2

One night I burned the house I loved,
It lit a perfect ring,
In which I saw some weeds and stone
Beyond - not anything.

Certain creatures of the air
Frightened by the night,
They came to see the world again
And perished in the light.

Now I sail from sky to sky
And all the blackness sings
Against the boat that I have made
Of mutilated wings.

--Leonard Cohen

Draco sat in the embrasure of the window in his small bedroom, watching the sun rise over the Forbidden Forest. The sky was a pale wash of mother-of-pearl, scorched with fire just over the treetops; the crystalline winter air was without any clouds. Dawn light poured in through the arch-shaped window, the shade of blood and roses, touching his pale face with a color it would otherwise not have had.

It was light enough now to read without a torch or candle lit. In his hand was the parchment that Rhysenn had delivered to him the night before. It was a sheet of clean white parchment bearing a single word in stark black unfamiliar writing.

Venio .

Slowly he let the letter fall from his hands, and as it fell it burst into flames, so only ashes landed on the bare stone floor, and settled into the gaps between the stones. In a few moments, the letter might never have existed at all.

***

It was cold in the ancient stone room. They were standing in front of the mirror, both of them drenched to the skin, soaked with rain. She looked at Harry, at the wet hair pasted like veins of dark light across his forehead, hiding his lightning-bolt scar. The rain had stuck his eyelashes together, and the drops ran down his face like tears. His green eyes were the only color in his white face.

"Go on, Hermione," he said. "What do you see?"

She looked past him at the mirror, its surface wavering and silver-blue, and stepped towards it until a clear image drifted up towards the mirror's surface like a body rising to the surface of water. She saw herself, in dry clothes, eyes wide and serene, and she was not alone --

She spun to face Harry. "It isn't true," she said, and reached for him. "It isn't true," but he was gone, and there was no laughter and no phoenix song, no falling snow and no sound of birds, only the echoing silence and the endlessly falling rain.

Hermione jerked awake with a start. Her lids felt heavy and her eyes were dry with exhaustion. She turned over, careful not to wake Harry, who was asleep beside her on top of the coverlet. He had fallen asleep with his red cloak wrapped around him and she had given up trying to get him to loosen his death grip on it: she figured it was warm enough in the room, he wouldn't freeze.

She turned so that she was lying on her side, and looked at him. He was sleeping, a heavy drugged sort of sleep. One arm was flung wide, the hand resting on her pillow and half-open, the fingers curled in. It made her think of a baby sleeping: a trusting, undefended sort of gesture. His other arm was curled in against his stomach, his fist shut tight over the lightning scar that bisected his right palm. His black hair rayed out over her pillow; the shut lids of his eyes were bluish with tiredness and his jaw and chin were also bluish, where he had not shaved.

A lancing pain went through Hermione as she looked at him: fear mixed with protectiveness mixed with love. Through the clear pane of his unconscious face, she could see through to the child he had been, the little boy with the too-big clothes and the uncooperative hair, tough and stubborn and trusting and brave. She remembered the first time she had ever put her arms around him. Harry, you're a great wizard, you know.

He had shaken his head. I'm not as good as you.

Me? Books! And cleverness! There are more important things -- friendship and bravery - and, oh Harry - be careful --

She remembered seeing him after that, in the infirmary. She had been quite sure he was dead, and when she had seen him alive again a sort of terror had possessed her and kept her from embracing him - a terror perhaps that having not lost him in that instance, she was once more vulnerable to losing him again. She carefully moved closer towards where he lay on the bed, so that her hand rested on his side and rose and fell with his breathing as he breathed. He seemed to tense under her touch, and very slowly his eyelids fluttered and rose, and he opened his eyes. Without the glasses, they were clear windows of green glass, fringed with black lashes.

She held her breath, waiting. Would he be angry - would he remember their fight - would he remember last night, after she had brought him upstairs to her room? Although all he had done was fall asleep immediately, pushing away her hands as she tried to help him off with his boots, his wet jacket.

But his green eyes were still foggy with sleep, and he smiled at her tiredly but without surprise, as if he had expected to see her there when he woke up. He turned so that he could hold his arms out, and she went into them and let him clasp her tightly, feeling the residual dampness of his cloak under her hands, his soft breath stirring the hairs at the nape of her neck. They lay like that for several minutes without speaking before she felt his grip on her slacken, and he released her, moving his right hand up to touch her face.

Very softly, she said, "How are you feeling?"

He cleared his throat, and winced. "I'm in bed with my shoes on and I feel as if someone took a lemon wedge, taped it to a two-ton weight, and dropped it on my head. Other than that, I'm fine." He smiled at her. "And you're here, which cancels out the bad stuff." The smile turned into a puzzled look. "Did we.... do anything last night?"

Hermione smiled at him sweetly. "What, you don't remember our first time?"

Harry sat up like a shot, and then clutched his head. "Owwwww," he moaned, and looked at her imploringly. "We didn't! Tell me we didn't."

Hermione crossed her arms and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Why, would that be a bad thing?"

"If I didn't remember it, it would be a very bad thing," he replied.

Hermione flipped her curls back and shrugged. "You were far too out of it to do anything other than collapse on the bed after being sick all over some books in the common room - I think you owe Neville an apology."

"I wasn't sick on you, was I?"

Hermione smiled. "How romantic. No, you weren't sick on me. You weren't sick on Draco either, which is disappointing. I wonder how he would have handled that."

"Badly, I suspect." Harry put his hands up to his temples. "I barely remember anything from last night after..." He went suddenly very pale. "After..." She watched as awareness flooded into his expression, followed by shock, followed by horror. "Oh, God," he said, sounding numb. "Oh, God. Last night. What you must think of me. I don't know what got into me--"

"About a quart of vodka, from the look of things."

"I think it was gin," he replied distractedly. He looked at her, pale and remorseful. "Hermione, I -"

"Went to a strip club. I know."

Harry looked as if he might fall off the bed. "You know? How do you know?"

"You," she said, and poked him with a finger, "talk in your sleep."

"Oh." Harry looked very embarrassed, which she had always thought was rather cute - his ears turned red and he bit his lip. "I, uh -"

"Who's Angelique?"

"Angelique?" Harry floundered. "She was, um, the bartender."

"The topless bartender?"

"Y-yes. Well, she had a lot of hair."

"Really." Hermione's voice dripped scorn. "And was Snape really there playing the clarinet?"

"Hermione!" Harry cast aside the pillow he had been holding with a gesture of despair. "I don't know how I ended up at the Sleazy Weasel, it just happened, and I'll make it up to you, I'll buy you and Ginny copies of the Playwitch swimsuit calendar -"

"I heard Charlie was February," said Hermione, intrigued.

"-Just forgive me."

Hermione blew out a breath of exasperation. "Oh, Harry, for God's sake, I don't care about that. So you went drinking, so you went to the - uh, Sleazy Weasel, what a ridiculous name, I don't care, I know exactly where to lay the blame for all that, and that's on Draco. But I don't even blame him, he was just trying to cheer you up and if it had worked, for Heaven's sake, I'd be the first person thanking him. I've been so worried -"

"I'm not just sorry about that." He stood up and took her by the wrists, lifting her to her feet. She rose along with him, and stood, tilting her head back to look up at him. She remembered when she had been taller than he was. No longer. "There's also what happened in the common room. I'm sorry about that. I was a total git, and - forgive me, please."

Hermione hesitated.

Harry's hands tightened. She could feel his grip braceleting her wrists and looked up to search his face. Behind the sheer green color of his eyes was concern, and even a rising panic. He was afraid she wouldn't forgive him, and why? Because he knows that whatever it is he's hiding from me is something serious, and if I knew what it was, I would be angry. Very angry.

"Of course I forgive you," she said. She heard her own voice as if at a distance: remote and a little cold. "There's almost nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive you for and you know that."

A little of the fear went out of his expression, but some anxiety remained, like the afterimage of sun against closed eyelids. There was always that darkness there in his eyes. Hermione thought of it sometimes as the darkness of that broom closet under the stairs, the shadow that could never quite leave him. "Then what..."

"I don't know what's bothering you, Harry," she said. "But something is. You think I can't tell?" She pulled her wrists out of his grasp, took his hands and turned them over. Along the side of his right hand was an ugly bruise and on both palms were the faded half-moon imprints where nails had been dug into the skin. "You're beating yourself up about something, literally as well as figuratively. And if you don't tell me what it is that's tearing you apart, then you put a gulf between us. And if one day I can't reach you across it, then you have no one to blame but yourself."

She raised her eyes to his face, and for a moment saw the shutters drop from his expression, exposing for a moment the Harry she knew - vulnerable, bewildered, fiercely loving. Then his eyes slid away from her face. He said, "Just give me a little more time."

She sighed. She felt very tired, but then again, she had hardly slept the night before. "Do what you need to do, Harry."

"I love you," he said. His tone was hopeful, a little defensive. But she reacted to the declaration anyway, as she always had. She raised her face and he kissed her gently, the light stubble along his jaw and chin brushing her skin. She put her arms around him then, and he held her, his face bowed down into her hair, his hands clasped across her back. But even as they stood locked together, seemingly as close as two people could be, Hermione felt the distance between them and knew that it had not been breached.

***

Breakfast. Ginny poked morosely at her plate of eggs and toast. She wasn't sure why she was in such a low mood - perhaps it was nervousness over the match that afternoon, or perhaps it was the fact that she hadn't slept well the night before. She had lain awake in her bed, thinking of Draco's face when he said, "I never promised you anything." His expression so blank, those gray eyes so illegible. She thought the blankness was worse than the coldness he sometimes showed. At least coldness was a feeling. The blankness was just - nothing at all. And it was exasperating. Sometimes she wondered if people fell in love with him so easily because he could be so unreadable - like a beautiful, empty house. You could dream anything into it.

She wondered if Blaise knew how to read him, or if anyone did. Harry, maybe. When he tried.

Argh. Ginny ate another bite of eggs, and refrained from looking at the Slytherin table, which she had gotten good at. Draco was impossible. Totally impossible. There were lots of other attractive boys at school. Seamus Finnegan for instance. There he was across from her, eating porridge with a fork. With his dark blond hair, blue eyes, and Irish accent, Seamus was certainly appealing. Not a bad Quidditch player either. So why wasn't she interested in him?

"Ginny?" Seamus was giving her a peculiar look. "Have I got something on my face?"

Ginny realized she'd been staring. "Oh. Uh. No."

"Yes you have got," said Dean, looking around. "A bloody great lot of freckles."

"Have not," said Seamus amicably. This was true - Ginny, being a Weasley, knew a lot of freckles when she saw them. Seamus had only a few, on the bridge of his nose.

"Have to."

"Have not."

Ginny abandoned Seamus and Dean to it. They were capable of going on like this for ages. She looked hopefully around the table once again, as if Harry, Hermione or Ron might have spontaneously appeared there since she'd last looked, but no - they were all still late to breakfast. Next to her, Lavender and Parvati burst into a fresh spate of giggling. Ginny was able to catch, amidst the giggles, the words Draco, so and cute. She threw her fork down and looked up to see that they were indeed staring over at the Slytherin table, where Draco was engaged in conversation with Malcolm Baddock.

Ginny sighed. Ever since Hermione had, probably unwisely, told Lavender and Parvati that Draco Malfoy wasn't so bad when you got to know him, they'd felt free to express the crushes on him that they'd probably had all along. Just watching him get up and down from the Slytherin table at mealtimes had become something of a spectator sport for them.

"You know, in a way it's lucky he's in Slytherin," said Parvati a bit mistily. "Green really suits him."

"Oh, for goodness sake." Ginny rolled her eyes. "Listen to you two. 'Here comes Draco Malfoy, let's all pitch our knickers at him in a mad fit of passion.' I mean, really. Whatever happened to Gryffindor pride and --"

"There's no point pitching our knickers at him," interrupted Lavender severely. "He's dating Blaise."

Ginny put her milk glass down with a thump. "Sarcasm is just lost on you, isn't it?" She wondered, not for the first time, what they would say if she told them that she'd shared several passionate lip-locks with Draco over the summer and that he wasn't anything special. She dismissed the idea: firstly, because they wouldn't believe her anyway, and secondly because it wasn't exactly true. "Anyway, since when are you two close with Blaise?"

Parvati shrugged. "You can't infringe on another girl's territory, even if she is a Slytherin. It's the Girl Code of Conduct."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "The Girl Code of Conduct?"

"It's like the Wizard Code of Conduct," said a familiar voice in her ear, "only with more corsets."

Ginny turned around to see her brother in the process of taking the seat beside her. "Ron!" she said, astonished. "You look awful."

He did look awful, or at least as if he hadn't slept all night - his hair was a mess and there were nearly-black circles of exhaustion under his blue eyes. But his grin radiated good humor. "Thanks, Gin. I know I can always count on you to fluff up the old ego." He held out a hand. "Eggs," he added.

Ginny handed him the plate of eggs. "Did you not get any sleep, or what?"

Shoveling food into his mouth, Ron did not answer. A moment later Harry and Hermione had joined them at the table. Neither of them looked particularly rested either, although this surprised Ginny less. Last time she'd seen Harry he'd been unconscious in the snow, and she surmised that Hermione had probably been up taking care of him all night. "Hallo!" she sang cheerfully. Harry winced. Hermione, whose skin seemed nearly translucent with tiredness, smiled at her wanly. "I'm so glad we have a match against Slytherin today," added Ginny breezily. "Harry and Ron just look ready to mop the field with them. I've got a suggestion, Harry. When it looks like Draco's just about to catch the Snitch, why don't you throw up on him?"

"Eurgh," said Harry, looking green.

"We'll do fine," said Ron, discreetly shoving the water pitcher in Harry's direction. "Rehydrate, Harry."

While Harry dutifully drank the water, Hermione looked at him anxiously. "Oh, go to Madam Pomfrey, would you?" she said finally. "I just know she must have Hangover potions around somewhere, and I haven't got time to make you one before the game. They take at least a day to prepare."

"All right." Harry waved his hand feebly. "I'll go. I'll go before History of Magic."

"That's good," said Ginny. "Because right now you look like you couldn't fly if they shot you out of a cannon."

"You're just annoyed because I went drinking with Draco, and you don't like him," said Harry, irritability making him forthright.

"Shhh," hissed Ginny, almost upsetting her milk glass. "His fan club will hear you."

"Draco has a fan club?" said Harry with frank amazement.

Ginny jerked her chin down the table towards Lavender and Parvati, who were now giggling with a few of the sixth-year girls. "Yes, and they're having a meeting right now."

Ron snorted. "Is there some problem with the bridge they normally meet under?"

Hermione choked on her pumpkin juice, then giggled. "Ron..."

"Yes?"

Hermione gave him an innocent look. "Nothing." She put her glass down and smiled. "I was just about to say that I've got some Pepperup Potion in my trunk if you need it. You look a little tired."

"I'm not tired," said Ron, and yawned hugely. "I'm fine."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You do remember we have a prefects' meeting at two o'clock don't you?"

"Good point," said Ron. "No Pepperup potion for me. It'd be too cruel to deprive me of the opportunity to sleep through one of those meetings."

"And the mystery of why the ever let you be Head Boy deepens," said Hermione, shaking her head. "What'd you do - take a leaf out of Fred and George's book and blackmail them?"

Ron looked injured. "Sometimes I wonder what you say about me when I'm not around."

Harry reached over and thumped Ron on the back. "Ron here happens to have many fine leadership qualities," he said.

"Yes," agreed Hermione. "He's currently leading the House in least amount of homework done, most amount of butterbeer consumed, and most number of letters received from suspicious French tarts with silly names."

"Right," said Ron, "because Hermione isn't a silly name at all."

"This isn't about my name -" Hermione began indignantly, then jumped. "Ow! Ron!" She glared at him. "I cannot believe you kicked me under the table. That is so immature."

Ron smiled at her pleasantly. Ginny remembered the time that someone - Draco, she privately suspected - had changed the lettering on his Head Boy badge so that instead of reading "Ron Weasley, Head Boy" it read "Ron Weasley, Smug Bastard." Ron had not been amused, despite the fact that years ago, when Fred and George had done much the same thing to Percy, he had thought it was hilarious.

Perhaps, she mused, Harry hadn't been at all thick to turn down the Head Boy job after all.

***

The roof of the Prefects' Hall disappeared into raftered darkness overhead. The round table that sat in the middle of the room, around which generations of school prefects had sat, was scarred with the marks of years - the incisions of quills, sliced initials, stains of spilled ink. In the center of the table was a slightly raised silver ring, about ten inches in diameter.

The north wall of the room held two stained-glass windows, one gold, one blue; the south wall's windows were green and scarlet. Ron stood at the head of the table, his back to the east wall. There was a long white finger of clear window behind him, mazed with frost, and through it, more whiteness was visible - snow, caught in the bare branches of trees, the colorless spark of sunlight off icicles. In front of all the whiteness, Ron's bright hair and scarlet jumper stood out like burning banners.

"This meeting will come to order." He rapped on the table with a hand, and grinned. "All right, everybody, sit down." He jerked his chin towards Draco, who was still standing by the door. "Malfoy, get over here and sit down. You're late."

The other prefects - each house was granted two prefects a year, from fifth year on up, making twenty-four in total - turned and looked at him. Pansy Parkinson, the other Slytherin prefect, rolled her eyes and pushed the chair next to her out so that he could sit down. The back of each of the Slytherin prefects' chairs was embossed with a curling silver snake. "Sit," she said.

He didn't. His eyes scanned up and down the table and came to rest on Ron. "Where's Hermione?"

Ron looked irritable. "She couldn't make it. This is going to be a short meeting and she's empowered me to act on both our behalves."

"Really." Draco came around the table slowly and flopped into the chair next to Pansy. This put him directly on Ron's left side. He pitched his voice low, "You don't know where she is, do you?"

Ron, shuffling parchments, pretended to ignore him.

"She wouldn't just miss a meeting for no reason. She loves meetings even more than she loves me."

"She loves syphilis more than she loves you, Malfoy," hissed Ron.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, sitting farther down the table, raised an eyebrow. "Did someone say something about syphilis?"

"I was just telling Ron that with a little ointment, his symptoms should clear right up," said Draco blandly.

"I hardly think syphilis is an appropriate topic for a prefects' meeting," said Pansy, shaking her head so that her earrings jangled.

"That's true," said Draco. "I think we should discuss more important issues, like this conspiracy of silence that pretends that the Astronomy Tower is actually used for astronomy, when we all really know that people only ever go up there to snog each other senseless."

"I have used the Astronomy Tower for astronomy," said Justin irritably.

"Yes, well, you're just a sad no-hoper, aren't you, Finch-Fletchley?"

"Congratulations, Malfoy," said Ron loudly, speaking over the chorus of irritated whispers that had followed Draco's last remark. "Five minutes into the meeting, and you're already disruptive. And you wonder why everyone takes an instant dislike to you."

"I just figured it saved time," said Draco, but he raised his hands up, and shrugged, smiling peaceably. It was a polite, bland smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm ready to talk business."

"No, you're ready to shut up and listen. Say one more thing and it's twenty points from Slytherin." Ron raised his wand, and waved it towards the center of the table, where the Hogwarts emblem was emblazoned inside an etched silver circle. "Ascensus orbis," he said, and the silver circle detached itself and rose into the air, spinning lazily. Ron watched it until it hung, spinning, about a foot above the table. Then he spoke. "This meeting is now in progress. All right then, first order of business.... Motion to have all school prefects engage in search for Trevor the Toad --- unanimous vote of nay. Sorry, Neville."

Neville, who was not a prefect but had been allowed to sit in on the meeting to hear the result of his request, looked resigned.

"All right, then, the Seventh Year Pub Crawl," said Ron, shuffling more papers. "Last year it was a disaster, with at least six underclassmen having taken Aging Potions to try to fool the security barriers, and two sixth-years drinking an entire bottle of Giant wine and hexing each other. One of them still has vestigial antennae sticking out of his head. We can't allow this kind of thing to happen again this year."

"Well, what can we do about it?" asked Padma Patil. As she spoke, the spinning circle turned blue for Ravenclaw.

"I think we need some more specific rules," said Justin, and the sphere turned gold. "Like, that Fizzy Lifting Drinks can only be consumed inside."

Everyone chuckled. Nobody at the table had been at the previous year's Pub Crawl, but they'd all been told about Eric Sorenson, the seventh-year who had floated almost to the height of the Hogsmeade church spire and had to be retrieved by townspeople on broomsticks.

"Well, which establishments are involved this year?" asked Padma.

"Fred and George are turning Weasley's Wizard Wheezes into a winery..." said Ron.

"Weasley's Wizard Winery?" asked Draco as the sphere turned green.

"Uh-huh," said Ron shortly. "The Three Broomsticks, of course, the Hog's Head and the Shifty Lemur, plus Florean Fortescue is bringing his ice cream cart up with Butterbeer sorbet, Honeyduke's will be providing free candy, the Book Nook will have herbal teas for those who wish to enjoy the event in an unintoxicated manner -"

"Wimps," commented Draco quietly.

"-and the chip shop will be open as well. Now, it's really a pretty simple event. Everyone gets a parchment as they leave, explaining when each establishment will be offering refreshments, and of course the events will be staggered. Who wants to hand out the parchments?"

Everyone looked shifty, but eventually Pansy volunteered, mostly, Draco suspected, because she didn't have a date for the event.

"All right, now the main question is keeping the younger students from trying to sneak along. Sixth years especially think they're too old for the Yule Ball," he added, shooting a look at the sixth-year prefects, who grumbled quietly. "Now, in terms of solving that problem..."

Ron's voice slowly faded from Draco's consciousness as the exhaustion of not having slept much the night before had begun to press in on him. He was having a difficult time keeping his eyelids from drooping. Shading his eyes with his hands, Draco looked down at the table, hoping it would seem as if he was lost in thought, and shut his eyes. The sound of the other voices in the room receded like a wave drawing back, and the darkness of sleep gathered him in.

***

"Where is my servant?"

"He is in the other room, my Lord. He has brought what we sought with him, and asks again your forgiveness."

A sharp, indrawn hissing breath. "Let him in."

It was the same tower room, although the furnishings had multiplied. Atop the long table against the wall were piled a dizzying array of magical objects. Silver flasks and phials, mortars of jade, clear alembics. Cauldrons whose cold contents glowed an eerie bluish green. He viewed the room at a new angle now, facing the two men who stood side by side looking down at the etched pentagram on the floor. Behind it he could see a wall lined with shelves. The shelves held all manner of things: jars of mummified parchment, charts of the heavens, crucibles, miniature braziers and urns, several stands of candles and what looked like an athanorum - an alchemist's oven. A tapestry depended from the south wall, almost brushing the long table: it depicted a skull with flowers growing from its empty eye sockets, and words embroidered beneath it:

I am the assassin against whom no lock can hold.

"It might not be the right mirror, my Lord," said Lucius Malfoy anxiously, looking sideways at his master. He was wearing dark crimson robes today, banded with black. He had often worn red into the woods when he and Draco had gone hunting together years ago. "It hides the blood," he would say.

"It will be," said Voldemort, "the right mirror."

A tall slotted door in the wall slid open, and Wormtail entered, carrying in his hand a medium-sized mirror. It was a beautiful thing: the reflecting surface made of polished silver and the body and the handle made of bronze. The handle was twisted like a tress, the border full of stylised engravings of whirlwinds and birds. It reminded Draco vaguely of the workmanship done on the scabbard of Harry's Gryffindor sword.

Wormtail went down on his knees in front of the Dark Lord, his head bowed. Voldemort stretched out a pale, long-fingered hand, and took the mirror from his servant. From his vantage point behind the Dark Lord, Draco could see Voldemort raise the mirror in his hand and glance thoughtfully at his own malevolent expression.

Then he opened his hand. The mirror slowly rose about a foot into the air and hovered there, directly in front of the Dark Lord, as if it was caught in a strong magnetic field.

Voldemort spoke. "Speculum, speculum," he said. "Dei gratia."

A voice rose in reply from the mirror. "Volente deo. Audio."

The Dark Lord's voice was amused. "Find the Heir," he said.

His reflected face vanished as the surface of the mirror clouded over, as if a storm of blue smoke swirled up from its depths. When the blue shadows cleared, Draco saw with a jolt a narrow corridor, and walking along it - himself. It was strange to see himself from this angle. The Draco-who-was-not turned a corner and stepped through a set of unfamiliar doors onto a barren battlement, adorned with carvings that looked familiar but he couldn't place just how.

"My Lord," said Lucius finally, breaking the silence, "What do you see?"

"I see your son." Voldemort's voice was cold, and sinuous as a snake. "I am watching your son in the mirror. It has been tuned to find him. I see him now. He bears the Weapon of Real Death. Did you know that?"

"I knew that, yes. Terminus Est. He has had it since the summer."

"And can he use it?"

"Yes." Lucius' voice held satisfaction. "I instructed him myself."

Voldemort lifted the mirror higher. "He is handsome, your son."

Lucius looked uneasy. "You asked for him to be made that way, Master."

"Yes. People of great beauty and charisma make excellent leaders. People wish to follow them. To see as their eyes see. I was handsome myself, once."

Lucius looked even more uneasy. "Yes, of course."

"And Lucifer himself was God's most beautiful angel."

Lucius was silent. Wormtail seemed pale and distracted. His gaze was on the floor.

Very slowly, Voldemort lowered the mirror. "Have you read the Bible, Lucius?"

Lucius unclasped his hands, which had been resting against his black robes. "Master, I would -- "

"Perhaps you haven't. It was a staple in the Muggle orphanage in which I was raised." The Dark Lord put his hand against the mirror in which Draco's face was clearly reflected, his outspread fingers touching the boy's face. "And God so hated his only begotten son," he said softly, "that he gave him to the world, that the world might have him."

"Loved," said Wormtail, breaking the silence unexpectedly.

"What's that?"

"The quotation," said Wormtail. His voice was nervous and uneven. "And God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son -- "

"Do you presume to correct me, Wormtail?"

"N-no. No, my lord."

"I didn't think so."

***

"Malfoy! Hey! Malfoy!"

At the sound of his own name, consciousness came back to Draco like a dash of cold water in the face. With a start, he focused his eyes, seeing the room reel around him before it settled into stillness. The first thing that came into focus was Ron's face: vexed and irritable, his blue eyes sparking like gas flames turned low. "Malfoy, are you not listening?"

"You told me if I said anything it would be twenty points from Slytherin," said Draco meekly.

"Yes, well, obviously not when I'm addressing you directly!" Ron looked ready to lunge across the table and shake Draco senseless. "So are you willing to, or not?"

"Of course I am," said Draco, without the slightest idea what he had just agreed to do. The room was still spinning slightly and his head was full of echoing voices. There was a sharp pain behind his eyes.

Ron looked surprised. "That's settled, then." He put down the parchments he had been holding, and grinned. "All right, well, we look well on our way to having the best Seventh Year Pub Crawl ever. And if the new chaperon system works, we may be well on our way to being the first class ever to achieve immortality through not having to cope with a bunch of drunken fifth-years getting us all in trouble." Ron grinned. "Even Malfoy can't argue with that."

"Well, it does interfere with my plan to achieve immortality through not actually dying," said Draco, and then, at Ron's expression, added hastily, "But ... I can rethink that."

"Anything else?" Ron asked. When everyone was silent, he waved his wand again and murmured, "Orbus deceleratus," and the whirling silver circle returned to its place in the center of the table, and was still. "Meeting adjourned," announced Ron, and set down his wand.

As the prefects filed out the doors, Draco felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Pansy Parkinson, her pug nose wiggling with curiosity. "I can't believed you agreed to stay back from the pub crawl and make sure no low-formers try to sneak along to Hogsmeade," she said, shaking her head. "Whatever possessed you, Draco?"

Draco stopped in his tracks. "I did what - I mean, I'm not exactly sure."

"Blaise thought you were going to go with her - she'll be furious!" Pansy walked off, shaking her head, the bright pink ribbons in her hair trembling. Draco looked after her thoughtfully.

"Furious, eh?" he said to himself. "Ah, well. Always a silver lining, I suppose."

***

"Hey, Weasley! Wait up."

Ron turned at the sound of the familiar voice, a dull sense of foreboding settling over him. Draco was walking towards him along the corridor, having ditched the other prefects some ways back. Ron stood where he was, eyebrows raised, as the Slytherin boy approached him. Whatever Draco wanted, he was sure it wasn't going to be anything good. Even short conversations with Draco were usually sarcasm rallies. No matter what their shared history, Ron just couldn't seem to muster up the warmth towards Malfoy that Harry could, not even a shadow of the easy camaraderie those two shared when they weren't in public.

Ron cocked his head, trying to define what it was about Malfoy that so annoyed him, even now - perhaps it was the way he wore his school robes, as if they weren't ordinary black school robes but something much finer. As usual, and against regulations, the buckles on his robes were undone, showing the expensive clothes underneath - a dark gray sweater today, and black trousers, and the ubiquitous green-and-silver tie. Draco was shorter than Ron, but his slenderness and something about his bearing made him seem taller than he was.

"You're not wearing your prefect badge," said Ron wearily. "Technically, I could take points from Slytherin."

"Technically, I am wearing my badge. Just not where you can see it."

Draco smiled his most charming smile, and Ron resisted the urge to kick him. "What do you want, Malfoy? I haven't got all day."

"I want to know where Hermione is," said Draco with admirable directness.

"I don't know," said Ron tightly. "Why don't you ask Harry? Or don't you know where he is either?"

Draco's eyes went unfocused for a moment. "He's in the north fifth floor stairwell, going upstairs."

Ron shook his head. "Don't do that, it's creepy." He stared as the other boy's eyes came back into focus and Draco looked at him inquiringly. "Right, I forgot. You don't need to find Harry to talk to him, so why don't you just ask him..."

"Because he doesn't know either," said Draco. "These days he doesn't know where he is most of the time. Anyway, he doesn't need the extra worry."

"Whereas I do?"

"You can handle it," said Draco, once again demonstrating his spectacular ability to make a compliment sound like an insult.

Ron sighed. "I do not know where Hermione is," he said, enunciating clearly. "She didn't tell me she wasn't coming to the meeting, she just didn't show up, and when and if you find her, you can tell her for me that I don't appreciate her sticking me with you lot on my own. Got that?"

"I shall make some very strongly worded statements on your behalf," Draco promised solemnly.

Ron stared at him. "Do you ever say anything that isn't sarcastic?"

"No," said Draco cheerfully. "Not really."

"Why do you want to know where Hermione is, anyway?"

"I'm worried about her." Draco's voice was uninflected, giving away nothing. "I wanted to talk to her."

"She'll be at the match this afternoon, she goes to all Harry's matches, you know that."

"I won't have a chance to talk to her then, I'll be too busy winning the game."

"Fat chance, Malfoy," said Ron, with some satisfaction. "You can't win against us. Harry's developed some new strategies that will knock you off your Firebolt."

"Really?" Draco looked politely interested. "Well, then you'll get to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation again, and we know how much you like that."

"Shhhh!" Ron hissed frantically, whipping around to see if anyone had overheard. "Okay, now, in what universe is that 'never talking about it again ever'?"

"Oh yeah," said Draco, with great unconcern. "Oops."

Ron threw his hands up into the air. "Oh, go away, Malfoy. And if you want to find Hermione so badly, look where we always bloody look. She's probably in the library."

***

The library was nearly deserted: of the few students who sat studying at the long tables, Ginny recognized only Slytherin Chaser Malcolm Baddock, Hannah Abbott, engrossed in a tome entitled The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, and Parvati Patil, sound asleep in a corner. Even the vulture-like Madam Pince was nowhere to be seen. Probably lurking in a corner of the stacks, waiting to catch unsuspecting students who dared dog-ear their textbook pages. Ginny leaned back, her eyes flicking to the clock on the south wall above the door. The face of it changed daily, depending on what school activities were scheduled. Today, in the four-o-clock spot, the words Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch Match glowed red and green, matching the decorations on the Christmas tree in the corner. Ginny was pleased to see that she had at least another hour and a half before she needed to start getting ready for the match; plenty of time to read another chapter in the latest tale from Witch Weekly's Dragon Heartstrings romance novel series. She had become hooked on them after finding a secret stash of the novels under her mother's collection of kitchen towels. She knew they were trash but she couldn't help herself; this newest one was entitled Passionate Trousers, and so far she was enjoying it very much.

The heaving waves on the vast, black ocean beneath the castle sent a salty spray flying up over the rocks, leaving beads of water to form on the exposed alabaster skin of the tall, flame-haired witch who stood on the high balcony. Her salty tears mixed with the sea spray as she faced Tristan de Malcourt, the wizard who had loved her in every way it was possible for a woman to be loved, and then abandoned her to a cruel fate.

Rhiannon laughed mirthlessly as she faced him now. "Tristan," she said. "I suppose you thought I would not find you."

"On the contrary." His firm gray eyes flashed. "Thou art a very determined witch."

She raised her chin. "Yes, I am."

He turned to walk away. "It will do thee no good, Rhiannon. Thou must find another, I cannot love thee."

"No!" She flung herself at him, and almost bounced off his broad, muscular chest, so broad and muscular was it. "It is you, and only you, that I must be with!"

"What art thou saying?" He spun to face her, his robes swirling around his sturdy, muscular calves. "Thou knowest I need my space!"

"It is too late, Tristan! For - I am with child!"

He goggled at her.

"Yes," she repeated. "With child!"

The words hung in the salty air like overripe peaches. She gazed at him, her huge dark eyes filling with tears - and then he had lunged towards her and gathered her to his broad, manly chest, raining fiery kisses on her full, flowerlike lips. "Rhiannon!" he cried. "This changes everything! My darling! My angel! My light! My life!"

Heedlessly she abandoned herself to his caresses as his long, elegant masculine fingers dispensed with her bodice buttons more swiftly than a practiced Summoning Spell. She leaned back against the balustrade and let him do with her as he wished, her breathing becoming a hungry panting as he shoved her skirts up around her thighs, his hands stroking her creamy skin, and she tried to banish the worrying thought that perhaps she should tell him that the child she carried was not his after all, but the child of the evil Dark Wizard Morgan, Tristan's most hated enemy...

"She should probably tell him," said a voice behind her. "Otherwise, I envision things getting very rocky for them farther down the road."

Ginny spun around with such suddenness that Passionate Trousers was knocked to the floor at her feet. She felt herself go scarlet. She had never quite realized before how garish the cover actually was - "From the Dragon Heartstrings series! Where bosoms actually heave!" it proclaimed in glittering letters, just above the illustration of a swooning witch being given what looked like CPR by a shirtless blond wizard in alarming velvet trousers. As she watched, the wizard looked up from what he was doing, winked, and blew her a kiss. This would have been embarrassing in any case, but was doubly so with Draco Malfoy standing next to her, looking tall, blond, and immaculately composed. As she looked from the book to him his mouth twitched into a slow smile, his gray eyes lighting up.

"Oh," she said awkwardly. "You."

He bent down and picked up Passionate Trousers, whether to glance at it or hand it to her she didn't know or care. She reached out and yanked the book out of his grip, shoving it under her Astronomy textbook.

"I was enjoying that," he said, looking injured. "Especially the part where she could feel the proof of his rampant passion pressing against her -"

"Pig," she hissed at him, under her breath.

"No, I'm pretty sure that wasn't it. Rhiannon doesn't seem like the sort of witch who'd have a pig, or much interaction with barnyard animals of any sort."

"Unless you count Tristan," said Ginny irritably.

"Now, I rather like Tristan," said Draco. He shifted the book his was holding from his right hand to his left, and gestured expansively with it. "He seems like a wizard with the right sort of ideas."

Ginny sniffed. "He heartlessly abandoned Rhiannon and left her in the clutches of her evil uncle Rodrigo!"

"Well," Draco pointed out, "he didn't know Rodrigo was evil. He thought he was doing what was best for her, since he couldn't tell her he was on the run from the Council of Wizards."

"It was not what was best for her!" Ginny said heatedly. She could feel the blood rushing into her face and knew she was probably scarlet with annoyance. "She loved him and without him her life was meaningless."

"Better than having no life," said Draco rather coldly. "Better than having your soul sucked out by minions of evil."

"And what do you know about it, Draco Malfoy?"

"Listen, Weasley-"

"How long were you standing there reading over my shoulder, anyway?"

"I-"

A sharp voice interrupted them. "Miss Weasley! Mister Malfoy! What is this disturbance?" It was Madam Pince, looking poisonous. "I cannot believe you are shouting in my library."

Ginny blushed. "I'm sorry, Madam Pince."

"What could be of such urgent importance that you have to shriek about it?"

"It was just a private argument," said Draco, widening his eyes and looking angelic. Madam Pince was unmoved. "Well, take your little lover's spats elsewhere from now on."

Ginny gasped. "Lover's spats?"

Madam Pince raised her eyes. "Yes, Miss Weasley?"

"This wasn't a lover' spat," Ginny protested firmly. "It was a completely love-free spat."

Madam Pince shook her head.

Draco looked amused.

"I don't even like him," Ginny added, indicating Draco with a gesture.

"I really don't care," said Madam Pince. "Ten points from Gryffindor, ten points from Slytherin." She shot a look at Draco. "And you a prefect, too," she said, sniffed, and walked away.

"Blaise will be so disappointed in you," said Ginny, with heavy sarcasm, turning back to Draco. But he was already gone - halfway across the library on his way to the door. She watched in mingled exasperation and disappointment as he vanished through the door, and it was only when he was quite gone and she turned back to her books that she realized he had taken her copy of Passionate Trousers with him.

***

Entering the small room that served as the NEWT-Level Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Draco was surprised to see Hermione already there, sitting at the table, apparently absorbed in a book entitled A Runic Alphabet. Since it was such a small class, boasting only seven students (Harry, Hermione, Eloise Midgen, Terry Boot, Neville Longbottom, Padma Patil, and Draco himself) it was conducted around a battered old wooden table, with Professor Lupin chatting and consulting with them as if they were all old friends.

Draco slid into the seat next to Hermione and spoke under his breath. "I cannot believe you skived off the prefects' meeting."

She didn't look at him, but her cheeks turned dark red. "I know. I forgot."

"You forgot? How could you forget? You live for that kind of thing."

"I just forgot."

"I was worried about you."

Now she did look up. "Worried? What did you think had happened to me?"

Her eyes were very dark and curious. She had her hair pulled back into a messy bun stuck through with a quill that held it in place. He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to explain that what had struck him was a vague and terrible sense of apprehension, sourceless and inexplicable. She seemed to see the hesitation in his eyes, or maybe she saw something else there, because when she spoke, it was rapidly and with some nervousness. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Because you speak Latin," said Draco.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "So do all the professors."

"I know." Draco leaned back and put his feet up on the table. He could tell that Hermione was struggling to restrain herself from telling him not to do that, although he couldn't see the problem himself -- his shoes were lovely, dark brown leather boots in suede so soft you could have taken a nap on it. Hermione just did not appreciate the finer things in life. "Hermione, what would you say if I said 'Venio' to you?"

"I'd ask if you wanted me to make up the spare bedroom."

"What?"

Hermione smiled. "It means 'I come,' or 'I am coming' with the implication being that whoever it is, is going to arrive soon."

Oh." Draco studied the tips of his boots. "That's all it means?"

"Yes."

"How ostentatious."

Hermione blinked at him. "What are you going on about?"

Draco waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing."

"Come on, tell me."

"Not until you tell me why you skived off the meeting."

Hermione looked guilty. "Was Ron very angry?"

"Angry? Not so much, really. More...annoyed and distracted." Draco shrugged. "Weasley's been acting odd lately, if you ask me."

Hermione set her book down on the table. "Yeah. I know what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if..."

"If what?"

"If he's seeing a girl."

"Only if he closes his eyes and concentrates, I'd imagine," said Draco.

Hermione looked at him irritably. "I know you think that, but Ron is really..."

A voice spoke from behind them. "Ron is really what?"

Draco looked up, knowing already who it was; if he'd not been paying so much attention to Hermione, he would have heard Harry come into the room. He was looking down at Hermione, and there was that oddness between them that had become so pronounced of late. Draco knew now what was making Harry withdraw from Hermione, and suspected he could imagine that she would withdraw herself in response. But it was a difficult thing to watch happen without being able to do anything about it.

Hermione dropped her eyes. "Really busy," she said. "Ron is really busy."

"Oh." Harry sat down next to Hermione, so that he was facing Draco across the table. "Well, he is Head Boy."

"I know." Hermione looked at Harry more closely. "You look better. Did you go to the infirmary?"

Harry nodded but was prevented from saying anything by Lupin walking in, followed by Padma and Eloise. A moment later Terry and Neville had joined them and the class was complete.

Lupin sat down. "The time has come for us to talk about your end-of-year projects," he said, shuffling quickly through his books and selecting a stack of parchments. A soft little groan ran around the table, and Lupin looked up with a smile in his dark gray eyes. "It won't be that bad. First off, I'll be dividing you up into teams." He consulted a parchment, his eyes flicking quickly down the list. "Neville and Terry, Padma and Eloise. Harry and Draco. Hermione, you're on your own."

Hermione nodded and Draco wondered if she had worked this out with Lupin ahead of time. He was mildly surprised that he had been put with Harry but suspected that this was because Lupin knew that he was unlikely to get along with anyone else.

"Each team will have the rest of the year to work on their projects," Lupin continued. "Now, I've tried to make these projects flexible to allow you to use your own inventiveness - a great part of being a successful Auror requires quick and adaptable thinking. It also requires creativity-"

"I plan to make a diorama," said Draco solemnly.

"No," said Lupin patiently, "not that kind of creativity."

"But it'll be an evil diorama. And then Harry can destroy it."

Lupin's voice held a warning tone. "Draco."

Draco subsided, although next to him, Harry's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"The tasks," Lupin went on, "are divided into three categories: pure research, curse-breaking, and Dark creatures." He began handing out parchments, which the students passed along the table. Draco took his and glanced at it quickly. Describe a method you might use for breaking the Medusa curse. Successfully train yourself to resist the Imperius Curse. (Not you, Harry.) Research the history of Azkaban. Describe how you might elude a Tracking Curse. Write a history of the Founders of Hogwarts; please include the Ten Years' War and the founding of the Auror's Guild. The next one made Draco smile. Conceive a plan by which a Manticore might be defeated. (Not you, Harry, or Draco either!)

"There are thirty in total," Lupin added. "Each set of two students please select three projects to do, one from each category - Hermione, since you're alone, you need do only two. On the first of May, we'll start presentations of final projects, on which your final marks will depend. Any questions?"

Neville raised his hand slowly. "What if we want to research a curse that isn't on this list?"

Lupin's eyes darkened. "Then talk to me after class."

"Will we be able to get books out of the Restricted Section?" asked Padma.

Lupin nodded. "Just give me a list of what you need and I'll sign it out for you."

Draco only half-heard this, his attention had begun to wander. He looked out from under the fringe of his lowered lashes, first at Harry, who had regained his seriousness and was busy studying the project list. He looked severe, and not a little tired. Which was probably good, Draco thought, since that afternoon he would be flying against Harry, they might as well both be exhausted or it would be an uneven match. Harry exhausted was still a just-about-unbeatable Seeker. Nothing broke his concentration: not pain, not fear, not anger, not tiredness. Not anything.

Draco moved his gaze to Hermione. She was taking notes. Typical. She had her lower lip caught between her teeth as she often did when she was thinking. He looked away. His glance slid over Padma (pretty enough but not his type) to Neville (looking very tense) to Terry (utterly boring; Draco had never spoken to him) to Eloise (she had briefly dated Crabbe in fifth year, and by all accounts even kissed him, which had always struck Draco as a biological impossibility) to Lupin, who to his surprise was looking back at him. "Draco," he said. "You seem elsewhere."

"Just excited about my upcoming project, Professor," said Draco innocently.

Lupin gave him a nice-try-kid look. "See me after class, Mr. Malfoy."

Busted! Harry's voice sang out in Draco's head. He shot his soon-to-be-stepbrother an annoyed look, but Harry's expression was quite innocent. He remembered when it would have been a near impossibility for Harry to hide anything he was feeling. No longer. He resolved to try to prevent Harry from picking up any more of his bad habits in future.

Class ended five minutes early to allow the students time to get down to the Quidditch pitch. Harry left with Hermione, his arm around her, the parchment with their assignment on it shoved into his bookbag. I'll see you on the pitch, he said, half turning around.

Draco nodded slightly in response. When he turned back to Lupin, he found the DaDA professor folding his parchments into a leather carrying case with gold buckles that Draco didn't care for - gold was so affected. Then again, they wouldn't very well be silver, would they? "It was very reassuring to hear that you're looking forward to your assignment, Draco, especially since outlines of your project choices will be due after Christmas vacation." He smiled. "Which is why I put you and Harry on the same team, since I know you'll be spending your holiday break together."

"He'll be with Hermione too. You didn't need to put him with me."

"She can work alone. You can't."

"I can -"

"You'll work better with Harry," said Lupin, with finality. "Is this a problem?"

"No...uh, no." Draco was a bit taken a back at his own behavior. He wanted to work with Harry. He rather suspected he had just been fishing for information about Hermione's private project. Bad Draco, he told himself experimentally, but nothing happened -- self-criticism was not his forte. "I don't mind working with Harry."

"Good, because Dumbledore and I discussed it and we want you together."

"You talked about us?"

"We often do." Lupin smiled and picked up his case. "Surprised?"

"I suppose not." Draco held the door open for Lupin to walk out of the room and they started down the corridor together. "I don't imagine it'd do any good to ask what you say?"

"None," said Lupin pleasantly.

"Any reason you kept me after class?"

Lupin stopped walking and faced him, his eyes thoughtful. "Just to tell you that if you and Harry run into any problems, I want you to come directly to me. I'll also be at the Manor over Christmas, and available to you then as well."

"Oh. Okay." Draco didn't know what else to say -- he had never in his life gone to a teacher for extra assistance, and he knew exactly how Harry felt about going to teachers for anything at all. It was a bit of a mania with Harry, doing things on his own; then again, Draco supposed he himself was much the same way. "Will do."

"And you have a good idea what kinds of materials you might need?"

Draco nodded. "We're sorted, thanks."

Lupin nodded. "All right. Good luck on the game, then," he added, and surprised Draco by shaking his hand. "May the best team win."

"I thought you were a Gryffindor fan, professor," said Draco curiously. "I thought you were all in Gryffindor, you and Harry's dad and Sirius and..."

"Is that what you thought?" said Lupin mildly, and turned away. Draco looked for a moment after him with great curiosity -- what did he mean by that? -- before he turned and bolted for the Quidditch pitch, anxious not to be late.

***

Ginny tried to stifle a yawn. She was sitting between Elizabeth and Seamus on the uncomfortable wooden benches in the Gryffindor Quidditch changing room, listening to Harry give his pre-game pep talk. Everyone seemed to be paying rapt attention, even Ron, who was fiddling with the fastenings on his knee guards. Harry was excellent at pep talks, which had always surprised Ginny since he was so unenthusiastic in general about public speaking. But Quidditch, like Hermione, was a subject that brought out the passion in him - he gestured with his hands while he talked, his black hair dancing, green eyes sparking animatedly. He also, she thought, looked his best in his Quidditch uniform - the burgundy-and-gold striped sweater, light corduroys, and knee-high leather knee protectors suited him. Harry tended not to wear the regulation elbow protectors, as he claimed they slowed down his reach and made him less effective at catching the Snitch, but he did wear the fingerless black leather gloves, at least in winter. Back when she had had a crush on him, the outfit had tended to reduce her to speechlessness; even now, it made her stomach do a friendly little flip. Of course, he wasn't the only boy she knew who looked good in his Quidditch uniform, but still. There was no harm in silent appreciation.

She blinked as everyone around her started to their feet - apparently the pep talk was over and she hadn't heard a word of it. Seamus, Colin, Elizabeth and Dennis filed past her; Ron half-stood, then cursed quietly as the strap on his knee guard broke. Harry glanced back, but Ron waved him away. "You go on," he said, and grabbed for his wand. Harry nodded and reached for his Firebolt; Ginny followed suit, and went after him down the corridor that led out to the Quidditch pitch. They joined the rest of the team there, and a moment later Ron caught up with them.

It was a bright, brisk winter afternoon, so sharply chilly that Ginny's eyes stung. She raised her head, feeling the cold air touch the tip of her nose, her uncovered ears. Her hair was bundled under a black woolly hat, and the fingerless gloves on her hands were tipped with mini Warming Charms, but the chill still seeped into her skin.

She glanced around. The ground below the pitch was scraped clean, as flat and icy as a skating rink. The diminishing sunlight striped it with bars of gold. Behind the pitch rose the Forbidden Forest, the trees immense and winter-black. Stripped of leaves and outlined by the snow, they had a thorny, medieval symmetry.

The crowds whooped and cheered from the stands, many of them clutching orange-glowing Hot Potatoes, a new product from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes that exploded in House colors after the game ended. Ginny saw Hermione sitting towards the front of the stands, a white knitted cap covering her curly brown hair. She was flanked on her left by George and his girlfriend Jana, who came in from Hogsmeade for the game. Both the twins liked to watch their little sister and brother fly, and were trading off coming in for the matches when the joke shop wasn't too busy.

Ginny raised her hand and waved, and Hermione waved back. Her cheeks were scarlet with cold and, together with the white cap and her curling dark hair, made her look very pretty. Next to her, George made a rude gesture. Ginny was surprised, until she realized that he was looking past her at the Slytherin team, who had just come out onto the pitch opposite them.

She felt herself tense. Gryffindor-Slytherin matches were always the worst, for a multitude of reasons. She hated how fierce and embattled they always were, and how tense they made Harry - she knew, since he had told her back in September, that he and Draco had made a pact never to use their telepathy during a game, as it was both too distracting and could be considered cheating. She knew that Draco was the best flier in the school, after Harry, and the only one who could really challenge Harry on his own ground; she also knew that Harry didn't like having to fly against him, although he never let it get in the way of the game. Harry was nothing if not consummately professional where Quidditch was concerned.

As if he knew Ginny was thinking about him, at that moment Harry tapped her on the shoulder. "You all right?" he asked.

She knew what he meant; they were all always asking her if she was all right when Draco was around. She looked over at the unmentioned subject of the question, who stood as he always did before a game, arms crossed, broomstick at his feet, his team ranged out behind him as if they were arrayed on a stage. Everything was drama to him, she thought irritably. Everything was about staging. He had probably calculated for hours where to stand so that the sunlight struck him just so, lightening his fair hair to silver and making both it and the silver stripes along his green-striped sweater shine like new metal. His forest-green Quidditch cloak hung just so, making a perfectly even line from his shoulders down to his polished black boots. Like Harry, he eschewed the elbow protectors and wore the fingerless leather gloves, although his were cleaner and gleamed as if they were new. In fact, the whole Slytherin Quidditch team gleamed as if they had just been polished, from Malcolm Baddock's new Asteroid 2000 broom to Blaise's red-gold hair, which was not, like Ginny's, stuffed under a woolly hat, but instead poured like a river of fire down her back to her waist. They had made some non-regulation alterations to their uniforms - they wore black instead of the usual light-colored corduroys, and all of them wore lace-up leather boots instead of trainers. Polished silver buckles held their emerald robes in place over their shoulders. The general overall effect reminded Ginny of the team of horses who drew the Beauxbatons carriage: sleek, matching, purebred, mean as hell.

"I'm fine," Ginny said to Harry, who nodded. It was almost entirely true.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle. "Captains greet each other!" she called out, and the two captains stepped out onto the pitch, Draco first and then Harry. They met in the middle and each held out their hand to be shaken. Harry's cheeks were scarlet with cold, Draco looked pale and composed and untouched by the weather, and Ginny was struck as always by the similarity in their bearing and build, despite the superficial differences of coloring and uniform. Both were tall and slender without being thin, with the light build that made for exceptional Seekers. Each bent his head as their hands touched, and as the dying sunlight flared and faded behind them, she marveled at the incongruity of it -- Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, shaking hands. A year ago she would have thought that would be impossible; now she wondered that they managed to keep their manner towards each other so cold and reserved in public. They had faced death before shoulder to shoulder, yet as they broke off the handshake, turned, and repaired to their respective teams, they might never have known each other at all.

As the crowd above them roared and cheered, Blaise stood on her tiptoes and kissed Draco lightly on the mouth, as she always did before games, "for luck." He barely moved or acknowledged the gesture, seeming to accept it as his due, which annoyed Ginny despite the fact that she knew he was in some measure acting. But then he was always in some measure acting. "Some people make scenes," Harry had said to her once. "Draco makes three-act plays."

Madam Hooch's whistle blew, snapping Ginny out of her reverie. She seized her broom and kicked off with the rest of the team. Fourteen players rose up towards the darkening silver sky.

Harry immediately rose high above the rest of them, casting about for the Snitch. Draco flashed upward as well, a blur of green and silver at the corner of Ginny's eye. She pulled her attention away from the boys as something huge and black shot towards her - a Bludger, hit by Tess Hammond. Ginny ducked it as Colin flew in front of her, knocking the Bludger back towards Blaise with a mighty heave.

Blaise elegantly swerved around the Bludger, shooting Colin a vicious look as she did so. Colin looked taken aback and slightly frightened - Blaise was an expert at nasty looks.

"Ginny! Over here!" It was Elizabeth Thomas, the Quaffle in her grasp. She hurled the ball towards Ginny, who caught it, turned, and streaked towards the other end of the pitch. The cold air cut at her face, making her eyes sting. As she neared the Slytherin goalposts three dark figures shot in front of her -- Blaise, Graham, and Malcolm. As Chasers, they couldn't touch her, but they could certainly block her way. Colin drove them off with a well-directed Bludger, but precious seconds had elapsed, and as Ginny started forward Tess and Milicent swooped in, furiously hitting Bludgers towards her, and she was forced to toss the Quaffle towards Seamus. Blaise intercepted the throw, passed to Malcolm, and the Slytherins scored, Malcolm swatting the ball through the posts so hard it nearly took Ron's head off when he tried to block it.

There was a discontented rumble from the stands. Nobody liked a Slytherin victory except, of course, the other Slytherins.

Ginny bit her lip, and when the Quaffle came back into play, this time she dove after it fiercely. She swatted it away from Blaise (which gave her no small amount of pleasure) and sped across the pitch, casting the ball towards Seamus. He caught it and headed away with it, and as she looked after him she saw something glint below her --

The Snitch.

It shot by beneath her feet, and Harry and Draco rocketed after it, neck and neck, two blurs of green and scarlet. As Ginny turned to look down at the flying golden ball and its pursuers, something flashed out at her from across the pitch. It was like a sudden flash of light stabbing into her eyes, but it was not light, it was darkness - a hard and agonizing and painful darkness, sharpened to a point and driven right between her eyes. She felt her limbs stiffen, cold tearing at her insides like knives. Her fingers gone frozen and lifeless, she could no longer hold the broom. The world turned upside down, the sky at her feet, the glittering ice-covered world racing up to meet her. She screamed once before everything went black.

***

Racing Harry towards the Snitch, Draco's world had narrowed itself down to just himself and his goal - the tiny golden object only feet away. He heard the rushing of wind in his ears, the pounding of his heart - and then, cutting through everything else, a scream.

Ginny's scream.

He whirled his broom around in midair, almost dislocating his shoulder as the Firebolt jerked sideways. Vaguely somewhere off to his left he heard Harry swear fiercely, but he wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on the scarlet-robed figure on the drunkenly swaying broom - he saw Ginny fight for control of her Nimbus 2000, lose it, and tumble sideways. She fell without another cry, struck the ground, and lay motionless.

Screams rose from the crowds in the stands. Charlie and George were on their feet, shoving their way through the packed mass of people. Somewhere Professor McGonagall was shouting. The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams were in disarray; Harry was shouting and Draco supposed he should rally his own team as well, but it seemed a very small thing and anyway it was too late - he had pointed his broom towards the ground at a near-vertical angle, causing him to shoot downward with a speed that would have made even Wronski jealous.

The cold wind sang in his ears like music. He imagined he had never flown so fast, or so hard. He hit the ground on his hands and knees with bone-breaking force, and scrambled to his feet. All around him the other Quidditch players were flying down like a shower of falling stars, red and green. He ran towards the splash of crimson against white snow that was Ginny. He was somewhat conscious of chaotic milling up in the stands, of the sound of yelling voices, and then he reached her and went down on his knees in the snow next to her, and he could see that not all the scarlet that she lay against was Quidditch robes. Blood.

As he reached for her, her dark eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him. There was a blank sort of wondering in her gaze, as if she were both surprised to see him there and had accepted it as inevitable. "Draco?" she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

"Yeah." His voice came out in a whisper. "It's me."

He reached his hand towards her and then something grabbed him violently by the back of his robes and hauled him into a standing position and he whirled around and saw that it was Seamus Finnegan.

The Gryffindor Chaser was white with fury. "What do you think you're doing, Slytherin?" he spat, as if it were the worst insult he could think of. "Stay away from her."

The rest of the Gryffindor team had landed. Draco saw the Creevey brothers approaching, backing up Seamus, Elizabeth running forward, and Ron, white and stricken-looking, pushing past the others to get to his sister. Tess and Dex were still in the air, but the other Slytherins were on the ground, standing at a distance, staring in surprise. He could feel Blaise's eyes on him, but he didn't care.

He turned back to Seamus. "Get out," he said, enunciating each word clearly, "of my way."

"Why? So you can gloat? What's your problem, Malfoy? We don't want you here."

"Get out of my way," Draco repeated. He heard his own voice as if it came from very far away. "Get out of my way, or I will kill you. I'll break every bone in your fucking body, Finnegan. Don't think I won't."

Seamus paled markedly but held his ground. "I'm not going anywhere."

Draco drew his left arm back. He was never sure later what he meant to do - hit Seamus, or hurl a spell at him. It didn't matter. As his arm went back a firm hand grabbed his wrist and held it, hard.

He turned around, already knowing whose hand held his wrist. Harry. He was pale but composed, his green eyes dark and serious.

I can't let you do this, Malfoy.

***

Draco looked as if Harry had hit him. What?

Harry tightened his grip on Draco's wrist until he could feel the pulse pounding there, swift and even. He knew it must be hurting him but the other boy showed no sign of pain, no sign that he even really knew what was going on around him. Vaguely, out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Seamus turning away, looking rattled but relieved, and going to kneel with the rest of the team next to Ginny. Behind the tight knot of Gryffindors Harry could see Madam Pomfrey approaching quickly, a magical stretcher at her side. At the edge of the pitch stood Charlie and George, being held back by several professors, including Snape.

Let me go, Potter. There was an evenness to Draco's tone that was almost frightening. You've got no right --

I have every right. It's my team, my teammate. Look to your own team.

Something flashed behind Draco's eyes for a moment, something wild and furious. You can't tell me what to do, Potter.

Oh, yes I can. We made a promise, Malfoy. Every second we stand here is another second that will make everyone suspicious. And for what - you can't do anything for her-

You don't know that!

If you go near her the rest of my team will try to kill you.

Not if you stop them.

If you don't listen to me, I won't help you. I won't hold them off.

Harry -

No. I can't help you if you don't help yourself.

Draco whitened further. Let me go -- His next thought came with the sharp force of a blow, cracking like a whip inside Harry's head. Let me go, Potter. Let me go!

With misgivings, Harry released his grip on Draco's wrist, and the other boy took a stumbling step back, and then another. He faced Harry, his chest rising and fell as swiftly as if he had been running; his eyes were nearly black with fury and something else. Harry had seen him look like that before and it hit him like a blow and hurt him as it always did, but there was nothing he could do.

I'll tell you what happens, Harry thought. Just - go. Please go.

Draco's eyes narrowed into slits and he looked as if he were about to speak; then, as suddenly as he had whipped around in midair, he spun on his heel and ran off the pitch, up the hard-packed snowy path to the school, his boots cracking the ice underfoot with the sound of breaking bones.

Harry watched him go, then turned, and out of habit searched for Hermione in the stands. He saw her immediately - she was on her feet, her hands over her mouth. As he looked at her, she took a step back, turned, and dashed away from the pitch, up the path towards school, after Draco.

***

Hermione's feet slipped and slid on the ice as she raced up the stone front stairs of Hogwarts. She ran without really looking where she was going, and without thinking why she was running. She had seen the look on Draco's face before he fled the pitch - fierce, furious, desperate - and it had frightened her. She ran after and towards him, without thinking why.

The entrance hall was cold and deserted. She darted left, down the hallway that led to the Slytherin dungeons. The tapestries on these walls were green, just like the tapestries that led up the stairs to the Gryffindor Tower were red. They were threaded through with gold and silver, faded from many years of maltreatment by students. Ghosts seemed to reach out of the walls and touch her as she ran. She passed a tapestry that bore the Hogwarts motto and paused for a moment to look at it, transfixed by the bold colors and the symbols. It almost seemed to her that the Slytherin snake looked about to lunge at the Gryffindor lion, the Ravenclaw raven poised to hurl herself between them. Hermione paused, and covered her eyes with her hands. The voices rose up in the back of her mind, a soft pounding in her skull. "Married?" she heard the voice that was not her voice say. "You're getting married? To - she's not even human, Salazar!"

"It is no concern of yours. You have Godric."

"You are always my concern. Have you thought about this? Marriage is not some game, you know. God joins and death sunders. Once in the water you must swim until you go down."

"If I cannot have you," he said, "I do not care who I do have. I do not care about anything else."

The voices faded, then resumed again, with greater strength.

"Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you! Don't even think about it!"

Hermione jumped, and took her hands away from her eyes. That last voice had certainly not been inside her head. It was coming from farther down the hall, and so was another, deeper voice. She slowed down and turned the corner. A flight of stone stairs led down, and the voices were coming from below. She was halfway down the stairs before she recognized one voice: Draco's. And the other was a girl's.

She leaned forward over the carved stone banister. Below, in a patch of torchlight, she could see Draco standing, and facing him, looking furious, was Blaise Zabini. "Don't you walk away from me, Draco Malfoy," she was saying in a freezing voice. "Don't even think about it." The wavering light glittered on the jewelry she wore - more than most girls at Hogwarts. She had multiple rings in her ears and on her slender fingers, and jeweled clips glittered in her strawberry hair. Her eyes looked huge in the dim light, as dark and glossy green as leaves under water. "I want an explanation."

"An explanation?" Draco's voice was a thin steel dagger. Hermione could see the dark patches on the knees of his jeans, the elbows of his Quidditch robes, where he had landed in the snow. The melting snow in his hair washed pale strands into his eyes; he pushed them back with an impatient hand on which the Malfoy seal ring glittered like a malevolent eye. "Blaise, darling," He spit the word out as if it were an insult. "You came running after me to demand an explanation?" He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently back against the wall, pinioning her there with his arms. "You should know better."

Hermione had to give Blaise credit, she didn't back down. She raised her chin, poised and furious-looking. "As if it's not bad enough that you're always goggling at Harry Potter's girlfriend, now this," she spat. "What is it with you and the Gryffindors?"

"You're jealous," said Draco. "Isn't that cute." He didn't look as if he thought it was cute. His expression was calm, even disinterested, but his eyes were thunderous. His hands where they rested on the wall were clenched into fists. Hermione wondered how much that had to do with Blaise, and how much that had to do with his summary ejection from the Quidditch pitch.

"It's my prerogative to be jealous," said Blaise icily. "I'm your girlfriend. Don't you dare try to tell me I can't be jealous." She reached up and pushed his arms away, matching him glare for glare. "What's going on with you, Draco?" Her voice was icy silk. "I want to know."

"There is nothing going on with me," Draco said flatly.

"Then what were you doing?"

"What did it look like?"

"It looked like you were having a - a fit, over some Gryffindor, just because the little idiot couldn't hang on to her broom. And you let Harry Potter throw you off the pitch. Since when do we listen to him?"

Draco shrugged. "So I was being sportsmanlike. We can't keep on playing when the opposing team is falling off their broomsticks."

"Draco, we're Slytherins. We keep playing even if the other team gets struck by lightning and turned into a brave little pile of ashes."

"Yes, and how well has that strategy worked for us in the past? Blaise, we've lost the past five Quidditch cups to Gryffindor, and you know it. And half the reason is that the professors and the other teams can't stand us, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff will lose matches deliberately to Gryffindor just to make sure we don't get the cup-"

"And you think if you play all nice-nice that might change?"

Draco folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, looking fed up. "Yes, I do."

Blaise stopped to ponder this for a moment. There was a sharp scarlet flush in her pale cheeks, but Hermione could sense that her anger was fading. She was, after all, a Slytherin, cold-blooded at the core and driven by practicality over passion. "You've changed," she said finally, raising her green eyes to Draco. "I don't know if I like it."

"We all change," he said. He unfolded his arms, and stood looking at her, his head cocked to the side. Every line of his body expressed tension and a just-under-the-surface anger, but his mouth was smiling. It was a cool, tense smile, radiating the promise of things which might or might not be pleasant, but which one couldn't help wanting anyway. "You've changed since we played together when we were five. Haven't you?"

"Maybe." The Slytherin girl arched her head back, a small smile playing on her mouth. Her hands were on her hips, her shoulders back, her chest thrust forward. The provocative pose could have been copied from the pages of Teen Witch Weekly, but on Blaise it didn't look silly. "Do you like it?"

"That depends." Draco reached out and gently touched her hair. "Are you still angry at me?"

Blaise lowered her eyelashes. "I don't know."

"It's pretty simple really," said Draco, and lightly touched her face, running his knuckles along the curve of her cheek, over her lips, down to her collarbone. "Either you are," he said, and dropped his hands to her waist, pulling her closer, "or you aren't."

In answer, she raised her face, eyes closed and lips parted, and he kissed her. It was a slow, controlled, unhurried kiss; plainly he had kissed her this way before. Just as plainly she liked it; she went pliant under his hands, and her arms slid around his waist.

Hermione felt herself flush scarlet. Now she felt as if she were spying on something that was none of her business; even worse, she remembered what it was like to be kissed by Draco like that. She had never much minded his relationship with Blaise before, now she found that she did mind it, very much, and was ashamed of herself for minding.

She screwed her eyes shut. When she opened them again Blaise and Draco had separated, although not by far; Blaise was smiling up at him, and in the darkness of the corridor, his pale hair and her scarlet shone out like beacons. They could have been Ginny and Draco. But Ginny would never have smiled at him like that.

"I guess you aren't," Draco said, in a voice that made even Hermione feel a little wobbly around the knees. Oh dear. "Angry any more, that is.'

"Not now, but if I ever catch you so much as kissing another girl, Draco Malfoy-" Blaise said, her voice breathy.

Draco cut her off with a laugh, short and mirthless. "That won't happen."

Blaise looked at him languidly. Under her dark lashes, her eyes showed green as a cat's. Somehow she had managed to allow her Quidditch robes to slip off one shoulder, showing the strap of her lavender camisole beneath. Hermione had no idea how she'd done that without even seeming to move. It was a feat of engineering. "Sometimes I think I don't know you at all," she said.

"Sometimes I think the same thing."

He let Blaise go, and she stepped away from him, straightening her clothes. "I think we're done here, Draco," she said, and added: "I'll be in the common room if you want me," managing to make even that sound like an invitation to a round of unsavory but pleasurable activities. Drat the girl. Hermione watched her as she walked away, the sway of her hips mesmerizing under the dark green robes she wore. How did she walk like that? It wasn't at all fair. Blaise disappeared down the corridor in a swirl of green and scarlet, and as she did so Hermione glanced back down and saw Draco looking up at her.

Their eyes met, and she felt herself flush again. He stood where he was, not moving, the torchlight flaring and fading on his fair hair. Under his eyes were dark bruised shadows, and his mouth looked bruised as well, possibly from kissing. He had lost the thinness he had acquired over the summer, and she could see the slender musculature of shoulders and arms outlined under his clothes as he took another step back, tipping his head up to look at her, and the unsteady light played its shadows over his face and hair. For a moment, she saw another face superimposed over his.

"Draco," she said.

He smiled. The smile did not translate to his eyes. There was something else in them, something shadowy and despairing and primal. "What?"

"Do you love her?" she said. It wasn't what she had meant to say at all.

"What do you think?"

"I think you don't know."

"Then you give me too much credit," he said. "In the meantime - if I give you something, will you give it to Ginny for me?"

She shook her head. "Give it to her yourself."

"You don't have to tell her it came from me."

"Draco." The word came out as half a wail, half an accusation. "Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not acting," he said. "This is the way I am."

He raised his chin further, as arrogant and proud as she had ever seen him, and the torchlight flared on his bright hair and then vanished, as if a shadow had come between them and the light. In the half-darkness she saw his cool-water eyes on her, his chest still rising and falling quickly from rage and perhaps kissing, and she knew what had gone into that kiss: all the fierceness and the fury and the passion that he felt for someone, someone other than Blaise.

"You can love more than one person, you know," she said.

His eyes flashed. "Don't feed me platitudes, Hermione," he said. "You think I don't know that?"

"You don't love her," said Hermione, now certain of it. "You kiss her like you're trying to get revenge."

"Revenge on who?" Draco said, his voice tight with exasperation, or maybe it was something else.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well," said Draco, and shrugged. "Owl me when you find out, all right? Maybe there's a book in the library on it."

"If you think -"

"Just leave me alone," Draco said, and turned on his heel, and walked away. Hermione watched him go, the tension in her chest almost unbearable. It was getting worse - all of it. And there was no one she could talk to about it. Not Harry. Not Draco. Not Ron. Not anyone. Everyone, it seemed, was at a loss. And she suspected that Hermione Granger, smartest witch at Hogwarts, was the most lost of them all.

***

Exhausted, Harry walked slowly down the long corridor that led to the abandoned armory. Once a week, on Fridays, he made this journey, always at six-o'-clock, the hour before supper. On the first day of school, Dumbledore had shown him the way. Him, and Draco.

The walls here were dusty and bare of decorations and tapestries. Harry's feet echoed on the stone floor and the sound made him feel strangely lonely. He had been in the infirmary for a half hour before Madam Pomfrey had shooed him and the rest of the Gryffindor team out the door. He had made a cursory search of the castle but had not been able to find Hermione, and then it had been time for his appointment with Draco and he'd had to go. He felt the ache of not having been able to find her like a dull pain in his side. He did not want to be without her, especially not after the traumatic events of the game. But he also knew he had no right to require her company, not after the way he'd been acting lately. He wanted to do something to show her what she meant to him, but he couldn't. He felt her being torn from him and there was nothing, it seemed, that he would or could do about it. A dull sense of inevitable loss immobilized him.

He had reached the end of the corridor. The door in front of him was old, scarred, dark-red wood banded with bronze. He pushed the handle down and the door swung open. He went in, and shut it carefully behind him.

He stood in a large oval-shaped room with high windows, at least twenty feet above Harry's head, that were barred with iron grilles. The room was empty of furniture save a long table that ran along one wall; the walls were bare of ornamentation. Instead they were lined with empty glass-fronted cases that had once held swords and shields, axes and lances, enchanted weapons of all types. Now, it was never used. Dust motes floated in the weak rays of winter twilight that lanced down through the grilled windows.

In one bluish ray of light, Draco was standing, his back against the table, his head down as if he were either thinking very hard or was very tired. Terminus Est lay in all her steel-silver glory on the table behind him, the non-light catching the etchings all along the shaft and making them glow like fire-letters. The fragile light also lit his pale hair to a colorless sort of radiance, like mother-of-pearl. He was still wearing his emerald-colored Quidditch robes, although in the darkness they looked nearly black.

"Hallo, Malfoy," said Harry, by way of greeting.

Draco raised his head. There were etched shadows along the sides of his mouth, his darkly polished eyes. "Hey there, Potter."

Harry took another step into the room. "She's all right," he said, "since you wanted to know."

"Is she awake?"

"No. Not yet." Harry was in the center of the room now. "Look, about what happened on the Quidditch pitch -"

"Yeah," said Draco tonelessly. "I'm sorry about that."

Harry sighed. "Malfoy..." He put out a hand and his fingertips grazed the other boy's shoulder. "I've been thinking we should stop."

"What?" Harry felt Draco's eyes dart towards the sword lying on the table behind him. "Stop fencing practice? Why?"

"No, not that." Harry dropped his hand and rested it for a moment on the hilt of the sword at his waist. It had, as always, a comforting weight. "Stop the feud. Pretending that we hate each other. If it had come down to it on the field, if I'd had to throw you off and you'd refused to go on your own, I don't know if I could have done it."

"We can't," said Draco, "stop the feud - remember what Dumbledore said."

"I know, but we could go to him, explain -"

"Explain what? That it's not fun any more?" Draco's voice was bitter. "That's doesn't matter to what we're supposed to do. Of those to whom much is given, much is expected. Or whatever it was he said."

"I don't feel like I've been given that much," said Harry, with a rare flash of bitterness, and Draco looked up at him for the first time. His eyes seemed very dark, panes of steel-gray glass leaded with black lashes. He looked almost angry.

Harry checked himself. "I know, it's not true. I've got a lot. Hermione and Ron and Sirius -"

"I was thinking wealth, fame, and glory."

"You would be."

Draco smiled. It was a thin smile, but genuine. "Oh, good, insults. You always know where you stand with those."

Harry shrugged. "Did you want to practice or do you want to do that homework assignment Lupin gave us? It's your choice."

"I want to practice." Draco reached behind him and lifted his sword off the table. The weak light rayed down the blade and over the gilded hilt, set with its black-glass stones. The light picked out the words etched along the hilt: Terminus Est.

This is the Line of Division.

Dividing what from what? Harry wondered, not for the first time. Dividing good from evil, light from dark, choice from destiny? Or perhaps he was overanalyzing and it merely meant that the sword had an unusually sharp cutting edge. Which flashed down towards him now, and he raised his own blade to block the thrust, stepping forward as Draco had taught him. Walk into the thrust, not away; this will cut off your opponent's reach.

The swords clanged against each other and rang like bells in the silent room. Harry cut at Draco; Draco returned, and they moved in the slow unrehearsed dance of fencing around the room, neither rushing nor slowing their movements. Harry liked the practice times; it allowed him a space in which he didn't have to think; he merely let his body follow the movements it seemed to know by instinct. He cut, parried, riposted, and fell back as the blades spun against each other like sparking silver wheels. He let Draco drive him back, six steps, seven, until his back was against the wall. He let the next thrust come and ducked up under it, pushing off the wall to get extra force. His blade clanged against Draco's hard, striking a haze of sparks that lit the air between them.

Draco fell back. "Good," he said. "Good use of the wall."

Harry didn't reply, only swung his sword again, attacking. Draco parried and riposted; Harry feinted and attacked again. He took a long step back, moving out of range, then ducked under Draco's guard and attacked. His sword rode high off of Draco's parrying blow, and struck the other boy's shoulder. There was the whisper of parting fabric, and a slice opened in the sleeve of Draco's shirt.

Harry froze immediately. "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Draco, who had also paused, looked surprised. "It's fine."

Harry felt his fingers whiten as he gripped the hilt of the Gryffindor sword. "I could have hurt you."

Draco shook his head. "Not unless I let you. That was a good trick, but you're still telegraphing your moves. What's the problem, Potter?"

"I guess my mind is elsewhere."

"Hermione?" Draco said, and Harry felt himself nod. "Look, why can't you just tell her what you told me last night? She'll understand."

Harry looked down at his hand which, sheened with a light sweat, gripped the hilt of the Gryffindor sword. "There's one problem there."

"What?"

"I don't remember what I told you last night."

Draco's mouth twitched. "I don't suppose you'd believe it if I reminded you that you told me you're actually carrying on a mad secret affair with Professor Sprout and you've been exchanging photographs with her that involve you dressed like a giant woodchuck?"

"Nonsense," said Harry.

"Of course not."

"I would never dress like a woodchuck."

"Naturally."

"Now, a lemur maybe. A marmoset even. But a woodchuck? With those teeth?"

"Now you're scaring me."

Harry laughed. It was the fist time he had laughed aloud that day. "Anyway, this is Hogwarts. Everyone knows everyone else's business. Who could carry on a mad secret affair here?"

***

"I thought I heard someone coming," she said. She twisted out of Ron's grasp and stood up. He tilted his head back and she could feel his blue gaze on her back as she crossed the room and looked anxiously out through the high grilled window set in the door. Outside, she could see an expanse of empty corridor stretching in two directions. There was no one there.

"You worry too much," said Ron. He was seated on the floor, shirtless, in jeans and trainers. His Gryffindor Quidditch robes were tangled in a heap beside him, where the two of them had been lying. His eyes were shadowed. "Maybe I should go," he said. "Ginny -"

"You told me they wouldn't even let you into the infirmary," she said. "I thought she was going to be fine?"

"I know. But I feel responsible."

"Well, you aren't." She came back across the room and sat down beside him, putting her arms around him. "And you say I worry too much."

He twisted around in her embrace and looked at her. "If we did get caught," he said tightly. "If someone did find us - what would you do?"

"Ron, I-"

"What would you choose?"

"It would be just as bad for you if we were caught," she said in measured tones, "as it would be for me."

"Worse," he said. His voice was a little hard. She sensed he was probably trying to hurt her, feeling hurt himself.

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. "I love you," she said.

He blinked. She had never said this to him before. "You do?"

She nodded. "I thought you should know."

For a moment, he still looked startled; then his face lit up and he reached for her, pulling her close. "I thought you'd never -"

"Shh." She kissed him.

"I-"

"I know." She put her fingers over his lips. "You don't have to say it. I know you do."

***

"Hmm," said Draco. "I suppose you're right. Unless you're willing to stand in line for the Astronomy Tower every Saturday night, there really is nowhere for would-be snoggers to go here that's private."

"What are you complaining about, Malfoy? You've got your own room, don't you? You're a prefect."

"And spacious it is, too. I only call it a room because I'm too lazy to call it 'the broom closet with sconces.'"

"We could sell tickets to this place," said Harry, glancing around the nearly-empty chamber. He grinned. "Especially considering the soundproofed walls."

"Nice thinking, Potter. Glad to see Hermione hasn't got all the brains in that relationship." Draco cocked his head to the side. "On that note, you seem cheerier."

"Yeah." Harry lifted his sword, and made a half-salute towards Draco. "Thanks for the workout. It helped."

"Good." Draco paused, and looked at Harry seriously. "Potter, I've never asked you this before, but..."

"But what?"

Draco hesitated, then asked his next question in the manner of one taking a step into the abyss: "Where are your parents buried?"

Harry stood for a moment, very still. There was a strange sort of painful buzzing behind his eyes. Finally he said, slowly, "I have no idea."

Draco blinked but otherwise showed no surprise. His voice was careful. This was obviously something he'd thought about asking Harry before, but hadn't done it. "Well, someone must know."

Harry nodded, distantly. "Someone must..." Why has no one ever mentioned it to me, ever offered to take me there? Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin, they've never - and I - why didn't I ask?

"Potter." Draco's voice was sharp. "Steady on. You all right?"

"Uh-huh." Harry's vision snapped back into focus; he saw Draco standing in front of him, looking worried. "Sirius would know."

"Or Lupin," said Draco.

"I'd rather ask Sirius. I was supposed to talk to him tonight anyway."

"Okay." Draco shrugged elegantly. "I just thought... it might help. You know. Closure. Maybe help you feel, uh, a little closer to them."

"Closer?"

"Sometimes you have to see things," Draco said quietly. "See them yourself - to know that they're real."

"I know they're dead," replied Harry flatly. "I've always known they're dead."

"I know," Draco said. "But lately sometimes I wonder if you know you're still alive."

Harry looked down. He felt disconnected, as he often did these days: disconnected from the room around him, disconnected from Draco, disconnected even from his own self, as if the body he looked down at, slender and clad in jeans and blue sweater, was somebody else's and not his own. One of the laces on his left shoe was broken; he had no memory of having retied it. "I used to be able to go to the Mirror of Erised and see my parents," he said. "I can't do that any more."

A slight line of confusion appeared between Draco's eyes. "Because you don't know where it is?"

"Because I don't want to look in it," said Harry. "I'm afraid of what I might see."

***

The fluttering pink numbers on the clock beside the bed told Ginny that it was two in the morning. She lay where she was, letting her eyes adjust to the half-lit darkness of the room. Her body ached all over, but her arm, which she had heard Madam Pomfrey describe as "snapped in half," seemed to be functioning again, and was not particularly painful.

There had been people in the room earlier, a lot of people. She remembered Madam Pomfrey shooing the Gryffindor team out the door, Harry putting his arm around Ron's shoulder as they went - Ron had looked quite shattered, Ginny would have been touched if she hadn't been so far gone on Anti-Pain Charms. She remembered Charlie coming in later, sitting by the bed and holding her hand, and bits of snow dropping off him and melting on her wrist. There had been other people in the room, but she remembered mainly Charlie. "What happened?" he had said. "What happened to her up there?"

And another voice had replied:

"We don't know. We're looking into it. No one has had a broom accident like that in years, not since Harry Potter fell off his broom his third year -"

"But that was Dementors. Ginny's a good flier, she always has been. She wouldn't just lose control of her broom like that."

"The broom is being checked for curses and hexes, Professor Weasley. Please do not overexcite yourself."

"She's my sister," said Charlie tightly. Something in his voice had reminded Ginny of her very early childhood, when Charlie had been her absolute favorite brother. She remembered him coming home from Hogwarts at Christmas, picking her up as he ran in the door in his black school robes, lifting her into the air and dangling her upside down until she screamed with laughter. Charlie had been her favorite then, although more recently she had realized that her allegiances had switched a bit, and she was now much closer to Ron. She supposed it wasn't possible to go through what they had both been through together over the summer and not become closer. "My only sister," Charlie added, for emphasis.

"Yes, I know she is your sister. We're all very fond of her, Charlie. We'll find out what happened... and you, you should get some rest."

The dizziness of the pain relieving charms had taken over then, and Ginny had slipped into a dazed state where the room seemed full of shifting forms. She cast her mind back: she had thought she heard George and Fred talking above her, and then she thought she heard Ron, or it might have been Harry, and she even thought she heard Snape and Dumbledore, and she definitely heard Madam Pomfrey shouting at someone, but not before whoever it was bent over her and kissed her on the cheek.

She did hope it hadn't been Snape.

She rolled over now and looked at the clock again. The number marching across its face now said that it was half past two, and she didn't feel sleepy at all. There were a number of books stacked on the tabletop - Hermione had undoubtedly left them so that she wouldn't miss out on her schoolwork. She wondered if there was anything in A Short History of Cursing (Harry had been very excited about that book second year, she recalled, until he had found out it contained nothing more than hexes and the like) that would explain why she had fallen off her broom. She reached out her uninjured arm and felt amongst the stacked books, then jumped in surprise as a lighter-weight paperback fell out and onto her lap. It was her copy of Passionate Trousers.

***

Hermione walked slowly down the corridor, wrapped in Harry's Invisibility Cloak, trying to muffle her footsteps by slowing her pace. She was well aware of the irony of the whole situation - herself, Head Girl, in charge of making sure other students didn't break rules, sneaking around the school long after curfew. She was aware of it, but she didn't care. She had gone beyond that.

She found the door in the wall where the floor plans had told her it would be. She put her hand to the door and pushed; it swung wide, and she walked inside.

The room was dark. There was one window set like a cold jewel in the north wall, looking out over the grounds. She could see the snowcapped ridge of the Forbidden Forest, and a diamond half-moon shedding its milky light over the ice-black world below.

On the wall facing her, across from the window, there was a visible shimmer, like sunlight on water. She turned and walked towards the shimmer, which coalesced as she approached into what she knew it really was: a gold-framed mirror.

I show you your heart's desire.

Your heart's desire.

I guess, Harry's voice said in the back of her mind, a person's heart's desire can change.

She recalled his voice when he had told her that, the look on his face - hope and horror mixed.

No, she said back to him fiercely. I have never changed towards you. I have always been the same. I will always love you. I will always want you. Whatever I have ever done, or said, it was always and will always be you.

In a single motion she dropped the cloak, and raised her head, and looked into the mirror. One heartbeat's time passed as she stared, and then a second, and a third. On the fifth beat, her knees gave out. She sat down very suddenly in the middle of the room, on the cold marble floor, and put her face in her hands.

Chapter 3