playing the game, living the lie

chapter 11: elevation.

[date: mid November - mid December]

Voldemort sat squat in his recliner, folds of robe gathered around him as he watched, and waited. Agravaine Nott leafed through a Fifth Year Muggle physics textbook, handkerchief held to his mouth as if the stench of Muggledom might contaminate him with its filth. He flicked through the pages, contempt all too easy to read on his face, and let it drop with a none too delicate thud on the floor.

"Why this interest in the Muggle, my Lord?" he asked cautiously.

Voldemort's lips curled back in a sneer. "In war, it is best one know one's enemy. Or would you have me go unprepared into the coming night?"

"My Lord, the Muggles pose no threat. They are weak, inferior."

"Be quiet, you fool," Voldemort hissed, and Nott fell silent. "By rights, a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths should also have been weak and inferior, but he was not. I will take no chances, this time. Besides, my sojourn in the Muggle world has taught me much of them. They are...interesting in their own way."

Nott's eyes flashed with anger, and Pettigrew standing behind him allowed himself a small smile. It was all too easy to gain the Dark Lord's supreme confidence when some of his followers had not been entirely happy to have him return. Even more were upset at the direction he was now taking them in. Over the long years of their Lord's exile, they had assimilated into the higher echelons of the wizarding world, lied and turned traitor to their faith, apostates all. Returning to the bosom of Mother Ministry, they had gained position, wealth, and respectability in this new world. None of them wanted war, but saying 'No' did not ensure a long life expectancy in the service of Voldemort.

In comparison, even a filthy little traitor like Pettigrew looked obedient. He had given his hand, after all.

"Wormtail?" It was but a whisper, and Peter stepped into action, moving forward.

He had heard what Voldemort wanted to hear several times from his Lord's own lips, and it was easy enough to recall. "The Muggles wish to take the Universe apart around them, in order to assert their own special place in it. Arrogance, yes, but the knowledge they gain is far beyond what we wizards have learned by shrouding nature in mysticism and secrecy. Even now, we can but kill in ones, or twos, or three. With a word we can torture, main, scar - yet Muggles would destroy the whole world, could destroy the whole world, merely through an accident. This alone necessitates their removal, but it does not mean they are entirely bereft of use."

Voldemort understood the impulse: he had also longed to seek out the great Mysteries, to hold the key to life and death in his hands. But even he knew there were limits; the Muggles had none.

They would mock him, and cry loudly about his 'evil' and his 'unethical behaviour'. His lips curled in a sickly grin. "There is only power and those strong enough to take it." The Muggles would decry him for that, with all their vaunted principles. Mock morality and hypocritical cant. Half a millennium ago it would have been "there is only god and those stupid enough to fight him"; a few centuries later "there is only science and those too ignorant to appreciate its benefits."

Nott looked at Voldemort, who nodded. The man sagged slightly, and folded up his scented handkerchief, placing it back in his pocket.

"So as you wish, my Lord, so will it be done," he murmured and inclined his head, not looking back at Pettigrew.

"You are but one amongst my flock, Agravaine; one amongst many who have been called and who have answered that call. Not the first I have seen this week, and not the last. Should you fall, others can easily be found to replace you."

The Death Eater's face tightened, and he swallowed. "My Lord."

"You may leave me," Voldemort waved a hand. "Remember the orders I have given you. The time approaches. There will be no repeat of last year."

Nott's eyes were empty. "I am certain your words will ring in my mind till the end of days."

"Indeed."

Nott bowed, and turned, Pettigrew leading him out of the cramped space. Voldemort sank further into his seat, suddenly tired. Tired, and for one who did not sleep! He could feel Time crushing down upon him, the righteous scream of nature, against him, the infidel. The abomination. The beast. He was caught now, no longer Voldemort, no longer invulnerable. He had sacrificed that in returning; Potter's blood ran through his veins now - mortal blood, and moral flesh from Wormtail. He was eternal no more, and the uncertainty of his condition, his humanity, worried him.

His link with the young Malfoy only exacerbated the problem. He could feel now: ghost thoughts and emotions running through the back of his mind. Part of him was in Potter as well and the echo sang to him. Voldemort could distinguish what was his, and what was Malfoy's, and what even was Potter's, but it took more effort not to lose himself in Malfoy as the time moved closer and the link wound itself ever tighter. Perhaps, he mused bitterly, he should start calling himself Tom again.

Voldemort fumbled for the remote, and his skin whitened with the glare of the television as he relaxed into the familiar slow burble of the programme: it was some documentary on one of the Muggle world wars. They had had so many; they seemed to be perpetually killing one another over the most idiotic of reasons, and that suited Voldemort fine. Thinning down the numbers, he thought.

"...The devastation brought to Hiroshima and Nagasaki was beyond description. A matter of minutes was all it took for reduce each city - both largely civilian targets - to smoking ruins filled with the dead and dying..."

Comforted by the glow, Voldemort let his mind roam once again around the estate, tasting the emotions present. It was dusk turning into twilight. Soon, it would be night and the estate would become both horror and haven. The vampires of this age (the pimps, the dealers and the gangs), hungry and driven, would pray on the weak, and no-one would give a damn. Muggle society was driven to the same needs as him: this time it was merely "there is only money, and those who we will keep from possessing it." He almost laughed at the sheer despondency he felt around him. Pathetic.

They had raised Mammon as their new God, with the promise that somehow all could partake in freedom and wealth, and they had watched as most had fallen into the abyss. He would not have treated dogs like this: admittedly, because they were Muggles, he would have had them killed immediately, but this living torture was far worse. Even more horrifying than Azkaban, because at least in Azkaban you had an excuse - the Dementors drained the hope, the joy, the life from you. In this place the people did it to themselves; not just the people who were slowly rotting in this hell, but every picture of middle class suburbia from Kent to Leeds kept them there, all the while proclaiming they wished to help. A society pretending that only the beautiful existed, that all the divisions, all the boundaries, all the class conflicts were a thing of the past, just because they knew better now. Voldemort knew too well that knowledge did not necessarily equal action.

He noticed Wormtail re-entering and nodded, the shorter man retreating to his room. "If this is 'Cool Britannia'," Voldemort wondered aloud, "I wonder what America is like, under Clinton?"

* * *

"Would either of you gentlemen like some champagne?"

This, Sirius, decided was the high life. Some four hours out from New York, cruising at an altitude of something that Sirius forgot (numbers were never his strong point) in the first class section of a British Airways flight somewhere over the Atlantic.

Dumbledore had decided that a flashy entrance would impress both the Muggle and Wizarding sides of America the Brave, and upon reflection Sirius thought it seemed a bloody good idea. Of course, it also meant he was less likely to be detected by the assorted charms and incantations a wizard could use to trace those who entered a country magically, but what did that matter? He was being offered champagne!

"Ah, yes, please," he said, turning to the flight attendant, champagne flute in hand. She was young - comparatively, with red hair and blue eyes and a very wide smile. Her eyes caught him, creased with laugh lines and betrayed by the spark of intelligence within them. He found himself wondering where she had come from, why someone so alive would reduce herself to a life of "the emergency exists are located here and here. In case of an interruption to the air supply, oxygen will drop from the ceiling..."

Maybe it was just her thing. Sirius knew he had no right to judge anyone else's definition of normality, considering his own.

The flight attendant took the champagne flute and passed it back, after filling it. Their eyes met, blue against black, and she held his gaze. Her smile deepened and Sirius felt himself get uncomfortable. She reminded him of a wonderful young Ravenclaw he'd considered going out with in fourth year when things had seemed at their most hopeless, before he'd been trapped with Remus one night in the Shack and fate had played with both of them. Sirius had known from an early age he was attracted to women far more than men. Remus was really the only man he'd ever considered himself drawn to. Straight if not for a werewolf, he used to say, and joked it meant he was into bestiality.

She broke the glance and looked past his shoulder. "What about...?" It took Sirius a few moments to figure out what she meant, and reluctantly looked at his dozing companion in the seat next to him. If he had fallen asleep, Sirius reckoned, he obviously didn't wish for any champagne. It was every man for himself in first class, and alcohol would be served again before the bar closed for landing. Probably.

The lump took that moment to snore more loudly, and Sirius suppress the urge to smother the passenger next to him with his own pillow, specially designed for comfort. His fingers were hooking into the fabric before he knew it; he had to blink and tell himself to relax. After Azkaban, Sirius sometimes did things on impulse, especially when his first impulse was to hurt. And this time Remus wasn't around to stop him.

Forcing himself to be calm, he caught the attendant's curious look, and smiled breezily. "Oh, him? He asked me to get some for him before he decided to sleep."

Worry fading from those blue eyes of hers, the flight attendant seemed amused. "Really?"

"Yes, indeed." Sirius reached for the other man's flute from his tray table and held it out. She poured, favoured him with a grin, and moved on.

In three hours time, Sirius' fellow passenger had waken, and dourly demanded to know why Sirius had two empty champagne flutes on his tray table, and where was his own? By this stage, the flight attendant were moving through the aisles, collecting rubbish and admonishing passengers ever so gently to be ready for departure.

"I believe he intended to have one spare for when you awake," cut in another voice before the lump could get angry, and both he and Sirius looked to find that there she was, his flight attendant, replying for him.

His fellow passenger grumped. "Can I get a drink now then?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. The bar has been closed due to customs regulations and I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to get ready for landing."

Sirius picked up his empty flute and saluted her with it briefly, before dropping it and a moment later its fellow into the proffered garbage bag. As she moved down the aisle, Sirius moved out of his seat slightly, so he could watch her as she walked away. Surely there was no harm, after all in just looking.

And it had been so long since he had even looked.

He was startled out of his reverie by a slam, and turned, sitting back in his seat to find his fellow passenger had put away his tray table with considerable abandon.

"So sorry to startle you," he apologised with a wicked glint in his eye, "but aren't we supposed to be getting ready for landing?"

"Oh, of course," Sirius responded, reaching over and pulling the man's seat belt so tight he gasped. "Thank you for your consideration."

"My pleasure," the man wheezed, trying to loosen his belt.

That'll teach him, Sirius thought, and relaxed into his chair as the plane began to shake gently due to arrival.

* * *

At Hogwarts, a different kind of arrival lay expectant, heavy in the air. After a week of training, Quidditch was to start in the morning, and the school lay quiet, asleep, its players in their beds.

Well. All except two.

"Why do you do this, anyway?" Draco murmured, his lips smoothing along the lines of Harry's jaw.

Harry shivered, mostly because of the touch - but the question didn't leave him unaffected. He absently ran his finger down the back of Draco's collar and around his neck. The Slytherin's eyes fluttered closed, and his lips parted softly, his breath shuddering. Harry examined his handiwork through his glasses, and resisted the impulse to smile, running a thumb over the pink curve of those lips. He knew exactly how to distract Draco now, and they hadn't even been completely naked around each other. Between Filch and Mrs. Norris, and Prefects doing their nightly rounds, it was near impossible to get any time together, besides this 'study' time, and this certainly wasn't the place Harry wanted to lose his virginity. Besides, he knew he wasn't ready. Not for someone he didn't love. That would even make it more of a lie than it already was. He could tell Draco was frustrated and impatient, however he tried to hide it, and yet he kept at Harry's pace, never insistent.

Draco must have loved him very much, and the very thought made Harry nauseous with his guilt.

"Why do I do this?" he asked slowly, and Draco's breathing returned to normal. He didn't trust himself to give an incorrect answer.

"Other than my debonair wit and obvious physical assets."

"Other than your debonair wit - which seems to consist mainly of being horrible to people - and your obvious physical assets - which I haven't seen."

"Would you like to?"

"You're trying to distract me from the game tomorrow."

"It's not the game I'm trying to distract you from," Draco commented darkly and nipped at Harry's neck, the other boy breaking free.

"I do this because I can trust this. You hate the Boy Who Lived almost as much as I do." Harry never meant to say it, but it was true. His name, his burden was why he couldn't allow anyone near him; why Draco had loved him, why Harry could never love him back, and why he used him, even now.

Because he could.

Because he was the Boy Who Lived, and he had a world to save.

And he wasn't allowed regret.

Draco's eyes widened with that revelation. Harry collected his brooks and made to leave the small study area, although small was perhaps a deceptive misnomer. There wasn't much in terms of floor space, but book shelves covered every side, and stretched up as far as the eye could see. Harry didn't want to leave, but he couldn't stay. Another minute in Draco's company and his resolve might weaken; he might succumb to the glory of that touch, the sweetness of those lips. He had thought about it once or twice, before he stopped himself. And besides, who was he to complain, having Draco Malfoy hanging on his every word?

"Harry?"

Harry turned, his lips quirked up slightly. "I have a match to play tomorrow, Draco. You get to sleep in; I don't."

"They're only Hufflepuff."

"There's no only in Quidditch. You'll be watching, then?"

"Cheering for Hufflepuff, evidentially."

Harry's grin faded. "Bastard."

"But of course. Not literally, though."

"No. Night, Draco."

"Night, Harry."

* * *

Sirius reached for the overhead locker and opened it, narrowly avoiding the large duffle-coat that rained down on his neighbour, who had been in the process of standing. "Oooof" was all that could be heard. Suddenly there was a soft pressure against his hip, warm breath against the side of his neck. "Do you want any help there, sir?"

He felt like growling as he recognised the arousal in his groin. I'll tell you want what I want help with, he wanted to say. I want help in tearing off all your clothes and fucking you in this very aisle. Then I'd like to tear you apart from making me feel this way, because you're too ignorant to know any better and you're not him.

Perhaps it would be better to kill her anyway. What could she expect from a cold, forsaken world other than death? At least this way she would not be condemned to needless suffering, or plagued by doubt in the twilight of her years. The memory of Azkaban loomed, and Sirius forced it away. Remus knew how to comfort him in the bleak gap between now and now.

Remus knew how to keep him sane.

But, as he reminded himself yet again, Remus wasn't here.

"Uh, no," he forced himself to say, and was deliberately cruel for the first time in many years. Probably since Snape, really, but then he didn't count his actions towards Snape as cruelty. "I've taken my medication - should be able to manage."

Her eyes widened. "Medication?"

"Yes," Sirius assured her. "I'm on mood stabilising drugs." It was true enough, he supposed. If Remus counted as a drug. Possibly an addiction. "I'm psychotic, you see." Or was it schizophrenic? He could never remember which Muggle term it was but he knew it was one of them. He could feel her anxiety increase, and pressed further as she moved slightly back, trapped by the narrow aisle. "My husband's sent me for treatment in the U.S. He's waiting to pick me up from the terminal."

Her voice was faint, her fingers white against the chair. "Husband?"

"I do so love being fucked," Sirius said blithely. "Don't you? And as we both have HIV it doesn't really matter." He'd heard about the disease a few years back; a wizard had had an affair with a relative of his Muggle-born wife, and it had turned out the relative had HIV. It had turned out he had not been the first wizard to spread the disease into the magical community either. That was a cruel touch, even for him, but it was worth the look on her face. That would keep his demons at bay for a few weeks yet.

"Excuse me, sir, but I must...must..." She stumbled back and turned tail, settling down the aisle to help some other passengers with their bags and lose herself in reassuring normality.

Sirius turned to see his neighbour look up at him from under a swathe of duffle-coat, wide-eyed in shock.

"Thankyou for flying British Airways," Sirius informed him, zipping up his bag after retrieving his own coat. "We hope you have enjoyed your flight."

* * *

Muggles, Sirius reflected, understood the concept of big. They had to, or they wouldn't have built the bloody airport. It loomed around him, an imposing presence, all clean lines and sterile artificial lighting; the Muggles couldn't comprehend nature so they replaced it with concrete and plastic and asphalt. And here he was with his bags, completely and utterly lost. The British Airways Terminal was in itself not hugs, but then there was the incomprehensibly large car park outside, and the map with far too much information on the wall. He had no idea where to go.

Bing Bong! Sirius almost jumped at the sound. He might have been told what such places were like, decades ago when Lily was alive, with a ready smile and an easy story. Living briefly in the Muggle world had helped, but it was not the same. "Paging Mr. Gibbon, Mr. Gibbon of British Airways Flight 1623 from Heathrow, could you please go to the British Airways information desk. Thank you." It took him a while to register the pseudonym he'd been using on this mission, and several minutes more to puzzle out where the information desk was on the blasted map. Then he actually had to get there.

Grumbling, and frustrated, he finally made it to the small booth, trundling up to it with his baggage, and took the message that was waiting for him. It turned out that there was some delay with his hosts, and as a result they had booked him into the airport hotel for a night. Someone would be there in the morning.

Sirius resisted the temptation to snarl at the man who gave him the message - he'd done enough damage for one day - and nodding curtly to cart his bags over travelators, lifts and the like, somewhat awed at the sheer immensity of it. His treatment did not bode well; if the wizarding corporations of America were truly serious about his mission, then they could at least have sent a car. The wizards of America were a strange lot, in some ways more Muggle than the Muggles themselves. They had cut most ties with the old world, Sirius' world, and seemed to pretend that the old mores and wrongs did not exist in their self-made paradise.

Muggles built things: like the airport, like the hotel he'd made his way to, which was just as immense. He signed when asked, grabbed his room key and set off as quickly as possible for the refuge of his room, an escape from all this hugeness.

But as he settled down to sleep a crucial truth came to him. Muggles understood big. They sought to imprint upon the earth tokens of their passing, so they could never be forgot. Many wizards were the same. But Muggles had forgotten about the soul of a place; they could not do epic. This airport, this tower of steel and glass for its size was just an empty shell, with no heart. It sought to bludgeon the landscape, to dominate with the force of its sheer size, rather than appeal to the sensibilities of men or wizard.

Sirius sighed and rolled onto his side. He missed Remus.

* * *

Argus Filch was a simple man. He trusted only one thing: that all people were guilty of a crime, just as soon as you looked at them. And he trusted Mrs. Norris. That meant two. Two things he trusted. And Dumbledore - he had to trust Dumbledore, even if the man was far too good for his own good, or anyone else's. Three things, then, and so far his faith had been proven right.

Dumbledore hadn't gotten them all killed - yet. Mrs. Norris might have been petrified, but that was in the line of duty. And even if Potter hadn't been guilty of opening the Chamber that year, he had been up to something. Argus felt vindicated by the inherent corruptibility of man.

Argus heard a roar in the distance, muffled through the twists and turns of the castle, and he grimaced. Quidditch started today: Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Not every student would be at the match though, and that meant Argus had to be wary - especially after the events of last year. He might have been the only man arrayed against the forces of Darkness right now, but he would not give up, see if he didn't.

The muted buzz of words flew through the air and he shut them out. The Quidditch commentator this year was as loud, enthusiastic and biased as any of her counterparts. Most teachers had largely ignored Siobhán Doyle - she was currently in Fifth Year, a reasonably quiet Gryffindor who worked hard, gave little trouble and watched every thing. Some of her fellow classmates had hardly known who she was, apart from being 'that girl with the really red hair.' Then she had been plucked from obscurity to commentate the newly restarted Quidditch tournament. Indeed, the good money was on Seamus Finnigan being asked to give up his place on the team in order to do it. Some even thought Ron might be chosen, but his position as Gryffindor 'coach' meant he was too biased, even for McGonagall's liking. So a microphone had been placed in the long fingers of Siobhán Doyle, and the quiet girl had proceeded to stop being quiet. From the sounds of it, she couldn't be shut up now.

The amplified rumour ran through the halls, but Filch ignored it. He did, after all, have a job to do. After an unknowable wandering, dissatisfied at the lack of anyone he could nab, he heard footsteps rushing from down the corridor and withdrew to a vantage place where he could watch.

A figure moved past where he hid; he caught the glimpse of robes, the swish of fabric against the floor, and he leaped out to confront the person to find one sixth-year Gryffindor regarding him coolly, arms folded across her chest.

Taken aback by her apparent dismissal, Filch attacked. "What you doing here, then, Brown?"

She sighed and took a piece of parchment from her pocket, holding it out to him. Still somewhat stunned, Filch took it and opened it up.

"I'm only doing this out of courtesy, you know," she informed. Filch got the horrible feeling he was being lectured to. The note was from Professor Trelawney excusing one Lavender Brown from any impediment as she was fully authorised to study in the library. Seeing the blank look in his face, the student continued. "There's nothing against school rules to say I can't walk in the corridors during a Quidditch match, and even if there were, I do have a note." She tossed her hair back with a flick of her head, and looked squarely at him.

Filch folded the note up and placed it in his breast pocket. "That's as may be, but there are tough times, dangerous times, especially after last year, and we don't want no student getting herself in trouble."

"Really?" Her tone was mild. In a second she had her wand out, pointed harmlessly towards a wall. "I think you'll find I can take care of myself."

"I'll send you to Professor McGonagall if you act like that, note or no note."

Instantly she was changed, all soft expression, abashed ways and contrite words. "I'm sorry. I promise I won't get into any trouble. Now may I go, please?"

Argus nodded warily and the girl stepped around him, continuing down the corridor. It wasn't till dinner that evening he heard that Gryffindor won the day, Potter having bested Branstone to catch the Snitch.

* * *

There was ringing, insistent, on the edge of his awareness. Still half asleep, Sirius reached out, grabbing, and placed the receiver next to his ear.

"Mr. Gibbon?" He was travelling under a false name of course. Remus had been rather appreciative of the non de guerre - if Sirius wanted, he could probably check his chest in the mirror, and still see the bite marks.

"What is it?" He was tired, he was grumpy and even just thinking about Remus in one of those moods had made him hard. He may be middle-aged and sagging, but really, he deserved a shower right now, and he wanted to have a good wank.

"It's the desk, sir." The man's voice sounded hesitant, and not just deferential - it seemed that some of Sirius' belligerence had come through in his tone. "There's a driver waiting here at the desk for you."

It looked like the wank would have to wait. "Give me 10 minutes and I'll be there." He placed the receiver back in the base and pulled the covers away from him, his mind coming to quick awareness from the adrenalin now coursing through his body. It took him two minutes to remove clothes for the day from his suitcase, and it took him five to wash and brush his teeth. A quick slip into some clothes, snipping his suitcase shut, and he bounded through the door, closing it behind him. A few minutes later, Sirius stepped out of the elevator onto the ground floor lobby, suitcase in one hand.

"Mr Gibbon?" Sirius turned at the sound. Standing a little distance apart was a short wiry woman of African descent. She had to be around fifty, if not a little older, with close cropped almost shaved black hair. When she moved towards him she wasn't elegant, but she wasn't clumsy either. She was definite, as if trying her imprint her very presence on the world with each step. She extended her hand, and he shook it. There was a firmness in her grip and a wry energy in her eyes, despite her apparent age. "Rachel Makhanyezi, I'll be your driver. Mr Matheson is still stuck in meetings in L.A., so I thought you might like to get some sightseeing in before he gets here." There was a clipped sound to her voice, something to puzzle over as she took his suitcase out to the car that waited outside.

"Excuse me," Sirius said, climbing inside and buckling up, "but your accent. Are you English?"

Rachel nodded as she pulled out of the curb. "Born in Brixton, as a matter of fact. Lived and worked here for 15 years, though, and it pays to soften the accent, or all the natives fall over themselves telling me what an 'amazing accent' I have." She put a twang in her voice as she imitated her questioners, and Sirius winced at the harsh Americanism.

"Don't worry, I'll make you sure you see everything there is to see," she told him, almost flippant.

A half hour later, Sirius was striding down 42^nd Street, the wind at his heels and his arms spread wide. The grin that he shared with the woman who walked behind told her that he was, indeed, enjoying himself.

* * *

"You were in the stands with Pansy," Harry accused, gasping once Draco worked a hand up his shirt, fingers brushing against the skin.

Draco watched Harry squirm as he brought his hand higher. "Your point, Potter?" he whispered against his ear, sweeping it with a long lick of his tongue and causing Harry to gasp again. His hands were quick and busy, and he soon had Harry's shirt open and off, joining his tie on the floor.

"I'm not jealous or anything," assured the Gryffindor, setting his hands upon Draco's shoulders and wrenching, swinging Draco around so their positions were reversed and Draco was the one trapped between boy and bookshelf.

"This isn't exactly comfortable you know," Draco grumped.

"I had to deal with it."

"I heard you grew up in a cupboard. Honestly, comfort is hardly something you were raised to demand, was it?"

Harry pulled off Draco's tie with a little more force than he intended.

"That's magical silk, Potter," Draco enunciated perfectly. "It probably costs more than Weasley's entire house."

"Don't worry," Harry said cheerfully, "I'll treat it as if it were your own skin."

"That's what worries me. I don't need it coated in your spittle."

Harry was trying to unbutton Draco's collar now, trying to do everything he was capable of doing, before guilt and weakness overwhelmed him. He needed to change the subject, to distract himself so that just perhaps he might get what he wouldn't allow himself. And besides, he was simply curious. "Why do you keep insulting Ron so much?"

Draco looked at him blankly. "Why?"

"I mean-" the shirt landed on the floor next to Harry's "-if this is a competition thing, you've won. I'm not doing this with him now, am I?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry. The world does not revolve around you, no matter how much you wish it-" He sound condescending, as if talking to a small child.

"I don't," Harry told him flatly, and Draco continued unabated.

"Because he deserves it. Whether you know it or not, Weasley is weak."

"Ron isn't weak."

"Of course he is. He can be hurt, therefore he's weak." Draco's lips curved in a smile. "And it so obvious where his weak points are. I managed to get him to hit me, a few months ago, simply by suggesting I'd fuck the Mudblood till she bled."

Harry was apoplectic, pulling away. "You did what?!"

"Well, I don't think I was quite that harsh. I do know I threatened to fuck her. He was absolutely psychotic. A joy to behold really, to see that his self-control was so abominably bad, even if I already knew that." He looked at Harry, blinking, and mistook the reasons for his clear disgust, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Don't worry; I am hardly about to screw Granger."

"That's not what I fucking meant." Harry visibly recoiled, and Draco quickly grabbed his wrist and pulled, forcing them close together due to the inertia.

Draco's lips smoothed up Harry's jaw to his ear, and he bit down hard on the lobe. "I thought I made it clear that you underestimate me," he murmured softly. "I told you I was not misunderstood. This is who I am. I torture Weasley because it amuses me; because in the end I can. He lets me with his own weakness. Just because I love you-" and Harry could feel Draco's body stiffen at that admission, and the tremor in his voice revealed how much it had cost him "- doesn't mean I'll adopt your Gryffindor ways. I was put in Slytherin for a reason, Potter, and if you want someone who's as willing to martyr themselves for morality as you, you can go fuck Finnigan for all I care."

The last was almost hissed it, between gritted teeth, and Harry could tell it was a lie. For all his bravado, Draco was desperately afraid. Afraid of losing Harry, just like he said he would. Harry swallowed his indignation, kissed Draco on the cheek and apologised softly. He hadn't have the heart, or the will to continue. Draco could have this small victory; Harry knew he'd already lost the war. Just by being here, Draco admitted he couldn't - or didn't want to - try his hand at surviving without Harry. For a brief moment, guilt and pity clashed in Harry's mind, and he clutched at Draco like a new-born babe.

He and Draco stayed in other's arms, softly kissing and touching each other until curfew, and they had to go to bed.

* * *

They were driving when she said it. Mr. Matheson had been involved in meetings still all that Saturday, and he wouldn't be arriving back in Boston until Sunday night. Which meant they didn't have to leave New York City until Sunday afternoon, which in turn meant that Sirius got shown round - a lot. He saw all the islands, and all the bridges, the subway, Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State, the Twin Towers - and that was just Muggle New York. Wizarding New York had long been hidden deep within Greenwich Village, so that if there was any contact, most Muggles would just dismiss the strange shops and people with bizarre fashions as typical denizens of the Village.

As he indulged in the freedom of the tourist, with Rachel's wary eye on him, keeping him safe, and a dry quip ready for any situation, Sirius began to relax. He began to trust; not the situation, not the people, not himself, but her.

And so as they drove out of the city, with Rachel snarling and almost foaming incoherently at the sheer weight of traffic, he watched her, trying not to laugh, and relaxed.

Which is perhaps exactly why her admission shocked the hell out of him.

She said it, of course, when they were driving. Winding their way now along Massachusetts roads, Sirius distracted by the sparse winter landscape, as eager as a child on holiday. The trees were thin and tightly set together, almost like a field of poles rather than actual trees.

The car around him was sleek, black, and large: a Jaguar or so he'd been told, although he didn't recognise the significance, and was still somewhat puzzled why wizards would use a Muggle car for a mode of transport. After travelling for nearly three hours he could recognise the changed hum as she shifted into a higher gear, and overtook the car in front.

Perhaps that was part of his surprise: he didn't expect her to be able to so easily drive the car and make such life-altering statements at the same time.

"So, you're Sirius Black?"

If he was prone to heart trouble, he would have probably collapsed right there. As it were, the dual fists of suspicion and fear clenched themselves around his heart until Sirius forced himself to calm. Only innocent men could enjoy the luxury of peace, and now he needed the illusion of innocence. He just as briefly wondered who she was working for, really, and why she would make that accusation, what it meant to his personal safety and to that of his mission. Maybe he could kill her, hide her body out amongst those tall, bitter trees.

"What makes you say that?"

She grinned at him, almost. "Your photo was spread all over the Daily Prophet when you were arrested. Not that you would have seen it, of course. You've changed somewhat in that time - don't deny it - but you still look like yourself to the trained eye."

That at least gave him something to work with. A reason not to kill her. "The trained eye?" His entire body wanted to twitch with anxiety, but Sirius settled for drumming his fingers against his right knee.

"I used to work for the Ministry." That was a response and a half, and Rachel didn't seem ruffled at all.

"As what?"

"New Scotland Yard, Magical Division. Detective Inspector, in the end."

"Those are Muggle ranks." She was still driving on these damn roads. Sirius was beginning to feel trapped.

"Course they are. We were an experiment, set up in the late sixties. Muggle-born wizards training in Muggle policing techniques. Our jurisdiction was on crimes in the Muggle world that involved wizards, and magical crimes that weren't horrific enough for the Aurors to be called in. People using memory charms for date rape, theft with invisibility cloak, that sort of thing."

"What happened?"

Rachel gave him a look. "I was brought onto a special investigative unit, designed to catch the wizard who'd killed a string of Muggles around the U.K., all with the same M.O." She paused, briefly, as the admission was too much to bear. "It turned out to be Voldemort."

There was nothing he could say to that.

"When the case got too big - when Crouch was able to use our inability to get more than a few leads, the case was transferred over to the Aurors. The Aurors were in turn reconstituted as an investigative and enforcement body. We didn't have a damn purpose anymore. By the end of seventies, we were shut down."

"That doesn't explain how you ended up here."

She grinned at him now, almost feral. "Mr. Black, I was a cop, as my employers would say. A cop without anyone to arrest. What other purpose do I have? But the Ministry aren't the only people who need cops."

He felt old, and this fifty year old was running rings around him. Finally, it dawned. "They wouldn't waste someone of your training on being a driver."

"Not at all, Mr. Black. I'm Head of Security for Mr. Matheson; the U.S. Government knew who you were the moment you walked off the plane. It's not inconceivable that other agencies did as well."

Sirius' blood went cold. If the U.S Government could find out who he was, then...

"Personally, I think the U.S Government is up to its fucking arse in double agents," Rachel said casually, as if it didn't matter, "so I decided to take the risk of guarding you personally. Whether Mr. Matheson agrees or not, I want your mission to succeed. I didn't catch that fucker twenty years ago, Mr. Black, and that's twenty years to build up my rage."

Sirius finally realised that if either of them was in danger from the other, it certainly wasn't her.

About an hour later they arrived in Boston.

* * *

It wasn't anything major, of course. One test amongst thousands, perhaps even millions of tests that Snape had inflicted upon them. The man was clearly a complete and utter fuck, and the fact that he was now often away from school for entire weeks seemed to fill him with a malignant desire to push his students even further, in the fewer opportunities he had for academic torture.

Seamus had studied reasonably well. He had Dean to thank for that. His friend had faced down his excuses and blusters with a calm, even gaze - it was almost as if Dean could smell his lies, and he'd wrapped each of them up with a perfectly acceptable response. In the end, Seamus had no reason not to study, which is why the two of them had ended up in the library. Dean had encouraged him, slowly, surely - allowing Seamus his occasional breaks and delinquencies, but only so that he was more consistently focussed on the task at hand.

After two nights, Seamus had come to understand how completely Dean knew him and it scared him. What had scared him even more had been his own relief at the knowledge, and even his small, repressed need for that kind of assurance.

At the end of last night's session, Seamus had squeezed Dean's shoulder in thanks, and promised him something great for Christmas.

He'd wanted to touch Dean more, of course. And then he'd wanted Dean to push him against a bookshelf and snog him senseless. He could picture it, in his mind. Almost taste him. But of course friends were not supposed to think such things.

That was unnerving him, that and the test. So it probably wasn't much of a surprise when he took out his flask and gulped down a few mouthfuls to steady him in the morning, before first period.

* * *

His room was a picture of vain disorder. It was messy, but only if you knew where to look. On the surface, things seemed quite clean. Desk and dresser ordered, Quidditch robes and equipment tossed over a chair, none of the usual ratty mess that one might expect from an overly hormonal sixteen year old. It seemed proud, neat, ordered, like its inhabitant.

At least, if you didn't know where to look. Pansy did, however, and she knew that if you rummaged around under the bed, you would find the conglomerated mess of the previous year - or perhaps even several years; Pansy had no idea when he'd last done a thorough clean, and he didn't let the school's house-elves under there, as that was also where he kept his pornography collection. That information had come in handy sometimes of late; on the occasional lonely night she could sneak in early while Draco was off snogging Potter somewhere and grab some interesting study material for herself.

Draco Malfoy had broken her heart: recompense by way of shared porn was entirely fair.

She knew also, that if you opened the closet it would almost certainly be overflowing with all the rubbish Draco had been unable to cram under the bed. Pansy knew exactly how the appearance of Draco's room matched the reality, and it was a similar deal with the room's inhabitant.

Years of watching him had given her an almost uncanny ability to second guess him, and it was amazing that she hadn't even considered using it against him.

The object of her attention was draped over the bed behind her, somewhat surly. He was probably pouting - no, he was pouting, Pansy just didn't need to see to know it. And he was whining, almost certainly, or about to whine.

Pansy busied herself by perusing through the dresser in front of her, unstopping a small crystal bottle and smelling the stopper, her nose wrinkling slightly. She already knew it was Draco's cologne, of course; slightly woody, with a faint air of musk. She briefly wondered if it turned Potter on, made him go weak at the knees. Of course, Draco knew she knew that it was his cologne as well, so he would assume there was a deeper motive.

"What are you doing?" he snapped, and Pansy, hiding a smile, turned to him.

"Nothing, dear."

"Then you don't need to be touching my things." He grabbed the stopper out of her hands and jammed it back in the crystal vial. He would probably be spending half the day trying to work out exactly what that meant, what signal, symbol or clue Pansy was giving him. After all, Slytherins plotted in their sleep, and learnt how to lie in the cradle. It would frustrate him, and in seeking a deeper motive, Draco would invariably overstep it. Her only deeper motive was to frustrate him and keep him off balance. Which he, so busy trying to find a message, would never realise.

She could remember the owl she received from Narcissa Malfoy the previous night. The instructions were cryptic at best, and tentative, but Pansy had grown up a Slytherin. She had learnt to sift intent from a meaningful glance, a gesture, one word discerned in an entire conversation.

The Malfoys have always been balanced between fear of discovery and their own overweening pride. I fear in order for us to be aware of our consequences, we must learn to taste our fear more strongly, and take unexpected risks. Caution must be our watchword.

It was simply signed, 'N'. In that one epistle, Narcissa had told Pansy that she wanted - no, needed, Draco to be broken, so broken that the only chance of salvation lay with an 'unexpected risk', and the only unexpected risk Pansy could see would be strengthening his association with one Harold James Potter. That too, brought risks, but these could be more easily anticipated, and intercepted. Pansy understood the way the school worked, if nothing else, and she could grasp that if she didn't succeed, Draco was threatened by possibilities far beyond her reach to control.

So when he fumbled with the cologne, Pansy stepped out of his way with a polite smile and sat on the bed. "Why aren't you watching the match, dear?"

Soon enough Draco joined her, absently flicking through some book. "Because it's only Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Dear."

Pansy tsked and rolled her eyes. What Narcissa had said about the Malfoys was just as true for Slytherins. They had gotten too secure in their superiority; they had ossified, like fossils, doomed to follow the ways and mistakes of the past because they were always so damn sure. Draco didn't even have a valid point: Hufflepuff's Captain was that odious Finch-Fletchley, who'd attempted to hit on almost every female in the entire school - including Pansy herself, and it was possibly more disturbing that he'd succeeded on so many occasions - but he did know how to play Quidditch. Pretending otherwise did not make it so, no matter the sexual peccadilloes of the student concerned. "There isn't any 'only' in Quidditch."

Draco looked up from his page, almost if he'd been shocked by what she said. Pansy, for her part, continued remorselessly. "I'm sure Harry is watching. Don't you want to go join him?"

"No."

"I'm sure you could sneak in a few kisses underneath the stands."

"No." He was still obstinate.

Pansy leaned in further. "Don't you want to go visit your boyfriend?"

Draco slammed the book shut and threw it at the wall. It bounced off with a dull thud, and landed somewhere on the floor. "For fuck's sake, Pansy, didn't you tell me I had to be careful about seeing Harry!?"

She couldn't respond to that anger; was struck dumb by the viciousness of his rage. He was like a caged animal, and she didn't know why. Soon enough Draco provided the answer for her. After boring into her with his sultry gaze, he petulantly got off the bed and padded over to the dresser, taking out a slip of parchment. He handed it to her, and Pansy unfolded it, not looking at him. His gaze was too intense; his need to raw. She wouldn't know how to deny him.

Malfoy, it said simply, from the looks of things, you've placed yourself on the losing side. We don't need to remind you of what happened to Diggory.

Pansy folded the parchment back up and looked at Draco. He radiated misery and anger, locked into a place she couldn't reach. Didn't he love Potter? Didn't he want nothing more than to be with him? And yet. "You haven't told Potter about this, have you?"

"Of course not." He seemed to snipe at her, but she knew it was more of an indication of the stress he was under. "I only got it last night when I came back from dinner. It had been slipped under my door."

Which meant it was someone else in the Slytherin dorms. There were too many plots going on here, too much jockeying for position; it almost dazzled her mind. Draco had garnered his reputation by quashing any rival utterly and in public. Only in secret could anyone work against him, through rumours and suggestion, like this. "But you wouldn't tell him, would you?"

His gaze was death; his gaze was ash and desolation. "If I did, he'd avoid me. For my own good. Such a noble Gryffindor, is Harry."

Finally, she understood. Draco did want to go to him, more than anything. But doing so would increase the risk to himself. Trapped between his need for Potter and his own instinct for self-preservation, Draco had done what Pansy thought impossible: for the first time in nearly six years, he had pushed aside his obsession with Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy was endeavouring to break himself. For an instant, she wanted to applaud.

In order to make conversation that evening at dinner, she engaged him about his feelings regarding a Quidditch match he didn't see. Against all the odds, it appeared that Hufflepuff's new Seeker, Eleanor Branstone, had caught the Snitch after three hours. Funnily enough, Draco didn't seem in the mood for such talk.

* * *

Hermione found Ron in perhaps the last place she expected. The Library. Under the watchful all-seeing eye of Madam Pince he was stumbling over something from the Charms textbook, and seated at his side, smiling attentively in encouragement was someone who needed no help with Charms whatsoever.

Lavender Brown.

Still, Hermione came over just as sweetly, and laid a hand on Ron's shoulder, fingers inching over to tease the red hair on the nape of his neck, just above the collar of his robes. She had absolutely no idea what game Lavender was playing, but she wasn't going to stand for it.

Lavender saw her even before Ron did - hardly a surprise as Hermione did approach from the direction Ron's back was facing. Ron himself was relatively quick on the uptake, greeting her with an easy smile and a quick peck to the cheek.

Despite her reservations, it was becoming harder for Hermione to resist Ron - or her own desires. She had already considered all sorts of experimental methods she could use in order to gain the most practical experience of lovemaking with her boyfriend. "Hello, Hermione," he mumbled against the skin. "Lavender just wanted me to go over something with her."

Taking the lie as given, Hermione nodded tightly to the other Gryffindor girl, who leaned back in her chair and favoured Hermione with a wide smile. This only irritated Hermione further, so she tried to dismiss Lavender completely. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Ron," Hermione said with a forced brightness that certainly didn't fool Lavender. "Are you still busy, or can I steal you away?"

"No, no, not at all." Ron was endearing in his overeager manner, quickly closing up the textbook and stuffing quills and the like into his stationery pouch. He stopped, almost half way out of his seat, and looked at Lavender. "I mean, if you don't mind?"

Lavender smiled, nodded in assent, and Hermione's ire increased. She couldn't help herself; there was just something about Lavender's manner that infuriated her. Acting as if Ron needs your permission to go, she thought, you stuck up cow. As if noting her distress, Lavender turned her cheery smile on Hermione. "Thanks for letting me have him for a brief while. I understand now why you don't want to share!"

Ron blushed at the compliment, and Hermione's eyes spat daggers in Lavender's general direction, but the other girl just sat there and smiled as if she didn't care.

For once, Hermione couldn't get out of the library quick enough.

* * *

"What have you got for me?", Rachel asked, sitting down at her desk. Her deputy Chief of Security, Lee Mandich was already there and waiting with a whole sheaf of printouts for her to review. They always did this, every day. Surveillance and threat assessment, in order of priority. And right now her highest priority was Sirius Black.

"Fresh off the presses," Lee said with a lopsided grin. "I think you'll enjoy the first one."

Rachel raised an eyebrow, but didn't press any further. If Lee wanted to tell her something, he would. With that, he placed them on the desk, and went through the events of the past twenty-four hours, ticking off the small checklist on a piece of parchment. "We had two techs off sick yesterday."

"Any security risk?"

"No, they both checked out clean. They actually were sick." A pause. "We're still receiving credible information from the D.O.D. that Black's going to be threatened in the next thirty-six hours."

"They said that thirty-six hours ago." Rachel started shifted the huge weight of paper into smaller, more manageable piles. "Next."

Another cross-out. "Finance is blocking our request for an expanse in the Security budget."

Rachel swore. "I'm just following Matheson's orders! He told me to build him a fucking private army! Do they think that's cheap?" Grunting, she controlled herself. "Tell this to Finance. And cross check it with Admin. If they don't comply with our budgetary needs, I'll ask Mr. Matheson to talk to them personally."

"I'm surprised he hasn't yet."

"You know what he's like. Wants us to find solutions to our own problems. But that should put the fear of God and Merlin into them. Anything else?"

Mandich snapped to attention and saluted. "No, Sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

Once he was out of the room, she reached for the first pile of print-out, a bound together transcript. It was standard surveillance of course; they had visual and auditory recording charms in all the rooms, and phone taps as well. It was dated yesterday afternoon.

Transcript: Phone conversation between Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, commencing 12041996 1637 hours.

Rachel flicked through the cover pages: it was largely technical data she didn't need, specific phone numbers, electronic analysis of the communications format and the like. A few pages in was the synopsis on Black's fellow conversationalist: of course, from the moment she knew Black would be Dumbledore's emissary, Rachel had reviewed all that was on file about Black , including his known associates, but it never hurt to revise.

Remus Lupin: born 1960. Lycanthrope; infected as a child. Spent long periods isolated from family as a result....

There was a whole psychological profile on lycanthropic behaviour and how it affected Lupin in his particular situation in addition to how his family's treatment had fucked with his mind. Rachel snorted and skipped ahead. Fucking psychologists. They hadn't even met the poor bastard and they were already judging him.

Met target in first year of school; developed close bond. Relationship begun and consummated at some stage during later school years...

God, was all of it this boring? Rachel hoped her life didn't reduce to so little so dryly.

Married target in 1996; returned to position at Hogwarts as DADA teacher.

That was the last of what her people knew about one Remus Lupin. Didn't matter anyway; what was crucial to him would be in his words.

Rachel flipped the page, skimmed over the first few lines, and finally found what she wanted.

LUPIN: So, tell me, what's it been like? [pause.] I've never been to America.

BLACK: [short laugh. Subject absently scratches his leg.] It's America. Land of opportunity, or so I'm told. I didn't even know, but this Matheson has a finger in every damn pie there is.

LUPIN: What do you mean?

BLACK: He runs the biggest wizarding corporation in the U.S - they manufacture charms, mostly, with a sideline in every kind of magical shit imaginable. In addition, they produce computers for the Muggle world. That's their front. You remember what I told you about computers, Moony?

LUPIN: Boxes that ran on electricity.

BLACK: Boxes that can do a lot. We wizards are brilliant at producing things that do specific functions very well, but Muggles know how to multitask.

LUPIN: You haven't exactly told me what the point of this revelation is.

BLACK: Oh, nothing really. Except to highlight the common points between Muggle and wizard. I asked about it, you know, asked why of all things they'd go into making computers, and I was told that if you could handle computer languages - the special words they use to write programs to make the computer function-

LUPIN: Like charms.

BLACK: Exactly. Like charms. If you can handle the complexity of Muggle programming, it makes it easier to grasp basic magical principles. And vice versa.

LUPIN: So it's a form of training?

BLACK: Seems so. An example of where the two worlds help each other out. Besides, the computers they make seem to be selling well, at least from what I was told. They name themselves after a fruit or something.

LUPIN: Muggles. How does a fruit give them confidence in consumer appeal?

[pause]

BLACK: Anyway, all this is completely and utterly useless. I have managed to speak to Matheson, though, and laid down Albus' proposal. [He shifts on the bed.] How did you get a phone anyway?

LUPIN: Albus installed one in my rooms so I could contact you. I have no idea how it works, although I'm tempted to take it apart and find out. Once you get back. How did Matheson respond to the proposal?

BLACK: [sighs and shifts again.] He said he needed time to talk it over with his people. But that was a week ago. I'm thinking he probably won't actually do anything until he's consulted with some of the other people I'll be talking to.

LUPIN: It sounds almost as if it's been a wasted effort.

BLACK: Not wasted. Delayed. You know I had to at least make the attempt, Moony...

LUPIN: I know.

BLACK: I've missed you.

LUPIN: [laughing] Not half as much as I've missed you.

BLACK: [sliding further down on the bed] I dreamt about you last night.

LUPIN: What did you dream?

BLACK: About you naked. I was naked, as well. Of course.

LUPIN: Of course. I can almost picture it now.

BLACK: What are you picturing? [The subject unzips his trousers, and his right hand slips inside. His breathing appears to quicken momentarily as a result.]

LUPIN: I'm imagining you beneath me, and you're naked, and I'm kissing all over your chest, nipping and biting so that the marks will be there for days.

BLACK: [clearly begins to masturbate himself. Subject's breathing quickens further, and he groans softly.] Oh, God, Remy...

LUPIN: And now I've lubricated two of my fingers, and I gently lift up one of your legs and penetrate you with one finger, then two, and I begin to fuck you, slowly, with my fingers.

BLACK: [Hand movement becomes more overt, and subject pushes down boxers and then briefs with free hand, so masturbation is clearly visible.] I lie there, moaning softly, and begin to trace your chest with a finger...

LUPIN: I remove my fingers and wipe them on the sheets, sitting between your legs, still with one leg raised, lying across my leg, and I raise it further, positioning myself at your entrance, and slowly, surely, I push in.

BLACK: [moans.]

LUPIN: Tell me how it feels, love.

BLACK: I can feel you, Remy....God. [hand quickens.]

LUPIN: I start fucking you, slow, and deep...thrusting into you...

BLACK: I start bucking back, forcing you deeper.... [At this point, the subject looked directly up at the hidden camera while masturbating himself and winked.]

Rachel slammed the transcript shut. The fucking gall of the man. If she was allowed to, she would have had him skinned, just for that.

She didn't continue reading though. There were some moments too private for her to interrupt.

* * *

Ron's shoulder accidentally poked her in the midriff as he clumsily reached for the Omniculars that were hanging from his shoulder. Hermione bit down a cry, or worse, a harsh retort. Things were beginning to fray between them, and Hermione had no idea what to do to make it all right.

She had tried to tell him that Lavender was up to no good, but he didn't exactly believe her. And how could she confirm her suspicions? But being completely honest and telling him that there was absolutely no chance Lavender Brown would need help in Charms, and certainly not from him? Hermione was worried he'd gotten an idea of that suspicion as it was; he'd been awfully snippy at her since.

Part of the problem of course was that they were both too similar and too different. Both of them had a tendency to be rigid, sharply judgemental. Certain people Ron trusted implicitly, and certain people he hated with a fiery passion. Hermione was like that as well, in her own way, and neither of them could be shifted from their assumptions without a strenuous fight.

Trouble was, of course, they had differing assumptions, and this was the result. Impasse.

Not talking to one another because they clearly didn't know how anymore. Oh, they talked alright, mild chit chat and conversation, or they certainly wouldn't have been able to arrange this meeting, but nothing of any substance. Ron felt hurt, and insulted, and Hermione felt hurt that he'd been hurt by her, and didn't know how to fix it.

They sat there in relative silence, Ron scanning the sky to keep a close eye on the game, and Hermione eating some of the sandwiches she'd brought to feed them, although they tasted like ashes in her mouth.

They had to see the game, of course. Rather Ron had to see the game in order to analyse strategy more effectively, and be an even better asset to the team. And Hermione followed, because in a twisted way, it made more sense to be with him even now, than to endure her pain alone. While she sat next to him she was a constant reminder, and therefore she wasn't the only one who was hurting.

When Cho Chang finally caught the Snitch and ended the game, Ron sank down besides her, took a sandwich, and bit into it. Hermione briefly wondered if it tasted like ashes to him, as well.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sipped his tea. It was certainly not the best tea he'd ever had; if nothing else it proved to him that the Ministry's priorities were undoubtedly wrong. How could they ever claim to understand the game - let alone to win? - if they didn't bother getting the little things right?

And tea was undoubtedly one of the little things. He couldn't trust someone if they didn't have the time to make proper tea.

Cornelius Fudge, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice the lacklustre quality of the tea. He had other things on his mind as he set the cup down in its saucer. He probably didn't even notice how precious the china was, unless he could show it off.

"After considerable thought on the part of the Ministry-"

You mean you've shunted it round every committee possible, so if it turns out to be the wrong decision, you have someone to blame, thought Dumbledore.

"-we have come to the conclusion that You Know Who must indeed be active again, after the events of last year."

Finally. Albus wanted to crow. He was old, and he felt old, and he knew he couldn't be around forever. Someone had to take the job of protecting Harry, and neither Remus nor Sirius nor Severus had the official clout to allow Harry to do what needed to be done.

"Of course," Fudge continued quickly, and Dumbledore's heart sank, "we couldn't possibly announce this to the public. The populace would be hysterical, jumping at shadows. It's far better the Ministry works behind the scenes, as it were."

The tea tasted sour in his mouth. "Of course."

"We'd be more than happy to share any intelligence we might have with yourself, and the Order."

I'm sure you will, Albus wanted to retort, considering that we seem to know what is going on with far more regularity than you do. He set the cup down and straightened in his chair, getting ready to leave. "I'll keep that in mind, Cornelius, but I'm afraid I have further business in the city today."

Fudge reached over and shook his hand whether Dumbledore wanted to or not. "As always, Albus, it's been a pleasure, a pleasure."

Albus smiled back, and stretched his fingers once the Minister's attention was back on his pile of papers, probably trying to formulate the Ministry's latest press release. He nodded gently to the secretary on his way out, moving through corridors and marble colonnades to emerge into the hazy sunlight of a London winter.

He quickly got his bearings, and set off down the street.

It wasn't that far a distance, at least not as the phoenix flies, but it was almost interminable to be patient enough to work at a stately pace along the curving streets and alleyways of wizarding London. One couldn't simply apparate to the place he wanted to get to, after all, and if he appeared to be in a hurry, there were those who would take note.

Dumbledore nodded at the wizards and witches who acknowledged him as he passed them - less than he might have expected, but after last year no-one was sure who to trust anymore, and concealing one's loyalty was as good a way of staying alive as any.

Darting into a rather seedy looking lane in Holborn, Albus walked past a few shop entrances before turning and going down some steps before an old-fashioned wood panel door, black with faded gilt edging. It opened easily enough, of course. The barriers that protected this place still lay inside.

Closing the door behind him, Albus nodded to the two men who stood guard. They were just for show as well, for all of their bulk: the result of troll and giant blood in their ancestry. The guards of the Library of St. John the Beheaded had been summoned from one family and one alone since the library had been founded more than fifteen hundred years ago, and that family kept its honour, and its secrets close to its chest. Loosely, it came under the jurisdiction of the Catholic Church, although it was doubtful the Pope himself knew of its existence. Guarded by the twin pillars of secrecy and history, the Library was as safe as it could possibly be. And there were other reasons for that.

In the half-light of the entrance hall, lit by braziers, the room was tinged with the small of lamp oil. The entrance hall itself was sparse, with little in the way of adornment besides the polished wood grain of the floor and the braziers on the walls. There was only one exit: a hooded stone archway set into the wall on the far end

Albus could have walked through that doorway if he wanted - as was his plan after all, but the archway was blocked by another man, heavily wrapped in a thick woollen cloak. The man tried to step inside the archway, but the air turned to light in front of him, a solid magical barrier and he was forced to step back.

A voice rang out, drifting from the space behind the archway. In there lay the Library proper, the home of the Librarian and the priceless texts she held. No-one knew who the Librarian was of course; and only those allowed inside the Library of St. John had even seen her. Her voice was thin, and somehow musical, like chimes. The magic of the place had seeped into her, and turned her into something that suited the musty shelves and fading parchments. Albus had only seen her once or twice in his lifetime, and it had always been the same person. The Librarian seemed to be waiting for something, or someone; Albus wondered if it was the person who would replace her, pick up her burden and allow her to rest. "You are not allowed within the Library; your name has not been written on the Book of Warding."

The man appeared to hunch over at that, and pushed his sleeve up to his wrist, with a hand that glinted dully in the lamp light. His suspicions confirmed, Dumbledore moved forward.

"Your Master's mark will not avail you here."

Peter Pettigrew turned, and he bared his teeth, but he didn't speak.

The Librarian's voice echoed from the darkness beyond the archway. "This is indeed so, Albus Dumbledore." She paused before her attention fell back on Peter. "If your Master wishes to peruse the Library, he must visit himself. He is welcome here; you, rat, are not."

Pettigrew seemed to blanch at that; the punishment for failing one of Voldemort's requests was never a light one. His eyes fell on the leather bound book that rested on its plinth next to the archway. Traitor Peter may be, but he was no fool. Attempting to fiddle with the Book of Warding was only slightly short of insane, and it would most likely kill him. The Book was only part of the arcane magic that protected the Library, and it had existed for over fifteen hundred years. Chances were it would survive them all.

Since its creation, the Book of Warding had listed five names at a time; a seemingly random selection of wizards and witches from around the world who were allowed to enter the library. Upon the death of one of the named parties, the book would rewrite itself, and supply a different name. Merlin had been one of those names, and there were others throughout history, some renowned, some unknown until their names turned up in the Book. Albus had been one of the last additions to that page, and the name of one Tom Riddle had appeared when Grindelwald had been defeated. The Book had told Albus that Voldemort hadn't died fifteen years ago, simply because his name hadn't faded away. What was perhaps more disturbing was the name that had appeared next to Tom's, several months earlier.

Draco Malfoy.

New names had never appeared next to existing names in the Book, not in its entire history. That was why Dumbledore had worked so hard to get the boy send to Hogwarts, to see exactly what he was capable of, what threat he posed.

And now it seemed that Pettigrew had finally given up, and he shuffled off towards the main entrance, with barely a glance at his old Headmaster.

"Peter." Albus spoke softly, and Peter turned. "Would you take a message to your Lord?"

He nodded.

"Knight to H3," Dumbledore murmured, and before Pettigrew could ask what it meant, he turned and strode towards the archway, the light coruscating in welcome around him.

Instantly, it seemed as if he was in another world, cut off from the entrance hall. Peter was far behind him, now.

It took a few minutes - or perhaps an hour, time had no meaning in the Library - before he found what he was looking for. The folder was old and black, and the bindings worn and stiff, but he managed to open them. The parchment inside was brittle, and yellow with age. There were many stories about how these words had been recorded, and each one more ludicrous than the last. Flipping through the sheets, Albus finally found the one he needed. He had read it so many times he could recite what it said under his breath, but it was a reassuring presence in his hand, and there was no room for mistakes, not with events moving so fast.

Sun eclipsed, and moon in flight

Lion's child and night's despite

Aid dragon's whelp, the serpent's bane

Will come to one who does not know his name.

Seek not my knowledge, lest I tell

Of things I know, beyond which spell

And charm could not abate

Seize thy soul and damn thy fate

For black things are in the world we tread

And blacker still this book you read.

It was a prophecy, of sorts, and the prophecy itself was incomplete. He had questioned the Librarian about it numerous times, but she had refused to answer his questions, and faded into the stacks. The Black Book of Caer Fyrddin, as it was called, had about as much blank parchment in it as notation in Latin and other tongues. The prophecy was in Old Welsh, which Dumbledore could read - he hadn't grown up in Dyfed for nothing. Incomplete, its providence unknown, and it was all he had to guide him.

With a brief bow for the Librarian, Albus shut the Black Book, and left.

* * *

"That was all he said?" Voldemort asked, sitting in his chair like it was a throne.

Peter nodded, and swallowed. He had failed the Dark Lord; he certainly didn't want to be caught out in a lie. But what could Dumbledore's nonsensical statement mean? Standing straight up, he repeated himself. "Knight to H3."

Voldemort tapped his withered, hunched fingers against the arm of the chair, thinking. Peter's mobile phone chose that very moment to go off - it was his way of keeping in touch with certain contacts he had, as using enough magic to fire talk would have given them away to the Ministry and owls were hardly innocuous in suburban London.

With an irritated wave of the hand, Peter was dismissed and he went out into the corridor, his voice a muted buzz on the edge of consciousness that Voldemort refused to listen to. He had far more important things to puzzle over. Draco remained a concentrated ball of emotion in the back of his mind; and that ball was getting easier to read. The boy was frustrated, although Voldemort couldn't tell why. Potter wasn't putting out, most likely, and then he pushed that away as well.

Knight to H3. He remembered the significance of that, although he would have thought Dumbledore would have forgotten. But no. Underestimating Albus Dumbledore had brought lesser men to their knees, and Voldemort did not plan to join their ranks. It called back to a time before his immortality, back when he was still weak. Back when Albus Dumbledore watched his every move, and limited each in turn.

It seemed that Albus wanted to finish their last game. Voldemort idly wondered which pawns he was willing to sacrifice in the process.

He noticed that the buzz was silent, and sure enough, Wormtail moved back into the main room, closing up his mobile telephone, as Voldemort had heard it termed on the television.

"Sirius Black has been seen in America," Wormtail announced, and Voldemort smiled.

"I think it's time for you to take a holiday, Wormtail."

* * *

This was perhaps the most peculiar - and in some ways the most uncomfortable situation Harry Potter had even been in. Facing Voldemort twice in the flesh, saving Buckbeak, staring down Snape and Lucius Malfoy was nothing compared to this.

Watching Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin one Saturday afternoon, with Pansy Parkinson on one side and Ginny Weasley on the other.

Fortunately, they were barely speaking. Or perhaps that just made it worse, and more nerve-wracking, thinking about what they might possibly say. Pansy was there to watch Draco, and Ginny was there to watch her girlfriend, and Harry was glad no jokes about either had been cracked yet. There was, after all, plenty of material either could use.

From what Harry could see, Hufflepuff was making a good go of it - more than a good go, really. Their Chasers were superior, and although Cauldwell's Keeping method was a bit unorthodox, it did work - some of the time, anyway. Harry sat there in silence, waiting for the first volley to be fired, and his fingers tightened on the seat under him. He was tense, and so determined to focus on the game that he didn't see Pansy and Ginny exchanging glances behind his back, or rolling their eyes.

When Draco finally caught the Snitch, winning the game, Harry slumped back in his seat in relief. The ordeal was over.

Pansy was first to leave, standing up quickly, gathering her robes more tightly around herself as a barrier to the cold. "Coming, Ginny?" she asked casually, and Harry thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head.

What was perhaps even more incredulous was that Ginny actually followed her.

* * *

There were two letters the owls dropped to him at breakfast that day. One was from his mother; the other from his sister. Seamus jammed both in his pocket, knowing he wouldn't get time to read them until lunch, and soon as Herbology was finished, he raced out of the greenhouses and back towards the Gryffindor common room. It was largely deserted as everyone else had the good sense to go eat, but Seamus ignored the rumblings of his stomach and settled himself down on his bed with a sideways half-leap, his hand reaching for the crumpled letters.

He sorted through them, frowning at the one from his mother before he tossed it onto his bedside table. Something to worry about another time. In another second, he had his hip flask out ready, in case the news was bad, and one second more, he was smoothing out the remaining envelope. Seamus tore into it impatiently and pulled off the parchment, his eyes darting quickly over the words.

Shame. It started with that, her nickname for him ever since he was five years old and a child terror, and she, Niamh, above him in beauty and years, mysterious for both and almost unknowable because of it, had called him 'Shame', reducing his name into a word she said fit exactly what he brought to the family. She said it with a smile though, and the teasing comment that it was exactly what their family had needed. He'd told Dean about it, and her, in his first year at Hogwarts, and Dean had picked it up with a similar grin. Seamus had never thought about stopping it; it seemed right, somehow, that Dean could say it now that Niamh was too far away to do so, and besides, it was comforting, and familiar.

Shame,

Ah, brother mine, it seems I'm the bearer of bad news. Mark and I have broken up, or put things on the cool for the moment at any rate. It's my fault; I'm just not ready to get married, no matter how much Mum thinks I am.

And whether we get back together or not is missing the point at all; to Mum a failed wedding is a failed wedding, and she'll be quick to rid herself of the failure. I'm tainted goods now, for all I'm worth; and from the way Mum's been going on, my own 'shame' is being gossiped about from Enniskillen to Cahermore. Fortunately, both Aunts are doing their fare share of protecting me, so I'm safe, even if this blows out into a full scale family feud.

I'm sorry, Shame. I don't know whether you liked Mark or not, but that's beside the point. I've gotten you in the firing line now, and I can't get you out. I can't take care of you like I should, and I'm sorry for that. Mum's going to look to you for the family's future, but the only person I've ever heard you talk about in six years is Dean Thomas, and considering you go to school with Harry Potter, Shame, that's saying something.

I hope he makes you happy, Shame, and well, if you need someplace to hide you can always come here to stay with me, and our Aunts.

Love, Niamh.

Seamus folded the letter back up, and felt a kind of distant cold settle over him. Niamh could tell, Niamh who knew him better than anyone.

Except maybe Dean.

Part of him wanted to fling his mother's letter into the common room fire; he already had a good idea of what it contained, but he contained himself of that impulse, and he was drinking from the flask before he knew to stop.

* * *

The three girls sat in the stands and watched the game. It was always the most anticipated match of the season when Gryffindor met Slytherin, and the very thought of it had these girls slathering in expectation.

If for somewhat different reasons than most of the crowd, for these were the infamous Gang of Three. Hufflepuff girls, fourth years, completely and utterly different from each other in temperament and ability and joined together only by two factors apart from their shared house. The first was that everyone thought they belonged in different houses.

Seated together, they didn't even appear to be a group. On the left sat Erica, who everyone said should have gone in Ravenclaw with a keen methodical mind, and a sharper memory than most of her peers were comfortable with. Most of the time she seemed quite calm, quite benign, and her interest in her studies led some to assume she would always be buried in her books. Many had learned that was a mistake the hard way. On the right sat Tara, constantly smoothing her robes down as if afraid they might ride up her body. She wore a reasonably bored expression but her eyes were everywhere, darting, and many claimed that her acid tongue and powers of observation - let alone her sheer gall - destined her more appropriately for Slytherin. She refused to join herself to any clique or faction, but disdained them all. People tread cautiously around her. In the middle sat Anna, in some ways the most overtly harmless of them all, as she was usually smiling, and wore a pink scarf and a rainbow hat against the cold. No-one, people figured, who wore such clothing could be considered an obstacle or a threat, but Anna had proved herself to be both with a temper and an obstinacy that would usually see a student in Gryffindor.

They were united in the fact they didn't belong; so they had clung to one another rather than be complete outcasts.

The second reason for their unity was their shared obsession with Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. It had been these three who in Harry's fifth year had come to the conclusion that the erstwhile enemies would go well together, and they had constructed an elaborate theory based on what they had seen or heard of Harry and Draco's interaction at Hogwarts. All three of them argued - at times rabidly - that there was no better partner for Harry Potter than Draco Malfoy and no better partner for Draco Malfoy than Harry Potter. They followed the two; took notes, spied on them. Every week they would gather in the cavernous Hufflepuff common room and discuss the weeks findings and events, sorting through chance meetings or references for meaning, and always the Gang of Three would conclude that even if Harry and Draco didn't know they were in love with one another, they very clearly were.

After a long period of this, their fellow students had given up all resistance and began to believe as well. It was the Gang who had organised the betting poll at the beginning of Fifth year, although no one had been able to collect until recently. Of course, when Harry and Draco had officially become a couple, it had only added to the Gang's mystique.

But still they kept to their discussions and their observations. Right now, Tara was watching the Quidditch match through a battered pair of Omniculars and reciting the play under her breath, being careful to make sure both her commentary and the vision were recorded. They could never have too much raw data. Not of Harry and Draco in Quidditch robes, anyway. Anna was not allowed to record games, of course. She squealed too much.

"Ten sickles," Erica began, an old and familiar routine, "that they fuck in the change rooms afterwards."

"Mmm," murmured Anna and shivered, her hands clutching a bag of Honeydukes, "Quidditch robe sex."

"Fifty sickles," Tara countered, not losing sight of the game for an instant, "they haven't done anything yet but give each other hand jobs."

Anna got into the betting this time, and so it began in earnest. Each of them bet incredible, impossible sums; they bet Stonehenge and Hogwarts, the Library of St. John the Beheaded and the Glastonbury Tor. All kinds of things they neither owned nor could afford; they were merely passing the time, and that was the most familiar game of all.

After four hours, the game ended with Draco having caught the Snitch. Tara watched the teams, tired and worn, troop out of the stadium, but even a blind man could have probably seen the looks the Seekers were throwing at each other.

"Fifty Galleons," she announced, her voice ringing, "that Draco tops."

Anna and Erica looked at each other and nodded. It was a bet.

* * *

Narcissa paced the floor of Lucius' study and tried not to worry too much. They had done all that could be done; now they had to make good on their debts, and pray that their son would find a way of wriggling out of them.

She stopped at the desk, her fingers resting on the parchment he'd shown her, the letter he'd just written.

Draco,

I am afraid that we will have to refuse your request to stay at Hogwarts' over the Christmas holidays. You may have good reasons for this request - which you have failed to confide to us - but our need is greater. You are to return home to the Manor, as you are nearly a man, Draco, and you must take your place amongst the world.

I know you will not fail my trust in you, or your mother's.

Lucius Malfoy.

She nodded, once, and breathed deeply trying to calm herself. Lucius folded up the letter and placed it in the envelope he'd already bothered to address. The house elves would be told soon enough, and they could post the damned thing.

As if recognising her distress - and joining in it, in his own oblique way, Lucius stood and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his cheek against her shoulder. How many years since Lucius had touched her in this way, with this gentleness? It was almost absurd - the one thing that should have driven them apart seemed to be uniting them, now they had no-one else to turn to but each other.

Their son was already as good as lost to them, after all.

Lucius' voice was a taut whisper; he sounded as if he was going to break. "We have done all that we could."

"I know." Narcissa slid her hands down to cover her husband's, and repeated the only excuse she had left. "I know."

Yet she couldn't shake the conviction that all their hopes were dead, and the letter itself seemed too stark, too empty. She knew it for the lie it was and nothing more. It was summoning her son to the grave. Draco was dead already, of course, but he didn't know it yet.