Hey!" came Charlie's voice from further down the corridor. "Come here and look at this!" 

"What is it?" asked Hermione, coming up to Ginny, and immediately saw what the problem was: the passageway ended in a huge stone door. Well, not a very useful door, as it had no knob or other way of opening it, but it was still, quite evidently, a door. All along the front of it were carved deep grooves and scratches, weaving themselves into a mesmerizing design. 

"Dead end," said Ron behind her, sounding gloomy. 

"Not necessarily," said Hermione. "I don't think it's a dead end. I think it's an obstacle." 

"And the difference would be?" 

"That there's a way to get past it." 

"This looks like writing," interrupted Ginny, leaning closer with her wand. Hermione bent down, tracing the grooves in the stone with her finger, and brought the light close to the foot of the wall. There was a design there, etched into the corner of the stone: it looked like a tiny weasel or a badger, wearing a crown on its little head. Hufflepuff, she thought, stepping back and raising the Lycanthe in her hand. Golden light spilled from it, illuminating the carving of the little animal, and beside it, several scratched lines in a language she didn't know. 

Hermione lowered the Lycanthe, biting her lip. 

Ginny glanced up irritably. "Why did you do that? I was reading it." 

"But Ginny, it doesn't make any sense! It's just lines and squiggles." 

Ginny looked up at her, shocked. "It makes perfect sense. It's some kind of poem, or a riddle. Bring the light back down here." 

Startled, Hermione knelt down next to Ginny, and Charlie crowded down next to them . "It looks like gibberish to me," said Ron, looking doubtful, and Charlie agreed. 

Ginny shook her head, her red hair catching the wavering wandlight in darting red points of fire. "No. It's a poem. Here--" And she read it out: 

When there is fire in me then I am still cold. 

When I own your true love's face then you will not see me. 

To all things I give no more than I am given. 

In time I may have all things, and yet I can keep nothing. 

There was a long silence. Hermione expelled her breath in amazement. "It's a riddle," she said. 

"What kind of riddle is that?" Ginny demanded, sitting back on her heels. "It's not even a question." 

"The question is implied," put in Charlie. "It's describing a thing, or a person we have to identify." 

Ron grinned. "And it couldn't just have asked 'what's red and green and goes round and round?" 

Hermione squeezed his arm impatiently. "Shh. Everybody think. To all things I give no more than I am given. In time I may have all things, and yet I can keep nothing....so it's not a person, then..." 

Ron looked at her with concern. "Herm, if you answer wrong, you don't know what will happen. It could be dangerous." 

"Ron's right," agreed Charlie, looking nervously up and around at the wet, cold walls, the heavy-hanging shadows. 

Hermione ignored them both. When there is fire in me then I am still cold. When I own your true love's face then you will not see me... At the words 'true love' she had of course thought of Harry, and was thinking of him still, of looking into the Mirror of Erised and seeing Harry there, his arms around her reflected image, looking down at her, both their faces cast back at her... 

"Hermione," said Ron. "Are you listening?" 

Hermione raised her head. "A mirror," she said. 

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a creaking noise, the door swung wide, revealing a long, narrow, deeply slanted passageway twisting down into darkness. 

*** 

What is she doing here? Harry demanded, his eyes like dinner plates. 

Draco was still staring at Fleur. She looked much the same as she had the last time he had seen her; if anything, she was more beautiful now, and certainly she was more ticked-off looking. I dunno, he thought back. She's a veela, isn't she? Maybe she got Called here. Either that, or she's here because she's in love with me. 

She's in love with you? 

Obsessed with me might be a bit more accurate. She can't go five minutes without trying to get her hands on my - 

I get it, Harry interrupted hastily. No need to elaborate. You can't honestly think she's come all the way here just to get her hands on your scrawny body? 

Draco looked insulted. Is that so hard to believe? 

"Oh!" With a cry of what sounded very much like indignation, Fleur flew across the room, and, with an almighty crack! slapped Draco hard across the face. So hard in fact, that he staggered backwards and almost tripped. 

Both Draco and Harry looked at her in astonishment, Draco with his hand clapped to his cheek, on which the mark of Fleur's blow stood out like a scarlet handprint. "What was that for?" he cried indignantly. 

Fleur stood with her hands on her hips, her chest heaving (which, in Draco's opinion, couldn't be considered all bad), her eyes bright with rage. "You!" she spat, glaring at Draco. "For one thing, I can hear everything you two are saying! I am a Magid, remember?" 

"Oh," said Draco, exchanging astonished glances with Harry. "We didn't know-" 

"Slytherin couldn't hear us," said Harry, looking startled. "Could he?" 

Fleur ignored this. She had worked up a good head of steam and was still glaring at Draco, her eyes spitting agate-blue sparks. "For another thing, it is not very nice to give someone a gift that just disappears!" 

Draco's eyes flashed. "It wasn't a gift! You extorted it from me." 

"You owed me! And now you still do!" 

"I don't suppose anyone wants to enlighten me as to what this is all about," muttered Harry, but Draco and Fleur were too busy glaring at each other to pay any attention to him. 

"I gave you what you asked for!" 

Suddenly Fleur smiled. "Not exactly what I 'ad asked you for." 

"All right. The second thing you asked for. I gave you the sword. It's not my fault it came back to me." 

"You knew it would." 

"Fleur. You're better off without it." 

"Don't you patronize me, Draco Malfoy, you 'orrible person. I knew the minute I saw that sword 'ow powerful it was. But you didn't tell me you were linked to it. All it tried to do from the moment you gave it to me was get back to you. I 'ad to sleep with it tied to my arm! And even then it kept me up all night. I 'ad to let it go back to you. But not before I took this from it," and she held up something in her hand that shimmered a darker green than Harry's eyes. Draco knew what it was immediately; the missing emerald from the hilt of the sword. "This is 'ow I found you," added Fleur, sounding smug, and opened her hand. The emerald flew out of it, and with a soft plonk sound, rejoined the hilt of the sword. In a moment, it looked as if it had never been pried loose. 

"That begs the question of how you managed to get in here," added Harry, looking suspiciously at Fleur. 

"It was not difficult. I am a veela. The Snake Lord just assumed I was Called 'ere. He doesn't know I'm a Magid, and therefore I cannot be Called. There are 'undreds, perhaps thousands, of Dark creatures 'ere. I was not noticed. When you arrived 'ere this morning, the emerald sought you out. I seduced the guard stationed in front of your door, and 'ere I am. I 'ave come," she announced, "to rescue you." 

She smiled proudly. Both Draco and Harry stared at her in amazement. 

"Fleur," said Draco finally. "I don't know whether to kiss you or run away from you in terror." 

"You 'ad your chance with the kissing," she said serenely. "You missed it. You still owe me, Draco," and her voice was steely. "I will not let you die 'ere before you pay me back." 

"This is all terribly interesting," said Harry. "But do you know how to get us out of this room?" 

Fleur nodded. "In five minutes the guard will open that door back up for me. We go through it, and then I will lead you out of 'ere. The Snake Lord, 'e was not going to come for you until midnight. We 'ave some time." 

Harry was looking at her with narrowed his green eyes. "Slytherin was going to come for us in here?" 

Fleur nodded. 

Harry turned to Draco. "Maybe we should stay." 

Draco stared at him. "Stay here?" 

Harry nodded. 

"He beat us before because we weren't prepared. Now we're prepared and armed. I think we should stay here and when he arrives, attack him. He can't use magic in here either. We'll be equal, and there are more of us. It's the last thing he'll expect." 

"No," snapped Draco, "the last thing he'll expect is for us to obtain round fur hats and go caroling up and down the halls of his stronghold, spreading Christmas cheer. And your plan makes about as much sense. But thank you for sharing." 

"Arry," said Fleur gently. "It does not make sense. He 'as thousands of minions 'ere. Even if you could beat 'im, you would 'ave to deal with them. The best thing we can do now is escape." 

Harry looked at Draco, and Draco could see from the expression on his face that Harry wanted to tell him something, but couldn't because anything he said, no matter how he said it, would be overheard by Fleur. "Potter-" Draco began. 

The grinding noise interrupted him. Behind Fleur, a large dark opening was appearing in the wall. She tossed her silver hair back, and held out a hand to them, looking impatient. "Come on," she urged, backing towards the "door." "We must go." 

With one last glance over at Harry, Draco went after her. And, after a moment, Harry followed suit. 

*** 

"Reparo." 

Snape watched as the shattered bits of his record fitted themselves back together. Within a moment, it looked as it had before Draco Malfoy had broken it. 

Snape was sitting at the desk in his dusty living room. The windows were closed firmly against the dark night air outside, and the room was full of dull light. He had not been in here for several days. Not since he had found his favorite student sitting on the floor there, eyes like blank mirrors, playing Bach's Goldberg Variations by spinning a record above his hand. 

He wondered if he should regret telling the boy so harshly that his father was dead. But no, he had had to do something to snap Draco back to reality. He had looked as if he were drifting off, unmoored. Snape had seen that look before in the eyes of Voldemort's servants. Sometimes one could come back from that. Sometimes not. Draco had come back, but for how long? 

He knew the boy had gotten the package he had sent containing a flask of the new Willpower potion he had developed, and the note explaining what it did - that it was stronger, lasted longer - because his owl had returned. But it had brought no note with it. He realized with an odd sort of pang at the heart that he was worried about the boy. It had been a long time since he had been worried about anyone. 

Bang. Bang. 

It was a moment before he realized that the insistent pounding noise was coming from the front door, and not from his own head. Slowly, he got to his feet, drawing his robes tighter around him. It was cold in his house. He liked it that way. 

He went quickly down the hallway towards the front door, where the pounding was growing louder and more insistent by the moment. He reached out his hand for the knob- 

And paused. 

He had never loved anyone so much that he could simply sense their presence, or recognize them instantly in a crowd no matter how changed they might be, although he had heard of such things. But hatred he knew intimately, and so he knew who was standing on his porch even as he reached out for the knob and drew the door open, knew by he change in the air around him, knew even from the sound of his visitor's knock. 

The man standing on the porch looked exhausted. More than exhausted. His dark eyes were ringed by blacker shadows, his black hair disheveled and awry, his mouth set in a tense hard line. And yet somehow this made him look not older, but younger than he was, reminding Snape of the boy he had known at school. So you really want to know where James and Remus and Peter and I go when we sneak off the grounds? Well come on, then, Severus. I'll show you. 

Sirius Black raised his head, and for the first time in twenty years, looked Snape straight in the eyes, and Snape saw that in his hand Sirius held a folded white piece of paper with Snape's own handwriting on it. 

"I need your help," he said. 

*** 

Next chapter....so will Snape agree to help Sirius, or will he just point and laugh at him? Was the demon telling the truth? Can Fleur rescue Our Boys, and what's she going to ask Draco for now? What's buried under the quarry? What lock does the key from Sirius' vault fit? Will Lupin stay wolfy forever, and if so, will Narcissa remember to feed him? And yes, there will be snogging in the next chapter, just possibly not who you think. 

References:  

1)"We'll always be stupid." He paused. "Okay, not everybody rush to disagree." -- Buffy 

2)" Scrumdidilyumptious Chocolate Bar." Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl. 

3) The best-selling autobiography "Why I Like to Do It With Girls'" - Blackadder 

4) "We think that we invent symbols, but in reality they invent us. We are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." -- Gene Wolfe, The Shadow of the Torturer. 

5)" It is Strygalldvir. Conjure with it and I will eat your heart and liver." - Roger Zelazny, The Guns of Avalon. 

6) "I was going to stick this end in the ground," said Ron, gesturing, "and then I was going to start digging. I'd tell you more, but after that it gets a little technical." No idea. My friend swears this is a quote but we cannot figure out what from. 

7) When there is fire in me then I am still cold. 

When I own your true love's face then you will not see me. 

To all things I give no more than I am given. 

In time I may have all things, and yet I can keep nothing. 

This I got from a website of riddles. There was no attribution to it. 

Chapter 11